Mike's suggestion the Council buy the house proved one of the few high points of Buffy's week If he was an exception to the tweedy types she'd to dealt with in the past, Hollis, the housing representative, proved the stereotype. As condescending as Travers at his best, he sniffed at a number of features, pointed out that the Hellmouth depressed property values and questioned whether the house was truly central to the areas the team would be concerned with. If Mike hadn't accompanied him (to protect his interests, he said), Buffy might have been tempted to strangle the man.

Mike's assurances Giles would make certain a fair offer was extended saved Hollis from doom, but then Xander dropped by during his lunch break to see how things were going and it was suddenly Mike who was on edge. There seemed no obvious reason the for the instant hostility until a chance remark reminded Buffy that Mike counted Spike as a friend. She had to wonder what tales Spike might have told about his days in Sunnydale.

She'd told Xander the news about Dawn and Oxford and he'd proved appropriately sympathetic...until he learned Spike was checking some details for her. "I can't believe you actually spoke to him. He'll just see it as an opportunity to try to worm his way back into your life."

Buffy thought of the reticence in Spike's voice when they'd talked, how quickly he'd suggested taking a message for Giles once he'd learned there was no immediate danger. If Spike still held grudges, he clearly wasn't the only one. She quickly changed the subject.

When Spike did call with further information as he had promised (thankfully after Xander had left), it wasn't encouraging. "It's a legitimate grant, one of five available to graduate students who have at least one family member employed by the Council. As much as it pains me to admit it, the grant's a good one...and she'd likely be serving her internship in Research, not the field. Once she's gotten the degree, nothing ties her to the Council."

She could hear worry in his voice, as if he still had doubts despite his findings. "Sounds too good to be true."

"Doesn't it? I also discovered that this is the first time the grant's been given to anyone related to the Slayer...and there are a few folk around here who were counting on it for their sprog. The grant list was just posted earlier this week, and it's apparently ruffled one or two feathers."

"But nothing where I could say to Dawn 'It's a bad idea because of this.'"

A long pause. "Afraid not. I'm sorry, Buffy. Look, Giles and Anya have some room, a flat in the back of their property and I'm sure that if you asked, they'd let Dawn use it when she's in London."

It wasn't the greatest alternative, but it was something to reassure her Dawn wouldn't be completely alone. "I'll ask him, thanks. Do you still want to talk to her this weekend?"

He said he would if she thought it might help and they set a time when Buffy could ensure Dawn didn't have the excuse of needing to run off somewhere to avoid the discussion. That was one trait the monks had made sure the sisters shared: avoidance. They'd both gotten better over the years, but there were still times.

By eight o'clock Saturday night, Buffy wished the monks hadn't included stubbornness in the package. "This isn't some idle whim, Buffy. You should see the grant application I had to prepare."

"I'm not saying it's idle. I'm just saying that maybe you shouldn't accept it so quickly; I mean, there's always the possibility you might get some others and those might be even better." Buffy was settled on the couch, watching her sister pace the living room. Why did this feel like the argument she'd had with Joyce when she'd announced her decision to attend UC Sunnydale instead of Northwestern? You shouldn't give up the idea so quickly. Maybe Faith will come around or Giles will work something out.

"I did receive other grants and I was accepted in the Masters Program at Berkley, Harvard, Columbia and Bowling Green. I want to do this one."

Buffy didn't know how to reply. She'd spent a fair amount of energy over the years attempting to keep Dawn as far from the Council of Watchers as possible, never fully trusting what their intentions toward the Key. Didn't matter that there'd been no sign of Dawn possessing any power since Glory, it was the fact that Buffy could never be sure Travers wouldn't try something. In the end, all she could do was ask, "Why?"

"Because..." Dawn sighed as she settled on the edge of the old woven wicker chair. "Because there are still so many things about me and where I came from that I don't understand. I know you want me to have a normal life, but I'm not 'normal.' There's this power inside me, even if it's dormant. Was opening the portal for Glory the only thing I was supposed to do, or will my blood open gates every time there's a certain conjunction? How often do these conjunctions happen? I don't know anywhere else I can find out."

She looked down at the floor for a long moment, then looked back up. "I know it's not what you want for me, but it's what I want for myself."

Buffy was grateful when the phone rang, allowing her to escape the conversation, even if only for a moment. "Summers residence."

"Hello, Buffy. Have my arguments marshaled and I'm ready to face Dawn...or talk to her, anyway."

"I don't think it'll help," she said, surprised at the fact she was glad to hear Spike's voice. "Dawn's made it clear she's pretty determined to do this."

"And Summers women are nothing if not stubborn, just like your mum." A sigh. "Can I speak with her anyway? Want to make certain she understands a few things about university life and what she can expect from the internship."

Even if Dawn was set on this course, Buffy figured it couldn't hurt and there was the remote possibility something Spike said might possibly have an effect.

Surprise did not describe Dawn's expression when she heard Spike was on the line. She took the phone, but her eyes were firmly on Buffy as she said, "Spike? Yes, I'm fine. A little surprised you called me here."

Buffy retreated to the dining room. The invitations needed to go to the calligrapher on Monday and it wouldn't hurt to check the list one more time, make sure the additional names Kevin had given her were there.

The work was soothingly distracting, keeping her from trying to hear Dawn's half of the conversation. Invitations, fittings, moving preparations; that was what she needed to concentrate on. There were moments, though, when her thoughts betrayed her, wondering what they might be discussing.

After what seemed a very long time, Dawn walked into the dining room, phone in hand. "He wants to talk to you," she said, her face unreadable. That just meant the explosion was delayed until after she'd hung up.

"I couldn't dissuade her," Spike said once she'd put the phone to her ear. "She's clearly been thinking about this for a long time."

"Don't tell me she convinced you it's the right thing."

A snort. "Not by a long shot. I may work with the Council; doesn't mean I trust them as far was I can throw them. Buffy, I promise you, I'll keep an eye on her while she's here."

"I know." She meant it; there was no doubt in her mind Spike would be as watchful as Buffy could ever be. In fact, in Dawn's social life, he'd probably be even more watchful, much to Dawn's dismay. "I appreciate it."

There was an uncomfortable silence at the other end of the line. "I'll, uh, I'll talk to Giles when he gets back about his place," Spike said at last. "Dawn might want to make other plans, of course."

The brief warmth caused by knowing there was someone who worried about Dawn as much as she did faded with the awkwardness in his voice. There was still a great deal of unsettled business between them. "Thanks. Um, tell Anya hello for me."

A few more words exchanged and the call was over. Buffy stared at the receiver in her hand for a long moment before firmly putting it down on the table.

"Why didn't you tell me you were that worried?"

Looking up, she found Dawn standing with her arms folded in front of her in that old familiar way. "I told you I didn't like the idea."

"Buffy, you called Spike. Last time he was here, you swore you'd never speak to him again."

"That was four years ago...and I didn't actually call him. I called Giles, but he was out of town. Spike was filling in."

"You asked for his help. Don't deny it; he told me the two of you had arranged for me to be home at this time." Dawn pulled out the chair next to Buffy's. "I thought we'd gotten past the not talking thing. If it worried you this much, why didn't you just come out and say it?"

"Say what? That you can't take the grant because the idea of you being anywhere within five hundred miles of Quentin Travers and his minions terrified me so much I couldn't sleep?"

Buffy leaned back, closing her eyes and rolling her neck to relieve some of the tension. "I don't want you to do this...but I can't stop you if that's what you've decided. You're going to be twenty-two in a few months; time for you to make your own decisions."

It wasn't what she wanted to say. She wanted Dawn to be young enough that she could simply forbid this. But Dawn was no longer a child, and this grant was fairly comprehensive; it was quite possible she could manage the stay at Oxford without Buffy's help. Then there was the house; Joyce had left it to both her daughters, so half the proceeds from the sale belonged to Dawn and that would be more than enough to supplement the grant.

"I want you to be happy," Buffy said at last. "I don't...I don't want you to spend as much time as I did searching for what you want. If this is what you really want to do, then you need to do it. And I need to let go and let you make your own decision."

"But you're not happy about it."

"No." Buffy opened her eyes to look at her sister. "But I'm going to have to live with it, aren't I?"

The hug Dawn gave her was meant to be reassuring, but Buffy couldn't help feeling as if things were beginning to slip from her grasp.

London, April 2009

Spike had long ago given up attempting to keep the normal sleep patterns of his kind, not that he’d ever been one to sleep during the day. During his long association with Drusilla, he’d learned to catnap, one ear open to any sudden movements his lover might make just in case she decided to take a noontime stroll. It was a skill that had served him well over the years, allowing him to keep odd hours indeed.

There were times, though, when it caught up with him and daylight brought a drowsiness he found hard to resist. He’d yawned through the Monday staff meeting, keeping his attention on the reports of his subordinates only with some difficulty. By the time noon arrived, it was clear he needed some sleep or he wouldn’t make it through the rest of the afternoon.

Leaving word he wasn’t to be disturbed until two, Spike slipped off his shoes, loosened his tie and stretched out on the couch in his office. A minute or two of settling himself into a comfortable position and then he was asleep.

He was in New Orleans during the Mardi Gras, bodies pressing all around him as he made his way through the French Quarter. A voice inside his head was whispering that he needed to hurry, but it wouldn’t tell him what, only urging him further along.

Or was it the streets of Paris? He couldn’t tell, so distracted by the scent of so many humans packed so closely against him. It made his mouth water, his fangs itch to descend and sink into soft flesh. But he had to keep moving, reach his destination, wherever it was.

Then he was descending, cement turned to cobblestones beneath his feet as the crowd began to thin. It was Paris and he even knew the year. That’s what made him run.

The scene played out just as he remembered, feet pounding through the sewers, pushing himself to as much speed as he could muster. His destination was the same, too, the cavern illuminated by torches, the Master’s court gathered to witness the destruction of the threat against the head of the Order of Aurelius. Only…Drusilla was supposed to be at his side, not bound with the others who’d tried to rebel. He lunged toward the pile of rock that served as a dais, only to have Luke catch him by the throat. “Keep your place,” the older vampire warned, his voice a low rumble. “The Master will deal with you in time.”

Spike tried to speak, tried to tell him there’d been a mistake and he and Drusilla were only passing through Paris on their way to Madrid, but the words wouldn’t come out. Then the Master appeared, sneering at those who knelt trembling before him. “And so they are arranged, like lambs to the slaughter…only I was to be the meal, was I not?”

“They’re fools,” came Darla’s voice, snide and full of contempt. “You will be better off without them.”

“They are fools because they were caught.” He tapped his fingers against one another. “Fools because they thought they could take my place, make themselves greater than I. If you loved me, Darla, you would have would have warned me.”

Darla? Darla hadn’t been there. He and Dru had crossed her path only twice after Angelus had left them for good and never in Paris. What was going on?

“Ah, but I forgot,” the Master said. “Your loved is reserved for someone very special; there’s no one else you’d sacrifice yourself for.”

Darla shook her head, but no words came out, her voice as silent as Spike’s. The Master looked across the crowd, pointing to one or two whom Luke’s thugs grabbed and brought forward to join the others. When his gaze reached Spike, he smiled that smile that meant no good. “The prodigal son. The black sheep of the family. When Angel earned his soul, I mourned for he was the best and cruelest of us. You, however…”

The words trailed into a sneer and Luke shoved Spike forward at the Master’s nod. “You have been nothing but trouble since you crawled out of the grave. What made you think you could distinguish yourself by killing two slayers? Nothing could distinguish you. You weren’t a success as a man or as a demon. You hide behind your soul and deny what you feel. Do you know what is coming? Tell him, Florian.”

Stepping from the shadows, Florian looked decidedly undusty as he joined the Master, standing a mere pace behind him. “The end. The end of what you’ve worked for.”

“And I think we’ll start here.” The Master reached down and grabbed Drusilla, hauling her to her feet and spinning her to face the crowd. She looked curiously calm, as if all was going as it should. Even as the Master pressed a hand to either side of his head, she showed no distress. Then, at the last moment, she met his eyes and spoke as clearly and lucidly as he had ever heard her. “Toward the sun, William. Keep moving toward the sun.”

As the Master twisted, Spike found his voice. “Dru!”

He came awake suddenly, panting and gasping for air he didn’t need. Even as he struggled to sit up, the door to his office opened, showing he hadn’t cried out only in his dream. Linda was first through the door, with Mike a very welcome site behind her. “It was just a bad dream,” he was quick to assure them. “I’m fine.”

Other faces were crowding the door and Spike had to wonder how far the noise had carried. “Linda, if you would call George MacLeod, tell him I’d like to speak with him.”

His secretary did nothing until she handed him a glass of water. She didn’t believe he was fine; that much was obvious from the tight expression on her face. He’d have to be prepared for some hovering for the rest of the afternoon, but he thought he could manage.

Linda was shooing everyone away but Mike, who was leaning against the desk. “One of your guilt nightmares?” he asked once the door was closed.

Spike shook his head. “No, this was…something else. Dreamed I was back in Paris, the year was 1906. There…there was an attempt to rise against the Master who was holding court in the sewers at the time. Dru and I were on our way to Madrid, but we got caught in the fringes of it. Since old Bat-Face was never particularly fond of me, he probably would have used it as an excuse to give some of his followers a lesson, save for the fact Drusilla managed to babble a vision that made him let us go.”

“So you were dreaming about that.” Mike moved away from the desk and began rummaging in the cabinet that stood against the wall.

“Not precisely. It was then, but it was also different. Darla was there and Florian…and Florian definitely wasn’t in Paris in 1906. Also, the Master had Drusilla bound, ready to be executed and it never got that far.”

He reached for his shoes, slipping them onto his feet, then did his best to make certain his hair was lying somewhat flat. It was moments like this that he regretted the loss of his image in a mirror; everything felt as if it was going back into place, but he couldn’t be certain.

Mike had achieved his target and found the whiskey, pouring a healthy splash into a glass. Spike scowled as his friend offered it. “You know I try not to drink during the day.”

“Given the way you look at the moment, you need it.”

Spike took the glass and drank, closing his eyes as the alcohol slid down his throat, leaving a burning trail that made everything move just the tiniest bit slower. “That bad, huh?”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost...and the fact you sounded pretty panicked when you were shouting."

With a sigh, Spike leaned back against the cushions that dotted the back of the couch. "It was easier when I was evil, you know. Didn't have nightmares, didn't have guilt..."

He trailed off as he realized he was lying to himself. He'd had plenty of nightmares in his existence -- and not just the ones where he'd relived how he'd failed Buffy on the tower. And it had been the demon's guilt and anguish which had sent him to seek his soul.

Finishing the whiskey, he set his glass down on the small table next to the couch and attempted a smile. "So, how was Sunnydale?"

He knew he didn't fool Mike one bit, but his friend let it pass. "Got the full tour, though you're right about there being nothing much to see. It's definitely a doable situation, but it is going to take a while to settle in. Having Mr. Giles there will be a help. Met Clem, who's hysterical. We're probably going to have a regular poker night. Um, has he always been such a TV fan?"

Spike had to chuckle. "Clem's a good egg and he keeps his ear to the ground. If something's up, he's a good source of information. Hollis find you a place?"

Mike hesitated before answering. "Actually, Hollis isn't the one who found it. I'm pushing for us to buy the Slayer's house."

The pit in the bottom of Spike's stomach opened up rather unexpectedly as Mike went on. "It's a beautiful place and convenient to everything. The basement's perfect for workouts and castings...and as Miss Summers pointed out, the neighbors are used to weird happenings. Not quite the house I would expect someone like her to go for, though."

"Her mother...Joyce is the one who bought it. Left it to the girls when she died. Does she, ah, still have the hammock in the backyard?"

He was desperately trying to seem casual and unconcerned, but he clearly wasn't doing a good job of it, given Mike's expression. "Okay, it bothers me," he admitted. "Not the fact that the team's going to live there, but that she's selling it. Hard to picture her living anywhere else."

"San Francisco," Mike said quietly. "Apparently her fiancée owns a Victorian home there."

The pain that accompanied those words told Spike he still hadn't reconciled himself to Buffy's marriage...or her departure from Sunnydale. Or maybe he had, and their recent contact had served to open up the wounds again. "Sounds nice."

Mike shook his head. "I can't figure it out. I know you're supposed to be madly in love with her, but she is not at all what I think of as your type."

"My type?"

"Yeah. All the girls I've seen you date are tall, dark, and drop-dead gorgeous. She's short, blonde and cute; I don't think I'd really call her beautiful. Doesn't seem to be that well read and I know how you like a girl with smarts."

"She's got smarts," Spike said fondly. "A lot more than people give her credit for."

"Maybe." Mike shrugged. "Maybe it's the fact we didn't hit it off real well at first."

"But it got better?" This was a matter of concern; Buffy was going to have to work with Mike the month she was available to them. If everything ended up having to go through Giles because Buffy and Mike didn't get along, there would be problems.

"Once we reached an understanding. She seems nice enough, but like I said, not what I would call your type."

Spike thought about that for a moment and realized Mike was right. With a single exception, he'd stayed away from blondes since his arrival in London, favoring women who looked more like...well, like Drusilla was the best description he could think of, though it was something he really hadn't considered until this point.

There was a knock at the door and MacLeod nervously stuck his head in. "You asked to see me, Dr. Ashbury-Smythe?"

"Yes, I did." Spike, stood, hoping he managed to give at least a semblance of calm. "I remembered some things you might want to add to your research; some potential players we should check on if there really is a bloody clan war starting..."