Whatever Tara put in that sleepy tea, it had worked.
 
Well, either that or exhaustion from all-natural sleep deprivation had finally kicked in.
 
Buffy shuffled into the kitchen at what should have been lunchtime to find Dawn halfway through a bowl of cereal with marshmallows, drowned in what looked suspiciously like chocolate milk.

“That’s gross,” Buffy said. “Aren’t you supposed to be all healthy-eating right now?”
 
“There’s bran in there,” Dawn said defensively.
 
“Where?”
 
“Somewhere.” Dawn shrugged. “I opened the box and everything.”
 
There was, indeed, an open box of Complete Oat Bran Flakes sitting on the breakfast bar.
 
Right next to the half-empty bag of mini-marshmallows.
 
“Right,” Buffy said. She watched Dawn for a few seconds, not sure how to react. She’d done the good-guardian thing – not a parent, not a parent, definitely not a parent – and thrown out the Froot Loops Marshmallow and bought the oaty-health-bran of doom. How was she supposed to deal with Dawn subverting breakfast?
 
Dawn slumped into her chair. She truly hadn’t dodged her breakfast of champions as some kind of lame-ass boundary testing or “to get attention”. She just … really liked marshmallows.
 
But that didn’t make it any less disappointing when Buffy barely reacted. Didn’t she care about her at all? Dawn pushed away her bowl, suddenly no longer hungry. “Where’s Spike?” she asked.
 
Buffy shrugged. “Sleeping the sleep of the unconscious?”
 
“What did you do to him?” Dawn asked accusingly.
 
“Took off his boots and put a blanket over him,” Buffy said sharply.
 
Dawn rolled her eyes. “Blonde much? What’d you do to make him unconscious!”
 
“I didn’t do anything!” Buffy said defensively. “Ninjas stuck a pointy poison-y thing in him.”
 
“Poison-y like when Faith shot Angel and Everyone. Nearly. Died?” Dawn’s voice had gone supersonically shrill.
 
Buffy winced. “He’s fine,” she said firmly. I think…. “Just … sleepier than usual. And probably cursing that stupid spring in the middle of the sofa.”
 
Dawn went absolutely still. In a very quiet, very serious voice, she asked, “So Spike’s not in your room?”
 
“Spike does not sleep in my room!” Buffy snapped.
 
Dawn gave Buffy The Look.
 
It was very, very unsettling seeing his look on her face.
 
“He’s not in my room,” Buffy said stiffly.
 
“But the ninjas are all out of commission now, right?” Dawn’s voice was tense.
 
“No,” Buffy said slowly. “I opted for sleep instead of slayage last night.”
 
Dawn looked like she was about to explode.
 
Buffy really couldn’t understand what her problem was. “They can’t get in the house, Dawnie.”
 
“He isn’t in the house, you moron! You need to go find him before he gets his stupid self dusted!”
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Jonathan pulled out his inhaler and took a puff.
 
Again.
 
Warren still hadn’t noticed.
 
The whole cigar-lit-with-money thing had been great. Once. As a celebration.
 
But every day?
 
Everyone knows geeks don’t smoke. That’s for … bad boys … and … and losers.
 
Warren started coughing – his latest attempt to try to blow a smoke ring having resulted in a bit too much inhaling.
 
Andrew and Jonathan snickered.
 
Warren straightened up, clearing his throat a few times. “When’s the last time either of you actually saw the Slayer?”
 
Jonathan frowned, thinking.
 
“She didn’t even try to stop our bank robbery,” Warren mused.
 
“It’s unlike her,” Andrew said. “She’s usually so … on top of things.” His head was suddenly filled with a vision of Buffy in leather – or maybe PVC? No, definitely leather. With studs … and a whip. Mmmmm ... Slayer on top.
 
Warren snapped his fingers in front of his face until Andrew’s eyes refocused. “Stop drooling,” Warren said snidely.
 
Andrew’s ears turned bright pink with embarrassment. “I haven’t actually seen her since she graduated,” he said quickly. “Except in my dreams.”
 
Warren and Jonathan shared an eye-roll.
 
“I think I saw her last winter sometime?” Jonathan said. “I was gathering aconite at the full moon, and she was … killing something.”
 
“I watched – er, saw her – briefly. In the spring,” Warren said. His eyes gleamed. “Just before last year’s apocalypse.”
 
“There was an apocalypse last year?” Jonathan said, frowning. “When?”
 
“Duh!” Andrew said. “It’s Sunnydale. There’s always an apocalypse.”
 
“Well, did you see it?” Jonathan asked, giving him a shove.
 
“No,” Andrew whined, shoving back. “But at least I knew there was one.”
 
Warren stepped between them to end what was rapidly becoming a flailing slap-fest.
 
“An interdimensional portal opened up, then closed again,” Warren said loudly. “It was No. Big. Deal.”
 
Andrew peeked out around Warren to stick his tongue out at Jonathan. Jonathan tried to bitch-slap him.
 
“Oh my god, are you two or twenty?” Warren asked, shoving them apart again.
 
“I’m eighteen,” Andrew muttered, hurt. “Tucker’s twenty.”
 
“I’m trying to be nefarious here!” Warren glowered.
 
“Nefare, nefare! We’re listening!” Andrew said, suddenly attentive.
 
Jonathan rolled his eyes – and gave Andrew one last shove.
 
“So no one’s actually seen the Slayer since the last apocalypse?” Warren asked.
 
Jonathan and Andrew looked at each other, then back at Warren, their fight forgotten.
 
“Ya think maybe there’s a reason for that? Like, oh, I don’t know, a nasty case of death?”
 
“But,” Andrew said. “The M’Fashnik demon … he thought she was still around.”
 
Warren shrugged. “He had reasons.” He turned towards the door to his workshop – the only part of their lair the others weren’t allowed. “Oh, Buffy!” he called. Turning back to his partners in crime, he said. “Completely wrong reasons, as it turns out. But reasons.”
 
A tiny blonde woman stepped through the door.
 
Jonathan and Andrew’s jaws dropped.
 
“Master!” the Buffy-bot said brightly. “How can I service you?”
 
“W-W-Warren?” Andrew stammered. “What did you do?”
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Buffy didn’t like that the ninja-or-ninjas hadn’t reappeared. Usually she just had to walk around for a while and the Bads came to her.
 
But these guys weren’t interested in her. She was completely safe from them.
 
Thanks to Spike.
 
Like she needed his protection.
 
A slow burn of anger was steadily building in her gut.
 
It had started out as resentment towards Dawn for practically shoving her out the house to “rescue” Spike.
 
Buffy didn’t understand their closeness. Dawn should know better than to care about a vampire. He was already dead; him being deader could only be a good thing.
 
He could at least have had the courtesy to say something before he’d left. Written a note.
 
Spike? Courtesy? Are you insane?
 
It rankled that she hadn’t found him yet. She wasn’t used to having to try! For almost as long as she’d known him, he’d just been there, on the edge of her periphery, stalking her, taunting her. It had never been comfortable, but sometime in the last year it had become … comforting.
 
How dare he leave himself so vulnerable! And after that lecture about not taking unnecessary risks? Stupid hypocrite vampire.
 
He should be home asleep right now.
 
The more she thought about what she was doing, the more the anger grew. But it felt … good. Like she was alive again.
 
It never occurred to Buffy that Spike might be at the Magic Box.
 
But when she walked by the shop – completely by chance – there he was, sitting on top of the research table and laughing.
 
Her anger reached inferno proportions.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
The Buffy-bot cocked her head to one side, eyes wide and blinking. Her internal scripts were running information over her visual inputs.
 
“So silky,” Andrew said dreamily, gently stroking his fingers through its – her? – hair.
 
“You’re Andrew Tucker,” the bot said. She cocked her head. “You’re good with demons.”
 
“She knows who I am,” he breathed. “I could be even better with Slayers,” Andrew whispered huskily, with an awkward flutter of invisible blond eyelashes. He shuffled a little closer and awkwardly puffed air into her ear.
 
The Buffy-bot grinned nastily. “I kill demons.”
 
Andrew took two giant steps back from her/it.
 
“She looks so real,” Jonathan murmured.
 
“I’ve ditched all the vampire’s special programming – except for the advanced combat techniques.” Warren shuddered. “I really don’t want another April. This Buffy only likes fighting.”
 
Andrew pouted, disappointed. “What’s the point of a sex-bot that doesn’t want sex?”
 
Warren sighed. “Because, nimrod, emotional programming is unstable. Unpredictable. And because my Buffy is such a strong girl,” he cooed, patting her cheek gently, “we only want her doing exactly what we say.”
 
“So, just like ‘Often Wrong’ Soong, you’ve learned your lessons from the misery and heartbreak that was April-slash-Lore and have recreated the—” Andrew broke off, looking perplexed. “The ‘beloved son’ concept really doesn’t work in this scenario.”
 
“I am not ‘Often Wrong’,” Warren said angrily. “Once! I was wrong once!”
 
“He was the Great Father of the positronic brain,” Andrew said. “It’s a compliment to share his illustrious nickname.”
 
“She can’t be Data – she uses contractions.” Jonathan muttered.
 
“That whole contractions thing was such a stupid plot device,” Andrew scoffed. “Brent Spiner used them all the time!”
 
“They never said he was incapable,” Warren said. “He just hadn’t ‘mastered their use’.”
 
Andrew looked like he was about to say more, but Jonathan cut him off. “How did you even get her – it – that – away from the vampire? He was pretty creepy-possessive.”
 
Warren was still sure that telling them exactly where he’d sent the M’Fashnik would be a mistake. “Some of those original subroutines were … kinda hard-core. The Slayer’s friends must have taken her away from him. If he wants her back, he’ll go after them, not us.” Just like the M’Fashnik.
 
“So … where did you find it?” Jonathan asked.
 
“She was out by the side of the road a few miles out of town. In pieces.”
 
“How’d she get there?” Andrew asked.
 
Warren shrugged. “Maybe the M’Fashnik found her. But who cares?” Warren grabbed onto Jonathan’s shoulders. “You’re missing the big picture!” He let him go, putting his arms around the Buffy-bot’s shoulders, malevolent glee spreading over his face. “The real Slayer is gone, and we have a perfectly loyal, perfectly obedient version right here with us.”
 
Jonathan felt a brief pang of sadness that Buffy might not be alive anymore. But it would certainly make things easier. If she was already dead, they’d never need to go up against her. They could do whatever they wanted.
 
“But I want a sex bot!” Andrew whined.
 
“I am not making Christina Ricci!” Warren bellowed.
 
Jonathan and Andrew watched him nervously. Warren could be a little scary when he was angry.
 
“The point, gentlemen,” Warren continued icily, “is this: no one can stop us now. We have a free run at Sunnydale.”
 
Grins slowly spread over the other boys’ faces.
 
Andrew was even inspired to try out maniacal laugh number seventeen.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Anya winced as another crash came from the training room.
 
There is no stock there, she chanted in her head. This can only cost me sales.
 
A man she’d long suspected of being a Brachen demon weakly returned her reassuring smile.
 
He was looking even twitchier than usual.
 
Anya started mentally calculating the cost of soundproofing the training room.
 
She was tired of Buffy frightening away her customers.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
“I don’ need rescuin’,” Spike said sullenly. “All safe an’ sound here!”
 
Buffy snorted. “You get that chip removed sometime today? Or maybe you’ve found another magic ring to keep you safe from Mr Sun?”
 
Spike took in a deep breath through his miraculously still-unbroken nose. Something smelled … familiar, if he could only put his finger on it. “I thought you’d appreciate some peace an’ quiet. A bit of space!”
 
“Dawn thought you might be dead. She was distraught.”
 
“Only Dawn?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
 
She broke his nose that time.
 
“She could’ve rung me!” Spike shouted, moving out of range of her fists.
 
Buffy pulled his cell out of her pocket and waved it. “With this?” she sneered.
 
Spike grimaced. “Sorry?”
 
She hurled the phone at his head.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Anya straightened her shoulders, flicked her hair back, and beamed her most reassuring customer service smile towards her last two customers.
 
There was another crash.
 
Anya sighed.
 
The probably-a-Brachen-demon finally lost his nerve, dropping his mostly-full shopping basket and making a run for the door. He paused briefly in the doorway to give Anya a pitying look.
 
He probably thought she was going to die. Idiot.
 
Anya began putting away the items from the abandoned basket. So unfair. That guy was usually good for at least a couple hundred dollars every time he came in.
 
Anya smiled brightly at her last remaining customer – an elderly lady pawing through the sex charms. “If you’ve got any kind of blood pressure problems, avoid those feathery blue ones,” Anya advised brightly.
 
The old woman gave Anya an arch look and jerked her head towards the back room. “Newlyweds?” she asked.
 
Anya snorted. “Hardly.”
 
Buffy slammed the training room door open and stomped across the shop floor. When she reached the exit, she spun around and stared back at Spike, leaning against the doorframe. “If you leave here before dark, so help me, I will stake you myself!”
 
Spike finally realised what the smell was. “Did you use my shampoo?” he asked incredulously.
 
Buffy’s jaw dropped and a faint pink flush tinged her cheeks. “Your – the Redken?”
 
He nodded, a full-of-canary grin spreading across his face.
 
Buffy fled.
 
“You could sell tickets for this,” the old lady whispered to Anya.
 
“I really could,” Anya whispered back.
 
Spike flipped them the bird then spun on his heel and slammed the training room door behind him.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Anya had given up on attracting any more customers for the day. But just as she was starting to properly get into her financial projections, the bell above the door jangled, and she looked up to see the very last person she’d expected.
 
Bohdan.
 
He was wearing a suit now, but it sat oddly on his frame, making him look even more like a soldier than his more utilitarian clothing had.
 
“Spike!” she called, her eyes locked with Bohdan’s.
 
Spike abandoned his all-out attack on the punching bag and came back into the main room.
 
“Still alive, then,” Bohdan said gravely.
 
Spike smirked. “Haven’t been alive for over a century, mate.”
 
“You’ve seen the new assassin?” Bohdan asked.
 
Spike absently rubbed at the hole in his shoulder. “Felt him.”
 
“You take stupid risks.”
 
Spike rolled his eyes. “You here to nag me?”
 
Bohdan sighed. “No. To warn you.” He jerked his head towards the door. “He’s out there now. Waiting.”
 
“Why do you care?” Anya asked.
 
Bohdan sighed. “I have been wondering when someone would ask me that.”
 
“And?” Spike asked, cocking an eyebrow.
 
“There are things I kept back, before.”
 
“I knew it!” Anya said. Her exultation faded when she began to consider what he might have held back. “It’s not another hell god, is it?”
 
Bohdan’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “No. I am unaware of any specific enemies.”
 
“But there’s a whole parcel of unspecific ones waiting in the wings?” Spike said. He rubbed a hand across his face. “Why tell only us two, an’ why now?”
 
Bohdan cocked his head very slightly towards Spike. “If you had returned my calls….”
 
“Right, all my fault,” Spike snorted. “Story of my bloody life.”
 
“The Slayer is equally at fault,” Bohdan said, eyes twinkling. “But I leave Sunnydale tonight – there is no more time. I must complete the job I came here to do.”
 
“An’ just what is that, exactly?” Spike asked, his posture changing from relaxed to menacing.
 
“The most important part is now complete: I am … assured … that the Key is sufficiently well-protected.”
 
“Dawn. Her name is Dawn,” Spike said.
 
Bohdan shrugged an apology. “As for the other … the Key was never supposed to be in human form. Michal … gambled that the Slayer would be able to stop the Beast. But now? Dawn cannot be kept locked in a magical box, or shuffled through dimensions. I am certain that, in time, others will sense her power, try to harness it for themselves.”
 
“I thought Dawn’s Key-ness could only be used for the one lock,” Anya said.
 
Bohdan gave her a disbelieving look.
 
“What?” Anya shrugged. “There’s an entire dimension made of shrimp!”
 
“You sayin’ Dawn’s gonna spend her whole life runnin’?” Spike asked.
 
Bohdan spread his hands helplessly. “We are operating beyond prophecy, beyond what is known. It is impossible to predict how it will play out. Perhaps nothing will ever happen.”
 
Spike snorted his disbelief. Narrowing his eyes, he asked, “What do you think this Michal did, then?”
 
“I believe he set certain things in motion before he died – ways to keep the Key safe. One of them was ensuring my involvement.” His normally impassive face took on an almost haunted look. “I have dreamt things … things I could not possibly know.” He took control of himself. “I do not know the extent or the purpose of all that Michal did. But he is still an actor in our little drama, despite his death.” Bohdan paused. “Has it not occurred to you that it was far too easy to escape Jenoff’s casino?”
 
“Easy? You out of your soddin’ mind?”
 
“Perhaps not easy exactly, but … too much a miracle. And were you not shocked that no one even tried to kill me?”
 
“Figured they didn’ know you were helpin’,” Spike said.
 
“They should have worked it out by the time we got upstairs. I, too, believed it to be genuine at the time. But now … now I am not so sure.”
 
“Why would anyone put you in that position?” Anya asked. “You both could have died.”
 
Bohdan gave Spike a long, careful look. “You trust me now, don’t you?”
 
Spike nodded slowly.
 
“And I trust you.”
 
“Ingenious,” Anya said appreciatively.
 
“More like completely barmy.” Spike groaned “I hate this! What the bloody hell’s wrong with bein’ direct?”
 
“It’s obvious, crude, and generally easier to oppose,” Anya said.
 
Bohdan’s lips twitched.
 
“Was bein’ sarcastic, pet,” Spike said through clenched teeth.
 
Anya glared at him.
 
“If it was not Michal who set this up, it will have been someone trying to isolate the Key.”
 
“How’re you at tracing emails?” Spike asked.
 
“I know only enough to cover my own tracks.”
 
“I have an idea,” Anya said. She grinned at Spike. “But you’re going to hate it.”
 
He recognised the smile: it was the one she had when she was about to screw someone out of all the profits.
 
“No,” Spike said, horror-struck. “We are not calling him.”
 
Anya’s grin grew wider. “You got a better idea?”

---

A/N: The story continues in an Angel crossover episode - Double or Nothing - that can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2401940/chapters/5311313