Author's Notes: Random bit of trivia: this is the longest chapter in Part 1. It almost was longer (the Slayer dream from the last chapter was originally the opening for THIS chapter, but my beta convinced me it worked better there).

Thank you for all the awesome reviews. There are so many I want to respond to, but I can’t yet…I’m afraid of accidentally leaving spoilers. When we get to the end of Part 1, I’ll try to respond to some of them.

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 32
Wake Up Call

My mind is weirdly blank as I rush through a cold shower and throw on some clothes. I skip breakfast and instead grab my coat and scarf, yanking them on even as I'm going out the door.

It's still early, just past dawn. He should still be sleeping. He's a vampire. Nocturnal. Even if he went to bed at the same time I did, he should still be sleeping. I would still be sleeping if it hadn't been for that dream and I so don't want to dwell right now on the implications of prophetic dreams that indicate I'll be getting groiny with Spike sometime in the future.

And liking it.

The air smells like it snowed again last night, and the birds, the brave few that didn't get out of town and head south, are singing. A flock of crows take off from the top of the gates at Restfield as I push them open. What do you call a flock of crows? A murder? That's bad, right? I count them as they wing over Spike's crypt. There's seven…seven is lucky. So maybe that will counteract whatever bad luck I'm about to have doing this. I shouldn't be doing this.

That Cordelia voice from last night has now been joined by another one that sounds a little like Anya, and she’s warning me that this is a bad, bad idea. Nothing good can come of this.

But I have to know.

The crypt door squeaks as I open it, making me wince. There's no sign of him on the upper level as I slip inside. The TV is off, the chair in front of it empty. He's cleaned up the fire pit from yesterday and only the lingering smell of wood smoke in the air tells me it was ever here. The slab is over the hole and I try to be as quiet as possible when I shift it just enough that I can slip down the ladder.

Sneaky is so not my style, and I half expect to get caught at any minute, but I don't want him to wake up before I see what I came to see.

It's quiet below: just the sound of the running water in the sewers and the crackle of torch flames. The area near the ladder is dark; the only light is over near the bedroom. My heartbeat seems really loud in my ears, even though I'm doing my best to calm it like Giles tells me to in training.

Somehow it's easier when I'm out killing vampires. Sneaking up on sleeping ones seems to have a totally different effect on me.

I creep toward the bedroom; glad I wore sneakers instead of hard soled shoes. There's a lit torch on the wall, and the lamp beside the bed is on. If I shift just a little more I can see…

…the empty bed?

He's not here? I crane my neck around the room but there's nothing stirring. Still, my vampire tinglies are registering him nearby. Maybe he’s in the sewer tunnels? If he's not in bed, then he's awake and my reason for coming here is blown…unless he hasn't changed clothes yet?

Feeling a little braver I step into the room, into the light. There's a book lying open on the bed, and the red comforter is thrown back to show the tangled black satin sheets underneath. There's something else black, tossed over the foot of the bed and I take a step toward it without thinking.

"Looking for something, Slayer?" Spike asks, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me toward him.

And I realize that the splashing I'd heard wasn't the sewer at all.

Spike was in the shower.

Was being the operative word.

Now, Spike is not in the shower.

Spike is standing in front of me, and the only thing he's wearing is water.

Oh.

God.

Muscles.

And.

Oh.

…

Someone shakes me.

Spike.

Oh god. Spike.

"Eyes up here, Slayer," he says, laughter lacing his tone. "Safer that way."

He's staring at me now, amusement and pure male arrogance written plain across his face. His tongue curls up to play with the edge of his teeth. My mouth opens but nothing comes out. He chuckles and lets go of my shoulders. "Well," he says. "This is awkward. Shall I get shirty and demand you turn round to preserve my delicate virtue?"

That statement is ridiculous enough that it allows me to find my voice.

"Nothing about you is delicate, Spike," I manage.

"Noticed that, did you? Not so blind after all," he says. He smirks and affecting his usual Big Bad attitude he struts over the bed and sits, legs splayed a little, leaning back on his elbows. It's a deliberate attempt to get me to run away, I think, because there's no way I can look at him now and not see…

Spike.

Lots and lots of Spike.

All pale skin and blue veins and rippling abs and strong thighs and clinging droplets of water and dozens of faded old scars and …and …

"Did you want something, luv?"

My inner Anya starts jumping up and down waving her hand to get my attention. With apologies to real Anya, I knock her out and sit on her. I can do this. It's not like I've never seen a guy naked before.

I have. Plenty of times.

So what if none of them looked like they were chiseled out of marble and dipped in champagne then draped across satin sheets like a present just for me? This is Spike.

And he's doing this just because he's evil and twisted and he likes messing with my head. Steeling myself to be the Slayer, not Buffy, I march over to the bed and grab the material lying at the foot. Pants. Good.

Wait.

"These are workout pants," I say, frowning at them.

"Very good, Summers," he says. "Now, what do you call this?"

I refuse to look to see what he's pointing at.

"I thought you preferred to sleep naked?" I ask, staring at the black fabric in my hands. They're cool to the touch, but they would be, even if he'd been wearing them for hours. Stupid vampire lack of body heat.

"I do," he says. "I also prefer to workout without scraping the hell out of certain sensitive portions of my anatomy. Especially when I don't have someone about to kiss it and make it better. But if you'd like to stick around for a bit, Slayer, you can hold my feet while I do naked sit ups."

I toss the pants at his grinning face. Stupid vampire.

And there's a visual I'm not soon going to get rid of.

I can't even remember why I came here. I should punch him, but punching naked people…vampires…feels wrong. I need to go, before my inner Anya wakes up and starts trying to convince me that naked Spike is a good thing.

Of course, I only make it to the top of the ladder before Spike catches up to me. He's put the pants on, at least, but his upper half is pretty distracting, too.

"Buffy, wait," he says, climbing up and then coming around to block my exit. He's trying to look sheepish, but failing miserably. "What was it you wanted, pet?"

"Don't call me pet," I say.

"Slayer, then. I'm assuming there's a reason you came round so early?" he frowns. "Scoobies in trouble again?"

"No," I say. "I…um…" Crap. Why didn't I come up with a reason for being here, in case he caught me?

"Or maybe you just wanted to catch me in bed?" he suggests, leering a little. "Beginning to think I should have slept in a bit this morning. Fancied a cuddle, did you?"

"No!" I say, ignoring the fact that, okay, yeah, I was trying to catch him in bed. Unbidden, memories of my dream from this morning creep back and I feel myself starting to blush. Oh, yeah, Slayer dream, I think, my gaze landing on a scar across his right bicep I know I've never noticed before. But it was there, in my dream.

I remember licking it.

Spike sniffs slightly. "Tsk," he says, smirking. "Not nice to lie." He glances around then, his eyes landing on his cigarettes and lighter laying on the sarcophagus nearby. Sauntering over he retrieves the pack, making sure I get the full effect of the dim morning light playing over the muscles in his back. His pants ride dangerously low on his hips as he leans back against the sarcophagus and lights a cigarette.

"Want to tell me what's really going on in that head of yours, Goldilocks?" he asks.

ASK HIM, my inner Cordy says.

It wouldn't be so bad, if I asked Spike. I expect Spike to lie to me anyway. It's not like he can disappoint me. I'll probably ask and he'll lie and then I'll still be stuck wondering whether or not he's Mr. Gordo, but at least I'll have asked, right?

He's watching me through narrowed, blue eyes and a haze of white smoke. I focus on the chipped black polish on his fingernails. There are butterflies in my stomach. Big, ugly, lead-winged butterflies performing the Nutcracker in my stomach.

"Spike…if I were to ask you a kind of weird question, would you give me an honest answer?" I ask, stalling a little.

He narrows his eyes. "Maybe," he says finally. "Would depend on the question."

"What does that mean?" I ask. He sighs.

"Look, Slayer, there's no way to answer that. I can't promise yes, because I've lived a bloody long time and I’ve done a lot of bad stuff. There's plenty of things you could ask me that I wouldn't want to tell you about. And promising to lie is just stupid," he says.

"Okay," I say. I guess that was…pretty honest. The butterflies are tap dancing now. "Um…there's no really good way to ask this, but…um, Spike, are you Mr. Gordo?"

He goes very still. Very, very still. Or at least I think he does. It might be my imagination, because then a muscle in his jaw pops once, twice, and he blinks slowly at me. "That's the second time you've asked me that," he says. "Or something near. We're not talking about your piggy, are we?"

"No," I say, watching him now as warily as he's watching me.

"Who's this Mr. Gordo, then?" he asks. He stubs out his cigarette and straightens, tucking his thumbs into the already low waistband of his pants. They dip further.

"He's…" My eyes can't seem to help but drift down to follow the soft trail of brown hair that leads from his navel to…When I realize what I'm staring at, yet again, I jerk my gaze back to his face. The look in his eyes now is playful, and a little heated, sly. "If you don't know then—"

He takes a step forward. "Didn't say I didn't know," he says. "Can't say for sure unless you fill me in. So who is he?" He takes another step. Is he prowling?

"He's…uh, he's a friend," I say.

He raises his eyebrows. "A friend? And you don't know if this…friend…is me?" Oh, that's definitely a prowl. He's got his blood-in-the-air face on and it's doing bad things to the butterflies. The muscles in his shoulders flex a little as he comes nearer.

"I haven't…I've never seen his face," I admit. "And…he doesn't talk."

"If he doesn’t talk, how do you know he's a friend?" he asks softly, coming forward yet another step. I back up, sensing…not danger. Or, maybe it is danger. I can't tell. All I know is my butterflies have taken up a chorus line and moved the show somewhere higher up in my chest. Inner Anya has joined them. I notch my chin up and try to glare.

"I just do," I tell him.

"Where'd you meet this mysterious bloke?" he asks, forcing me back another step. "The Bronze? A cemetery?"

"I dream about him," I say. Spike smiles. It's a slow, almost Grinchy kind of smile.

"You dream about him," he says, his voice a low purr now that sets my Slayer senses tingling. Something hard meets my back. A wall. Crap. "You think you might be dreaming about me, Summers?"

"I…I don't think they're really dreams," I say. He steps into my space.

"Not really the silent type," he says, putting a fist against the wall beside my head and leaning on it. I'm a little surprised when he doesn't cage me completely. "Sure you're not dreaming about what's-his-height?"

I nod, glancing at the escape route he's left me. Why would Spike leave an opening like that? I could duck out of his reach easily, but if I did he'd know he was …affecting me. Better to stand my ground.

"So…what do you and Mr. Gordo do, in these dreams that might not be dreams?" he asks, smirking just a little. The tip of his tongue runs across the edge of his teeth. "Anything…interesting?"

He's closer. Leaning in just a little, so that all I can see is the pale wall of his chest, and his face. There's something odd about his eyes, though. "Well?" he asks, and I realize I've forgotten to answer the question.

"Um…we, we sleep, mostly," I say. He's very close now, and god, he smells like Mr. Gordo. My Slayer sense is tingling, but not in alarm. Instead I'm feeling kinda like I used to back when I was still waiting for Angel to make his move, only worse…and better. Less unsure and more safe.

Safe? How does that make sense?

And how come I'm the one answering questions? When did this get twisted around? Oh. Yeah. When I decided to talk to Spike, the king of twisty.

"Together?" he purrs, and I feel the vibrations from it all the way down to my knees. "Could let you have a test drive. See how I…measure up?"

He leans in a little more. A couple of more inches and I'm pretty sure I'm going to know exactly how much Spike…um…measures. I definitely already had the preview and it was impressive enough. The butterflies have picked up the pace, and are now headed for a grand finale. "Don't be a pig, Spike," I manage, but there's no force behind it.

I'm a little breathless, and my instincts are torn. Fight or flight?

But I can't seem to do either. Maybe it's a thrall? Only as far as I know, Spike doesn't have a thrall.

"I don't know," he says, his head dipping a little. Up close I watch the sparkle of blue in his eyes, as he glances at me through his dark lashes. His mouth is really close and suddenly I'm thinking back to that moment in the car, and the one in the snow, and all those kisses back when Willow made us fall in love and the kisses in my dream last night and I'm wondering if he kissed me now if there would be fireworks like before. Somehow I doubt it. Not fireworks. Too tame. If he kisses me, I'm going to spontaneously combust.

"I think," he says softly, "you want me to be a pig. I think…you want me to be your Mr. Gordo. I think you want me…"

Oh, god.

Behind us, the crypt door bangs open.

"Bloody hell," Spike mutters, jerking his head around to glare at the intruder. "Doesn't anyone ever fucking knock in this town?"

"Buffy?" says Giles. I peek out from around Spike.

"Giles! Hi!" I say, trying not to sound guilty. "What's up?"

He frowns at us. "What are you doing?"

Okay, so…probably not the best position for him to catch us in. "Um…interrogating?"

"Whom is interrogating whom?" he says, glancing at Spike's hand where it's still resting against the wall beside my head, his wet hair, and bare torso. At me, practically pinned beneath him and…

There goes the memory of that dream again.

Crap. Definitely not the best thing for Giles to walk in on. And he's got a point. I came here to ask Spike questions, to find out if he was lying to me and…and instead I'm the one getting nailed to the wall…er…I mean…

Somehow the combination of Giles plus frustration makes my temper flare, and before I can think better of it, I punch Spike in the nose.

"Ow!" he yells, staggering back and dabbing at his upper lip, checking for blood. "What the hell?"

"You were crowding me," I tell him.

He glares. "Two is a couple. Three is a crowd. Technically, Rupert did the crowding."

"Well, we were not coupling," I say.

"Thank god for that," Giles says. He takes his glasses off and starts polishing. I give Spike my best you-better-behave glare and cross the room. He glares right back, gingerly touching his nose to see if I broke it. It's not like he didn't deserve it.

"How come you're looking for me here?" I ask Giles.

"I wasn't, actually," Giles says. "I stopped at your house to see how patrol went, but you weren't home. I thought I'd see if Spike had run into you last night. Imagine my surprise. What are you doing here?"

"I…uh…came to ask Spike some questions," I say, stalling.

"About?"

"The other night," Spike says, coming up behind me. "I already told her I don't know anything more than you. How's Gimpy's leg?"

Wait, Spike's lying for me? Why?

"Well enough," Giles says. "I suppose we all owe you a debt of gratitude, Spike. Unless you were hoping for a more…monetary sort of reward?"

"Don't be a berk," Spike says, a little angrily. With a sneer he stalks over to the fridge. "Already told the Slayer why I did it. Don't worry about it Rupes. I'm paid in full." He holds up a mug of blood, and drains it deliberately, watching us over the rim.

"I'm fine," I tell Giles. "There was just one vamp last night and he was hardly even a workout. I was going to swing by the shop for some training after I left here. Maybe you can give me a lift?"

"Of course," Giles says, glancing from me to Spike. I have a feeling this isn't going to be the end of this particular discussion.



***

"Buffy?"

I pause, and wipe the sweat out of my eyes with the back of my arm. Giles stands in the doorway to the training room, staring at me.

"Yeah?" I say, then go back to punching the bag. There's a kind of cathartic relief in action. It's the first time in weeks I've felt even close to normal. My muscles burn, my fists ache, I'm drenched in sweat, and I feel alive. The only thing better than this, I think, would be sparring with someone, but as my only good sparring partner is Mr. Gordo, I'll have to settle for Mr. Punching Bag.

"Are you all right?" he asks, staring at me.

"Peachy with a side of keen," I say, and knee the bag in its non-existent groin. He eyes me as if not entirely convinced.

He's right not to be. The entire drive over here I spent dancing around my reasons for being at Spike's. And now I'm trying to burn off what feels like years worth of pent up frustration. It doesn't seem to matter how hard I pound the bag, though. My brain keeps flickering through a set of Spike related images.

…Spike holding my hands while we sit on the back porch the night before the funeral. Spike pointing a shotgun at me and asking me what's wrong. Spike sprawled out on his bed, naked and proud. Spike slipping out of the shadows, promising to kill me. Spike dancing with me at the Bronze. Spike holding out his hand and helping me up from the floor. Spike pinning me down in the snow, a boyish grin on his face. Spike standing in the sewer tunnel entrance, his thumbs hooked through his belt loops. Spike flipping the coffin lid against the wall, his face stormy as he mocks me. Spike at Christmas, standing barefoot in his crypt, his fingers brushing mine as he takes the bag from my hand. Spike sitting atop a mausoleum, his white hair almost glowing against the black sky. Spike offering to help me save the world. Spike staring at me in awe, the feel of his lips still lingering on mine…

"Giles, we need to order more burba weed. We're out again," Anya says, coming through the door. "I swear someone is stealing it, though who would want to is beyond me. Buffy's here." She blinks at me. "Oh, good. She's punching things again. Does this mean we can stop babying her?"

"Anya, a word, please," Giles says, then takes her by the arm and walks her back into the shop.

***

A few hours later, after I've toweled off and washed up a bit (I wonder if I could talk Xander into installing a shower back here?), I head out into the shop to see what's going on.

"Lydia," I say, surprised to find her there. She glances up from the table where she's sitting, hunched over her book and notes. Her hair is down, and it's longer than I thought, and a little wavy. Kinda pretty, actually. She's still wearing the glasses, and her clothes are a bit tweedy around the edges, but she looks nice. Not so Watchery.

"Buffy," she says. "How are you? I haven't seen you since…"

"The funeral," I say, sitting across from her. "It's okay. You can say the F-word. Not, you know, the bad one that means sex…not that I have anything against people who say that word and you can say that one, too, if you want and I'm going to shut up now."

"Ah, yes," she says, blushing harder.

"Whatcha workin on?" I ask, ready for a subject change.

"Oh…the prophecy," she says. "Ru—er, Mr. Giles suggested I go through it looking for references to son present or son don."

Ugh. I thought I'd left French behind in high school. Guess I should have paid more attention. Lydia must read the lack of comprendo on my face. "Her gift," she translates, taking pity on me. "He indicated that…the, uh, guide mentioned a gift, and that your dream had included the phrase as well."

The reminder of my Slayer dreams is enough to make me wriggle uncomfortably in my seat. Damn, Giles has the heat turned way up in here. There is no way I'm telling him about my most recent one. Even if my dreams have a history of being prophetic that doesn't necessarily mean that at some point in the future I'm going to find myself having sex with Spike. Not even if it was one of the hottest dreams I've ever had and if he's that good in dream foreplay, how much better…

I've got to stop thinking about Spike.

"The big tease," I mutter. Lyida looks at me funny. What were we talking about? Oh…Right. My gift. "Well…enough people start telling you you're getting a gift, you start to wonder where it is," I explain, hoping she'll buy it. "I was thinking, last night…do you think it could have something to do with this artifact we're looking for?"

"It's possible," she says. "Since it is something meant to be given into your keeping."

"Any idea what it is yet?" I ask. She flips back through her notebook.

"We've uncovered a few hints. There's a good likelihood that it may be a weapon," she says, frowning at the pages. "There was a reference to it…it, uh…it was a bit buried under some insane ramblings about…ah, yes, here we are. '…It will come to her tarnished and black, sheathed, but still sharp and thirsty for the blood of its foes, and the Slayer's hand will bring it to the light…’”

"Sounds pretty weapony to me," I say, squinting at her tiny handwriting. From over here it looks like little ants marching across the page. "That last bit, though…could it be buried or hidden?"

"Possibly," she says. "Unfortunately the prophet took this opportunity to start waxing philosophical about the sun and the moon again. It's one of his many favorite themes. Closely followed by potatoes, signs and dogs."

"Dogs?"

"Caveo canis," she says. "It's rather execrable Latin. I think it's meant to mean 'beware of the dog', but that ought to be cave canum. Oddly, it's some of the only Latin in the entire thing, which suggests it's a direct quote. It’s possible it's a mistranslation or misspelling, though. Canis means dog. But canus," she writes the two words down for me, so I can see the difference. "Spelled like this it could mean 'beware of the one with white hair'. Contextually it would make more sense, though I admit it's a bit of a stretch. The whole thing's rather shoddy. Perhaps our prophet did poorly in his Latin class."

"Still, sounds like our demon chick," I say, mulling it all over. "Has it mentioned anything about how to kill her?"

"The Cold One?" Giles asks, joining us. "No. Though it does sound as if our mysterious artifact may be necessary. The prophecy mentions some kind of ritual, meant to both bind it to you and unlock its powers."

"Figures. There’s a ritual for pretty much everything, isn’t there?" I say. "I've got to head home and get cleaned up before class, but maybe we could research party tonight?"

Giles blinks at me.

"Now I know something's wrong. You're suggesting research."

"I just want to know more about that Frosty demon that attacked Xander and Anya, so I can hunt it down and kill it. We don't know how badly Spike damaged it, and if it's still a danger, we need to know," I remind him.

"Right," he says. "Of course. I'll…I'll have Willow and Tara pull books that might be helpful when they come in after class."

"And I'll pick up donuts," I promise, gathering my stuff.

***

"Xander, how many times must I tell you not to eat jelly donuts over my books? The pages are all stuck together," Giles complains. Class was boring and I spent most of it trying not to think about mom or naked, flirty vampires or silent ones. The Scooby meeting is a welcome distraction.

Xander looks guilty and licks his fingers. "Sorry," he mumbles around a mouthful of donut. He's ensconced in the comfiest chair in the shop, his foot propped up on a packing crate, the cast looking huge and clumsy and oddly adorable with its protective sock over his foot to keep his toes warm. We'd tried to tell him he didn't have to come tonight, but…well…he's Xander.

"I think I found something," Tara says, and we all perk up. "Did your demon guy have a really long nose?" She shows the book to Xander. He shakes his head.

"Sorry, Cyrano, but you're not the demon I'm looking for," he says to the picture. "Not unless you had some major work done."

"His medicine makes him a little loopy," Willow says, with a grin.

"How can you tell?" Giles mutters, trying to carefully peel the pages of his book apart without tearing them. "Anya are you certain you know nothing more about this Jack Frost creature?"

She shrugs, and idly flips through her book. "Just what I told you already. I'm not even sure what his real name is. He's been known as Jack Frost for so long it's been pretty much forgotten."

"Then why isn't there more information on him?" I ask. "I mean, if he's been around for a while, shouldn't there be, you know, more info and less…stop motion animation specials?"

"Maybe he's shy," Tara suggests.

"Yes, he was very shy about breaking my leg and trying to kill me," Xander says. "I almost didn't even notice."

"I've never heard of him working for someone before," Anya says. "I mean, his reputation is pretty vicious, if you make him angry, but otherwise…" She shrugs.

We all go back to our respective books, though, honestly, I gave up on mine a while ago and instead am drawing on my notepad. It makes Giles happy since it looks like I'm busy, and I do glance at the book and flip the pages every now and then. Nobody really ever notices that it's the same book.

Almost nobody.

"Whatcha working on?" Willow asks, leaning over to look at my notepad.

"Just…wondering what this artifact thing is. Prophecy says weapon, so I'm hoping for a sword," I say. She squints and looks at the page full of doodles I've done over the last hour.

"That's a sword? Looks like a big nail to me," she says, pointing at the one in the middle I've been working on for the last few minutes.

"Special design," I lie, and add a crossbar to what was, up until now, a railroad spike. Stupid subconscious.

"Gotcha!" Xander says, slapping a hand down on his book. Then he looks sheepishly at the jelly smear he left behind. "Sorry. I'll clean it up. But I found him. I think."

Anya leans around to look. "Vornir demon. Humanoid. White skin. Blue hair…That's him. According to this, however, they're mostly benign. Guess it's safe to say you shouldn't believe everything you read."

Giles picks up the book and skims through it. "Vornir demons are quite rare, inhabiting only the coldest places on earth…. immortal, skilled hunters and fighters, deadly cold…. reclusive, emerging in populated areas only very late at night…tricksters, though for the most part not malicious…Oh! It says here that they worship Hel."

"Hell?" I ask. "Like the place? The one whose mouth we're sitting on?"

"No, Hel is a Norse goddess," Anya says. "Right? That Hel? The one who rules Niflheim?"

"That one, yes," Giles says, still pouring over the book.

"What's Niflheim?" Xander asks.

"A hell dimension," Anya says. "One of the colder ones. There isn't really a goddess Hel, though. Just a lot of demons who'd like to be."

"How do you know?" Willow asks.

"Oh, part of my old religion from before I was a demon. Sitting around the fire, watching the warriors drink mead, listening to some old geezer in the corner talk about Odin and Loki and blah blah blah," Anya says. "Naturally, once I was immortal and able to travel between dimensions…well, you get bored sometimes and start wondering about some of that crap you believed when you were human."

"So if there is no Hel—the goddess, not the place, which we know is real—do you think this Jack guy might be following our demon sorceress thinking she's his goddess?" Willow asks.

"It's as good a theory as any," Giles says.

"Does it say how to kill him?" I ask. I don't really care what he worships—I just want him dead.

"Ah…according to this only enchanted blades are capable of damaging him," Giles says.

"Spike hit him with his own sword," Anya says. "It did a lot of damage. Maybe it's enchanted."

"Okay, so like those Chumash guys, only, hopefully without the whole turning into a bear thing," I say.

"Or the syphilis," Xander says. "I would like to put in my request now for no syphilis."

"Don't worry, sweetie," Anya tells him. "He's far more likely to give you frost bite on your penis than syphilis."

"Ahn, that's…that's enough reassuring for now," Xander says with a grimace. "Is it time for more painkillers yet?"

***

Unfortunately, there's no indication of where we might find our Vornir demon guy. At least not in that book, and Giles is still on a hunt to try to track down possible contestants for the Sunnydale Snow Queen pageant. Three boxes of pizza, four cups of coffee, and eight pages of doodles later I'm about ready to sneak out and kill something when Lydia finally speaks up from the corner where she's been holed up all evening. "I've got something," she says.

"My gift?" I ask.

"Ah…no. Well…perhaps. It's only a fragment. Part of the section I read to you earlier," she clears her throat. "'…The Slayer will know it from her dreams. Though she be blind, she will see it, and it will be guarded by silence. Should the Slayer fail in her task, the night shall fall into the ice woman's hands, and she shall use it to put out the sun and cover the earth in cold…' It's not much, but it does seem to indicate that perhaps we're on the right track, w-with regard to your Slayer dr…I say, uh…Buffy? Are you well?"

"I'm fine. Could you read that again, please?" I ask. She does.

My brain is curiously numb.

Though she be blind, she will see it.

It will be guarded by silence.

She will know it from her dreams.

"Buffy? You're looking kind of ghosty," Willow says. "What's wrong?"

I blink and shake my head. It's nothing. It's…coincidence.

Okay, probably not, but…

I look around. Everyone is staring at me expectantly.

Tell them, I think. I should. I know I should, but something makes me hesitate. I've gone so long without, if I tell them now they're going to want to know why I've kept this back, and I can't even explain it to myself.

Except that, these dreams, or whatever they are…they're mine. Mr. Gordo is mine.

Only maybe he's not. Maybe he's Spike.

And in that case, I probably should tell them.

Only he still feels like mine.

Willow looks at me, patient and waiting. She's my best friend. I've always told her everything when it came to me and boys. I even mentioned this to her, once, back at the beginning. If I could tell her then, then…I should be able to tell her now. And the others deserve to know, too.

No, my inner Mr. Gordo warns.

There's a reason you've not told them, Spike's voice cautions. You're gonna muck it up, Slayer.

Right. Listening to Spike leads to badness.

"Um…" I say, trying to figure out where to begin.

"Okay. There's…uh…there's something I probably ought to tell you…"

***

When I finish, there's a vein ticking in Giles' forehead. Never a good sign. "Let me make certain that I’m understanding this perfectly," he says. "For nearly a year, you've been having these nightly excursions, in a pitch dark room, with a silent vampire in it—who, you've made quite clear, you believe to be your mortal enemy— and the two of you…spar and occasionally—and I cannot believe I'm about to use this word—cuddle and you never once thought to tell us?"

Everyone winces.

"Not…never once," I say. "I told Willow."

Everyone swivels to look at Wills. "Oh, no, no, no," she says. "You told me back in June, Buffy. And-and you didn't tell me they didn't stop! I-I didn't know you were still…you know…still sleeping with the enemy."

"I don't think he's an enemy," I say. Thank god I didn't tell them about my most recent Slayer dream.

"Buffy, if it's Spike, he's kinda the definition of enemy," Xander says. "I think he even came with the usual enemy warning label. Remember that whole 'I'm going to kill you' thing?"

"He saved your life!" I say.

"So not the point," Xander says.

"Buffy," Giles says. "Didn't it ever occur to you that, if these weren't dreams, that you were basically feeding a nameless vampire all sorts of information about yourself? That he could be using it to-to find a weakness? A way to destroy you?"

Okay, no, I hadn't actually but…I didn't tell them this so they could all jump on my case.

"This was very irresponsible of you—" Giles says. I stand up.

"Yes. I get it. Irresponsible Buffy. But I'm telling you now. Nothing bad has come out of it so far, and if it is Spike, then it's gone a long way toward making him less of a pain in the ass. And if he wanted to find a weakness…hello? Since mom…I’ve been nothing but weak. But that's so not the point, either. The prophecy said that I would know this weapon thingie from my dreams, Giles. It said that I would be blind, but find a way to see it, and that it would be guarded by silence. Mr. Gordo is silent. Maybe that's why? Maybe he's guarding it and I've just been too dumb to realize it. And Spike has a tendency to clam up whenever I ask him about any of this stuff. He's silent, too. So maybe we should be focusing on the prophecy and figuring out what I'm supposed to be doing here, so that I don't fail and accidentally turn the world into a giant snow globe," I say.

"Is that why you went to Spike's today?" Giles asks.

I sigh. "Yes. I went to see if I could maybe…I don't know. Catch him at it."

"Did you?" he asks.

I blush. "No," I say. "I mean, there's a lot of evidence but…I don't know for sure. I even asked him."

"I'm assuming he lied," Giles says dryly. I frown, thinking back over it.

"Actually, he never answered the question," I say. "He…twisted it all around. Then you came in."

"And you don't think it's important to determine conclusively whether or not he's behind it all?" he asks. "Buffy, if you asked him, now he knows you're on to him. He might…step it up, or move forward with his plans. I think we need to discover what exactly his role is in all this."

"I—" Tara says, then blushes, looking back at her hands.

"What?" I ask. "Really. Please. I need all the help I can get here."

"I just…I don't know of a spell that could…you know, do something like this," she says. "It would have to be pretty powerful. And…Spike's not a witch."

"Maybe…maybe he got someone to cast it for him?" Willow says. "It's still major mojo, but…"

"It sounds like a dream dimension," Anya says, out of the blue.

"A what?" I ask.

"Dream dimension. Like a…pocket dimension that you access through your dreams. Some people can make their own, if they're powerful enough," she says. "It doesn't happen very often. And I've never heard of someone being able to connect other people to their dream dimensions."

"Shame you can't just turn on the lights," Xander says. "Then you'd know and we wouldn't have to sit here and try and figure out how to get Spike to spill."

We all stare at him.

"What?" he asks.

"There aren't any lights to turn on," I remind him. "Big empty room, remember?"

"But there could be!" Willow says, getting excited. "We…we could do a spell. You said that, whatever you're wearing you take with you into the dream dimension, right? Does that include jewelry?"

I think about it. "Yeah," I say slowly. "I think so. My hair gets caught in my earrings sometimes, when I'm sleeping."

"Okay," she says, grinning. "Okay, so…we'll enchant something. Like your necklace, maybe. There's a spell that makes things glow…it's really easy. All you'd have to do is remember a keyword to activate it. Then you'd be able to see."

Could it really be that easy? You're mucking it up, Slayer, whispers Spike. I tell him to shut up.

"Do you think that's a good idea?" I ask. "I mean, the prophecy says 'though she be blind, she will see it'. If I can see, I'm not really blind, am I?"

"Maybe it means you're supposed to find a way to see," Xander says. "You know, like a puzzle?"

The others nod, but I'm not so sure.

"Willow, do you know what you'll need for this spell?" Giles asks. She nods. "Go ahead and gather up whatever you need. Can you have it ready before Buffy goes to sleep tonight?"

"Oh, yeah, easy," Willow says. "It's not that hard at all."

"Wait a minute," I say. "Tonight? As in, tonight tonight?"

"No," Giles says. "I thought we might pencil in saving the world for next month. Of course, tonight. Don't you think you've waited long enough to solve this?"

"I guess," I say. This doesn't feel right. It's too rushed. "Maybe we could do the spell tomorrow, and I could do it tomorrow night," I suggest. "You know, when I'm not so…tired."

Giles just stares at me.

"What's one more night?" I argue, not really sure why I'm pushing this. "It's not like there's a major rush. This has been going on for months now, and I really don't think one more night will change anything. What's the worst that could—" I clap my hand over my mouth. The others glare. "Sorry. I didn't say it. I know. Hellmouth."

"Actually," Lydia says, looking up from her book. She's gone sort of pale. "Ah…well…it could be…bad."

"What are you talking about?" Giles says, going to her side. Wordlessly she hands him her notebook, tapping at a spot on the page with a slightly shaky finger. He reads it. Starts. Reads it again.

"Oh dear lord," he says, looking at me.

"What?" I ask. "Enough secrets, right? Just spit it out."

He nods, clears his throat, and reads. "…Her gift is death, and it shall love her above all others and in its arms shall she find peace…” We're all silent for a moment, absorbing that.

"On second thought," I say. "Suck it back in. I don't want it."

"Buffy…" Giles says.

"Death's not a gift, Giles. My mother just died. I know this. I don't want to die. Again. Been there. Done that. Got the sister Slayer to prove it."

"Buffy, may I point out that you survived the last time you died," Giles says. "It's a prophecy. These things have a habit of …well…not turning out how you expect."

"What are the odds of me dying twice and coming back? Huh?" I say. "I'm willing to bet they're not very good."

"We don't even know the circumstances," Lydia says. "I merely translated the part after the line about 'her gift'. It might be referring to what might happen, should you fail in your task."

"Comforting," I say dryly.

"She's right," Giles says. "We'll…continue to work on the translation. It may turn out to have nothing to do with this at all."

"Like the potatoes?" I ask, trying hard not to sound as nervous as I feel.

"Like the potatoes," he says. "In the meantime, I suggest we concentrate on what we do know. Willow, go ahead and get started on that spell. Tonight, Buffy, we'll find out what your dreams are hiding. We'll have a better idea of what's going on tomorrow. I promise."

"You promise?" I say.

"Well, we certainly couldn't have a worse idea," he says.

---