Author's Notes: This chapter should answer at least ONE of your questions…Which one? Well, I guess that depends on what you were wondering. Also, chapter may contain elements likely to cause bouncing in your chair, uncontrollable verbal outburts, or (if you’re really excitable) unplanned dampness in your pants region. Read at your own risk.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae

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Chapter 30
Defrost

By the time I make it back to Giles, the sun is already up, though it's still pretty early. The wind blowing this way is cold and dry and my boots crunch on a thin coat of frost over the sand. Luckily it's a pretty straight path, and some of my tracks from the night before are still visible.

When I find the place where Giles did his gourd dance, I look down the hill to the car. Giles is sitting on the hood, looking around anxiously. "Buffy!" he says when he sees me. "Oh, good. I was beginning to worry."

"You sent me out there and then got worried? Not really reassuring," I say as I pick my way down the hillside.

"Well, did…did you discover the answers to your questions?" he asks.

"Answers will have to be defrosted in the toasty car, on the way to get pancakes," I tell him, and climb into the passenger's seat.

On the way back to town I fill him in on what happened last night, minus my side trip to snuggle with Mr. Gordo. "Love will lead you to your gift?" he says. "What gift?"

"Don't look at me," I said. "But…remember that dream I had on my birthday? People in that kept talking about my gift. I thought at the time it meant, you know, birthday present but…what if it's tied together?"

"Do you remember who said it, in your dream?" he asks, frowning as we get stuck behind a snowplow that's headed into Sunnydale.

"Um…the first Slayer, for sure. Right before I pulled the yellow ribbons off the door. And…my mom, I th—oh god!"

Giles swerves as I clamp my hands over my mouth in horror. "What?" he says. "What is it?"

"She…my mom. She…she…said goodbye, in my dream…she…she told me…that she h-had to g-get off at the next stop. That…that she was going on ahead," I say, feeling everything in my chest lock up tight. "She warned me, Giles. And…and I didn't…"

He pulls off to the side of the road and turns to look at me.

"Buffy," he says, gently. "There was nothing you could have done. Nothing. Even…even if you'd been at her side, even if you'd known that that's what the dream meant…there was nothing that could have saved her."

"You don't know that," I tell him.

"I know that your mother wouldn't have wanted this. She would not have wanted you to be blaming yourself for her death. If…if your dream was, in fact, a-a portent or prophetic…Buffy, perhaps it was her way of setting your mind at ease. Of-of letting you know that she had to go, and that she loved you."

“We’re almost at the end of the line,” she tells me. “I have to get off at the next stop, but you go on ahead.”

“Will you wait for me?” I ask.

“Oh, honey,” she says.“I wish I could. But you’ve got a long ways to go yet.”

“I don’t want to go if you’re not,” I tell her.

“I’ll be there,” she promises. “When you finally get there, I’ll be there. I promise. I love you so much, sweetie. Now you hurry up, okay? Your gift is getting cold.”

Slowly I get my breathing back under control. It's…it's not okay but…if my dream was prophetic then …Giles is right. She wouldn't want me to blame myself. I take a couple of deep breaths and let them out.

He nods. "Are you all right?"

"It's been a long night," I tell him. "Let's just go home."

xxxxx

Getting home, unfortunately takes a little longer than we'd like, since we're stuck behind Mr. Plow. Still, it's not even eleven by the time we pull up in front of the house. The front door flies open almost immediately and Willow comes running out without a coat.

"Buffy! Giles!" she says. "We can't find Xander or Anya. There…there was a storm last night and they didn't check in after patrol. We…we tried calling their apartment all night, but…and the, the hospital. We even tried a locator spell but…it fizzled." She looks on the edge of tears.

"Okay," I say, feeling panic clutching at my chest. God, no. Not Xander. I can't…we'll find them. They just…got stuck somewhere because of the storm. I'm sure of it. "Okay…did the spell show where they were last?"

"Uh…just outside Restfield," she says, twisting her hands and looking ready to cry. "Buffy…"

Restfield. Spike's been following me at night…maybe, maybe he tailed them last night. It's worth a shot. "It's okay. I'll…I'll go check Restfield. Maybe Spike saw something last night. Or…maybe he can track their scent. You guys try calling again. Did you call Xander's parents?"

"Yeah…uh…twice. His dad yelled," Willow says.

"Okay, so…try the hospital again, and the Magic Box. I'll be back as soon as I can," I promise.

"Okay…Buffy, he'll be okay, right? Xander, he'll be okay?" she asks.

"I'm not losing anyone else," I tell her. "He'll be fine."

I just hope that I'm right.

xxxxx

There's a hard, heavy lump in my stomach the whole walk over to Restfield. Xander. Big, goofy, cuddly Xander who is always there for me, through everything. I…I can't let anything happen to him. Not now. Not ever.

Outside of the cemetery the snow is extra thick, as though the storm was concentrating on this one spot last night. One of the "No Parking" signs has been torn up out of the sidewalk and is now sticking up out of a drift near the fence. Some of the bushes are pretty mangled, too. It kind of looks like there was a fight. Not good.

It's tough, fighting my way through the heavy snow in the cemetery, and some of the shorter gravestones are totally covered by drifts in some places. If it weren't for the fact that I know this place so well I could walk it blindfolded, I'd probably have tripped over a dozen by the time I got to Spike's crypt. The drifts against his door are pretty deep, too. I kick it open.

"Spike!" I yell expecting to find him downstairs sleeping or sprawled in his chair. Instead he's standing just a few feet inside, and he spins to look at me in surprise. "Xander and Anya are—here? Oh."

In the corner of his crypt there is a little campfire going, and Xander and Anya are sitting beside it, leaning against the wall and cuddled up under a blanket that looks like it came off Spike's bed downstairs. Xander is eating out of a jar of peanut butter with his fingers.

"Hey, Buff!" Xander says. Is he…drunk?

"Buffy! Oh, thank god. Now I won't have to go looking for you. It's very cold out there," Anya says. "Xander broke his leg."

"What?" I ask, hurrying over to look. Anya draws back the blanket to show me. His left pant leg is cut nearly to his thigh, and two long pieces of wood splint his shin in place. The skin isn't broken, but it's swollen and bruising angrily. "Why didn't you go to the hospital? Willow and Tara have been going crazy. They said you didn't check in last night, and then there was that big storm and…they tried a locator spell but something fizzled. What happened?"

They exchange a glance, then both look over at Spike. I follow their gaze. "Oh, bloody hell," he mutters and stalks to the fridge.

"Spike," I say, ready to interrogate. And then…then he slams the fridge door and turns to glare at us, shoving his thumbs through his belt…

His belt.

I'd never much paid attention to it before. It's wide, leather. The buckle is kind of squared and pretty big. He's wearing jeans. T-shirt. Boots. His clothes are rumpled, like he'd slept in them. His curls are loose and sticking up all over. The crypt smells of whiskey and wood smoke from the fire, snow from the storm outside, and the familiar vampire scent of dust and leather.

It couldn't be, could it? I mean…lots of people wear jeans and t-shirts and belts. Lots of vampires. It…doesn't mean anything. Not at all. Just that…Mr. Gordo and Spike have the same kind of style. That's it. Right?

"What?" he asks, narrowing his eyes at me suspiciously.

“Ah…Um,” I say, very articulately, then try to make my brain work again. “What happened, last night?”

Spike just glares at me, his jaw flexing.

“Well, we finally found our ice demon,” Xander says. “And guess what? She was chatting with Resident Evil here.”

“What?” I ask, glancing between Spike and Xander. Spike was talking to our ice demon?

Spike rolls his eyes. “Not how it sounds, Slayer,” he says.

“No, that’s just how it looked,” Xander says.

“I saved your life, you dumb git,” Spike growls.

“Too bad you put it in danger in the first place,” Xander says.

“And I let you drink my whiskey—”

“Are either of you going to tell Buffy what happened or are you going to keep comparing penis length? Because I don’t mind playing judge so we can get it over with. I’m cold and I’m tired, and I want to get Xander to the hospital and then go home and shower and go check on the store. I’m losing out on sales, here, you know,” Anya says.

Spike and Xander both just blink at her.

"We were patrolling," Anya says abruptly, clearly deciding that the boys aren’t going to fill me in. "You wanted to know what happened, right? Well, Xander made me patrol with him, instead of sitting in the house and watching TV. Which, let me tell you, would have been preferable to traipsing around in a graveyard at night in the snow. Even the vampires were sensible and stayed in. Then we got here and found Spike arguing with an ice demon. A female ice demon, who pretty much matched the description of the one we’ve been looking for. Anyway, when we got here Spike was telling her to 'sod off' and she said she was his queen and he said he'd beat her to death with her own legs. Of course, that's when she noticed that we were spying on them and sent her henchman to kill us. He broke Xander's leg and then Spike beat the crap out of the henchman and brought us back here to get out of the storm. I've had to listen to the two of them bicker all night and talk about lame science-fiction films, and I haven't had sex since yesterday. Xander didn't want to do it with Spike in the room. So thank you, for rescuing us."

She pauses for breath.

Okay.

"So…let me get this straight," I say, sorting through Anya's info dump. "You guys ran into Spike, who was threatening our MIA demon chick. She sent her henchman guy out to kill you two, he broke Xander's leg, and …Spike fought him off, then brought you back here?"

"And he set Xander's leg," Anya says. "It made Spike pass out and gave him a nose bleed. Spike, not Xander. Xander just passed out."

Why would setting Xander’s leg make Spike—?

Then it hits me. The chip. Spike can't hurt humans, and…well…Xander being human, and setting bones equals hurting…I've had bones set before. It's not quick. He had to have done it while the chip was firing. How hard would it have to fire to make him pass out?

And why would Spike willingly go through that amount of pain?

I don't know what to do with that, so I set it aside, for now. Better to find out why they're not at the hospital.

"And…you guys are still here because?" I ask.

"Stormed all night," Spike says from the other side of the crypt. He's leaning against a column, arms crossed, watching the three of us with a wary expression. "And then there was the little matter of the blazing ball of death up in the sky," he adds, dryly.

Oh. Right.

I take a look at Xander again. He's looking a little gray around the edges, like he might want to throw up soon. There's no way he's walking on that leg, and while I could carry him…it would be really awkward. Spike can't help because of his sun allergy and Anya's not strong enough. Crap. There's no way we can call the paramedics out here because…well, trying to explain to them why Spike is living in a crypt would not make things go smoothly. Which means we need wheels. Giles's car, adorable as it is, won't work. Barely a back seat. Maybe Xander's?

"Okay, we need transportation," I say. "Anya, can you drive Xander's car?"

"Sure," she says, not looking so sure.

"A world of no," Xander says, looking a little paler. "Not on icy streets."

Okay…crap.

"I've got a car," Spike says, then makes a face like he probably wishes he hadn't mentioned it. Immediately he gets defensive. "What? I do. And I can get to it without the soddin' sun being a problem. Just …can't get the man who came to dinner here in it."

"I can do that," I say, hoping his car isn't a stolen car. Or about to be. "If you can pull it up to the gates?"

"Yeah," he says. Without another word he picks up his duster from where it's draped over a statue, and shrugs into it. He doesn't even bother climbing down the ladder to the room below, instead he just drops soundlessly through the hole.

"Like a cat," Xander murmurs, shaking his head as he stares at the place where Spike disappeared. Then his eyes slide up to meet mine. "I might still be drunk, actually. Is there more whiskey?"

"No," I tell him. "But I'm sure they have painkillers at the hospital. We need to get you up. Think you can manage?"

"For painkillers? I can Riverdance," Xander jokes.

Between Anya and I we get Xander to his feet, then I let him use me as a human crutch to get across the crypt. When I open the door, however, he groans. "Did Spike turn me last night? Cause I think the sun might just kill me," he says, squinting against the glare of the light off the snow.

"Big baby," Anya says fondly.

It's slow going, wading through the snow without jarring Xander's leg. Luckily I'd already made a path from the gates on my way in. We're all cold and ready for a break, but as we stop at the gate, a big, ugly old car pulls up in front of us, crossing the street so it can park parallel to the curb. It's black and silver—even the windows are painted black. Long fins run the length of the car and stick up in the back like wings.

Trust Spike to drive the Batmobile.

Popping open the backdoor on the driver's side, I poke my head in. Black leather interior, lots of alcohol bottles and cans of spray paint littering the floor. It smells like old leather, old cigarettes, and older booze. The windows that look solid black from the outside aren't quite evenly covered, so a little bit of light leaks in, making the interior of the car dark and moody.

"This is the ugliest car I've ever seen," I say to the back of Spike's bleached head. The windshield is covered with a removable screen of cardboard and tinfoil, duct-taped to the frame around the edges. A thin rectangular hole is cut out right about at Spike's eye level. "How can you even see?" I ask curiously.

Spike leans forward, then cranes his head around to look at me without letting any sunlight hit him. "It's a classic, Slayer," he says. "And you're letting the light in. Mind shoving the boy in so we can be off? Passions is coming on soon." I roll my eyes.

It takes some maneuvering, but we manage to get Xander in the backseat, half laying across Anya. I shut the door carefully to avoid bumping Xander's foot, then go around to the passenger's side. Finding the seat means excavating some of the trash on it and dumping it on the floor. Spike leans way over against the driver's side door while I shove enough junk out of the way that I can get in.

"I've never been in a vampire's car before," Anya says. "This is clever. A little smelly, but clever."

Spike sniffs and shrugs. "Haven't cleaned it out in a couple of years. Don't use it much, here in SunnyD."

"What happens if you get pulled over?" Xander asks. Spike's eyes flick over to the rear-view mirror, which seems pretty pointless when the entire back window is blacked out, but whatever.

"Why the bloody hell would I pull over?" he asks.

"Oh," Xander says. "Right. Forgot."

I'm not sure how he does it, but he manages to drive us to the hospital just fine. I guess vampire hearing lets him know when there are cars in his blind spots, because we don't hit anything. We're all quiet long enough, though, that my brain goes right back to that moment in the crypt. Somehow I can't help but keep looking at him.

It's hard to look at him, sometimes, and not see the same badass, bleached pest who made my life hell a few years ago. But so much about Spike just doesn't make sense. It's almost…it's almost like he's a different vampire. Only…not. He's still cranky, and moody, he still walks around with that Big Bad attitude of his. Still smokes like a chimney, and drinks way more alcohol than blood…but there's something different. Something I can't really put into words. Maybe it's that he helped Xander last night. Maybe it's…the way he's been patrolling for me, lately. The last few times we've talked he's been almost…friendly.

I would have said it had something to do with…with mom, but it's been happening for months now. Sort of slowly. Bit by bit.

I'm not what I was, he told me weeks ago.

For the first time I think, maybe…maybe he's not.

What do I do with that?

When we get to the hospital, I help Xander get out of the car while Anya goes in to ask for a wheelchair or a stretcher. Spike looks like he's going to take off, so I lean back in. "Stay here, Spike," I tell him.

"I'm not your bleedin' taxi," he grumbles, eyes narrowing.

"I want to talk to you," I tell him, pretending he's not being a jerk. "I'm just going to get him checked in and then I need a ride home. Thirty minutes, tops."

"Magic words, Slayer," he says with a scowl.

I don't know if the last few weeks have just worn me down, or if it's the smile I catch glinting in his eyes, but the words come without any effort. "Please, Spike."

He nods once, then makes a show out of setting the brake and turning on the radio. The last thing I hear as I shut the door is some musically-challenged band screaming at the top of their lungs.

xxxxx

The ER people practically know Xander on sight by now. The nurse at the desk huffs a "you again?" sigh as we sign him in.

When they wheel him back for X-rays, I snag the chance to talk to Anya.

"The demon you guys saw last night," I say. "What'd she look like?"

"Tall. Long white hair. White skin. White eyes. Serious superiority complex. Bad fashion sense." She shrugs. "We weren't very close, and there were bushes and headstones in the way. I didn’t see where she went, after she sent her guy after us."

"What about the one that attacked you?" I ask.

"Um, tall. Pale. Blue white hair, blue eyes, very pointy teeth. But we don't need to look him up," she says. "I know who he is."

"From your demon days?"

"No," she says. "Well, yes, but by reputation. You've heard of him, too. Jack Frost."

"Jack Frost is a demon?" I say, thinking of the old Christmas cartoon.

"Live long enough," she says, with a shrug. "You find out that just about all the old myths are based on demons. There's even a few based on me."

Okay, so now I have to worry about two ice demons. Great. I check the clock, fifteen minutes ‘til Spike takes off without me. "What happened, really, last night with Spike?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Temper tantrums, mostly," she says. "But I think he and Xander may have reached an understanding. About time, too. All of the enraged testosterone that was going around last night left me incredibly horny. If it had gone on much longer—"

"I get the picture," I interrupt her. "Really get the picture."

Luckily, they wheel Xander back out about then. "It's a clean break," the intern in charge of him tells us. "Whoever set it did a great job. He'll be in a cast for a few weeks, but it should heal just fine."

We nod, relieved. "I'm going to head back to the house," I tell Anya. "I'll let the others know what happened. Do you need anything?"

She hands me Xander's keys. "Not that Spike's car isn't fascinating," she tells me, "but would you see if Giles can pick us up? He'll probably be so loopy on painkillers he won't notice, but I think twelve hours worth of Spike is about Xander's limit for the day."

For a moment I stare at the keys in my hand. "Did he really pass out?" I ask.

"They both did. Spike was out for almost half an hour. Xander didn't wake up until Spike splinted his leg," she says, then turns serious eyes on me. "I'm not sure how Spike did it, actually. I'm fairly certain that if he were human, the chip would have killed him. I guess it’s a good thing he’s already dead. Usually technology seems like a good thing, but you'd think if they were smart enough to figure out how to implant behavior modification chips in vampires to keep them from feeding, they'd have worked out that there's a difference between causing pain in order to kill and causing pain in order to help someone. Seems fairly stupid, overall."



xxxxx

Somehow I manage to make it back out to the car before the thirty minutes are up. Spike just slides me a look as I open the door and climb in, buckling the lap belt. It feels weird to be in a car so old that it doesn't have a chest restraint.

"How old is this car?" I ask, as he puts it in gear and pulls out of the hospital drive.

"Forty years or so, give or take," he says with a frown. There's a muscle popping in his jaw. He's tense.

"How long have you had it?" I ask, kicking a little at the junk piled at my feet and wondering where he got it. Somehow I can't picture Spike buying a car. He probably stole it, and the owner is long dead.

"'Bout that long," he says, then smiles boyishly, caressing the steering wheel. His nail polish is chipped again, I notice. "Got a demon friend who keeps it for me when I'm out of the country. Gives it new tags every few years or so, keeps the engine purring like a kitten."

I roll my eyes a little. Boys and their cars. I remember the driving date I had with Riley a lifetime ago, it seems now. He'd sat there and extolled the virtues of his gas guzzling little red hot rod and tried to convince me driving was fun. Spike's got the same kind of glint in his eye Riley did. I watch as he steers the wheel with the flat of his palms, carefully keeping his fingers out of the light that falls through the hole in the windshield.

Unable to see, I find myself lulled by the feel of the car under me, the drift as we round corners, the growl of the engine. Most modern cars are built so that you barely feel the ride. You drift over the streets silently. This thing was built back when the word muscle car meant that you actually had to put work into them.

A picture of Spike, in a tight, sleeveless black tank top and black jeans, his pale face smudged with oil as he slides out from under this steel monstrosity suddenly pops into my brain.

I blink, trying to dislodge it, but there it is. Grease monkey Spike, tightening bolts with a big crescent wrench. Something suspiciously lusty pools low in my gut.

Bad Buffy. Not good. This is just a reaction to the weird moment in the crypt earlier. Seemingly of their own volition my eyes wander to Spike's lap and his belt. And…once more I'm staring at Spike's crotch.

This is probably a sign that I'm on the verge of a mental breakdown. I need to think about something else.

"You gonna tell me about what the Ice Queen wanted?" I ask, trying to focus on something that's actually important. His jaw does that clenchy thing again.

"Was standing right there when Anyanka told you," he says "No point in me rehashing it. I can't tell you anything different."

And why do I get the sense that, once again, he's not telling me everything? Still, I'm pretty sure if I ask Xander later he'll give me the 411.

Which brings me back to my other problem: Spike saving Xander. From what Anya said it sounded like Spike could have just left them. That Jack Frost guy hadn't gone after Spike, he'd attacked the humans. Spike could have left them to die. I'd have found their bodies this morning, covered in snow…if I were lucky. But he didn't. He stayed. And he set Xander's leg in spite of the pain that he must have known the chip would cause him. He'd endured enough of it to make him pass out.

A little voice in the back of my head points out that, if he could endure that, there's no reason why he couldn't endure the pain long enough to kill someone if he really wanted to.

The fact is…he doesn't seem to want to.

Which leaves me even more confused.

It takes me awhile to realize that the car has stopped, and I'm staring at him. "What?" he demands, staring at me suspiciously.

"They said you did a good job, setting his leg," I tell him.

He frowns. "Set my own, a time or two," he says. He probably has.

"Why did you do it, Spike?" I ask. "I know you and Xander can't stand each other. Rescuing him…setting his leg in spite of the chip…Anya said you blacked out for almost half an hour. Why did you do it? I want the truth."

He doesn't look at me. For several minutes he just stares out through the peep hole at the street. In the shadows of the car, he's painted in black and white and gold. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, then he sighs, as if tired. When he speaks, it's so soft and low I almost don't hear him. "I knew…” he murmurs, "it would destroy you. If you lost him, on top of your mum. He's a wanker, and we're never going to be bosom friends, but…I couldn't just leave him to die."

My breath catches in my throat, and my heart begins to pound so loudly I'm surprised he doesn't call me on it. Suddenly I'm thinking back to the night before the funeral, the look in his eyes, the way he spoke to me then.

Oh. God.

Spike…Spike cares about me? His mortal enemy? Since when?

"Spike," I say, but he interrupts me before I can get any further.

"Don't make a thing of it, Slayer," he says, rolling his eyes. But it's a little too late.

I should be wigging out. I should. The idea that Spike might care about me ought to disgust me, ought to have me punching him in the nose, or better yet, dusting him. This is Spike, after all. Evil, disgusting, soulless demon who has tried to kill me numerous times, and whose ideal woman is Morticia Addam's skanky cousin. Of all the men I've ever wanted to care about me, it should be beyond insulting that the one who might is, not only a soulless vampire, but also my mortal enemy.

Only…he's been watching out for me, the last few weeks. I know he has. He's patrolled, and now he's protected my friends. All without being asked, or told, or even with the expectation of payment or gratitude.

Truth is…I'm changing, Buffy. I know, you don't think that's possible, and it sounds daft to me too, but there you go. I'm not what I was…I don't know if it's the chip or if it's…being around your do-gooder lot all the time but…I've changed, and it doesn't matter whether you believe it or not. It's true…I can be good, Buffy. I can. And if you weren't so bloody blind you'd see it, too.

He's got this strange look on his face: a little bit attitude, a little bit fear, and a little bit…hope? Maybe that's why. Maybe it's the whole emotional tumult of the last few weeks. Maybe it's the shyness I think I glimpse in his eyes, or the fact that I'm still thinking about last night and Mr. Gordo and vaguely remembering that night in the snow when Spike was leaning over me, so close I could count the snowflakes on his lashes. Maybe it's that he showed up at my mother's grave while the sun was still up, or maybe it's that he keeps trying even though I keep telling him it's impossible. Maybe it's a thank you…or maybe I just want to.

I don't know.

But suddenly I'm leaning forward and pressing my lips to his.

He freezes, and I wonder fleetingly if he's going to reject this, pull back and wipe his mouth and gag and act like this is the most disgusting thing I could have done.

Because a couple of months ago, I would've. Heck, we've both done that same thing before.

He doesn't, though. He stays very still, and I let my lips linger for a heartbeat or two. His mouth is soft with surprise, even though I can sense the rest of him tensing up. I breathe in the vampire scent of dust and graveyards and a hint of cigarettes and whiskey, the slight tinge of snow and wood smoke. With my eyes closed, he could be Mr. Gordo.

But he's not. I'm utterly, totally, completely aware that he's Spike.

A little thrill of forbidden pleasure runs through me at that.

Spike. I'm kissing Spike.

Oh, god. I'm kissing Spike.

As if he's reading my mind, he pulls back. His eyes open and he stares at me with something like awe. Awe, and something else I don't know how to name. It's so raw and open that I feel it like a punch to my sternum.

"Thanks," I manage to say. "I won't forget it, Spike."

And then I flee out of the car and into the house, and try not to think about the fact that, when faced with whatever was shining in Spike's eyes, I'm a complete coward.

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