CHAPTER 12

Spike looked up from the day’s sales figures as he heard the Magic Box’s rear door opening. The Slayer was early tonight; he usually tried to be downstairs before she came by to train. Less bother for her that way – and less for him to think about, too.

To his surprise, she came straight over to the counter, where he was working. She wasn’t dressed for training, he noticed. She looked wary, almost unsure of herself – not an expression he was used to seeing on the Slayer.

“We – Dawn and I – were wondering if you were doing anything tonight, Spike.”

He blinked. “Niblet need a sitter? I’d’ve thought she was getting a bit old for that now she’s out fighting the good fight an’ all.”

She smiled. “No, nothing like that. We’re having a party for Giles. He goes back to England tomorrow, you know.”

“So you need someone to take patrol tonight then? I can do that.”

She looked at her hands, then back at him. “Actually, we wondered whether you’d like to come to the party.”

He froze, then slowly nodded, his mind still churning over the invitation. The last time he’d been in her house, he’d – his mind shied away from the terrible memories. He’d not looked to be included in a Scooby event like this.

She turned and walked to the door. Looking back at him, she smiled briefly, more relaxed now that the invitation had been issued and accepted. “Come at eight o’clock,” she added. “Don’t be late. Anya’s promised to distract Giles with the accounts so we can all surprise him.”

Spike stifled a grin. He’d wager the accounts were going to be far from Anya’s and Giles’s minds this evening – but he couldn’t fault the demon’s idea of a distraction.

His mind veered away from the meaning of the invitation. They’d invited him because of Giles, he told himself. No reason to get his hopes up now.

***

Spike stood nervously on the porch of the Summers’ home and rang the bell. Dawn opened the door, looking very grown up in a dark red skirt and matching top.

“Hey, Spike,” she said, opening the door wide.

He waited.

Dawn frowned. “It may not be cold for a vampire, but those of us with circulation prefer to keep the warm air inside the house.”

She was going to make him say it. Just as he opened his mouth, Buffy breezed into the hallway. She wore a lacy white blouse and tight black pants.

“Spike. Why are you still outside? They could be here any minute.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s not enough, Slayer. You have to say the words.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, clearly puzzled. Had she forgotten so soon?

“The invitation,” he clarified. “It has to be explicit.”

Buffy’s mouth formed an ‘O’ as she realised what he meant. She reached out a hand towards him, then pulled it back as though she had touched a flame. Spike realised he had done the same, flinching away from her touch.

“I never disinvited you, Spike.”

She opened the door wider, stepping back to allow him to pass. With a sense of wonder and privilege, he entered her home.

Looking at him with eyes more compassionate than he had ever seen them, she explained. “Maybe you weren’t always welcome, but I realised – after you left – that I could trust you. That I did trust you, even. There were so many things – so many times when you could have – I knew that you’d never want to hurt me – to hurt any of us. It never occurred to me to get someone to do that spell.” She paused, considering. “Not that there really was anyone to do it, anyway. Everything happened so quickly after you left. Suddenly Willow was gone, and Tara was dead. I guess I could have asked Giles or Anya, but Giles was so busy looking after Willow, and Anya – it took me a while to work out how to deal with Anya. You know, now that she’s a demon and all.”

“Same way as always, Slayer,” he replied earnestly. “Just because she’s a demon again, doesn’t mean she’s a different person.”

She looked at him steadily. “I’m starting to get that.”

“Quick! They’re here!” Dawn hurried them both into the darkened living room, where Willow and Xander had already taken up position. A couple of minutes later, they were getting restless.

“I’m sure that was Giles’s car,” said Dawn, moving towards the window. Spike was faster, protecting his friends’ privacy with a quick glance that showed him exactly what was causing the delay.

“It looks like Anya’s worried about locking the ledgers in the boot,” he said, hoping that none of the Scoobies would ask why the books had caused the car’s windows to fog up. “The prospect of Tax time makes her nervous, even in October.”

“Ssssssshhhhhhhhhhhh!” hissed Willow, as she heard the two pairs of footsteps approaching the house. They all fell silent, apart from Buffy and Dawn, who commenced a noisy conversation about Dawn’s English homework.

“Surprise!” they all yelled as Giles entered the living room. He took an instinctive step back before pasting a smile onto his face. Spike met his eyes, shaking his head with a hint of a shrug. “Wasn’t my idea,” he muttered when he got the chance.

The Watcher grinned. “I never thought it was. It’s good to see you here, Spike.”

 “Makes it easier to keep an eye on things here,” Spike agreed.

Giles frowned. “That wasn’t precisely what I meant.”

Spike nodded once, not trusting his voice. To the Scoobies, an invitation was just that, but to Spike, it signified hope. That he might one day be accepted, even trusted, by them; that, one day, they might call him their friend. Hope that – just maybe – no sin was truly unforgiveable.

***

The party was – well, Spike had seen more interesting parties in morgues. Willow wasn’t saying much, preferring to huddle in a large armchair, so he spent most of the evening talking to Anya. She, of course, was trying to avoid Xander, who was single-handedly demolishing the chip’n’dip platter, and pretending that she wasn’t watching Giles.

Giles, in turn, chatted easily with Buffy, Xander, Dawn and Willow, and if his eyes followed Anya it was subtle enough that none of them noticed. Dawn made sure that everyone’s glasses were kept filled, while Buffy circulated nervously with plates of food, watching Xander and Spike warily, as though she were afraid they might start brawling underneath the “Bon Voyage Giles” poster hanging above the staircase.

Dawn spent most of the evening chatting to Xander; it kept her out of the living room, where Willow was sitting. Occasionally, she smiled at Spike and Anya, but clearly knew better than to take Xander over to join in their conversation. Spike had noticed she was avoiding Willow’s company; it wasn’t that hard, as the erstwhile witch seemed reluctant to make the first move in starting a conversation with any of her friends.

When it was time for him to go, Spike nodded a farewell to the guest of honour, who was still trying valiantly not to be too obvious in his attentions to Anya. Willow asked if he’d mind walking her home, which suited his purposes nicely. Anya had confessed quietly that the witch still unnerved her; for his part, Spike was pleased with Willow’s progress, although he worried that the lesson she’d learnt about magic still wasn’t the one Tara had wanted her to understand. He hoped he might be able to encourage her to open up a little. She seemed more solitary than he remembered.

Buffy was in the hallway as they left. She smiled as Spike reached for his jacket. “G’night, Spike. It was … nice … that you came.” She reached up and gently kissed his cheek.

Her kiss was benediction, promise and absolution. It awakened repressed yearnings and brought back memories in which he longed to lose himself. It spoke of what had been and what might yet – despite everything that lay between them – come to be.

It terrified him.

***

“What was that all about?” asked Willow, curious.

“What was what about?” Spike countered, marshalling his thoughts.

Willow rolled her eyes. “Hello? You and Buffy, making with the smoochy faces? Or should I ask Buffy?”

Spike shrugged. “Wish I knew, pet. Ask her if you like, but I doubt she’ll tell you anything.” He smiled wryly. “If truth be told, I doubt she knows it herself.”

Willow’s struggle to restrain her smirk at this apt description of her friend was heroic but doomed to early failure. Spike’s grin echoed hers, and they shared a look that spoke of their deep affection for Buffy and of their growing rapport with each other.

Spike draped an arm companionably about Willow’s shoulders. “You seem to be pretty settled now,” he said. “Finding it a bit tougher than you’d expected?”

“I don’t know about tougher,” Willow replied. “It’s all so different now. I’m starting to feel more settle-y, but I still feel like an outsider. It’s like they’ll never stop waiting for me to mess things up again.”

She stopped, seeing the look on Spike’s face. “I guess you do know what I mean.”

Empathy again. No wonder the living slept so much more than vampires; all these emotions were exhausting. He’d enjoyed the benefits of that in the past, watching Buffy at rest in the aftermath of their loving, on the rare occasions that she had let herself relax that much in his company. Even so, he would have felt better if Willow’s regret had extended to what she did, rather than simply its effect on her social life.

At a noise ahead, Spike thrust Willow behind him. Catlike, he moved silently, like the predator he had been. A pair of the slime-covered Grshnit stood, chittering to one another as they surveyed the street. As Spike approached, they turned and lumbered away.

“Aren’t you going to follow them?” asked Willow.

“Not tonight,” replied Spike. “It looked like they were either getting to know the place or sightseeing. Wish I’d had Clem along tonight, though.”

Willow frowned. “I could be helpful. Just because my magic’s blocked, doesn’t mean I’m no use any more.”

Spike suppressed a grin at the thought of the petite Willow going hand-to-hand with a hulking Grshnit demon.

“It’s not that, love. Apparently the Big Slimes speak some form of Akkadian. Clem’s my translator.”

Willow looked a little mollified. “I know – knew – a spell that could make you understand them too. If only I –”

“Clem’s plenty,” confirmed Spike. “Ten to one they were just trying to work out where to find the bowling alley.”

***

Anya surreptitiously wiped her eyes as Buffy entered the Magic Box. She and Giles had said their goodbyes the night before (several times, in fact). After a hearty breakfast, Anya had teleported herself to the Magic Box in time to open up, while Giles had headed for the hotel foyer, where Xander, Buffy and Willow were waiting to take him to the airport.

“Is everything okay?” asked Buffy, eyeing Anya nervously. It seemed even vengeance demons weren’t immune to tell-tale pink noses and puffy eyes.

Anya sniffed. “I miss Giles.”

Buffy frowned, puzzled. “He’ll be back in under two weeks, Anya. It was supposed to be three, but he said something had come up and he needed to be back sooner.” She paused. “He said Spike was doing some research for him.”

“That’s correct,” Anya confirmed. “As well as being the Magic Box’s inaugural Employee of the Month, Spike’s talents extend to research also.” She thought for a moment. “And sex, of course, although obviously you know more about that than I do.”

Buffy blushed, uncomfortable with the conversation’s new direction and distracted from the awkward question of just why Anya missed Giles so.

“How can I help you today?” asked Anya, attempting a return to her usual more perky state.

Buffy shrugged. “Actually, I was looking for Spike. He helped me train the other night, and I wondered whether he might be up for another round or two.”

“Can’t help you there,” replied Anya, gesturing to three book-shaped parcels that sat on the counter, topped by a lavender-coloured envelope. “I haven’t seen him. I think he went out early.”

Buffy moved surreptitiously closer to the envelope, curious about its contents, but Anya was quicker. “Oh no you don’t,” she admonished. “That’s Spike’s, and it’s personal.”

“How personal?” asked Buffy, and clearly wished she hadn’t. “And how would you know anyway? Spike doesn’t know anyone except us.”

Anya looked a little abashed at the reminder that she had been snooping. “That’s what you think,” she replied. “Maybe you don’t know Spike quite as well as you thought you did.”

The basement door swung open.

“Are my ears bleeding, or are you taking my name in vain again, pet?” asked Spike as he entered the Magic Box. He stopped. “Oh. Hello, Buffy.”

“Spike. I wondered whether --”

“You’ve got mail,” Anya announced, gesturing to the parcels. Spike glanced briefly at the mailing labels, then saw the envelope. A strange look on his face, he picked it up and turned it over, looking closely at both sides, before he carefully slit one edge of the envelope to reveal three sheets of closely-written notepaper (not that anyone else was looking). He stared at them as if transfixed.

“Is it from Nancy?” asked Anya eagerly, pulling Spike abruptly from his reverie. He nodded, then turned and hurried downstairs, gripping the papers tightly. The two women watched him go.

“Who’s Nancy?” asked Buffy with a frown – was that a hint of jealousy in her voice? The demon powers of scorned-woman-sensing said a big yes. Anya smiled to herself – if Spike could be persuaded to stay in Sunnydale (and who better than Buffy to do that?) then she wouldn’t lose her friend and employee. She made a mental note to discuss the possibilities with Giles.

“Anya? Are you okay?”

With an effort, Anya pulled herself from the rather delicious fantasy of where on Giles’ body she might make non-mental notes – preferably with whipped cream or melted chocolate.

“I’m fine. And if you want to know about Nancy, you need to ask Spike. Giles and I only met her once, when Spike invited us to join them for dinner.”

Buffy’s eyes widened, and she mumbled something unintelligible before turning and hurrying from the shop. Anya smiled and returned to her whipped cream.

***

Spike turned on a reading lamp and set Nancy’s letter down beside it, before carefully warming a mug – no, the occasion called for a long-stemmed glass – of blood and settling himself on the sofa. He’d had letters before, when he was alive – and even some since then – generally brief notes detailing a rendezvous, and of course Clem’s carefully constructed Stories from Sunnydale – but never like this. Never from someone who cared. Never from family.

Cursing himself for an overemotional git, he took a long sip of blood then picked up the letter.

Dear Uncle Will,

I trust that this letter will find you in good health, and settled in Sunnydale. How is your little witch settling in, I wonder. I do hope that her friends are helping her recovery, and not devoting too much of their time and energy to punishing her.

My life is, naturally, not nearly as exciting as I’m sure yours is. (Do I call it that, by the way? Or should I say ‘existence’? ‘Your death’ seems to me to refer to the moment of mortality, rather than your ongoing existence). I went on an outing to Windsor Castle last week, with my Senior Citizens’ group. You would have laughed – the guide told us more and more outrageous ghost stories (horror stories, I suppose – there were several vampires and at least three werewolves), and of course my fellow Snr. Cits. didn’t believe a word of any of them. Oh, the stories I could have told them – but I kept mum of course. I don’t want to be locked up for losing my mind before my time.

I had afternoon tea with Richard, Sarah and the children today. They were all asking after you – I imagine you may experience quite a deluge of letters in the next few days!

Spike paused here, relishing the feeling of belonging and of feeling part of something – a family – again. Nancy reminded him of Joyce, he realised – not physically, but emotionally, in the way she made him feel accepted.

He returned to the letter.

It seems young Hamish has a new, apparently macabre but in truth rather touching hobby. Every Saturday after football practice, he has his parents drop him at St Margaret’s for an hour or so, to take care of your grave. He has even bought seedlings with his pocket money, so it’s now a carpet of red and white (“For Man. U., he explained when I asked him).

Young Emily told me she heard one of his friends quiz him about it after school one day, and he simply replied, “Don’t want him coming back to find it a mess.” Of course, the other boy thought he was joking. Richard has promised to send you a photograph.

I see Rupert is due back any day now. He’s promised to let me tag along the next time he goes to the British Museum. I’m quite absurdly excited by the prospect of seeing parts of the Closed Collection. To think that so many things one reads about in novels actually exist and are held there! It quite boggles my mind.

Take care of yourself, my dear. I look forward to hearing how you are going on. Do give my regards to Rupert when you see him, and of course to dear Anya as well. (I’m an inveterate old matchmaker, I know, but they do make such a lovely couple.) As for the rest of your friends, I leave them to you.

With love,

Your affectionate niece,

Nancy Carmichael.

Spike turned the letter over in his hands, smiling to himself. ‘Inveterate matchmaker’ indeed. His own letter should reach her in a day or so – he hoped it would bring her the sort of pleasure her letter had brought him! He suspected at least one piece of news would make her smile.

Re-folding the letter carefully, he slid it back into its envelope, and sat it on the dresser in his bedroom.