The flat was dark and silent when Spike let himself in the front door. First came the lights, flipped on as soon as he could reach them, followed by the stereo. Only when sound and illumination filled the space did Spike toss his keys into the tray on the table next to the door and hung his overcoat on the coat rack. He considered reaching for the mail he'd stuffed in the pocket on the way up, but somehow neither the bills and circulars nor the newly-arrived journal appealed to him.

He stripped off his suit jacket and tossed it in the general direction of an armchair, quickly followed by his tie. Neither received his attention when they missed their target. Shoes came next, and he padded across the Aubusson carpet to the bar.

Spike didn't try to delude himself that he'd fooled Giles one wit; if he had, the man wouldn't have come after him, clearly afraid he was going to take a stroll in the sunshine. Giles knew the whole sordid history, witness to some of it and having heard most of the rest. He'd been there for the last trip to Sunnydale and the fallout after.

If Giles hadn't been there then, he would probably be dust.

He downed the scotch in a quick gulp and poured a second. Spike's days of drinking himself into a stupor to dull the pain were behind him, but at this moment he desperately needed something that would help ease the tension. He was tempted to change and pull a patrol in Highgate, but there'd be nothing of interest to kill until later and even he recognized he wouldn't be on his best game. Better to stay in, find other ways to pass the time.

Firmly replacing the stopper in the decanter, Spike took the glass and made for the antique writing desk that held his computer. Flipping the display screen up, he waited for the connections to click in, one hand absently tracing the carved patterns that decorated the desk's edge. William's desk, purchased when he was fifteen by a mother who sought to encourage her young poet. It had been the first piece of grown-up furniture of his very own and he had found it a source of great joy. As he grew older, it simply became furniture, the place he worked but the object itself an unimportant aspect of his life. One hundred and thirty-eight years after William had first seen the desk, it became the property of the vampire the boy had become, a link between past lives and present.

William's desk in a life William would have enjoyed. Except for the violence and killing things, of course.

Pushing the thoughts away, he opened his e-mail program and sent the command to retrieve whatever letters were waiting. Spam was quickly deleted and the rest scanned. Folklore mailing list was active tonight, but the flurry of discussion over some fine point of academia didn't thrill him. A notice of a gig for a band he enjoyed for Saturday. That might prove interesting, a way to lose himself for a little while.

As he worked his way through the missives, the messenger window popped up.

DNiblet: Hi, Spike.

Spike frowned. It was shortly after six in London, which meant it was only ten in the morning in California. What are you doing online? he typed back. Shouldn't you be in class?

Wanted to catch you. Turn on your webcam, will ya?

He frowned. Dawn knew how much he hated that thing. It felt funny, speaking to a monitor screen, pretending you were actually there with the other party. If she had something to show him, he might turn it on and they'd go back to the phone conversation once they were done.

Unless she wanted to see how he reacted when she told him the news. If you're in your dorm room, I'll call you. Hang on a minute.

She picked up almost before the phone had time to give a full ring. "Spike?"

"Mind telling me why you're cutting class? You're graduating this year; it isn't the time to fool around."

He didn't have to see her to know she was frowning. Probably rolling her eyes as well. "I think I can survive missing one or two classes. Besides, I needed to talk to you. It's important."

It was precisely what he thought it was, then. He settled onto the couch, trying to will his body to relax against the cushions. Didn't work. "You could have just left a message. For all you know, I could have been out demon hunting for three weeks."

"So I should just send a message and chew my fingernails for three weeks? No thanks. Besides, I've got you on the phone now."

There was an edge to her voice, a touch of forced casualness. It always meant there was something she didn't want to say and knowing the news beforehand didn't help the knot starting to form in his stomach. "So, Niblet, tell me what's so important that you had to skip class on the off chance I might show up online."

Spike tried to keep his voice gentle, not betray any of his own anxiety. The long pause on the other end after he spoke didn't help matters. "Niblet?"

"It's about Buffy."

The knot grew tighter. "I know she's not hurt because you would have told me that right away."

"Spike…she's engaged. She's going to get married."

It was one thing to hear Travers say it, throw the words out in a casual manner to Giles. It was another to hear Giles admit he'd been asked to give the bride away. To hear Dawn say it though…that made it real. "She called me a couple of days ago," she continued. "Kevin apparently asked her on her birthday."

"Kevin. The wanker's name is Kevin."

"Yeah. He's an architect, working on the remodeling of Sunnydale City Hall. Xander introduced them. And, Spike, he's not a wanker. I actually like him."

She sounded apologetic, but it was small comfort as the knot twisted sharply. "Well, then I suppose it's good news. You can pass on my felicitations. I'm sure she'll be very happy."

The customary words were the safest to hide behind. This was exactly why he'd refused to go on the webcam. He didn't want Dawn seeing his face; she'd always been able to read it too easily. All he had to do was concentrate on keeping his voice at some level of normal. Nor did he need a webcam to picture what Dawn was doing: sitting on her bed cross-legged, twirling a strand of long-brown hair around her finger. She might look a bit younger in his mind's eye than the real thing, but sometimes memories were better.

"I'm really sorry. I had always hoped that one day you and her would…"

"So did I, Niblet. So did I." He pushed himself off the couch, unable to sit still any longer. "But, y'know, kinda hard for us to get back together with me in London and her in old Sunnyhell. It's good that she's moved on." At least one of us has.

"I know. Still…" A loud sigh sounded across the line. "You are going to come to my graduation, aren't you? It's in June."

June in Southern California, a vampire's dream vacation. Lots of sunshine, long days…and Buffy. He started for his glass of scotch and stopped himself before he could reach it, choosing to make for the kitchen instead. "I'm not certain that's the best of ideas."

"I don't want you not coming because Buffy was a total bitch last time." Dawn's voice was hard. "It's my graduation and I'm the one doing the inviting, not her."

In spite of himself, Spike had to smile. It was moments like this that Dawn sounded exactly like her sister…and she'd stake him if he suggested the comparison. He pulled some blood from the refrigerator and poured a healthy dose into his usual mug. "Takes two to make a scene like we did. I wasn't much of a prize, myself. Graduating from college is a big day; don't want to ruin it for you."

"It's much more likely to be ruined if you're not there than if you are." She paused. "Please, Spike? Think about it?"

She was wheedling, using the tone of voice he felt virtually powerless to refuse. "I'll think about it," he said firmly, hoping that would satisfy her for a moment. "I trust you're keeping your grades up?"

That steered the conversation onto safer ground and he gladly listened to the details of college life while his blood heated in the microwave. Somehow, the sound of Dawn's voice made the flat seem a bit warmer, more homelike and helped draw his mind away from the news.

"Any plans once the graduating's done?" he asked when she stopped to draw breath. He was back in front of his computer, idly scanning through his e-mail.

Another long pause that started a prickle of worry at the back of his skull. "I was thinking I might want to travel a little," she said at last. "Maybe see Europe. I could always come visit you. I mean, once the wedding's over, Buffy's not going to want to have me hanging about; she and Kevin are going to be settling in together and I don't particularly feel like being a fifth wheel."

This didn't sound good. "I thought you said you liked him."

"I do. Kevin's a cool guy, a lot better than some of the dweebs she's dated. He's thoughtful and kind and he's been encouraging her to do things like read and actually think about things."

"Your sister thinks about a lot of things," Spike told her, remembering long talks on the back porch, doing his best to take the weight of the world off Buffy's shoulders by just listening. "She's much brighter than everyone makes her out to be…including herself."

"Yeah, well, you think that because you…"

She trailed off awkwardly, but she didn't need to finish the sentence for him to know what she meant. A pause, then Dawn squawked, "Oh, god, I've got to run. Next class is one I can't miss. I'll e-mail you, Spike, but I'm going to come visit you this summer, so be ready."

Dawn was away before he could say goodbye. Spike stared at the phone before dropping it on the desk. After another minute, he reached out and shut down the computer. It was ridiculous to pretend he would actually get any work done that evening. Even if he wanted to make the effort, he'd left his briefcase at the office in his rush to escape the building.

His right hand hovered over the glass of scotch. Slowly his fingers descended, sliding down the faceted edges of the crystal, the surface cool and smooth beneath his touch.

Pushing away from the desk, he grabbed the mug of blood and headed for the sliding glass door that led out onto his balcony. Giles had thought him mad when he'd chosen the place; while the vast expanse of windows afforded a spectacular view of the river and St. Katherine's Dock, the issue of sunlight and heating bills had been brought up. Anya had provided the answer to the first, connecting Spike with a contractor who didn't ask questions about why his client would want all his windows tinted. As to the second, Spike had happily pointed out that he was a vampire and not subject to the same sensitivity to cold and heat as humans. That benefit of his physiology allowed him to keep the temperature at a level that didn't result in too horrendous a bill.

It was that benefit that allowed him to step out onto the balcony without benefit of jacket, his feet covered only in thin dress socks. Leaning on the rail, he closed his eyes and let the sounds and smells of the river wash over him. Mixed with the tang of wind and threatening showers was the ever-present hint of oil and fuel, by-products of the ships that still plied their trade as their predecessors had over a century ago. Someone nearby was enjoying a fire in their fireplace, the scent of burning wood wafting on the wind. From the street below, sounds of laughter and conversation floated upwards, people hurrying home or out to supper.

All around him, life went on. His neighbors laughed, cried, went to work and fell in love. A part of London he once would have scorned had blossomed and become his home. If he looked to his right, he'd be able to catch a glimpse of the Tower up the river, older than any he had met of his kind. If he wanted, he could go inside and call friends to join him for a nice meal or to hit the clubs, forget his troubles for a few hours. In the morning, work would beckon, activity in the Urals that had caught his attention to be investigated even if it might prove to be nothing.

He no longer lived in a crypt, scrounging for furniture at the local dump, stealing electricity to keep his blood fresh. Didn't even have to go to the butcher's to pick up the stuff himself anymore, but had it delivered. Sunnydale was years and miles away from where he now stood.

Tonight, though, Sunnydale was very close. He wasn't going to pick up the phone and he wasn't going to go out. Tonight he would stay in with his memories. He'd look at the old pictures and try to remember what good times there had been before he carefully shut them away.

On to Chapter Three

Back to Chapter One