Dawn followed Spike out to the back porch. She felt embarrassed and stupid in the aftermath of too many hours of being scared and worried, but she still wasn’t willing to let him out of her sight.
 
She dropped an ice pack down next to him and folded her arms across her chest. “You know you look like shit, right?” she asked.
 
His lips twitched into a half-smile but he didn’t reply – just took a deep drag on his cigarette and kept staring off into the middle distance.
 
“Stop pretending it doesn’t hurt and use the damn thing.”
 
“Alright, bossy,” he said, picking up the pack and pressing it against his face.
 
Dawn dropped down beside him in a tangle of long limbs. “Shouldn’t you be inside hiding or something?”
 
Spike’s smile widened. “Give my right nut for a good fight right now.”
 
“Ew,” Dawn said, giving him a shove.
 
He laughed.
 
Dawn stared down at her feet, suddenly serious. “You promised me you wouldn’t leave,” she said, her voice trembling a little. “You promised.”
 
He crushed out his cigarette then reached out and took hold of her hand. “See me going anywhere?”
 
“You scared me.”
 
“S’posed to,” he said, bumping his shoulder against hers. “Evil, remember?”
 
Dawn snorted. “I’m being serious, moron.”
 
He sighed. “I know.”
 
She gripped his hand harder and laid her head down on his shoulder, letting herself unclench a little.
 
“You left this morning ‘cause of Buffy, didn’t you?” she asked.
 
“Been through this, pet. Left ‘cause I was out of cash and smokes and I really did think I had my phone on me.”
 
“You weren’t there when I woke up. You’re always there when I wake up.”
 
“Not everything is about Buffy, alright?”
 
Dawn straightened up to give him a full-strength look of disbelief. “Yeah, right.” She pointed at him. “Her fists. Your face. All abut Buffy.”
 
Spike opened his mouth then abruptly closed it again. He had no idea how to say ‘proves she cares and I’m quite chuffed, really’ in a way that didn’t make him sound like a lovesick arse who got off on pain and had delusions of his own importance.
 
Suddenly anxious, Dawn continued: “Buffy wasn’t … she wasn’t like she was in the basement, was she? All freaky and über-violent?”
 
“No!” Spike said. He frowned. “You need to stop noticin’ so much.” He hugged her against him.
 
“At least she didn’t break your ribs.” Dawn muttered, relaxing back against him.
 
He’d put down the ice pack to light a second cigarette when she asked, “Nothing’s changed between you and Buffy, has it?”
 
He pulled away just enough to meet her eyes, warily. “Why?”
 
Dawn pursed her lips. “‘Cause hitting only means ‘I like you’ with the under ten crowd, and I’m not sure you get that.”
 
“What’s that s’posed to mean?”
 
“How do you still love someone who hits you?”
 
“You don’t,” Spike said sharply, dropping both cigarette and ice pack to grab hold of her chin. “Not ever.”
 
Dawn jerked away angrily. “But it’s fine for you?”
 
He sighed. It all made perfect sense in his head, but trying to explain it to Dawn? And without revealing any of Buffy’s secrets? “I can take it,” he said finally.
 
“Can Buffy?”
 
Spike dropped his head into his hands. “I could never hurt her! You know that.”
 
“That doesn’t make it okay,” Dawn snapped. “What if you kill each other? Then I won’t have anyone.”
 
Spike took care of the people he loved – had done his whole life. But he’d always been a one-woman man. It was easy giving up what he wanted – he was used to it. But Dawn needed Buffy. And Buffy needed not to be needed. And he had no idea how to make any of it better.
 
Head still in his hands, he looked over at Dawn. “You eaten today?”
 
Dawn looked at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “Uh, yeah, cereal.”
 
“Nothin’ but marshmallows, then.” He rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. “Let’s go make dinner, hey?”
 
“You can’t just distract me from this.”
 
“Watch me.”
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Anya was just locking up the shop when the phone rang.
 
She seriously considered ignoring it, but there was a pesky voice inside her head saying she ought to go back in and answer, just in case it was someone from LA. While she fervently hoped it was the voice of indigestion – Anya had no desire to grow a conscience – she couldn’t deny that Spike’s death would make a noticeable dent in her income.
 
And she couldn’t let the money suffer, could she? It was all she had now.
 
Reluctantly, she went back inside.
 
Five minutes later, she hung up the phone deciding she disliked Cordelia. Intensely.
 
But at least Jenoff was dead now. That was something.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Giles stood in the kitchen doorway, watching Spike and Dawn chopping up vegetables at the counter. He felt as if he’d stepped into an alternate dimension.
 
While he’d watched Spike make dinner once before, Giles had been unable to fully appreciate the surreality of it without his memory.
 
“You just gonna watch?” Spike asked finally, not bothering to look up.
 
“Oh, most assuredly,” Giles said. “I am a Watcher, after all, and this is … this is fascinating.”
 
Dawn sniggered.
 
“How did you learn to cook?” Giles asked, before he could stop himself.
 
“Ate a fair few chefs over the years,” Spike said. “Guess somethin’ rubbed off.”
 
“Fine,” Giles sighed. “Don’t tell me.”
 
Spike finished chopping his onion, then started rummaging around in the cupboard under the sink.
 
What on earth….
 
He snapped on a pair of latex gloves.
 
“Seriously?” Dawn asked him. “You couldn’t just ask me to do it?”
 
He took a bulb of garlic out of the fridge. “Where’s the fun in that?”
 
“No,” Giles said. “Surely….”
 
Spike turned to him and grinned. “Mmmmm garlic.”
 
“But doesn’t it—”
 
“Burns like a bitch. An’ the blisters take bloody ages to go down.”
 
“You really are completely insane, aren’t you?”
 
Spike just grinned. Then he started peeling.
 
Giles watched, rapt. Spike was now leaning back slightly, in a way he hadn’t while chopping onion.
 
He’d also stopped breathing.
 
Could raw garlic burn nasal passages at that distance? Or perhaps it’s just natural avoidance….
 
Giles was about to ask more questions, but stopped when he heard the front door opening.
 
“Hello!” Anya’s voice called from the hallway. “I have news!”
 
“Are we not locking the door anymore?” Dawn asked. “‘Cause that seems kinda dumb with all the assassins.”
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Xander had spent the day at Buffy’s, fixing things. The repairs were pretty much done now, except for the new windows. But that was waiting on child support back-payments.
 
Somehow, he’d managed to avoid seeing anyone but trades all day. Thank God. He felt raw and at odds with himself. Being useful – fixing things that could be fixed with time and hard work – had made it a little better. But he just couldn’t face talking to any of the inhabitants of Revello Drive. They were all even more miserable than him.
 
Well, not so much Giles.
 
Or Spike.
 
But Xander really didn’t want to talk to either of them. He’d avoid seeing Giles forever if he thought he could get away with it.
 
Although tormenting Spike might’ve been fun….
 
Now he was home and packing. And it was about as awful as he’d expected it to be.
 
He looked at the half-empty closet that now only held Anya’s things. He was really going to miss this place.
 
But nowhere near as much as he was going to miss Anya.
 
He considered the likelihood of them even running into each other after this. Anya had never liked Buffy or Willow much. And while she could probably be counted on to help save the whole world, she’d never willingly get involved with the day-to-day stuff.
 
Would he even see Anya again after tonight?
 
Now there was a not-so-pleasant thought.
 
How could everything have gone so horribly wrong?
 
Xander felt … betrayed. Not by anyone in particular, but by circumstances – by the world.
 
As he thought about it, he realised his sense of betrayal had started back when Buffy jumped from the tower. Doc’s knife had only barely broken Dawn’s skin – Xander had seen it when she came down. A band-aid could have stopped the bleeding. And if it hadn’t? There was always cauterisation. Or magic, even! Buffy’d had choices. Heroes weren’t supposed to just … give up. Not like that.
 
He and Willow had promised each other after Jesse died that they were never going to lose another friend like that. But how do you save someone from giving up?
 
Seeing Buffy alive again had been such a bright and shining moment – maybe even the happiest moment of his entire existence.
 
Then he’d seen her hands. And her eyes.
 
It embarrassed him now, how sure he’d been that nothing bad would happen. All summer, he’d just assumed Buffy would come back like she’d never left – maybe even with an extra dose of happy. With Glory gone and Dawn safe, how could she not?
 
He had been so sure that being the rescuer for once, instead of the rescuee, would feel good – all prideful and manly.
 
He’d been overconfident – cocky. They all had.
 
It was beyond wigsome, seeing Buffy so broken. She was supposed to be quippy and stoic in the face of, well, everything – invincible, even. Buffy was supposed to come back better. Saved. Grateful. Not … not like this.
 
And yeah, sure, no one could’ve predicted hellions. But Willow should have known about the coffin thing. Xander shivered. Buffy’d already been buried alive once. And she’d told them – him and Willow – how she’d had that nightmare her whole life. They’d made her live through it twice. And that was after God knows how long in a hell dimension.
 
All he wanted was for everything to be okay again. Everyone to be okay again.
 
Their bedroom had no trace left of him now. And it was still nowhere near tidy. Guess I was right all along and Anya really is just as messy as me.
 
Shame being right didn’t make him feel any better.
 
Xander wandered into the kitchen and looked longingly at the beers in the fridge. But the road to blessed oblivion was also the road to all the things he most wanted to forget about.
 
He started putting the beers in a box. Richard would appreciate them, anyway.
 
More than anything, Xander wished there was something he could do to guarantee a happy ending.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
“So how does one get in contact with the Order of Taraka?” Giles asked.
 
“Phone,” Spike said, shrugging.
 
Giles gaped at him.
 
Spike dipped a spoon into the simmering pot of sauce and passed it to Dawn. “Taste.”
 
She cocked her head, considering. “More oregano. And maybe a little lemon juice?”
 
“What did you expect?” Anya asked Giles. “Some long and involved ritual in a dead demon language with robes and chanting and ritual vein-slicing with a special jewel-encrusted knife?”
 
Dawn thought Anya seemed far too excited by her own description. Such a freak.
 
“Not precisely,” Giles said, looking slightly embarrassed. “But a phone call just seems, well, a bit mundane and wet for such an ancient and evil order.”
 
“They really are mostly human now,” Anya said. She sighed, feeling a certain sense of ex-demon solidarity. “But even D’Hoffryn was afraid of them a few hundred years ago.”
 
Spike snorted. “Ah, the old days. When blood was properly warm and wet and the viscera didn’t stick in your teeth.”
 
Anya glowered. “Explain to me why you haven’t called them yet?”
 
He grinned. “Too busy makin’ dinner for you ungrateful sods.” He poured dry pasta into a pot of just-boiling water. “Done now.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stated dialling.
 
The phone call lasted less than five minutes. Judging from Spike’s end of the conversation, the Order of Taraka was both clinical and efficient.
 
The whole experience reminded Giles of discovering Father Christmas wasn’t real – disappointing with a chaser of betrayal.
 
Or like discovering Santa Claus is really a reindeer-riding, child-disembowelling demon from the sixteenth century.
 
Yes. Just like that.
 
Spike was grinning as he put his phone back in his pocket.
 
“What’re you so happy about?” Dawn asked. “I thought you wanted a fight.”
 
“Got one,” he said, his grin becoming even wider and more feral. “Friendly neighbourhood ninja’s not human.”
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Buffy had fled to her room as soon as she’d got in the door.
 
Then she’d kicked off her ruined shoes and trousers and crawled straight into bed.
 
She couldn’t stop shaking.
 
She’d done the stupidest thing she could ever have done in the history of ever by kissing Spike. And she’d had no magical excuses this time.
 
And instead of pushing her for sex or an explanation – like the vampire she knew and loathed – he’d just gone straight back to telling her how she wasn’t enough for Dawn.
 
Like it hadn’t affected him at all.
 
But he’d made Buffy forget. For a few minutes – the first since she’d been back – she hadn’t thought about heaven.
 
She hadn’t dared hope for that kind of relief. And she would give anything for just one more minute.
 
Just … why did it have to be Spike?
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Tara’s heavy heart lightened when she realised there was a place setting for her. “Thanks for making enough for all of us,” she said quickly as she dropped her bag in the hallway and slipped into a chair.
 
Spike looked surprised. “Welcome,” he said gruffly.
 
Giles looked back and forth between them.
 
“Spike normally only cooks for me,” Dawn explained.
 
“Late c-classes,” Tara explained. “W-we’re really lucky Spike helps.”
 
Spike was staring at Tara as if he’d never seen her before.
 
“Ah,” Giles said.
 
The ensuing silence was awkward, but not entirely uncomfortable.
 
Giles watched Spike’s chewing become steadily slower and more tentative. He was making mental notes of all the effects of ingestion of cooked garlic, but he knew he’d forget details if he left it too long. His fingers ached to get at his diary.
 
When Spike swallowed, he looked as if he were eating broken glass. But at the same time, he was obviously enjoying it.
 
Dawn abruptly shoved herself back in her chair and stomped off to the kitchen.
 
Dear God, she could be Buffy five years ago, Giles thought with a start.
 
Buffy did her best to hide a flinch at the noise, but of course Spike noticed it. She glared at him. He smirked back.
 
As soon as she looked away from him again, the smirk dropped off Spike’s face. She hadn’t taken a single bite of dinner – was just moving things around on her plate. He was worried he’d pushed too hard. He thought she’d seemed better today – there’d been real fire in her eyes this afternoon. But now….
 
Anya sighed. She was beginning to wish she hadn’t agreed to stay for dinner. The food was okay, but the conversation – what there was of it – was so boring.
 
I should go home and pack….
 
But for maybe the first time in her life, Anya didn’t want sex, and she had no idea how to communicate with Xander without it. Home was suddenly less attractive.
 
“Do you have any wine?” Anya asked brightly.
 
Tara noticed Giles’ sympathetic wince, and wondered what was going on with Anya.
 
“Sorry, pet,” Spike said.
 
Tara thought he sounded almost … pitying. Spike knows, too, whatever it is.
 
“Bourbon?”
 
Giles shuddered. How anyone could continue to drink bourbon after even tasting good scotch was entirely beyond him.
 
Anya made a face. “I have no desire to get falling-down drunk.” She leaned forward to stare at Spike’s mouth. “Are your gums bleeding?”
 
“Yes,” Dawn snapped, stomping her way back from the kitchen with a mug. Muttering “Stupid vampire,” under her breath, she slapped it down at Spike’s elbow. A few drops of blood spilled onto the placemat.
 
“Ta, Bit,” Spike said gratefully. He mopped up the spill with a finger then licked it off before taking a deep draught from the mug.
 
Buffy found herself unable to tear her eyes away from him. She felt a jerk low inside watching him suck blood off his finger and she hated herself for it.
 
Spike chewed his next bite of pasta completely normally.
 
“Fascinating,” Giles murmured. It’s like an addiction … or perhaps a form of self-harm? But how could either work without a functioning endocrine system? Giles suddenly wondered whether Spike was addicted to nicotine – and if he was, how the withdrawal symptoms functioned. Perhaps it’s only the blood-cleansing organs that cease to function after the change? He definitely said he didn’t use his kidneys….
 
Suddenly aware that he had been staring for rather longer than was polite, Giles asked, “So, er, have you always eaten?”
 
Spike’s eyes narrowed. “You ever see me eat when I was chained up in your sodding flat?”
 
Giles frowned. “You certainly went through enough of my Weetabix.”
 
So dull! Anya thought. Who cares about Spike’s weird food fetishes? She briefly considered bringing up what she’d overheard between him and Buffy that afternoon, but decided she’d wait until Dawn was elsewhere – she had a tendency to shriek when she was upset and it always made Anya’s ears ache. Anya still couldn’t understand how Spike could stand to spend so much time with the child.
 
“And the cooking?” Giles pressed.
 
Spike sighed. “Ever tried to nick a hot meal? Nightmare. Ingredients’re easier.”
 
Giles shook his head in disbelief. “You’re just not normal.”
 
Spike scowled. “Been tryin’ to tell you that for years!”
 
Dawn sniggered.
 
“Oh!” Anya said. “Buffy, I brought paperwork for you to sign.”
 
“Huh?”
 
“Paperwork,” Anya said, slowly and carefully. “You write your name,” she mimed the action, “and then you get a big fat cheque.”
 
“Money for why?” Buffy asked.
 
Anya turned to Giles, surprised. “You didn’t tell her?”
 
“Er, no, I haven’t had the chance,” Giles said.
 
Anya rolled her eyes. “Just fill in the forms I brought, and you get a little over seven thousand dollars.”
 
Buffy’s jaw dropped. “Seven thousand?”
 
Anya thought she saw actual tears of joy in Buffy’s eyes. She couldn’t decide what shocked her more – perfect, stoic Buffy crying for once, or the fact that she actually felt good about making her happy.
 
Maybe this helping thing isn’t a complete and total waste of time after all….
 
   
------------------------------------------
 
 Read the third and final chapter of Double or Nothing here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2401940/chapters/5949539