TITLE: Changes
The sequel to Serious Moonlight, the sequel to The Heart's Filthy Lesson
OR: The "we owe royalties to Bowie by now" series
AUTHOR:  Mustangsally and RivkaT
*EMAIL: Mustangsally78@juno.com RivkaT@aol.com
*SUMMARY: Bet she's not your girlfriend, you couldn't make her happy…
SPOILER WARNING: The Body.  The bulk of Season 5  (i.e.  Crush, Intervention, 
the Gift) cheerfully ignored.
*RATING: NC-17 for violence & explicit sex acts.  Interested yet?
*DISCLAIMER:  The characters are not ours and we would appreciate not being 
sued.
NOTES: We do a lot of things, but writing music ain't one of them.  The reader 
who identifies the most Pet Shop Boys and Smiths references wins a cameo in our 
next story: Details at the end of the story.  No purchase required.  

DEDICATION: Chain-Boy come back!  All has been forgiven!


Changes 1/30

*I still don't know what I was waiting for
And my time was running wild
A million dead-end streets
Every time I thought I'd got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet*


Saturday night was date night, even among the undead and the supernatural.  
Lovecraft's was crowded with couples of every description.  There were demons 
with demons, vampires with vampires, vampires with demons, an imp with a 
Chaos demon (not unlike a Chihuahua with a Great Dane), and a zombie with what 
may or may not have been a gargoyle.  Gender wasn't an issue, species wasn't an 
issue.  The only issue was mortals, since they had a bad tendency to squeal to the 
local authorities and that would have been the end of Lovecraft's, fine institution 
that it was.  There was one mortal there that night, a guy with two leather vamp 
chicks who was living the heavy metal fantasy of his life.  Not that it mattered.  
The guy couldn't have been labeled "Take Out" more clearly if he'd been jammed 
in an aluminum container with a clear plastic lid.  

So it was Saturday night, and the usual Lovecraft's clientele was either assured of 
some preternatural nookie or trying to find it - and what was Spike doing?  Sitting 
at the bar and trying very hard not to stare at the clock on the wall over the 
jukebox.  Half an hour to go, half an hour and he would be walking towards the 
cemetery.  He had an appointment that he was loath to break.

"Oh I just don't know where to begin/Though he says he'll wait forever/It's now or 
never/But she keeps him hanging on/The silly champion/She says she can't go 
home/Without a chaperone."

He was going to kill whoever had last programmed the jukebox.

"Another beer?" the lamia behind the bar asked.

"Yeah, that would be grand," he muttered and tried not to look at the clock again.

“And it's the damage that we do/And never know/It's the words that we don't 
say/That scare me so,” Elvis Costello continued to moan, “There's so many people 
to see/So many people you can check up on/And add to your collection/But they 
keep you hanging on/Until you're well hung/Your mouth is made up but your mind 
is undone.”

"So, you ain't been around much lately," the lamia said and pulled him another 
mug of the cheap domestic crap Lovecraft's had on tap.

"Been busy, doin' stuff, y'know," he said and accepted the fresh mug of weak, salty 
beer.

"What kind of stuff?"

"The usual, and a bit that isn't," he hedged and drank.

"I hear things, things that wouldn't be said if the sayer was sober.  Perks of the 
profession, you know," she said and leaned forward across the bar, giving Spike a 
good view of her slightly scaly cleavage.  "I hear that you're been hanging around 
with the Slayer.  Wouldn't be a healthy thing for the Slayer to know about this 
place, now would it?"

If there hadn't been a yard-long stake resting near the cash register next to the 
sawed-off shotgun, Spike might have been inclined not to take this too seriously.  
But under the circumstances, he threw up his hands in poorly-feigned innocence.

"Puh-lease, the only place where I can let my fangs hang out?  I don't think so.  "

"Just asking.  They say you've got a soft spot for the Slayer."

"I got a soft spot for the Playmate of the Month, an' you don't see me bringin' any 
bunnies in here now do you?"

"As long as we're clear."

"Clear as a Scientologist, babe."

“I don't want to hear it/'Cause I know what I've done.”

She nodded and started rubbing down the bar with a wet rag.  Inside Spike's skull a 
little nervousness came out, looked around the mess of his brain and then retreated 
to its designated closet.  As if the thought of breaking the sacred sanctity of 
Lovecraft's would ever cross his mind.  Although the idea of Buffy raising some 
hell among the sappy eye-making demons and whatnot was kind of appealing right 
then.  There was nothing quite as lonely as being alone when everyone else had 
thoughts of love or shagging.  He drank some more beer and didn't look at the 
clock again.  There was a good reason he didn't wear a wristwatch.  He could 
obsess about time as easily as he could obsess about everything else.  When he'd 
first read about the obsessive-compulsive personality a decade beforehand in a 
stolen copy of Newsweek, Spike had been surprised not to see his picture as an 
illustration.

Twenty-five minutes.

Spike was going to make this the longest beer in history.

Over in the back of the bar, something was laughing; happy laughter, not another 
being in pain laughter, and the sound ground against his nerves like sandpaper.  
The television over the bar was showing the tail end of the news, the filler.  Human 
interest stories, heroic animals, strange trivia, and, apparently, pretty blondes.

"Give us the sound, would you, luv?' he asked and waved a hand at the lamia.

Smirking, she pushed the remote buttons and the bar across the bottom of the 
screen increased in a cascade of green light.

"Local officials are insisting that the outbreak of teen violence has nothing to do 
with the recent performance of teen pop sensation Citalia," the voice announced in 
a pseudo-grave tone while the picture went back to the pretty blonde with dark blue 
eyes and a heroic bustline.   "Teen fans denied entrance into the pop star's concert 
in Los Angeles formed a mini-riot and overturned police cars."

To illustrate, the TV showed a cop cruiser burning merrily away like a backyard 
barbecue.  

"I'd pop a cop for her," the worse for wear vamp on the other side of Spike 
commented.  "Tasty morsel."

Spike didn't imagine for a moment that a vamp with eau du homeless was going to 
get within striking range of the teen beauty.  The news flashed over to a crowd of 
kids, prepubescent most of them, screaming and carrying on in the street.  A police 
cruiser rocked back and forth like a sailboat on a rough tide.

"That's nothin'.  I was at CBGB the night the Clash came to town.  These kids 
today know nothin' about causin' mayhem," Spike said and took a dismissive gulp 
of his beer.  "Still, I wouldn't throw her outta my bed for leavin' communion 
crumbs."

The old-looking vamp next to him snickered between yellowed teeth.

"She's a little old for me.  I like 'em young.  Sweet meat you get, when they haven't 
been messed with yet."

"Virgins are over-rated," Spike announced and elicited a dirty chuckle from the 
lamia at the bar.

"You know what they say – it's like a balloon, one good prick and it's gone 
forever."  Her grin grew even wider.  "Doesn't even have to be a good prick."

"Took out an entire troop of Girl Scouts last summer.  They was campin' at Big 
Bear Mountain.  Tasted like cookies," the dirty vamp offered.

"Chocolate mint or shortbread?" the lamia asked.

Pedophilia had never been Spike's scene, so he flashed the dirty vamp an ugly look 
and moved a few inches further down the bar.  The smell was as bad as the 
sentiment.  Being dead was no excuse for poor personal hygiene, or fucking 
children.  A vampire had to have at least a couple of rules.  Keeping clean was one 
of Spike's oldest, while not feeding off children was a recent development.  If the 
rules accumulated with age, given a hundred more years he'd be the same uptight 
prig as Angel.   He drank some more beer to wash the idea out of his mouth, and 
watched the hands on the clock move with geological slowness.

The dirty vamp was staring at him.  Spike stared at the television, which was now 
showing a beer commercial with half-naked women playing volleyball.  It was one 
of his favorites.

"Don't give me that, looking at me like I'm dogshit."

"I wasn't lookin' at you, mate, wouldn't waste my time,"

"Think you're better than me?"

"No, I know I'm better than you.  Now why don't you fuck off?" Spike asked in 
what he thought was a reasonable tone.

"No fighting," the lamia warned.

"Who's fightin'?" Spike asked as Dirty Vamp rushed at him, right into Spike's 
suddenly outstretched fist, managed to cold-cock himself and went down in a 
puddle of beer.  

The vamp swore and struggled when Spike planted a foot square in the middle of 
his rag-covered torso.

"You see," Spike told the vamp on the floor, "It's no bloody fun when you're dealin' 
wiv' somethin' younger an' weaker than yourself."

"Get staked!"  The vamp on the floor fang-faced and tried to snap at Spike's ankle.

"Listen, Sunshine, I been dead longer'n you were alive, an' it's generally not a real 
good idea to be fuckin' with the older ones, right?" Spike took another drink of beer 
and sighed.  "That's free advice.  Next time you're on a one-way ticket to the 
dustbin.  Follow?"

The vamp scrambled out from underneath Spike's now-lifted foot and stood, pale-
faced and smelly, glaring at Spike with yellow eyes.

"Fucking human toy," the dirty vamp sprayed saliva over most of the clean bar top 
as it lisped between its filthy fangs.

"Scuse me," Spike reached around the lamia, who was greedily watching the 
spectacle, and grabbed a bottle of cheap whiskey from the shelves behind.  "You 
don't deserve the good stuff."

Moving fast, Spike brought the bottle down on Dirty Vamp's head, giving it the 
closest thing it might have had to a bath since it had been turned.  The vamp 
blinked glass and booze at him, just in time to see Spike light a match from one of 
Lovecraft's free matchbooks.  The vamp made a merry yellow flame as it shrieked 
and batted at itself.  From the back of the room, Spike could hear a smattering of 
laughter, and a couple rounds of applause, which was quickly lost as the burning 
vamp ran for the door, trailing greasy black smoke and a foul smell.

"You got serious problems with your social skills," the lamia remarked.

"Nah, got serious problems with babyfuckers who don't wash," Spike said with the 
fervor of the born again and turned back to his beer.

The clock on the wall beckoned to him.

Fuck, five to twelve.  He was late.   Throwing a couple of bills down on the bar, he 
bolted for the door at a dead run.

Things change.  Two months before he wouldn't have been running through the 
nighttime streets of Sunnydale trying to beat the clock.  Two months before he was 
living and breathing on the ancient sands of Egypt while he and Buffy tried to beat 
an Egyptian vampire-goddess.  Now he was trying to beat a curfew.

"Sorry.  Sorry, got tied up," he blathered as he stumbled into the kitchen.

Buffy was already tricked out in her Slaygear, bag o'goodies over her shoulder and 
expensive little boots on her feet.  She was frowning at him.  That cute little line 
between her brows wasn't so cute all of a sudden.

"You're only ten minutes late, that's a new personal best for you," Buffy said and 
the frown turned into a lopsided little grin.

He realized she was teasing him, and it was still a new enough occurrence for 
Spike to be mildly surprised.

"Dawn's watching TV.  I told her she could stay up until one.  No later, if she tells 
you later she's lying."

"I heard that!" Dawn bellowed from the living room.

"I should be back at three," Buffy added as she moved towards the door.  
"Anything I should know about?"

"There's a vamp, didn't get his name, smells somethin' 'orrible, sportin' a somewhat 
charred overcoat.  You might want to get him, he won't be movin' terrible fast."

"I'll remember that," she said and raised an eyebrow.  "And you had something to 
do with it?"

"Me?  Don't fret, it'll be a quiet night.  Anythin' worth fightin' is out with their 
honeys."

She was halfway out the door before she stopped.  "Spike, if anything—"

"Like a crazy goddess with bad fashion sense shows up?  Yeah, I'll beep you.  
Happy huntin'."

He found Dawn sitting on the floor, watching TV and painting her toenails bilious 
green.  Flopping on the sofa, Spike put his feet on the coffee table.

"So what's on the agenda, Niblet?"

"You missed the Behind the Music special on Citalia."

"My heart bleeds.  What's so special about her anyway?  Just another record 
company wench, if you ask me.  Her and Britney an' Christina an' Mandy, they just 
grow 'em like tomatoes in Van Nuys or somethin'"

"And you know all their names because?" Dawn turned and gave him a superior 
look, flicking her hair back over her shoulder.  "Fascinated by skinny blondes 
much?"

"I *am* a skinny blond," he protested lamely, knowing that he didn't have any 
clothes that the Little Bad could blackmail out of him.  "An' a vampire's got to keep 
up w'the times or he goes all wiggy and Bram Stoker."

Leaping up from the floor, Dawn padded over to the sofa on her green-tipped feet.

"And you'd rather be out doing vampire things tonight instead of being here with 
me.  Babysitting," she frowned a very Buffy-like frown.

"Pure torture this is," he agreed.  "Now be a good little corpuscle and get Uncle 
Spike one of them blood bags out of the 'fridge."

**

Life, Buffy thought to herself, was pretty weird.  Even by her standards.  It took 
some pinching to believe that she was going out on patrol while Spike was Dawn-
sitting.  Not that she had a lot of choices in the matter.  No one but Spike had the 
slightest chance of standing up to Glory.  Besides, ever since her mother had died, 
Spike had been flitting in the background, watching Dawn, appearing after dark 
with groceries, changing the oil in the Jeep, and pretty much moving into the 
basement.  When had that happened? She still wasn't sure.  It seemed that one day 
there were Spike clothes hanging on a pole and the fold-out sofa was pulled out 
and made up.  If any of her friends knew, they hadn't said anything.  There had 
been no late-night forays into her bedroom, which was just as well.  She hadn't 
exactly been in the mood.  

And there had been Angel.  Dark and sweet and confusing.  Flirting with evil and 
evil was batting its eyelashes right back, according to Cordy, but he'd been the 
same big solid wall she remembered when he came to Sunnydale for the funeral.  
So many things had changed – she almost wished she could freeze herself in time 
like him.  Eternal guilt might be a fair trade for knowing what to *expect*.  

On the corner of Main and Church, Buffy smelled something nasty.  A dark shape 
was headed down Main, limping somewhat.  A definite eau du barbecue was 
wafting from it.  Her Slayer Sense pinged and she moved closer.

Buffy was in the mood for violence.  She'd been tired, depressed, and anticipating 
Glory around every corner.  Under the circumstances, killing bad things was more 
de-stressing than bubble bath.  At least Dawn wouldn't be demanding her turn.  
"Hey, stinky-pants!" she called out as she approached.

The vampire – there was no doubt in her mind that it was one – turned and glared 
at her, then fright-faced to give the glare more force.  "You're out too late, little 
girl," he snarled.  

She waved a hand in front of her face as if warding off the smell.  "Listen, did you 
even bathe *before* you were turned?  'Cause if you're worried about the whole 
running water thing, I can *assure* you –"  

The vamp lunged at her.  Guess he wasn't interested in proper hygiene.  Right foot 
in the stomach, sending him staggering back.  Left uppercut, right roundhouse.  
Twist and leap and turn; he's too tall to flip with an elbow around his neck, so 
another flurry of punches, kick and kick again, once more for good luck, okay 
twice more.  The vamp was on the ground, moaning and clutching at some body 
part she'd broken, and he was *totally* disappointing, had no play value 
whatsoever.  

Yawning, Buffy rummaged in her bag for a stake.  She didn't want to kneel on the 
dirty pavement in her pink silk shantung capri pants, so she just threw it 
downwards and stood back as Mr. Smelly exploded into equally smelly dust.

She was unhappy to find that she'd thrown the stake hard enough to blunt the tip on 
the underlying concrete.

Changes 2/30

"Hey guys, sorry I'm late," Buffy said and dropped her weapons bag on the kitchen 
table.

When there was no response, she dashed to the living room, afraid of what she 
would find.  Had Glory gotten in?  Was Spike dead-er and Dawn gone?  Was there 
a mass of blood all over the sofa and the carpet was there---

There was Spike sleeping on the sofa with his head thrown back, snoring softly, 
while Dawn had her head pillowed in his lap, snoring slightly more loudly.

There was an empty ice cream carton weeping condensation onto the coffee table 
with two spoons sticking out of it, an empty blood bag, an empty beer bottle, and 
cigarette butts in a saucer.  Buffy was going to have to kick his ass about smoking 
around Dawn.  The TV was tuned to the Sci Fi channel and Buffy recognized the 
weird curly-haired dude from Doctor Who.  It seemed that they had a good old 
time while Buffy was out keeping Sunnydale safe from the evil undead.  Now the 
evil undead was sleeping on her sofa.  She tiptoed over and poked Spike in the 
chest.

"Hey, lame babysitter, wake up," she hissed.

"No I didn't I—" Spike muttered and his eyes flicked open.

It was funny how she'd never realized how blue his eyes were before he kissed her 
that first time.  He focused in on her and blinked.

"Whoa.  How'd it go?"

"I found Stinky and dusted him."

"Good job that," he said in a vague way, "'s been quiet here.  Watched Bordello of 
Blood and the Bitty one here fagged out halfway through.  'Spect we should put her 
to bed."

"Hmmm." Buffy agreed and sat down on the coffee table, so they were knee to 
knee, Dawn snoring against Spike's leg.

"You have that look – like you're goin' to say somethin' that's gonna' make me feel 
really small," Spike said and ruined his sarcastic delivery by yawning.

"I realized that you've been underfoot ever since Mom died.  You're doing this, 
why?"

"If you're lookin' for some kinda confession, you're talkin' to the wrong vamp," he 
said, and yawned again.

"And selfless deeds are suddenly a Spike thing?"

"Actually, I'm gonna violate your sister in every way imaginable an' drain her dry."  
Spike rubbed his eyes and looked like he was choking back yet another yawn.  
"Especially since she keeps getting' heavier."

"I am not fat." Dawn opened one eye and looked up at them.

"Keep eatin' ice cream like that an'you will be."

"You two just practice this comedy routine when I'm not around, right?  Dawn, you 
need to go to bed."

"You're no fun anymore," Dawn complained and sat up, "You're all bossy and do-
this-or-else-woman."

"Go to bed or else you're grounded."

"See what I mean?" Dawn implored Spike.

"Know what they say about absolute power bein' absolutely corruptin'."

"Totally," Dawn agreed and began stomping up the stairs.

With a sigh, Slayer and vampire followed, just to make sure that the thirteen-year-
old went to bed and stayed there.

Dawn's door shut tightly behind, Buffy turned and considered Spike, as he was 
standing in the hallway with his hands in his jeans pockets looking like a coat rack.

"'Right then, just off to my kip," he muttered and made for the stairs.

"Spike," she said and he stopped and turned to face her.  "I can't believe that you're 
being helpful."

"Well, no good deed goes unpunished, right?" he said and smirked a Spikey smirk 
that somehow didn't quite make it to his eyes.

"Up for a little punishment?" Buffy asked, half shocked at the words as they fell 
from her mouth.

He didn't need an engraved invitation.  Spike's mouth was cold against hers tasting, 
bizarrely, like ice cream, and his fingers twined in her hair, making her chest hurt 
in the familiar way and the rest of her body buzz like a fluorescent light.  Her back 
was against the linen closet and his leg was between hers, pressing up into her 
crotch, where she was melting.  Tame Spike on the sofa with Dawn was not the 
Spike now devouring her mouth there in the upstairs hallway, his fingernails raking 
deliciously against her scalp and pressing her up against the door, drawing the 
breath out of her lungs.

"Nurmf," was all she could say and it mostly came from her nose.

Correctly translating her statement as "God that feels good, and don't you think we 
should move out of the hallway," Spike began to back towards Buffy's room, 
pulling her along with one arm around her waist and the other holding her head so 
they could shuffle like mutant Siamese Twins joined at the mouth.  Once the door 
was closed behind there was a flurry of fingers and fastenings, clothes dropping to 
the floor like old newspapers.  Shoes banged off walls, and Buffy forgot Dawn for 
a moment when Spike's cold hands clutched her breasts.  He turned his face to her 
throat and mumbled something she couldn't understand.  They spilled onto the bed, 
tangled together like clothes fresh from tumble dry.  "Now," she said.

"Bless you," he said sincerely and shoved into her.  

It had been long enough that it was almost uncomfortable, but that was lost under a 
wave of sensation, like champagne on New Year's running throughout her body, 
everywhere his hands touched.  "...  Missed you..." she thought she heard Spike say 
as her head thrashed from side to side, trying to process the nerve shocks running 
through her.

Spike's hand covered her mouth, and she realized that she'd been moaning, was still 
moaning into his cool dry palm.  His other hand continued to stroke and squeeze 
her breasts.  

Her orgasm was like plunging into an icy ocean, a shocking overwhelming feeling 
that washed away everything but the feeling of his skin on hers, and inside her.  
Strange how his flesh warmed from contact with hers, not to 98.5, but close enough 
for comfort.  She licked the skin on the palm of his hand, tasted ashes, tasted ice 
cream and her own skin.  Making a noise in his throat, he pulled the hand away 
from her mouth so he could brace himself on both hands, over her, the light picking 
out the sharp edges of muscle and bone on his body.  She hooked her ankles tighter 
around his narrow hips and pulled him closer until he was moving easily inside her 
soaking wet pussy, deep enough to make her catch her breath.  Shifting somewhat, 
he angled himself so he was pushing in deeper, and still managed to skin her clit on 
the downstroke.

There was another climax building inside her, thrumming like electricity under her 
belly, under her skin.  She passed her hands over the hard surfaces of his muscles, 
through the crunchy-soft parts of his hair, let him gnaw on her fingers.  She licked 
his ear, tried his earlobe, tasting shampoo and ashes.  He made a not-word sound in 
his throat when she ran her fingernails down his spine and over his ass.  Vampire 
skin, perfect, flawless vampire skin.  It was enough to make anybody think about 
changing teams.  

Buffy's sweat was making both of them slick and slippery.  Spike's head was tilted 
back now, silently howling at the invisible moon, and she could only reach his 
collarbone with her teeth.  She bit hard, wanting to see how long he'd stay marked, 
and he groaned and came with a sudden cool rush.

After a not unflattering pause during which Spike collapsed onto her, then lifted off 
enough to shake his head as if he were trying to wake himself, he crawled down 
her body and buried his face between her legs.  Because he wasn't human, Buffy 
didn't worry about crushing his head like a nutcracker.  She did throw her arms up 
to hang on to the white-painted metal bars of the headboard, to keep herself from 
levitating off of the bed.  Hearing Spike talk could be annoying, but the other 
things he could do with his mouth nearly compensated.  His tongue teased her clit 
while his fingers slid over her backside like silk ribbons, opening her, slipping 
inside of her.

It didn't matter that he couldn't breathe; she was doing enough for both of them, 
and still she couldn't get enough air.  She opened her eyes in the darkness and saw 
red and black spots as she came.

Afterwards, Spike lay stiffly beside her, like one of the Anne Rice vampires who 
turned back into a corpse during the day.  Sex With Spike: The Sequel had 
sandblasted Buffy's brain, and all she wanted to do was go to sleep.  With Spike 
making like rigor mortis next to her, that wasn't an option.  He was sulking or 
plotting something- neither alternative was good.  After a dozen or so minutes of 
uncomfortable stiffness alongside her, Buffy flounced onto her elbow.  Spike's eyes 
barely flicked over at her.

"What?" she asked, trying not to sound annoyed and not managing it in the least.

"What yourself."

"You, being all sulky guy.  If you tell me why you're sulking, maybe we can just 
fight and get it over with so I can get some sleep."

"I'm a fuckin' housewife, right?" he asked with controlled fury.  "I'll be makin' 
meatloaf an' wearin' pearls an' heels while I'm runnin' the Hoover.  William the 
Bloody of international infamy is helpin' a teenage nit-wit wiv' her homework an' 
takin' out the garbage."

"If you don't want to be here, if you don't want to help, fine.  This isn't cool 
vampire stuff, helping Dawn with her homework, taking out the garbage and all 
that other stuff that humans have to do."

Still making like a shop mannequin, Spike sighed like an annoyed cat – a big and 
dangerous cat.  Not a lion or a tiger, maybe a puma.  What he looked like, 
however, was an angry albino ferret.

"That's not it."

"Is this because we didn't – you know – before this?"

"'You know'? You can't even say it, can you?  Havin' sex, doin' the nasty, 
horizontal slamdance, shaggin', screwin', fornicatin', humpin' and bumpin'  – fuck-
ing.  'You know'?"

The air was burning her eyes.

"What the hell do you want, anyway?"

He might have said something under his breath, but Buffy didn't think she wanted 
him to repeat it, so she settled for rubbing her burning eyes and giving him a bleary 
glare.

"I want you to shut your yap an' go to sleep," he finally said and turned over in the 
bed, giving her a view of his back with an air of finality in every tense muscle.

"Fine," she snorted and burrowed down into the covers.

The problem with sleeping with vampires is that they always had cold feet and 
Spike seemed determined to brush her legs with his icy toes whenever possible.  
He also snored.  Not loud enough to be impressive, but loud enough and unfamiliar 
enough to set her teeth on edge.  It seemed that Buffy had barely closed her eyes 
when the clock radio went off.

“Don't believe in fear/Don't believe in faith/Don't believe in anything/That you 
can't break /You stupid girl/You stupid girl/All you had you wasted,” plaintive 
tones rolled through the slowly brightening room.

Oh fuck, she thought, I got no sleep at all.

But there was a meeting with the lawyer at eight and papers that had to be signed, 
so all she could do was crawl out of bed and shut off the alarm while Spike 
continued to sleep.


Changes 3/30


The lawyer thing dragged on longer than she could have thought possible.  Buffy 
signed papers, looked at other papers, choked back a million yawns, and listened to 
the woman talk.  By the time she was finally through, Buffy knew that between her 
mother's life insurance policy, what her father was still paying for child support for 
Dawn, and her mother's half-ownership of the gallery, there weren't food stamps in 
her future.  There also wasn't a whole Dolce and Gabbana wardrobe for each 
season, but it looked like they wouldn't have to sell the house until Dawn wanted to 
go to college.  Provided that Dad didn't decide that Dawn would be better off with 
him.  It was unclear to her whether the monks' spell extended to Dad.  If it did and 
he wanted her back, that was a problem in the making.  Buffy really couldn't leave 
Sunnydale unless she quit being the Slayer, and Dawn wouldn't be safe in LA with 
their father unless Buffy was there as well.  Of course, if Glory was over and done 
with, Dawn could go to Moscow if she wanted.  Given her recent attitude, Buffy 
might just drop-kick her there.

Not that Buffy blamed Dawn for being Miss Negativity 2001.  With the knowledge 
that Dawn was the Key, the death of their mother, and the lingering threat of Glory 
overshadowing everything, Buffy was pretty much in the Negative Zone herself.  
And what was bugging Spike, anyway?

It was after three by the time she dragged herself into the Magic Shop.  There were 
only a few customers evident, and Willow, Anya, and Xander were all hanging 
around the research table, trying not to look like they were goofing off.

"Hey Buff, what's with the suitage?" Xander asked.  "Hunting accountant vampires 
or something?"

"It's not a suit, it's a dress with a jacket, and it's very nice," Anya corrected her 
boyfriend.  "But I would have gotten it in peach." 

"Navy is more suit-y," Willow offered and took a heavy slug of Snapple.  "Very 
grownup and professionalish."

"I was at the lawyer's office today, sorting out stuff with Mom's estate."

A guilty look was passed around the table.

"You know why the vampire didn't bite the lawyer?" Xander asked.  "Professional 
courtesy."

"I thought it was a shark not biting a lawyer."

"I changed it, Will, to fit the occasion." Xander glanced over at Buffy.  "It wasn't 
very funny in version shark point one either."

"I'm sure it was plenty funny.  I'm just too beat to giggle.  I got, like, no sleep last 
night.   Between Dawn and Slayage, the old pony keg of busy was pretty much full.  
What is it with vampires blowing off personal hygiene basics lately?  I dusted 
another stinky one last night."

Taking off her jacket, Buffy dropped it on the table and rummaged around in Giles' 
mini-fridge for a Diet Coke.

Willow shrugged, "I don't know.  I don't remember vampires being really smelly 
before."

"Angel didn't smell bad and neither does Spike," Buffy said and sipped at the 
painfully, deliciously cold Coke.  "Kinda ashy, kinda beery, and kinda leathery, but 
not bad."

"TMI," Xander said and cleared his throat.  "I don't want to be that close to Dead 
Boy ever again.  Just to switch the subject really quickly and awkwardly, I got 
some pick-up work getting the University Auditorium ready for the Citalia concert 
this weekend.  I might even be able to get Dawn an autograph."

"That should make Dawn happy," Willow piped up.  "She's really into Citalia."

"At least she's out of her Hanson stage.  I still hear that mmmbop song when I'm 
having nightmares about being eaten alive by huge demons with teeth and 
tentacles." 

"I just have nightmares about Hanson," Xander confessed.  "All those teeth."

Buffy rolled her eyes.  "Dawn practically has Citalia wallpaper in her bedroom.  I 
actually got her tickets to the concert.  I think it might cheer her up."

"Who is this Citalia person anyway?  Is this some human thing that I'm supposed to 
know about and Xander conveniently forgot to tell me?" Anya asked.

"Citalia is a pop star.  Like Britney Spears or Christina whatshername.  Blonde 
fluffy hair, really skimpy outfits and all the little girls and boys seem to like her," 
Buffy explained.

Pulling her backpack out from underneath the table, Willow produced the latest 
issue of People magazine with Citalia on the cover.

"My mother has a subscription, for pop psychology research," Willow lied and 
pinked around the face.

"So that's her?" Anya asked, looking down at the slim blonde with her mane of 
ringlets and her outfit that seemed to be nothing more than spangles glued onto her 
body.  "She's hardly wearing any clothes."

"I think that's one of the reasons the little boys like her," Buffy said and smiled.

"And she sings?" Anya continued.

"In theory, I guess.  She's made millions of dollars in CD sales and concerts this 
year?" Willow wondered aloud.  "The songs aren't all that interesting.  Girl meets 
boy, girl falls in love with boy, and boy dumps girl for another girl.  Pretty basic 
and hetero-centric cliché, really."

"You mean that if Citalia bares her body and sings inane songs about love and 
betrayal, she makes millions of dollars?"

"That's pretty much the gist of it," Willow said with her usual lemon-twist wryness.

"Well," Anya said, "*I* could do that."

"Except for the part where you, you know, sing," Xander pointed out.

Anya smacked his arm, then caressed it in a way that made Buffy look elsewhere.  
"Silly, don't you know that part's all done in the studio?  And I can sing, too."  To 
prove it, she stood straight, took a deep breath that captured Xander's entire 
attention, and, eyes heavenward, began warbling.

After a moment, Willow nudged Buffy's elbow.  "Is that … Happy Birthday?"

"In the key of Q," Buffy stage-whispered back.

Just then Giles charged out of the storeroom, brandishing a truly wicked-looking 
cuirass with a chased silver handle.  "Back to Hell, you --!"

Anya stopped singing, and pouted.

Giles was still holding his weapon poised over his shoulder, like a batter waiting 
for a curveball.  "Gee, Giles," Buffy said, hoping to de-escalate the situation, "all 
you need is an eyepatch and a peg leg, and you'd be a nifty pirate."

With evident reluctance, Giles lowered the cuirass.  "What on earth were you 
doing?"

"I was *singing*."  

Everyone else looked away.

"And have you always been able to raise the dead with your voice?"  

"Actually –"

"I implore you not to tell me.  Aren't there any customers you can lecture on the 
benefits of capitalism?"  Giles took a seat and propped the weapon against the 
table.

Buffy bit her lower lip and tried not to grin as Anya stomped off to accost some 
customers.  Xander followed, with one last look towards Buffy, and Willow 
seemed engrossed in her latest spellbook, special-ordered through 
BookFinder.com.

"You look very – mature today," Giles noted.

"Lawyer stuff.  Estate stuff.  Boring."

"I would think that you would welcome a little boredom now and again."

"Boredom as in peaceful is good, boredom as in signing papers and looking at 
numbers is not good."

"No, I suppose it isn't.  Truth to be told, I find the bookkeeping aspect of the shop 
nothing short of stultifying.   I also can't discern why we always have an over-
abundance of dried chicken's feet.  I never order any, but there always seem to be 
more in the store-room."

"Maybe there's a multiplying chicken foot spell going on in there.  I'm having the 
same problem with laundry.  I think it's actually breeding in the hamper."

"Other than the laundry, how are you doing?" Giles asked in his delicately probing 
around the subject of death voice.

"I'm sad, Dawn's sad, it's sad." Buffy shrugged.  "Little parts of life go back to 
normal, but Mom's still dead."

The little parts of life included boinking one of the evil undead, but that was 
something that Giles was better off not knowing.

"I kinda need an adult opinion here," Buffy said and sat down at the table next to 
Giles.  "Dawn is really into Citalia and since Citalia is going to be in concert at the 
university, I got two tickets.  She's not going to want me to go with her.  She'd 
probably rather go with one of her friends.  Is thirteen old enough to go to a concert 
alone?"

"I don't know.  What kind of audience does this Citalia draw?"

"Nothing really scary, teenyboppers mostly, but there was a riot in LA at her last 
concert and I don't want Dawnie in a riot."

"I was going to Led Zeppelin, Eric Clapton, Blood, Sweat & Tears, and Badfinger 
concerts when I was her age.  Of course my parents never knew."

"But you were all tough Ripper guy, which Dawn isn't."

"I think you just answered your own question."

"This responsible adult stuff really sucks."

"Yes, it does."

Changes 4/30

"I need a favor," Buffy asked, and the basement door slammed down behind her.

Spike looked up from the copy of Gormenghast he was reading and took in the 
sight of Buffy in a blue dress, looking slightly embarrassed.  His mouth went dry 
and he closed the book – he'd read it before, anyway.

"'Xpect it's not sexual either."

"Not exactly."

This was slightly interesting.

"And?"

"Dawn's favorite pop star is going to be giving a concert at the University this 
weekend.  I got a pair of tickets since it might cheer her up if she went.  She won't 
want me to go to chaperone, but she might not mind it so much if you do.  You 
know, you being all older than her and dead besides."

"Citalia? Is that the ungodly pop pap the Niblet's always playin' in her bedroom 
with the door shut?"

"But you're cool leather coat guy Spike and all her friends will be so impressed that 
you're taking her.  Might get her some social points or something.  What you really 
need to do is keep an eye out for Glory and make sure that Dawn doesn't do 
anything that I'll have to yell at her for."

Buffy batted her eyelashes at him, which was never a good sign.

"And you will be?"

"Outside, hiding.  Pretending that I'm not spying on her."

"So where's the sex bit come in?" he asked, suspicious.

"Accomplish this task and you will be suitably rewarded," she said and plopped 
down on the sofa next to him with another eyelash flutter.

"An' here I was thinkin' that you were pimpin' the Niblet out to me."

He could taste sugar on her lips over the waxy fruit of her lipstick.  It was a Buffy-
like taste, a little sweet and a little artificial over the human woman underneath.  
Her fingers stroked the front of his shirt as though it was made of silk rather than 
cotton.  So she was bribing him with sex to take her bloody little sister to a pop 
concert.  Actually, that was kind of cute.  But the way that she drove her tongue 
into his mouth was far from cute.  She was making the hairs on his arms stand at 
attention and salute along with his cock.

"So where would little sister be while we're snoggin' here an' now?" he asked, 
mumbling straight into her lips.

She slid her head around like a swan and her hot tongue touched his ear.

"She's at Willow and Tara's.  I kinda needed a night off," she said in a voice that 
was something like a purr.

"Night on, more like."

"Mmm," she agreed and her tongue began circling his ear, making him shiver.

Spike wasn't sure what material the dress was made of, but it had heated with her 
body and was thin enough that he could feel the hard points of her nipples when he 
closed his hands around her breasts.  Tightening her grip around his shoulders, she 
pressed up against him, arching her back and sighing.  His fingers found the zip at 
the back of her dress and tugged it down until he had skin against his hands.  With 
a quick wiggle, she was straddling his lap, her dress hiked up around her hips while 
she sucked his tongue into her mouth.  It was all he could do to put his hands on 
the warm, round globes of her ass and feel the heat of her skin against the coolness 
of his own undead hands.

No knickers? The girl had obviously had a plan before coming downstairs.  He 
couldn't help but smile.

Although he knew he had to be flattering himself, Spike liked to think that he was 
responsible for Buffy's acknowledgement of her erotic nature.  Hadn't she ridden 
him like a pony when they were both mortals in Egypt? Hadn't she blown him like 
a pro? Hadn't she tied him up with his own belt and cracked his ass on a couple of 
occasions?  Yeah, he was flattering himself, but if he didn't who would?  Her little 
hands were hot on his face, her hotter mouth danced across his face, stopping long 
enough to run her tongue over the whiter than white scar through his eyebrow – 
and for a second he could smell the incense in the temple.

Impatient, he pulled the dress up over her head until her flushed face and tousled 
hair was obliterated by the dark blue dress for a moment and then she emerged, 
more tousled and flushed than before, the blush extending down over her breasts.  
He tossed the dress aside and ran his hands over her skin where pink faded to 
creamy peach.

"No knickers, no brassiere? I'm startin' to think that you came down here to seduce 
me."

"Me? Seduce you?" she asked, pretending annoyance.

"A'course, you'd never do a thing like that, 'cos you're all uptight an'—"

She silenced him by biting his lips, not hard enough to break the skin, but hard 
enough to remind him that she could.  It only took Spike a moment to flip her over 
onto the sofa on her back while she gave a delighted whoop.  Her arms and legs 
were pale gold against the black of his clothes and the dark brown of the sofa and 
her nakedness next to his clothes was more decadent than usual.

"I'm not uptight," she gasped and spit hair out of her mouth.

Nuzzling her neck, he tasted her skin, right where the pulse throbbed underneath.  
A need to pierce and suck crashed into his mind, but she'd need more time for that.  
He struggled out of his t-shirt with near-desperation, then crashed down on her like 
a rockfall.  He could hear the breath rush out of her lungs and feel her rise against 
him, conforming herself to his body.  Fumbling with his jeans, he managed to push 
them down past his thighs, close enough for government work.

"Talk dirty to me," she whispered.

Spike smirked.  She must be feeling very adventurous indeed.  

He gave her a human-teeth nip on the stomach.  "Dirty how, luv?  Baby, you feel 
so good, I can't wait to get inside you," he crooned, and Buffy gasped.  Spike slid 
two long cool fingers inside her and stroked her in time with his words.  She was 
wetter than Seattle and twice as hot.  

"I'm not sure that's dirty enough."  He sucked at a nipple, hard enough to make her 
cry out.  "I'm goin' to fuck you through the floor," he realized he was growling 
now, and that was very good; he felt her muscles clench around his curving fingers.  
"I'm goin' to put my dick anywhere I want and you're goin' to beg me for it, 'cause 
you love to fuck me."  

Moaning, she tossed her head against the nubby fabric of the sofa, her hair sticking 
to the upholstery and fanning out around her head like a sunburst.  Spike reached 
with his free hand to tap her lightly on the cheek, not quite a slap but enough to 
make Buffy's eyes spring open.  "I said, you're goin' to beg me for it."

The befuddled lust on her face gave way to defiance.  "Think you can make me?"

"Oh, I know I can."  His fingers were still pumping inside her and he could tell 
from the way that she was gasping for breath there were only a few moments 
before she'd finally come.

"No you can't, you—"

"Yes, I can."

Buffy really should have known better than to play sex chicken with him, Spike 
thought to himself.  Allowing himself a satisfied smirk, he removed his fingers 
from her body, zipped up his pants and went to the other side of the basement, 
leaving her naked and stunned on the sofa.  Rummaging around in the pile of his 
things on the freezer, he found his pack of cigarettes and lit one, leaning against the 
humming deep freeze.

"Spike?" she asked, in a confused tone and half sat up on the sofa.

"Right here," he said and exhaled smoke.

"Come back," she said and it was almost a whine.

"Doesn't sound like beggin' to me, sweetness."

"That is so wrong," she hissed and flopped back into the cushions.

"I can stand here all night, and you can just stay there thinkin' about how good 
you'd feel if you was to just give in and ask for it."

"Oh you wonderful thing, you.  You're the Biggest of the Big Bads and you turn 
me into the nympho hose-beast that I really am," she said with the non-existent 
enthusiasm of someone reciting her telephone number.  

Spike didn't know if he should laugh or groan in pain.

"You can do better than that," he teased.

Raising herself up on her elbows, Buffy glared across the basement at him.

"Get your skinny, undead ass over here and fuck me."

This time, Spike did laugh, and did throw his cigarette onto the floor, crushing it 
out with the toe of his boot.  "You're got a gift for the erotic gab, my dear, ever 
think of switchin' to phone sex as a career?"

"Now!"

Kicking off his boots, Spike crossed back to the sofa and Buffy attacked the 
buttons of his fly like a crazy woman, peeling down his jeans in record time and 
pushing him back on the sofa.  Before he could protest, she had straddled his lap 
and guided his cock right into the hot depths of her until all he could do was hiss 
with delight.

"Now you beg," she instructed and started to move over him.

Slayer muscles were a wonderful thing, he thought as he buried his face between 
her breasts.  She was moving up and down on him with the ease of a cork on the 
water.  She thought she could make him beg?  Not that he could, since talking with 
one's mouth full of nipple wasn't terribly polite.  God, she could have killed him if 
he hadn't been dead already.

They rocked back and forth on the couch, her back flexing underneath his hands.  
He could feel every hard muscle of her, including the hot tight ones coiled around 
his cock.  It made the secret softness of her breasts even more appealing.  Buffy 
was setting the pace now; Spike was content to play recreational vehicle this time.  
He bit at her breasts with dull teeth and she shuddered, her head thrown back so far 
that he could feel her hair brush his hands even as they moved downwards.

She came with a strangled cry that reminded him of how she sounded when 
punched in the stomach.  He hadn't the patience to wait and followed right after.  
With Dawn out of the way at Willow's, there'd be many encores, he reminded 
himself just before the orgasm took over, exploding white and gold in his dazed 
vision, burning through his brain like a forest fire.

Buffy must have seen a hint of his reaction on his stupefied face.  "Tell me you 
wouldn't beg for that," she teased, her legs still clutching his hips and her hands 
braced on his shoulders.

"Baby, right now I'd grovel on me hands and knees on national television."  She 
twitched a little around him, and it was easy enough to say with her breasts still 
inches from his face.

"Yeah, I know what you-"

The sudden groan from the stairs made Buffy whip her head around, and Spike 
wriggled so that he could get a view past her body.

Anya.  And, standing a few steps above her, the likely source of the noise, that 
useless git Xander.

As among the three humans, it was a toss-up as to whose eyes were closer to 
popping from their sockets.  

"Do you *mind*?" Spike asked, since no one else seemed to remember that man is 
the only animal possessed of language.  "Publicize your sex life if you want, but 
some of us prefer a bit o' privacy, right?"  Buffy pulled a sheet from somewhere 
underneath them, and wrapped herself in it.  He could hear her grinding her teeth.

Xander made a sound like a punctured basketball.  Anya grabbed his arm.  "Yes, I 
think we should go have sex now."  Spike thought she meant it and wasn't just 
trying to minimize the embarrassment of the situation, since Anya could no more 
do that than she could pee standing up.  Probably she'd just been staring as a means 
to gather useful information.

"You … he…" Xander raised a shaking hand to point at them.  And then he was 
stumbling down past Anya, heedless of how she lost her balance for a moment and 
nearly plummeted down on top of him.  He reached the couch just as Buffy 
managed to pull away, the sheet wrapped around her.  

"Oh wrong.  This is totally and completely wrong!" Xander gasped.

"I thought vampires would be far more oral—" Anya added.

Xander's first swing was wild, as were his second and third.  Spike, standing now 
because there seemed to be no good alternative, grabbed him by the neck and held 
him off of the ground.  The boy's hands went to his neck, trying to pry Spike loose.  
He could hear Buffy moving beside him and he held out his free hand to stop her.  

"'S all right, I'll let him go.  I ain't killin' anyone while I'm naked." 

 Xander froze, shot a quick glance downward to Spike's crotch, did some mental 
calculations involving a ruler, then resolutely brought his eyes forward.  

 Spike smirked.  

"Though it's a good way to avoid ruinin' leather."  He let Xander drop; as the boy 
staggered back, he took the opportunity to grab his jeans and step into them.  Just 
in case killing became an option.

"Xander …" Buffy's voice was conciliatory.  Spike wanted to be angry, but the fact 
of the matter was he'd always known that he'd go over with her friends worse than 
bulimia.  There were no after-school specials to help youngsters cope with a friend 
shagging a vampire, he strongly suspected.

The sound of her voice was all Xander needed to turn and run, pushing past Anya, 
who shot Buffy a hurt look.  "Dawn slipped on an ice cube and broke something in 
her arm.  She's in the hospital," Anya rattled out like quarters from a Vegas slot 
machine, then rushed up the stairs after her lover.  


Changes 5/ 30


Buffy wrapped her arms more closely around herself.  Hospitals – she'd had more 
than enough hospital smell and sound, not to mention food, to last through her next 
few incarnations.  At least the last time she'd been waiting outside the emergency 
room she'd been wearing panties.  Dawn was still being evaluated, whatever that 
meant, and almost the whole hallway was filled with the gang.  Tara and Willow 
were looking guilty and stricken, holding hands and whispering between 
themselves, Anya was looking through a battered copy of the Economist, and 
Xander stood next to her emitting vibes bad enough to be sensed in Ohio.  Spike 
had been lounging against the wall picking at his nail polish before disappearing on 
a mysterious Spike errand.  With a physical pang not unlike a punch to the gut, 
Buffy missed her mother.  

The doctor, a young Asian man barely taller than Buffy herself, stepped out of the 
examination room and looked around the hallway.

"Family?" he asked, expressing a little doubt as to the motley collection of young 
people in the hallway.  He must have been looking for a grown-up.

"She's my sister," Buffy said and stepped forward.

Inside the exam room, Dawn was sitting up on the gurney with a line of fine 
stitches across her forehead, a deepening bruise on her chin, and a technician was 
wrapping wet purple plastic mesh around her arm.

"-And you're going to have a pretty purple cast.  The new casts are a lot more fun 
than plain old plaster of Paris," the technician said in the over-bright voice people 
reserve for dim children.

"It was an accident!" Dawn snapped as though Buffy had accused her of 
deliberately hurting herself.  "I was just goofing around and I fell!"

"The radius in her left arm is broken and she bashed her face up a little when she 
fell," the doctor explained, "Nothing serious or complicated, but I want to keep her 
overnight for observation.  With a head wound like that there's always a possibility 
of concussion.  And we want to have the staff orthopedist take a look at her arm in 
the morning."

"What happened?" Buffy asked and went over to hold her sister's good hand.

"We were making strawberry smoothies.  I dropped the ice cube tray on the floor 
and I slipped on one of the ice cubes," Dawn said from her tight white face.  "It 
isn't Willow or Tara's fault.  I just fell."

Buffy felt like there was an invisible garrote around her neck.  It was her fault that 
Dawn was hurt.  She shouldn't have sent her off to Willow and Tara's like that.  
Specifically, she shouldn't have sent Dawn off so she could have sex with Spike.  
Now Dawn was hurt because of her selfishness.  

"You're going to be fine," Buffy said and squeezed Dawn's hand.

"No I'm not, I'm going to have a scar on my head and I'm going to look like a 
zombie or something!  Jamie Byrne is never going to talk to me again because I'll 
be ugly."

"Dawnie, those are little tiny baby stitches and everybody know that makes the scar 
smaller.  And if it still shows, a little cover stick and no one will ever see it."

"Really?" Dawn hiccuped.

"I promise, and I do know scars."

Dawn snatched her good hand free from Buffy and wiped at her nose.

"This day has totally sucked.  Tracy was going to try to get tickets for the Citalia 
concert Friday night and they were sold out.  Now I've got a stupid broken arm and 
a queer purple cast."

The technician looked up from his wrapping job and sniffed.

"Well, I just happen to know that there are a couple of tickets with your name on 
them at the Box Office and Spike said that he wanted to take you.  Provided that 
the doctor says you can go."

"Spike wanted to take me?" Dawn's face lit up for a second, and then her eyes 
narrowed with suspicion.  "Do you think I'm that stupid?  He doesn't want to take 
me to a concert.  You, he'd take to Australia and back in full sunlight, crawling on 
broken glass and holy water.  You're making him do it."

"And I would have gotten away with it too if it hadn't been for you meddling kids 
and your stupid dog."

"Okay, I'll go with Spike to the concert," Dawn agreed in the most ungracious way 
possible.

"If you stay here and behave yourself tonight."

"I'm not a baby," Dawn said with teenaged contempt and jerked her hand away 
from Buffy's.

The momentary sisterly warmth was gone like a snowball in a blast furnace, melted 
with the heat of Dawn's hormone hell.  Buffy's toenails wanted to curl into her toes.  
That was the tone reserved for Moms.  She'd used it on her mom and she'd heard 
Dawn use it on her as well.  

"Dawn, you have to stay, the doctors want to keep an eye on you and want you to 
see the orthodontist tomorrow."

"Orthodontist! That's for teeth.  Orthopedist, that's bones.  God, you're so stupid," 
Dawn sneered.

That was the proverbial it.  Buffy's tear ducts flooded like a canyon in a sudden 
downpour and tears started to pour down her cheeks.  Dawn reddened and looked 
away.

"Get over yourself," Dawn said and twitched her mouth into an unpleasant 
sourness.  "You sit here and act all sorry but you're just glad that I won't be coming 
home tonight because you get to spend the whole night bumping fuzzies with your 
skanky new boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend." Buffy said and pushed the tears off her face, painfully 
aware of her pantyless state.

"You like 'undead fuck-toy' better?"

"Buffy?" Giles' calm and reasonable adult voice cut through the red haze that was 
beginning to surround Buffy.

"Giles," she said and stood up, catching a cold and embarrassing draft up her dress.  
"Did you just get here or—" 

Or did you just hear everything, she finished inside her head.  Not that there was 
any point in trying to keep the Spike thing quiet now that Xander and Anya knew 
and would probably put an ad in the Sunnydale Daily.

"Xander called.  I came as soon as I—" he looked over at Dawn who had had 
crossed her good arm over her chest and was glaring at him with the same 
adolescent hatred she had just been aiming at her sister.

"Enter parent-substitute, stage right," Dawn snarked.

Giles, wisely, ignored her.  Buffy tried to and wiped at her face.

"Dawn's got a broken arm, possible concussion, and serious attitude damage," 
Buffy summarized.  "She slipped and fell in the kitchen at Willow and Tara's, no 
big scary supernatural fallage, just a garden-variety accident."

"My attitude's damaged?  Like you're so great!"

Giles put gentle fingers around Buffy's upper arm and pulled towards the door.

"I think family tensions are running a little high right now.  I'll stay here with 
Dawn until the store opens and we'll get someone else to sit with her then."  He 
gave Buffy a meaningful look from behind his glasses.  "In case there's any sort of 
glorious activity."

"I don't think –" she started.

"Go home and get some rest.  An argument right now isn't going to do any good to 
either of you and it certainly won't do a bit of good for me.  Now go."

Even as she went out the door, Buffy could feel Dawn's eyes burning sister-poison 
into her back.  Had life been better before Dawn? She couldn't remember.  The 
monks had filled her head so full of Dawn-memories that it seemed that Dawn had 
always been around, snapping and growling like an angry puppy.

This night, which had started out so great, now officially sucked zombie dick for 
free.

**

Hospitals were strictly for humans.  Humans getting bits stitched back together, 
bits taken out, bits put in that hadn't been there before.  The unnatural and ugly 
smell of disinfectant over human blood just ruined the ambiance of pain and fear.  
Also, there was fuck all to do in the waiting area outside the emergency room.  
Giles had sent Willow and Tara home with instructions about herb tea the moment 
he arrived and Spike now had no one to talk to except for the obviously homeless 
guy in the corner who smelled worse than any week-old corpse.  Anya was flipping 
through copies of US News that dated back to the Ford administration and Xander 
was trying to stare holes through him.

This wasn't good.  That little incident in the basement now meant that there was 
what the movies called a "security breach" big enough to drive a motor coach 
through.  The chances of Xander and Anya keeping mum about him and Buffy 
doing two man push-ups on the sofa were none to fucking forget about it.  By the 
look on Xander's face the only way he was going to be happy with the outcome 
was if Spike was in the dustpan.  As though it was any of the boy's affair, as if 
Xander had any right to criticize since he'd banged a Slayer himself and a demon to 
boot.  

Spike slouched a little further into his chair and wanted a cigarette, and he wasn't 
as impressed by the no smoking signs as he was by the big orderly behind the 
reception desk who might or might not have troll somewhere in his lineage.  The 
bags of blood he'd liberated from storage would stay cool for a couple of hours in 
his duster pockets so there was no reason he shouldn't wait until the sun was just 
beginning to rise.  On the other hand, Buffy could come out at any moment and in 
all likelihood she would be in the beginning stages of a meltdown.  There wasn't 
any point for the two kids to be around for that, and they'd witnessed enough Buffy 
embarrassment for one night.

"Look, it's getting' on to half two.  You lot ought to bugger off home.  I'll hold the 
fort down."

Anya looked up from her magazine.  "That's a good idea.  Xander, let's go home 
and have sex."

"I'm not in the mood." Xander gave each word the same weight in lead before 
getting up out of his seat and stalking out of the room.

The boy didn't even give good stalk.

"Who peed in his Corn Chex?"

"Luv, it's 'pissed in his cornflakes,' right?" Spike said and waited a moment before 
following sulky floppy boy.

Spike found Xander in the men's room down the hall, with his zip undone, draining 
the old trouser-snake.  Moving vamp-quick in the tiled room, Spike grabbed 
Xander's favorite body part in a firmly threatening grip.  Xander let loose a squeak 
and developed the correct amount of fear and loathing appropriate for a man being 
grabbed by the dick in a public restroom.

"Now that I got your attention," Spike said and favored Xander with evil smile #4, 
"an' your pathetic little willie, we're gonna' discuss this like gentlemen."

All Xander could do was nod, his eyes so big that Spike could have seen his 
reflection in them if he'd had a reflection.

"You don't go bustin' in while somebody's shaggin', right? An' you don't get all 
righteous when it ain't none of your affair who an' what the Slayer's doin' when 
she's not on duty."

For a moment, Spike thought that Xander had quit breathing, but the lad finally 
drew a deep, shaky breath and barely nodded his head.

"You say or do anythin' that makes the shadow of a frown cross Her Blondness's 
face an' I'm goin' to make you wish your slag of a mum never bore you, got it? The 
girl's got enough trouble as it is wivout you causin' any more.  Are we clear, 
Carpenter-boy?"

Xander managed another nod, this one combined with a grimace that promised 
future reprisals.

"Soul or no soul, you're still mean to the core, Spike."

"An' you say it like it's a bad thing."

"I don't know what the hell you did to Buffy, but you're still a piece of undead shit, 
Dead Boy."

"I'm quakin' in my boots."

Since there was nothing else to say Spike let Xander loose and watched the boy zip 
and take himself out of the restroom at warp nine.  Then Spike washed his hands, 
twice.

When he got back to the waiting room, only the homeless guy was evident.  The 
human and the ex-demon had done a runner.  He settled himself back into the 
uncomfortable chair and waited.

Moments later, the interior door opened and Buffy tottered out.  He jumped out of 
his seat and had to remind himself to be cool rather than rushing over to her.  
Instead he made a quick saunter over to the shaking Slayer.

"How's the Niblet then? All the parts workin'?"

"She has a broken arm.  They're keeping her overnight to see the – ortho tricycline 
or something tomorrow.  She might have a concussion.  And she's so nasty, she's—
" Buffy took a deep breath and visibly steadied herself.  "She wanted to hurt my 
feelings and she did a good job of it.  Dawn hates me."

"She don't hate you, just don't like you too much right now.  Symptom of the age.  
Giles is sittin' wiv'her, right? You ready to toddle off home?"

Buffy looked around the waiting room, empty except for the homeless guy.

"Where'd everybody go?" she asked.

"Home.  So let's get a move on," he announced and gently tugged her arm in the 
direction of the exit.

Quiet Buffy was not a good thing, Spike knew.  It meant she was thinking 
unpleasant things.  Considering the fact that she was quiet from the emergency 
room exit to the entrance of her development on the other side of Sunnydale, she 
was thinking very unpleasant things.

"Dawn's hurt because of me."

"How's that?" he asked, sneaking a look at her in the DeSoto's dash lights.

Her pointy little face was set on grim.

"If I hadn't sent her to Willow and Tara's she wouldn't have fallen on the ice cube."

"She fell on a bloody ice cube, Slayer, she could've done that anywhere."

"I sent her there to get her out of the house to be alone with you.  I was being 
selfish and Dawn's hurt because of it."

"It's a stupid fucking accident, she could have fallen in the shower wiv'you in the 
next room an' me in Modesto.  Don't go floggin' yourself about it."

She didn't look convinced.


Changes 6/30


So tired.  So tired that even her hair was tired and her fingernails ached.  Throwing 
herself down on the edge of her bed, Buffy looked at her shoes, too exhausted to 
take them off.  Maybe slaying wasn't compatible with the suddenly Single 
Momlike routine.  There was probably a good reason Slayers didn't live far into 
their twenties, have families, run households, pay bills, and make sure that bratty 
teenage sisters didn't go to rock concerts.  She groaned and lay back on the bed, her 
arms splayed out like limp fish fins.

Buffy had fallen from buildings, been killed a couple of times, been staked by a 
ratty vamp, and survived high school, but Dawn had to break her arm slipping on 
an ice cube?  It was unreal.  Stupid accidents didn't happen in Buffy's world.  

Normal twenty year olds didn't sneak off to have sex with the evil undead while 
their sisters were breaking their arms in stupid accidents.

"Hey," the evil undead said and stuck his head through the doorway, "You all right, 
then?"

"I am a whole bunch of not all right," she admitted and looked at him upside-down 
from where she lay on the bed.  Buffy realized that she could see up his nose and 
noted that it wasn't an attractive angle.

"Can I come in?"

Buffy put her hands over her eyes.

"I'm too tired to fight, Spike.  Too tired for anything."

"'Xactly." 

"Don't leave."

"Wasn't goin' to."

A moment later he had shed his clothes and slithered between the sheets next to 
her, about as lecherously as Mr. Gordo, who watched from the bedside with his 
beady, piggy eyes, saying nothing.

**

She should have been asleep.  But no, she was lying there with Spike's arm across 
her midsection like a free weight while she watched the shadows from the tree 
branches flicker across the ceiling.  She rolled over on her side and slid out from 
under his arm.  He was almost snoring, but not loud enough to be the reason she 
was still feeling restless and itchy.  It could have been the guilt over Dawn, but she 
didn't want to think about that.

Maybe it was her Slayer-sense.  There was something that she should have been 
doing other than sleeping.  Something really nasty was prowling the streets of 
Sunnydale and she was missing it.  The sheets felt raspy against her skin and she 
punched the pillow into a better shape.  She couldn't quite see what was wrong 
with this picture.  Putting aside Mom being gone, Dawn in the hospital, Spike 
asleep next to her, and Glory hovering in town instead of staying properly in the 
heavens or hells or wherever gods hung out.  Groaning, she heaved herself out of 
bed and pulled on her ratty chenille bathrobe, hoping against hope that Dawn and 
Spike hadn't eaten all of the ice cream.

Downstairs, Buffy detoured through the living room to pick up the empty ice 
cream carton and the dirty spoons from the night before.  She padded into the 
kitchen, turned on the light and nearly dropped dead of shock.  The ice cream 
carton and the spoons fell to the tile floor with a clatter that sounded an awful lot 
like a swordfight.

Oh shit, she thought.

"You're going to wake everybody up," he said in a calm voice.

Angel.  Big and real as life there at the kitchen table, cleaning his fingernails with a 
small Swiss Army knife.

"Phones.  Phones are good, you could have used a phone and called to say 'hey, I'm 
in town and I'm coming over'.  You know, instead of just beaming down into my 
kitchen at like four in the morning," she babbled and picked up the spoons.

"And ruin the element of surprise?"

The downy hairs on the back of Buffy's neck stood up and thought about running 
away.  The rest of Buffy thought about running into the living room and getting 
Mr.  Pointy out of the chest.  She wasn't entirely sure if she was speaking to Angel 
or EvilTwin Angelus.  She couldn't see if he was wearing leather pants or not.  
Without being able to see the pants it was harder to tell the difference.

"So you just drove from LA to scare the shit out of me in my kitchen? Great, I need 
this right now." She crossed over to the sink to drop the spoons in soapy water and 
shoved the ice cream carton in the trash can underneath.  "Dawn fell and broke her 
arm, and now you have to show up.  This is turning into one funfest of a day."

While she was bent over at the trash can, Buffy snuck a look under the table.  
Black pants, naturally, but not leather.  That helped somewhat.

"I heard about Dawn.  I wanted to see how you were doing.  I was worried."

"Worried?" Buffy asked and came back around the table so she could stare down at 
him over arms now defensively crossed over her chest.  "My mother's dead and my 
broken-armed sister's an energy being who is being hunted by a very insane and 
dangerous goddess.  Why would you be worried?"

"Buffy, you're not a good liar."  He looked up at her for the first time.  His eyes 
were as dark as she remembered and still gave nothing away.  "I'm talking about 
how you've done a reversal of opinion about Spike."

The breath that Buffy sucked in burned her chest like woodsmoke.

"Newsflash, none of your business."

"I'm making it my business."  In a vamp-fast move he was out of the chair and 
staring down at her.  Buffy could smell the clove and sandalwood of him.  "You're 
upset right now and you aren't thinking clearly."

"Right, I'm a stupid girl who can't make her own decisions."  She stood up a little 
taller and glared the best that she could at him.  "You know what, my life is NONE 
of your fucking business.  You left and I went on slaying.  I went on with my life.  
You have no right to come back here now and tell me what I should or shouldn't be 
doing."

"You're mad because I left?"

"Hello?! My mother's dead and my sister's in the hospital.  Let's just stand here and 
talk about Spike, okay?  God, you know, you're not the most important creature in 
the world, Angel!"

Just to make matters worse, besides the fact that she was glaring into his 
collarbones, Buffy's eyes were starting to burn and she knew that she only had the 
slightest chance of getting through this without bawling her eyes out.

"All you could find was Spike?" he asked, his eyes and voice going all melted 
chocolate.

Oh no, she was helpless against the melted chocolate look and sound.  Too many 
nice things had happened when he'd had that going on.

However, insult beat out melted chocolate any day of the week.

"All I could find?" she echoed, her voice getting tight and thin with annoyance.  
"There are plenty of guys who want to go out with me.  There are guys who are 
drooling with the thought of going out with me."

"If it had to be a vampire, you could have been a little more selective."

"Oh, yeah, you ruined me for mortal men forever," she snorted.  "Get over 
yourself.  I've gone out with human guys too.  I had sex with human guys.  I went 
out with one for almost a year.  I'm not a fang-hag.  "

"Which is why you're sleeping with Spike?"

"Who's takin' my name in vain?"

Buffy wasn't entirely surprised to see Spike in the doorway with his shirt flapping 
open, his pants barely buttoned, with a stake in one hand.  Angel stiffened and 
stared at the other vampire who stiffened and stared back at him.  They eyed each 
other like two pit bulls meeting for the first time.  She couldn't actually hear 
growling, but it vibrated through her body regardless.  

"Well this is just a cluster fuck beyond all imaginin'," Spike sneered at Angel.

"Did you bite her?  Did you put her in thrall?" Angel demanded.

"No," Buffy said at about the same moment that Spike did.

"But that's kind of you, puttin' me up there wiv' the Masters.  You just can't bear 
the idea that she'd be takin' up wiv' me of her own free will, can you, Sunshine?"  
Spike aimed a smile at Angel and it wasn't one of his nicer ones.

"Spike, the last time I saw you, you had your friend Marcus sticking hot pokers 
through me.  I can't imagine anybody wanting to be with you of their own free 
will." 

"An' it just keeps me awake all day, thinkin' that I could have killed you then."

The testosterone in the room, or whatever vampires used in place of it, was 
approaching toxic levels.

"Lost your chance, not that you would have had the guts to—"

Spike laughed and flipped the stake through his fingers, twirling it like a tiny 
baton, fingers moving almost too fast for human eyes to see, while Angel hunched 
his shoulders as if preparing to spring.  Looking back and forth between the two 
men, Buffy wasn't sure if she should try to break up the argument before it 
degenerated into violence, or just go back upstairs and let them finish their macho 
posturing before she even tried to talk.  The kitchen-wrecking potential counseled 
in favor of intervention.

"Ya don't have the balls for anythin' anymore, Sunshine.  Gloomy, doomy, oh I got 
a soul an' it's put a powerful hurt on me.  'Course you never were anythin' other 
than a filthy, mucksavage Paddy wiv' delusions of grandeur."

Angel, obviously, had heard enough.  Whatever a muckpaddy was it had hit a sore 
point.  In a blur of movement, he was across the floor with his hands wrapped 
around Spike's neck.

"You won't die," Angel said in a very controlled voice, "but having a broken neck 
will really cramp your style."

"An' I can run this stake right into that bleedin' heart of yours."

True enough, Spike's hand was pressing the tip of the stake against Angel's chest.  
They could certainly do each other in at that point.  The only question was who 
was faster.  Buffy wasn't about to place any bets.

"Okay, knock it off, the both of you.  Hands off each other, I don't feel like 
vacuuming up vamp dust in the middle of the night," Buffy commanded in the 
sharp voice that usually worked with strange dogs and occasionally worked with 
Dawn.

Unwillingly, Angel let go of Spike and retreated over near the table.  Spike 
ostentatiously slid the stake into the waistband of his jeans.  Okay, that tone 
worked just fine with hormone-enraged vampires.  Buffy rubbed her hands over 
her face and looked from one to the other.  This was her idea of hell, four in the 
morning with an ex-boyfriend and a current not-boyfriend snarling at each other in 
her kitchen like Rottweilers on speed.  This wasn't something that Mom or Sex Ed 
had covered.  She was going to have to punt.

"Okay, now, we have a little situation here.  And it's going to have get worked out 
but until then, nobody's dusting, maiming, breaking, or otherwise damaging 
anybody else, got it?"

"She's so hot when she gets all bossy, isn't she?" Spike asked and caught the Look 
of Death for his pains.  "Tauntin', you didn't say anythin' about not tauntin'."

"No taunting either." Buffy took a deep breath.  "Angel, whoever told you about 
the Spike thing," she couldn't really say it, not when she couldn't admit it to herself, 
"forgot to tell you that a Keshonte demon gave Spike back his soul.  Which means 
that you really can't dust him because it would be bad.  And Spike, you can't dust 
Angel because I will be mad.  Have we got this?"

"Mad, bad, and dangerous to know," Spike muttered.  "Where's Lord Byron when 
he's needed?"

"Now I have got to get some sleep.  Unlike you guys I have to go out in the 
daylight and do things.  Like get Dawn out of the hospital."  She glared at the two 
men.  "You both better call a truce until sundown and I guess we'll take up where 
we left off tomorrow night – oh hell, I guess I mean tonight.  If.  I.  Feel.  Like.  It."

Looks were exchanged and Angel slid out the back door of the kitchen without a 
word.  Spike shook his head as if clearing something from the inside and looked 
back at her with a strangely blank face.

"You don't have to go," she said.

"I have to go home."

**

"I have to go home," he said and pulled his shirt back on.

"Silly, silly, silly, home is here," she said and sat up in the surf of linen and lace 
that made up the bed.  "You stay here now."  Her white body burned like a candle 
to his eyes, even though the lamps had long since guttered out.

"No, I must go home.  I have – obligations – I have to be at the publishing house at 
half eight."  He sat on the edge of the bed and began to lace his boots, but she 
wrapped her arms around his shoulders and her sharp little nails cut into him.

"You don't go home, you don't go to the publishing house, you're mine now and 
you don't leave me."  She sounded almost frightened, underneath the petulance that 
reminded him too much of his little sisters.

Trying to be reassuring, he pressed his forehead to hers and took himself into the 
far and dark reaches of her eyes.

"I'm going to come back, I'm not like that."

The door blew open and the big man thundered in.  He fell back against her, and 
she trembled as the large man with the wild hair closed in on them.

'You explained nowt to this Amadáin.  You don't go home, boy, you never get to 
go home to yer Aul Wan an' yer Aul Man, yer with us now.  You're one of us."

Certain that the stranger was a procurer and the frightened young woman was his 
doxy, all he could think about was the miserable little sum in his purse and prayed 
that it would be enough to make the big man go away.  

"I don't have much money, but you're welcome to the entire sum," he stammered 
and got to his feet, even though his legs were shaking.  "I've misunderstood the 
entire situation and I--"

"I ain't blaggardin' ya, boy.  You're as dead as the dog's dinner and deader still once 
you step out inta' th' mornin' light."

"I must leave," he tried again.

The big man's hand smashed down across his face, sending him flying against the 
wall.  Pain slashed through his brain.  On the bed, the girl began to wail, the 
bedclothes fallen down around her naked body and she commenced pulling her 
hands through her hair like Ophelia.

"You said I could keep him.  He was my present.  I made him to play with me.  
You never play nice, you never play with me."

"Ye couldn't have found anythin' better than this gack dosser? Taught you better 
than that, I did."

While the man railed at the sobbing, naked woman all he could do was rub the 
wetness from his face.

And taste the blood.


Changes 7/30


Spike tasted blood.

Damn, he'd bitten his lip when Angel had hit him.  It wasn't the first time, either.

The memories were banging in his head with the warmth and concern of a car 
crash.  Even as Spike walked across the pre-dawn streets of Sunnydale, his head 
was back in a London basement.  Another wonderful benefit of having a soul, 
apparently; he hadn't thought of all that in a century.  The granite faces of the 
headstones in the cemetery exhaled the cool night air.  He stopped and sat on the 
ground against his favorite tombstone, Sarah Smith, who had been buried before 
he'd returned from South America.  Sarah Smith who had lived to be eighty-five, 
beloved wife and mother.  Sarah Smith never had an unkind word for him, was 
solid and real against his back.  Good old Sarah.

Drawing his knees up to his chest, Spike fisted his hands and dug them into the 
cool sockets of his eyes.  There were things that he didn't want fighting their way 
out of the carefully constructed cages of nonchalance in his mind.  Unfortunately, 
they were presently holding some guards hostage and demanding to speak to the 
press.  

She'd wrapped him in her arms that night, her cool strong arms and taught him 
things that he could never have imagined.  She'd just forgotten to explain to him 
exactly the price she'd exacted.  Poor Drusilla, thinking with a brain full of holes as 
Battenburg lace.  She'd never given him a choice, never given him a chance.

Fuck, Spike thought to himself, pushing back into the present day – present 
morning -- just as the rosy-fingered Aurora was about to set him aflame with her 
touch.  He ambled for his crypt, and realized that he was shaking.  Damn the 
bastard anyway.  Damn the fucking bastard.  Hadn't spent enough time in Hell, 
hadn't stayed where he belonged.  Had to come back and well and truly fuck up the 
only thing that was making Spike's un-life worth living.

He felt the presence all along his veins and arteries, blood to blood.  Which was 
why he wasn't particularly surprised when the flying tackle sent him nose-first into 
the cool embrace of a stone Virgin Mary.   Hands at his collar, spinning him 
around.  Spike kicked, grabbed, and threw a punch into a midsection hard as the 
granite slab he found himself atop.

"You fuck, motherfucking, piece of shit, sonofabitch, fucking gobshite."

This was interesting; Spike had never seen another vampire red in the face before.  
It couldn't be a good thing.  He was bent backwards over an aboveground crypt, 
edge digging into the small of his back, while Angel's saliva sprayed as he shouted.

"You stay the FUCK away from her," Angel warned and game faced.

That wasn't a good sign either, Angel with his vamp up.

"See we been carin' and sharin' out in LaLa-land," Spike choked around Angel's 
hands.  "Don't be shy now."

"You just can't leave it alone, can you?"

Spike forced himself to laugh.

"The scourge of Europe is thrashin' me over a little blond bit a'skirt?  You oughta' 
be ashamed a'yourself."

It probably wasn't the smartest thing to say, Spike realized when Angel smashed 
him in the face with a fist, and blood started to run from broken skin.  The smell of 
his own blood sent the old blood lust like flames through his body, the burning 
outlining each and every vessel and capillary.  He felt his own face heat and 
change, the sharp fangs pinch at his lower lip.  Inches away from his face, Spike 
watched Angel's nostrils twitch at the same scent.

"Sanctimonious bastard," Spike swore and drove his knee into the other vampire's 
groin.

It didn't have the same effect it would have as on a human, but Angel's pain 
receptors worked well enough to send him staggering back a step, releasing Spike.  
Spike used the crypt as support and kicked Angel square in the face with both feet 
before rolling backwards over the crypt, putting it between him and the other man.  
There was blood on Angel's face and in his eye as he surged over the crypt, coat 
flapping out like Batman's cape.  Spike leapt over a tombstone, reaching to the 
back of his jeans for the stake he'd stuck there earlier.  Fuck, he must have lost it in 
the initial tackle.  

Vampire strength notwithstanding, Angel was a hell of a lot bigger than he was and 
sheer mass gave the other vampire an advantage that Spike wasn't about to let him 
use.  As long as he kept Angel far enough away and prevented him from crushing 
Spike against another crypt or the ground, he was going to keep his unlife intact.

"Why'd you do it?  You going to make her suffer?  Is that going to amuse you, 
Spike?" 

"Consider the possibility that I might be enjoyin' her company."

"You're joking.  You have nothing in common."

"Far as I can remember, we got plenty in common."  The bitterness in Spike's voice 
betrayed entirely too much of his feelings so he masked it with another forced 
laugh.  "An' you know all 'bout it, Sunshine."

"You fuck," Angel swore.

A roundhouse kick hit him in the throat and he tumbled backwards, smacking the 
side of his head against the sharp edge of a gravestone.  Momentarily dazed, he 
struggled to his feet and ducked behind an obelisk.  Yeah, Angel had longer arms 
and legs, he'd forgotten that.

"I've beaten the shit out of you before," Angel warned.

"'S why I'm avoidin' you," Spike gasped and rabbited around a mausoleum that 
slept four.

"Fuckin' coward."

"Don't fancy gettin' my ass kicked, thanks."

The sky was half-light in the east, making the sky opal with color.  They had about 
ten minutes before they were both reduced to barbecue leftovers.  He should have 
pointed this out but he figured that Angel already knew, and was entirely too 
fucked off to care.  He could hear Angel's footsteps crunching though the dry grass 
of the cemetery.

"You can't have her, y'know, seein' as how your soul's got a return-to-sender 
option," Spike called, and felt the hardness of his vamp face melt away, leaving 
only stiff soreness.  "There's no cause to keep her from what comfort she can get."

The footsteps stopped.  
 
"You've got no right to lay your filthy hands on her."

"An' that's somethin' you know more than a passin' bit about, Angelus."  It was an 
effort for sure, but Spike managed to keep his voice steady.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Waste a'time.  I'm already dead."

**

He was dead.

I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he 
were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never 
die.

Heels of his hands dug into his eye sockets, he leaned against the wall.  The room 
was dark and cold, the stub of a candle the only light.  Every fiber in his being was 
shaking, and a thousand thoughts were battering like moths against a gaslight globe 
in his brain.  The woman, the woman who had – he couldn't even think the words – 
killed him and them made love to him, was Drusilla.  He could tell, now, that she 
was mad as a hatter.  And a vampire besides.  He'd read Le Fanu, he'd read 
Polidori's bastardized version of Byron's tale, and he'd even suffered through 
Varney.  He knew about vampires, just as he knew about Greece and the Cherokee.  
They told him that he now was a vampire, which was as strange as waking up a 
Greek or an Indian.  

Despite the oddness, it had the ring of truth.  There had been a change, something 
terribly different ever since he'd woken up in Drusilla's bed.  Of course he'd first 
thought that it had something to do with finally attaining carnal knowledge of a 
woman, but he may have been mistaken.  

He heard the locks and leapt to his feet, shoving his glasses back against his nose, 
trying to regain as much composure as he could.  Not exactly the best foot forward, 
not with crumpled trousers and shirt, his waistcoat, coat, braces and shoes having 
gone missing long before.

It was the large Irish man again, this time wearing a toothsome smile with nary a 
bit of warmth in it.  He was dragging a girl with him, a girl from the streets with 
the tattered gaudiness of a Whitechapel whore.  Her eyes were glassy, possibly 
with drink, and she looked from one man to the other with placid acceptance.  This 
wasn't new to her, he realized.

"So you're had time to ruminate on yer current condition, have you?"

Bloody yokel, Irish hinterland accent and all.

"It's hardly acceptable.  I must insist that you reverse it as quickly as possible."

"There's nowt to reverse it, boy," the Irishman said and laughed.  "Nowt but a stake 
through the heart, havin' yer head ripped from yer body or the sunlight blastin' you 
into dust."

"And I have to drink blood to continue this cursed existence?"

"Catch on fast, you do, that's good.  You'll not last long unless you feed.  I've made 
it easy for ye."  He shoved the girl forward.  "She'll not fight."

"No," he said and took a step back, finding his back to the wall.  "I won't."  He said 
the words, but something within him slavered.  He could see the veins crawling 
across the exposed parts of the girl's chest, moving with her every breath.

"Wise up ya gack ye," the Irishman said.  "You've done nowt but lie about and sigh 
since ye've been here, and now I'm tellin' you to feed or ye'll starve to a death more 
complete than ye have now."

"So be it."

"Is'allright love," the girl said and arranged a flirtatious smile on her face, worn 
thin with overuse.

She touched his face, her fingers strangely hot against his skin.  It should not have 
been the case.  This was terribly wrong.  But he could smell her, the warm smell of 
woman, the sweat on her body, the many men between her legs, and above all that, 
the rich wildness of her blood.  Drawn to the sweet perfume of living human, he 
stepped forward, gripped her shoulder, and felt his face burn again with the strange 
change.  The need to bury his now-sharp teeth in the soft skin of her throat was as 
desperate as the need for air itself.  He was choking inside the dead husk of his 
body, and she was the only thing that could save him.  He was salivating at the 
thought of how her blood would taste filling his mouth and his throat, how it would 
feel as her heart slowed and stopped as he drank the very life from her.

Over the girl's shoulder, the Irishman smirked.

"I can't do this," he said, releasing the girl's arm.  "I'd rather be dead."

"You are dead," the vampire said and ripped the girl away from him.

Sharp teeth, in the face of a devil, sundered the girl's tender neck.  He closed his 
eyes and heard the animal feeding, feeling the hunger gnaw at him like rats on a 
corpse.

Changes 8/30


The rat sniffed the Cheeto and recoiled, afraid of the plastic food.  Spike shrugged 
and stuffed the rat-rejected pseudo snack into his mouth and washed it down with 
some Guinness.  Most of the cans were empty, and Angel had begun building a 
Guinness can wall near the entrance to the crypt.

Fuck Angel, and the white horse he rode in on.

Burning Southern California sun outside, two cranky vampires inside, a truce that 
was as temporary as cheap hair dye.  It was like Waiting for Godot with PMS.  
Spike was getting tired of watching Angel, but he wanted to avoid a sudden dust 
conversion experience.  He sincerely hoped that Angel had drained whoever had 
cut his hair that way.  But there was no point in saying it, since he'd only get the 
old furrowed brow routine, and maybe an annoyed exhalation.

The cigarette butts on the floor were multiplying like rabbits.  Spike was chain-
smoking, not because he liked it but because Angel hated it.  There were still a few 
buttons that could be pushed after all this time.  Getting Angel from zero to 
apoplectic in less than sixty seconds had been one of his favorite pastimes for 
decades.  Spike considered the ash on the end of his smoke and watched the smoke 
drift up to the spider-covered vault above.  He sniffed, smelled yeasty richness that 
had nothing to do with blood.

"Enough Guinness in the 'fridge for you?"

"Never thought you'd be drinking the Black," Angel said in the mildest tone 
possible.

"Things change."

"So I see.  Leave her be, Spike."

"Fuck off."

Angel was sitting on top of the sepulcher's slab, one leg pulled up and bent, like a 
boy atop a stone wall, a glass of black lager in his hand, half empty.  It seemed so 
mortal, so normal, and so fucking banal to be talking about a girl like this.  She's 
mine, you keep away, she's mine, you keep away.  They were vampires; shouldn't 
they have been engaged in a slightly more elevated discourse?  

The sun moved overhead outside.

"So who told you, Xanderboy or Anya?" Spike asked.

Shrugging, Angel made progress into his pint of Guinness.  "Does it matter?  Let's 
just say my informant saw you and Buffy – together-"

"Makin' a short, blunt human pyramid, you mean?" Spike asked, amused by 
Angel's barely perceptible squirm.  "Which is how you twigged, right?"

"Twigged? I fucking branched."

"And all your buddies there in LA said 'No, Spike wouldn't hurt her' an' begged 
you not to go."

"I have instructions from Cordy and Wesley to kick your ass.  Gunn said I should 
bust a cap in it instead."

"Gunn? What's that?"

"You don't know him, but he hates you just the same."

"Reassurin', that.  My fame has spread far n'wide.  Expect that tellin' you I'd never 
kill her would ease your mind a bit."

"Snowballs, Hell, you know the rest." Angel looked down at his now empty pint 
glass.

A good host would have offered a guest a refill, but Angel could bloody well get 
up and get himself another lager if he wanted it.  The bastard had found it easily 
enough.  Instead, he settled a little more comfortably in his armchair and crossed 
his legs.  Getting the hint, Angel rose, went to the tiny refrigerator Spike had looted 
from a dorm room and got himself another Guinness.  Lighting another cigarette, 
Spike watched the other vampire cross the crypt.  Years of experience made 
reading Angel almost as easy as reading the signs on the LA freeway, and the 
blinking yellow bulbs were saying that Angel was tired and preoccupied.  If Spike 
was of a mind to, and he wasn't sure if he was or not, it wouldn't be a bad time to 
try making an Angel-kebob.  But things had finally been moving in the proper 
rhythm with Buffy before Dudley Do-Right showed.

Sometimes death just wasn't fair.

Spike dropped ash on the floor.  "You got a couple a' thoughts here, wastin' me 
bein' one of them an' the other bein' that Miss Slayer ain't puttin' you on the top of 
her hit parade if you do it."

Seeking the truth through the bottom of a glass of lager, Angel refused to look up 
at Spike.

"Maybe I'm willing to take that risk."  

"Maybe," Spike started and had to lubricate his throat with lager before he could go 
on, "maybe I know things about you that the Slayer doesn't want to know."

It was a threat, and a muscular one, even if the delivery could have been better.  
Across the crypt, Angel's eyes flickered gold in gameface.

"Have you told her anything?"

**

Nobody had told him anything.  But he knew.  He was weak.  Dying beyond dying.  
Time didn't happen in the dark room.  He could have been in there a week, a 
month, and a year.  His mother must have decided he was dead, or run off to exotic 
places.  If she'd the seen the state of her blue eyed boy she would have hung her 
head in shame.  He was filthy, he smelled like dirt and decay, and his clothes were 
torn and stained.  He was losing his mind.  Locked in a pitch black room where 
even his strangely enhanced vision did nothing to pierce the gloom, he huddled 
against the wall and recited anything he could remember to try to keep his mind 
from turning into porridge.

Like an unpleasant smell, the Irishman was back again, standing with the light 
from the corridor making an unholy halo around his mop of dark hair.  This time he 
had Drusilla with him, her wrist disappearing in his huge and ugly fist.  She was 
wide-eyed with fear.

"I hear Dru's been feedin' you on the sly," he said.

Mouthfuls of blood, stolen from her at her insistence.  "You can't hurt me, my 
darling," she'd whisper as he moved inside her, and it had seemed right and just to 
use his newfound fangs, taking back a fluid more vital than the one she wrenched 
from him.  Afterward, she would shake and moan in his arms, afraid of the things 
that weren't there in the dark.  Afraid of her Master.  Angelus.  She'd whispered the 
name as if it would invoke God's wrath to even think it.

He stood and looked at Angelus.  "Don't hurt her."

The vampire laughed.  "You think she wouldn't like that, boyo?  If you weren't too 
useless to live, you'd have a lot to learn."  The last word dripped off his Irish 
tongue, an extended and dreadful "larn," and William thought Angelus might be 
toying with him even with the horrendous accent.

He swallowed.  "You're going to kill me, then?"  Even now, a part of him screamed 
for life, or whatever one called this existence.

"You're no vampire." Angelus’ss voice dripped contempt like blood.  "You're a 
freak.  Dru's touched and it's made her blood bad."

"No!" Drusilla protested.  "He's just a chick, still in his egg.  You must crack it, my 
Angelus."

"You're talkin' crazy again, and it's beginnin' to bore me."

"The demon *is* inside him.  You feel it, don't you, William?"  He couldn't deny 
her anything, and nodded.  "You see?  He is waiting to be born.  The other children 
rip themselves from the womb, always already evil.  That's no fun at all.  There's 
nothing left to corrupt.  William is a present for you.  You must coax the demon 
out.  You must make him in your image."  Her eyes glittered like lightning-flashes 
reflected in deep water.

"You've seen this in a vision?"  Angelus sounded skeptical.  

"Drusilla, I don't want --"

With a wild cry she wrenched herself free of Angelus and came to throw her arms 
around him, tight as a tourniquet.  "He will be such a killer, Father.  What is begun 
must be finished."

Angelus sighed, a hollow sound that moved no breath.  "Drusilla, I always said 
you'd be interestin' to have around.  We'll try it your way.  For a while."

He stepped forward, into the room.

**

As soon as she figured that the night staff had been switched for the morning, 
Buffy called the hospital and found that Dawn was still sleeping and seemed to be 
doing well.  Which was good, since a truly concussed and dangerously wounded 
Dawn might have pushed her over the edge and she was not sure she could handle 
herself, edgewise.

Willow apparently had switched with Giles and now had Dawn-sitting duty which 
she had taken to with enthusiasm born of guilt.

"I can stay here as long as you need me to.  I- I really don't mind."

"I'll be over there in a little while.  I have some stuff here I have to sort out first."

In the light of current events, Buffy decided that her morning run should be down 
to the Magic Shop for some consultation with Giles.  It was past eight o'clock when 
she finished lacing up her sneakers and set out.  At least it was after the hour where 
all little vampires should be snug in their lairs.  She hoped that both vampires had 
made it through the tiny remainder of the night without killing each other.  If they 
killed each other it would de-complicate things somewhat, but she didn't want that 
on her head along with the rest of the guilt that she was accumulating like late fees 
on a tape from Blockbuster.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that someone had ratted her out to 
Angel.  The only person who she couldn't see calling Angel was Giles.  So it was 
to Giles she went.

"Hey," she said as the bells chimed on the door behind her.  

Giles was nowhere to be seen, but the portable stereo on the counter was playing 
something with guitar and a man whining off-key.  "Preacher was a talkin' there's a 
sermon he gave,/He said every man's conscience is vile and depraved,/You cannot 
depend on it to be your guide/When it's you who must keep it satisfied."

"Giles?"  A moment later, the Watcher emerged from the back room with a cup of 
tea in one hand and a very long and wickedly pointed knife in the other.

"I thought we cancelled training for the nonce," Giles wondered and let Buffy take 
the knife away from him.

"We did, I just dropped by for a chat, and a ride to the hospital if you can manage 
it." She took a few practice swipes with the blade.  "This is sweet.  Too bad it's 
inventory."

"It's yours if you want it."  

"It ain't easy to swallow, it sticks in the throat,/She gave her heart to the man/In the 
long black coat," the music continued and Buffy shook a cold thrill off her spine.

"Shouldn't need it.  Things are kind of decaf-land with the demons lately.  Cool 
music.  Is it the Wallflowers?"

"Not exactly.  It's Bob Dylan.  Jakob Dylan's father.  What did you want to talk 
about?" Giles perched on the stool behind the counter and arranged his face in 
listening mode.

"It's a personal kind of thing, not totally a Slayer thing, but there is kinda some 
overlap," she admitted and put the knife down on the counter, leaning with her 
elbows on the glass top.  "You know that thing I didn't want to talk about before?  I 
gotta talk about it now."

Abruptly, Giles was wearing his worried Dad frown, and Buffy's throat tightened.  
She wasn't sure how to explain any of it, and resented having her personal life turn 
into such a big issue.  

"It's embarrassing," she began and could feel the blood turn her face pinker than 
her morning run had.  "I kind of have, had, am having, like, a, you know, a thing 
with somebody."

Giles' face twisted for a moment, which wasn't quite the reaction she had imagined.

"I'm old and not cool, so would you be so kind as to explain exactly what kind of 
'thing' you're referring to."

"A thing.  A thing with somebody, a –" Buffy struggled for a moment and finally 
her mouth worked itself around the words, "– a sex thing.  I am having a sex thing 
with somebody.  A big Godzilla sex thing.  And there's like a real low approval 
rating.  Okay?"

As he always did when he was confused or stalling for time, Giles took off his 
glasses and examined the lenses for spots.  Buffy sighed.

"Buffy, you're a young woman with normal needs and desires," he said and Buffy 
couldn't help but roll her eyes at the bland politically correct speech, which was 
totally Giles.  "As long as you're responsible about it, no one really has a right to 
approve or disapprove." 

Since he was being all Cream of Wheat and mellow about it, Buffy lost her 
hesitation about upsetting her Watcher.  Actually, since he seemed to be reading 
from Oprah's invisible cue cards, Buffy decided that he really deserved to be 
shocked.

"With Spike," she said, in the voice of ultimate teenage disdain.

Mouth working without sound for a moment, Giles picked up the glasses he had 
dropped and shoved them onto his nose.

"Oh Buffy-" he began and sounded hope-free.

"Low approval rating, thy name is Spike," she said and pushed herself away from 
the counter.  "Let me just answer all your questions now.  No, I didn't plan any of 
it, it just happened.  No, I don't think it's part of some great Spike plan.  Since the 
Nazi demon thing.  No, he didn't bite me and put me in thrall.  I don't know if I'm 
happy about it, but I'm not un-happy either."

"Well, I can see you've been thinking about how your friends are going to react."

"But I wasn't at the time.  And at four this morning Angel shows up in my kitchen 
to read me the riot act.  I thought he and Spike were going to dust each other.  I 
sent them away.  It's possible they'll still be unsweepable tonight."

"It does seem that you have a bit of a problem."

"What am I supposed to do?" She threw her hands up in the air.  "I can't deal right 
now, Giles.  I've got enough to deal with between Dawn and all the lawyer stuff 
with mom's estate.  Dawn put a Lean Cuisine in the microwave for ten minutes.  
Now the microwave is coated with brown gunk and the whole house smells like 
burnt chicken Kiev.  I can't make her go to school, I can't make her go to bed, and 
she just sneers at me.  I sent her to Tara and Willow's for one night and she breaks 
her arm.  And then there's Glory out trying to kill Dawn and destroy the whole 
world.  I just can't deal."

Much to her embarrassment, Buffy could hear her voice crack and felt the tears 
start to run down her face.

"Buffy, you've been dealt a rather rough hand right now.  I understand that.  You 
know that everyone is going to do everything that they can to help you." Giles 
came around the counter and pulled Buffy to him so she could snuffle on his shirt, 
"All you have to do is ask.  And no one has the right to criticize who you decide 
you want to have a 'sex thing' with."

Despite herself, Buffy laughed and pulled back so she could wipe her face with the 
sleeve of her sweatshirt.

"I don't, however, really want to know what Godzilla sex is."

Buffy laughed again, and got the remainder of the tears off her face.

"I only told Willow.  About Spike I mean, not Godzilla sex.  Dawn knew, but she's 
managed to blackmail me for months about not telling the entire world.  Then 
yesterday Xander and Anya walked in --"

"And you thought I'd best hear it from you than the terrifyingly detailed report I 
would have received from Anya?  You have my eternal gratitude.  Now I'll just call 
Anya and have her get here early so I can take you to hospital."


Changes 9/30

"You're nobody in this town.  You're nobody in this crowd.  You're nobody till 
everybody in this town, thinks you're poison, got your number, knows it must be 
avoided.  You're nobody till everybody in this town thinks you're a bastard."

"Turn the radio off," Angel ordered, in something like his old voice.

"Fuck you," Spike suggested and bit back a yawn.

It had to be midday.  His eyes felt like poached eggs and every fiber in his being 
was screaming for sleep.  But he wasn't going to sleep, not while they were 
drinking their way through a case of Guinness, never quite drunk and never quite 
sober.  

"Turn the radio off and go to sleep," Angel added.

"The fuck I will.  Sleepin'? Helpless? While you're here? Pull the other one, old 
son, it's got bells on," Spike said and another yawn nearly cracked his jaw.

"When were you planning on outgrowing your asshole phase?"

"Let's see, it's 2001 and from 2001 to 1880 is a hundred and twenty one years.  So 
figure in 2122 I might feel like talkin' to you wivout breakin' your fuckin' neck."

"You know, I get a little fucking sick of everybody jamming everything I've ever 
done down my throat," Angel snapped and bolted up from the sepulcher.  "The 
Powers that Be, the Host, Wesley, Darla, an entire law firm, and any other two bit 
minor demon with a memory, so I don't need shit from you too."

"Satan wept."  Spike threw a lit cigarette in Angel's direction, the burning ember 
falling close enough for Angel to realize that Spike could have hit him with the 
cigarette had he wanted to.

Both men knew that vampires were flammable in the extreme.

"Hate me that much again?" Angel asked.

"Still."

Spike reached for another can.

"Fancy another drink?" he asked.

"Shove it up your ass," Angel barked.

All Spike could do was laugh and the sound was bitter as wormwood.

**

"So how long do I have to hang out here?" Dawn demanded.

"We have to wait for Doctor Schiffer to sign your release papers." Buffy sighed 
and looked through the pages of Teen People that she had brought for Dawn.  
Citalia sparkled through the cover story, which had a picture-to-word ratio of about 
one to one.  She looked like a size minus-one to Buffy's experienced eyes.

"I can still go, right?" Dawn asked.  "I *have* to go."

It was the first thing Dawn had been the least bit interested in since … since the 
funeral.  Buffy resolved that Dawn would go to the concert, with Spike protecting 
her from the smallest jostle.

"Yeah," Buffy said and tried not to look satisfied.  "But you stick with Spike.  I 
don't want you getting in any trouble."  Boy, did that sound weird.  Spike was not 
anti-trouble.  He was trouble's best buddy.  But he knew his choices for the concert 
were sex or death and she was ninety-nine percent sure which he'd choose.  Eighty 
percent.

Doctor Schiffer came in then and gave a long lecture about proper cast care and 
return visits.  It was the kind of thing Buffy was used to tuning out, and she had 
trouble focusing against her natural instincts.  

"Just one more thing," Dr.  Schiffer added, breaking Buffy out of her navel-gazing.  
"Since Dawn's a minor and you're her temporary guardian, Child Protective 
Services has been forwarded a copy of the Emergency Room Report.  It's standard 
procedure, really.  But expect a call from a social worker who will probably want 
to come out and talk to you about why Dawn was staying overnight at a friend's 
house while you were entertaining your boyfriend."

Dr.  Schiffer's comment smacked Buffy in the face with the warmth and caring of a 
long dead fish pickled in ichor.  Not only did Buffy's face burn, but every square 
inch of her skin flushed with embarrassment, including the soles of her feet.

"Oh shit," was all she could say when Dr. Schiffer finally blew out of the room on 
a cloud of rubbing alcohol and passe Ralph Lauren Polo.

"Well you were," Dawn snarked.  "Checking the bone-o-meter on Deadboy Slim.  
And everybody would be really happy to hear that you handed me off to lesbians."

"Dawnie, if you start telling people that your sister sent you to stay with lesbians so 
she could have sex with a vampire, you are going to end up with Dad and his new 
wife, an orphanage, or a funny farm.  Any of which have massive suckage 
potential," Buffy said in a hard tone that she usually reserved for non-humans.

Dawn could only stare at Buffy with her mouth slightly open, which made Buffy 
feel better and worse at the same time.

"Outside, car, now, move." Buffy snapped and grabbed Dawn's purple backpack, 
which contained the clothes she had arrived in the night before.

"No wheelchair? I want to ride out in a wheelchair."

"No time, go - go - go."

The new Gilesmobile was waiting for them.  Dawn glared at Buffy for opening the 
car door for her, and glared again when Buffy got in the back seat.

"Thanks for picking us up, Giles."

"Yeah," Dawn pitched in.  "'Cause Buffy doesn't want to fail the drivers' license 
test again, it looks like we'll be needing you for daytime transport until I'm 
licensed."

Giles' mouth thinned, but Buffy couldn't tell if Dawn was finally getting to him or 
if the "daytime" reference reminded him of Spike.  "Actually, I'd like to drop by the 
Magic Shop.  Willow talked to all your teachers and picked up your homework."  
And Giles wanted to speak to her, otherwise Dawn's homework would have been 
waiting, in the annoying way of homework, at home.

Dawn pouted all the way to the shop, and Buffy couldn't help but feel a little 
grateful.

Inside, Willow and Tara rushed over to coo and flutter over Dawn.  Even Dawn of 
Doom couldn't stay unmoved by the sugary goodness of dedicated Wiccans, and 
Buffy saw her smile, for the first time in a while, as Willow discovered that the 
cast was unsignable and began to think of charms to make everyone's signatures 
appear anyway.

Reassured, Buffy followed Giles into the back, where Xander and Anya were 
waiting.  They looked tired; Xander wouldn't meet her eyes.

"This better be about something I can stake, decapitate, or disembowel, 'cause I'm 
in no mood for complexity."

"Carnage is an ever-present possibility," Giles pointed out.

"I think this Citalia person is, like they say in the movies, up to no good," Xander 
gritted out, looking only at Giles.

Anya put a hand out to rub Xander's arm.  He twitched and then relaxed a bit.  
"Xander was working to set up the stage when he heard someone chanting – a man 
and a woman.  I was waiting on one of those uncomfortable seats and he got me.  
The chant was pretty general, just an invocation of further power, but I know how 
you like to keep up with magical doings in the area," she ended on a chipper note.

"So what you're saying is we've got another powerful question mark in town.  Just 
great."  

"I did get a number of useful ideas by examining the various harnesses for the 
performers," Anya continued, oblivious.

"An--," Xander cautioned, and she closed her mouth, which in itself suggested that 
Xander had gone to Willow for some sort of control spell.

"Okay, I'll check her out," Buffy decided.  "They're still setting up tonight?"

"Yeah," Xander said, looking at Buffy for the first time.  "Takes a while to convert 
an indoor football stadium into a concert hall.  Chairs at the goalposts, chairs at the 
forty-yard line, it's pretty much a chair army out there in strictly regimented rows.  
She's having a rehearsal tonight so everyone knows where to stand, jump and 
wiggle."

Buffy nodded, thinking of how she could get backstage and investigate for evil 
paraphernalia, assuming it was distinguishable from good paraphernalia.  Even 
Willow had a dried-up head on a stick.  

"So we'll be going now," Xander said, rising.  Giles had another one of his "I've got 
terrible gas pains but I'm quite all right, thank you" looks.

"Wait," Buffy ordered.  "I don't suppose either of you would know why there's two 
vampires with souls in Sunnydale, which may shortly be reduced to one."  

Both Anya and Xander put on not-me faces.  

"Anya?  I know you talk to Cordelia all the time, you both have such a respect for 
money and an utter absence of tact.  Did you happen to share any gossip with her 
after your little trip chez Summers?"

Anya shook her head.  "There was no time, we were at the hospital, and then there 
was an extensive fight, and the make-up sex was correspondingly elaborate –"

Plausible, but not completely convincing.  Buffy spied something in one of the 
boxes Giles was always saying needed to go down to the basement.  Reaching in, 
she pulled out a tattered stuffed rabbit that smelled like cloves and held it in front 
of her.

"This is Mister Bunny and Mister Bunny thinks you're keeping a secret."

"Buff, that's just mean!" Xander protested.

"So is telling people about my personal life.  So Anya, truth or Mister Bunny?"

The former demon turned flat white and began to back away.

"Mister Bunny wants to give you a kiss," Buffy added and shoved the stuffed 
animal closer.

Anya yelped and stumbled backwards.

"Oh shit, it was me, okay, I did it," Xander blurted.

"So, seeing Angel is supposed to remind me what true love is?  Or just that 
vampires and dating don't mix?"

Xander's eyes held only concern.  "I *know* you're in pain.  I'm just not sure that 
you should be making any – emotional – decisions right now." 

"Okay, I know this seems like Angel, the sequel, but the circumstances are really 
different, and Spike is being really helpful Glory-wise now and the rest of it isn't 
your business."

Xander snorted.  "Right, like Angel had absolutely no fucking impact on our lives 
whatsoever."  

"Would it make you feel any better if I told you I was just using him for sex?"

Giles blanched and Xander swallowed.  "That's just how it started with Xander and 
me!" Anya chirped.

Buffy felt a little blanchy herself, and crossed her arms over her chest for 
reassurance.  "So I'm guessing that's a negative.  I'm sorry that's how you feel, and 
I don't expect you to welcome him to the gang.  Just – let's try to work together 
until Glory is out of the way."

"Yeah, well, this threatening with bunnies thing is a new look for you.  Bet you 
wouldn't have done that before you started getting the old cold Spike injection."

"That's enough," Giles broke in.  "Could we please just concentrate on the matter at 
hand and not on personal lives, please?"

Buffy looked at her sneakers, and realized that the toes were badly scuffed and they 
needed to be washed.

"Right.  Now let's make plans for this evening," Giles suggested, which seemed 
like a much better idea, so they did.

"Willow and Tara are going to where Citalia is staying and set a magic-sensing 
spell, which should tell us if Citalia is dabbling in the black arts or what Xander 
heard is some type of vocal warmup.  I'll be here on call, Anya will stay with Dawn 
at the house, and I think Buffy has some vampires to deal with."

"She has to be at the Hilton," Anya offered.  "None of the other hotels in town have 
any kind of star rating.  Which isn't a good thing for the Magic Shop because we 
can't pull in any kind of high-dollar tourist traffic.  But if we got that website that I 
was talking about yesterday—"

"Now is really not the time to go into this, Anya."

"And when would be a good time?  I'm developing fine lines and wrinkles while 
opportunities just whiz by.  My breasts are sagging while I wait for a good time to 
talk about e-commerce!" Anya bitched while giving Buffy a dirty look.  "*And* –
people are threatening me with bunnies."

"Everyone is stressed, and the important thing is to keep calm and be reasonable."

"*Everyone* has stress?" Buffy interrupted.  "Pardon me!  If anybody wants to 
trade for a grief-crazed little sister with a broken arm who is having me 
investigated by Child Protective Services because I sent her to stay with lesbians 
overnight where she broke her arm because I was concurring with the undead 
which my alleged friend decided had to come to the attention of my former, also 
undead, boyfriend who is now very pissed off and tearing the arms off the undead 
guy I was constructing with, so no one will take the broken-armed sister to a 
concert and keep her safe from the psycho goddess from Hell and I have to make 
all the decisions now because my mother is dead.  Really, if anybody wants to 
trade their stress for mine, just sing out and we'll swap, like, right now," Buffy 
agreed from the depths of her ugly mood.

No one spoke.

"Really.  I didn't think so."

"I think you mean consorting with the undead," Giles offered.  "But we all 
understand that things are very, very difficult for you right now.  More so than for 
the rest of us.  Possibly we haven't been as supportive as we could under the 
circumstances." 

"And if we'd been more supportive you wouldn't have to be doing the wild thing 
with Spike, or threatening people with bunnies."

In an unusual move of self-preservation, Xander stepped between Buffy and Anya, 
obviously sensing the fact that Buffy was on the verge of giving Anya a makeover 
she'd never forget.

"We should take Dawn home now," Xander told Anya.

"Yes, and sit on her so she doesn't break anything else." Anya sniffed and looked 
over her shoulder at Buffy.  "Since Buffy has to separate her two pet vampires."

All Buffy could do was grind her teeth.


Changes 10/30


Angel had worked himself into a thorough brood after the Guinness ran out like the 
bloody typical Irishman he was.  Spike could feel the sun leaching from the sky, 
taking its own sweet time.  

Heathcliff-Angel was good for his safety, he thought, but not for his pole position, 
so to speak, in Buffy's life.  Angel didn't make fun of her and he'd protect Dawn 
with every cell of his undead being.  When all's said and done, she'd choose the 
dark and guilty hunk over the ineffectual and careless fop.  And who could blame 
her?

Spike shook his head.  Self-pity like that needed a drink to hold it up.  And Angel 
had put paid to the last of the shipment he'd stolen from the liquor store.  He 
needed a bar, and not the Bronze, and not Lovecraft's, which Angel might 
remember from Angelus days.

A human bar, then.  Maybe he'd take a patron or two for later, seeing as his 
adventure in goodness was about to end.

Rusholme's was dark enough that Spike could have gone in vamped and not even 
scared the bartender.  The patrons were isolated in their separate puddles of beer.  
The jukebox had "White Wedding" and he used all the quarters he'd stolen from 
the parking meters on the walk over.  His fellow drinkers were so miserable that 
they didn't even seem to notice the droning repetition, just the way he liked it.

Spike was drinking Scotch like it was arterial blood, huddled at the bar, when a 
man leaned on the bar beside him and motioned the bartender for a beer.  "Hey," he 
asked as he slid his money over, "why's the jukebox stuck?"  

The bartender grunted.  In a bar like Rusholme's, the bartenders were there to 
watch the cash register and water the drinks, not to monitor the patrons, let alone 
offer them a shoulder to cry on.

"You don't like it, mate, there's a liquor store just down the block."  If he worked 
up sufficient annoyance, Spike thought, he could maybe have a fight and then a 
feed.

"Hey, no problem," the man assured him, and something familiar in his voice made 
Spike scrutinize him as surreptitiously as a drunken vampire could.  This guy had 
been part of the 70s Bowery club scene in New York, Spike realized.  His face was 
softened with age and fat, but Spike recognized him.  Funny how the old punks all 
ran to fat and bloat.  Old rockers like Keith Richards and Stephen Tyler just kept 
getting skinnier and tighter.  Of course Spike had his doubts about Richards and 
Tyler being mortal anyway.

Beside him, the man was doing a little surveillance of his own.

The man – John?  George?  Ringo?  Spike couldn't remember – finally broke his 
stare to smile.  "You know, you remind me of—"

"Yeah, get that all the time," Spike grumbled and looked into his drink.  One 
bourbon, one scotch, and one beer, or at least that was the ratio he was keeping if 
not the numbers.

"Looks like you have a respect for long-past days of glory."

"No doubt.  So what's a man wiv' taste doin' in lovely downtown Sunnydale?"

The man chortled and waved for another beer.  "Selling another slice of my soul."

"Hope it's remunerative."

"Oh, yes."  The man took another long drink.  "I, my friend, am Citalia's manager." 

Spike almost choked on his Scotch.  The Powers that Be were determined to totally 
fuck up his head this week.  He covered and lit a smoke.

"'Zat so?" he asked.

"Oh yeah.  I tell her where to go, who to speak to, I dress her up and approve her 
dates, who are all, by the way, queerer'n a three-dollar bill.  I mean, do you think 
that a straight man would be in a *boy band*?  And that is music today.  If I wasn't 
paid so much fucking money I'd be disgusted with myself."

He saluted Spike with his glass and drained it.

"Fucking commercialism," he said and belched into the back of his hand.

"Yeah, accountants an' corporations ruin it all," Spike agreed.  "You know what we 
gotta do? Burn down the disco, hang the fucking DJ, because the music that they 
constantly play says nothing to me about my life."

The man was watching him with amazement.  "I wish I were still your age.  Back 
then I thought we could do it, you know, we could change the world through 
music.  Fuck the establishment, eat the rich."  Spike tried not to snigger.  Back 
then, this man had snorted more powder than there was in Aspen.  It was a miracle 
any of them could change their clothes, much less the world.  Although coked-up 
blood was a bit of a treat and Spike could almost taste the memory of it.

"Now I'm one of them.  But money doesn't suck, right?"

"Comes in useful," Spike agreed.

"Selling out's my cross to bear, buddy, what's yours?"

In a perfect world, Spike would have pointed out that bearing a cross was the best 
way for him to get branded, but it wasn't a perfect world, not even within spitting 
distance.

"Tearin' up the old guts wonderin' if my honey's gonna' pitch me out for an ol' 
love."

"Bummer.  Been there, done that.  But what's to worry?  Women are like toilets: 
when you need one bad enough, any one is beautiful."

"This one is special,"  Spike found himself admitting.

"Ouch!  Sounds like you've got a serious problem.  Bartender, another round for 
me and my friend here."

The bartender stopped his dilatory polishing of glasses and slopped some Scotch 
into glasses.  Spike lit a cigarette and hunched over the bar a little farther.  Great, 
he had the sympathetic and drunken ear of Citalia's manager.  The Slayer would 
want to know what was the what with Citalia before Little Bad could go to the 
concert and if the Slayer wasn't happy, he wasn't going to be happy.  

"So how'd you wind up wiv'the manager gig?"  Spike asked.

"Discovered the fucking cunt.  High school musical.  The ex-wife and the ex-kid 
wanted me at The Pirates of Penzance at Van Nuys High two years back.  The little 
bitch was singing the lead, fucking amazing voice.  Stage presence, too.  Me and 
half the dads in the place were sportin' wood by the end of Act One.  I talk her into 
cutting a demo, and since she was eighteen, no worries about parents.  I shopped 
the demo around at the record companies.  Tasty deal with Siren Records in LA."  

George or whatever his name was pulled a cigarette out of the pack that Spike had 
left on the bar and also helped himself to Spike's lighter.

"Tasty for her.  I get a miserable ten percent of everything after taxes and she owns 
the masters and is stuffing cash into Swiss banks after the first single comes out.  
I'm still paying alimony and child support out the ass.  Course if I didn't have three 
ex-wives and five ex-kids I might have some left for myself."

Spike almost laughed, since alimony and child support were absolute non-issues to 
vampires; vampires had no issue.

"But get this, the bitch is as frigid as an iceberg.  Never see her with a date that 
wasn't a fag set-up.  I’d swear she had to blow half the company to get the contract 
she did, Madonna doesn’t do better, but now the contract’s in black and white, 
none of her producers can lay a hand or a dick on her.  I'd think she was a dyke but 
I never see no women neither.  I think she doesn't actually have a snatch at all.  All 
that yummy chick stuff you see onstage and in the videos is as fake as her tits.  She 
got those in 2000."

Compare and contrast the Slayer, who looked pure as the Virgin Mary and could 
pull his brain out of his body by way of his cock, to Citalia who looked like she'd 
fucked the entire US Marine Corps – essay, please.  You have until half ten.  The 
voices from his university exams haunted him for a moment.  Women.  The eternal 
mystery wasn't good and evil, life after death, cold fusion, or the recipe for a really 
dry martini; it was why the Hell women did what they did.

"I didn't want to do this, didn't want to be a pimp for a pubescent whore."

Spike didn't point out that since the girl didn't put out she wasn't technically a 
whore.  Instead he just nodded and finished his drink.  "Gonna change the world 
wiv'music.  Bring down the 'stablishment."

"I had a band.  I sang, you know.  We were called Seizure.  Played at every fucking 
two-bit club in New York and LA.  Couldn't get a contract.  What the fuck is up 
with that?  Like the Ramones were better than us?"  He drew a deep breath and 
looked at Spike with boozy eyes.

"To Joey.  Man, you left us too soon," he said and raised his glass.

"To Joey," Spike agreed.

They emptied their glasses together.

The bartender brought another round and they drank it while the music continued 
from the jukebox.  Spike had lost count of how many shots of Scotch he'd downed 
and his considerable vampire tolerance was beginning to give way to a feeling that 
was on the corner of pleasantly buzzed and shitfaced.

"Hey little sister what have you done/Hey little sister who's the only one/Hey little 
sister who's your superman?" 

"You're a good guy," Georgeorwhatever said, "I appreciate you listening to me.  
Most people just want to hear about that fucking bitch."

Spike shrugged.

"I'm not a big fan," he admitted.

"Tell me about your 'honey'."  

"Th'most amazin' dolly-bird in th'world.  Got a body you'd kill for, and I done so 
more'n once.  More beautiful – so beautiful I can just stand there like a right 
wanker an'stare.  Take your breath away, man," Spike shook his head in 
amazement.  "I'm the luckiest bloke in the world when she smiles.  Not perfect, 
y'know?  Sometimes she's as smart as a sackful a'wet mice.  But sometimes, she – 
she leaves me in the dust."

Shaking his head with sympathy, the human waved at the bartender to refill their 
glasses.

"You got a terminal case."

"In more ways than y'can imagine, mate."

"To women," he held up his glass.  "Can't live with them, can't kill 'em."

Since Spike wasn't entirely sure he could take Buffy, he was willing to agree.  
"Cheers to that, mate."

He was officially soused.  It was a good thing.  He was the biggest of the Big Bads 
in this universe and could go back to he crypt and knock Angel's pouf-ass around 
until sunrise and then go back to Chez Summers and make the Slayer cry out his 
name as he boffed her into oblivion.

"My good man, bring more liquid refreshment!" the manager ordered. "I keep 
thinking, when this runs dry, I could start my own label, y'know?  Then I realize 
that we just paid $50,000 last week to get Citalia's remake of 'Because the Night' 
added to the radio playlist and I think I might as well buy a Beemer."

"Your girl's got that magic, though."

His gaze flickered to Spike's impassive face.  "Yeah," he drained his beer.  "Maybe 
too much magic."

"You mean that riot in LA?  I got a real kick out'a seein' those little pink glitter 
girls takin' down the cops."

"That was a mistake, she shouldn't have –"

Spike sensed another person, or something like a person, coming up behind them.  
Didn't smell quite human, but he couldn't identify the difference.  He swiveled on 
his stool as a heavy hand clamped down on his companion's shoulder.

"George.  She said no drinking," a voice that sounded like a trash compactor said.  
The speaker looked human, if you thought Arnold Schwarzenegger looked human.  
Like Ahnuld, he sounded as if he had to be taught each word phonetically.

"Aw, fuck!"  George, wisely, didn't try to get out of the Terminator's grip, which 
probably would have involved leaving his shoulder behind.  "All right, I'm 
coming."  With his free hand, he tugged out his wallet and tossed a few twenties on 
the counter.  "Next few are on me, my friend.  If you’re in LA, give me a call."

Spike took the business card and thought he could hear the goon's neck creak as it 
swiveled towards him.  "I know you," he said.

"Like I was tellin' your pal here, I get that a lot."  But Spike felt unease dance up 
his undead spine.

"Igor!  Let's go."  George, understandably, didn't want to be in Rusholme's now 
that drinking was no longer an option.  The mismatched pair shuffled to the door 
and out into the night.

"Barkeep!" Spike ordered.  "Another bottle o'whiskey to wash that taste out of me 
mouth."

**

"Drink whiskey, boy?"

He would have drunk lamp oil if it had satisfied the burning hunger in his stomach.

"No," he said.

"What ye drink, then?"

Sherry?  Wine?  Cider?  He wasn't going to admit to any of them.  The big 
Irishman was slouched on the narrow cot in the windowless room, fairly reeking of 
drink.  Of course, the Irish always were drunkards, everyone knew that.  Funny 
thing, there wasn't as much as a candle in the room and he could see the smug look 
on Angelus’s face.  The whore, dead or unconscious, was curled up in the other 
corner of the room like one of Drusilla’s many broken dolls.  The dolls, however, 
were better dressed.

"The women are shopping.  They pick a shop, kill the proprietress and take 
whatever they want.  Thrifty.  No bills that way.  Sometimes they bring an assistant 
back, for fittings."

The almost-empty bottle was wedged between Angelus’s thighs and he refused to 
look at it.

"You got a name, boy?"

"W-W-Will – William."

This drew Angelus off the cot, a smile of amazement briefly peeling the angry 
animal from his face.

"William?" he laughed softly to himself, the sound of a snake over silk.  "'Course 
she has the Sight so I'd not wonder about the appropriateness of your name."

All he could do was reach up to straighten the spectacles he no longer wore while 
the vampire, swaying with the drink, stalked across the small room.

"Well, William.  What's so special about you that would compel Drusilla to change 
you?  What's so important or impressive about you?"

"Nothing." 

"Name of a Saint.  Which William?  There were so many—" Angelus drank more 
and looked around the room as though there were answers written on the walls.

"St.  William of Rochester, the patron saint of adopted children.  That sounds about 
right, doesn't it?  Drusilla adopted you into our little family.  He went on 
pilgrimage to Jerusalem with his adopted son David who murdered him near 
Rochester, England.  When a mentally deranged woman found his body and cared 
for it, she was miraculously cured of her mental problems.  Reportedly miracles 
occurred at his grave, and it is said that he was canonized by Pope Alexander IV in 
1256," Angelus said with the tone of someone reciting from memory.

Then his head snapped around and he drilled a cold, hard pair of eyes into 
William's bones.

"Drusilla's mad, mayhap she thinks you will cure her."

Under other circumstances that didn't involve his being dead and turned into a 
vampire, William would have protested that Saints and religion were folly since 
Charles Darwin had proved that man had arisen from the slime of the earth.  He 
only had to look at Angelus’s brow to see that the Irishman was closely related to 
simian forms of life.  

"Don't you say anythin'?"  In a blurred movement, Angelus had seized him around 
the throat and was holding him against the wall with his feet hanging several 
inches above the floor.

Even though the breath in his lungs wasn't necessary, William still clutched at the 
man's hand.

"What shall I say?  That I deny your existence?  That I deny my own?  That I wish 
I were dead in that stable rather than caged in here like an animal?  That I don't 
desire the gift that's been given to me?  What do you want me to say?"  His voice 
was shrill and shaking as a frightened child's.  "I'll say it, but for God's sake, leave 
me be!"

Angelus dropped his grip and William crashed to the floor like string-snapped 
marionette.

"Have a drink," Angelus said and thrust the bottle at him.

Since it was easier than arguing, William pulled out the cork, wiped the mouth of 
the bottle with his sleeve and drank.  The whiskey burned like kerosene straight 
down his gullet and into his empty stomach.  He gasped and put a hand to his 
mouth to cover the sound.  Angelus laughed.

"You're just a boy, ain't ya?  Smell of the schoolroom still upon you.  Drink more, 
boy."

Schoolrooms, lecture halls, his tutor's rooms.  Books smelling of old dust, old 
hands, old thoughts, and old bodies.  He was dead as any of the books.  What were 
the words? What were the words that the Father Simon had said at Gran's funeral? 
What were they?  Rain falling into an open grave, Mum looking mild, Dad 
embarrassed at the weeping.

So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have 
put on immortality; then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is 
swallowed up in victory.  O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy 
victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the Law.

Death didn't have half the sting of the whiskey eating its way into his stomach like 
acid upon a stone.

"Drink that then, give you some hair 'pon your chest, Saint William," Angelus 
mocked.  "Drusilla  made you to save her? How do you expect to do that when you 
don't eat? When you just sit here an' stew like a turnip?"

"Made me to save her? I wish only that she had informed me of that pertinent 
information.  And I'm not a turnip."

The drink was making the room sparkle in the corners, made the orange flecks in 
the vampire's dark eyes dance.

And so it went on, until the bottle was empty and William imagined that his 
battered stomach might rebel.  The claws of the whiskey worked into his mind, 
blurring and confusing his thoughts.  Angelus continued to talk, his voice rising 
and falling in the half-darkness.  Time passed; the bottle was alternately snatched 
from and placed in his hands; he drank more.  Outside, he imagined, life continued.  

William had his eyes closed.  When they were open he saw things, like the bloody 
splashes on the walls and the maggoty remains of someone's head.   Was it still the 
same day it had been before? How long had he been dead? Did anyone miss him? 
Had anyone noticed?

I KNOW that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the 
earth And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see 
God : whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another.

A slap rocked his head so far he could hear the bones of his spine creak.  "Answer 
me when I'm speakin' to ye!"

"No," he choked out, still refusing to look at Angelus.

"I don't see why ye mind that Dru killed you.  You never lived."  Something wet 
and cool splashed down his face and chest, burning where it entered open wounds.  
William smelled alcohol and determined that whiskey was going to waste.  "Open 
yer eyes."

The quiet steadiness of Angelus’s voice frightened William more than the earlier 
bluster.  When he opened his eyes, all he could see was a large lucifer, burning its 
way toward Angelus’s fingers.  The flame danced like Drusilla in her madness.

"We fear fire," Angelus said.  "We burn fast and well.  If I drop this on ye, I could 
put it out quick, but Dru might not be so fond of what was left.  You'd be a rasher 
of bacon left too long 'pon the fire, all black and crispy, mayhap wiv a bit a'fatty 
rind."

The match was half gone now.  "Don't burn me," he said.  The words echoed in his 
head like the pleas he'd directed at his schoolmasters, women, his father, God, all 
with the same result.  But this time his voice was as dead as the woman rotting in 
the corner.

"An' what shall I do instead?" Angelus asked, smiling, the expression terrible with 
his yellow eyes and distorted face.

"I don't care," he said in the same voice.

The smile flickered and went out on Angelus’s face.

A moment later, the match did as well.


Changes 11/30

The house was dark.  Buffy found it comforting.

After getting Dawn settled onto the sofa with the remote control in her good hand 
and Xander and Anya on the loveseat with the popcorn with only the blue light 
from the television breaking the darkness, Buffy finally felt like she could leave the 
house.  No matter how angry either Anya or Xander were with her at the moment, 
they would keep the best eye possible on Dawn.  

She didn't like the way they were looking at her, but sometimes a Slayer had to do 
things that she didn't like.  Although the thought was somewhat comforting, Buffy 
was pretty sure that threatening with bunnies wasn't exactly a Council-sanctioned 
technique.

Xander hadn't quite finished the rubbing in of things either.

"You got anything to drink besides blood, beer and Diet Coke?" he called from the 
kitchen.  "Maybe something full of healthy goodness for a little sister with a 
broken arm?"

"There's juice in the pantry.  Apple and cranberry."

"Cranberry juice is excellent for the prevention and treatment of cystitis," Anya 
explained to Dawn in her chirpy post-demon voice. "You can get cystitis from 
prolonged and vigorous sexual intercourse when bacteria get into the urinary tract."

"Oh gross," Dawn said and wrinkled her nose.  "Another thing that makes me 
wonder if sex is worth the trouble."

"Kingdoms rose and fell over sex," Anya said, "Of course that was because the 
Kings rose and fell over sex.  Which is really funny when you think about how 
much of history depended on one guy or another's p--."

"Well the thing you have to remember is that you really should only have sex with 
someone that you love," Xander added as he handed Dawn the cranberry juice.

Buffy wondered if she should just vomit on his shoes or make the attempt to get to 
the bathroom.

"Thanks for the Family Value-Added chat, Xander.  I have *faith* that you'll 
refrain from macking in front of Dawn –" Xander flinched at the reference – "while 
I find out if Spike killed Angel or it was the other way around."

"We can only hope!"

"I was going to say 'penis'.  It's the perfectly acceptable medical term."

Buffy shut the door behind her.

It was midnight by the time Buffy made her guilt-soaked way to Spike's crypt.  
Thankfully, the cemetery was pretty much a vamp-free zone and Buffy was sure 
that she was not sensing strangers.  Funny how she knew how they both felt – 
feelings that were as different as Spike's leather and ash smell was from Angel's 
books and sandalwood.

The crypt was Spikeless.  Angel was sitting in Spike's comfy chair, channel surfing 
and looking more normal than she'd ever seen.  A sick coldness clogged her guts.  
There was a pile of dust near the crypt entrance but it looked more like dirt dust 
than vamp-dust.  The pieces were too small and not cinder-like enough, but Buffy 
wasn't about to make assumptions.  There was also a pile of empty beer cans near 
the sepulchre, leaking stinky beer onto the dirty floor.

"Where's Spike?" Buffy asked, between teeth that felt as though she'd had her jaws 
wired shut to lose weight.

"I don't know," Angel said with his customary contempt for detail.

"You just let him leave?" she asked, getting shrill in the echo-y room.

"I've had my turn babysitting Spike.  He left about two hours ago, said something 
about needing a drink."

A headache brought books, stereo, computer, and its CD collection to take up 
residence behind Buffy's eyes.  She rubbed her temples and looked everywhere 
around the crypt except at Angel.

"So this is the part of the story where you tell me exactly how big the badness is 
which is Spike, right?" she asked, dryly pleased at how blasé she sounded.

Angel clicked off the television before speaking.

"Should I?  I think you would know by now.  How many times has he tried to kill 
you, anyway?"

"Count was lost at thirty, but he's been un-Buffy-cidal for almost two years now.  
Might have lost the urge."

"Replaced it with another one.  Spike has a Slayer fetish.  Did he tell you he killed 
two before you?"

"Like he's still planning to kill me?"

"You know for sure he isn't?"  Angel finally looked up from the television set with 
his dark eyes set on Vamp piercing mode.  It felt like he was reading her brain cells 
without needing a CAT scan.

"It would be a colossal coup to make the third Slayer fall in love with him before 
he killed her.  It's the kind of sick joke Spike lives for."

"I'm not in love with Spike." 

"You're making love with him."

"I'm fucking him.  I learned my lesson about falling in love with vampires."

"I deserved that."

"Yes, you did," she agreed.

Angel had the decency to look away and his frown deepened.  It almost made 
Buffy feel better.  God, he'd hurt her so badly, broken her heart, superglued it back 
together and then broken it again in fresh fracture lines.  Love and hate had disco 
danced so long in her mind to the tune that was Angel that she'd finally quit caring 
and the dance beat had stopped.  Since there was no way that Angel could ever 
really love her for more than five minutes without turning into his own evil twin, it 
was hardly worth feeling anything for him anymore.  She had as good a chance 
developing a serious relationship with Matt Damon via videotape rentals.

No, no, Angel was as over as legwarmers and Flashdance sweatshirts.  She had 
moved on, and she had the twenty pairs of platform shoes she had used to ease her 
pain as proof.  Apparently Angel didn't know about the shoes, because he took that 
opportunity to get up from the chair and come over to her.  The non-heat of his 
body leached through her clothes and made her throat go all tight and dry.  There 
was a lot of stuff going on in her head, not the least of which was sex.  Maybe it 
was true that you never forgot the first guy you were with, and truer when he 
happened to be a vampire who went all grr and evil afterwards.

Relationships were supposed to be hard, but this was fucking ridiculous.

It occurred to Buffy that she'd been spending enough time with Spike to pick up his 
foul mouth.  And it was Spike's foul mouth, in more ways than three or four, that 
was keeping her from turning into goo again in front of Angel.  She managed to 
keep good posture and a purposefully blank expression when his dark eyes stroked 
her face.

"Spike loves Drusilla.  He always has and he always will.  She waves one well-
sharpened fingernail at him and he'll come back like a whipped puppy."

It was the equivalent of a thin bamboo shish kabob stuck through her heart, not 
deadly, but not without pain, either.

"So it's the same way you love Darla?" she asked and gave him her brightest smile.

Angel seemed to decide not to answer.

"You think I don't know that you went apeshit the minute Darla came back from 
Hell?"  She put her hands on her hips and aimed a 'no shit Sherlock' look at his 
downcast eyes.  "You think Cordelia doesn't know how to use a telephone?"

"Blood calls to blood, it's between a vampire and the vampire he creates.  You 
wouldn't understand."

"Whoso eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life," Spike 
announced doing a drunk suave swagger through the crypt door.  He looked around 
for a moment and leered at the both of them before sticking the cigarette back in 
his mouth.  "And I will raise him up at the last day."

He stomped across the floor, giving his coat a little flip so it flared out around him.  
No one was supposed to notice but just take the coat flapping as part of the drama 
that was Spike.  In a couple of steps he had inserted himself between Buffy and 
Angel and was poking his chipped forefinger into Angel's chest in time to his 
words while the cigarette smoke floated up around his head and escaped to the 
crypt roof above.

"For my flesh is meat indeed.  And my blood is drink indeed.  He that eateth my 
flesh and drinketh my blood, dwelleth in me, and I in him."

For punctuation he exhaled smoke and leered even more broadly.  "Don't stop 
talkin' about me on my account!  Were you singin' the same ol' song about bad, 
mad, sad Spike?"

He smelled like a barroom floor and Buffy wasn't quite sure what she was 
supposed to do.  There were flickers of vamp-power all around the room and she 
swore she could smell the funny smell that came when the fuses shorted out in the 
kitchen.

"Good night for drinking?" Angel asked.

"Fair to middlin'.  At least Rusholme's got a decent jukebox.  Unlike this place 
which only's listenin' to your sorry ass--:"

"Gave it some class for a change."

"Shut your bloody gob you fuckin' wank stain!" Spike switched from drunken 
malice to rage in a nanosecond.

Buffy reached out and grabbed a double-handful of duster.

"C'mon, we're going home," she said in the tone of voice that never worked on 
Dawn.

"Now? It's barely half twelve," Spike asked, the anger fading to mild 
bewilderment.

"We have to watch Dawn," she said in a slow, careful voice and began dragging 
him towards the door.  Spike flung his arm around her shoulders and rested entirely 
too much weight on it for comfort.

"Right, gotta mind the Niblet," he agreed and cast a glare over his shoulder at 
Angel, who was blinking in what was his version of total surprise.  "Keep your 
hands out of my stuff or you'll be usin' bloody stumps, right?"  

Angel still might be shocked at Buffy's close contact with Spike, but she couldn't 
leave them together.  Drunk Spike alone with Angel was a badness of the majorly 
big.

The post-midnight air was cool and damp, the grass leaving wetness on their feet as 
Slayer and vampire made their way through the quiet back yards of Sunnydale.  
Buffy shrugged free of Spike's arm and let him wander his way through the dark.

"Don't believe nothin' he said 'bout me."

"Like you didn't just start this – thing – so you could kill me later?"

Drunk, Spike was moving with an absolutely inhuman liquidness, as though he 
didn't have anything like a skeleton in his undead body.  With the moonlight 
shining off his hair and his duster he seemed like something out of a dream, or a 
hallucination.  A double-set of goosebumps rose on Buffy's skin.  There were times 
that she was almost lulled into thinking that there was something normal about 
Spike, but now she was painfully reminded that he was a thing from another 
dimension, from a nightmare.

"Think I'd do that?" he asked.

"Let's say I'd be really, really surprised if you did."

Silently, he laughed, making Buffy wonder what was so funny.

What wasn't funny were the frozen polite faces of Xander and Anya when Spike 
followed Buffy into the living room.  At the same time it was clear to Buffy that 
Spike was keeping himself very much under control so Dawn wouldn't see how 
drunk he was.

"So, status quo of souled vampires still status quo-ing?” Xander asked, sneaking a 
sideways look at Spike.

"Quo, status, the usual thingy," Buffy said.

"Can I stay up?" Dawn asked.

"No.  You need to sleep so your bones will heal," Buffy said and hated the sound 
of her own voice.

"We just gave her one of the pain pills the doctor prescribed.  She's a little stoned."

Dawn waved her good hand at Xander.  "I am so not so little stone - stoned.  I can 
still speak in concrete sentences."

In the doorway, Spike laughed.  "The Bitty One's got a buzz on.  Shift her off t'bed 
before she passes out."

Letting Anya help her get Dawn upstairs and into bed, Buffy worried about a 
potential Spike/Xander incident in the living room.  She was listening for any 
unusual noise and had half her attention downstairs when she knocked over the 
water glass at Dawn's bedside.

"Shit," she cursed and grabbed at the glass, which broke into big pieces in her 
hand.

A shard sliced through her palm and brilliant droplets of blood flowed down her 
fingers.  Anya flashed her a worried frown and then returned to where she was 
propping Dawn's cast up with pillows.

"Buffy, you go take care of that and I'll finish here with Dawn, okay?"

"Wonderfulness."

In the bathroom, Buffy threw out the broken glass and ran cold water over her 
hand, watching the skin flaps open under the water like a lipless mouth.  Although 
she had seen gallons of blood in the past and most of it had been hers, she felt 
suddenly lightheaded and shaky.  Stress, it's just stress, she told herself and sat on 
the closed lid of the toilet, pressing her forehead against her knees because she 
knew that was what you were supposed to do when you felt faint.  Stress and not 
enough sleep.  Just tired.  The humming of the fluorescent light filled her head and 
she could taste something bitter and metallic in her mouth.  The water ran on in the 
sink.

Angel was back in town, Citalia was doing something awful, Dawn broke her arm 
because Buffy had to be with Spike for sex, Xander and Anya hated her because of 
Spike, Dawn just hated her, Child Protective Services was going to put her in jail 
and take Dawn away, her mother was dead, Glory was going to kill Dawn, and 
Spike was going to make her love him and then kill her.

"What the Hell?"

Spike dragged her up to her feet from where she had sagged to the floor.  She didn't 
know how long she had been there, but her knees stung with the impression of the 
tiles.

"Dawn-?" she asked.

"Is asleep an' Romeo and Ghouliette have left."

"Oh good," she said in the faintest shadow of a voice.

"Yeah," he said, matching her tone.

She felt, rather than saw, the change when he shifted from pointy human face to 
even pointier game face with a mouthful of fangs and eyes like burning sulfur.  Air 
turned into something solid in her chest because she could see the reflection in the 
bathroom mirror, her reflection only, and she turned her head to watch her bleeding 
hand float into a point in the air slightly above her head, not seeing the cool fingers 
that were raising it to that fang-lined mouth.  Before she could do anything other 
than moan with distress, Spike had buried his demon-muzzle in the palm of her 
hand and was licking the blood away from her skin.  He still smelled like beer and 
Buffy remembered that he was drunk, and didn't know if he was trustworthy in that 
state.  The last time he'd been drunk, he'd been human and she was more than 
capable of snapping him like a breadstick.  This was different.

The feeling of his cool and sleek mouth on her skin made her mouth go dry and her 
breasts begin the hot tingle that crept down between her legs.

Not trustworthy? Him or her? 

"No," she managed and pushed at his head with her free hand.

"What? Angel shows up and you're too good for me?" he asked from deep inside 
his chest and the sound flickered electric down her spine.

The lights in the bathroom were too bright and the mirror was showing her 
something that she didn't want to be thinking of.

"Really hate that tosser," he murmured.

His mouth flickered up her arm, licking blood away and teasing the sensitive skin 
until he reached the inside of her elbow.  The cold shock of his lips with the hint of 
fang underneath right against nerves and pounding pulse made her moan out loud, 
worrying that Dawn could hear between the two half-open doors and wanting to 
care.  She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do.  Bashing him over the head 
with the wrought-iron trashcan might have been a start, but that would only have 
slowed him down.  The toilet brush had a plastic handle and not wood so she 
couldn't stake him if he got completely out of control.    

"Why?" she managed to croak.

"You don't know nothin' about Angelus," he continued in the same scary-sexy 
voice he'd been using since he'd stalked into the bathroom.  "You only knew 
Angel.  You didn't *live* with Angelus."

While he was speaking, Spike deftly turned Buffy around so she was faced with 
her own pale reflection in the unfeeling mirror.  Her eyes were too big and too 
black.  She looked like a prime candidate for a drug test.  She also didn't like the 
fact that she could feel Spike's hands roving over her breasts and stomach and all 
she could see was the fabric wrinkling and the flesh compressing underneath his 
invisible vampire hands.  But what she really, really didn't like was the fact that he 
was nuzzling her neck with his fang-face and the scrape of tooth against skin was 
making her weak in the knees and wet between the legs.  She wasn't supposed to 
like this at all.  She also looked really stupid with ponytails on either side of her 
head.

"I was there, remember?" she gasped.  "I was the reason he went bad last time."

"Blondie, you could make any number of good men go bad," he said and chuckled 
into her ear while one hand was worming its way underneath her baggy sweatpants 
and his fingers began sliding inside her.

Suddenly, her head was entirely too heavy for her neck to hold upright and 
dropped.  She would have fallen, but Spike's arm was clutched just under her 
breasts and she barely managed to keep on her feet.

"Like that, do you?" he asked.  "Did he make you feel like this?"

All she could do was bite her lower lip and close her eyes.  Buffy wanted to cry 
and wasn't quite sure why she felt that way.

It only took a couple of moments, his fingers sliding back and forth against the 
stinging alive skin of her clit, for the final shattered glass of her climax to tear an 
almost pained cry out of her mouth.  Spike's fangs were pressed against her throat, 
pressed against, not puncturing, and just barely holding himself back, as she was 
vaguely aware of the fact that his entire body was vibrating against hers like a too-
tight guitar string.  She squirmed around in the tight ring of his arm and found the 
non-demon Spike face staring back at her and there was something swimming 
around in the booze-drenched eyes that she didn't recognize.  Underneath the worn 
cotton of his T-shirt, the muscles in his chest were as hard as the counter pressing 
into her ass.  He was rubbing his face against hers, like an animal, and she could 
feel the stickiness that was her own drying blood.  All she could do was groan.

Cigarettes, ashes, blood, and something alcoholic enough to make her brain swirl 
for a second.  Could you get a secondhand drunk from kissing?  Kissing wasn't 
quite the word for what Spike was doing.  It was a combination of full dental exam 
and sucking her better sense out of her mouth – and it was wonderful.  From Scary 
Bad Vamp to Sex on a Stick Vamp in less than five minutes, yeah, that was Spike.  
His hands were all over her, scraping nails hard enough to tingle into her skin, 
making the flesh on her upper arms do a delicious little creeping thing that went all 
the way up to the back of her neck.

His fingers roved through her hair and the coated elastic bands in her hair went 
snapping off into nowhere and her grateful hair fell everywhere like rain.

And then it was the bedroom, and Buffy wasn't quite sure how the bathroom had 
turned into the bedroom but the bed was much softer than the countertop and that 
was goodness in itself.  Spike's hands slid down over her hips and in a moment her 
sweatpants were on the floor like rags, and she was pulling up his T-shirt so she 
could bite at his chest, ribcage, and collarbones.  He was so thin, muscle and bone 
like one of those racehorse dog things.  She couldn't hurt him.  She could crush her 
legs around his hips and bite his ear while pushing against the hard denim of his 
groin with her own soaking wet one.  He could take it, and could weld his body to 
hers without hurting her.  She loved the way his skin felt, somewhere between 
paper and fabric and cool to the touch and gaining heat from her.

Somehow he got his jeans and his boots off while he was licking her left breast, 
alternately tugging at her nipple and his Levi's.  She wanted to laugh but it didn't 
seem right somehow, so she settled for rubbing her hands through the crunchy 
wilderness of his hair.

"You don't have to try to impress me," she said into the cool curve of his ear.

"Yes I do, luv, in more ways than you're imaginin'."

It hurt when his hands pinned her biceps down to the mattress and she bit his arm 
in retaliation.  In a serpentine vampire movement, he slid home inside of her and 
made her gasp out loud with the feeling of it.  She shoved back at him and they 
both moaned at the same time.  All Buffy could do was lock her ankles above his 
ass and try to hold on the best she could.  When a guy had been drinking, was it 
supposed to make him last longer or less long?  Did it make him longer or less 
long?  She couldn't remember and decided that it probably didn't apply to vampires 
anyway.  Everything seemed to be working all right in the dick department as he 
sawed into her, his mouth growing hot against hers and the small growling noises 
vibrating out of his tight throat.  The muscles in her back and legs were starting to 
burn in the best way possible as the pleasure started burning in her belly.

There was sweat everywhere and it was hers because vampires didn't sweat.  She 
could smell Spike – real Spike that she remembered from Egypt – the mortal smell 
of him that lurked underneath the leather and the smoke.

"Oh God, Spike, this.  I love-" her voice caught in her throat "—this."

Did he pause for a second or did she just think that he had?  But the rush of silver 
and blue from her clit stabbed right up to her brain and cleared the room for 
dancing sparks.  Arching, she broke free of his hands and pulled his body as close 
to her as possible, trying to pull him into her farther than he could go.  She grabbed 
onto him and pulled him down into the sparks with her.  She felt him come inside 
her, hard and cold and shuddering against her own warm skin, and all he could do 
was make a strangled sound against the side of her face before he went boneless 
atop her.

It seemed very important that she not move, that she just kept running her hands 
over his shoulders, through his hair until he grunted and curled away from her.  
This she didn't like and stuck herself to his spine until all his muscles went stiff.

Against his back, Buffy winced, slid her hand over the bones in Spike's hip.

"You're doing it again," she told his spine.

"What?" he asked and she felt his voice through her body.

"Rigor Mortis guy."

"Slayer, I got quite a bit on m'mind at the moment," he said and sighed in the dark 
room.  "Not the least of which bein' Scotch whiskey, so pardon the livin' fuck outta' 
me if I ain't the perfect soft toy."

"About Angel," she asked as carefully as she was able.  "Is there something you're 
trying to tell me?"

A minute or two passed on the bedside clock.

"It was a long time ago, and in another country."

**

The wench was dead, lying in a corner.  Across the room, William held essentially 
the same position, half-embracing the rough stone wall, legs jumbled underneath 
him.  The rot beginning in the dead girl's stomach and the soft chewing noises of 
the maggots, heard with sensitive vampire ears, were almost a welcome distraction.

Outraged.  That's what they called it when it happened to a woman, anyway.  He 
didn't feel outraged.  That was far too passionate an emotion to get through the fog 
settling into every corner of his brain.  Outrage, he thought, turning the word over 
in his mind like a shilling.  He felt no connection to the pathetic creature slumped 
like a sack of wheat on the damp floor.  To be sure, that incessant hunger had 
followed him out of his body.  But then his body was dead and there was no reason 
the screaming, demanding blood hunger would have stayed behind with a living 
mind to torment.

If he gave in to the sucking maw inside, the "demon," Angelus might stop.  
Drusilla promised him.  But Drusilla'd been created by Angelus, and Drusilla 
thought that she could tell the future from the blood drops spewed from a slit 
throat.  Angelus might just continue until he broke like an egg, like Dru herself, her 
reason dripping out like blood.  Had the death of her mind hurt like the death of the 
body?  William thought he might soon find out.  He could smell his own blood 
where it was drying into his ragged trousers and filthy shirt.

I could fight back, he thought.  He could hear the demon whispering instructions 
and promises.  Look at it this way, it said.  Even if I can't stop Angelus – you won't 
mind any longer.

"You poor thing, is this where they've been keeping you?"

He hadn't heard the door, hadn't heard the woman walk in, and didn't hear the 
sound of her breathing.  She was another one of them.  He could tell now.  Like 
called to like.  Her skirts crackled like fine paper when she knelt down to pull his 
chin up so she could look in his eyes.

"Starved and left in the dark.  Drusilla doesn't take very good care of her toys, I'm 
afraid."

She smelled like expensive perfume and her golden hair was piled up in curls 
around her head in the latest style.  With big blue eyes and the luminous skin he 
had begun to associate with these damned vampires, she seemed to glow in the 
dark little room.

"What's your name, sweetling?" she asked in an American purr.

**

She was being entirely too good to him, this he knew.  He didn't deserve it.  Lying 
on his side in the soft bed smelling like sweet, clean girl with the Slayer curled up 
alongside him like a sleeping kitten, Spike didn't want to think about how close 
he'd been to driving his fangs into the soft skin of her neck and draining her dry as 
a squeezed tangerine.  It was all Angelus’s fault.  If the bastard hadn't turned up 
with his soulful looks and his 'I'm worried about you' routine, the unthinkable 
wouldn't have almost happened.

So, Spike old son, looks like old habits die harder than you think.

Drinking out of blood bags, even microwaved, was about as close to killing as 
beating the bishop was to actually shagging.  The truth of the matter was that he 
didn't want to kill her, but he'd rather have her dead than be back with that damned 
sheep-fucker Angelus.  The best thing to do, really, was for Spike to beat a hasty 
retreat to Parts Unknown.  He should let white knight save yon damsel from 
Glorificus and they could all live happily ever after with Angelus’s natural 
melancholy keeping him from true bliss and therefore preventing souless 
VampireDevilBoy from making a return engagement.

And monkeys could fly out of Spike's ass.

He also had the proverbial snowball's chance in Hell of falling asleep.  Stupid 
things were running through his head, images of himself driving through the night 
in his car, fleeing the scene of his most horrible defeat, as well as some of that 
fucking drivel that Citalia sang: “And I'll feed your obsession/The falling star that 
you cannot live without/I will be your religion/This thing you'll never doubt.”

No matter what George had said, it was catchy shit.

And the hangover in the morning was really going to be fuck-off awful.  He glared 
at the stuffed pig on Buffy's dresser.  He should be shagging a girl who'd outgrown 
her toys.


Changes 12/30


"Drusilla treats her Miss Edith with more consideration," the blonde continued, 
standing and trailing an elegant hand over the rough stone walls.  

"I don't think she can help it," he offered.  The demon was a fiery ball in his 
stomach, sending jets of pain and hunger so that he could barely watch the new 
vampire drift around the room.

She was in front of him, holding his face in a pincer grip.  "Making excuses.  
Angelus is right, you aren't a real vampire.  This is a glorious life, don't you see?"  
She released him to spin around so that her blue and yellow dress flashed before 
him, satin and taffeta and other expensive fabrics like the ones his mother had 
carefully detailed from the society columns.  "Only the best of everything.  Only 
what you want to do, when you want to do it."  She had a voice like treacle.

"Unless it's during daylight," he pointed out.

She pouted.  When he was alive a face like hers would have him writing poetry day 
and night.  And she'd throw it back in his face like all the others.  Inside, the demon 
uncoiled and he felt a liquid rush.  

"William," she said with perfect condescension, "Angelus needs a challenge.  He's 
growing restless.  I don't mind that he'll kill you, of course, but I do so love 
London."  Her face distorted and became ugly, worse because she was so well 
dressed.  "Be a vampire.  Challenge him.  You'll die or you won't.  Either way, stop 
being *worthless*."  

The echo of the women, the editors at the publishing house, the voice of his father, 
hit him like a box to the ears.  What was he? What had he been? A mediocre 
student, a social disaster, possessing a shyness that was criminally vulgar, and 
disdained by any woman he had tried to woo.   Her eyes were as cold and pitying 
as Cecily's, her hair swinging in ringlets like the neighbors' girl when he was 
eleven.  Another woman, another superior woman.  The burning to prove her 
wrong was greater than the blood-hunger had ever been.

Well then, he thought, let's see you make a better go of it, and wished for the 
demon's help.  It was like opening a door into fire.  The world exploded into coal-
red pieces, there was a great pain as if his skin had been ripped from his body, and 
then a surge of energy unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

The other vampire was still in the room.  She'd only had time to take two steps 
away.  He rose with a growl and grabbed her shoulder.  "Don't you turn your back 
on me," he warned, and heard the threat in his voice like the trumpets of angels.

She smirked at him.  "I'm Darla.  Why don't we get you cleaned up, and then you 
can have someone to eat?"

**

"Are you going to get me something to eat or lie there all day?"

There were elephants dancing on his brain in pink tutus and those hard pointy 
ballerina shoes.  The hangover pain challenged the many tortures Spike had 
experienced since the Industrial Revolution.  He opened an eye and was relieved to 
see that the thin, demanding voice belonged to Little Bad Dawn and not Drusilla as 
he'd initially imagined.  He also realized that he was very much alone in Buffy's 
bed, very much on top of the covers and very much naked.  

"Do none of you Sunnydale morons have the slightest idea that bustin' in on a 
bloke when he's in the altogether is rude?" he choked and grabbed some sheets 
around his waist.

"Chill, I spent last night listening to Anya's play by play description of her and 
Xander playing hide the salami and a whole bunch of other things, so I'm not 
exactly ignorant about the sex thing."  Dawn hadn't taken her eyes from his body.  
Spike's stomach clenched and he pulled the sheets up to his chest.

"Don't be mentionin' sex while I'm not dressed.  Now toddle off downstairs like a 
good little girl and I'll be down directly."

"I'm not a little girl," Dawn said with a flash of anger and hot eyes that reminded 
him uncomfortably of Buffy.

"Right, so toddle off downstairs like a good not little girl."

Sniffing, Dawn made her way out, holding her broken arm at a strange angle like a 
bird with a mashed wing.  There was no doubt in Spike's mind that little Dawnie 
was going to be both a heartbreaker and a ball-buster as soon as she was old 
enough to realize that she could be.  With any luck, the cast would slow that 
process down for about ten minutes.

He shoved himself into his clothes and, after a quick trip to the bathroom for hair 
and fang maintenance, made his way downstairs.  The blinds had all been pulled 
down since he started doing the shopping, so he wasn't in immediate danger of 
bursting into flames, but if feeding Dawn involved using the gas range all bets 
were off.

"Right.  I expect you're wantin' food or somethin', eh?" he asked.

Dawn had planted herself at the kitchen table, where Spike had drunk coffee and 
hot chocolate on a couple of different occasions, and was picking at the edge of her 
cast.  Since she wasn't being much help, Spike opened the refrigerator and looked 
inside.  Blood, beer, Diet Coke, and a bottle of cranberry juice made up the 
beverage portion of the inside.  There were some vegetable-looking things lurking 
all green and uncooked and a couple of ambiguous packages wrapped in deli paper.

"Help me out here, what's in here that can be turned into Niblet Chow without 
much fuss."

"Scrambled eggs?" she asked.

"And how do I do that?" he asked.

"Eggs, frying pan, scramble? Don't you know anything?" Her voice and expression 
took on that annoying as hell quality that she usually reserved for Buffy.

"I ain't needed to eat food f'over a hundred years, and I sure as hell didn't cook 
before.  Wasn't a manly thing t'do."

Sighing, she stared at the refrigerator from her seat at the table.

"There's bread in the cabinet and lunchmeat?  Can you make a sandwich or is that 
totally not a manly thing?"

"Likely get me thrown out of the Big Bad Club, but I could have a bash at it."

In the end, the sandwich wasn't that complicated.  He'd eaten them from time to 
time and could create a reasonable likeness from what was at hand.  There weren't 
any long toothpicks with colored cellophane on the end, but Dawn reassured him 
that the toothpicks were optional and that there was no such thing as too much 
Miracle Whip.  While Dawn started in on her sandwich, Spike nibbled at a slice of 
ham while a coffee mug of blood was warming in the microwave.  The lunchmeat 
tasted flat and dead and he pitched it in the bin.  Very few kinds of food tasted right 
to his vampire palette.  Spicy things, by in large, were good.  Meat that wasn't 
spicy tasted spoiled and sickening.  Vegetables were nauseating, which didn't differ 
much from the soggy boiled English vegetables of his human youth..

"Thank you," Dawn said around a mouth of food.

"Nothin' to it." The microwave dinged and Spike pulled out his mug of O positive.  
"So where's Big Sis, then?"

The blood tasted funny, but he thought it might have been the ham.

"She and Xander went to check out the college auditorium where the Citalia 
concert is going to be.  What's the what with that? Doesn't she think that I'll be able 
to handle myself there?  God, she is so bossy since mom died."

"Well she don't want nothin' happenin' to you.  Even if you were just a borin' un-
supernatural twit, she'd still keep her eagle-like eyes 'pon you.  'Cos she's your big 
sister and that's what they do."

He really wanted his first waking up cigarette, but knew he risked a staking if he 
fired up in the kitchen.  When the Niblet was done eating, he'd slip downstairs and 
smoke in the basement.

"Are there any potato chips?" she asked.

"No, and there ain't likely to be until Big Sis comes home or nightfall, whatever 
comes first."

"Good morning!" Willow burbled as she pushed the kitchen door open.

"Bloody Hell," Spike swore and ducked behind the kitchen island to avoid the 
sunlight from the open door.

"Sorry, forgot about the whole extreme sunburn thing," Willow apologized and 
Tara shut the door behind them.

"Don't trouble yourself," he muttered from where he crouched on the floor.

"Where's Buffy?" Willow asked.

"She went to the college auditorium with Xander to make sure that the Citalia 
concert is going to be safe for me or if I'm just going to have to spend the rest of 
my life in a bank vault so I don't get hurt!" Dawn said in the bitterest of teenage 
voices.

Willow and Tara exchanged a wet Wiccan look and Spike felt his non-existent 
blood pressure rise.

"Look here you," he said, using his talks with morons voice.  "The mean ol' world 
out there's full of the nasties who only want to do you, kill you, eat you, rip you 
off, or turn you into somethin'.  With Glory and the rest of SunnyHell around 
Buffy’s right to worry, and if you pretend it ain't so you *are* going to end up in a 
place wiv’out any handles on the inside doors, bank vault or tomb or what have 
you."

"I agree with Spike, Dawnie.  Citalia has some kind of magic going on," Willow 
said in her usual gratingly staccato fashion.

"We really can't tell what.  We've ever sensed it before," Tara finished and the 
lesbian witches nodded in unison, which made Spike feel decidedly ill – they were 
just too fucking cute.

"An I suppose ol' Rupert the Bear ain't bein' much help?"

"It's hard to explain a magic feeling.  She had a kind of shivery blue thing with 
some ammonia and broken glass," Willow began.

"And Tuesday.  She felt like Tuesday," Tara added.

"Makes Dru's ravin's sound like logic from Spock himself.  Give me somethin' 
useful."

"Citalia and her entourage have taken over the whole top floor.  That's twenty 
rooms.  The guy at the front desk says that they have the stairwells blocked off 
which is against fire code but probably a good idea because the fans are like ten 
deep all around the building.  One girl was trying to climb up the side of the 
building and she fell from the third floor and broke the arms of the people she 
landed on.  They've been eating hotel food, despite suckage probability, but 
ordering gallons and gallons of mineral water – not the fizzy kind but the flat kind 
– and the night desk guy says he bets she's bathing in the mineral water."

"You forgot about the candles," Tara prodded.

"Right!"  Willow said and brightened.  "And there was a shipment of candles, cases 
and cases of candles, from the Goddess Wax Factory.  You know the really 
expensive ones that Anya won't order anymore because she got that shipment 
where they were all broken and they wouldn't give her credit and told her to put in 
a claim with UPS and Anya told the woman from the Goddess Wax Factory that 
she was a selfish lesbian?  Anyway.  Those.  Hundreds of pillar candles, all sizes.  
All in the Gold Power scent.  Gold Power is the kind of yellow ones.  I like Gold 
Power, but not as much as Apple Pie."

Maybe it was Willow and maybe it was the whiskey from the night before, but 
headache-elephants were starting to dance again in his brain.

"Citalia likes Gold Power," Dawn piped up.  "It's on her fan-club website.  That's 
what everyone waves at her shows now.  Instead of those icky lighter things that 
get all hot in your hand."

Spike closed his eyes and observed a moment of silent mourning for concerts of 
yore.  "You're the computer boffin, do the clicky bit an' find out what you can 
about Gold Power candles," he told Willow and then turned to Tara.  "Do you 
know how to make coffee?  I'm perishin' for a cup."

Shortly, Willow reappeared with her toy computer and did much in the way of 
plugging in wires and cords before settling down at the kitchen table and clacking 
away at the keyboard with a noise that made Spike's head hurt worse than it had 
before.  Luckily, Tara had been able to make coffee and after two cups he was 
beginning to feel undead again.  Dawn and Tara had gone upstairs to try to get 
Dawn washed and dressed around her cast and left Spike and Willow alone in the 
kitchen, which indicated a certain level of trust on the witches' part.

"So I hear you got outed," Willow said between clicks.

"Pardon?" 

"You, Buffy.  I knew it was just a matter of time."

"You knew?" he asked, a little squeaky with surprise.

"Buffy confessed.  She needed to talk to somebody.  She swore me to secrecy and I 
didn't even tell Tara who was somewhat miffed when she found out last night, but I 
think we got over that.  I mean Buffy's my best friend and when she asks me to 
keep a secret I keep it – most of the time.  When it's important and I don't think it's 
going to hurt her."

"So you're the only person in the entire bloody state of California who doesn't think 
I'm goin' to hurt her?"  Spike asked, somewhat amazed.

"You've changed," Willow said with a self-satisfied little smile.

"Changed?  Me?  Not bloody likely, I been the same longer than you've been alive, 
Little Miss Tabitha," he spluttered and drank more coffee.  Willow?  On his side?  
He'd tried to drain her more than once and she was the only member of the Scooby 
Losers who didn't think that Spike boffing Buffy wasn't a sign of the impending 
end of the world.  He shook his head at the impenetrable darkness that was the 
mind of Woman.

"'Change is the essential process of all existence,'" she said and did the same cat 
smile of satisfaction.  "Or so says Mr.  Spock."

"He never."

"Did too!  It's from Let That Be Your Last Battlefield." She looked up and her little 
face was full of merriment.  "I didn't know you were a Trekkie, Spike."

"Huh," he snorted and retreated behind his coffee mug again.  "Not a Trekker, just 
watched lots a'late night TV back in the day."

He didn't remember Spock saying that, but he'd always liked The Trouble with 
Tribbles, A Piece of the Action, and Mirror, Mirror the best.  

"Goddess Wax Factory website.  They have a listing of all the contents in their 
candles.  Let's see, Gold Power," Willow squinted at the screen and frowned.  
"Beeswax, paraffin.  Glycerin.  Essential oils: sandalwood, myrrh, rosemary, High 
John the Conqueror Root, angelica, petigrain, lemongrass, and mandrake.  Wow."

"Sounds like herb tea to me."

"Sandalwood, myrrh, rosemary, High John the Conqueror Root can all relate to the 
object of desire.  Burning a candle with those herbs in it with the right ritual should 
bring the desired things into the ritual-ers grasp.  Angelica, petigrain, lemongrass, 
and mandrake are all power herbs – again with the burning and the ritual.  So she's 
got hundreds of really powerful lost-thing and power herb candles.  I understand 
the power but I'm not so sure about the lost things."

"Could that be what brings the teeny-boppers crawlin' all over her?  Some sort o' 
Pied Piper thing?"

Willow frowned.  "I don't know.  The meanings can be … open to interpretation.  
Like, another way to interpret those herbs is that they can bring lost things to you."

"All's I know is, Citalia wants somethin' and she's come to Sunnydale.  What're the 
chances that she's just lookin' for adoration?"  

They shared a significant look.

Changes 13/30


"So this is where chairs go when they're bad.  Reform school for chairs," Buffy 
said and looked around the stacks of folding chairs on trolleys scattered around the 
cavernous space of the auditorium.

"All bad things end up in Sunnydale," Xander said and kicked at a nearby chair.

"Which reminds me, Angel gave me the 'Big Bad Spike' talk already so you really 
don't need to go over it again, okay?"

"Vampire, Vampire Slayer, don't you see a conflict of interest going on here?"

"Says sleeping with former demon guy."

"Emphasis on former here, Buff.  Anya's not exactly Miss Middle America, but 
she's got the normal thing heads over Spike.  Spike's likely to bite your throat out 
as talk to you, soul or no soul."

"I am seriously bored with this subject," Buffy said and briskly clambered up onto 
the stage.  "Let's get to the badness which is Citalia."

A badness with potential for ass-kicking, just the kind of badness that she liked.

"So how many screaming teens are expected in here?" she asked.

Anya looked up from her clipboard.  "Something like ten thousand.  That's a lot of 
hormones zinging around, and a hell of a lot of psychic energy.  I checked the 
floorplans for the set, no pentagrams, pentangles, or any other spooky things 
starting with the letter p.  They have the concession stands set up at exactly the 
wrong places for maximum impulse buying --"

"So we don't have some kind of Ghostbustery supernatural battery charger or 
anything like that and I don't think most demon-conjuring spells can be done 
without some kind of floor markings."

"There's a trap door." Xander offered.  "Center stage.  She comes up out of it at the 
beginning of her 'Out of The Darkness' number.  She comes, strangely enough, out 
of a dark stage on a platform with a pin-spotlight on her face."

"Tacky but effective.  Does she think she's Madonna or something?"

"She thinks she's better than Madonna."

"Hey youse kids!"

There were big shapes coming through the darkness of the auditorium from the 
main entrance.  Linebacker-sized shapes walking with a neckless swagger that 
didn't seem entirely human.  Buffy was thinking maybe demons or a really ugly 
European soccer team.  She couldn't make out details of their faces because the 
light was behind them, but they were definitely not going to make anyone's 
calendar for 2002.

"Hi!" Buffy said in her perkiest cheerleader voice, and went to the edge of the 
stage.  "Student Activities said that you still needed ushers for the show!"

"No ushers, professional security, us." 

The leader got within view and Buffy saw that he looked like he'd had his face 
squished into a food processor early in life – before his head got quite so big and 
pumpkin-like.  The rest of the goons were variations on the theme.  Humans with 
faces like squash were few and far between; demons, on the other hand, were 
known to resemble any number of vegetables.

"Wow, what a bummer." Buffy let her face fall.

"Leave now and don't come back without a ticket,"  Pumpkin-face suggested.

"Great PR, bet you just keep the fans coming back for more," Buffy said and leapt 
off the stage

She landed badly, one leg crumpling underneath her, and grabbed at the Pumpkin-
face to steady herself.  Pumpkin would have fallen had another one of the big-
shouldered goons not grabbed him.  Buffy wailed with pain and clutched at her 
ankle.

"Oh that hurts, that really, really hurts."

While the goons circled her, Buffy glared at Anya, pointedly jerked her head 
towards the backstage area, and grimaced with fake pain.

Anya scampered away, making for the backstage area.

"You okay?"  Pumpkin asked and helped her to her feet with more strength than 
gentleness.

While he was helping her, Buffy's hand slipped into the front breast pocket of his 
suit jacket, and she palmed what had to be a wallet.

"Fine, just need to go home and ice it, gonna go outside and wait for my ride."  
Buffy explained and hobbled for the exit, not looking at Xander or any of the other 
men working on the floor of the auditorium.

Outside, she sat on the edge of a cement planter and went through Pumpkin Boy's 
wallet.  He had three hundred dollars in cash, no credit cards, no driver's license, a 
plastic passkey with the Hilton logo on it and a Blockbuster card.  Nothing useful.  
A moment later, Anya popped out of the auditorium, shaking her head.

She and Anya waited outside for Xander to finish, carefully not conversing with 
one another.  Anya busied herself with calculations on her clipboard.  Ten years 
from now, Anya was probably going to own Sunnydale.  Up to and including the 
graveyard with Buffy buried next to Mom.  That thought made conversation with 
Anya even less appealing, and Buffy was happy when Xander finally returned, 
check for the day's work in hand.

"Well, we certainly learned a whole lot of nothing," Xander said cheerfully as he 
navigated towards Buffy's house.

"We learned that Citalia has demon security, which suggests a willingness to think 
outside the package.”

“Outside the box, Anya.”

Buffy ignored the vocabulary banter.  She figured that half the time Anya just did it 
to bug everyone else.  “Big Boy's wallet was kind of a washout.  But he definitely 
had a demon vibe.  No credit cards, no driver's license, and a Blockbuster card?  
Has to be a demon."

"Wallet? You picked his pocket?" Xander asked.  "Get as mad at me as you want, 
Buff, but pre-Spike porking no pocket picking, post-Spike porking pocket picking.  
Judging not going on, just pointing that out."

"Pre-Spike porking no pocket-picking, post-Spike porking pocket picking!" Buffy 
grinned.  "You made a tongue-twister!  That is so cool!"

"Really?" Xander thought a moment then grinned back.  "I guess I did."

"Everybody has credit cards," Anya said with her usual adherence to all matters 
financial.  "The second thing I did when I became human was establish a line of 
credit.  They must be very stupid demons."

Buffy didn't have to ask what the first thing Anya did when she became human 
was.  He was driving.

"Stupid demons with a lot of cash." Buffy held up the bills only to have them 
snatched out of her hands by Anya.

"Hey!"  Xander yelped while trying to negotiate a traffic light.  "Anya, give that 
back, it's stolen properly.  Property."

"Like demon-boy didn't come by it nefariously?  He has to pay for being evil, and 
he has to pay for a bunch of pizzas tonight.  Buffy, will the vampires eat pizza?"

"Get one topped with hemoglobin," Xander suggested, "or ladyfingers.  So we're 
decided that Citalia is a bad thing."

"Anybody with demon security might be expecting demon problems," Buffy 
decided.  

"You wouldn't have an on-call plumber if you didn't have bad plumbing." Anya 
agreed.  "That would be prohibitively expensive.  Unless of course you could work 
some kind of sex for service deal."

**

"You don't think I should go?  Just because she's got guys looking out for her 
safety?"  Dawn's incredulous whine buzzed through Buffy's head like a plane saw.  
"You're even crazier than usual.  I've got a vampire and a Slayer guarding me, you 
think that means I'm evil?"

"No," Buffy said, as reasonably as she could, "I think that means that you're 
special.  Along with those magic candles, the presence of Mr.  Play-Doh face and 
his friends tells me that Citalia's got a big account at the National Bank of the 
Supernatural.  And if she makes a withdrawal in Sunnydale, anyone around her is 
at risk."

"I hate you!" Dawn accused, and Buffy looked down at her crossed arms.  Which is 
why she was surprised by the weight of Dawn, knocking her backwards as her 
sister clawed for her eyes with her non-casted hand.  Willow was shouting in the 
background as Buffy landed hard on the floor, Dawn on top like an overloaded 
backpack.  Her Slayer-reactions kicked in as Dawn made a teeth-snapping lunge 
for Buffy's neck like a newborn vampire, and Buffy grabbed Dawn's arm with one 
hand and held her away from Buffy's throat with the other.

"What is wrong with you?"  The only answer was a banshee shriek.  Dawn's face 
was so contorted that she looked more vampire than human.  But that couldn't be it 
– there were no fangs.  

Willow's hands descended onto Dawn's shoulders.  "Dawnie, it's okay –"

Buffy had been holding Dawn away, not holding her still.  She realized the mistake 
when Dawn rolled off of her, crashing into Willow and bringing her down in a 
cloud of floaty orange skirt.  Willow screeched as Dawn flailed at her.

By the time Buffy had Dawn pinned, one arm tight around her waist and the other 
keeping her shoulders still, ignoring Dawn's heels kicking at her shins, Dawn had 
already dragged Willow's sweater off of one shoulder, where Buffy could see 
bleeding half-moons from Dawn's teeth, and scratched four seeping lines down 
Willow's cheek.  While Dawn struggled and yowled, Buffy and Willow stared at 
one another in horror.

"Call the hospital," Buffy mouthed, and Willow staggered into the kitchen.  
"Dawn," she murmured, striving for calm.  "Dawn, it's okay.  It's okay."

Was this a normal teenage thing?  What if the monks had made her wrong?  Dawn 
was deaf to her attempts at reassurance, and kept struggling, even as her strength 
left her and all she could do was twitch like a new-born kitten.

"What the hell is going on here?" a dusterless Spike demanded as he exploded from 
the basement door, half-smoked cigarette hanging from his lip.

Great, Spike was smoking in the house, this she needed.

"Dawn freaked and attacked Willow," Tara informed him, from where she was 
trying to hold down Dawn's cast so she couldn't hit Buffy with it.

All Dawn could do was sob with heartbreaking gasps between each bout of crying.  
Spike knelt and relieved Tara of cast-immobilizing duty.

"C'mon, Niblet, you're goin' all red 'round the nose.  Can't have that," he said in an 
offhandedly soothing tone which reminded Buffy that he'd dealt with Dru for 
almost as long as Sunnydale had been in existence.

"Ten minutes," Willow announced with the telephone still on her shoulder, the 911 
operator yammering in the background.

Buffy wanted to scream as loud as Dawn had been screaming.  

"She could die in ten minutes," Buffy hissed at Willow.

Across Dawn's heaving body, Spike shot Buffy a look of such fury that she almost 
choked.

"You're scarin' Buffy here, little one.  We're goin' to get you cleaned up, an' get you 
some of that Kaberry Kaboom ice cream you like an' I'm getting' Urban Jumble 
'cos I like the name."

It was the second longest ten minutes of Buffy's life, the longest being waiting for 
EMS to arrive and tell her what she already knew – her mother was dead

Eventually, the howling siren stopped at the front door and the room was full of 
people, taking Dawn away from Buffy and Spike and surrounding her like a blue 
polyester tide.  Around the blue shirts, Buffy could see Spike and Willow involved 
in a low-pitched conversation that she couldn't hear.  Tara had her arm around 
Buffy's shoulders and was rubbing her back.

"Everything's going to be fine," Tara soothed.  "It's probably just the pain pills, 
they can make people act really weird sometimes."

In a matter of moments, Dawn was strapped to a stretcher and whisked out.

"Look," Spike said over the clamor of the ambulance people's voices.  "Since it’s 
daylight an’ all, Willow's goin' to go to the hospital wiv you and I'll let everyone 
know, right?"

With any other guy Buffy would have thrown herself in his arms, but that wasn't 
something that could be done with Spike.  Instead she made a face that was 
somewhere between a grimace and a smile and nodded.  Spike responded by giving 
her an awkwardly light punch on the shoulder.

"Go on, then, in the ambulance.  Make sure they use the lights an' all that." 

Willow gestured at her from the doorway.

"Come here—" she said.


Changes 14/30


"Come here," she said and held out a haughty hand.

He was ready to say no, didn't like the glint in her eyes that suggested he should 
dash up to her like an overexcited lapdog likely to widdle on the carpet.  He was 
full of the demon and felt the power of it move through his dead veins.

"I said come here," and her hand was in his hair and yanking him until he stumbled 
and hit the floor with both knees.

"Don't disobey me," she said in a pleasant sing-song, her fingernails gliding over 
his scalp.  "I know you're a stubborn, willful one.  I can feel it here, here and here."

Her nails dug into his head at what seemed to be random intervals.  He'd read 
Fowler's book on Phrenology and hadn't much understood what the point was, but 
if it was to believed, he wouldn't have imagined that willfulness would be present 
anywhere close to his brain.

"Hardly," was all he could say, smelling her perfume all around him.

She was sickly-sweet with roses, far removed from Drusilla's wild spices and 
smoke.  The rustling satin crunched under his hands as he clung to her skirts, to 
keep from falling to the dizzying carpet beneath.  Yes, she frightened him.  He 
remembered Drusilla's hissing reminders that Darla had made Angelus and was, 
therefore, his great-grandmother.

Funny, great-grandmothers shouldn't give great-grandsons a rise in the trousers.  
Great-grandmother could probably devour him like a cream cake.

"You're just beginning to realize it.  It's not here yet, but it's coming."

Her hands were cold and hard on his shoulders, under his suspenders, cutting like 
ice blades through the worn silk of Angelus’s too-large shirt, around his throat, 
over his face, her thumbs touching the thin skin between eyebrow and eyelid.

"Become stubborn with me and I'll rip out your eyes with my fingernails," she said 
in her sweet voice.  "Your eyes will heal in time, but there's nothing as distressing 
as a blind vampire begging others to bring him blood."

No stubbornness with Darla, that would be easy to remember.
 
Her sharp little fangs cut into his throat with a pain/pleasure that classed Dru's with 
drawing pins.  He was clinging to her skirt like an infant.  Her lips were cold and 
he leaned up and into the sharpness of her mouth.  This was like a needle into his 
brain, straight to the bits connected with pleasures of the flesh – the dead flesh, he 
had to remind himself.  So calm and still and powerful, she took a handful of his 
hair and pulled his head back to drink deeper.  She couldn't kill him this way, but a 
frisson of fear still stabbed through his guts.  When the rushing sound in his head 
was loud enough to dampen the sound of the clock on the mantle she stopped and 
pulled back, her lips bright with his stolen blood.

"I thought the point was to feed me," he gasped.

She gestured at the bed, heavy with velvet draperies.  Looking more carefully, 
William could see a little boy and girl, siblings most likely, clinging to one another 
in their sleep near the top of the bed.  They were dressed in lace and flawless 
velvets, like the children his mother used to make him look at, the children who 
had what he could someday pretend to have if he behaved with total propriety.

"And where's total propriety now?" he murmured as he stalked forward to see them 
better.  The boy was dark-haired and thin-featured, while the girl was as golden as 
sunlight reflected from the Thames.  "They look like you and Angelus," he 
commented through a face burning with the change to fangs.

"I know," she smirked sweetly.

Experimentally, he reached out a hand and shook the boy.  Sleepy brown eyes 
blinked up at him, lashes thick and dark enough to make all the girls weep.  "Don't 
be afraid," he told the boy, feeling as if he ought to announce his intentions, as if 
speaking them would help him believe them.  "This won't hurt long."

Human blood was nothing like Drusilla's blood, he discovered with the first flood 
into his mouth.  It sparkled, was alive with a thousand different flavors.  He could 
taste the boy's confusion, fear and pain.  He could taste the biscuits and jam from 
the boy's last meal.  He could taste the murk of the city air, the slap of the ruler 
across the back of the boy's hand when he spoke too quickly to the schoolmaster.  
He tasted life, spreading throughout his body like leaves unfurling in the early 
spring.

The boy's heart slowed, rallied, and finally stopped.  William was enraged – the 
boy had no right to die and end this pleasure.  Fortunately there was still the girl, 
just awakening from all the movement on the bed.  She looked into his face, a devil 
face shiny with blood, and her mouth opened but no sound emerged.  Faster than 
he thought he could move, William swept her into his arms and fastened his mouth 
to her neck.

As he drank, he looked up to see Darla, smiling.

Sadly, the girl was finite as well, and he dropped her to the bed and wiped his 
mouth.  "More?"  

Darla shook her head.  "That's enough for now.  Your stomach has shrunk, you'll 
make yourself sick if you gorge."

"How do you – why do you ever stop?"

The older vampire laughed, a flirtatious flash of teeth and tremble of bosom.  
"You'll drink forever and never lose the hunger.  In the meantime, there are – other 
things – that we may do."  With her eyes locked on him, she reached behind her 
dress, and it puddled around her like a mound of flowers.

Somehow Darla retained a bit more human color than Drusilla.  Perhaps she was 
just better fed.  She was golden and gleaming, highlighted with blushes of pink and 
untroubled blue eyes, as brilliantly colored as the sunset over the polluted Thames.  
William thought that the sunset was a small price to pay for this.

Darla was more demanding than Drusilla, but for William that was actually a bit of 
a relief.  He was good at following directions, this he knew, and Darla gave him no 
cause to doubt that, not even when she pushed his head between her legs and 
ordered him to use his tongue.  He decided to trace the words of Genesis on her 
slick flesh.  The demon liked the blasphemy, and William liked the way Darla 
cooed and told him he was a good boy.

Cold fingers scratched his shoulder, and he would have pulled away if Darla hadn’t 
had his hair by the roots.  She released him enough to turn his head and see his 
Drusilla, resplendent in dried-blood scarlet, smiling at him, smiling at Darla.  “Oh 
you’ve met my beautiful boy!” she cried and clapped her hands.  “We shall all 
have tea and cakes!”

“We shall all have rather more than that,” Darla drawled, and pulled Drusilla onto 
the bed, ripping through the cloth of her dress.  Drusilla smiled coyly and finished 
shredding her garments, her face blank with ecstasy as she left thin lines of blood 
on her own fair skin.  Darla let him observe for a few minutes, then forced him 
back to work.  He could only identify Drusilla when she slithered around him and 
bit in the tender parts.

William enjoyed Darla, but his own member was swollen and the heavy 
bedcoverings were cruelly harsh against his skin.  The next time she relaxed her 
grip, he pulled away and looked past her excellent bosom, creamy as blancmange, 
to her eyes.  “Is it my turn now, please?” he asked, emulating the polite schoolboy 
he’d always been.

Their jostling had pushed the children together, with the boy’s hand flopping into 
the center of the bed to join the caressing.  Darla stretched her arms above her head 
and William discovered a thousand thoughts about what he could do with her like 
that.  “Drusilla, attend to William.”

Drusilla slid on top of William, pulling him deep into her cool recesses.  He 
groaned at the sensation, while Darla’s legs closed around his hips and her 
fingernails drew tiny lines of blood across his chest and shoulders.  Leaning over 
with a wicked light in her eyes, Drusilla lapped at the droplets even as her hips 
were moving against his in a rhythm that he was helpless to try and change.  
Darla’s hands grabbed his wrists, pinning him in place even as Drusilla’s pretty 
face above changed into something other than pretty, just the smooth arc of fangs 
and eyes like golden coins.  She smiled with her dangerous teeth and as she leaned 
across to drive her fangs into his throat again, he exploded up and into her as her 
she bit down into his throat, sucking his blood into her mouth as other parts of her 
body sucked up other fluids.

Darla laughed as he arched and cried out.  His vision darkened at the corners as 
Drusilla fed from him, stealing the blood away from him again.  He might have 
wept then, as the hunger grew inside, but Drusilla’s wrist was open and she held it 
out with her now-human face as sweet as the nymphs and dryads in any writer’s 
imagination.

“Tea and cakes,” she said and proffered the blood at her wrist.

He drank, the coolness of her blood like cold wine in his dry throat.

“He learns fast, I like that in a man,” Darla said and he could feel her voice move 
through his body.

Drusilla giggled and blew out the last candle.  In the darkness, he could still 
distinguish her narrow wicked fingernails from Darla's more practiced caresses.

**

Spike turned all the lights off at Casa Summers while he waited for Buffy and the 
rest to return from hospital hovering over Dawn.  He wanted to go out and bash 
something, but without a phone he was basically chained to the house.  Waiting in 
Buffy’s bed seemed a bit on the aggro side so he decided that the living room 
would be more neutral.  The heavy curtains kept most of the sunlight out and 
bleached all the color out of the room.  It was like being in an old movie.  Funny, 
even when he remembered the days before Technicolor and Cine-A-Rama, he 
tended to remember them in black and white – except for the blood, which was 
brilliantly red as always.

Spike considered turning on the idiot box, but then he might not hear Buffy 
approach.  

He had no idea how long it was before tired footsteps dragged up to the front door.  
Spike turned, because studied nonchalance wasn't worth the danger of being caught 
by Glory, so he saw Buffy's face in the light before she saw him in the darkness.  
She looked like she'd shrunk in the wash, white and so small she was sinking into 
her own clothes.

Buffy's Slayer-sense kicked in and she swiveled her head towards him.  "What are 
you doing here?" she asked with total disinterest, and let the door fall closed.

"Waitin' for you," he said and tried to shift to indicate that she should come sit by 
him.  "Dawn?"

"Sedated," she said.  "Spike, what if -- this isn't normal.  Maybe the Key isn't 
supposed to be a person, maybe she's losing it like that monk guy --"

Spike gave up on Buffy's volition and moved to guide her to the couch.  Her 
shoulderbones had never seemed more fragile under his hands.  "Humans get crazy 
too, you know, it's just in Sunnydale it's harder to notice, right?  Bad time, it's easy 
to crack, I can't even tell you what I did when -- anyhow, don't go imaginin' the 
worst.  You scare Dawn enough and she might start to believe it."  As he spoke, he 
rubbed her hard, knotted back in slow circles.  She didn't relax much, but she did 
lean into his hands.

"It was when I told her she couldn't go to the concert," Buffy mused.  "Citalia 
again.  First the goons, then the magic power candles."

"There were riots in LA," he reminded her helpfully.

"So you think it's Citalia casting some sort of spell that makes teenage girls crazy 
to see her?"  Buffy turned to him and her eyes fairly blazed with hope.  

Spike considered the possibility that she wanted an external evil force so that she 
wouldn't have to worry about her own surrogate parenting skills, and said, "I'm 
sure of it.  Wanna go kill her now?"  His hands were still moving on her back, 
soothing her, as they faced one another on the couch like high school sweethearts 
about to kiss.

"Last time I ran off to kill a skanky blonde newcomer I got beat like that nasty Sue 
chick on the original Survivor," Buffy admitted ruefully.  "And I was in *mega* 
better shape than I am now.  Nap, shower, slay, in that order."

"Right then."  Spike pulled back just enough to slip one arm from her back to her 
knees and picked her up.  She felt like she weighed less than a stone, and he knew 
she was too drained to fight Citalia when she didn't even protest, just lolled her 
head back against his cradling arm and let him carry her up the stairs.  

Her top was a cobweb of strings tied in what must have been ten different knots, 
but she'd have red welts in the morning if he didn't take it off.  Spike resisted the 
impulse to cut it and instead slowly unpicked each tangle.  The pants, a bizarre 
hybrid of khaki and spandex, were much easier, and Buffy lay splayed across her 
bed, the golden glow of her skin in the moonlight interrupted only by her white 
cotton panties.  With her hair spread around her like Ophelia in the river, she was 
unbearably beautiful.  He wished for tears; he wished for the gift of poetry; he 
wished that she would stay here forever.

Buffy shuddered suddenly and curled up, cradling herself in her arms.  "I'm so 
cold," she whispered.  Spike flinched, knowing he could only steal her heat, and 
shook open the blanket at the foot of her bed to lay over her.  But when her distress 
didn't abate, he found himself sneaking into the bed, discarding his clothes so that 
there would be nothing to irritate her, and trying to wrap himself around her like a 
shield.  She didn't feel cold to him at all.

Buffy wasn't crying, which made her shuddering somehow more terrible.  He 
stroked the swan curve of her neck, the thin flesh on her ribcage, the long muscles 
in her thighs, wishing that he knew better how to calm the sane.  "'S all right, luv," 
was the best he could do, and whisper kisses on her shoulder.  When she turned in 
his arms, he was surprised to find her eyes wide and clear.

She kissed him slowly and carefully, like a cartographer with a map to draw.  Spike 
felt her shaking underneath him, and tried to keep his hands from wandering, but 
Buffy's mouth erased whatever half-drawn moral lines he had lurking in him.

It was slow, then, like moving through honey.  He marveled at the texture of her 
skin, so open and human.  The hollow of her neck, the juncture just below her 
breasts, the knob of her ankle all seemed brilliantly new.  Buffy seemed content to 
let him ramble across her body, as long as he was touching her.  Her mouth formed 
soft noises that couldn’t even have reached the ceiling.

When Spike entered her, he felt as if he was touching her through skin, into the 
nerves and muscle itself, that if he did this right they would never have to be apart 
again.  He felt every tremor in her body in his own.  Slowly, slowly, knowing that 
this was not a night for theatrics, until she sighed and relaxed underneath him.  The 
orgasm wasn't even the point, he knew as he shuddered into her and then couldn't 
let go.

Eventually he did pull away, propping himself with one hand so that he could stare 
down at her.  Funny how the Slayer could seem as vulnerable as Dru, as in need of 
protection.  Inside him, something fluttered white wings.  "I'm not going to let 
anything happen to you," he whispered.

Buffy was already asleep.

Spike thought about poetry.  He wished he didn't have to steal words for her, but it 
would suffice.  He'd read her Sappho, perhaps.


Changes 15/30


Later, William was in the library, feeling the fire warm his dead body while he 
looked through the books on the shelves.  Most of them had never been opened, 
and the smell of paper and leather binding set him to salivating as much as the 
smells of blood and women.  He ran a finger over the spines until he reached a 
collection of Chatterton's poetry and took it from the shelf.  Slitting the pages with 
a newly sharp fingernail, he opened a page at random and read.

"Drain my heartès blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or 
feast by day: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed.  All under the willow-tree."

Chatterton had killed himself in his garret by taking arsenic because he hadn't been 
able to interest a publisher in his verse.  William now had all of eternity to improve 
his poetry to please the most discerning editor.  The thought made him smile as he 
went to the brandy in a cut-glass decanter on the side table.  Now, at least, he had a 
better idea of what raptures the physical act of love could provide.  Raptures that, 
quite frankly, made anything he had imagined he felt for Cecily seem as silly and 
childish as talking to tin soldiers, pretending the toys were flesh and blood.

The brandy was a vast improvement from the horrid whiskey Angelus had poured 
down his throat in the cellar.  There was also a box of fine Turkish cigarettes to 
which he helped himself.  William settled himself in a comfortable armchair and 
began reading.  Hours chimed on the mantel clock as time danced around the face.

The front door shut with a clamor that roused him from his reverie of brandy and 
poetry.  A cold blast of air from the hall and Angelus’s coat was powdered with 
snow.  Ripping off his gloves, he strode over to the fire and opened his coat before 
turning to stare at William with cold-bright eyes.

"The rat's been let loose from th'cellar, I seen.  Didja finally decide that y'ld rather 
be up above with us than down below with the rest of the garbage?"

"Possibly," William admitted.

"So, was it Dru who finally let you out, then?" Angelus asked and turned his back 
to warm his hands at the fire, "Or dija' scrape an' blubber an' get one a'th day maids 
to take pity on you?"

"Darla let me out."

Angelus turned so fast that one of the delicate porcelain gee-gaws fell from the 
mantel to the hearth below and exploded into fragments.  A crazy kind of 
satisfaction was warming William inside and all he could do was smile at the older 
vampire.  The expression of shock on the other's face was going to be able to warm 
him through any number of cold London nights.  

"Darla?  Let you out?  What'd she go and do a foolish thin' like that fer?"  Angelus 
tried to cover with his usual bluster.

"Dunno," William said and let his eyes drift back to the book, insolently ignoring 
Angelus.

In a flash the book was torn out of his hand and dashed into the fireplace, the smell 
of burning paper and leather filling the room.  William found himself creeping 
back in his chair, braced by his arms, pulling his body as far away from the 
gleaming gold eyes and demon face that filled his vision.

"Darla don't just take an interest in a body if she ain't got a use for 'em."

"Maybe she just got tired of your ignorant prattle and sought some more intelligent 
conversation," William responded, trying to summon up the angry demon that 
lurked within him somewhere.

But the demon wasn't receiving visitors and all the threat he tried to place in his 
voice came out as little more than sophomoric sarcasm.  Well, so be it.  
Sophomoric sarcasm had held him in good stead through school and university.

"Intelligent conversation, from you?  'Tis only the fact that I find it so amusin' 
that's keepin' me from rippin' your stupid head from your narrow little shoulders, 
boy."

"Was it amusing, then, to keep me in the cellar, ignorant and frightened?  Small 
wonder Drusilla has gone mad."  William slithered over the arm of the chair until 
he was standing, with the chair safely between himself and Angelus.  "You offered 
me no knowledge of anything, no idea of what I am now capable.  Darla explained 
everything.  I am enlightened and know what I am.  I also understand exactly what 
a swaggering, overbearing peasant with delusions of grandeur you truly are!"  

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you here an' now."

Finally, the demon flared and he could feel the unholy power growing inside his 
body.  William found himself laughing as he leaned forward across the back of the 
chair, until he was nearly touching noses with the irritated, fang-laden vampire.

"I think the lady may not appreciate it."

Meanings were made by the gleam of an eye, the twitch of a lip.

Angelus’s face darkened even more than before in his demon mask.  Leaning 
closer so he was scant inches from William's shirtfront, he inhaled, sniffing like a 
beast.

"I can smell them on you," Angelus growled and William felt his blood-filled 
stomach sink to his boots.

**

"I can smell her on you," Angel said as soon as Spike pulled himself from the 
tunnel.

"Fuck yo—"

The wall of the crypt was harder than he remembered and his blood left smears on 
the stone.  His left arm was pulled back and up behind his back hard enough to 
make the tendons scream and would have dislocated on a mortal.

"At least give me the courtesy of showering before you come back here and flaunt 
yourself."

Spike's vision yellowed out, and he could feel his face distort into his personal 
demon.  Bracing himself against the wall, he lashed out with his left leg, caught 
Angel's and sent the other vampire sprawling onto the dirty floor of the crypt.  He 
spun, shaking his head to push the demon back into place and straightened the 
lapels of his duster, which slapped at his legs.

"Don't ever fucking touch me."

"Fucking ponce," he added a moment later and licked the blood from his split lip.

Pulling himself off the floor, Angel began patting his clothes back into place like a 
cat who had fallen and didn't want to let on that he'd made an ass of himself.

"The Niblet's back in hospital, an' the Slayer's a right wreck," Spike said in 
something approaching a normal voice and rummaged around for his cigarettes in 
his pockets.  “She didn't like much bein' told that she couldn't go to the concert.  
Went wiggy an' attacked Willow.  Her Blondness had t'pull her off witchy-poo."

"Think it's a spell?"

Shrugging, Spike lit his cigarette and took a deep drag.

"Could be.  Citalia's got an arsenal a' power and money candles up in her hotel 
room, Anya heard her casting spells earlier."

"So we just assume from here that Citalia is, in fact, something supernatural and 
probably not playing on our team."

"Hold on, mate, I ain't on your team, Spike don't do teams.  Not a team player."

Angel's look cut him to the bone.

"Because you're better at playing with yourself?"

"Fuck off," Spike grumbled, not liking the fact that he'd set himself up for that.  "I 
gotta wash an' get changed.  And keep your fuckin' dim Irish self the fuck away 
from me.  Ugly thing goin' 'round these days wiv people bustin' in when I ain't 
dressed."

"Whatever, just don't take all day," Angel said and turned his back on Spike.

If it wouldn't seriously limit the possible Sex with Buffy, Spike would have staked 
him right there and then.  Angel obviously thought that because he was back in 
town he was vamp in residence, the wanker.  Sizzling inside, Spike went and took 
a cold shower and pulled on some clean clothes.

In the car, Spike played the radio too loud for human ears and steered more by 
intuition than anything he could see through blacked-out windows.  He could 
probably have driven to Lovecraft’s blind.  Satan only knew how many times he’d 
made the trip blind drunk.

"See now, that's decent music, not like that Citalia crap."

"It's the end, the end of the 70's.  It's the end, the end of the century."  Angel 
reached out and turned the volume down, ignoring Spike's fang-face.  "We need 
change, we need it fast.  Before rock's just part of the past.  'Cause lately it all 
sounds the same to me."

"That new little girl pop shit? It's not even music, not really," Spike complained.  
"Where's the stunnin' social commentary, th' insight into the deepest reaches of 
human nature?"

"Like 'I wanna be sedated'?" Angel asked.

"Alienation, isolation, rage, disillusionment, an' a bunch of stuff you never got 'cos 
you were sleepin' in trash cans and tryin' not to exist.  Course, that would give you 
a good idea 'bout alienation." 

"I haven't been interested in music since Gershwin."

"How did you miss the sixties?  You couldn't avoid the music or gettin' a contact 
high.  You couldn't be anywhere without hearin' it."

"I wasn't stoned off my ass in Height Ashbury."

"Your loss.  I partied with Charlie Manson, serious fuckin' nutter – like a Frayl 
demon wiv' shoes."

"What is this place?" Angel asked when Spike finally pulled into the parking lot, 
under the canopy with the sign marked “Reserved for Vampires” and the 
bloodstains indicating that this limitation was taken seriously.  

"Lovecraft's.  Dontcha' remember?"

"Was it another color?  Different somehow?"

"You got Vampheimer's or somethin'? We used to hang here, you, me an' Dru.  
Cheers for the Undead, where everybody knows your name, right?"

Oh it was a wonderful thing to have every head in Lovecraft's snap their way when 
Spike and Angel entered.  The ones who remembered when William the Bloody 
and the Scourge of Europe walked ankle-deep in gore through the continental 
capitals shook their heads in wonderment and the young things who had only heard 
the stories looked with greedy surprise.  Thin Lizzy was wailing on the jukebox.  
"Friday night they'll be dressed to kill /Down at Dino's bar and grill /The drink will 
flow and blood will spill /If the boys want to fight, you'd better let them."

Angel was scanning the assorted creatures in the bar, and Spike wasn't certain what 
he was looking for, something familiar maybe.  No one really knew what the trip to 
hell and the resouling had done to Angel.  Maybe he had brain damage – not that 
you'd notice – but Spike was a little surprised that he hadn't remembered 
Lovecraft's.  Blowing past him, Angel closed in on the bar and frowned his 
Neanderthal frown at the lamia behind the beer taps.

"So, couldn't stay away?" she asked and grinned her professionally friendly grin at 
him.  “What can I get you?"

"Bull's blood."

Spike winced; it was the equivalent of club soda to a vampire.

"Give me a pint of lager," he instructed, "and one here for the happy boy."

"So, how's tricks in LA?" the barkeep asked, pulling beer from the taps.

"Tricky.  What do you know about Citalia?" he asked with his usual charm and 
tact.

"Other than the fact that my kid has worn out all her CD's?  Not a lot.  I heard that 
the Ossenfelter brothers are working security for her."  She plopped an overflowing 
mug on the bar in front of each vampire.  "You might want to talk to Schedeni over 
there by the pinball machine.  He used to hang with the Ossenfelters."

"The nights are getting warmer, it won't be long /It won't be long till summer 
comes /Now that the boys are here again /The boys are back in town."

"Ta ever so," Spike said and left a twenty on the bar, which had more bribe-like 
qualities than tip-like qualities.

They moved over to the pinball machine.  Schedeni turned out to be a weedy little 
nuisance demon with a  pinched face and badly twisted horns.  When he saw the 
two vamps headed in his direction, he bolted up from the table and was about to 
make a run for the door on his webbed feet when Angel's huge hand slapped him 
back down in his seat.

"Please to be so kind good vampire sirs, there is nothing that I know.  You ask and 
I know nothing!" he whined and rubbed his forelimbs together.

"Calm down there, little fella, we just came over to talk."  Angel stretched a smile 
across his face and sat in the chair next to the trembling demon.  For some reason, 
the demon cringed further away from the smile than he had from Angel’s normal 
face.

Around the room, heads turned in the opposite direction.  Spike spun around a 
chair and straddled it, effectively pinning Schedeni in from the other side.  His beer 
was warm and watery but he drank it anyway.

"I hear you're mates with the Brothers Ossenfelter," Spike said.

"No, them I do not know.  I only know that they are bad demons and not fine 
vampire gentlemen like yourselves."

"You know, I would love to sit here all night and listen to you flatter us, but we're 
on a schedule," Angel said in a weary voice.  "You tell me about the Ossenfelter 
Brothers and what they're doing with Citalia, or we'll beat the living crap out of 
you, stuff you in a box and Fed Ex you straight to Hell.  You're going to wish you 
were never hatched." 

"Lost none a'your finesse I see," Spike muttered into his beer.

"Oh, since that is the way which you have it put," Schedeni didn't look very happy 
and he began to twist his horns with his paws, which explained why they looked 
like twirly pasta, "the brothers it is money they adore.  Anything for money.  Ago 
half a year they left with the saying that money was to be had for the young lady.  
The young lady with spells to charm many.  With the music she charms and afraid 
she is that she would be stopped from the charming.  The brothers see that 
charming continues."

"Is she human?" Spike asked.

"This I do not think.  I think human she was and no longer is.  Water, water is most 
important to the young lady.  It is with water and fire she charms." The nuisance 
demon shrugged.  "This I do not know.  Car engines, dryers and washers, 
computers, all these I can make sick, but not the water and the fire.  I know 
nothing."

"Made that abundantly clear.  You don't know nothin' 'bout nothin'.  I say we waste 
him."

Schedeni whined and turned a paler shade of gray.

"Nah, let him live.  If we find out he's lying, then we kill him," Angel said.

“Thank you kind vampire sirs,” the demon whined, and went back to his bloody 
stupid horn-twisting.

“I’m out of here,” Spike slammed his empty mug on the table.

Angel followed him out to the car like an oversized shadow.  It really was getting 
on his wick, having the bloody great pouf following him like a puppy.  
Surrounding the car were three obvious demon-types with squishy square heads.

“Let me guess, Larry, Moe and Curly?” Spike asked.  “No, must be les freres 
Ossenfelter.”

“Citalia wants to talk to you.  You fight, we hurt you,” the Ossenfelter 
spokesdemon warned.

“Oooh, I’m scared, how about you?” Spike asked.

“Terrified,” Angel agreed.

Years crackled and broke into dust like dried flowers.  Angel dove on the 
Ossenfelter on the right and Spike went for the one on the left.  The Ossenfelter 
was as big and unwieldy as an 18-wheeled lorry so Spike was able to land a series 
of vamp-powered blows to the thing’s squishy head.  Squishy-looking or not, it 
was like hitting a waterbed covering a bag of rocks and seemed to have  the same 
non-effect.

“Ever seen one of these before?” he shouted over to Angel, who had his 
Ossenfelter on the ground and was kicking it in the head.  Spike dodged a swing by 
an arm the size of a sheepdog and darted around the demon to avoid being kicked 
out from under the canopy into the sunlight.  

“No, but I think from the name they’ve got something to do with bones.  Ossen, 
ossify---“  The third Ossenfelter was turning its wart-shaped head from side to side 
on its swollen neck, trying to decide which one of its comrades to assist.

“Ossuary, osteoporosis, osteopath-“ Spike jump-kicked his demon in the face.  It 
staggered backwards.  “Osteoarthritis from the Latin osseo ‘of the bone’.  Spend a 
hundred years tryin’ to educate yourself?”

“Like you trying to sound un-educated,” Angel said and slammed his demon’s 
head into the back wall of Lovecraft’s where it left a dark smear of whatever it 
used for blood and brains down the wall as it collapsed.

“Sod off.”  For emphasis, Spike spun his demon into a pile of trash cans where it 
went down like a Concorde, only with less flame.  It was in the sunlight, otherwise 
he would have finished it off for sure.

The third Ossenfelter finally made a decision.  It ran like hell.

“Felter, German for feelings,” Spike continued and lit a cigarette.  “Bone – 
feelings.”

“Felt like bone.” Angel shook his hand, clenched and unclenched his fingers.  “Hit 
walls that were softer.”

“Badass demons.  A singin' chick tryin’ to summon somethin’ lost, money and 
power, wants to talk to us.  I’m thinkin’ that there might also be somethin’ that 
she’s needin’ supernatural security to protect herself from, yeah?”

“And that wouldn’t be thirteen year old girls.”

Spike remembered that Angel hadn’t seen When Dawns Attack in the kitchen that 
morning, which had shaken his belief that girls that young were mostly harmless.  

“She might need our help,” Angel mused, ever looking on the sunny side even 
though it was likely to turn him into ash.

“Hell of a way to ask for it.”

“You’d be surprised,” Angel said flatly.  

Spike followed Angel back to the car and slumped into the driver’s seat.  “Now 
what?”

“We should go to the hospital and see how Dawn’s doing.”

Knowing full well that the other vampire meant see how Buffy was doing, Spike 
merely grunted and shoved the DeSoto into gear.  

The woman at he reception desk looked at their black leather as though she had 
half a mind to call a burly orderly to throw them out, but from somewhere Angel 
produced a charming smile and a friendly demeanor so sugary that Spike was 
afraid he’d slip into a diabetic coma.

“Workin’ on your people skills?” he asked as the elevator doors slid shut on them.

“Blending.  You know, blending with humans is a good thing every so often.”

“Show up wiv’a cell phone and a Hawaiian shirt and I’m pretendin’ I don’t know 
you.”

“Got the cell phone,” Angel muttered.

“That just ain’t right.  It ain’t vampire-ly.  Getting’ all high tech and all that 
nonsense.  Next you get one of them clicky website things and then you’ve really 
gone native.”

“Www.helpthehopeless.org.  Somehow we're listed as a nonprofit.  Probably 
because we don't actually make any money.”

“Now that's just sad.”
 
A Scooby meeting was in progress in the hallway outside Dawn’s hospital room.  
Giles was holding court with the Wiccans, Xander and Anya looking properly 
concerned.  Buffy was obviously in the room with Dawn again.  At the sight of him 
and Angel in the hallway whatever conversation there had been dried up like blood 
flow after a tourniquet.  Xander’s face contorted when he saw the two vampires 
moving down the hall together.  Clearly the young Harris boy had imagined that 
Angel’s reaction to Spike poaching his Slayer would have ended up with Spike in 
the canister of a vacuum cleaner somewhere.

“Angel, how good to see you,” Giles said.  Spike would have expected a 
handshake, but on second thought Giles’s little finger still had that Angelus-
inspired twist to it.

“So, you think that Dawn’s episode is directly linked to the Citalia situation?” 
Angel asked in the ‘taking charge big vampire guy’ voice that made Spike’s fangs 
ache.

“Difficult to tell, really.  There are so many mitigating circumstances.  Dawn 
herself and her supernatural nature, the fact that she has recently lost her mother, 
the fact that she has only recently become aware of her status as the Key, 
adolescence and painkillers.  It might not have anything to do with Citalia at all.” 
Giles took off his glasses and cleaned them, which was less annoying that usual 
since the Great Pouf’s stone face of seriousness was more annoying than almost 
anything Giles could muster.

“Yeah, and her freakin' out right after she got told she couldn’t go to the concert? 
Right.  Nothin’ to do wiv’it.”

“The demons Citalia has working for her are Ossenfelter demons.”

“Ossenfelter!” Willow piped up, smiling at Angel as though the past had been Tip-
X’ed from her brain.  “The books say that they have a layer of bone under their 
skins, can’t get through with normal weapons except for the back of the neck 
where you can get through to their spines.”

“Hello, X-Files.  It’s, what, a three inch square area, back of the head?” Xander 
winged.  “I’m all about hitting three inch targets.”

“Some targets are smaller than three inches and you have no problem hitting 
those,” Anya said in what might have been a normal tone if the subject matter had 
been somewhat different.  

“How’s Buffy?” Angel asked before Spike could, the wanker.

“Stressed, but all right.  Toxic guilt levels.  She spent three hours with a social 
worker before she got to sit with Dawn.” Willow shook her head.  “Imagine trying 
to explain and not say anything.”

“It’s terrible,” Tara agreed, from where she was sneaking looks at Angel from 
under her lank hair.

At the rate things were going, Angel was going to have to start signing autographs.  
Spike went back to sizzling, and it had nothing to do with the sunlight outside.

“I think it’s a terrible waste of taxpayers’ money that Buffy has to go through a 
social worker interview because Dawn fell on an ice cube and got upset when she 
couldn’t go to a concert,” Anya said and her face held certain demonesque qualities 
she didn’t show on a regular basis.  “Xander had parents who never remembered 
his birthday, passed out drunk before he got dinner, never had food in the house 
and forced him to fend for himself at an inappropriately young age.  Dawn gets 
social workers for an ice cube.”

Everyone took the opportunity to examine the tile floor for a moment, since no one 
wanted to deal with the subject of Xander’s tragic childhood.

“Somebody drop a contact?” Buffy asked and stepped through the door.

“Angel and Spike just identified the demons Citalia has working for her, 
Ossenfelters,” Giles said as though he wasn’t trying to cover up anything, and 
failed miserably.

“How’s the Niblet?”

“Sleeping.  The doctors can’t tell me exactly what caused her meltdown.  They’ve 
done tests, more tests are scheduled for tomorrow and if they can’t find anything, 
they’re sending her home on Friday.”

“Which would be concert day,” Angel said, jaw set on grim.

Buffy seemed to notice him for the first time.

“Hey, you’re still here.”

“Yeah,” Angel said and looked at his shoes.

Which was the cue for the romantic music to start swelling in the background.  The 
tortured good vampire routine was still up and running.  All right, it was time to 
face the ugly truth: what exactly were the terms of Angel’s curse?  No doubt 
weasel Wesley had plenty of time to come up with a way around the part that 
prohibited Buffy Boffing.  Damn Watchers, half lawyer, half Jesuit, figuring out 
how to obey the essence if not the letter of the curse.  So could the great pouf 
actually shag Buffy and not turn into his evil, equally uninteresting twin?  

Spike stuck his hands in his pockets and ground his teeth, since that was about all 
he could do at that point.  Willow shot him a sympathetic look and sidled up 
nearby.  A moment later Tara followed suit.  Oh great, he had the Lesbian Seal of 
Approval.

“If Dawn is sleeping perhaps we should all go home and get some rest,” Giles said 
and pretended that he wasn’t trying not to look at the vampires.

“Right, come on then,” Spike said and looked over at Buffy, knowing that it was 
the first time he’d ever made anything even remotely resembling a proprietary 
motion within the same zip code as the Scoobies.

Depression and exhaustion had dampened any possible reaction down to a mild 
eye-flicker from Angel.  Bloody lame reaction, actually.


Changes 16/30


“The shrink seems to think that it’s all because of mom’s dying.  The acting out 
beforehand because mom was sick, and now the violence afterwards.  There’s all 
those stages of death and grieving and the rest of it.  She talked a lot about 
Keebler-Roth and the stages of death – I forgot what they were,” Buffy admitted 
and watched the familiar streets between the hospital and home flicker by.  She 
was really sick of this route.  At least with the sunset she could roll the window 
down and breathe something other than 50% cigarette smoke.

“Kubler-Ross’ five stages of death.  Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, 
Acceptance,” Angel said.

“Pop-psych crap.  I been dead an’ the stages are: Death, wakin’ up, getting’ 
hungry, getting’ really hungry, killin’, an’ THEN realizin’ it’s fun to be a vampire.  
The last bit can take up to a fuckin’ century, of course.”

Sitting between Angel and Spike in the front seat (there was entirely too much crap 
in the back seat of the DeSoto for anyone to sit), Buffy felt the ugly glare zing over 
her head like a crossbow bolt.  She was entirely too tired to consider attempting to 
smooth over the Spike/Angel issue or even trying to figure it out.    

“You can, you know, crash at the house,” Buffy told Angel tried to ignore the 
gagging noises Spike began making.

“No, really, the crypt is fine.”

“There’s the basement, that has crypt-like qualities?” Buffy pressed.  “Spike used 
to stay there.”

“Before I got promoted upstairs,” Spike said and tossed his cigarette out the 
window.

“We need to go over to the sound check Citalia is having tomorrow afternoon.  
Xander’s setting up chairs or something.  You’ve got the blacked-out car windows, 
I don’t,” Angel said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Buffy could see Spike’s nails tap an unhappy beat on 
the steering wheel.

“If she can stand it, I can stand it,” Spike muttered.

Spike pulled in front of the house, nearly taking out the Lightfoots’ mailbox again 
and killed the lights and the engine.  The unhappy trio made their way into the 
house.  Somehow, walking between the two black-clad vampires made Buffy feel 
both very safe and very nervous at the same time.  The two of them represented 
exactly one-half of the men she’d actually had sex with, which meant that fifty 
percent of the guys she’d slept with had been dead, which was pretty weird when 
you thought about it.  If you were actually counting the number of sex acts 
committed, in overall sex episodes, Spike represented, like, 50% of all sex had – 
more if she wanted to count variety of sex had.  Angel and Spike - they couldn’t 
have been any more different or any more the same.  Angel with his darkly 
handsome athletic football guy kind of look and Spike all about sharpness and not 
taking home to Mom.  Un-souled, they’d both tried to kill her.  Then again, Riley 
had been an augmented human and Parker had just been a shithead, which mean 
that allegedly human guys weren’t that much better.  At least with vampires you 
knew what you were dealing with – without souls, you were dinner; with souls, 
you had a sex partner who you couldn’t go to the beach with before nightfall, a 
dinner date who hardly ate, someone whose music, fashion, and entertainment likes 
and dislikes had been set before you were born, and someone in your bed who 
didn’t have a heartbeat.

But then there was that great vampire skin thing  .  .  .  

Spike went straight to the refrigerator and got himself a beer.  He fang-faced for a 
moment and uncapped the beer.  This was a pointless macho display, Buffy knew, 
because Spike had only used the bottle opener in the drawer by the sink several 
zillion times.

“The Niblet’s meltdown’s got to be some magic thing about Citalia, not about 
grief.  Who goes that mad over not bein’ able to a concert?”

“He once punched a hole in a wall because he couldn’t find his gloves,” Angel told 
Buffy.  “Magic was not involved.”

Buffy shrugged and began looking in the refrigerator for something with dinner-
like qualities.

“We were in the Alps, it was fuckin’ freezin’ and I was pissed as a newt.”

“His gloves were in the pocket of his overcoat.”

“An’ ol’ Angelus was the picture of quiet sobriety.”

“Cold pizza? Anybody?” She held up a box and looked at Angel and Spike.  “Well 
I’m human girl, hungry girl, and tired girl.  After cold pizza, I am taking a shower 
and going to bed.  You guys just go ahead and figure out who’s bigger and badder.  
Don’t mind me.”

There was extra cheese on the pizza, which was the only good thing to happen that 
day.  Both Spike and Angel looked at her as though she were eating road kill 
straight off Route 66 as she tucked into her cold pizza by folding it in half 
lengthwise and trying to eat as much in a single bite as possible.  

“Beer?” Spike asked Angel.

“Yeah.”

This time, Spike used the bottle opener.

Okay, it was time to play ‘how weird is my life’.  Angel and Spike in the kitchen, 
drinking beer out of bottles and having some low-key conversation about how hard 
it was to get replacement parts for classic cars while Buffy ate cold pizza.  If she 
shut her eyes, she could pretend that they were three normal people on a normal 
night in a normal world.  

“Two hundred bucks just to get the ignition key replaced.”

“That sucks, good and proper.  Should have gotten the dumb bird to cough up the 
dosh.”

“Cordelia?”

“Oh, well, that’s a bit different, I suppose.”

They were still talking about cars when Buffy pitched the empty pizza box in the 
trashcan and headed upstairs to shower.

Showers were up there with chocolate and sales on Sam and Libby shoes in terms 
of sheer goodness.  Buffy stripped off her clothes and shoved them in the once-
again-full hamper.  There had to be a spell of constant fullness on the hamper; 
there was no other explanation.  She turned the water on hot and full and twiddled 
with the showerhead until it was set on pounding massage.  She could have done 
an endorsement, “After a full night of Slaying, I can’t wait to get home to my 
Waterpik Shower Massage.”  Shutting her eyes, Buffy stuck her face in the spray 
and imagined all the stress of the day rinsing off her like dust.

So much better.  For a few minutes she could just think about the hot water and 
how it was softening her muscles like cooking pasta.  So much better .  .  .

The shower curtain was ripped away and Buffy screamed as something began 
making a high pitched “reet reet reet “ noise.  Blindly, she reached behind her for 
the loofah on the stick and jabbed at whatever it was.

“Slayer!  What the fuck are you doing?!” 

Buffy blinked water out of her eyes and saw a wet and outraged Spike dancing 
back beyond the reach of the loofah.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she screamed back at him.  “I almost staked you!”

“Didn’t you ever see Psycho?  Shit!”  He shook his head and water splashed further 
around the bathroom.  “I was playin’ a joke, bit of an ‘itchockian ‘omage, if you 
will.”

“Not funny.  Whole bunch of not funny!” she snatched the shower curtain back and 
put it between the two of them. “Sneaking up on me in the shower is not funny.”

“Buffy!? Are you all right?”  Angel’s voice, over his fist pounding on the door, 
indicated his agreement.

“I’m fine!” she shouted.

“She’s more than fine, she’s fantastic!”  Spike chimed in.

“You asshole,” she hissed.

“Well .  .  .” She could just about hear the gears rumble as Angel came up with the 
right thing to say.  “Don’t scream if you don’t mean it.”

“Sorry!” she yelled.

Meanwhile, Spike was bent over double, laughing silently to himself.  This didn’t 
amuse Buffy any more that the shower curtain trick did, so she pulled the 
showerhead off the bracket and aimed the water spray at the silently snickering 
vampire.  Caught full in the face with the water, Spike batted at it as though he 
could somehow shoo away the spray.  Now it was Buffy’s turn to laugh and she did 
as he staggered towards her, with his head turned as far away from the water as 
possible, like a cat caught in a garden hose.  She was only sorry that he didn’t have 
his duster on.  The damn thing probably hadn’t been cleaned in decades.

“You wench,” he swore and reached out until he grabbed the spray and turned it on 
her.

Buffy whooped and ducked farther back into the shower.  Spike followed, his boots 
leaving muddy tracks on the tile and inside the tub itself.  Backed into the corner, 
the only thing she could do was try to glare at him as he dripped closer to her.  
Finally, he had his hands over her shoulders, pinning her to the wall while the 
water sprayed down her left side.  There was an unholy gleam in his eye.

“Think you’re funny?” he asked.

“Think you’re funny?” she parroted back as obnoxiously as possible.

His kiss was obnoxious too, rough and nasty and full of teeth.  She liked it.  She 
also liked the way that the wet T-shirt on his hard chest felt against her breasts and 
the way that his wet jeans chafed at her soft skin when he pushed her up against the 
tile wall of the shower.  This was almost as good as the shower massage was for 
getting rid of tension.  

“Shouldn’t be doing this.  Dawn’s in the hospital,” she murmured.

“Can’t be in a permanently guilty state. Not good.  Look at Angel.” 

He pinned her head up against the wall with his hand on her jaw, and began 
making a rough examination of the inside of her mouth with his tongue while he 
jammed the shower head back into place with his other hand.  Fighting against the 
wet leather of his belt and the wet denim of his jeans, Buffy finally managed to 
unfasten all the fastenings and pull his hard cock out of his pants.  Spike hissed 
pleasantly into her ear when she took the length of him into her hands and 
squeezed, as though she was checking a zucchini for ripeness.  In a non-vegetable 
move, he grabbed her ass in both hands and hoisted her up against the wall and she 
managed to insert tab A into slot B even though the water was now running into 
her face and down between the tiny gap between their bodies.

She couldn’t hold back a groan, not sure if she wished Angel were still in the 
hallway or not.  The heat of the water had brought Spike’s body up to human 
temperature and the unusual heat inside her was strange and wonderful.  Spike had 
a blissfully lustful look on his face as he thrust into her and shoved her back 
against the wall.  Wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his wet-
denim covered hips, all she could do was hang on and let each and every sensation 
wash over her with the water.  The denim was rough, his skin was smooth, his teeth 
on her earlobe was sharp, the tile against her back was cold and the water pounding 
down over everything was deliciously hot and stroked far more of her body than 
hands alone could have.

He was breathing hard in her ear, even though he didn’t need to and her chest was 
heaving as though she’d been running miles.  It was total sensory overload.  He 
might have whispered something in her ear but she couldn’t hear it over the 
rushing of the water and the fast patter of her own heart.  It wasn’t going to take 
long, because she was already burning and sparking inside almost before she’d 
managed to slip him inside.  Something about the angle and the pressure managed 
to grind her clit almost directly against his body and she was gasping for breath in 
a few delicious moments.

A little sound crept out of her mouth instead of the full-fledged scream that had 
been waiting.  The pleasure grabbed her by the back of the neck and shook her 
brain loose.  She went rigid all around him and clung to his shoulders.  Spike 
muffled some sound of his own into her shoulder and the cold burst inside her.  
Still shuddering, she was vaguely aware of sliding down the tiles until they were 
both in a heap at the bottom of the tub with the water still coming full-blast onto 
them.

“I think we flooded the bathroom,” she muttered and nuzzled her face into the now 
soft and dripping mass of his hair.

“Dirty girl needs a wash now, right?” he asked and reached for the shower gel.

Later, Spike’s clothes and boots were dripping into the tub and they were bundled 
in sheets and towels in Buffy’s bed.  Washed free of gel and smelling like her 
shampoo, Spike’s hair was suspiciously soft under her fingers.  She wrinkled her 
nose at him when he looked questioningly down at her.

“Did you ever think of laying off the bleach for awhile?” she asked.

“Would that make a difference to you?” he asked and she could tell that he didn’t 
mean his hair.

“Don’t start,” she said and pulled away to curl up in the sheet by herself.

“Hey, I ain’t sufferin’ from the delusion that if there was any possible way you 
could have Angel wiv’out Angelus I’d be out on my ass.  The fuck-off bit is, I’m 
settlin’ for that.”

She sat up, pulling the covers up around her chest.

“I can’t handle you being needy right now.  Come back when Dawn’s in the clear 
and this Citalia thing is over and done with, and then you can be as needy as you 
want.  I can’t hold your hand because I’m using both of mine to hold myself 
together.”

He raised himself up on his elbows and stared at her, surprised wonder making him 
look younger and less Spike-like.

“Don’t get all pissy about Angel.  The curse is the curse and that’s that.  I might as 
well wish my mom alive again, as Angel un-cursed.  Mom is dead, Angel is cursed 
and you’re here now.”

Spike sucked in his cheeks and thought, which she wished he wouldn’t do because 
it made him look malnourished and kinda gay.

“Right.  I can do the supportive thing – I think.”

Buffy groaned in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with 
Dealing With Spike and threw herself back onto the bed.  She was starting to 
wonder if Drusilla had started out crazy or spending a hundred years with Spike 
had done it to her.  Spike grabbed her and pulled her across the bed until her head 
was resting uncomfortably against his shoulder and he patted her on the back with 
a hand that felt strangely like a paddle.

“You just rest an’ I’ll take care of everything.”

Biting back a not-really-sane giggle, Buffy squirmed around until she got 
comfortable and eventually fell asleep.

**

Having Angel bust him out of bed at the crack of noon wasn’t Spike’s best way of 
starting the day.  At least Buffy was long gone and that awkwardness was skipped.  
He was even less enthusiastic to be making his way through the underground 
tunnels of Sunnydale where there were things slimy and creepy enough to give him 
the willies – especially rats the size of sheep.

"You know what I can't understand," Spike began, keeping an eye out for rats.

"Bet I do," Angel said and continued tramping along.  This tunnel carried a slow 
trickle of foul-smelling water and decayed leaves, and they both had to walk 
carefully to avoid becoming fragrant in the wrong way.

"Very bloody funny.  No, what I mean is, you go all dark n' broody after a moment 
a' happiness.  What I can't figure is where you get perfect happiness wiv'Buffy.  
Have you had an actual conversation wiv'her or were you just gazin' into each 
other's eyes?"

"I've had conversations with her."

"For more n'five minutes? You've experienced the illogic, the bad grammar, the 
complete and utter ignorance of anythin' not involved with slayin', shoes, an' 
fashion?"

"Yeah," Angel said and continued.

They walked along for a good ten minutes, and dodged the bright light of 
Sunnydale sun beaming through the grates.  Spike waited as patiently as he was 
able.

"Well?"

"She's pretty.   She's an amazing fighter.  She has that innocent thing."

"You're deeper than I thought," Spike sneered and lit a cigarette.  "Pretty, I'll give 
you, amazin' fighter, that too, but innocent? Let's just say it ain't a permanent 
situation.  Did you know that she can—"

"Shut up," Angel warned.

"—out of a parkin' meter?"

And the cigarette was on the ground and Spike was being held above it by a good 
three inches by a hand around his throat.

"I'm not happy you're having sex with her, and I'm even less happy hearing the 
details, all right?"

Spike laughed and it echoed weirdly down the tunnels.

"Where's your sense of humor, Sunshine?  Least when I got a soul, I didn't get a 
stick up my ass with it."

"Pity the Powers that Be didn't give you a gag," Angel said and dropped Spike.

"Wanker," Spike muttered and rubbed his neck.

"Asshole," Angel said without turning as he continued into the tunnel, coat 
flapping around him.

"Sticks and stones."

Something rat-like scurried by Spike’s foot and he tried to be very cool about 
shying away from it. With any luck, Angel hadn’t seen.

The bells on the rear Magic Shop door, the one conveniently shadowed by 
overhanging buildings, rang as the vampires passed through.  No one was in the 
back rooms, so they moved forward.  Spike found himself gawking at the gawk-
worthy sight within.  For some reason, there was a six foot plus slightly scaly green 
demon, complete with horns and a blindingly tangerine suit loitering near the 
register.  Anya and Willow were behind the register, looking apprehensively at the 
apparition.

"Ah, Angel, he says he's a friend of yours .  .  ." Willow stuttered.

"Angelcakes.  Why did I have to leave LA for the 'burbs? It better be good, because 
I am not a Dockers and Docksiders kind of guy," the demon complained and 
swished over to Angel and enveloped the vampire in a bright orange hug.

Oh this was cute.  Was Angel now out of the coffin or something?  Spike settled 
for crossing his arms over his chest to watch the unfolding scene.

"Why are you here?"

"I was hoping *you'd* tell me that, mon ami.  Cordelia was fairly insistent."

"I need you to listen to somebody sing."

"I'm a demon, not an agent.  Tell your friends that they have to make the rounds 
with the demo tapes the same as everybody else."

"Citalia is having a concert tomorrow night and we think that she's casting some 
kind of magic when she sings, only no one here can sense it."

"The only magic that girl casts needs a mixing board.  And a good surgeon.  That 
girl's as plastic as an Amex card.  Still, if you really want me to listen --"

"Hang on, what's the Poncy Green Giant got to do wiv'anythin'?" Spike objected.

The demon turned and settled red eyes on Spike.

"So who's the rough trade?" he asked.

"Spike, this is the Host.  He's an anargogic demon," Angel said as if that explained 
everything.

"Oh yeah?  I used to have one but the wheels fell off."

"What he means, my peroxided little friend, is that I can read people's destinies 
when they sing.  I'd invite you to my club but we don't have Never Mind the 
Bollocks on the kareoke machine."

"Your loss," Spike said.  "So he's gonna' read Citalia's destiny when she sings?  I'll 
tell you what her destiny is – she quits messin' about with the Niblet and the rest of 
her little playmates or she ends up kacked."

"Not just handsome, but charming as well.  You must have been very bad to be 
inflicted with this one."  The Host shook his head.  "You know, your karma is just 
getting blacker and blacker."

"An' how are we getting' 'im into see Citalia? Don't exactly blend, now does he?" 
Spike asked.

"And you do?" the Host asked.  "The Eighties are over, Billy Idol."

"Xander's working on the concert, some kind of carpenter thing," Angel waved a 
dismissive hand.  "He can get us into the rehearsal this afternoon, but we have to 
get there soon so security won't be that high."

"Absofuckinglutely grand.  Carpenter-Boy gets to drop a light on me."

An hour later, Spike was developing a crick in his back from setting up chairs in 
the floor seat area of the stadium.  He stood up and wondered if lower back pain 
was a side effect from having a soul.  He certainly couldn't remember being 
stooped over like a cripple before.  Green Queenie in a purloined blue jumpsuit 
with a baseball hat hiding his horns and Steve Wonder sunglasses hiding the rest of 
his demon self was doing little more than shifting the same chair back and forth in 
half-inch increments.  He must have belonged to a union somewhere.  527 Local 
Kareoke Bar Demon Poufs, LA Division.  Must be a big brotherhood in LA.

"How much longer?" Angel asked Xander, who was looking officious in his hard 
hat.

"Can't tell.  Divas are temperamental."

"I'm getting' temperamental standin' round lookin' like the Village People."

"Young man, there's a place you can go/I said, young man, when you're short on 
your dough," the Host sang in a clear tenor.  "You can stay there, and I'm sure you 
will find/Many ways to have a good time."

Spike was seriously starting to hate this demon.

"You can be the cowboy," the Host suggested.  "Xan the Tool Man is the 
Construction Worker, I get to be the cop because I sing lead, and Angelcakes 
would be the Indian Chief."

"I'm in serious danger a'chunderin' right here an'now,” Spike warned.

"Why the Indian Chief?" Angel asked.

"Because you're so brave," the Host said and laughed at his own joke.

"Guys, Citalia sighting, downstage right," Xander instructed.

Spike had to angle himself around the Big Green Pouf to see the stage from where 
they were hiding behind the empty chair-trolleys.  It was a pity that he didn't have a 
camera to capture Angel in a flannel shirt and a worn ball cap looking like an extra 
from The Perfect Storm.  A small figure wandered out on stage, drawing his 
attention away from blackmail.  If that was Citalia, she didn’t suffer much without 
her makeup and costumes.  A tiny blonde girl in a baby-doll T-shirt so small that a 
stripper would have blushed, and her flat little tummy glimmering with a piercing 
over the waistband of her low, low, low rise white jeans.  He was practically 
getting hard just staring at her.  In bad light he might have mistaken her for Buffy.  
A glance over to his side showed that Xander and Angel were drooling as well.  
Expectedly, the Host seemed only mildly interested.

Spike walked a pace behind Angel towards the soundcheck.  He just knew the Host 
was following.

"George? You out there?" she called and shielded her eyes from the light.

"Right here waiting for you, sweetheart."

"This sucks! I can't see.  I'm going to fall and break my neck," she whined.

Spike had a sudden and ugly Harmony flashback.

"You don't have to dance, sweetheart, just sing so we can get some levels," the 
post-punk manager suggested and stretched himself a bit more comfortably in his 
folding chair, spreading the fur coat he must have stolen from Elton John around 
his shoulders.

Was the auditorium cold?  Spike couldn't tell.  It wasn't cold enough to mist 
vampire breath so it couldn't have been cold at all.  Another bloody pouf wanting 
to show off his wardrobe.  There was a powerful lot of that going around lately.  
Maybe it was cold; Citalia’s nipples were standing out like gumdrops.  Spike 
surreptitiously adjusted himself.

"Okay, dancing is like, no.  Tommy, play 'The Sun' please?" she asked with a 
toothpaste smile to the obviously bored keyboard player behind a set up that might 
have been at home on the Enterprise.

They keyboard player went into a lengthy introduction where shimmering notes 
danced round the auditorium like soap bubbles.  Citalia stood in place doing 
graceful swan-like things with arms that did not seem to have bones and rolled her 
neck with the athletic grace of a dancer.  When she finally raised the cordless 
microphone to her lips the clear, fine sound shocked Spike down to his boots.

"The sun whose rays are all ablaze with ever-living glory, does not deny his 
majesty, he scorns to tell a story!"

The same surprise flashed from Angel to Xander to the Host, who quickly smiled 
with his fine white teeth in his fine green face.

"Girly hits the high ones.  Brava," the Host marveled.

Up onstage, Citalia continued. "He won't exclaim: "I blush for shame, so kindly be 
indulgent." But, fierce and bold in fiery gold, he glories all effulgent!" 

Realization rattled around inside Spike's head like the silver sphere in a pinball 
machine until it hit the triple score bumper.

"Fuck, indulgent.  A hundred years and the rhyme is indulgent.  Fuck me 
sideways."

All Angel could do was raise an eyebrow at him, Spock-fashion.

"I mean to rule the earth, as he the sky-- We really know our worth, the sun and I!" 

"Okay, honey, how about something that might make the top Forty?" George 
pressed.

"God, I get so bored doing all the same stuff," Citalia complained and moped 
cutely in the spotlight.  "Can you start 'Back for more', Tommy?" she asked and 
showed off some more expensive teeth.

This time it was techno-flavored pop with enough of a bass line to make Spike's 
toes itch inside his boots.  This wasn't what he'd heard from her on the radio, this 
ass kicking nasty bitch delivery.

"I can't use what I can't abuse/And I can't stop when it comes to you/You burned 
me out, but I'm back at your door/Like Joan of Arc coming back for more."

“She’s fuckin’ adorable,” Spike muttered.

On the other side of Big Green, Angel was smirking.

"Faithful much, Spike?"

"Go fuck yourself.  No wait, you'd be havin' it off with the love of yer miserable 
life an' you'd go all Angelus again." Spike mimed surprise and then turned evil 
smile #2 on the other vampire.  "An' that'd be a hell of an improvement.  Least 
Angelus could have a bit a'fun."

"Fun is punching your lights out."

"Take a bash at it then, you fuckin' great wanker."

Angel took a half-hearted swipe at Spike's head but Spike stepped back and Angel 
had to pull his punch to avoid whacking the Host instead.  This gained Spike a 
dirty look before Angel went back to being impassive.

"Are they always like this?" the Host asked Xander.

"Not really, they usually just pound the undead shit out of each other."

"Play nice bite-y boys or I'll separate you," the Host warned.  "Keep your fangy 
little mouths shut so I can hear Senorita Citalia."

Up onstage, Citalia was working herself into the final crescendo of her song, 
stamping across the stage and pointing emphatic fingers at an invisible audience.  
"I came to cut you up/I came to knock you down/I came around to tear your little 
world apart/I came to shut you up/I came to suck you down."

All right, if the rest of her album was this good, maybe taking Dawn to the concert 
wouldn't be a complete torture.  Citalia had a sweet, tight little body and the kind of 
neck that just begged for the biting.

“That’s great, fine.  Terrific,” George yelled over the music.

Citalia tried to stick the microphone back in the stand and dropped it, where it 
kicked up feedback that made Spike's ears ring.  She then bent and picked the 
microphone, giving the world an amazing view down the front of her little shirt.  
The pop diva then giggled and scampered offstage in a flurry of blonde hair.

"Doable.  Very, very doable," Spike offered.

“Yeah,” Xander breathed and then caught himself. “I mean in a fantasy kind of 
way.  Fantasies are important, right?”

"Yeah," Angel agreed.  "Fantasies."

"She’s very blonde.  That nightingale isn’t going to Princeton except by bus, if you 
know what I mean," the Host said.  “Interesting vibe though.”

“What did you get?”  Angel asked and turned to the green demon.

“I’ve got to think about it, digest a little.  But we’ll just say that the wrapping 
doesn’t match the package.”

“Airplane blonde?”  Spike asked.

Angel raised both eyebrows, which was a stretch for him.

“Blonde hair, black box,” Spike explained.

This time, the Host stepped out of the way so Angel's clout landed square on the 
back of Spike's head.  It hurt, and Spike grinned, knowing he hadn’t lost his edge.


Changes 17/30


Buffy really hadn't been expecting to find a Laker Sized green demon in a bright 
orange Stephen Sprouse suit waiting with Spike and Angel at the Magic Shop.  But 
from the way that the vampires were acting, the demon was only dangerous to the 
eyes.

"Did you get anything from the sound check? What's the deal with Citalia anyway?  
Dawn is still raising Hell about the concert."

"Keep your hair on, Slayer, we're had a bit of a look see 'round the place and we're 
waitin' for the synopsis, right?"

"You're Buffy?" Jolly Green asked, as if he didn't believe it.  Then, perhaps reading 
her expression, he repeated himself – "You're *Buffy*!" as if he'd been waiting 
years for the opportunity to meet her.

"You were expecting Tyra Banks?"  Big green fashion-impaired strangers were not 
her thing.

"It's just –I was expecting, well, the face that launched a thousand ships, not –" 
And Spike was game-faced, his hand on the larger demon's chest.

"Leave it out, Greenie," Spike said, and Buffy felt an awful thrill as he backed 
away.  Angel stood, arms crossed, disapproving of the entire matter.

"Well, in *any* event," the demon said, straightening his shirt, "that Citalia is 
something, all right.  It's not clear *what* --"

Buffy lost patience.  "Will someone please give me 'Last Week, on Buffy the 
Vampire Slayer' so I know what's going on?"

Angel cleared his throat.  "This is my … friend, the Host.  He's an ana– he's a 
demon who can read people's destinies when they sing."

"And this chickadee's destiny is darker than most."  The Host, a demon obviously 
used to being the focus of attention, moved to the center of the shop floor.  "Some 
major mojo is at work in her.  I count at least four brands of magic behind that 
vibrato.  Not that magic is an indication of dangerous evil, under the 
circumstances.  It's not as if she could be a teen superstar without some sort of pact 
with one of the Lower Beings."

"Which goes a bit to explain' Ricky Martin," Spike muttered.

"Nothing explains Ricky Martin," Angel said with the voice of gloom.

"This might be worth doin' a recce around the Hilton where the bird o'doom is 
stayin'.  If she does want to ask for help, meetin’ her on our own terms and not 
wiv’ the Ossenfelter chorus backin’ her up might be the way to go."

"I need a drink, several drinks, some decent tunes and a peer group," the Host 
complained.

"Spike, you come with me to the Hilton, Buffy, you go take the Host out for a 
drink," Angel ordered and earned himself a sour Spike face.  

"'Scuse me for challengin' your authority, mate, but he's gonna' stand out like a 
Deadhead at a Metallica concert, right?"

"Dark corner booth at the Bronze," Buffy explained.  "Or maybe that demon bar 
that I'm not supposed to know about."

The shocked sheep faces on both Angel and Spike made her feel somewhat better, 
even though they were off to do Boy Scouts of Death thing without her.  The Host 
loomed down at her with a toothy smile that was entirely unlike that of a vampire.

"Beauty and brains, no wonder you two bad boys got it so bad.  I think I'm falling 
in love with her myself."

"Get stuffed," Spike suggested and Angel grabbed his duster sleeve to drag him out 
of the Magic Shop and into the night.

The Host watched the vampires go, a grin creasing his scaly green face.

"I wish I had a camcorder, there's a movie deal in here somewhere.  Abbot and 
Costello on crack, Gibson and Glover with fangs.  An anti-buddy movie."

"Dead and Deader," Buffy agreed.  "And it just makes me wonder what I saw in 
either of them."

"Well," the Host rubbed his chin and mimed thinking, "it's not as though they don't 
both have that vampiric allure and all those black bad boy clothes.  There's nothing 
wrong with either of them that a good stylist couldn't cure, well, that, a good 
haircut and my body weight in Prozac."

He shook himself out of his green reverie.

"Drinks, I was promised drinks.  But if your bartender can't make a decent 
SeaBreeze, I am out of here faster than the minute waltz."

The Bronze was pretty crowded that night, which was a good thing because 
slipping in the back door and finding a dark booth was less trouble than usual.  
Most of the crowd was on the dance floor, jumping and dancing to Citalia's latest 
hit, which seemed to go right into Buffy's spine and turn her bones into metal.  If 
she never heard another Citalia song again, she'd die happy – provided that she was 
buried in her new leather pants and Pucci flavored blouse.

"So what's a pretty girl like you doing slaying vampires in a place like this?" the 
Host asked as the waitress, who either decided not to notice his green skin and 
horns, or had lived in Sunnydale all her life and was unfazed by such things, took 
their drink orders and left.

"Doing my best, but it's uphill work.  There's a Hellmouth in the city limits and 
every undead, supernatural freakazoid with delusions of mega-baddyhood seems to 
end up here eventually.  I line them up, take them out and try not break any nails 
while I'm at it," she explained.

"You've got tonight off, little girl," the Host said and accepted his glass from the 
waitress, "A toast, to nights off!"

Amused, Buffy raised her own glass, full of pinkish liquid that he had promised her 
she'd like.

"Nights off, I'm down with that," she agreed and downed some of the pink drink.  It 
was good, like fruit punch with a pleasant peachy aftertaste.  "So what all do you 
know about Citalia?"

"I thought you were off, cutie pie," the Host sighed and played with the paper 
umbrella in his drink for a minute.  "Like I said, the chick's got major bad mojo 
going on.  I'm getting hate, revenge, and blood by the gallon, enough to make your 
boyfriends look like mosquitoes."

The Host waved a well-manicured green scaly hand at the waitress who brought 
another set of glasses.  The second drink was as good as the first and a great 
improvement over beer and gin.  Leave it to Spike to introduce her to the nasty 
stuff while there were drinks like this out in the world.

"So, Citalia 'gets discovered' in some prefabbed studio thing and does a couple of 
videos and faster than you can say breast augmentation, she's on MTV's TRL, 
rubbing herself all over Carson Daly.  Then it's the VMA's last year and she shows 
with that Eminem and it makes all the papers.  Didn't even need to win an award.  
Just had to show up in a red vinyl dress and there wasn't very much of that."

"But if she's so sexy, why do all the little girls like her?”  Buffy asked and looked 
down into the remainder of her new drink.  It was hot in the Bronze, she was 
thirsty, and these drinks were really good.

"She's like Barbie, I suppose.  Leads to eating disorders, plastic surgery, excessive 
use of Miss Clairol #25 Golden Blonde, and a potentially lethal addiction to 
spandex and sequins." 

The Host, she realized, was looking guiltily at Buffy's blonde ponytail and glittery 
blue top.  "Of course women can have Barbie as a role model and go on to lead 
normal lives, right?"

"Sure, if they don't start dating vampires.  Vampire Ken with real Death-Look 
fangs.  Take him out in the sunlight and watch him burst into flame.  See Slayer 
Barbie get dumped by Moody Soulful Vampire Ken, See Slayer Barbie have 
rebound with GI Joe.  See Slayer Barbie end up with Eighties Punk Wardrobe 
Vampire Ken."

Buffy sighed and saw that the waitress was setting down a fresh drink before she 
had finished the last one.  It had to be a spell that the Host was doing.  Service at 
the Bronze was never that good.

"So which one's your favorite Ken doll?" the Host asked.

"Both," she admitted and couldn't help but grin.  "Can't just have one pair of 
shoes."

"Exactly, change your man with your mood, good thought.  You could write a self-
help book."

"What I really want right now is a Citalia Barbie so I can pull its head off," she said 
and didn't smile.  "That bitch has caused me nothing but trouble.  I can't wait to 
give it back to her.  Do you have any idea what she might be?"

"I'm thinking Siren.  You know, enchants her audience, covering up a lot of nasty 
magic underneath.  A siren bent on revenge for some reason."

"It has to be a guy.  It's always a guy."

**

Angel was staring at the front of the Hilton as though he expected it to 
transmogrify into an ancient Mayan temple and all Spike could do was try not to 
yawn and light another cigarette.

"We gonna spend all night sittin' and wankin' or are we gonna do somethin'?"

"I'm planning."

"Sweet Jesus' bollocks we'll be here all fuckin' night!" Spike exploded and leapt  
out of the car

"So you have a plan?" Angel asked a few moments later when he trotted up.

"Nah, I'm makin' this up as I go along.  Follow my lead."

"I've got a bad feeling about this."

A clot of paparazzi huddled miserably around the entrance of the hotel, their 
cameras all hanging like limp dicks in the cool night air.  Spike spotted a couple of 
likely lads over near the hotel courtesy van smoking what his vamp nose told him 
was a controlled substance.  He gestured for Angel to follow and strolled over to 
the stoners.

"Dude," he hailed one of the smokers in fluent Surfer-ese.  "Spare doobage por 
favor?"

"Totally," the man agreed and reached in his pocket for something.

A moment later, both photographers were out cold behind the van and Spike was 
looping the strap of a heavy, expensive-feeling camera around his neck while 
Angel was clipping a PRESS badge to the front of his coat.  

"You're just going to leave them there?" Angel asked.

"In th' old days I woulda' killed 'em," Spike struck a heroic pose there in the 
parking lot.  "When I left you, I was but the pupil; now I am the master."

Angel clearly didn't get it and all Spike could do was sigh and stick his press badge 
pin through a buttonhole in his duster so it wouldn't puncture the leather.

"Right.  Now make like Lois Lane."

"You were more convincing than me in drag."

"You made a big, ugly girl.  We're talkin' East German Women's swim team ugly.  
Fugly.  Coyote Ugly."

In short order, both vampires had joined the edge of the group and were watching a 
white limo come into port at the entrance of the hotel.

Manager George came out first, wrapped in his big furry coat that made him look 
like a bear in sunglasses, and Citalia followed, her head down, looking at the 
pavement beneath her feet.  The cameras sprang to life, popping and flashing 
everywhere.  Maybe-demon security pushed back the more aggressive cameramen.  
Spike aimed his camera in their general direction and thought he pressed the right 
button since the flash went off.  In a blink of an eye, they were gone, and the press 
began to break up.

"And this accomplished what? Blurry pictures?"

"Not over yet, me old son." Spike said and focused the camera on Angel.  "Smile."

Angel gave him a pained grimace and winced when the flash went off.  For the 
second picture, he gave Spike the finger.

"Now what?"

"The hotel bar.  I give George about ten minutes before he's in need of the ol'liquid 
refreshment."

It took fifteen minutes and two rounds of drinks before George finally appeared.  
The fur coat was gone and George was looking over his shoulder to see if he was 
being followed by his supernatural babysitters.  Spike let George get into his 
second drink before he sidled over, Angel in tow.

"Georgie boy, how's it hangin'?"

"Hangin' low.  If she hasn't chewed it off," George looked over at Spike and the 
PRESS badge registered. "Oh great, you're another vulture."

"Prefer 'blood-sucker' m'self.  Look, I just want a little favor.  M'buddy here's Dick 
Hertz from the Dublin Daily and he's wantin', like, two minutes with your bird.  
Two minutes of the kind of 'Lookin' forward to visitin' the ol' Emerald Isle when I 
do my European leg of m'tour'.  Real simple, bread an'butter thing.  I take a couple 
a'snaps and we're gone."  Spike laid it on as heavy as possible.

George shook his head and emptied the glass.

"No, you see, the record company won't let her talk to the press without the PR 
Nazi being there.  No can do."

"So you're a company man now, mate? Doin' what the establishment tells ya?"

"Fuk the 'stablshm'nt," Angel added in his thickest Culchie accent.  "Ye gawn ta let 
them tell ya what to do, then?"

Jesus, Spike thought, he'd forgotten how bad it sounded.  Fucking hick mick.

George looked up from his drink, from Spike to Angel and then back to Spike 
again, and he paled somewhat.

“You guys look just like—“ he said and his voice trailed off and his pale turned an 
even whiter shade. “Okay, whatever you want, just don’t hurt me, okay?”

“Why would we hurt you?” Angel asked.

“She’s not in the suite, she went to a CD signing in Santa Barbara.  But you can go 
up and look around if you want.  I’m helping you, all right?”  George’s hands were 
shaking around his glass, “Just remember that I helped you.”

He flicked out his cell phone.

"Boris, Igor, Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey, now."

Waiting by the bar, Spike and Angel watched the goon squad exit through the 
lobby door.  George gave Spike the suite key.  

The elevator was clean and smelled like roses.

“That was weird,” Spike said.

“Did you get the feeling he knew who - what we are?”

“Might have been a mirror behind the bar.  Happens sometimes.  They see a whole 
bunch of nothin’ an’ get all wiggy.”

The suite was at the end of the hallway, and Spike unlocked the door and stuck his 
head inside.

"Room Service?”  Spike called in a creditable Mexican accent.

Nothing.  The hotel suite was quieter than Spike's crypt.  There was no sign of 
habitation in the white and blue room other than the creamy candles covering every 
available surface.  It would have been frightening had the candles been made of, 
say, human fat rather than beeswax, but no human fat candles were ever that pale.  
Candles made from human fat looked like they had been made from peanut butter, 
which had been enough to put Spike off the stuff for a decade.

The room smelled like the herb-y candles.

Red silk lay across the three-foot-high bed like a gout of blood.  Spike moved over 
and picked it up: a kimono, heavy with embroidered green-eyed dragons, gold 
threads scraping his palm.  “Darla had one just like this,” he said without thinking, 
and Angel was there to snatch it from his fingers.

“They were very popular,” Angel said in the most toneless of tones.

Rats were nibbling at the corners of Spike’s brain as he turned to search the closets.  
Clothes, clothes, and – in a stunning turn of events -- more clothes.  A.B. (after 
Buffy), he was no longer surprised to find that doily-sized scraps of fabric took up 
enormous amounts of storage space, in apparent violation of the laws of physics.  
The only surprise was a heavy blue velvet dress with gold-slashed sleeves, a lace 
overlay on the skirt, and stiff boning.  It looked like a costume for one of Citalia’s 
sets, but when Spike sniffed, it smelled of moths and tea and dust, and underneath 
it the heaviness of true silk velvet imbued with human sweat.  An antique; surely 
she couldn’t dance in it.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” he said, more for Angel’s benefit than anything else.

“Spike!”

Grumbling, Spike followed Angel’s voice into the bathroom, which was roughly 
the size of a family farm that had been tiled in Italian marble.  Makeup and jewelry 
cases covered most of the countertops.  Angel was peering into one of the cases.  
As Spike approached, he gave in to temptation and looked in the mirror, where he 
was not.  It was stupid to hope that the soul would make a difference, stupid to 
wish himself back in Egypt, but he still had to control the flinch.

Angel didn’t notice, engrossed with the dazzle of amethysts and diamonds spilling 
out from the jewelry box.  Spike reached past him to take a handful, maybe to sell 
later.

Then he was dancing back, holding his burnt hand.  “Fuck!  Fuck!  You fucker, 
why didn’t you say –“

“That Citalia’s got a serious cross fetish?”

Spike stopped moving, still cradling his hand against his chest.  “She ain’t here for 
our help, is she?”

Their eyes locked.  The mirror reflected empty air.  


Changes 18/30


"Do you want me to tell you your destiny?" the Host asked.

"That's what ana--whatsit demons do?"

"Yeah, you sing, and I tell."

"Is it going to be bad?" she asked.

"Well, fate's not carved in stone, it's more like skywriting, a puff of fresh air and it 
can all change."

"So I can avoid what's going to happen?"  Buffy asked through a face that was 
beginning to feel kind of numb.

"All you have to do is sing."

"I flunked chorus."

"I'm not a critic, sing Happy Birthday if you want."

" Bottom feeder insincere.  Prophet  Lo-fi pioneer.  Sell the house and go to school.  
Get a young girlfriend, daddy's jewel," Buffy chanted more than sang and had to 
pause to remember the words to the song.  

She took another swig of her drink for nerve.

"God's little gift is on the rag.  Poster girl posing in a fashion mag.  Canine, feline, 
Jekyll and Hyde.  Wear your fake fur on the inside."

She stopped and immediately finished her drink.  

"Oh, honey," the Host said and stopped.

"So what's my fortune?" she asked, perky as she hadn't been in weeks.

"Don't quit your day job.  That and you're going to have a hell of headache in the 
morning." The demon said and folded his hands on the table.

"That's it?  You make me sing in public and all you can tell me is that I'm going to 
have a hangover? I could have used the Magic Eight Ball for that!" she protested 
and attracted the attention of the waitress who brought her another drink.

"Okay darling, you've got more positive energy than I usually see in a year, which 
is a good thing, because you're going to be tested real soon and real hard.  Your 
fate isn't entirely clear, you've got lots of places where the big old Y-fork of life is 
going to go the good way or the bad way, and you've got to learn how to think 
before you make your choices.  And I don't mean fashion choices, sweetie darling, 
I mean the big and scary life choices."

"Doesn't it get more pacific than that?"

"Honey, it's pretty Pacific.  Pacific and Atlantic, and the Dead Sea as well.  While 
I'm talking about the Dead, I gotta tell you, your vamp boys – they're going to let 
you down.  You're going to see them in a way that you might not like all that 
much."

The Host must have seen her frown because he reached out to pat her hand with his 
own green one.

"Most beings aren't all good or all bad, and almost all of them do stupid things 
more often than they do smart ones.  I mean look at that punk vampire of yours – 
that hair!  It's a crime!  Anyway, bad and stupid things happen, and you've got to 
decide if you can forgive."

Chasing the ice cubes around in her drink with her fingers, Buffy pulled out a cube 
and sucked on it.

"You mean I have to forgive Spike for his hair?"

"Let's not push forgiveness too far, sweetie."

**

"Not being able to drive sucks."

As far as greetings went, that was a bit of a showstopper.  All Spike could do was 
stare back at Buffy and watch the twinkling lights shimmer on the tiny string and 
handkerchief that passed for her blouse.  She was blinking at him in an odd way 
that made his brain itch – something was definitely going on in the Slayer's head, 
but he'd be damned (again) if he knew exactly what it was.

"Are you *drunk*?" Angel asked, his normal expressionlessness replaced by 
confusion.

Buffy waved her hand in a wide dismissive arc that nearly smashed into the Host 
hovering beside her, which was confirmation enough.  "I am not drunk," she 
articulated with the precision of the truly hammered.  "I am pleasantly relaxed.  
Relaxed enough that the sight of the two of you does not make me reach for a 
stake.  I have stakes *everywheres*, you know.  All.  Over.  My.  Body."

Spike would have sniggered if he hadn't been busy imagining their placement.

"What were you thinking?"  Angel gave up on Buffy and addressed the Host.  
"There's some sort of magical superstar in town, not to mention all the background 
noise, and you get her plastered?"

"Sweetcheeks, I brought her to the bar, I didn't pour those Fuzzy Navels down her 
throat.  I think you and David Bowie over there have only yourselves to thank for 
that."  The Host folded his arms across his chest.  

"'S a bit academic now.  Let's get you home," Spike suggested, and Buffy smiled, 
the wide Julia Roberts grin she'd never bestowed upon him before and probably 
never would again.  

"Home is good," she agreed, and tottered forward on her stilettos.  Spike reached 
out to put an arm around her shoulders.  "Spike," she said, turning her face to him, 
her voice honeyed and her eyes deeper than the ocean.  "Do I look fat in these 
pants?"

Spike hung his head and Angel couldn't suppress a bark of laughter.  Buffy spun 
like a gyroscope; it was all Spike could do to keep her upright.  "What're you 
looking at?  He's the one taking me home!"

"The lady has a point, and not just on all those stakes she's got," the Host said and 
laughed.

"Crypt's open, extra blood in the fridge, right?" Spike told Angel.

Angel growled, so Spike blew him a kiss.

"Even though I had to haul myself out to the 'burbs, I wouldn't have missed seeing 
this for anything.  And you better drive me home, Angelcakes because I am not 
spending the night in a crypt!"  The Host's voice chased them out of the Bronze.

This was payback for the other night, he reckoned as he pushed and pulled Buffy in 
the proper direction.  If she pulled some scary sex game on him, he was going to be 
disturbed.  But pleased.

Spike had to fiddle for his surreptitiously copied set of keys, since the only way 
Buffy could open the door was if the key was extremely proactive.  Oh yeah, sex 
on the brain.  Unfortunately, he suspected that Buffy had Rules against taking 
advantage of her soused state.

"Ooh, no messages," she crowed as they passed the hall table.  "Messages, always 
bad."

"Yeah," he agreed.  "Tools of the devil.  Come on," he wrapped his arm around her 
shoulders and basically pulled her up the stairs.

"Hello it's me; I'm not at home.  If you'd like to reach me, leave me alone.  A 
change would do you good."

"Slayer, and I mean this in the nicest possible way, you'd best leave the singin' to 
Citalia."

“That’s nothing, you should hear me play piano.”  Spike gaped and she smirked all 
the way upstairs, but it wasn't a serious smirk, it was a cute, drunk-girl smirk and 
he could handle that.  

Upstairs, he scouted for pajamas, but didn’t see anything of use.  

“Take off your clothes.” 

Spike blinked and began to comply.  In the morning he could always tell the Slayer 
that he’d been afraid of what she’d do if he resisted.  

“Now me,” she ordered before he’d gotten rid of the jeans.  She twirled, swayed, 
and caught herself on the nightstand, which bent a little underneath the pressure of 
her hands.  It kept her still enough that he could untangle the bow holding her top 
together, sodden and fragrant with girl-sweat.  The top fell to the floor where it 
took up less space than a Kleenex.  Impulsively, he bent and buried his head 
between her shoulderblades, enjoying the taste and feel and scent of her underneath 
the alcohol tang.

Too soon, she skittered away.  “You’re not naked,” she observed and tapped her 
foot, which, what with the naked chest, made undressing even more complicated, 
but Spike wasn’t about to complain.

In a blur of motion that even his sober vampire sight couldn’t desegregate, he was 
on the bed, his belt tied around his wrists and woven through the iron bars of her 
bedstead.  For extra security, he gripped the bars in his hands, since it was a nice 
belt and he didn’t want to tear through it in a moment of passion.

Buffy didn’t join him immediately.  He heard her stumbling around in the further 
recesses of the bedroom and speculated about what she was trying to find.  She 
returned with a thick white candle and straddled his legs, bumping up nicely 
against his cock.  The candle was unlit, so he wasn’t quite sure what she planned to 
do with it, but at this point all the options were acceptable.  Hair gleaming golden 
from the hallway light, Buffy blinked down at Spike and he felt the total 
submission that he’d only experienced before with his vampire sires.  He could get 
lost in this; it was too easy.

“Matches?” she asked and Spike was too engrossed in watching her mouth move to 
process the question for a moment.

“Lighter in m’left jacket pocket,” Spike managed and gasped as she hooked her 
legs around his so that she could wriggle half off the bed and find the jacket on the 
floor.  It was all he could do not to thrust his hips up into the air that was less 
welcoming than her skin.  When Buffy returned with the lighter, he stared in 
helpless fascination as she fumbled with the lighter, then carefully lit the virgin 
candle.  The flickering light made her face glow as she leant over him and began to 
drip a trail of wax down the center of his chest.

The pain was minor.  The sensation was not.  His fingers squirmed on the bedstead; 
he wanted to gasp or do something human.  But all he could do was groan as she 
worked her way down, pausing to let the wax dry then continuing the exquisite 
burning, past his navel, just up to where his cock waited swollen and begging for 
her.

Spike was panting, out of reflex not necessity, when she brought the candle up and 
began a horizontal line just underneath his pectorals.  His stupefaction broke for a 
second as she approached the midline.  “Slayer!” 

Buffy looked at him, confused, then down at the nearly-complete cross on his chest 
and her face cleared.  If she’d finished the cross, it might have burned down 
through his body and into her mattress, which would have been sucky for the 
mattress and even suckier for Spike.  

A drunk and careless Slayer was a bad thing.  It was all fun and games until 
somebody got dusted.  Notwithstanding that his cock was stiffer than rebar at the 
thought.

“Are you afraid I’ll burn you with the wax?” she purred, obviously not realizing 
how close she’d come to putting a permanent memento on his body.  Her free hand 
caressed his erection, which was bumping against her stomach.  “Or are you afraid 
I won’t?”  Spike’s eyes rolled back in his head as she trailed burning wax across 
his collarbones.  At least she was headed in the other direction.  “Maybe what I do 
depends on how well *you* do.”  She was so wet against him, and he couldn’t 
distinguish between the heat of the candle and the heat of her flesh.

“Oh yes please.”  He didn’t care if she recorded him begging and played it to a 
packed crowd at Lovecraft’s.  Point of fact, they’d all envy him.

She slid onto him, as fast and shattering as a car crash.  Spike bit his lip as hard as 
he could without game-facing and concentrated on giving her a ride she’d never 
want to trade in.  With only his hips and legs, it was difficult, but he hadn’t spent 
decades dirty dancing for nothing.  The first time Buffy cried out and threw her 
head back, he only grinned and began fumbling with his bindings.  He managed to 
get his left hand free and turn them over just as Buffy started making the hitching 
noises that signaled another climax.

Grunting with effort, Spike pushed Buffy’s legs up and over his shoulders, using 
the Slayer’s flexibility to get past his still-bound right hand.  With his new 
leverage, he set a pace that made Buffy shudder underneath him.  She was drunk, 
but he was the one barely in control.  “Slayer – ‘m close –“

Buffy reached up, her hand settling over his where it was tied to the bedstead, and 
the feeling of his bones grinding in her grip was more than enough to push him into 
orgasm, his hips battering hers to pull her down with him.

After, Buffy lay across him, panting for the two of them.  They were on the very 
edge of the bed due to his limited range of motion with the belt, and he freed 
himself so that they could scoot to the middle.

After a while he got up to peel some wax into the rubbish bin, borrowed blood 
pulsing and stuttering within him with the thought of how much closer the Slayer 
had come to killing him in bed than she’d ever gotten back in the day.

“Spike?” she asked when he came back from turning off the lights.

“Mmm?”  He slid up against Buffy, feeling the long sweep of warm human skin, 
almost better than having the blood running through his own veins.

“You ever think that maybe sex shouldn’t be so … scary?”

“Nah.”  Spike brushed sweat-slick strands of hair from her face in the near-
darkness.  “If it ain’t scary, you got nothin’ at risk.  An’ that’s as true for the 
missionaries as for the rest of us.”

A minute later, she was asleep, or passed out.  It didn’t take him long to follow.


Changes 19/30


"I like Spike,” Anya announced as she piloted the Jeep through morning rush hour 
traffic.

Buffy grunted, afraid to let go of the dashboard, afraid to nod because there was a 
good possibility that she was going to throw up.  Between Anya's driving and the 
nauseating headache, Buffy's stomach was clinging onto her ribs for dear life and 
whining like a child on the Mad Tea Party ride at Disneyland.  Getting drunk, 
drunk sex with Spike, hangover in the morning with Spike smirking at her from the 
bed and refusing to get up.  This was not close to goodness at all.  Goodness was 
possibly vacationing on the East Coast.  She wasn't sure if the leggings and the 
sweatshirt she'd pulled off the floor in her bedroom were really clean or just 
pretending to be.  They had been in the pile on the left of her bed, which was the 
clean pile, unless Spike had tried to straighten up again and ruined her piles.

"Buffy? Are you listening to me?"

"I'm having a daydream where I don't have a hangover, an un-hung over dream."

"I said that I like Spike," Anya insisted which surprised Buffy somewhat since 
there didn't seem to be money involved.  "Not in the I want to have sex with him 
way, but in a friendly kind of way."

This straddled the good/bad border, but Buffy wasn't sure that she should be 
thinking about straddling, Anya, Spike, and sex in the same thought train.

"Okay," Buffy said and waited to see if there was a point to what Anya was saying.

"For a vampire, he's all right.  And I've known a lot of vampires.  Xander will see 
this eventually, even if the sex ban continues for several more days."

"Sex ban?  You're not going to have sex with Xander until he sees that Spike is all 
right," Buffy echoed, wondering if hangovers could make you hear things.

"Exactly," Anya said and swerved around the school crossing guard who was about 
to let children cross the street.

"Isn't that kind of anti-feminist or something?"

The former demon gave her a pitying look.  "You've never read Lysistrata, have 
you?  Very educational."

Finally, they pulled into the hospital parking lot and Buffy was able to make her 
way out of the Jeep without any major mishaps.

There were two news vans parked in a no-parking zone close to the hospital which 
barely registered on Buffy-radar.  In Sunnydale, it could have been anything from a 
zombie infestation to a big accident on the freeway.  Buffy suspected the freeway 
accident, since she would have heard about the zombies.  Anya steered her in the 
direction of Dawn’s room where Dawn herself was sitting on the bed, fully dressed 
and looking somewhat snarly.

“You’re late.”

“Hi Dawn, you look significantly less injured and less insane,” Anya chirped.

“You still look like a dork,” Dawn rebutted.

“You still sound hateful and mean, but that might go away when your hormones 
level out.”  Anya’s smile froze on her face and she elbowed Buffy in the ribs.  
“Your sister needs to talk to the doctor to find out how we can keep you from 
attacking people again.  Then we can go home.  I have Xander’s car, but he doesn’t 
know it yet.”

“You guys are so lame.”

The duty nurse, who looked an awful lot like George Foreman, stuck his head in 
the door.

“Hey Dawnie.  Saw you guys come in so I paged Dr. Stedman.  He’s on his way.”

Dawn stared holes into Buffy.

“What’s wrong with you?  Deadboy keep you up too late or did he forget to bring 
his own snacks?”

“Up late,” was just about all Buffy could manage.

Anya looked from sister to sister and took a deep breath.

“We’re all really worried about you, Dawn, and we love you – not in a sexual way 
but in a friend kind of way – and we want to do everything that we can to help you 
get back to being yourself.”

“I’ll never be myself again. I’m not real.”

“Dawn, you’re as real as I am,” Buffy protested.

“That’s reassuring,” Dawn said with disdain that would have made Spike proud.

Buffy balled her fists up in her sweatshirt, and Anya looked stricken.

“I love you and I want you to be happy,” Buffy choked.

“Bite me, but that has a different meaning for you doesn’t it?” Dawn snarked.

The nausea bubbled up in Buffy’s stomach again and she tried to force it down.  
How much harder than facing decaying corpses could dealing with one angry 
thirteen year old be?  She started to sweat under her clothes, wishing Spike, Angel, 
or Giles were there.  Somebody older who could take charge of non-Slayery things.  

“Hey, what’s up?” A youngish man with dark hair sauntered into the room.  He had 
on a white coat and was carrying a clipboard, but other than that he looked like he 
should have been walking the halls of Sunnydale U.  His nametag announced that 
he was Dr. Stedman.  So much for grownups.

Dawn brightened somewhat.

“Hey, are you going to let me go?” she asked.

He smiled, a nice smile full of straight teeth and a light in his eyes.  “Maybe.  I just 
gotta talk to your sister first, you cool with that?”

“If you gotta,” Dawn grumbled.

“You must be Buffy, I’m Michael Stedman, I’m handling your sister’s case,” he 
grinned and shook Buffy’s hand in such a normal way that she almost fell to her 
knees and cried.  “You wanna step into the hallway so I can talk to you about your 
sister without her hearing?”

Dawn rolled her eyes and giggled.

Okay, cute young doctor was not a bad thing.  Buffy followed him into the hallway 
and down to a lounge area where some sad-looking people were drinking coffee 
and staring at the clock.  Stedman showed her to a couch near a potted palm and 
they sat down.

“First off, no organic damage.  Dawn has nothing in her X-rays or CAT scans to 
indicate that she has anything structurally wrong with her brain,” he said and held 
the clipboard face down on his lap.  “I know your mother had a brain tumor, Dawn 
told me, and I want you to know above everything else, her brain is structurally 
normal.”

Buffy exhaled, just then realizing that she had been holding her breath and 
worrying that Dawn had fallen victim to what had happened to their mother.

“Now we might have another story chemically.  Dawn’s anger and rage is probably 
misplaced depression and anxiety.  Your parents’ divorce, your mother’s death, 
and the usual slings and arrows of adolescence have done a number on her.  
Serious self-esteem problems, a lot of anger, and that cutting incident you reported 
to the social worker.  But I don’t think that she has a serious long-term problem.”  
He aimed his nice smile at Buffy again.  “What we’re going to do is try her on 
some antidepressants and an anti-anxiety medication for a couple of weeks to get 
her over this rough period.  No big.  Her body probably needs more serotonin she’s 
producing right now so we’re going to keep her body from absorbing it so fast.  It 
doesn’t mean she’s crazy, it just means she needs some help right now.  And we’re 
going to send her to a good counselor so she has somebody to talk to.”

Buffy nodded, and realized that she had a death-grip on her shirt.

“And it wouldn’t be a bad thing for you to get somebody to talk to as well.  You 
guys are going through something really hard right now and you need all the help 
you can get.”

He must mean non-supernatural help, undead help she had plenty of.  But the idea 
of trying to explain everything to a shrink without getting into the whole Slayer 
business without ending up in a straight jacket was nothing short of impossible.  
Dawn could go to the shrink; Buffy would just stick to Giles who, at least, 
understood.

When she went back down the hallway, she saw a knot of people blocking the door 
to Dawn’s room, all pushing and trying to get a look inside.  Buffy ran the rest of 
the way and began pulling people out of the way, ignoring the outraged squawks of 
the various nurses and PAs.  In the fifteen seconds it took to wade through the 
crowd, her mind reviewed a hundred episodes of ER, with doctors crowding 
around the bed of someone whose heart had stopped, who had bitten through her 
own wrists, who was having a brain-frying seizure.

Instead of doctors, there was only a perky blonde girl – Citalia, Buffy realized after 
a moment of utter incomprehension.  It was like seeing a dinosaur in a shopping 
mall, only Citalia was better dressed.

“Hi!”  The other girl turned towards Buffy, who realized that she was sweaty with 
terror and dressed in gray sweatpants and last year’s wraparound top.  And she’d 
forgotten to put on real makeup this morning.  Citalia, by contrast, glowed like a 
gold statue in the sunlight even under the harsh hospital fluorescence.  Her tight red 
leather pants and fringed vest decorated with dozens of little sewn-on mirrors could 
have, and probably did, come straight from a Paris runway.

“Uh, hi,” Buffy said.  Monsters she could deal with, but girls who lived the life she 
used to want for herself were something different.

“Dawn and I were just talking about you!  She says you’re overprotective but I 
said, like, there is totally no such thing when you’re a girl.”  Behind Citalia, still on 
the bed, Dawn’s cheeks were bright red and her eyes feverish with adulation.

“It’s … really nice that you came to visit Dawn.  Um, why is Dawn the lucky girl?”  
Dawn made a face to indicate that Buffy was a stupid twat who was embarrassing 
her on purpose.

“Oh, you know, when you’re in the hospital it can really suck, so I visit people.  I 
used to have the *cutest* little pink candystriper outfit, but the doctors said it was 
confusing,” she frowned without any frown lines creasing her forehead, “and so 
now I just come and sign autographs.  I’m *so* glad that Dawn’s going to come to 
my concert.  I really think that music is about making people happy and stuff.”

Buffy could feel the threat assessment thermometer leaking mercury with every 
word the girl spoke.  The girl didn’t sound like she could organize a trip to the 
mall, much less an evil plan.  Selfishness in using magic to succeed might be 
enough to lead to disaster, particularly when a Hellmouth was involved, but it was 
a lesser kind of danger.

“Oh yeah,” Dawn agreed, nodding vigorously enough to shake the bed, and Citalia 
turned back to her.

“It was so nice to meet you.  I’ll be thinking about you at the concert.”  It took a 
zillion-watt smile to entrance a stadium full of people, and a smile directed at 
Dawn alone had the effect of a lightning strike on her.

“Thanks, thanks so much.  Thanks for the poster too.  I can’t believe you came!”  
Dawn hadn’t been this happy since she’d gotten her period.  Citalia leaned down 
and gave Dawn a hug; Dawn’s eyes closed in bliss.

“I’m so sorry, I have to run.  There’s all sorts of stuff people have to do to get me 
ready for the concert,” Citalia apologized.  “But it was nice to meet you and Dawn, 
Buffy.  You seem really nice.”  She gave Buffy an extended version of the Dawn-
hug.  She smelled fabulous, a combination of expensive musky, vanilla-y perfume 
and her own scrubbed skin, and Buffy found herself hugging back with some 
enthusiasm.  The breasts pressed against her own chest didn’t *feel* fake, and she 
was ashamed for having said mean things just because Citalia was pretty and 
successful.  “You all be careful, okay?” Citalia said and disappeared into a crowd 
of flashbulbs and doctors holding out clipboards for autographs.

**

Spike drifted in and out of sleep, surrounded by warm Buffy-scent and cotton 
sheets soft enough to make him reconsider satin.  Sleeping, he could cavort with 
Buffy to his undead heart’s content, wrapping her lithe blonde form around him in 
any and all positions.  In the dream, he didn’t even mind when Angel showed up in 
the room, looking down at them with hungry eyes that did not discriminate.  He 
didn’t mind when Angel slid onto the bed, instantly naked due to helpful dream 
logic, and he didn’t mind when Buffy’s arch away from him pushed her shoulders 
against Angel’s broad chest.

Spike bolted up into a perfect right angle.  “Unholy Hell!”

Stumbling into his jeans, he cursed the gloating instinct that had driven Angel to 
the crypt, where there were no phone lines and he hadn’t bothered to get Angel’s 
cellular number.  

Fifteen white-knuckled minutes later, he’d slung the DeSoto into heavy shade and 
dashed to the crypt, duster held above him like a combination of umbrella and bat-
wings.  He was still smoking around the edges when he finally reached darkness.

“Angel?” he called, looking around for his immortal mortal enemy.

Rubbing his eyes, Angel pushed back the curtain that Spike had hung around the 
bed.

“What is it?  It’s not even sundown yet,” he complained.

“Lucinda Grey,” Spike said.  “We need to get busy.”


Changes 20/ 30


"Didn’t realize the lot a’you was busy."

Angelus’s voice oozed sarcasm, but William wasn't exactly in a position to provide 
anything remotely resembling a pithy retort.  He was naked, flat on his back in 
Darla's draped bed, with Drusilla strewn over his chest, licking at the tiny bites on 
his neck and shoulders while the lady to which the bed belonged had saw fit to 
nestle against his legs and engulf his entire organ in her cool mouth.  William 
wasn't sure if he'd ever speak a coherent sentence again.

"What is it Daddy?" Drusilla asked in her shattered little-girl voice.

"I've brought presents." Angelus cooed to his wayward offspring.

Fickle as ever, Drusilla clambered over William, her petticoats dragging like 
broken glass over his skin to wrap herself around Angelus, her bare little breasts 
almost as white as the lace on her undergarments next to the black wool of his suit.

"What have you brought me?" she demanded, her dainty feet tapping on the rug.

"Angelus, can't you see we were occupied?" Darla asked in a tone of elegant 
distain.

"His attention's gone elsewhere," Angelus gave a wicked smirk and nodded at 
William who, to his own embarrassment, had lost his ardor the moment Angelus 
entered.

Swearing to himself, William shoved his body into his trousers and pulled the 
braces over his bare shoulders before Angelus could mock him any further.

"Is it diamonds? Is it pearls? Is it rubies from far-off idols in India?  Did you bring 
me nightingales and raindrops and tiny baby mice?"

"Not exactly," Angelus said and smiled down at his mad daughter.  "It's a great 
deal more amusing than that."

"You had better have brought an entire damned circus, Angelus," Darla drawled 
and shrugged into a silk kimono-robe she had purchased at the Japanese Cultural 
Exhibition.

The robe suited Darla far more than her couture gowns did.  The brilliant scarlet 
silk with the blazing gold embroidered dragon swirling across the back spoke far 
more clearly than the tightly laced corset and demure gloves.  She didn't bother to 
fasten the robe over her breasts, just loosely tied the sash around her waist and 
made her gracefully undulating way across the room.  William followed like an 
acolyte.  Angelus was opening a dirty, bloodstained carpetbag and pulling strange 
objects from the inside.

"I thought I'd take a stroll down Limehouse way, I do so like Chinese now and 
again, even if you do get hungry half an hour later," he laughed at his own joke.  
"But the first two Chinamen I chanced upon were engaged in a financial 
transaction of goods for cash.  A very nice piece of goods for a large quantity of 
cash."

Drusilla clapped her hands and giggled, scurrying over to wind her fingers through 
William's already mussed and untidy hair.

"Poppy dreams, beautiful blood red poppy dreams.  Oh you can fly, sweet and soft 
and long," she cooed, drawing her sharp little nails over his back and shoulders, 
making him shiver.

"That's right, Angelus killed some Chinamen and got some opium," Darla shook 
her hair back from her face and collapsed into a nearby armchair, drawing her leg 
over the arm like a common whore, "Be a darling and get me a cigarette, William."

He did, lighting it with a taper from the fire and handing it to her.  The three other 
vampires watched Angelus fuss with what looked like a lump of blackish tar and 
an ornate pipe carved like the dragon riding Darla's back.

"Angelus thinks he can bribe his way back into our good graces, doesn't he 
Drusilla?"

"Yes, Grandmummy, he does.”

"Is it working, Drusilla?"

"He promised me a Bebe Bru dolly with a rose silk walking gown," Drusilla said 
and pouted.  "With deep blue eyes and Titian red hair."

"You have William now, you don't need another doll."

This comment seemed to strike Angelus as being funny and he chuckled to himself 
as he lit a taper from the coal fire and applied it to the end of the pipe.  Then again, 
perhaps Darla’s comment hadn’t been funny, but the opium-laced blood Angelus 
must have drained from his Chinamen could have softened his mind.  The opium 
began to smoke and burn with a smell like rotting fruit.  Drusilla let him go and 
moved to sit on the flowered rug at Darla’s feet, as Angelus ceremoniously handed 
the pipe to the smooth blonde in the flaming kimono.  Smiling, Darla drew on the 
pipe, and a great look of peace passed over her features before she handed the jade 
pipe down to Drusilla on the floor.  When William received the pipe, he was 
shocked to feel the smoke scrape his throat and lungs like broken glass.  How was 
it that something that could smell so sweet could hurt so much?  The smoke 
worked through his brain and the thought made him laugh.  It wasn’t a logical 
question.  Too many things were sweet and hurtful at the same time.  Angelus’s 
fingers, when they touched his passing the pipe, were cold.  Cold as the ice and 
snow outside.

Now this I say, brethren, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God; 
neither doth corruption inherit incorruption.  Behold, I show you a mystery: we 
shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an 
eye.  For the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible.

William laughed again, the irony as rich and as intoxicating as the opium.  He 
continued to laugh as the pipe made three more circuits around the group.

“You can stop that now,” Darla murmured with knives under her voice, and 
William looked to see that Angelus was smiling at him.

Biting back another laugh, he passed the pipe to Angelus without smoking more.

“’Spect I’m makin’ a fool of m’self,” he said by way of apology.  

Angelus’s smile never wavered.

“The flowers are singing,” Drusilla crooned, running her hands over the patterned 
rug, her voice thin but each note was clear and true “The flowers that bloom in the 
spring, breathe promise of merry sunshine-- As we merrily dance and we sing, we 
welcome the hope that they bring, of a summer of roses and wine.  And that's what 
we mean when we say that a thing is welcome as flowers that bloom in the spring.”

William looked and listened but all he could hear was the flames of the fire and all 
he could see that was different was the thick white mist in the corners of the room.  
The narcotic effect of the opium was fairly disappointing in that respect, he’d 
expected something far more flamboyant, dragons, Vikings, and all he could see 
were vampires.  He choked back a giggle.  This really was patiently absurd.  All his 
mother’s dire warnings of what could happen if he failed to meet expectations 
hadn’t included smoking opium with carnally adept vampires.  Darla’s hand 
snaked out and caressed Drusilla’s black curls, and the white skin beneath them.  
Moving to the far side of the room, William leaned his forearms against the back of 
the other wing chair and watched.

“Pretty pretty darling,” Darla said and she leaned forward so her caresses now 
included Drusilla’s pink-tipped little breasts.

Mouth going dry and hardly from the effects of the opium, William felt the wool-
covered bulk of Angelus sidle up behind him.

“We’re quite unnecessary,” Angelus murmured.

Oblivious to the men, the two women continued as though they were in complete 
privacy, Drusilla stretching under Darla’s hands like a cat on a sun warmed 
windowsill, her back arched like a nymph’s.  Without any visible instruction, she 
turned on her knees to face Darla, who blazed in her red silk like a poppy herself in 
the velvet chair.  Drusilla’s white hands slowly crept up Darla’s golden legs, 
smoothing and stroking the skin until she reached between Darla’s thighs.  
William, who had only heard third and fourth hand what women did together from 
acquaintances bold enough to venture to bawdy houses and licentious theaters, 
watched with fascinated delight.  Leaning forward, Drusilla buried her face 
between Darla’s thighs and began lapping like a kitten, her dark eyes burning up at 
the other woman with her dark curls falling around her face as sweetly and 
innocently as any child’s.  When Darla began to clutch the upholstered arms of the 
chair as though she intended to break through fabric and wood, and she tossed her 
head back in pleasure, William realized that he, himself, was more than moderately 
aroused by the scene before him.  Un-needed breath in his lungs quickened and 
caught in his throat and the air in the room was as thick with depraved sensuality as 
it had been with opium smoke.

Since he was capable of nothing else, he giggled.  Apparently becoming a vampire 
was educational at the least.

Darla began to writhe in the chair, tiny moans escaping from her perfect lips, her 
hands releasing the chair arms to touch her own breasts, run over her stomach and 
pull at her own nipples that were now as red as her silk wrap.

“That, more’n the mighty night sky, makes a man realize he’s insignificant.” 
Angelus purred into his ear.

William gulped in reply.

Finally reaching her shuddering crisis, Darla slumped back into the chair and 
welcomed Drusilla into her arms, they cooed a dulcet duet while exchanging kisses 
and caresses.  At an unspoken signal, the women moved to the bed where Darla 
slid between Drusilla’s opened legs, creamy white under the silk of her stockings.  

“Hold onto the back of the chair and don’t dream of lettin’ go.” Angelus breathed 
into William’s ear.

William wasn’t sure what he should be expecting, but when Angelus reached 
around and seized the fiercely awake flesh of his member, all he could do was 
squeak with shock.  The Irishman’s big hand closed around him, cold and dry as a 
snakeskin and began a fierce motion that almost sent William to his knees.  
Naturally a man would have a better idea of speed and rhythm than a woman, no 
doubt having pleasured himself more than once.  William clung to the chair back 
for stability, dropping his head so no one could see the shocked pleasure on his 
face.  So hard and so fast and too knowing and just the right tempo and—in a 
humiliatingly short amount of time, he groaned and climaxed into Angelus’s hand 
and the back of the chair.  He shut his eyes and heard the slithering of skin on silk 
grow louder from the bed.

“When you look down ‘pon us remember you’re no better than any.  Don’t go 
bein’ a self-righteous hypocrite.”

**

“You self-righteous bastard!  ‘Zactly how far up your bloody arse is your head 
anyway?” Spike raged.

“We have to do the right thing.”

“Which is get our asses the FUCK out of town.”

The movement in Angel's shoulders was a shrug almost imperceptible to Spike's 
vampire eyes.

"If Citalia is Lucinda, we have to make this right somehow," Angel continued, 
rubbing his hands through his hair until it reached its usual ridiculous ridge.

"Make it right?  You gonna waltz in there and say: 'Ever so sorry Miss for what got 
done to you over a'hundred years ago, could you please let the little kids go so we 
can all live happily ever after?'  That's fuck-off mad, I tell you."

It was all Spike could do to keep from grabbing the easy chair and smashing it over 
Angel’s thick head.  What he proposed was insanity, and possibly suicide.  Going 
to apologize to Citalia – if she was Lucinda – with her retinue of Ossenfelter 
demons was about as intelligent as being the Starfleet security officer in the red 
shirt going into the cave to see if the monster was there.  Angel wouldn’t have 
lasted past the first round of commercials.

"What happened – one of the things – "Angel ground to a halt like a car that had 
run out of gas and oil at the same time.  "You have a soul now, you should 
understand.  Atonement, making things right.  As right as you can."

"Atone this,” Spike grabbed at his crotch.  “Look mate, I started stickin' m'beer 
bottles in th' recycle bin and that's where this reformation ended."  

Spike tossed his cigarette to the ground and mashed it out, reflecting that his new 
environmentalism didn't extend to littering.

"Try this, she's not going to be happy until we've seen her.  Not happy Citalia 
means more violence, more children attacking their parents and police officers."

"And the harm in that would be--?"  Spike raised an eyebrow and gestured emptily 
around.

"You'll be responsible for the deaths of more people."

"The first few thousand were a cakewalk, more is goin' to be hard?"

“Buffy’s not going to let it go at that.  Citalia’s here to kill and she will try, and 
Buffy will try to stop her.  I’m not going to let Buffy fight our battles.”

Well, that one was a corker.  He absolutely, positively hated it when Angel was 
right.

“Bloody hell.” He groused and felt around in his pockets until he found a cigarette.  

It didn’t help all that much.

“Guess we ought to start formulatin’ a plan or somethin’.”


Changes 21/30


Dawn had the expected reaction when told that, no, she still couldn’t go to the 
concert.  The drugs muffled her hysteria somewhat, and she was nearly asleep 
while the attendant wheeled her out to be picked up.

Thankfully, Buffy’s headache had mainly cleared by the time Dawn was sent back 
home with Willow and Tara while Buffy went to deal with Revenge of the 
Lawyers.  Apparently the settling of Buffy’s mother’s estate was responsible for a 
good portion of the deforestation of the West Coast.  There was an inventory of the 
gallery, and the whole matter of who was doing what to run the gallery now.  The 
partners wanted to buy out Buffy’s share, but that meant a whole bunch more 
accounting than Buffy had ever thought was possible.  The inventory was worth an 
awful lot of money and Buffy’s attorney wanted to make sure that the poor 
motherless girl didn’t get screwed.

“You have to watch out for people like this,” the lawyer warned as she drove Buffy 
down her street.  “Wave that much money in front of anybody’s nose and he can 
turn into a bloodsucker.”

It was almost funny.  But, stepping out of the BMW in the driveway, Buffy 
realized that the lawyer was really just doing her job to protect Buffy in the same 
way that Buffy walked the streets of Sunnydale every night and kept it safe from 
dangers that the sleeping citizens had no idea existed.

“Thanks a lot,” Buffy said.

“I’ll call you Wednesday when the accountants are finished.  Hope your sister feels 
better.”

“Thanks.”

With that the BMW pulled away and took normal life with it.

The house was vampire-free, which surprised her a little bit.  Spike must have 
gotten up at the crack of noon to go do mysterious Spike things.  Willow and Tara 
were her current Glory-prevention aids, what with the witchy powers and Spike 
and Angel being involved in nosing around the Citalia mess.  Anya and Xander 
were there, apparently because the cable at Xander’s was out.  Dawn had thrown 
Willow out of her room for being Buffy’s friend (not what Willow said, but Buffy 
spoke fluent Dawnese).  Tara was still upstairs, braiding and rebraiding Dawn’s 
hair.  Even through the drug haze, Dawn’s eyes had been hard when she looked at 
Buffy, who closed the door and fled downstairs.

“Hey, stranger,” Xander called out from the couch.  “There was a MTV special on 
the making of ‘Hardly Ever,’ Citalia’s new disc.  World premiere of her new video 
in a minute.  I guess that’s for all us peons who can’t make it to the concert.  We 
get to watch MTV and we can even call it research.”

“She’s a much better singer than you led me to believe,” Anya commented from 
beneath Xander.  “I’d say she’s had classical training.”

“Shhh,” Xander hissed, running his hand slowly up Anya’s thigh, and Buffy turned 
to the television where the music was starting.

A girl with a powdered-white face, a heavy black Princess Leia hairdo, and a 
scarlet kimono embroidered with birds stood on a stage, fluttering a yellow fan as 
the audience clapped and threw roses at her feet.  The music, a swirl of dark synth, 
seemed utterly out of place.  “Turn the sound down, ok?” Buffy begged.  “If Dawn 
hears, she’s going to go wiggier than Cher.”

Xander pressed the mute button as the scene cut to the girl’s dressing room.  She 
was now golden-haired, revealed as Citalia.  Her face was still made up so that her 
mouth was in the shape of a lipstick kiss.  Responding to a knock on the door, she 
rose from her gilt-backed chair and invited two men in.  One was tall, dark and 
handsome, the other slightly shorter, dirty blond and handsome with cheekbones 
sharp enough to make the air bleed.  Citalia at least had good taste in actors.

“Turn it up a little!” Anya hissed, and Citalia’s voice whispered across the room, 
backed by the thrumming synth beat.

“Nothing said could change the fact/My trust was blind, you broke the pact/If 
God's my witness, God must be blind.”

Then the three were dancing, the men still in their floppy Victorian clothes with the 
huge cravats and Citalia in a dress as red as a beating heart, white lace fluttering at 
the sleeves as she gyrated.  They were surrounded by other dancers making 
decidedly non-Victorian moves, and Citalia herself was sandwiched between the 
two men, who ground into her as if they were trying to get to one another.  Their 
eyes locked over her head as she sang to the camera.

“If flesh could crawl my skin would fall/From off my bones and run away from 
here,/As far from God, as heaven is wide.”

“Holy homoeroticism, Batman,” Xander said, staring, and slid his hands further 
under Anya.  Buffy figured this was punishment for the earlier walk-in, which was 
unfair but maybe inevitable.  Willow, too, was focusing on the television as if it 
were her hope of Heaven.  Citalia held up a glass of something golden and glowing 
and drank it down.  In a sparkling wash, they were on a white velvet bed, one man 
on either side of her, their hands tugging at her dress so that the sleeves came off.  
Similar machinations turned the dress into a corset and cobwebs, as the men kissed 
and licked at her like Red Shoe Diaries rejects, their hands occasionally wandering 
past Citalia’s body to another superbly muscled thigh.  Citalia’s eyes fluttered in 
feigned bliss as she continued to lipsynch.  Buffy squirmed; this was barely one 
step above porn.

“Nothing that you say will release you/Nothing that you pray would forgive 
you/Nothing's what your words mean to me/Something that you did will destroy 
you.”

And then the dark one sunk his teeth into her neck.  His mouth was slick, obscene, 
as he raised his beautiful bloody face to the camera.  Buffy gasped and almost 
reached for a stake before she realized that it was all fake.  On screen, Citalia 
struggled between the two men, Dark with his mouth at her neck, Light’s mouth 
high on her thigh, blood seeping onto the bed like an accelerated film of roses 
blooming.

“Ohmigod—“ Buffy said without engaging her brain.

A flash, and Citalia was running, stumbling, her gauzy white nightdress hiked up to 
show the blood running down her legs.  Against a black background, a male hand 
raised a silver straight razor, coated with red Karo syrup that didn’t really drip 
anything like blood, which was enough to make Buffy relax just a little.  Night, a 
river iced over; a white hand thrust through the ice, Citalia looking hardly damp at 
all but glittering with diamonds, pulling herself onto the ice.  Then Citalia was on 
the bed again, white on red on white, her wrists held by the dark man while the 
lighter one crawled towards her.

With a Matrix-style move, Citalia flipped backwards, using her captor’s grip for 
leverage, kicking the other man’s face as she went.  Now Citalia, streaked with 
more red Karo and not a little glitter, twirled the razor like a majorette leading a 
cheer.  

Another jump cut, and an upwards shower of doves revealed Citalia, her arms 
spread wide, her palms raining rose petals with an enormous ivory cross behind 
her.  The camera pulled back to reveal the two bare-chested men, one crucified on 
each side of her, iron spikes driven through their hands and thorn crowns digging 
into their foreheads.  Their blood was black and tarry, not syrupy.

“If holy is as holy does/his house will burn straight down to hell/And take its 
conscience with it as it falls.”

“Think this video is going to anger the Christian Right just a little?” Willow asked, 
in her I’m-trying-to-joke-but-actually-I’m-disturbed voice.

Citalia continued to sing, pulling the dark man from the cross.  He fell on his 
broken hands and knees, revealing an enormous dragon tattoo spreading across his 
shoulderblades.  Buffy’s mouth dropped open.  Still singing, Citalia put her hands 
on the man’s head and twisted; the actor closed his eyes and swooned as if his neck 
had really been broken.  

“Choke on guilt that's far too good for you/Say one word, I'll laugh and bury 
you/And leave you in the place where you left me.”

A sword appeared in her hand, gleaming silver as the razor, and she swung.  When 
the camera moved down there was nothing but an old skeleton and a glowing white 
skull tumbling across the flagstone floor.

“If flesh could crawl my skin would fall/From off my bones and run away from 
here/As far from God, as heaven is wide...”

Carlson Daly grinned into the camera, eyes a little glazed.  He looked like a man 
who just had the girl of his dreams vomit into his lap.

“Wow, that was the new one from Citalia and – let’s just say that’s a new look for 
her.  Coming up next, we have our exclusive interview with Flea—“

“What the Hell?”  Buffy half-screamed, half-choked.

Anya hit the power button and the room went dark.  “Um, Buffy?  I might have, it 
was a long time ago really and I think there’s been some plastic surgery –“

One-handed, Buffy yanked Anya out from under Xander and pulled her to her feet.

“In London, near the turn of the century?”  Anya was annoying, but she’d never 
before adopted the California habit of ending every sentence with a question mark.  
Buffy growled.  “A girl, badly hurt, nearly dead, very wet.  These two men had –“

“What did you do?”  Buffy breathed each word as if it were its own chunk of ice.

“Turned her into a siren,” Anya hurried.  “Each person she lures increases her 
power.  She asked!  I was a vengeance demon!  It was my job!”

“Buffy, are you going psycho bitch for a good reason or—“ Xander protested, 
pulling himself up from the floor with a combination of anger and fear slathered 
over his face.

“If you’d been watching the video instead of groping Miss Vengeance Demon 
with a Bad Memory here you would have seen –“

“Angel and Spike,” Willow said and began pulling Buffy’s fingers from Anya’s 
shirt.  “At least I think it was Spike, with the hair and everything.  But I guess 
Buffy would know what his natural hair color is after all.  And it isn’t Anya’s fault, 
she was just doing her job.”

“Make me ride the Special Ed bus, but did I just miss something really important? 
That was a video, it didn’t have anything to do with Angel and Spike.”

“That wasn’t a video, the whole thing was a re-enactment of a woman being 
seduced, fed off of, and tortured by two vampires, a tall dark and hunky one with a 
tattoo on his back and a shorter blondish one with really sharp cheekbones.  Sound 
like anybody you know?!” Anya was on the bandwagon now, rounding on her 
lover with the fury of a woman who realizes that the man she is sleeping with is 
clueless.  “At the end of the last century, a girl came to me and wanted revenge on 
these two men who had used her – badly.  She was wet and mutilated.  I helped 
her.”

“And she’s going to destroy whoever hurt her.  Which would be Angel and Spike,” 
Willow finished.

Buffy could feel her heart beat in her right eye.  It hurt.  Was that how Mom felt 
before the aneurysm hit?  

Okay, so Angel and Spike had killed Citalia.  Angel and Spike had killed a lot of 
people and probably in more not-nice ways than she knew the names of.  They’d 
likely invented not-nice ways of killing people.  But at least they didn’t dance and 
make hot eyes at each other like that.

Something shattered.  Buffy thought it might be her own sanity.

“What’s that?” Xander turned toward the stairs.  

“Dawn,” Buffy said and grabbed her backpack of weapons.

Ugly visions of Glory dancing in her head, Buffy sprinted up the steps.

Faintly, from behind Dawn’s closed door, Buffy heard Tara moan.

Flinging the door open, Buffy realized that Dawn’s room was Glory-free zone, and 
a Dawn-free zone as well.  Tara was sprawled over the bed with a broken lamp 
near her head and she was bleeding from a scalp wound.  Dawn was gone and the 
curtains were fluttering in the window.

“Willow, call Giles and get Tara to the hospital.  Xander, you and Anya are going 
with me.”

“Where? What? Where’s Dawn?”

“She went to the concert, dipshit !” Anya smacked Xander in the back of the head.

“Tell me everything you know about sirens,” Buffy shouted at Anya.  “And – how 
do I kill one?”

**

Spike pulled up to a dark and deserted Summers house.  There were no humans 
inside, he could tell  by the smell.  Dawn’s window was broken and there was glass 
on the grass, so it had been broken from the inside, and there was blood on the 
bedclothes when Spike went up to check.

“You know that plan we spent all afternoon working out?”

“Yeah?” Angel asked warily.

“I’d say it’s gone to fuck.  We’d best get over to the concert now-like.”

Angel got back into the passenger seat.

"Mineral water and magic candles,” he said as Spike flattened the Lightfoots’ 
mailbox.

“Aqua et igni interdictus.  Forbidden water and fire.  Lucinda into the water? 
Remember?” Spike yelled over the straining engine.  “And somehow she got out of 
that wiv a ragin’ mad-on and found herself something or somebody who gave her 
the wherewithal to do somethin’ ‘bout it.  Fuck! It’s been starin’ us in the face all 
along.”

“Dawn, Buffy, the kids who follow her, it’s all incidental.  She wants revenge on 
us.”

“The shit that happened, back there an’ then.”

The look Angel shot him in the dull green glow of the DeSoto’s lights had nothing 
to do with Citalia.

“Don’t go apologizin’.  I ain’t forgivin’ you for anythin’.  If I’m gonna go down 
you’re gonna come wiv’ me.”  

"I shouldn’t have let Drusilla make you.  She had no idea what she was doing.  
You weren’t exactly vampire material.”

"Wimpy an' whiny? She may have made me, but you taught me what bein’ a 
vampire was all about, and Lucinda was just the beginnin’"

"Spike --"

"Shut up," Spike said and lit a cigarette, carelessly blowing through a red light. 
“Let’s just call it water under Tower Bridge and be done wiv’ it.”

Weighed down with a soul-load of guilt, Angel stared out the window.

“But in the future, you keep your fuckin’ Mick nose outta’ my business or I’ll rip 
your fuckin’ head off.”

**

Citalia stalked across the stage, waving her arms at the crowd and rapping as hard 
as a white girl could into her headset mike.  "It's goin' down, yo the girl got a gun.  
Best run."

As she crept backstage, Buffy wondered if the song lyrics were appropriate for 
Dawn's age group and also wondered if she was just getting old really fast.   It had 
been almost disappointingly easy to sneak past the lame-o campus security and the 
quartet of pumpkin-faced goons wandering around backstage.  It didn’t occur to 
her that it had been intentionally easy.

"Because she's quick to flip and empty out the clip and make a man understand 
where she's comin' from."

The dressing room door opened with the pop of a broken lock, and the only light 
inside came from a row of candles arranged altar-like in front of the wall-sized 
makeup mirror.

"The hardcore connected to the base of her fate.  She just breaks and brings drama 
to the situation."

Spike and Angel had wanted her, seduced her, drunk from her.  Then tortured her 
and left her to die.  Buffy’s story followed the same arc, but the last chapter had yet 
to be written.  Angel had exploded her heart, tortured and killed the people she 
loved, and nearly killed her, and with the voice of experience warned that Spike 
would do the same.  And when Buffy looked in the makeup mirror, she saw a face 
just like Citalia’s.

The Host had said that Angel and Spike would disappoint her.  Somehow having 
their essential nasty old vampire nature spread out all over the world via MTV was 
not what she had imagined.  

Whatever the demon security guy hit her with, it was hard enough to get and then 
scatter her attention.  Squirming and flailing, she went down fighting like a cat in a 
pillowcase.

This couldn’t be happening.


Changes 22/30


It couldn’t be happening.

The opium had made him go mad, it had to be, there was no other logical 
explanation.  William crashed into the bed with Angelus atop him, the other man 
crushing him into the featherbed, alternately pulling at his own clothes and ripping 
away what remained of William’s.  Human teeth scored his shoulders and throat, 
and William pulled at the heavy mass of Angelus’s dark hair to pull his head away 
and make the pain stop.  Pain, yes, but glorious pain with straining muscles and the 
trappings of fighting, thrashing about on the civilized damask of the bedclothes.  
What unnatural and strange passions the opium had engendered in the women had 
now caught William in its grasp.  He was chest to chest in an embrace that was half 
battle and half caress with the other man, and he could feel the heavy bulk of 
Angelus’s desire against his own stomach.  Not knowing if he wanted to free 
himself from Angelus or give into him, William thrashed like a trout in a net while 
Angelus pinned him to the bed.

William had been behind the cricket pavilion and the bicycle shed at school.  But 
those had been schoolboy games, fast, dirty and furtive.  This was quite serious and 
not game-like at all.  Hard body hard muscles, not feeling or smelling anything 
remotely like the perfumed flesh of the women.  Fingers spread along the burning 
skin of his throat and William moaned.  It was horrible and it was wonderful to be 
caught up like this where he no longer had decision, opinion or blame.  Angelus’s 
skin was so cold, colder than Darla or Drusilla’s had been, and William felt as 
though he were being overpowered by a living wall rather than another being.  He 
knew he was slight, knew it, saw it, had been told time and time again, but he had 
never felt quite so small until then.

Angelus had mocked him, beaten him, humiliated him and now saw fit to drag his 
mouth across William’s throat?  William wasn’t quite sure that he cared.  Fangs 
scraped and William realized that he was scissoring his legs like a man swimming.  
Swimming or drowning.

He didn’t fight, just wanted to be gathered up and crushed underneath the other 
vampire, just giving in to the dark lust that was pooling in his veins with the dead 
blood and the sweet rotten fruit of the opium.  They were both gasping un-needed 
breaths, rubbing pelvis to pelvis, spreading fire between.  The only information he 
had about his trousers was that he was not wearing them.  Angelus’s legs were 
between his, harder and rougher than the women’s smooth limbs.  It was all that 
William could do to hold onto Angelus’s shoulders when he was pierced above and 
below, fangs in the throat, hardened member splitting him asunder below.

He was dying again in the crushing dark pleasure running through his body, 
depraved, indecent, dead, immoral, and immortal.  Overcome, he plunged his own 
fangs into Angelus’s shoulder, tasting the dark smoky vampire blood that made his 
nerves and fibers break into an unholy chorus of delight.

Finally, Angelus collapsed under the weight of his own release and they lay there, 
entwined like combatants, sticky with spilled blood and other fluids, William 
realizing that he had spent sometime during the activity.  Stuck, glued together 
there on the damask counterpane.

“What’s so special about you, Saint William?” Angelus asked in a strange, tight 
voice and pulled William’s hair hard enough to hurt.

“I don’t know. “

“What the Hell is this?”  Darla’s voice, now sharpened to near-shriek with fury 
jerked William out of his stupor just as her hands jerked him out of the bed and 
away from Angelus.

William’s mouth moved and no sound emerged. On the bed, Angelus pulled the 
bedclothes around his waist and looked offended.

“Dirty boys playing dirty boy games?”  Darla demanded and the dragon on her 
back snarled along with her demon face.  Angelus cowered back into the 
counterpane, pulling himself as far away from the woman who scarcely came up to 
his shoulder.

“You’re not to take him, you’re not to take him without my permission.  It’s bad 
enough that Drusilla made him without telling me, and now you think you can just 
go and bugger him?   Nothing happens here without my permission,” Darla raged 
at Angelus.  “You have no rights, you have no choice and you have no decisions to 
make.  I made you, I can destroy you and replace you in a moment.”

William scrambled around the other side of the bed and made himself as small as 
possible.

“He—“ Angelus began, glancing over at William.

“Shut up!” Darla shrieked and dealt Angelus a blow across the face that sounded 
like a thunderclap in the small bedroom.

Face blooming with dead blood under his cold skin, Angelus cringed.

“Before I changed you, you were nothing but an ignorant country boy with broad 
shoulders and a big cock, no better than the dogs you threw your table scraps to.  I 
give you a world that you never could have imagined and you show me your 
gratitude by buggering this worthless fop behind my back?”

“While you were otherwise engaged?” William’s words slipped out before he 
could stop them.

Darla showed the same restraint she had when dealing with Angelus.  She slapped 
him across the face so hard that he smashed into the far wall and brought a print 
down upon his head, glass shattering over his bare skin. 

“This is my family and I make the decisions here!” she raged on and turned back to 
Angelus.  “Take this misbegotten creature of Drusilla’s and teach him how to hunt 
before he causes any more mischief.  Drusilla and I will go to Paris tomorrow night 
and not return until the end of the month.  By that time I expect that you will make 
a proper vampire out of this one.”

In a flash, Darla was looming over William as he tried to press himself into the 
flowered wallpaper.

“And you, young William, any more trouble from you and I’ll give you the final 
death.  Do you understand?  I haven’t worked this long to keep this family happy to 
have something like you destroy everything!”

Drusilla wandered into the room, oblivious to her own nakedness, rubbing her eyes 
like a sleepy child.

“The noise woke Miss Edith. She doesn’t like to be awakened from a lovely sleep.  
What’s going on?”

**

“What’s going on?”  It nearly killed Spike again to have to ask Xander, but he was 
still grateful that the boy was there, standing outside the main entrance to the 
concert next to concerned-looking parents in sensible shoes.

“Citalia is a siren, out for your sorry asses.”  Xander glowered and looked as if he 
wanted to punctuate the comment with violence, but they all knew there was no 
time for anything but token posturing.

“Old news.  What’s going on right now?”

“Dawn put the kibosh on Tara and went to the concert.  She’s in there.  Buffy’s 
headed backstage to take Citalia out at the first opportunity.  Anya’s inside looking 
for Dawn, I’m waiting for Giles and Willow to get here from the hospital.”

Spike shook his head.  “Anya’ll never get Dawn out against her will.”

Angel, obviously altering the Plan as he went along, spoke up as if Xander wasn’t 
there.  “You go after Buffy, I’ll get Dawn.”

Spike folded his arms across his chest.  “She won’t come wiv’ you.  Me an’ Dawn, 
we’ve got to be friends, like, while you’ve been gone.”  Maybe there was time for 
some posturing.

Angel glared.  Spike knew Dawn had always believed that Angel meant Bad News 
for Buffy.  Even at the height of the great ponce’s romance with Buffy, he’d never 
achieved more than chilly politeness with Dawn.  It was odd, but satisfying, that 
Angel was jealous because of that implanted memory.

“Go on, impress the Slayer wiv’ your manly prowess,” Spike said and turned to 
enter the stadium.  The security people ran towards him when he jumped the 
turnstile, coat flaring around him like an action hero, but they didn’t last long.

Inside the stadium, Spike looked out into the sea of girlflesh with something like 
despair.  All the flat midriffs, low-rise jeans, string tops and dewy eyes looked the 
same to him.  The place was a pedophile’s wettest dream, culture and Citalia 
conspiring to trick every man into playing Humbert Humbert.  A year ago, he 
would have been looking for a Lo of his own.  Now he was looking for Dawn.  The 
comparison didn’t bear close examination.  On top of that, he was getting the 
roaring in his stomach that always plagued him in large human crowds, and the 
desire to feed was an unwelcome distraction.

He searched for Dawn’s long brown hair.  It was a little easier than it would have 
been decades ago, since most of the girls weren’t ironing their hair, but there were 
still scads of not-quite-Dawns.  The ones that tried to engage him in conversation 
after he’d tapped them on the shoulders to see their faces were the scariest, girls 
dying to ditch Mom in the station wagon for an adventure.  With a little more time 
for seduction they could have brought out his fangs, or his dick

The enormous amps that accompanied stadium concerts seemed to be aimed just at 
him.  “Ejaculation of hot projectiles.  She buck wild.  Better recognize when she 
comes she comes correct.”

As he approached the stage, the bodies got tighter together, until Spike could have 
sworn that they weren’t all just wearing the same brand of jeans but were actually 
sharing a single pair.  The smell of sweat and fruity perfumes just made him 
hungrier, and now every move he made was frottage against bare tummies, 
regardless of his newfound policy on little girls.  Even in the old days, he was in 
the habit of choosing his molestees, not having them rubbed into him like suntan 
lotion.

“So let's respect!  And if not you catch a broken neck, buddy.”

It was too much.  A candy store for diabetics, a pharmacy for junkies, and a liquor 
store for drunks - all these tasty little girls in their little tops and little jeans.  
Spike's stomach hurt, reminding him that he'd had half a pint of O negative and a 
handful of Cheetos in the past two days.  He was on the verge of giving up and 
sending Sir Bloody Galahad Angel into the Castle of little ladies when he noticed 
an asymmetry in the waving limbs.  Dawn was a few rows in at the center, waving 
one arm twice as fast to compensate and screaming with the rest of them.

He didn’t see how she got breath back into her lungs after letting it out.  The girls 
were packed closer than commuters in a Japanese subway train, and moving 
towards Dawn was about as easy as tunneling through concrete.  Citalia seemed to 
be singing to that area, which pleased Spike not at all.  There was nothing to be 
done about it but to push through the crowd, using the pressure of the bodies 
behind him to move forward.

Finally he was near her, and then against her body in a way that could officially be 
described as Bad Touch.  She was wearing one of Buffy’s metallic blue tops, the 
kind that had one string to tie the back together and not much more in front.  In 
fact, the cast provided a lot more coverage.  “Dawn,” he yelled, “it’s not safe 
here!”

Not safe for either of them.  Any more friction against his groin and the littlest 
Summers was going to know more about him than he wanted her to.  She could 
borrow her sister’s clothes, but Spike’s cock wasn’t part of the wardrobe.

Dawn twirled in place until she was facing him, face shining with sweat and glitter.  
“Spike!  You came!”  He couldn’t tell if she remembered hitting Tara or just 
assumed he’d be okay with it; either would make sense.  Citalia’s words rose and 
fell around them like hammers, outdoing the screaming crowds.

“Look down and your shirt's all bloody.  Look like she caught you with a bad one 
for messin' with the mad one.”

“We need to leave,” he insisted.  Around them, little girls began to pull away, 
making a space for them.  Spike didn’t question the reasons.  Dawn, however, 
stayed plastered to him like a shower curtain.  

“But I’m having so much fun,” she pouted up at him.  “Dance with me?”  She 
shimmied and wrapped her unbroken arm around his waist.  This was the point 
where a human man would have broken into a cold sweat.  Spike’s stomach 
rumbled and he swallowed.

“No, Dawn.”  He tried to get her hand off of his ass but didn’t think he could 
without breaking the second arm.  

“I’m not ambivalent,” she said and put her hand behind his neck as she slid her leg 
up to his hip and twined around him.  One glance down made it very clear that she 
was past the training bra stage and had shot right through to the not wearing a bra 
on purpose stage.  “You could do anything you wanted.”  She licked her lips and 
Spike found himself mimicking the motion.

Desperate, Spike glanced up at the stage.  Citalia was not ten feet from them, at the 
very edge, watching, half-crouching, and singing straight to them.  Which 
explained why the teenyboppers had parted like the Red Sea but was another 
reason for his stomach to clench.

“Told you 'bout this girl before.  You didn't listen to me as I talked, now you 
stalked.”

Using his intimate connection with Dawn to move her, Spike attempted to push 
back into the crowd of humans.  Blank-eyed, they refused to let him pass, legs and 
arms twisting in what looked like dance moves but had to be deliberate barriers.  
Finally divining his intent, Dawn began to hit him with a little balled-up fist, which 
actually did nothing to mitigate her seductiveness.  She wriggled from his grasp 
like a kitten and leapt onto the stage, taking Citalia’s outstretched hand.  

“By the hunter of the frontier who's size five and sexy.”  Citalia could smile and 
sing at the same time.  It was a neat trick.  She led a stunned and pliant Dawn 
through a series of twirling one-handed dance moves as every girl in the stadium 
screamed and imagined herself there.  

But she was singing only for Spike.  “Quick!  They'll catch your body in another 
one next week.”

Dawn was spun offstage, laughing as large dark shapes surrounded her.  Right after 
that, a line of escape opened up for Spike, going all the way to an exit at the back 
of the stadium.  Despite the clear evidence that Citalia – Lucinda -- wanted him to 
follow that path, he did, moving past blurred and nubile limbs all swaying to the 
same pounding beat that had taken over his brain. The breadcrumb trail of little 
girls led to one of the many side rooms where offices and desks lived and day to 
day business was conducted without a soundtrack.

Not surprisingly, Angel was already there, looking at a pair of the Ossenfelters as 
though he wanted to eat them and spit out their many, many bones.  Spike looked 
around at the cheap metal and simulated wood furniture and didn’t see as much as 
a fruit basket.  This was obviously the anti-hospitality suite.

“We got to re-write that backstage rider,” he told Angel. “I want AB negative, 
bendy straws and groupies.  We really need groupies.”

Outside, a million little girls were screaming with delight.

“Buffy and Dawn, bring them out now and nobody gets hurt,” Angel told the 
Ossenfelters.

As though that was actually going to happen. The Ossenfelters set their lumpy jaws 
and one of them finally achieved the power of language.

“She’ll talk to you between songs.”

“I’m just a-quiver.  You quiverin’?”

Outside, Citalia/Lucinda was belting another one out and her voice bounced around 
the cinderblocks of the building.

“I tried hard to mend my wicked ways /The damage's done, there's nothing left to 
save.“

The demons left the door unlocked, possibly bright enough to realize that Angel 
and Spike weren’t going to try and leave until the bite-sized diva made her 
appearance.  Spike lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of one of the desks. He tried 
the telephone but didn’t even get a dial tone.

“So much for Domino’s.  I’m starvin’ of hunger.  You hungry?  I could really go 
for a couple a’pints of A pos right about now.  Maybe with a big plate a’nachos 
wiv guacamole.” Spike narrowed his eyes and stared through the smoke at Angel. 
“Starin’ at th’ door ain’t makin’ any of this happen faster.”

“No matter what I do, the past always manages to come around and bite me in the 
ass.”

Spike snickered and ashed on the floor.

“Tell it to kiss off an’ get over it.”

The sound of the little girls got louder.  They sounded like the crowds at a football 
match, only speeded up so the voices were high and chipmunky.  Spike glanced up 
at the institution clock on the wall and realized that Citalia had to be getting to the 
end of her show.  This was probably the fake hysteria of the crowd that knows it’s 
going to get an encore.

A moment later, the door slammed open and a retinue of Ossenfelters marched in, 
nearly hiding the little form in their midst.  The demons parted and revealed 
Citalia/Lucinda looking fairly perky in her belly-bearing top and shrunken pants.  
Glitter and crystals were glued to most of her body, including an intricate pattern 
around her middle.  Citalia also had a half-foot long crucifix hanging around her 
neck, and that sparkled along with the rest of her.   She was blotting her face with a 
white towel and holding a bottle of Evian in the other hand.

“Hey, you’re still here, good.”  She smiled and her teeth sparkled almost as much 
as her crystals. “I gotta get back for the encore, so this is, like, going to be really 
quick.”

Across the room the great bloody pouf was blinking at her with unadulterated pouf-
ish surprise, and Spike seconded that emotion.  

“Okay, like after the concert, you guys wait until midnight -- it takes forever to get 
packed up and out after a gig -- and then you go to that park outside town.  You 
know, the one with the really ugly statue of the guy on the horse?  With the 
gazebo?  Behind the gazebo there’s, like, a clearing or something, and you’re going 
to want to, like, go there.”

She smiled at their incomprehension.

“Hello?  Anybody home?  If you want those two chicks back,” she made a vague, 
helpless gesture, “you’re really gonna want to do that, okay?”

Realizing his mouth was hanging open, Spike closed it.

She looked from Angel to Spike and back to Angel.

“You guys aren’t all that bright, are you?” she asked and frowned cutely. “And you 
are totally not as snackable as I remember.”

With a flick of her hair she was gone again, the Ossenfelters in formation around 
her like drones around the Queen bee.

“Was that weird or am I just getting old?” Angel asked.

“This new lot a’evil supernatural creatures ain’t got the class we did.”

As they made their way out to the parking lot, Citalia’s voice blasted them.  Spike 
could feel it not only in his bones but in his undead flesh.

“Don't believe in fear/Don't believe in faith/Don't believe in anything/That you 
can't break /You stupid girl/You stupid girl/All you had you wasted.”

"We need to wait for Willow and Giles and arrange for backup."

"Backup," Spike scoffed.  "What happened to bustin' in and killin' 'em all?"

"They've got Buffy."  Angel's eyes did the haunted doomed romantic thing, which 
made Spike almost regret his own baby blues, but he wasn't wrong.

"Don’t forget the little Summers.  So we *carefully* bust in an' kill the lot.  An’ 
don’t give me any shite about plans, seein’ how well the last one went."

Spike spotted Xander in the distance – he was the only male in his twenties in 
evidence, since the rest were suburban daddies – and waved the Scoobies over.  
Since they were swimming upstream, it took some time, but eventually they 
assembled, a rock in the stream of rushing teens.

Angel spoke in his Natural Leader voice.  “Our one advantage here is that Citalia 
may not know about you.  They said to come alone, so we’ve got to do that, but 
you can give us fifteen minutes and approach from the other edge of the woods.”

“Our first priority must be Buffy,” Giles said carefully, staring at Spike.  “Saving 
the Key without saving Buffy would be catastrophic.”

Spike stared back, not quite understanding what was going on but sure that he 
could not be the first to back down.  “We ain’t on a budget here,” he lied.  “They’re 
both comin’ out.”

He could still feel Giles’ eyes burning a hole in his duster as he and Angel returned 
to the car.  Spike had often wondered if the Watcher had an interest of his own in 
Buffy, or really was playing daddy.  In either case, Giles couldn’t have been 
entirely trusting of Angel and him together again.  Then again, vampires and trust 
weren’t the usual #3 combo anyway.  Angel was looking far too heroic and tight-
jawed right about then, and Spike had to give into his baser urges and kicked the 
other vampire in the back of the heel, just to make him stumble in an un-heroic 
way. 


Changes 23/30


Buffy’s head hurt.  Hers was harder than most, she knew, but taking a licking and 
keeping on ticking was still not major fun.

“Hey, you’re awake, cool,” a soft voice said.  Buffy blinked and tried to move her 
arms.  Unfortunately, they were chained above her head.  When she turned to find 
the source of the voice, she saw Dawn, also chained at one wrist, with another 
chain clamped above her broken arm.  

The voice’s owner – Citalia, surprise, surprise – came into Buffy’s wavering field 
of vision.  “So you’re this year’s girl.  You’re really holding up! I mean your nail 
polish isn’t even chipped.  Mine always gets all chipped so fast.”

“Listen, I don’t know what this is about, but you’ve got the wrong idea about Spike 
and Angel –“

“Superhero names, Angel and Spike.  Or pets, you could name dogs or cats Angel 
and Spike.  Kinda silly for vampires, don’t you think?” Citalia flashed a million 
gigawatt smile at Buffy, and she didn’t seem to be sarcastic at all.  “So the boys 
have souls now?  I’m really sorry but that doesn’t change anything.”

Okay, so maybe Citalia got the basic gist of things.  “I won’t let you hurt them.”

“As if,” Citalia rolled her eyes and stepped closer, and Buffy was disturbed that the 
other girl was not playing according to The Evil-Overlord Handbook.  She was 
supposed to gloat or threaten or something!  Not act friendly.

Citalia stood on tiptoe so she was nose-to-nose with Buffy, her eyelashes thick and 
black with mascara.

“They’re bad, really, really, really bad boys.” 

Feeling cold all over, Buffy couldn’t help but pull on the bindings around her 
wrists, even though she knew it wasn’t working.

“If you knew, like really knew what they did, I think you might change your mind 
–” Citalia’s cool hands, smelling of perfume and oranges, caressed Buffy’s bruised 
temple.

A weird kind of shiver crawled over Buffy’s skin and she found herself staring into 
Citalia’s eyes, too brilliant blue and liquid to be real.  Another shiver, one of 
magic, crawled into her head and Buffy saw a blaze of white light, felt dry heat 
close around her like a fist, and fell into the center of the sun.

**

"The sun whose rays are all ablaze with ever-living glory, does not deny his 
majesty, he scorns to tell a story! He won't exclaim: 'I blush for shame, so kindly 
be indulgent.' But, fierce and bold in fiery gold, he glories all effulgent!" 

She dipped her fan and fluttered her eyelashes at the audience.  The boxes were 
filled that night, which meant that there would be an endless stream of dandies and 
other wastrels hanging about her dressing room after the show ended.  It was 
hoping beyond hope that one of them would be an elderly, rich man with no living 
heirs and a bad heart.

Sighing inwardly, she raised her face to the gaslights overhead, pretending to look 
for the Japanese sun.

"I mean to rule the earth, as he the sky--.  We really know our worth, the sun and I! 
I mean to rule the earth, as he the sky--."

God, the winter was destroying her voice.  The filthy dirty London air and the 
dampness! No wonder the best sopranos usually buggered off to Italy after the New 
Year.

"Observe his flame, That placid dame, the moon's Celestial Highness.  There's not 
a trace upon her face of diffidence or shyness.  She borrows light that, through the 
night, mankind may all acclaim her!  And, truth to tell, she lights up well, so I, for 
one, don't blame her!"

She hobbled downstage in her absurd shoes.  What the hell were they called? 
Zoris?  Bloody unpleasant and uncomfortable, like the bloody kimono.  She 
smiled, feeling the rice powder crackle around the red slash of her mouth.

"Ah, pray make no mistake, we are not shy; we're very wide-awake.  The moon 
and I!"

She snapped her fan open and froze, waiting for the chorus to hobble onstage in 
their zories.  Bloody stupid costumes.

Later, her manager tried to give her three letters, all no doubt brimming with 
promises from portly men who’d lick their thick lower lips while they looked at 
her.  “Take those away, George.”  She was enough of a beauty to have her choice 
of society men who wanted mistresses, and she chose attractiveness over wealth – 
after a certain foundation level of wealth had been established, naturally.

As she sat removing the thick powder that turned her face the color of an eggshell, 
there was a knock on the door.  “Who is it?” she called out sweetly.  If it was 
George again, she was going to make him wish he’d never offered her an exclusive 
contract.

The two men couldn’t have been more different, or more alike.  The taller, darker 
one was first in the room, while the shorter, whose hair was as golden brown as 
crumpets, followed with the same easy authority, sweeping his eyes around the 
room as if he’d been there a thousand times. 

“Lucinda Grey?” the first man asked with a faint Irish burr.  His eyes were merry 
and mischievous, and she smiled back, raising a hand to her neck to trail it 
coquettishly down her shoulder.

“I am.  And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“I am Liam; this is my – companion, William.  We share both a name and a love 
for the theatre.”

“We were hoping that we might express our admiration for your performance.”  
William’s smile was just as infectious as Liam’s.  She stroked a stray curl of hair 
and smiled at him.

They had nice teeth and excellently cut clothes.  She could imagine Liam being one 
of the Irish gentry and William had the dilettante look of someone’s youngest son.

“And, of course, share the pleasure of your company over dinner.”  

Outside the opera house, London was a fever dream.  Streetlamps glittered, 
winking in and out like distant stars as smoke and soot passed by them.  She could 
hear the crack of the carriagemen’s whips, the cries of distant fruit-sellers and 
beggars, the murmurs of the pushing crowds.  She could smell coal burning in a 
million homes, roasting chestnuts, meat pies keeping warm and the cold, clean 
smell that meant snow was coming soon.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” William asked, smiling broadly past her.

“Beautiful,” Liam agreed, and this time it was clear that he was looking at her.

“The city is ours,” William said and offered his hand.  Blushing, she let him lead 
her to a waiting carriage, Liam following behind, a glorious shadow.

She had no idea where the carriage disgorged them, other than that it was in front 
of a bistro streaming light and sound into the night air.  Liam whispered to the 
headwaiter, and a space was quickly cleared for them in a corner.

William leaned into her shoulder and waved over a waiter.  “Absinthe,” he drawled 
and the man frowned and walked towards the bar. 

“I’ve never had absinthe,” she said.  It was a drink for poets and “artists,” not 
women who sang for a living.

“You won’t regret it,” Liam promised.  A young waiter, nearly as attractive as the 
Williams but not so expensively dressed, brought small brandy glasses full of clear, 
oily-looking liquid, along with a bottle of water, lumps of sugar and a three-tined 
silver trowel.  

“Watch my hands,” William said, setting the trowel on the rim of his glass and 
placing a sugar cube on top.  “It’s all magic, you see.  Not slight of hand, but pure 
magic.”  He gave her a wicked grin.  His hands were long-fingered, aristocratically 
pale and precise; she thought he might touch her with the same care given to the 
absinthe.  Slowly, he poured water through the sugar cube, letting it dissolve into 
the absinthe, which swirled and turned from green to a bright and sickly yellow.  

She had been wondering which one would bed her even before the first glass.  
Pressed tight against one another in the crowded bistro, she was relieved that they 
didn’t smell like sweat and onions like all the other London men.  Their hands 
were almost cool on hers in the smoke-sodden heat of the bistro.

The absinthe made her world go green like the drink itself.  The flames in the wall 
lamps began to dance with each other, twining like tongues around one another.  
The peppery licorice of the absinthe drilled through her ears and straight to her 
brain, where it bounced around like heat lightning.

She shuddered and Liam gave her another glass.  She barely tasted it; the world 
was already made of absinthe, and William was circling his tongue around her ear.  
Under the table, her stockinged foot rubbed against his ankle.  She let her head fall 
back as Liam dipped his fingers in his glass and trailed them, sparkling yellow 
cold, down her throat.  His tongue was just as cold lapping up the sticky liquid, and 
angels were waltzing on the bistro ceiling.  The cherubs were weeping and she 
didn’t know why.

"Would you like to leave?"  William whispered in her ear.  His hand slid beneath 
her skirts, past her stockings, and Liam's traveled up her other leg, their hands 
overlapping on the juncture of her thighs.
 
There was a bonfire in her belly and a thunderstorm in her brain.  They took her 
dazed silence as answer and William helped her through the crowded bistro. 
 
 
The carriage was cool and dark, restful after the press of people around. Liam had 
her on his lap, tugging her bodice down so that he could feel her breasts, while 
William knelt in the shelter of her skirts and used his mouth the way she’d thought 
only a Frenchman could.  Liam held her hips tight and moved his cool mouth up 
and down her throat as she reached her crisis.  The pleasure and the absinthe set off 
fireworks, like green chrysanthemums, behind her eyes.
 
When the carriage stopped, William went around to pay the coachman and Liam 
assisted her into the fine house in front of her.  No servants rushed to take their 
coats, which she thought was odd for such gentlemen, but perhaps they’d given the 
man the evening so that he would not whisper about their habits.
 
She stumbled a little on the stairs, but each man took an elbow and whisked her up.  
When she looked at either one, he was always smiling at her.  She mainly kept her 
eyes on her feet, trying to maintain the image of grace. The carpets were gorgeous.  
Even one was worth a month’s salary for the entire cast of the opera.  Perhaps 
they’d give her jewelry?  It was portable, but occasionally difficult to convert to 
money.
 
Liam left her side to push open heavy mahogany doors.  Inside, a velvet-draped 
bed waited.  The flocked wallpaper, the bedcoverings, even the upholstery on the 
chairs was deep burgundy, the color of the darkest roses.  At the table where a 
woman might make her toilette, covered with silver brushes and jars, there was no 
mirror.  “Whose room is this?” she asked, only vaguely curious.
 
“It’s ours,” Liam said and smiled at William, whose return smile was a bit tight.  
 
“That lovely dress must be so confining.  May I assist you with it?” William asked, 
and suited actions to words.  He was just as quick with her underthings.
 
“You’ve spent time as a ladies’ maid,” she giggled and Liam guffawed. William 
only swept her into his arms and moved to the bed.  She was bare and they were 
both clothed, like that scandalous painting she’d seen a year ago while on the arm 
of a man determined to scandalize her.  He’d given her emeralds, and of course 
she’d obliged.
 
There was a rustling sound, which she correctly interpreted as Liam removing his 
clothes.  William moved away and then Liam was there, looming over her, his 
hands pushing her thighs apart to receive him.  She threw her hands up over her 
head and gasped as he pushed inside.  Strong hands gripped her wrists, making her 
shiver.  William crawled across from the other side of the bed and licked her ear, 
kissing her face while Liam reared above them, his thrusts shaking her body like a 
jolting carriage ride.
 
When he finally spent, she was glad of the respite, though it was not lengthy.  
While Liam lounged beside them, watching and occasionally reaching out to caress 
one or the other, William took his turn, pulling her legs up over his shoulders and 
touching her between her legs in ways that made her cry out again.  The night was 
turning into an educational experience, she thought dizzily.
 
As soon as William withdrew, Liam was there again, pulling her atop his body.  
She’d certainly be sore tomorrow, but hobbling in those damned shoes no one 
would notice the difference.  The solid muscle of his body under her hands excited 
her, so different from the other men, like a hero out of the penny novels that the 
chorus girls would never admit to reading.
 
Liam looked over her shoulder to where William lay on his back.  “Ready again, 
boy?  Why wait?”
 
And he slithered up against her back, pressing against her in a place no man had 
ever touched.  Her eyes snapped open.  She’d heard rumors of men who treated a 
woman as they would a man, but she’d never thought she’d find one herself.
 
“I don’t --” she said and Liam put one hand over her mouth and one over her 
breast, thumbing her nipple.  
 
“Shh, sweet.”  Then his absinthe-flavored mouth captured hers for another kiss, 
and she didn’t struggle against the stinging pressure, until they were pressed 
together all three and William’s hand moved around her body to where she and 
Liam were joined, caressing her into another paroxysm.  Their mouths moved on 
her neck and shoulder, biting lightly, and then Liam lifted his head from her and 
kissed William, sucking on his mouth as if to bring out his soul.  The sight alone 
sent tremors through her.  Somehow it was so terribly pretty.  Their hands moved 
over and past her and back.  She couldn’t identify the source of any one sensation; 
she rocked between them and they were like water, seeping everywhere around 
her.  She was making little sounds that were somehow like music and somehow 
not.
 
After the waves of pleasure had washed over her for half an eternity, William 
stiffened against her, and she felt a dull pain deep inside.  Liam lifted his mouth 
from hers and laughed, then hammered into her until the pain nearly equaled the 
pleasure.  His rhythm broke, and with five sharp thrusts he followed William, still 
clutching her close.
 
“Well now,” Liam said, lifting sleepy eyes to William.  “That was a bit of a 
diversion, wasn’t it?”
 
She heard William chuckle.  “The night’s not half over yet.”
 
Liam pulled away and rolled her onto her back, so that she was looking up at them 
both.  “There’s another kind of pleasure we’d like to take of you.”
 
He must mean French love, she thought, still muzzy from recent events.  How was 
she to accommodate them both?  Still, they’d proven inventive.  Smiling up at the 
two handsome faces, she nodded.

“I promise you, this will be like nothing you’ll ever experience again,” Liam added 
and smiled his fine white smile.

From somewhere nearby, William produced a red silk dressing gown in the 
Oriental style, with a gold dragon embroidered on the back.  Liam laughed and 
swept the fabric around her body.

“Quite beautiful,” he said and Lucinda felt herself preen, even through the haze of 
drink and pleasure.

As their faces changed, she thought that their eyes were the exact color of the 
absinthe.

Then the pain began.

Changes 24/30

The pain was indescribable and all Buffy could do was scream with a throat full of 
broken glass.  When the it finally backed down to a bearable level she shook her 
head and looked at the ground.  

Buffy didn’t want to believe it, but knew she had to.  It was easy enough to push 
the dry words in the Watchers’ journals out of mind, but feeling it as 
Lucinda/Citalia had was completely different.

She could hear Dawn crying.  Dawn might have seen it too, and this made Buffy 
cry even harder.  That had not been something for thirteen-year-old eyes to see, not 
to see Spike, who she liked, and Angel, who she tolerated, behaving at their old 
and evil worst.  

“I hate you!”  Dawn screamed at Citalia. “You ruined everything!  You never 
cared, you just wanted to hurt me, an’ Buffy an’ our friends!”

Slowly, through a head that felt like a swollen lump of nerves, Buffy opened her 
eyes and looked over at Citalia.  Looked at her blonde slimness and blue eyes and 
gagged, wondering who Angel and Spike saw when they looked at the Slayer.  Did 
they see Buffy or some little blonde with a ‘bite me’ sign around her neck?  

Underneath the heavy stage makeup, the other girl looked tired and old, and there 
were tear-trails that slid down to her chin, somehow not smearing her mascara or 
eyeliner.  At the back of her mind, Buffy wondered what brand she used.

“They hurt me,”  Citalia moaned and crumpled into herself on the floor, hands 
over her face.

“I know and I’d be pissed off if I were you.  But they’re not the same guys now, 
not at all,” Buffy hiccuped between her tears.

“That doesn’t make it go away.  They mutilated me and threw me out like so much 
garbage.”  Citalia moaned.

“Wait until Spike and Angel get here, they’re going to kick your skanky ass!” 
Dawn howled.

“Shut up!”  Citalia screamed at Dawn, snapping around almost vampire-fast to 
snarl at the girl.

“Hey!”  Buffy yelled, “That’s my sister and she hasn’t done anything to you!”

Citalia got up from the floor, grabbing a bottle of mineral water off the counter.  
With shaking hands, she opened a bottle, shook a couple of pills into her hand, and 
swallowed them with the water.  She stood there, looking down at the floor, with 
her hair covering her face, breathing heavily for a few moments until her trembling 
stopped and she pushed her hair off her face before looking back to Buffy and 
Dawn.

“I’m sorry, but I need you to get them, and they have to be punished.”  She 
grinned.  “And it’s going to be soooo cool.  You’ll be totally impressed.”

She started singing one of her songs as she started out of the room. ”My lover's 
charms/Are in a box/Beneath my bed/And piece by piece/I'll cherish them until the 
end.”

“I’m going to throw up,” Dawn announced.

Citalia’s voice oozed through the door, “I'm afraid I'll never get to heaven /They 
burn my hand/Scar my face/And blind my eyes/I'll steal your breath/And throw 
away/What I despise.”

“Go ahead,” Buffy said, “I’m right behind you.”

Dawn did throw up then, into a pile of clothes on the floor, making Buffy wish her 
little sister had managed one of the truly spectacular wide-coverage pukes that 
she’d been infamous for during long car trips.  But the smell made her mouth water 
in an unpleasant way.  Swallowing hard, Buffy got back control of her stomach.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not my clothes,” Buffy said and wiggled at her bonds, no luck, they were too 
tight.

“I had to come.  I can’t explain—“

“Citalia is a siren, her power is attracting people with her music.  You didn’t have a 
lot of choice.  She used you to get to me, to bring out Spike and Angel. However, 
you are totally and completely grounded until you’re old enough to drive.”

“It’s all my fault!” Dawn moaned.

“No, it’s not.  It’s Angel and Spike’s fault if it’s anybody’s.  But you’re still 
grounded.  ” Buffy looked around the room.  There was nothing useful for undoing 
of ropes nearby.

“Spike and Angel will save us.”

“Right, and she’ll get them.”  Buffy sighed and looked at her shoes, the toes were 
scratched beyond all help and this just added to her sadness.“Dawn, what exactly 
happened when Citalia did the thought thingy to me?”

Dawn frowned and stopped crying.

“You gasped, she cried, you cried, you both said ‘No, no please don’t’.  Kinda 
lame, actually.”

“It was not lame, it was major icky!  Major badness.  Nobody should go out with 
vampires, shit like this happens.”

“You said ‘shit’.”

“Extended circumstances.”

“Extenuating.”

“Whatever.”

Further conversation was made difficult by the reappearance of one of Citalia’s 
goons, who stabbed an enormous syringe full of something that looked like blue 
curacao but hit a hell of a lot faster into Buffy’s arm.  The needle felt as wide as a 
vampire’s fang as she sank into oblivion.

**

Darla’s scream pulled William out of his blood and absinthe soaked daze.

Frozen in the doorway, Darla and Drusilla stared at the bloody gore on the bed, 
Lucinda’s barely-breathing form and the blood-streaked naked bodies of both 
William and Angelus.

“What kind of games have you two been playing?” Darla demanded.

“Oh look, they’ve broken their dolly,” Drusilla stroked Lucinda’s bloody hair back 
from her face, “That’s the dolly that sings.  The not Japanese, Japanese singing 
girl.”

“Lucinda Grey,” William offered, just to set the matter straight.

"It was William, ”Angelus said and stood up a little straighter, and the white skin 
over his scarlet-streaked body made him look like a pagan idol used for sacrifice, 
“I took him to the D’Oyly to see The Mikado and he went mad over the woman.  
Brought her back here and fed from her.”

“At which point in that fabrication did you lose your clothes?” William demanded, 
his face burning with blood and humiliation.

“God, I don’t care, I don’t care if Prime Minister Gladstone brought her here.  You 
know better, Angelus.  No celebrities, no one who is going to be missed, and NOT 
HERE!” Darla raged, sending the bottles of perfume and other toilette articles from 
her dressing table.  “Now get that thing out of my bed and out of my house!”

Angelus didn’t speak while he and William pulled on clean clothes and began to 
clean up the mess in Darla’s bedchamber.  William raged inside at the way 
Angelus had set him as the scapegoat for the fouling of Darla’s nest.  Silently, they 
redressed the limp body in her dress and cloak, not bothering with the niceties of 
underclothes or stockings.  A hansom cab was found and they steadied the woman 
between them while the cabby gave them the look of pitying disgust deserved by 
any men foolish enough to hire a doxy who was already in her cups.  Angelus gave 
the cabby an address close to the Thames, close enough to require bribing the man 
with an extra pound to venture into such a neighborhood.  William continued his 
silence through the snow-muffled streets.  The address Angelus had given was 
uncomfortably close to where he had been born and raised a good portion of his 
life.  All the book learning, the elocution lessons and the manners his mother had 
drilled into him had not entirely erased it.  And what good had that done? They’d 
escaped the squalor and drudgery of Thameside and he’d gone to school only to 
become a demon feeding on blood with a madwoman, a whore, and an Irish 
bastard.  He might as well have become a cutpurse for the good as it had done in 
the end.  And it was the end, he was dead, and that he shouldn’t forget.

“You’ll want to go ‘round the stables, not along the main, quicker that way,” he 
found himself telling the cabby.

“You know this place, do you?” Angelus asked.

“A bit.”

Finally, the cabby was paid and they were on the bank of the Thames with 
Lucinda’s limp weight between them.  Strange how a living woman seemed to 
weigh nothing and a near-dead one had to be fourteen stone between the two of 
them.  While they half-carried, half-dragged her down to the river’s edge, the snow 
started to fall in thick, dense flakes.  William could barely make out the lights of 
Big Ben’s face downriver to his right.

“Nice, you tellin’ Darla that I’d done this,” William bitterly said, the cold night 
already working into his fingers.

“Shite flows downhill, you bein’ the youngest an’ all.”

“Go bugger yourself,” William grumbled and helped Angelus carry the heavy 
cloth-weighted body.  

Her arms seemed to be bent on smacking William in the face whenever possible, 
and he gritted his teeth and tried not to look at the red stains soaking through the 
fawn of her dress.  Vampire or not, he had little experience with dying bodies and 
touching one made his undead flesh creep along with the cold.  He could hear her 
heartbeat, too slow and irregular for a regular human, and it irritated him; they 
should have at least drained her dry before Darla arrived home.

“Fuckin’ hell .  .  .  “Angelus swore as they drew level to the water’s edge.

Snow-covered ice stretched yards out into the night before turning into the black 
running silk of the water.  It was apparent that they just couldn’t dump her on the 
edge; it would have been the same as dumping her body in the center of the street.  
But there was no telling how thick the ice was between the shore and the moving 
water.

“Right,” Angelus flopped the dying woman into William’s arms, “Take her out and 
dump her in th’middle.”

 “I don’t know what I’m doing!  I’ve only been a vampire a fortnight,” William 
shouted back at the other vampire, pushing the woman’s body back into Angelus’s 
arms.

“Now’s the time to learn, boy!” Angelus’s voice hit William in the face like a blow 
and he flung Lucinda’s body back at William again.

“Bloody hell,” William muttered and began to make his way across the ice.

The wind had frozen the water in choppy ripples, and the snow’s powder made the 
going even more treacherous.  The fastest way to move was for William to back 
over the ice, dragging Lucinda’s body across, while looking over his shoulder to 
make sure he wasn’t blundering into a crack that would split under their combined 
weight.  No doubt figuring that the combination of William and Lucinda’s body 
proved that the ice was safe enough for his weight, Angelus followed.  

“Sod you to hell, Angelus,” William swore after he’d slipped and fallen with the 
dead woman atop him for the third time.

Closer to the channel of moving water, the ice became even more dangerous 
underfoot with huge chunks frozen higgledy-piggledy from breaking and 
refreezing.  Still, the water was a scant ten feet away and William continued, even 
though the ice was beginning to make ominous cracking noises, which echoed 
weirdly with the water underneath.  Could vampires drown? Darla hadn’t said 
anything about that during her brief summary of the vampire nature.  Of course 
she’d been unclothed at the time and William hadn’t been paying what she said as 
much mind as how her perfect body looked while she said it.  She could have told 
him that vampires could turn into kittens and gambol about in the sunshine and he 
might not have noted it.

The ice cracked again and this time the cracking sounded far more dire than it had 
before.  William inched farther towards the center of the river and the unthinkable 
happened: his foot broke through the ice.  God in Heaven the water was cold!  He 
screeched with the shock and pulled his foot free, the water leaking from his 
drenched shoe.

“That might be far enough,” Angelus instructed.

William would have made an uncouth gesture, but his hands were full of Lucinda.  
Carefully, he lowered her to the ice, kneeling in the half-inch of water now 
covering the area around him and felt the cold bite into his knees.  Once she was 
flat on her back, he began to push her the remaining few feet into the open flow of 
the river, his cold body getting colder and colder by the second.  Could vampires 
freeze to death?  Another one of the things Darla hadn’t bothered to explain.  As 
Lucinda’s clothes drew water, she grew heavier and heavier, and it was harder and 
harder for him to push.  Finally he was nearly stretched his full length on his belly 
on the ice, his clothes drenched with frigid water and his eyes and nose full of 
stinging snow.  

The water caught her dress’s hem and sucked greedily at the tidbit he’d brought.

She slowly eased into the black water.

The current caught her immediately and her hair flared out around her like the 
Millais painting of Ophelia and she began her stately progress down the river, 
water covering her face and her wide-open eyes.  He watched her under the 
moonlight until she was swallowed by the blackness of the night and the water.

“Well that’s it, then.” William said and turned to go.

“Not quite,” Angelus’s hand stopped him.  “You ain’t goin’ back.”

“What!?” Freezing cold, soaking wet, and exhausted, William gaped blindly back 
at Angelus.

“Darla wanted me to stake ya’, but I figure I’ll give ya’ a bit a’charity and just let 
ya’ go.  I’ll let you go providin’ that ya never come back, ya never try to come near 
Drusilla, Darla an’ me again.”

“You must be joking!” William spluttered.

“Not jokin’ at all.  You thought we were mates? Thought I-“ Angelus’s face lit up 
in an ugly smile “*cared* for you in some schoolboy way?  Well I don’t an’ I 
never did.  I had you and ‘twas enough.”

“You filthy buggering bogtrotter bastard!” William raged and leapt across the ice 
at the other man.

Angelus went down under the force of his assault and William pounded at his head 
and face with all his strength.  Grunting, Angelus hit back, bringing stars to 
William’s eyes and making him gasp in fury and pain.  They struggled on the ice.  
Blood poured from William’s skinned knuckles and his nose; Angelus’s pretty face 
was marred with cuts and bruises.  They rolled closer towards the edge of the swift 
channel that still flowed.  The shame and the outrage of Angelus’s duplicity gave 
William a strength and resolve he’d never had before.  By God it felt good to 
smash his fists into Angelus’s face and the pain in his hands was nothing compared 
to the satisfaction.  But as angry as William was, Angelus was more powerful and 
knew better how to use his fists and feet.  William felt bones break under 
Angelus’s fists, and the river water soak into his hair.

“Shame, you might have had promise,” Angelus said and shoved William’s head 
into the freezing water.

Water flowed into his mouth and lungs and he choked in reflex, his hands reaching 
upwards for Angelus’s face.

“Ye won’t drown, you’ll freeze to a solid block of ice first.  Dunno if you’ll make 
it through that, and the light of the sun will burn you even as you’re frozen.” 
Angelus, hair wild around his face, smiled again.  “Farewell, Saint William.”

In a flash, William was under the water, the icy cold leaching what little heat he 
had in his body away until he was sure he was frozen through.  The water was 
black as night in his panicky, open eyes, and his hands raised over his head felt 
only the solid sheet of ice above.  

He screamed into the water.

Changes 25/30

For a moment, Spike wanted to howl with the blackened joy of it, just like the old 
dark times, Angelus and William the Bloody swaggering forward and if you got 
out of the way that would improve your chances of living by a few percent.  All 
that was missing was cooing Darla and Drusilla peeping over their shoulders, and 
he couldn't say he missed them.

As one, they moved into the focal point of the oval clearing, across from Citalia 
and her torture apparatus, and stopped with the light on them for maximum 
dramatic impact.  Dawn was expressionless but crying, her good hand hanging 
limply from its chain.  Buffy looked – he'd never seen her face like that.  The 
closest he could come was Drusilla after a bad vision.  Buffy's not here now, would 
you like to leave a message?  Some undead muscle in his chest twisted.

“Hello Clarice,” he said in his best Tony Hopkins impersonation.

Nothing.  He sighed and tried again.

"We're here, let 'em go."

Citalia laughed.  “You?  Not in chains?  As if."

"Okay," Angel said, putting his hands out in a placating gesture, "I can see that 
there are some trust issues here –"

"Let the little one go," Spike interrupted.  "I'll come first an' then Soulboy can trade 
'imself for Buffy.  You've got to have heard, he's all reliable now.  Happened not 
long after we had our turn wiv' you, right?"

Citalia's pretty face reddened further, but when Spike began to walk forward, she 
gestured to one of her roadie/minions, who began to unlock the chains around 
Dawn's wrist and ankles.

“Let the squirt go.”

Freed, Dawn bolted towards him, and her one-armed hug was rib-cracking enough 
to make him wonder if she'd got some of the Slayer's strength.  Her tears seeped 
into his shirt.  "Now, pet, none o' that," Spike chided.  Dawn raised wide wet eyes 
to him.  Acting on impulse as always, he bent slightly to kiss her warm and sweet-
smelling forehead.  "You're goin' to break a battalion of hearts, you are," he 
whispered as she blinked in astonishment.  "In the meantime, you take good care of 
your sister.  She needs all the help she can get," he confided.

Then he wriggled loose from her grasp and pushed her towards safety.  As Spike 
approached Citalia and her Ossenfelters, he could hear Dawn's stumbling footsteps 
receding into the forest.  The gang could protect her now.

"So where d'you want me?" he asked casually when he was only a few yards from 
Citalia, who, he noticed, had to stop herself from cringing.  "You don't think chains 
for a bitty girl will hold me, now."

Heavy hands grabbed him from behind, tearing off his jacket and then his shirt.  
Spike struggled to stay upright and unaffected.  "Comin' back for more?" he called 
out to Citalia, and was answered with a goonish punch to the kidneys that sent a 
shockwave of pain up and down his spine.  Stripped to the waist, he was pushed 
over to a nasty-looking metal frame, his wrists clasped in heavy biting handcuffs, 
each secured with a thick hinch pin and attached to a corner of the frame by a thick 
cable.  He heard a whirring noise as the cables tightened, pulling his arms nearly 
from their sockets, until he could only keep his toes on the ground.  He could feel 
muscle fibers in his arms tearing, flaring with healing magic, then tearing again.  
Citalia couldn't have thought of a better torture device for a vampire.  But then, 
she'd had a century to plan.

"Hey, Slayer," he gasped, hoping to roust Buffy from her reverie, "we've got to 
stop meetin' like this."  If he turned his head as far to the right as it could go, he 
could see her, lolling in chains of her own.  Her chains seemed to be for restraint 
purely, unlike his, so she wouldn't be too badly damaged to fight.  Unless the 
damage was to her head.

"Buffy!"  The Slayer moved a little at the sound of Angel's voice, which irritated 
Spike more than the pain of being strung up like a puppet.

"Angel," she said blearily and raised her head.  "She's not going to --"

But Angel was already undergoing the same treatment as Spike.

"Hello? Let Miss Slayer go?  Not!”  Citalia asked rhetorically.  "You two still 
sharing your girls? That’s totally wrong.  If you’re good, I'll give each of you one 
of her eyes."  She smiled, twitched her hand and something long and gleaming slid 
out.  "Who’s first?"

"Buffy never did anything to you," Angel protested, and in a flash Citalia was in 
front of him, lashing out with the thing in her hand.  It was some kind of razored 
whip, Spike realized when he saw it uncurl from Angel's torso, leaving a line of 
black blood.  

Angel grimaced and continued.  "I know what we did was unforgivable."  

This time the whip slashed open his cheek and scored his shoulder.  

"Duh," Citalia said, and picked up a silver scalpel from a table that the minions 
must have just assembled.  She examined the edge for a moment, then looked back 
at Angel.  "You know, you’re really snacky, but you’re toast."

"Forgiveness isn't about the other person," Angel counseled.  "It's about letting go 
of what happened, not letting it control your life."

"You gotta quit hangin' out at them AA meetin's," Spike grumbled.

"Control my life?"  Citalia cut diagonally from Angel's left nipple across his abs, 
ending at his hip.  Angel's head snapped back as he tried to absorb the pain.  "Like 
you guys controlled my death? My attempted death?  Like no way!"  She repeated 
the cut in the other direction, then put her hand at the intersection of the cuts and 
poked deep into Angel's guts.  Spike winced; he didn't much appreciate the 
preview, and he wasn't looking forward to the feature presentation, either.  He 
could hear Buffy struggling with her bonds, but she didn't sound successful.

Just when Spike thought things couldn't possibly get any more surreal, Citalia 
started to sing.  Her sweet voice strangely at odds with the darkness of the scene 
and the bloodstains on her hands.

"My object all sublime, I shall achieve in time-- To let the punishment fit the 
crime-- The punishment fit the crime; And make each prisoner pent unwillingly 
represent a source of innocent merriment!  Of innocent merriment!"

Citalia whirled and stalked over to him as Angel groaned in the background.  
"Share and share alike, that's your motto."  Now she had a cut-throat razor, which 
she drove into his left shoulder just at the point that hurt the worst from being 
suspended.  Spike didn't have Angel's stamina; he screamed at once.  

Citalia stepped away, leaving the straight razor embedded in him so that his flesh 
could keep trying to heal around it.  "You cut out my tongue with a razor like this," 
she reminded him.

"Really?  It's so hard to remember the little details," he panted.  

Giving him a pretty little smile, Citalia grabbed the handle of the straight razor and 
twisted it a few times until Spike screamed again.

"Right!  I get the fuckin' point!" he shouted when she finally stopped and the pain 
receded to the almost-bearable level.

She waved her hand and Boris and Igor walked over to Angel.  One grabbed his 
head and the other his jaw, forcing his mouth open.  Citalia fussed over her 
implements for a moment and then strolled over to the trio, holding a pincerlike 
thing, maybe pliers.

"The advertising quack who wearies with tales of countless cures.  His teeth, I've 
enacted, shall all be extracted by terrified amateurs."

After she extracted his left incisor, Igor and Boris actually had to flex their muscles 
to keep Angel down.  It didn't do any good, since she got the right one in even less 
time.  Spike didn't know if the fangs would grow back, and he couldn't even take 
pleasure in the realization that Angel looked even more the back-country idiot than 
ever with the gaping holes in his pretty smile.  When the Ossenfelter brothers let 
Angel go, he sagged into his chains and his flopping head obscured the black blood 
streaming down the sides of his mouth.

Now Citalia was heading over to him.  Spike thought he heard Buffy calling for 
Angel to wake up, look up.  

"The billiard sharp who any one catches.  His doom's extremely hard-- He’s made 
to dwell-- In a dungeon cell on a spot that's always barred."  Citalia twirled the 
blood-smeared pliers in her hand like a cheerleader's baton.  Spike raised his eyes 
to hers and tried not to shake.  One of the Brothers scurried over and put something 
near to his feet.  He didn't look away from Citalia, who seemed to rise through the 
air as she got close to him.  Then he did look down, and saw the stepstool.  He had 
to look up to see her face now, like one of her concert goers, and her sublime face 
was blank with ecstasy as she reached out to crush his little finger.  

"And there he plays extravagant matches.  In fitless fingerstalls.  On a cloth untrue.  
With a twisted cue And elliptical billiard balls!"

The pain was instant lightning and he thought it couldn't get any worse when she'd 
broken the third joint, until she started on the next fingertip.  Head back, he howled 
and felt something in his throat break as well.  It didn't stop him screaming, though, 
so Citalia didn't seem to mind.

When she stepped down and smiled at him, he could barely see her through the red 
haze of his agony.  "We’ll do the other hand later," she suggested.  "Like a taste-
test, see if it’s different."  Spike felt wetness on his face and realized that he was 
weeping.

“I’ll cut your tongue out later.  Can’t spoil the anticipation!”

Then she turned her back on him and went to do something to Angel that involved 
wet smacking sounds.  A thousand wasps were stinging his hand each second.  He 
could hear their furious buzzing reverberating in his ears.  It didn't even look like a 
hand, more like a glove that someone had crumpled and thrown aside.  

He wasn't expecting her to return so soon.  "So," he said in a voice paved with 
gravel, "how many producers didja have to blow to get this popstar gig?  All these 
years and y'r still tradin' your body for your livelihood."  It was about -10 on his 
normal insult scale, but his brain cells were otherwise occupied and he really didn't 
give a fuck.  

“You are, like, so wrong,” she said and frowned.

Picking up something too bulky to be a gun, she walked closer.  It looked a bit like 
a science fiction movie laser, but – and then she pulled the trigger, sending a jet of 
water to splash against his chest.  Holy water.  He felt it blacken his skin as it 
dripped its way down his chest, burning into his flesh with every hungry drop.

"I totally get this," she said as she walked around him, grinning like the cheerleader 
from hell  Spike couldn't see her, which made him even more anxious.  "It's 
*fun*," she said and holy water hit under his right arm, causing him to convulse so 
that his feet left the ground and the muscles in his arms tore further.  "You got your 
basic torture idea and all the neat stuff you can do to vampires."  Another blast, on 
the back of his neck.  Spike wasn't sure how much longer he was going to be 
conscious.  

"I'm going to cut off your heads, both of them.  I mean all four of them," Citalia 
said and let loose a silvery giggle.  "You know, heads?” 

With that, she turned back to Angel.  Spike could hear the other vampire groan 
with a hopelessness that almost deserved Spike's sympathy.

Naturally, Citalia began singing again, and had Spike's hackles been able to rise, 
they would have.  It was a snatch of a song that he'd heard Dru sing on more than 
one occasion.

"To sit in solemn silence in a dull, dark dock, In a pestilential prison, with a life-
long lock, Awaiting the sensation of a short, sharp shock, From a cheap and chippy 
chopper on a big black block!"  

She paused and let Angel scream.  Spike found himself sobbing as though she'd 
inflicted whatever damage to his own body.  Still, Citalia sang on.

"A dull dark dock, a life long lock, a short, sharp shock, a big, black block.  To sit 
in solemn silence in a pestilential prison, awaiting the sensation of a cheap and 
chippy chopper on a big black block!"

There was no way in the seven circles of Hell was he ever going to be able to listen 
to Gilbert and Sullivan again.

Spike hung in his bonds and sobbed in pain.  The Scoobies were coming, he 
thought, but with Buffy not leading the charge they'd save Angel and put him out 
of his misery.  In fifteen minutes, he might even welcome that.  Little trickles of 
holy water continued to find their way out of his wounds, etching further into his 
body even as she returned to Angel.  If he could only grab the razor out of his 
shoulder with his teeth – well, then what?  She'd bound him with metal, not rope.

He looked again at his pulverized hand.  There was something he'd seen in a 
movie, once, about Harry Houdini?  Whoever, the guy had dislocated his thumb to 
get out of shackles.  Since Spike didn't have a hand anymore, just a flesh bag filled 
with bone matchsticks, the same principle might apply.  He stood as best he could 
on his tiptoes, ignoring the smell of his own burnt flesh, and began to wriggle his 
wrist.  The agony burst another world record, going beyond gold and platinum to a 
height so extreme it had no name.  But the ex-fingers were beginning to slip 
through the cuff.

“I know you can hear me,” Citalia purred at Angel.

**

“I know you can hear me! Dru-sill-a!” William screamed for what felt like the 
thousandth time.

All along the quiet spring street in Kensington, gaslights flickered on.  After 
months of searching, William had finally found the house, the pretty house in 
Kensington where he’d awoken as a vampire, the house he’d been cast out of and 
left for fish bait in the frozen heart of the Thames.  He supposed Angelus hadn’t 
counted that William could manage to break through the ice and haul himself under 
a rowboat before the sun’s rise.  Angelus probably wouldn’t have dreamed that 
William had the temerity to kill the first Thamesider he found and feed, stealing the 
man’s dry clothes and money before making his way from the river that had nearly 
killed him a second time.  That had been in full winter and now it was May, with 
the tender green leaves out on the pretty trees lining the pretty Kensington street.  
Months he had looked for that street, never knowing the name, just remembering 
the views from the windows, the lace of the curtains, and the color of the door.  
Months of sleeping in the rail yards of Paddington station, months of draining the 
blood of every tough and vagrant he could find, drinking cheap gin, wearing dead 
men’s clothes, and, when he was bored, sticking long railroad nails into the bodies 
of his victims.  Stories showed up in the papers about the Railroad Spike Killer.  
Ignorant bastards hadn’t realized that the bodies were lifeless before he’d driven 
spikes into their heads.

“DRU-SILL-AH!” he yelled.

Finally the upper window opened and her sweet face appeared with her hair wild 
around her face.

“William! William.  My beautiful sweet William!” she wailed.

The door opened, revealing Angelus and Darla in their nightclothes, looking as 
angry as any parents could muster.

“Oh yes, he’s dead, you did a very good job of killing him,” Darla drawled.

Angelus’s eyes were as full of human hate as his demon eyes had ever been.

William pushed past them into the hallway where Drusilla rushed into his arms and 
began to cover his face with kisses.

“I’m back now, princess.”  He looked over her shoulder at Angelus.  “Did you miss 
me?”

Darla looked out the door and watched the shadowy figures of the neighbors 
moving behind their lace curtains.

“I really liked this street.  You’ve made a mess of this, Angelus.  We’ll have to 
leave” She set her hands on her hips and looked around at her vampire progeny, all 
three generations, and forced a smile on her face.  “I understand Yorkshire is 
lovely in the springtime.”

Changes 26/30

“I understand you’ve got a soul now,” Citalia said, her faux-California accent 
cracking around the old dulcet English tones.  “You must feel *awful* about what 
you’ve done.”

“’S just Angel over there,” Spike wheezed.  “’M just regrettin’ not finishin’ the job 
in the Thames.  Shoulda cut you up in little bits an’ left you for the fish.  Mistakes 
you make, first on the job, y’know.”

“It was cold, so cold,” she sing-songed, and he shuddered in remembrance.  
“You’re as cold as ice, you’re willing to sacrifice –” The whip coiled around his 
neck and sliced deep, cutting into the tendons that were standing out in his agony.  
Spike’s head lolled on his neck as Citalia stepped back and smiled, her face 
spattered with blood like a thousand tiny flyspecks.

He must have passed out for a second.  The sound startled Spike out of his 
blankness.

It was a guncrack, and then it wasn't.  Spike blinked blood out of his eyes, saw that 
Citalia had disappeared, and turned toward the noise.  A male figure, outlined by 
the faint light from the gazebo, was standing in a shooting stance and looking 
around at the demons, including the ones clutching various parts of their anatomy 
and bleeding ichor into the pine needles underneath.  

"I know what you're thinking.  Did he fire six shots or only five?" asked the voice 
that unmistakably belonged to Xander Harris.  "Well, to tell you the truth, in all 
this excitement, I've kinda lost track myself.  But being as this is a Impulse 
Cordless Strip Nailer IM325, the first and only cordless power framing nailer with 
a capacity of one thousand and forty-four nails, and would blow your head clean 
off, you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky?  Well, do ya punk?"

At that point, the Ossenfelter who'd snuck around behind him during the speech 
whacked him with a big branch, and Xander staggered and nearly fell.  This was 
Anya's cue to pick up her own branch and go after the demon with all the intensity 
of a New York apartment dweller trying to kill a cockroach.

That was all very nice, but he had a torture session to exit.  Pretending that his 
smashed hand was not really attached to his body, Spike tugged it the rest of the 
way out of the shackle and then lifted it to where his right hand was pinioned.  His 
finger-remnants left black smears on the pin when he first tried to pull it out, and 
he had to stop because of the broken-glass pain that ran through his veins and 
burned like sunlight.

Spike couldn’t even pant to get out some of the pain.  He felt coolness on his chin 
and realized he’d bitten through his lower lip, and not even in game face.  Citalia 
was still singing, and he thought the voice was getting closer.  The thought 
compelled him to try again, using his hand more like a hammer than anything else, 
until the pin slipped an inch and Spike’s own body weight ripped his hand through 
the gap and sent him tumbling to the unmattresslike ground.

The yelling was clustered around where Buffy had been tacked up like a butterfly.  
The gang would focus there, with Angel as a secondary objective.  Spike spit black 
blood and pushed himself off the ground with his good hand.  He didn’t bother to 
ask himself why he was staggering towards Angel’s last known position.

Sure enough, an Ossenfelter was tugging at Angel as if he were a shirt stuck on a 
hanger.  Angel was screaming hoarsely.  Spike took an ice pick from one of 
Citalia’s trays of hors d’ouevres and approached.  He would have tapped the 
demon on the back to get his attention, but with only one hand unfeasibility 
outweighed coolness and he just plunged the pick into the Ossenfelter’s neck, 
between two rolls of fat.  He must have severed the spine on the first try, because 
the thing shuddered and slumped to the ground, slowly losing its grip on Angel.

Spike stuck the ice pick into his jeans, worrying only a little about the danger to the 
family jewels, and scooted up one of Citalia’s stepstools to pick at Angel’s cuffs.  
It was difficult to keep his balance without a hand on one of the supports, but he 
managed.  Angel just stared at him with dark, dazed eyes until the first cuff fell 
free.

“Think y’could get the other one, mate?” he asked and slouched down to the 
ground.  Angel, who probably couldn’t speak because of the defanging and 
whatever else Citalia had gotten around to, moved stiffly to comply, then collapsed 
like a man going under a pile of rugby players.  When Spike tried to pull him up, 
his arm was an undead weight flopping in Spike’s hand.  Angel’s skin had that 
unhealthy blueness that signaled a vampire near starvation from lack of blood.  
Spike was not much better.  He could move himself, but he couldn’t drag Angel to 
safety.

“Fuck,” he said and bit at his wrist to widen the wounds the cuffs had made.  
Kneeling, he pushed his wrist into Angel’s smashed and pulpy mouth.  Fangless, 
the other vampire could barely suck.  Still, Spike felt the blood rush out of him like 
water being sucked down the garbage disposal.  Angel’s tongue searched for blood 
with a caress that, more than anything else, made Spike pull away.  “That’s gonna 
have to be enough,” he wheezed and staggered to his feet.  Angel followed this 
time.

**

The vampires’ screams and her own Slayer stamina had worn off whatever Citalia 
had given her, and Buffy was rocking from side to side, shaking the support beams.  
The metal was too strong for her to break, but they were just buried in dirt, in holes 
that had to have been specially dug for the occasion, and what you can’t break you 
can always get around, that was her motto.  Or one of her mottos.

A Pumpkinhead noticed and came towards her.  This was a non-smart move, as 
Buffy was already working up momentum and it was not difficult to swing up far 
enough to wrap her legs around his nonexistent neck.  What with the necklessness, 
it was tricky to get purchase enough to snap his neck, but she just pressed in to dent 
the flesh enough to give her an opportunity to pivot.  “Men have died trying to get 
where you are,” she informed him as she twisted.  “Guess you’re just slow.”

Once Pumpkinhead’s chin was over his trapezius, Buffy used him as further 
ballast, and the metal posts began to shake like a soda machine being shoved by a 
college kid determined to get his sixty cents’ worth.  Slowly, they slid backwards 
to a forty-five degree angle, and then collapsed completely, dumping Buffy on her 
ass with the ex-goon’s ugly head in her lap, which was a real ugh.

Not that she couldn’t beat Citalia with her hands tied behind her back, but it was a 
pain to be dragging around what felt like a ton of iron.  She couldn’t reach one 
hand with the other to take off the shackles with the chains limiting her motion.

Brother of Pumpkinface, or possibly Bride of, rushed her and got a two-legged kick 
to the gut.  It was like kicking a brick wall, only the goon didn’t shatter, though it 
did stagger back a few paces.  Buffy jerked on her chains like a girl playing jump-
rope, and the heavy metal frame whooshed over her head and hammered into her 
opponent hard enough to squash its head a few inches into the rest of its body.

“I’m guessing double dutch is out of the question.”  The goon, and then the metal 
frame, toppled to the ground, pulling her forward until she was standing on top of 
the suddenly shorter goon.  It was both hard and squishy, like a layer of bubble 
wrap over a refrigerator, and she hurried to step off.  Then her feet were right up 
against the frame, and her hands were suddenly within reach of one another.  “Hey, 
geometry in action.  Cool,” she said to no one in particular and freed herself.

Amidst the general melee-ing, Buffy spotted Lucinda – Citalia – sneaking back 
towards the parking lot.  Not sneaking fast enough, though.  Buffy grabbed a 
handful of Miss Clairol #25 Golden Blonde and jerked Citalia off her feet.  Right 
or wrong, Citalia had hurt Dawn, Angel, and Spike.  Citalia’s mouth was a frosty 
pink ring of surprise.

“Leave my sister and my vampires alone, you bitch!”  Buffy warned and punched 
Citalia straight in her surgically corrected nose.

The other blonde girl went down one knee and clutched her face while blood 
poured between her fingers.

“Oh!  I think you broke it!” she whimpered around her bloody hand.

An Ossenfelter came out of the night with a gun.  Since Buffy wasn’t sure how 
Slayer-strength handled gunshot wounds, she let the demon scoop up Citalia and 
back away into the parking lot.  A few moments later, a limo fishtailed and sped 
out of the parking lot.  Buffy’d seen some bizarre things, but a limousine as 
getaway car was one of the more surreal.

As she turned back towards the clearing, Xander emerged, dragging Angel beside 
him with an arm flung over his neck, looking much like conjoined twins would if 
one of them were dead.  Anya followed behind, flapping her hands but not taking 
any of the burden, and then Giles, supporting Spike in similar fashion.  Giles raised 
his head and saw her.  “Dawn is with Willow and Tara,” he informed her and then 
continued to drag Spike towards Giles’ car.

Xander had somehow convinced Anya to at least open the car doors, and he pushed 
Angel into the back seat like a person dealing with groceries for a party he really 
didn’t want to have.  Then he went to Giles and helped Spike into the back seat on 
the other side.  “Just so we’re clear, this does not mean that I approve, condone, 
support or endorse either of you.”

Neither replied, which had Buffy turning her head and looking back worriedly as 
Giles guided her to his car.  His hand at her elbow was warm and so it didn’t make 
her shudder.

“Where’s Citalia?”  Giles asked as they headed for Buffy’s house.

“She got away.  One of the uglies had a gun.”

In the back seat, one of the vampires groaned, either from pain or disgust.  Buffy 
turned and looked over her shoulder to see Spike and Angel huddled miserably on 
either side of Anya who was vibrating with unhappiness. Buffy sat up on her knees 
in the passenger seat and hung over the back of the seat, while Giles piloted the 
ultimate driving machine went through the sleepy suburban streets.  

“We have to go after her,” Anya warned.  “She wants revenge on them and she’s 
not going to stop until she gets it.”

“I hardly think that this is the best time to be hunting down an angry siren.”  Giles 
hunched further over the steering wheel and followed the taillights in front of him.

Somebody grunted agreement in the back seat.  Buffy thought it was Angel, but 
one male grunt sounded pretty much like another.

“I need clarification,” Anya began.  “Citalia wanted revenge on you two because 
you defiled her, tortured her, and mutilated her.”

As usual, Anya’s timing was something other than good.

“But did you guys have sex with each other too?” she asked.

“ANYA!” Giles bellowed.

“Am I the only one who wants to know?  I don’t think so!” she snapped.

“Maybe we should wait until we’re all together and just maximize the 
embarrassment,” Buffy muttered and looked out the window.

“Who’s drivin’ m’car?” Spike demanded in a thin whine.

“Xander,” Anya explained.

“Bloody hell,” Spike said but without his usual energy.

Changes 27/30

Dawn, the kind that came with the sun, had broken by the time they got back to 
Buffy's, which meant that Giles, Buffy and Xander carried the vampires in 
wrapped like burritos in horrible wool blankets that grated against Spike like 
sandpaper.  Spike was decanted onto the sofa and Angel onto the loveseat.

"Willow and Tara went to get some supplies, for healing stuff," Buffy said and sat 
down on the coffee table between them.  Her position disrupted the carefully 
arranged issues of Cosmo and Vogue, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Oh just stake me an' get it over wiv'!" Spike moaned.

"Quit belly-aching," Angel said through his swollen mouth.  "You never could be a 
man about pain."

"Bein' all stoic don't make it go away, me old son, so there ain't no point."

Dawn, the annoying little sister kind, was hesitating in the doorway from the hall.  
"Are you -- are they going to be okay?"

Buffy gave Dawn her best smile, the one that might have been reassuring if Dawn 
hadn't seen it during a thousand bad times.  "Vampires are pretty tough.  If you 
don't kill them all the way, they tend to spring back.  Look, they're arguing already, 
it can't be that bad."

Dawn seemed pleased by that bit of logic.  Spike chewed on the inside of his 
cheeks to keep from screaming.  Citalia's SuperSoaker had blackened large chunks 
of his torso and even after he stopped being spotted black like a Holstein, there'd be 
huge patches of scar tissue, thick and smooth and disfiguring.  He remembered 
what holy water had done to Georg's face, fifty years later the scars still gnarled 
and ropy, and sincerely wished for true death.  Yes, he would rather be dead than 
disfigured.  Since when was that a crime?

"Hey," Dawn said brightly.  "Who wants blood?  I can heat some right up."  

Spike and Angel nodded at the same time.  

The blood tasted strangely like chicken, but at that point Spike didn't mind.  After 
he'd drunk he felt a little more undead, and then Tara and Willow were back and 
chanting and smearing stinky gunk onto his burns.  He didn't even have the energy 
to make lascivious comments, which was probably why Buffy kept shooting 
worried looks his way even as she fussed over Angel.

The re-toothing spell had to be in the kitchen, for whatever reason, and the whirl of 
girl-energy surrounded Angel and pulled him out of the room.  Spike relaxed a 
little more, though the smell of the unguents on him was nauseating and the healing 
skin stung like it had been dipped in salt.  The witches said that he wouldn’t scar, 
and he was prepared to graft their own skin onto himself if they were wrong.

“Spike.”

He thought it was Buffy for a second, and his head snapped up in confusion before 
he realized that Dawn was sitting on the coffee table, staring at her cast.

“Dawn.”  The sound of her given name made her shudder.  “’S far’s I’m 
concerned, that never happened.  Magic –“

“Not all of it,” she whispered.  “I didn’t know –“  She couldn’t finish, but Spike 
could guess.  Didn’t know what the feelings thrumming in her young body were, 
didn’t have a name for them despite her technical knowledge of Xander and 
Anya’s adventures.  Citalia had explained things to her and now he had another 
reason to hate the bitch.

“You know you can’t be bustin’ in like you did the other day,” he said as gently as 
he could.  She nodded miserably, still not looking at him.  Spike couldn’t have 
been more embarrassed if he were naked in Picadilly Square.  He had a glimmering 
of the helplessness Buffy must feel, trying to mime being Mommy.  “Dawn,” he 
tried again, reaching out an aching arm to touch her hand, causing her shocked 
eyes to fly to his, “if –“

“Dawn, could you come and be East for us?”  Spike winced at Willow’s cheerful 
lilt.  “Seems appropriate, y’know, Dawn, East, get it?”

Spike and Dawn turned to face Willow with what Spike guessed were identical 
glares.  “Fine,” Dawn grumped and stood with coltish grace before stalking into the 
kitchen.  If she and Buffy both lived through the next two years, Spike thought, 
there was going to be serious trouble.  Willow frowned at him and disappeared 
after Dawn.

He stretched out on the couch and tried to sleep.

**

Daylight beamed down on to Sunnydale like the biggest spotlight at any concert.  
Buffy would have rather had the blinds and shades up, but she was harboring 
injured vampires in her home.  Mom was probably spinning in her grave.  That 
thought iced her cake of depression and Buffy shut the drapes in the kitchen with a 
sigh.  The coffeepot was still dripping away and she poured herself half a cup and 
filled the rest of the mug with milk.  It wasn’t exactly café latte, but it was going to 
have to do.  Angel and Spike were still out cold on the sofa and loveseat in the 
living room, a combination of spells and vampire slumber turning them into life-
size action figures that looked like they’d been run over by a lawnmower.  

Willow was with Tara back at the dorm, Xander and Anya were in Buffy’s bed, 
which would have been upsetting if Many Things had not happened there already, 
and Giles had gone home.  Buffy was left at the kitchen table, wondering how 
Dawn was doing, locked in her room on the second floor.

The demons that had done all those things to Lucinda were still inside Spike and 
Angel.  Only a curse, and whatever Spike’s deal was, kept the demons from taking 
control, and Buffy wasn’t sure about the strength of either.  She could do it 
quickly, now.  Stake both of them before they awoke.  It wasn’t like she hadn’t 
done it before, with Angel conscious and looking at her with loving eyes.  
Lucinda’s memories cried out for revenge, and she had her own Spike and Angelus 
stories on the same shelf of the mental library.  Slumped in the kitchen chair, Buffy 
put her hands over her eyes and leaned her elbows on the table.

How could it be right to kill someone who was trying to redeem himself?  No 
matter how sure you were that they’d fail?  That was the answer, then.  Angel and 
Spike had done Bad Things, but when she focused on the future, she couldn’t say 
that they’d definitely go back to scourging and spiking.  So if she killed them, it 
was only in retribution, and there had been too much of that in Sunnydale already.  

Big Questions, as usual, made her head hurt.  Those were Watcher questions, not 
Slayer questions.  Someone else was supposed to choose the target, and then she’d 
slay.

The targets were sleeping like orphaned alleycats on her furniture.

A noise made Buffy jump, spilling coffee on her fingers.  Anya wandered in, 
dressed in Buffy’s oversized sleep shirt with the grinning cartoon monkey on it, 
and got herself a cup of coffee.

“Your bed is too small and Xander is very hot, like a lava gnome but without the 
sulfur smell.  Of course Xander has his own set of unpleasant aromas.”

Buffy wiped spilled coffee off the table with a paper napkin.

“We did not have sex in your bed.  I wanted to but Xander thought it was rude.  I 
pointed out that you’d had sex in your bed but apparently this is different 
somehow.  So sex was not had at all.”  Anya shrugged.  “It has been a sad and 
strange night in many ways.”

The former demon drank some coffee and looked at Buffy with her too-curious 
eyes.

“You’re distressed.”

“In a big way.”

“Is it because Angel and Spike seduced Citalia, tortured her, mutilated her, and 
drained her or because it’s clear that they were also having sex with each other?”

“C, all of the above.”

“I think it’s kind of sexy.  You know, all that muscle-ly man body stuff, straining 
sinews, tight throats, quivering thighs—“

“Anya!” Buffy choked on her coffee.

“Now come on, didn’t you ever imagine, you know,” Anya’s eyes sparkled with 
healthy lust, “Having sex with two guys at once? Like Robert DeNiro and Al 
Pacino?”

“Ewww, no. Old,” Buffy un-wrinkled her nose, “Spike and Angel do not look their 
ages, before you say anything.  I might go for Matt Damon and Jude Law.”

“Nice choice.”  They sat in silence for all of thirty seconds, which was an Anya 
world record, before she spoke again.  “You know, for a thousand years I took 
revenge on numberless men, and they were all the same.  And now I’m with just 
one guy, but he’s a hundred different people.”

“You aren’t getting all wise on me, are you?” Buffy asked suspiciously.

“Nah, I gave up on wisdom when I became human.”

“Good.  I need a point of stability in a world full of change.”


Changes 28/30

Spike wasn’t entirely surprised to see Angel leaning against the DeSoto in the 
driveway.

“Get yer ass off my car ya’ great pouf.”

Crickets peeped nearby.

“I’ve been thinking, “Angel began.

“Don’t strain yourself.”

“As long as Citalia, Lucinda, whatever, is still alive, she can use Buffy and Dawn 
to get to you and I.”

“You and me.  So?”

“So.”  Angel looked at his shoes and the streetlight made his leather coat shine. “If 
she wasn’t alive she couldn’t hurt Buffy or Dawn.”

“Meanin’ you wouldn’t kill her ‘cos a’ your precious soul, but you wouldn’t stop 
me from killin’ her.”

The barest smile curved Angel’s mouth.

“Something like that.”

“All right, set a course Mr. Sulu, warp nine.”

“What?”

Spike sighed.

“Let’s go find the bitch.”

“The first one who moves gets a stake where the moon doesn’t shine!”  Buffy came 
pelting out of the house with her fashionable bag of weapons over her shoulder and 
a stubborn look on her face.

“No!”  Spike and Angel said in perfect unison, which made them look somewhat 
askance at each other.

“My sister, my town, my problem.”  She pushed past Angel and into the back seat 
of the DeSoto, “I‘m not going to sit at home while you guys go out all injured and 
testosterone-y.”

“C’mon, Buffy, be reasonable,” Angel pleaded.

“Get out of the fuckin’ car.”

She merely folded her arms over her chest and waited.  Since there wasn’t much 
else that could be done, Spike slid into the driver’s seat and lit a smoke, figuring 
that he could at least annoy her in turn.  Angel just slammed the car door behind 
him and looked out the side window like the answers to the Big Questions were 
written along the sides of SunnyHell’s night streets as the big, gas-guzzling, 8-
cylinder engine of the De Soto roared into the night.  Finally Angel pulled out his 
poncy cellphone and started making calls.

“Cordy says that the concert scheduled for Anaheim tonight at the Pond is still 
going forward according to the tour schedule.”

“Bloody slag didn’t even plan a night off after wastin’ us.”

“Now she’s probably rounding up more energy to have another shot at you guys,” 
Buffy sighed and stared at the dashboard from where she was hanging over the seat 
back.  “Can you drive faster?  If it takes more than an hour to kill her you’re going 
to run into daybreak.”

“Who said we was gonna’ kill her?”  Spike protested.

Buffy rolled her eyes.

“I’m not that blonde.  What were you going to do?  Try to talk her out of it?  That 
worked really well last time.  I just want to know what you had figured out to get 
around the guilt thing.”

“Uh, since she didn’t listen to reason, since she was willing to kill you and Dawn, 
who had nothing to do with the original offense, that puts her into the bad 
category,” Angel admitted.

“So you’d risk more debt on your soul for Dawn and I?”  Buffy asked.

“Dawn an’ me.  Jesus.”

“Yes.”

“Me too, I’m riskin’ my soul and my ass for you an’ the Niblet, you know.  Hair-
do isn’t the only one wiv’ a soul these days, y’know,” Spike said, sounding a little 
more annoyed than he had planned.

The parking lot was full of mommies and daddies picking up their brainwashed 
daughters when Spike pulled the DeSoto across the street.

Spike had found the local eighties station and was playing it as loud as he could to 
drown out the thousands of car CD players blaring out Citalia’s latest hit.  His 
music and the girls’ dueled in the soft Southern California night.

The song was about a whore, not about a high school girl who didn’t fit in with the 
popular crowd.  

“All of her lovers all talk of her notes/and the flowers that they never sent/and 
wasn't she easy/and isn't she pretty in pink”

“If flesh could crawl my skin would fall/From off my bones and run away from 
here, /As far from God, as heaven is wide.”

“The one who insists he was first in the line/is the last to remember her name/he's 
walking around in this dress that she wore/she is gone but the joke's the 
same/pretty in pink isn't she/pretty in pink.”

In the back seat, Buffy yawned and rummaged through her bag, finally coming up 
with a hair thing that she used to pull her hair back into a stern tail.

“Chargin’ her batteries for another go ‘round,” Spike said and lit a cigarette.  

Angel looked out the window and sucked on his still-bruised lower lip.

“Follow her back to her hotel and get to her room,” Angel said in his Leader of 
Vamps voice.

“Sheer brilliance, mate.”

Eventually, the tour bus pulled out of the parking lot and headed down the street, 
the white limo following.  It was a short jaunt to one of the many low-rise many-
star hotels arranged in rings around Walt’s fairy castle.  The limo decanted a small 
fur-wrapped person and a larger one.  Apparently George was still on board.  
Parking the car behind a dumpster, Spike, Buffy, and Angel made their way 
through the kitchen of the hotel, past sleepy Mexican cooks who took little notice 
as they passed through.  In moments they were in the elevator and headed upwards.

“Love in an elevator, livin’ it up when I’m goin’ down,“ Spike hummed and caught 
Angel’s filthy look. “Didja’ ever have a bird give you head in a lift? I highly 
recommend it.” 

“I’ll put it on my list of things to do.  Right after the bikini wax.”

“Ewww,” Buffy grumbled. “You guys are so gross.”

The lock on the door gave way with a little help from Spike’s paper clip, revealing 
a fairly disturbing sight, even by Spike’s standards.  Buffy stood on her toes and 
peered between their shoulders.  Citalia/Lucinda was seated like a Buddhist nun in 
the middle of a circle of candles, sticking a needle in her arm while she sang to 
herself.

“Malo a nos libera sed tentationem in inducas,” Citalia/Lucinda sang in her clear 
glass voice, “Nos ne et nostris debitoribus dimittimus nos et sicut nostra debita 
nobis dimitte et hodie nobis da quotidianum nostrum.”

Spike looked to Angel who had gone a bit pale under his bruises.   

“Latin grammar’s seriously fucked.  What’s she goin’ on ‘bout?”

“It’s the Pater Noster, the Our Father, backwards.”

“Satanist bull,” Buffy hissed. 

“Sirens were classical Greek critters, not Christian ones so I’m thinkin’ it’s only 
stage dressin’.”

From among the candles, Citalia turned and favored the three with a wide, sparkly 
smile.

“Cool, I wasn’t counting on a party.  Room service brought up some food, cookies, 
cold cuts, and stuff to drink, but I don’t think they serve blood here.”  She stood up 
and waved the hand that held the needle at the room service cart near the 
television.  “But they have satellite TV.”

“We’re not here on a social call, Lucinda,” Angel said in his tough guy tone.

“Bad ensemble, Buffy.  Never wear a dark top with light pants, makes you look 
hippy.”

“I’m not into heroin chic.”

“Look, enough wiv’ the stimulatin’ banter.  You, Citalia, knock it off with the siren 
shit.  Quit spellin’ at the teenyboppers an’ tryin’ to kill our asses, right?”

“Where’s Dawn?” Citalia asked.  “She was nice.”

“She doesn’t need to be here for this.”  Buffy said.

“Not too happy with your boys, are you?  All their women seem to end up dead … 
or deeply resentful.  Maybe you should stop with the vampire dating.”

“Lucinda, stop it or we’re going to have to stop you,” Angel warned.

“Oh puh-lease! You guys really, pardon my French, fucked up killing me the first 
time!”  She giggled like crystal bells.  “Why should you do it right now?”

“I’m here.  That’s the difference,” Buffy said and launched a roundhouse kick into 
Citalia’s midsection.

Citalia let out a girly scream and threw herself at Buffy.  To Spike’s undead 
surprise, she got a grip on Buffy and threw the Slayer onto the room service cart 
where Buffy went down in a hail of cheese slices.  Angel kicked the cart at Citalia, 
but she leapt on top of it and kicked him in the face, which couldn’t have felt good 
with his healed teeth.  Candles fell around the room and Spike danced out of the 
flames while Citalia laughed.

“What a pretty dance you do, William.”

“The name’s Spike,” he snarled and dumped an ice bucket onto the burning carpet.

Buffy came up out of the lunchmeat shrieking like a Valkyrie and tackled Citalia.  
Both girls went down against the closet door and rolled in tangle of arms and legs 
that would have been interesting if there had been less clothing and more Jell-O 
involved.  Buffy let out a pained yelp and disentangled herself.

“You bitch!”  Buffy screamed and clutched at her left bicep.

Sure enough, Citalia had jammed her needle into Buffy’s arm and the plastic and 
metal of the syringe glittered like Citalia’s rhinestones in the light from the burning 
rug.

“At least you don’t have to worry about catching anything from me!” Citalia 
laughed and bounced away from where Buffy was gingerly pulling the needle from 
her arm. “We’ve had all the same men!”

That was pretty much enough for Spike.  While Angel saw to Buffy, he made a 
grab for Citalia and twisted her arms back behind her.

“Gee Billy-boy, I thought you liked getting it rough!” she sneered and jabbed her 
elbow back into where she had stabbed Spike the night before.  He swore and his 
grip loosened enough for her to wiggle free.  

Angel came to the rescue and rushed at Citalia.  She spun out from between them 
so that Spike crashed into Angel.  “Choreography is your friend,” she chirped and 
made a grab for her SuperSoaker, stashed on a side table.  Spike, wearing the 
demon now, dove on her.  She staggered back and then threw him across the room.  
Angel circled her, looking for an opportunity, as Spike struggled to his feet.

Suddenly Citalia had a stake in her hand, and Spike found time to wonder when 
they’d started making handkerchief tops with hidden stake compartments, since 
Buffy had pulled this trick too.  Angel jumped back out of reach, but Citalia 
dropped to the ground and, using her hands to hold her up, swept her legs around in 
a forceful arc, toppling Angel into a flurry of leather coat.  That was some martial 
arts training, all right.  Spike wished he’d been nearly as diligent over the past 
hundred years.

She jumped to her feet and advanced on Angel.  One siren, two vampires and a 
Slayer, why wasn’t the math working?  Running for momentum, Spike crossed the 
room and smashed into Citalia, knocking the stake from her hand and pushing 
them into the window.

Make that through the window, Spike realized when he heard the ugly sound of 
safety glass shattering and lost his sense of weight.  Time stretched like a bungee 
cord, only without the part where he was going to go back up.  Clinging to Citalia 
like a cat faced with a bath, he struggled to get on top so that she’d cushion the 
landing.  Blonde hair whipped around her face, disguising the mad eyes, and he felt 
an emotion he could only tentatively identify as remorse.

Then they hit.  It felt like God had just given him a roundhouse punch, but Spike 
didn’t feel any bones breaking.  They sank further, Citalia falling away from him, 
and Spike realized they’d fallen into the hotel pool, undoubtedly to the amazement 
of the tourists.  The water was blue with chlorine and tainted with piss, but he 
could see and move almost as well as he could in plain air.

The odds had changed, and not in his favor.  He figured if he survived three 
minutes Buffy and Angel would join in.  He could do that.

The water roiled around Citalia, bubbling like Willow and Tara’s cauldron.  
Something big began to emerge from the white bubbles.

Citalia, but in true siren form, enormous green tail and all.  It came whipping 
towards him and the water slowed down his dodge too much.  He was whisked 
towards Citalia; he couldn’t see if she’d held on to the stake during the fall.  The 
tail felt razor-edged, and his blood puffed black clouds like octopus ink around 
him. If the bitch ruined his duster, Spike would be fucked-off beyond belief.  
Fighting his way through the roiling water that threatened to smash him into the 
concrete sides of the pool, Spike managed to get a grip on Citalia’s remaining 
human-shaped flesh.  Not surprisingly, he grabbed a breast.  

From the breast he was able to work his way up her body to her throat, a throat that 
he didn’t remember even as he drove his fangs into her skin.  She screamed and he 
could feel the water vibrate around them with the sound.  The tail lashed into his 
legs, cutting deep and he could feel the chlorine in the water sting.  She thrashed 
like a landed fish, until she finally grew still in his arms and he could feel the brave 
beating of her heart finally stutter and stop.  She was cool and dead against him and 
what tangled with his legs were human legs again.  Kicking against the bottom of 
the pool, he launched himself to the surface, choking out water and drawing 
unneeded air into his lungs.

Sure as God made little green apples, Angel was waiting by the side of the pool 
with an outstretched arm.  Spike grasped the arm and let the other vampire haul 
him out of the water.  They stood there on the concrete and watched Citalia float in 
the pale water, her hair around her face, her expression somewhat surprised.  It 
seemed that they had finally finished the task they had set out to do a century 
before.  Spike was suddenly cold with a London January chill, and he wasn’t sure 
if it was Angel or Angelus standing beside him.  

His legs buckled as a heavy dose of whatever Citalia had been shooting up with hit 
his brain.  Angel grabbed him and he leaned against the bulk of the older vampire.

“Buffy?” he asked and spit out water.

“Pretty much all right.”

Abruptly, there were humans around, making Spike’s mouth water with the 
nearness of their blood.  He knew he wasn’t sated, knew he could have fed more, 
and all he could do was hold onto Angel’s arm to keep him from running amuck 
from throat to throat until the burning hunger was fulfilled.

“Let’s get out of here,” Angel muttered.

“Yes, ladies and gentleman, I hope you enjoyed the surprise entertainment for the 
night,” the concierge was saying as the vampires limped and dripped past.

Manager George descended on them like a one-man welcoming committee.

“You have saved my ass in more ways than you can ever imagine!” he chortled and 
enveloped Spike in a furry hug before the vampire could step back.

“What kind of drugs did Citalia do?”  Angel demanded, grabbing George by his 
furry lapels.

“Tranquilizers, mostly.  For the stress.”

“Buffy got half a’shot a’somethin’.  We don’t wanna be stuffin’ her in detox,” 
Spike warned, even as he started to feel Citalia’s chemically enhanced blood start 
to move through his own body.

“Nothing to write home about,” he elbowed Spike in the ribs, catching a 
particularly painful patch of healing skin, “Not like the old days, eh?  Tell you 
what, I’ll deal with the police, tragic accident and all that.  You go and hide out in 
my suite until, what, nightfall tomorrow?”

Angel glowered at the man.  Showing a bigger pair than Spike thought he had, 
George straightened up and stared back at Angel.

“Unless you want to drive off into the sunrise.”

Sure enough, the East was starting to bleed darkness.

“Look, I’m glad the bitch is dead.  Wouldn’t have done it myself, but you don’t 
look a dead bitch in the mouth.”

Spike could tell that this wasn’t going down well with Angel the Righteous, who 
was glowering.

“Selena’s albums are still selling, so are Nirvana, Hendrix, the Doors, and Elvis.  
Albums selling without the bullshit, manager’s wet dream.  I’ll just find myself a 
new blonde with a better temper and a nice set of tits.  Catch you tomorrow night.”

The card key was plastic and Spike dropped it three times before Angel finally 
took it away from him.  They found Buffy in the lobby, sitting forlornly on a divan 
with her bag on her feet.

“Is she dead?  Am I going to be okay?”

Angel did the comforting thing, pulling Buffy to her feet and putting his arm 
around her narrow shoulders.  

“You’re going to be fine.  It’s just a sedative.  George is going to handle everything 
while we wait in his hotel suite.”

“Suite?  Sweet,” Buffy said and showed them her rare and brilliant smile.

The suite was sweet, slightly smaller than Citalia’s and minus the ring of candles.  
The first thing Angel did was head to the small bar and get himself a bottle of 
whiskey and a glass.  Buffy dropped her bag on the floor and looked around.  
Angel drained the glass as though it was fine AB negative.

“Are we a band now?  Buffy and the Vampires?”

“None of us can carry a tune if it had handles,” Spike said.

Angel grunted and poured another glass of whiskey.

“I need a shower.  I feel icky,” Buffy said in a vague voice and padded away.

Spike wandered over to the bed, which was the size of a small village, and stared at 
the bedspread’s red roses. His first real kill in over a year, and he felt like shit.  The 
drug was moving as fast as the rest of her blood.  He collapsed on the bed and 
looked out the balcony window at the fairytale majesty of the fake castle across the 
way.

"She would have come back," Angel said eventually.  "No one gives up power like 
that voluntarily."

"Preachin' to the damned, you are."  The drug warmed him more than the blood; 
the demon was silent for once.  Spike thought it hadn’t been this way without a 
soul.  Maybe you needed a soul for drugs truly to work their quieting magic.  "She 
wouldn’ta been happy till you, me, the Slayer and the Niblet was nothin’ but dust.  
She was full of a powerful hate."

"You’re probably right," Angel pointed out, rolling the glass between his hands.  

"Does it ever get any easier?”  Spike rolled his head against the pillow, feeling the 
comforting solidity of the world around him.  “The soul thing, not killin’ people by 
dranin’ ‘em.   Bein’ stuck watchin’ people live life while you know yer on the 
outside.  Watchin’ the Slayer and wantin’ to make it all go away for her?"

"Being willing to die for Buffy isn't enough, you know."

"You know as well as I that nothin's enough," he said and didn't like the raw sound 
of his voice.

"The Prophecies suggest that at the end of times a vampire with a soul may achieve 
redemption –"

"Fuck that, I’ll see you in Hell," he said.

There was a pause, then.  "Maybe you will," Angel acknowledged, and Spike put 
his head back and tried to sleep.

Changes 29/30

Buffy could understand why people did drugs; the world seemed so much more 
interesting and sparkly.  The glimmer of the showerhead fascinated her for the 
longest time, each drop of water was a revelation, little tongues lapping all over her 
body, and the smell of the soap and shampoo almost brought her to tears.  Citalia 
was dead, Dawn was safe with Willow and Tara, and Spike and Angel were 
bruised but otherwise unharmed.  Was it such a terrible thing to take her brain off 
the hook for a couple of hours?  Good Buffy.  All the rumors were false, she didn’t 
cause trouble in school, and she was keeping the world safe from the forces of evil.  
The thought made her giggle there in the bathroom.

She liked the way that she looked in the big hotel bathroom mirror, her skin looked 
as new and fresh as Dawn’s, as smooth as Spike’s and her eyes were big and 
liquid, like the shower had filled them with water.  After running a hairbrush 
through her wet hair, Buffy wrapped herself in one of the hotel’s fancy bathrobes 
and headed out into the bedroom.  

The room was all ripply, like it was underneath the pool where Citalia had taken 
The Big Plunge.  Through the ripples she could make out Angel on one of the 
chairs, a half-empty bottle of something dark on the coffee table in front of him 
and a glass in his hands.  Spike was on the bed, boots and all.  She went over to the 
bed and crawled over to him so she could rest her cheek on his wet hair, which was 
starting to curl as the gel had given up in the water.  He had his eyes shut and 
seemed more dead than usual.

“You smell like chlorine.  It can turn your hair green.  When I was a freshman in 
high school I had just gotten foil wrap highlights done and I went to Kayliegh’s to 
swim and her dad had put so much chlorine and other gunk in the water that my 
hair was all streaky with green and I looked really stupid for three days before 
Mom took me to the salon to get it fixed.”

When she opened her eyes, Spike was gone.  She got off the bed and went over to 
where Angel was making the bottle disappear.

“You okay?” she asked.

“If we hadn’t gone backstage to meet her . . . It was my idea.  I started all of this.  
If we hadn’t – if I hadn’t liked her, Lucinda would have grown old and died the 
way she should have.  I feel like she’s weighing on me twice.”  

Reaching out, Buffy stroked his hair, which was the way she remembered it, 
crunchy in the front and soft in the back.

“She went bad, that was her choice, not yours.  You gave her two chances to give it 
up and she didn’t.  She was willing to kill me and to kill Dawn, and she hurt a lot 
of her fans by taking away their free will.”

Tilting his head back, he looked up at her, and the darkness of his eyes pulled her 
in.

“When did you get so wise?” he asked.

“It’s that hard-core evil thing called growing up,” she said and could feel herself 
smile.

“Do you love him, Buffy?”

“Who?  Spike?”

“No, Xander,” he said and made a face that made her giggle.

“I have always had a passion for Xander.  I’m madly in love with Xander Harris.  
No.  Maybe.  Yes.  Sometimes.  Okay?  Sometimes I think I love Spike.  Then I put 
my clothes back on and I’m not so sure.”  She giggled again and Angel didn’t look 
happy.

Since he seemed so sad, she plopped herself on his lap, barely aware of the drink 
spilling into her bathrobe.  But his chest was so broad, and his skin was so cool 
when she pressed her mouth against his ear to whisper.

“It’s not the same, nothing will be the same, but it’s good.  He’s good to me, and I 
don’t have to lie to him.  Everything’s different now, anyway.”

“Buffy- don’t--“

“You’re irreplacable.”

“Irreplaceable.”

“Whatever.”

The familiar sandalwood and book smell of him made Buffy’s stomach do a little 
flip and she reached her tongue out to see if he tasted the same.  Sure enough, the 
skin on his ear had the same book-y, Angel-y taste that it always did.  Just to make 
sure, she licked the skin on the side of his neck.  That tasted the same and he 
sighed in the same way.

“Don’t do this-“ he said in a voice so faint that she felt it rather than heard it.

She did hear the click of the door opening, and swiveled on Angel’s thigh to see 
Spike holding an ice bucket, heaped full of ice glimmering like diamonds.  

“Oh,” he said, sounding exactly like Giles, no Cockney at all.  “Oh.”  

His free hand went to his chest, like a man in the first stages of a heart attack.  
Then he bent and put the ice bucket on the floor, backed out of the room, and 
closed the door again.

Buffy was on her feet in an instant, but Angel still made it to the door before her.  
“You stay right here,” he ordered, and she heard his footsteps running down the 
hall.

She put her hands on her face and realized that her fingers were cold.

**

Angel burst out of the fire stairs just as Spike was crossing the lobby.  Spike 
stopped walking and waited for Angel to grab him, which he did.  Predictable.  
After a hundred years, he should know the pattern.

“Where are you going?” Angel demanded.

“Gonna get the car,” he said, staring straight forward.

“It’s daylight and you’re wasted.”

“Trenchant observations, mate.  Maybe I want a terminal sunburn.”

“Buffy was just –“

Spike, full of more frustration and fury than he’d been in a century, finally turned 
to Angel and nearly vamped in the lobby full of humans.  “She’s high, she don’t 
mean it, you an’ her can’t ever happen, et cetera, et cetera.”

“None of that matters.”  Angel’s face was as blank as a darkened television screen.

“First smart thing you’ve said in a hundred years.”  Spike turned to go, but Angel’s 
grip on his shoulder wouldn’t let him.  Where Angel’s fingers touched barely-
healed skin the pain paled in comparison to the thing that was chewing at the inside 
of his chest.

“What matters is that she wants you.”

“You sayin’ we should go upstairs and have us another Lucinda-type party?”  

The demon flared in Angel’s eyes, and Spike realized that some part of the other 
vampire was actually considering it, which made him speculate too.  Double 
occupancy could be acceptable if the location was right, couldn’t it?  Better than 
being homeless.

“I’m saying that she’s in there crying, and not for me.  The past holds us, but 
sometimes you just have to let go.  Buffy knows that.  She’s learning.”

“I don’ wanna be a teachable moment for her.”  Spike turned his face away, 
towards the receptionists.  Happy or not, they all smiled with the identical trained 
Mouse smile.

“You can’t always get what you want.”

“Brilliant, Mick,” Spike said and then, despite everything, had to snigger at the 
pun.

“Go back upstairs,” Angel said in the softest of voices.

And Spike found himself knocking on the suite door.  If she opened the door and 
her face fell, he was going to bag his third Slayer and then throw the curtains wide.

Buffy opened the door and crushed him in her arms like a trash compactor.  He 
couldn’t even move to reciprocate.  “Thank God,” she said, cheek pressed against 
his chest.  “Do you have *any* idea how much you scared me?”  She looked up 
and he had no idea what showed on his face.  “Okay, so maybe you do.”  She led 
him back into the room, onto the bed he’d been dozing on not fifteen minutes 
before.

He desperately didn’t want her to declare her loyalty with sex.  “Don’t let go,” she 
whispered instead, and then she didn’t.  

Changes 30/30

“I kinda always knew I’d end up your ex-girlfriend  - for someone else to take/I 
kinda always knew I’d end up your ex-girlfriend -am I making a mistake? “

“Buffy, Angel and Spike kill Citalia, his cash cow, and this George guy throws a 
party?  Here?”  Xander shouted over the music while looking around the Bronze.  
“How weird is that?”

“You new in town or something?” Willow teased.  “It’s Sunnydale, home of 
weirdness, central casting for your friendly neighborhood Hellmouth.”

“Right.  I forgot.  I had the temporary delusion that I live in a normal world.”  
Xander drank some more beer out of the plastic cup.  “While we’re kicking the 
whole ‘weirdness’ concept around, how about this Buffy and Spike thing?  And the 
Spike and Angel thing?  And the possibility of there being a Buffy, Spike and 
Angel thing?”

“There’s no evidence that third thing ever happened.  Just because they were all at 
the hotel together does not mean that there’s a Buffy, Spike and Angel thing at all,” 
Willow shouted back.

“Hey, with the kink-o-rama they slapped on Citalia, I’m thinking that anything’s 
possible.”  Xander gave Willow a meaningful eyebrow-wiggle.

“I hope I hold a special place with the rest of them -all the time that we spent /I 
kinda always knew I’d end up your ex-girlfriend,” the music continued.

“Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean that I’m the authority on all things kinky!” 
Willow protested. “Ask your girlfriend.  She’s like the letters section of Hustler!”

“And you’ve been reading Hustler since when?”

Willow grinned.  “Since you hid them under your bed when you were ten.”

“Right, forgot about that.”

“I’m another ex-girlfriend on your list /But I should have thought of that before we 
kissed.”

“Hey, what’s the what?”

Spike snapped his attention away from eavesdropping on Xander and Willow to 
find the Slayer looking up at him with a little smile.

“Hey, dead guy, I’m talking to you,” she prodded.

“Can’t hear you over this bloody garbage they’re passin’ off as music.”

“Your wildness scares me /So does your freedom /You say you can’t stand the 
restrictions /I find myself trying to change you /If you were meant to be my lover I 
wouldn’t have to.”

“It’s No Doubt, which is a kind of retro punk thing, right?” 

“No, it’s ska, which is not punk,” he corrected, trying not to be too pleased that 
she’d seen fit to grab onto his forearm, which had to be noted as the first time she’d 
touched him in public when he didn’t end up ass over teakettle.

“That old stuff all sounds the same to me.”  She looked around.  “Did Angel get 
here yet?”

Spike shook his head and lit a cigarette, “Must have been tied up savin’ 
unfortunates from unfortunate fates, or maybe he just ran out of hair-gel and won’t 
show.”

“That’s the pot calling the kettle purple.”

Giggling, Dawn ran past, the black lights glowing off the paint on her cast.  She 
bounded over to Xander and Willow and started a conversation with them that 
required a lot of hand-moving and even more giggling.

“Ah, th’resilience a’youth.”

“And two weeks of medication.  Still, wouldn’t it be great if everything was solved 
by taking one pill once a day?”  She looked up at him again and assumed a serious 
face.  “If you could take one pill once a day and not be a vampire, would you do 
it?”

“You’re assumin’ I don’t like bein’ a vampire.”  He shrugged off her hand and 
downed the remainder of his beer, trying to put a force field of Spikeatude between 
them. “Bein’ a vampire is the dog’s bollocks.  Wouldn’t have it any other way, 
right?”

Buffy’s eyebrows clearly telegraphed that she wasn’t believing word one of it.

“Well, maybe I would have liked to surf.  Surfin’ at night just ain’t right.  I could 
have surfed, you know.”

“Sorry,” Angel broke into their circle of two. “Had to climb through the window in 
the girl’s bathroom.  They’re asking for picture ID proving that you’re over 21.”

“The guy at the door must have been blind, you don’t look a day over two 
hundred,” Spike agreed and showed Angel the back of his hand where an unlikely 
purple smiley-face was stamped “Can’t get anythin’ to drink wiv’out one a’these.”

Buffy grinned and showed the matching stamp on the back of her hand.

“You’re not—“Angel began.

“Spike? Do that thing again.”

Smirking, Spike licked the back of his hand and pressed the stamp to the back of 
Angel’s.  With a practiced roll, the stamp was transferred to Angel’s skin.

“Saves on th’cover charge most times.”

“I’m getting  drinks.  Drinks on George.”  She headed off with a perky tilt to her 
head that Spike hadn’t seen in months.

“She’s in a good mood.” 

“Amazin’ what getting’ shagged regular will do for a body.”

Angel merely sniffed and looked around the twisting bodies filling the Bronze.  
“This has to be one of the strangest memorials I’ve ever been too, and I’ve been to 
a lot.”

“Talked to George earlier, he’s bumped one a’ the backup singers to lead an’ is 
callin’ it Citalia Tribute.  ‘Parently the backup singer’s easier to get along wiv’ to 
the tune of blowin’ George’s pipes from time to time.  Ding Dong the Wicked 
Witch is Dead.  He’s got plenty to celebrate..”

“Like you said, amazing what getting shagged regular will do for a body.”

“Why can’t you find a nice bird you can shag wiv’out getting’ your knickers in a 
twist?”

A faint smile crossed Angel’s face, loaded with mystery, “Who’s to say I haven’t?”

“You never!”  Spike choked.  “You lying heap a’shit!  You’re takin’ the piss.”

But Buffy returned with a burden of beverages before he could delve any further 
into the matter at hand.

“Beer, whiskey, and a fuzzy navel for me,” she said and passed out cups.

“Sounds like a personal problem, Buff,” Xander said as he ambled over.

He glanced over at Angel.  “So how are the teeth?”

The kid was practically shaking with repressed curiosity; Spike realized and 
enjoyed a few moments of pure evil satisfaction.  If Spike had his way, Xander 
Harris was going to go to his own six-foot deep plot without getting any answers to 
the questions that were burning into his brain.

“Teeth are fine.  Back to the old teeth.”

“Great, good stuff.”

Xander looked from Angel to Spike to Buffy and then back the other way from 
Buffy to Spike to Angel.  To give the Great Pouf his due, Angel didn’t flinch and 
Buffy stared back at Xander as though he was a couple ounces short of a pint.

“And?” she asked.

“Oh, well, just great to see you guys all upright and all right and, you know, your 
kinda normal ab-normal selves.”  Xander ran out of gas and his face slackened.  
“Maybe I should just go and get another beer right about now.”

“Good lad.”  Spike said as floppy-boy took himself over to the bar.

“Oh yeah, Buffy, apparently I have to tell you ‘hi’ from Cordelia,” Angel offered.

“Whatever you tell her, just make it clear that I looked really, really good.  I mean 
like glossy magazine good,” Buffy instructed.  “Not a hair out of place, totally 
coordinated and chic, no smudged eyeliner, sheer perfection.”

Without thinking, Spike elbowed Angel in the ribs, not hard enough to hurt.

“What’d I say? Complete and utter ignorance of anythin' not involved with slayin', 
shoes, an' fashion?”

“Buffy? Never.” Angel said with one of his few and far between smiles.

“Oh, so you guys talk about me? Great,” she said and grinned over her cup at them. 
“No wonder my ears keep burning.”

And for a little while they were just two guys teasing a pretty girl in a dance club.

~End~

**

Special offer: Tell us about those Pet Shop Boys and Smiths references in the text 
and win your own cameo in our next story.  You can be the tech geek who helps 
out the Gang.  We’ll use your physical description and your name, but it better be 
your real name – choose something like Rhiannon without a birth certificate to 
back you up and the Host will call you Mary Sue the entire time.  Kissage with any 
other characters is at the discretion of the authors.

Citalia’s lyrics are almost exclusively by Garbage, except where they’re by Gilbert 
and Sullivan or Ice-T.

changes4a.doc
changes4a.doc