*****

Giles came awake slowly. The threads of his dreams let go of his consciousness only reluctantly, but did not leave any clear memory behind. For a change, though, what fragments that did remain were not born of nightmares. His head wasn't pounding with his usual morning hangover and facing the day didn't seem like such an overwhelming prospect.

There was more to the difference than that, though. More than just the clearness of his head as he stretched and tried to put off opening his eyes lest this feeling slip away with the greeting of the light. There was the knowledge, though nothing was touching him but sheets and duvet, of someone else in his bed.

The image splashed across his closed eyelids, crisper than it could really have been in the dimness of the unlighted loft last night. Pale limbs folded up, straining beneath him. Burning yellow eyes in an alien, yet familiar face. Without opening his own eyes, Giles flexed his fingers, and felt the ghost of tight, responsive flesh surrounding them.

It had been a very long time since he'd engaged in that particular act. Memories of the last time floated to the surface of his mind, full of loud music, rooms full of smoke and the dark pleasure of Eyghon's presence on his soul. A shiver that wasn't as much of revulsion as he would like ran down his spine. He'd avoided this kind of intimacy ever since because of just that reaction. But last night... Last night had been something different.

If he kept his eyes closed and just laid here in the self-imposed darkness, he'd start thinking about *how* different. About what it had been, what it might mean. Where they went from here. Things he wasn't sure he wanted to examine in the claustrophobic confines of his head. But if he opened his eyes, he'd be faced with the real thing, in the curtain-filtered light of day. Perhaps he could convince himself to fall asleep again?

Giles had just counted his second sheep when he felt the cold finger teasing its way down his spine. "Someone doesn't want to get up for school today," Spike sing-songed in that dreadful m�lange of half-familiar accents. "Shall we call your mum and ask her to write a note for teacher?"

Giving in, Giles opened his eyes to find Spike propped up on one elbow, staring down at him, mocking grin firmly in place. The sardonic effect was ruined, however, by hair so mussed from sleep that it made Giles imagine counting white-blond vampires jumping over fences, instead of sheep. He grinned back. "One of the advantages to being the owner, I can take a day off when I want to."

Spike held up a finger, his expression never faltering. "Half owner. And the other half's not likely to be best pleased when she finds out it's just the *day* you're taking off, not the rest of your life. You might want to smooth the way a bit, actually show up to drop that tidbit in person." The corner of his smile did waver, when Giles didn't answer right away, still digesting that thought and wondering if he shouldn't go back to sleep after all. "It *is* just the day, isn't it?"

"Yes," Giles answered immediately. "I'm staying." And didn't it feel good to have finally made that decision once and for all? A part of him had never wanted to leave; he just had needed a reason for staying. Though the reason he had found wasn't one he could've predicted.

"Really staying, or just staying til you change your mind again? Because Anya might put up with that on-again-off-again crap, but if you think I'm gonna play Scheherezade for you every night, just to make sure you don't pull a runner in the morning..." Spike looked dangerously serious for a moment - then he snickered. "Well, I suppose I could get used to the indignity of being shagged blind every night, come to it."

"I'm really staying." He kept his expression perfectly serious as he added, "Though if you want to play Scheherezade, I'm sure we can find you some silks to dress up in."

Spike sighted down the length of his own body, half covered in rumpled sheets, as if he was considering the suggestion. Then he shook his head. "If you're gonna make me go drag, I want leather. Flatters the figure, *and* it doesn't get ruined by bloodstains." He looked up, and the cheeky grin was back. "Which there would be, if you tried to make me go drag."

It was on the tip of Giles' tongue to remind Spike of his chipped status, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to do so this morning. Instead he merely said, "Duly noted," and left it at that.

Spike nodded, as if he'd scored some sort of victory. He rested his hands behind his head and regarded Giles. "So, never done the honeymoon suite before. Does it come with Continental Breakfast? Belgian waffles? Egg and chip?"

"You think I'm going to cook for you?"

Spike stretched and yawned in a manner that was positively decadent, and made Giles want to either smack him, or drop his head to the pillow and give in. Fall back asleep and let Spike, indeed, phone in his absence to Anya. That should make for an entertaining morning of gossip at the shop. At the pinnacle of his stretch, though, arms high above his head and toes pointing forward beneath the sheets, Spike winced. "Least you could do. Show some sort of human decency to the poor bugger you so brutally...er, buggered, last night."

"You weren't complaining last night." He wasn't going to fall for it, Giles told himself. With the rate of vampiric healing, any residual...effects should have long since faded.

Spike looked a bit pained, in more ways than one. "In the moment, wasn't I. Wasn't really thinking about how that whole super healing factor slows down a bit when you're living off pig's blood. Specially when you didn't even stop off for any of that, last night."

He was laying it on a bit thick, Giles thought, but even so he found his resolve wavering. Sighing, he sat up. "I can manage coffee, but I fear I don't have much else in the house."

"S'pose that'll have to do. Unless you're keen on opening a vein." Somehow Spike managed to sound as if he realized how ridiculous the comment was, yet if Giles had been insane enough to say yes, he would have nodded sagely and pretended he'd been serious all along.

However much Giles was questioning his sanity, he still hadn't reached *that* level of craziness. "Sorry, but I need all my blood where it is." He got out of bed and reached for his robe, feeling Spike's eyes on him the whole time.

The vampire said nothing, but he didn't need to - one indolent smirk was all that was required to substitute for any comments that Spike might have come up with concerning Giles' sudden need to be clothed in front of someone he'd had sex with only hours ago. Or perhaps Spike was simply waiting for his store of sarcasm to be refueled with caffeine, and then he would get to the snickering. No matter. Giles wasn't about to go wandering his flat in the altogether in broad daylight. It just wasn't...proper.

Though he supposed that fucking a vampire probably wasn't written up in any etiquette guide either when it came to that. Not much of what he did, even on his most 'normal' days was, of course -- not even in the Council of Watchers' guides, which seemed to know as much about actually *being* a Watcher as Giles knew about actually being a vampire. He descended the stairs, and headed for the kitchen, not looking back at the primary source of vampire lore who was lounging in his bed. The things they left out of those manuals...

Spike had been right to think they were excised. Unique as Buffy might have been, there had to have been Watchers who faced *some* of the sort of things they encountered on the Hellmouth, and they had to have written their experiences down. Their thoughts and feelings. Not just a dusty collection of reminiscences that list the size, weight and colour of that day's monster, but nothing about what happens when you realize it might not be trying to kill you. Or, god forbid, when you let it into your bed.

The coffee maker was still unpacked at least, though Giles hadn't been lying when he'd said that coffee was about all he had. He'd been living off takeaway for weeks now, unwilling to buy more groceries when he might finally decide that day that it was the right time to go. He set it to brew, a bit stronger than usual, and leaned against the counter, surveying what was left of his flat.

It was, as he had said the night before, a mess. The spray of shattered glass in the corner only caught his attention because of the faint scent of wasted whiskey, the angry crash echoing in his memory. A stranger would never even notice the souvenir of last night's conversation amid the rest of the disarray. His belongings were all over the place, half in boxes, half in piles waiting to be boxed. Looking at it now, he could see clearly the indecision he'd been battling with for months. His life and mind had been a study in halves for months: half done, half committed, half here, half gone.

Now he'd done something complete and whole, hadn't he. For the first time since he'd laid his hands over a young man's mouth and felt the all too human body struggling beneath him until the movement stopped. He'd known then, what he was doing. Why he was doing it. That it had to be done. This time, the only thing he was sure of was that he *had* done something -- and that he had a hell of a lot of unpacking to do.

And that, as Spike had pointed out, Anya was not going to be thrilled by his news, when he'd drummed up the courage to relay it. Giles shied away from that thought, not up to considering the others' reactions -- at least not before he'd had some caffeine himself. He'd make a list of everything he needed to do later -- starting with going grocery shopping.

"Head off to Brazil for that coffee, did you?" Giles heard Spike's voice rather close at hand for him to be still lying about in bed. He looked up to find a bedhair-topped face peering down at him over the wire loft railing, grinning. Attached to a thoroughly naked body.

"You'd think that someone who had over a century under his belt would have learned patience by now," Giles retorted, sounding remarkably normal, even in the face of this rather blatant reminder of what he'd done the night before.

"Nothing under my belt at the moment," Spike pointed out. With visual aid. "Besides, patience is a myth. You wait for things you can't do anything about, and the rest, you go out and take."

Giles continued to look up at him, in spite of himself. "Unless you're being a lazy sod and pretending you're too worn out to fix your own coffee."

Spike nodded. "There is that." He made no move to come down the stairs and take what he was so concerned about not waiting for, though. Just continued to lean lazily on the metal railing.

Giles was struck suddenly at how...comfortable this all seemed. Not a hint of the awkwardness that he would've surely expected, if he thought about it. Having Spike there, trading verbal ripostes with him, felt...well, not normal. Having a naked vampire in one's flat fit no definition of normal that he knew of. But...comfortable. Like it was something he could get used to.

As if he could read Giles' thoughts, Spike began, finally, to descend the stairs, still sans clothing. "You might find your trousers, at least." Giles pointed towards the door. "The others do still occasionally barge in without knocking."

Spike put a hand on his heart, obviously wounded to the quick. "You mean... you're ashamed of me, Rupert?" The quaver in his voice was the sort that small children used when asking, 'Mummy, don't you love me anymore?'

"Do you really want them to see you in the-" Giles broke off. "What am I saying? Of course you do. Just because it would embarrass me, and them." The disturbing thing was, he wasn't sure if it would embarrass him -- beyond the 'caught doing private things in public' embarrassment that would wear off quickly. But not because of *who* he had been doing those private things with.

"Maybe they need a nice mind-melting," Spike said, though he was shaking his head and walking back up to, hopefully, locate his jeans. "Give Anya a good distraction from the fact that you'll be a bit of a louder partner than she thought."

"I don't think there's anything that could be that distracting to Anya." He watched Spike's retreating form, privately admitting it was a very nice view. The coffeemaker beeped at him, and Giles walked back around into the kitchen to pour. Problem -- only one mug that wasn't packed away. God only knew which box they were in.

Then he recalled where he'd last seen a mug besides his own, and grinned, reaching into the open box of 'deliver to the thrift shop' items. He was just bringing the steaming cups out when Spike stomped barefooted down the stairs, shirt in hand, but jeans thankfully in place.

"Better," Giles murmured, handing over one of the mugs.

Spike took one look at it and smirked. "Is that a proposition?"

"No. 'Would you like to come upstairs and look at my etchings' is a proposition. 'Kiss the Librarian' is a gift from Buffy that you've forever tainted by habitually drinking blood from it -- so I thought you might as well have it." Giles took his own mug and retired to the sofa while Spike was still sniffing his experimentally.

After a moment, Spike dropped down beside him, and took a drink. Grimaced. Took another drink. "Swill."

"You're welcome," Giles said pointedly. He took a sip of his own, the heat being enough to somewhat numb his tongue to the strong, bitter taste. He took another sip, contemplating his companion. "What are you going to do now?"

Spike gave him a quizzical glance over the top of his cup, then took a large swig of it, swill or no. When he'd swallowed, he said, "Well, I thought I'd go out and rent a U-Haul. Just the thing for carting my gear over here, right?" He snorted. "Course, the housewarming party with the big pile of dust as guest of honour might confuse your friends, since it's broad daylight out there..."

Giles felt his mouth strain with the smallest of frowns. Nothing to do with the vampire's ever-present sarcasm, and he couldn't think why, which words had snagged at the corner of his mind, until his fingers twitched with the sudden urge to rub his eyes. Buffy and Spike here in his flat, disgustingly, artificially in love. The unpleasant memory of his own spell-induced blindness faded to an ironic sort of nostalgia, in the face of all that had happened since. The two of them, bickering over wedding invitations. Checking in as Mr. and Mrs. Big Pile of Dust.

He felt a brief pang of the grief that had so often been all-encompassing the last months. His Slayer was dead. Every time he thought about her, remembered anything, bad or good, that realization struck anew. He rather suspected it always would, tainting the sweetest of memories so that they left a bitter aftertaste in his mind.

"I meant--"

What had he meant? What was Spike going to do with his day, stuck here in the flat unless he decided to brave the outdoors under a blanket? Giles shuddered to think what he'd get up to if left alone.

But then, he hadn't been planning to leave Spike by himself, had he. He'd been planning to call in and take the day off. It was *Spike* who seemed to be so insistent that he go in, that he speak to Anya and the others. What was wrong with a day of relaxation, before he had to come up with any more definite plans than 'yes, I'm staying in Sunnydale?'

"I meant," he began again, "What did you plan to do with your day, if you're so concerned that I go in and tell Anya the allegedly happy news?"

"Was thinking I might come along." Spike's tone was a study in casual. "Watch the fireworks. If I were you, I'd make sure anything with sharp edges was locked up before you tell her."

Giles looked at the vampire, knowing the surprise had to be showing on his face. "You want to watch."

One bare foot crossed over the other on the coffeetable, and Spike rested his mug on his knee. "Of course I want to watch. The lot of us may be the only thing standing between Sunnydale and a nightly redecorating party that makes this flat look like Martha Stewart's been in, but it doesn't mean I don't still get off on seeing you go at each other hammer and tongs. One of my few remaining pleasures in death."

"I'm so pleased that we can be a source of entertainment for you," Giles said dryly. Some things, it seemed, weren't going to change.

"It's that or stay here and watch telly -- and I'll bet you've had the cable turned off."

"Well..." He added turning the cable back on to the growing list of things he needed to do now that he was staying.

"Right -- got a decent blanket? I assume the top goes up on the midlife-crisis-mobile; I'm *not* riding in the boot."

Giles pictured Spike being tossed around in the small trunkspace, hitting his head repeatedly on the tire-iron, and allowed himself a small smile. Should he pretend the top *wouldn't* go up, just for the enjoyment factor? He took another sip of his coffee, stretching out the moment, making Spike squirm for a bit before answering. "I think I can get it up," he finally said, choosing his words deliberately.

Spike just gave him an arch look, and jumped to his feet. "No time like the present, eh?"

"Without finishing the coffee first?" He glanced at Spike, trying to figure out from looking at him if he meant what Giles thought he meant.

Spike raised an eyebrow, then drained his coffee mug in one gulp. After a second of staring at the logo on the side of it, he gave Giles a look that said clearly, 'It's your move.'

Giles finished his own mug, regarding Spike. He considered what that move should be, knowing it would partially define how things would stand between them now. Did he want what had happened last night be something relegated to the dark and the shadows, or...

He stood up, walked over, and kissed Spike.

No hesitation; Spike showed not the slightest sign of being surprised, just slid the tip of his coffee-flavoured tongue over Giles'. Strange, how the taste of coffee in Spike's mouth was stronger than the memory of it in his own. Like the night before, Giles found himself getting lost in the act, in the flavour and feel of Spike's mouth beneath his.

It would be very easy, he realized, to give in to this. To tug Spike back upstairs -- though he doubted much tugging would be required -- and prove to them both just how worn out Spike wasn't. It would be very easy to not quite make it up the stairs, in fact, though his sofa wasn't exactly made for that sort of thing.

He'd known what he was doing, Spike had. If he'd known, that is, when he'd let Giles convince him to convince him to stay. Whatever they'd been thinking or not thinking last night, Spike was *good* at this. At using his body, his mouth, his voice, to make Giles forget everything. To hold him here.

And that was what he'd been looking for, after all. Giles felt like he should be know this was wrong, that he should be drowning in guilt and shame, but he wasn't. All he felt was a vague worry and an overwhelming relief that he had found the connection he'd been looking for.

Aside from the pleasure of the act itself of course. And he was back to 'too easy.' With Spike's mouth against his, Spike's hand in his hair -- the hand that wasn't holding the mug with the logo that ordered him to do what he was, in fact, doing -- Giles had almost forgotten what they were *supposed* to be doing. Getting ready to leave, unless Spike was just planning to drive him mad all day by reminding him he should go into the shop, then distracting him from doing so.

More reluctantly than he cared to admit, Giles broke away, and smiled wryly. "No time like the present, yes. As to a blanket, I believe most of them are packed in that box by the counter." Leaving Spike with a slightly befuddled look on his face, he headed to the bathroom to shower and get ready himself.

*****
Part 2:

He dropped Spike off near the front door, and watched him rush, smoking, inside. Giles still marveled at how -- or why -- Spike had the courage to do that. Walk about in semi-broad daylight when most vampires hadn't the stones, or perhaps had too much intelligence, to try it. One of these days, there was going to be a locked door, or a spot of shade that wasn't where Spike remembered it was, and then where would he be?

After parking, and waiting a few moments (Because God forbid they show up together at the same time, and was he really thinking like a sixteen year old who didn't want his parents realizing he'd been knocking about with the rough boy from down the street? Rubbish. He'd *been* the rough boy from down the street.) Giles followed. The shop bell sounded into a rather silent room.

"Good morning," he said, looking between Anya, Xander and Spike and wondering what he was walking in on. He moved over to his desk, where he'd been working on the books for the last couple of days.

"Fancy meeting you here," Spike said, deadpan.

"I was under the impression that I work here," he answered, just as dryly. "That gives at least one of us a reason for being here."

Anya looked up at him. "Spike said he passed you outside, and you looked perplexed. Why did you look perplexed? Perplexed is almost always bad."

"Really." He shot Spike a brief look which had no effect on the slightly smirking vampire. "I'm not sure where he'd got that idea, because I wouldn't describe my mood as perplexed. Quite the contrary. I've finally come to a decision that I've been wrestling with for some time."

Anya's face lit up. "You're finally going back to England?"

"Anya!" Xander put a hand on her arm, then looked at Giles. "Really, she doesn't mean it the way it sounds."

"Yes, I do. I mean it to sound like I'm happy he's really leaving after worrying about it for so long. Not just because it means I'll be in charge. Finally." She turned her smile from Xander back to Giles. "I'm glad you decided you could trust me with our business." She did, indeed, look in addition to her misplaced joy, rather proud. He almost hated to rain on her parade.

"I do trust you, Anya, really," he assured her. "You've a genuine talent for this kind of work." He took a deep breath, steeling himself for her reaction to his next words. "But I'm not leaving."

Xander's face, always made of rubber, moved so quickly through a series of expressions that it was hard to pick them out - shock, worry, disbelief? - much less guess what thoughts they might be prompted by.

Anya, on the other hand, laughed. Actually, she giggled, for rather a long time. When she finally caught her breath, Anya stood up, walked over, and punched Giles lightly on the arm. "And Xander thinks I have no sense of humor just because I thought his joke about the three nuns and the vending machine repair man wasn't funny."

Xander was looking...perplexed, as if he didn't get *this* joke, but he took the time to mutter, "You said you thought it was funny. You laughed. You laughed in the wrong place, but you laughed." He looked at Giles. "You're not kidding, are you?"

"I'm not joking. I'm staying, here, in Sunnydale." Giles braced himself.

Anya looked less sure of herself, though she still wasn't exploding at him, as he'd feared. "You *have* to be joking."

"I think he's serious, hon." Giles couldn't tell if Xander was unhappy, or relieved -- the tone of his voice said one thing, the look his face had finally settled on, another.

"I know that. That was the kind of 'you have to be joking' where you know they're not, but it's more polite than saying, 'Are you out of your freaking mind?'" There was the fluster, not quite out of control yet, Anya looking nervously back and forth between Giles and Xander.

Giles continued doggedly onward. "You will of course still be a partner in the store-"

"See?" Xander put his hand on Anya's arm again. She shook it off. "It's not like you're losing anything, Anya. We're just..." Xander looked up at him confusedly, apparently torn between pacifying his girlfriend and trying to make Giles feel...what -- welcome in his own shop? "keeping Giles."

She shook her head sharply. "Because he doesn't trust me." Rounding on Giles she pointed a finger. "This is about the statues of Erishkegal, isn't it. Just because I bought one little shipment of cursed icons, you think I can't run the store by myself."

"No, it's not. I told you that I trust you, Anya. That has nothing to do with--"

"Xander, make him leave, so I can show him how well I can get along without him!" She stared at Xander as if he really had the power to do something about the situation. She also sounded, beneath the waspishness, truly hurt.

"Anya..." Giles walked over and rested his hands on her shoulders. "I *do* trust you and I'm absolutely certain you would do a wonderful job running the shop by yourself. My decision to stay has nothing to do with that." Out of the corner of his eye he could see Spike watching them, his expression curiously blank. Shouldn't he be grinning happily, nay, demonically? If indeed he'd come along to enjoy the fireworks, he didn't seem to be getting off on them the way he'd said he would.

Anya looked at Giles warily. Unsure if she should trust *him*, it seemed. Lower lip slightly extended, not in a pout, but in the typical brow-furrowed confusion of a worried child. For a moment, he could see her as she must have looked a thousand years ago, a straggle-haired urchin in brown homespun, tugging at someone's hem less for attention than for confirmation that things were going to be all right. He couldn't guarantee her that, unfortunately. Couldn't guarantee any of them that, himself least of all.

"I highly doubt that I could've run the store for this long without you," he said, trying to give her what reassurance he could. "And I am certain I wouldn't want to try. I still need your help, Anya."

"Yes, but.." She looked doubtfully at Xander, who shook his head quickly. Whatever private communication went on between them, Giles couldn't read, but after a second, Anya turned back to him. "It's not that I don't *want* you to stay," she began. "I didn't want you to go in the first place, but then you said you had to, and told me how good I'd be at being in charge, and I believed you, but then you kept not going. And now you say you're staying, but what if tomorrow you decide not to again?"

She raised both hands in a 'give me something here...' gesture.

"What if we get all used to having you here, and thinking we can depend on you, and you change your mind again? It's like the boy who cried wolf. Sooner or later you're going to go, and the sheep are going to eat us."

"Ahn, that's not exactly the way the story goes..." Xander started to tell her.

Giles was trying to think of some way to reassure her, when he caught sight of Spike's face. The vampire was leaning against the counter, immeasurably distant from the small group standing in the middle of the room. The blank look was gone, and in its place was something so similar to what he'd imagined while looking past the adult woman to the iron-age child, that it made Giles' breath catch in his throat.

Not that Spike looked like a child - it was just the sheer open uncertainty and fear on that face, that was usually twisted in a smirk or a scowl. He hadn't come for the fireworks. Giles searched for something he could say, something he can promise to make that look go away. The memory of words from the night before gave him the answer. "I promise I won't leave as long as I'm needed here."

There was something, just for a second. A tiny flash of something that might have been relief, or determination to hold him to his word, or some completely alien emotion that only another demon could hope to understand, and Anya had her back turned to Spike, so she'd be no help in interpreting it even if Giles were insane enough to ask her. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, and Spike was curling his lip. Playing at being amused.

"Well, I know I'm relieved. Otherwise, who'd go all anal-retentive on me and tell me not to light up in the shop?" Spike fished in his jacket, presumably for his lighter.

"I would," Xander and Anya both replied at once.

"We'll take it in turns," Giles said, sending a half-smile Spike's way.

Spike rolled his eyes, but didn't pull the lighter out of his pocket.

Xander was the first to back away from the little knot they'd formed, drawn together by some unconscious gravity, then finally freed of its pull. He shot a brief glance at Spike, then another one, the couples-only sort, at Anya, who seemed like she still wanted to say something. She frowned, but nodded, and walked silently over to the cash register.

"So, have you talked to Willow and Tara yet?" Xander asked.

"Not yet." Giles headed back over towards his desk. "Given our business arrangements, I felt I should tell Anya first."

"Sure you want to follow it up by telling the Wiccas?" Spike asked, crossing his arms and smirking. "Another heartwarming reception like this one might send you into a diabetic coma."

Xander turned on him. "Is there an actual reason why you're here? Besides the annoying undead comedy hour, I mean."

Anya reached over the counter and tugged at his sleeve. "Xander? We actually *wanted* to see him, remember? To ask him if he'd do the thing."

Spike raised an eyebrow. "The Thing? If this involves watching cheesy horror flicks... actually, yeah, sounds good. I'm in. Long as I get to laugh when the hero gets eaten."

Xander blinked at Anya for a second, then comprehension bloomed. He turned to Spike. "The babysitting thing, Blood Breath. As in watching Dawn, Which means *no* cheesy horror movies."

The sneer that would normally have coloured Spike's voice was mild, when he answered. "She's fifteen, Harris, not five. In case you haven't noticed, her *life's* a cheesy horror movie."

"But you'll do it? Stay with Dawn tonight?" Anya sounded worried, as if Spike hadn't done so every time they'd asked him to, since Buffy's death. He'd volunteered more than once, actually, Giles realized. It wasn't something he would've ever expected of the vampire -- at least not before this summer. Now, it seemed...normal. Expected. They were all protective of Dawn, but none of them more so than Spike.

Who looked rather insulted that Anya needed to confirm it. "Like I have anything better to do?"

Unbidden, the memory of what they'd done the night before flashed through Giles' mind, and he had to fight to keep his expression composed. He carefully didn't look at the vampire, knowing that he would let...something show if he did.

"Obviously not, if you're hanging around here in the middle of the day," Xander answered immediately. "What *did* you brave the tanning rays for? Here you see me showing appreciation, but I assume you didn't show up here on the off-chance that we'd ask you if you wanted to make three-fifty an hour plus all the cookie dough you can eat."

Spike was nonplused for a second, obviously expecting the confusion of Giles' announcement to have wiped any questions about his presence from their minds. "Burba weed," he said finally, a bit gruffly.

"Huh?" from Xander. "Was that English?"

Anya perked up. "You came to *buy* something?"

Giles was beginning to worry about how familiar -- and comfortable -- that sarcastic snort of Spike's was becoming. "No, I came to watch you lot get all fussed about whatever had Giles in a twist, and shoplift some when you weren't looking." His expression grew calculating. "But I'll be happy to take it in trade for my three fifty an hour."

"You weren't going to *get* three fifty an hour," Anya responded immediately. "What do you want Burba weed for, anyway? It's only good for wart removal and cramps, neither of which I assume you have." She looked him up and down. "Well, you might have warts, I suppose. Just none that I can see."

"I don't have warts." Spike winked at her. "Though if you want to check me out to make sure, you're always welcome."

He had to have known Xander would bristle like a wild boar, and glare at him like he was one step away from seeing if Burba root could be sharpened and used as a stake. Spike got off on it, Giles realized. Or, he amended, as just for a moment, the smugness of Spike's grin threatened to soften into a smile -- it gave him comfort. One thing stable and familiar, in a world gone mad.

Cool again, Spike looked Xander in the face. "Oh, calm down, Harris. I'd let you watch." To Anya he said, "Seasoning, love. Just seasoning. Makes the bagged blood taste better."

"Ever the gourmet," Giles said dryly. He was, surprisingly, enjoying watching Spike wind the others up, and for much the same reason -- a glimpse of something like normality.

"I dunno that there's anything gourmet about making crap taste like ginger-flavoured crap, but if you're allowed to do it with non-dairy creamer, I'm not ashamed to grind a little Burba root in my blood."

Anya nodded sympathetically. "I do understand. It's a big change, not being able to eat the things you like best. I used to love a good boiled Cartarrhka Grub, but these days, I just don't have the digestive system for it." She smiled generously, heedless of Xander's bilious expression. "You can have all the Burba root you like, Spike."

Spike blinked at her. "Really?"

She nodded. "For three dollars a pound."

"Thank you, Lady Bountiful." Spike reached in his pocket, then pulled out his empty hand. "I'll just pop back in when I win the lottery, then." He managed to sound, somehow, both righteously aggrieved that she hadn't handed over free inventory, and completely innocent despite the fact that he'd baldly admitted to intending to shoplift the stuff. He grabbed the dark blue blanket from the counter behind him, and wrapped it around himself, then started for the door in a dignified huff.

Spike had one foot poised to step out into the sunlight, when Anya called, "Don't forget you're Dawnsitting tonight!"

"Not about to. Least she gives me cookie dough." Spike wrapped the blanket tighter around him, and rushed out into the sunlight, heading for the nearest patch of shade. Giles peered around the doorframe after a moment to see Spike crouching in the shadow of the car.

Anya walked over and shut the door with a jingle of bells. "I don't know what he's so huffy about. I was going to give it to him at employee discount."

Giles looked over at her. "We have an employee discount?" He wasn't sure if he was more surprised at Anya offering a reduced price or the concept of Spike as an employee.

She nodded. "Staff don't get charged for wrapping."

"Of course." He smiled, and for the first time in a while, felt sure he meant it.

******

The night felt different somehow. It was more real, the darkness almost a palpable feeling against his skin. He took a deep breath and held it in his lungs for a moment before letting it go. Giles hadn't realized how much he had shut down as he had struggled with leaving. Now that he had decided to stay it was like nerve endings that had been asleep were coming tingling awake.

Three cemeteries, and there'd only been a single vampire, buried this morning, rising at dusk. Nothing like the gang they'd had to fight last night. Nothing that required Willow playing lookout and shouting directions into their minds. Tonight's one vamp had been dispatched by a single strike of the Buffybot's arm, without the rest of them doing more than standing about and watching for a sire or gang who might be showing up to welcome the fledgling creature.

There was nothing, and still, he felt as if he'd done more than last night, just by being here. Being completely here, in mind and body.

"Quiet night," Xander remarked as they finished the last sweep.

"Yeah," Willow agreed. "We could probably even let the Buffybot finish on her own."

Giles looked up at her, and found himself oddly disappointed. "Are you sure? Not that I don't trust your skills with reprogramming it--"

Willow gave him a look, then nodded her head towards the Bot, as if it would be insulted by hearing him imply that it was...what it was. An object. But she had a point -- it had to think of itself as Buffy, if it was to act like Buffy.

"With training her," he corrected himself. "But is she ready to be trusted on her own?"

"We've sent her out alone before," Willow answered, her voice tinged with defensiveness. She almost sounded angry with him, and Giles had to look closely at her, wondering if there wasn't something else.

She and Tara had both smiled and hugged him, when he'd told them he was staying; nothing like Anya's initial reaction. But there'd been a certain strain, something he'd sensed from all of them tonight, even as he'd been breathing the invigorating charge in the air. It was like a flicker against that energy. Crosswise, like lightning about to strike, but never quite building up enough electricity to finally *do* it.

"Yes, of course we've sent her out before... but only on test runs, with us following, ready to assist if anything went wrong." Giles held up a hand to still Willow's protest. "But this seems like as good a night to try it as any; you're right."

"We have to do it eventually," Willow pointed out, tone slightly mollified now that he'd agreed with her. "Besides none of us have had a night off for weeks." She smiled at him suddenly. "And I'm sure you have lots of unpacking to do."

"Well, I-"

"Great," she cut him off, smile widening. "Then it's settled. We let the Buffybot finish patrolling on her own, while the rest of us get to go and pretend we have lives for a night."

"In other words, go home and study," Tara said with a small smile.

"And let Spike off the Dawnsitting hook," Willow added.

"Right, because *he's* got a life to pretend to have," Xander snorted.

Giles refrained from pointing out that Spike might, in fact, have a life to pretend to have, since it would imply that he'd spent time considering the subject. Instead, he let them go. Watched the younger ones walk off in the direction of Xander's car, of Buffy's home, and turned around to return to his own. He did have a lot of unpacking to do, truthfully. And Spike did have a life to pretend to have. The two might even coincide.

At the edge of the cemetery he looked back, to see a lone figure still standing, staring at a grave a few yards over from where the vampire had risen. Small. Slim. Long blonde hair, and a stance, one hip cocked, that almost, almost looked right. Willow had been fiddling. Improving. From this far away, if he squinted, he could almost believe.

Giles turned away, and walked in the direction of his flat. He didn't want to pretend. Not for himself. For the world outside, yes. But not for himself.

Not that there hadn't been moments when he'd wanted to pretend so badly it hurt. Wanted it as much to prove he still had a purpose as to alleviate his guilt and grief. Buffy had been the reason he'd come here in the first place, and the reason he'd always given himself for staying. There'd been moments he'd needed to pretend, so he could stay just a little longer. Time that he needed to decide if leaving was what he truly wanted to do.

Now that he knew it wasn't, there was no need to pretend. No excuse, more importantly. And a sharp-voiced vampire who Giles sincerely doubted would allow him to do so, if he did give in.

Spike hadn't let him lie to himself, or to Spike, last night, and there wasn't much chance that would change. He walked all the way to his flat without looking back, now matter how hard he wanted to see that small figure, receding into the darkness.

The piles of boxes that confronted him when he entered were enough to drive pretty much all other thought from his mind. Facing the mess that was his flat drove home how daunting a task getting it livable again was going to be. It was almost -- he thought as he opened a box of linens and stared at the contents, trying to remember how long it had been since he'd actually *used* any of them -- a sort of penance, for living in indecision for so long.

Looking at sheets, folded neatly away, reminded him. Brought back the knowledge that for the first time in too long, he needed to change the ones on his bed for some other reason than laundry day. At least, then, unpacking this box had a practical purpose, beyond just making the place look like home again. He went about the business of putting things into place, including the changing of sheets, though he suspected they were likely to need changing again in the morning.

There was something soothing about all of this. It was a physical reinforcement of his decision to stay. A metaphor, as pretentious as he felt in naming it such, for what he hoped to do with his heart and soul, his life in general. He lost himself in the act of unpacking and tidying, time passing without his really noticing.

It was only when he stood up from emptying the last box of baking pans and trays into the cupboard under the sink, that his aching back made him question how long he'd been at it. A glance at the clock made him blink several times, and take off his glasses just to be sure; it hadn't seemed like two hours had passed.

It was almost pathetic, but not quite, that his next thought was, 'I wonder what's keeping Spike.' It wasn't as if they'd made some sort of date for tonight, or Spike was indeed planning to rent a trailer and arrive at the doorstep with whatever meager possessions the vampire had. But Giles had, somehow, been expecting him. That Spike would be here tonight, would be here every night for the foreseeable future, seemed almost accepted in his mind, without ever having been examined.

Briefly he wondered if perhaps he'd made a wrong assumption about Spike's plans for the night. After all, the others had headed home two hours ago, and he couldn't picture Spike hanging about the Summers house after Willow and Tara had returned. He might not have anything against them, but his very Spike-ness would make it unlikely that he'd stay for tea and a round of Monopoly with the girls. So where was he?

All the reasons someone might be delayed walking at night in Sunnydale flashed through his mind. Of course, Spike was more than capable of taking care of himself, but even the best of them could be taken by surprise. Giles stared at the door, wondering if maybe he should go out and look. Spike would look at him like he was an idiot, though, if he came across the vampire on his way over after stopping off for a beer. He'd seem at best a fool, at worst...

But at worst, what was he? A man who'd already admitted he needed Spike as much as Spike needed him. For an anchor, a reason to stay. A reason to be what he was needed to be. He stood up, and walked toward the door.

Just as he was reaching for the door knob, the door opened and he found himself face to face with Spike -- who looked just as startled as he.

*****