The four of them piled into the big black car, Buffy and Spike in the back.


There wasn't much talk on the drive. Willow pointed out a few landmarks, which Spike politely acknowledged. She told him about the castle, which was also a huge manor house, with numerous extensions built on over the years to form a many-roomed, many-leveled, rambling warren of a place, where each of the Scoobies had a separate apartment, and the slayers lived in more dorm-like conditions, while renovations and improvements were constantly underway.


"The contractors think we're a private women's college. At least, that's what we tell them."


"A college."


There was something funny about his voice, or not his voice precisely, but his accent, and how he said things. Dawn was trying to remember if she'd ever heard him say "how d'ye do" before, but then, when would he have ever had the occasion? Maybe when she'd introduced him to her friends, back in Sunnydale? Had she ever actually made introductions? She couldn't recall.


After a stop at the butcher's in the village to put in a standing order for blood, they arrived at the castle just as the sun was lowering behind the high hills beyond. The tall grey keep was outlined in gold, casting its shadow down into the valley, which was already half in shadow itself as they wound up the last stretch, the part that belonged to the manor, walled off and private. Dawn craned around in the front seat to give Spike and her sister a big smile. "I'll cook something for you when we get inside, what would you like?"


"That's sweet, Dawnie, thanks. Maybe an omelette?" Buffy turned to Spike. "Would you like an omelette? With lots of hot sauce? And fried potatoes?"


"Would I?" The suggestion seemed to amuse him.


"You're partial to spicy food," Dawn said. "And anything fried. In fact, it was you who taught me how to make a real fry-up, with the tomatoes and the mushrooms and sausages and the bacon. And then I move here and find out it wasn't actually something you invented. The real British breakfast, served all day."


Another polite uncertain smile. "Ah? Did I?"


"Fry-up, coming up," Dawn said, pretending with all her might that this wasn't going to be one of the stranger evenings of hers or her sister's lives.


"Here we are." Willow drove right over the moat and into the courtyard, which was completely shaded. The red convertible was already parked, and there was no sign of Giles and Xander. A cluster of some dozen slayers stood in front of the main set of doors leading inside, some with hands set on hips, some with arms crossed, all looking in one direction. The news about Spike had swirled through the denizens of the castle five or six times since Willow's call, taking on new details as it passed from girl to girl in a swoop of Chinese Whispers, to the point where many of them were going around fully armed and expecting to see someone on the order of Hannibal Lecter crossed with Kakistos emerge from the SUV.


As they got out of the car, a voice cried out "Mon frere! Well met, well met, Mon pauvre vieil ami!"


It was Andrew—he emerged from the scullery door opposite, arms wide open in a Gallic greeting. Spike froze as he closed in, going for the full-body hug. Buffy responded with a full-body block.


"Andrew. We're in Scotland. We all speak English. Spike is English."


"This is an occasion! A great event, unlooked for, glorious! The return of the great—"


Buffy shook a fist. "Until I tell you I'm not pissed off anymore that you knew Spike was back and kept quiet about—until then, Andrew—"


He cringed from her bobbing hand, then looked up into Spike's face with a smirk of sophistication. "She enjoys ribbing me, you know, it's her little joke, she's a personality, The Summers. But I'm her right-hand man. The go-to—"


"Andrew! We'd like to go inside and just decompress, all right? Family only." Buffy buttonholed him. "That doesn't mean you. Just to be crystal."


"Crystal!" Andrew grinned and gave her two thumbs up.


"Who was that?" Spike whispered.


"It really doesn't matter."


She turned to confront their other welcomers—if you could call them that. The head of the wedge was Marla; one of the older ones, someone Dawn had never really spoken to except once in the laundry room about pinning odd socks up to the bulletin board. She'd dropped out of the police academy in Houston Texas after she got called. She didn't really know Buffy, either.


"Hi guys," Buffy said. She gave the girls not the Look of G.D., but a big friendly smile, like she thought they'd come out to salute her. "I'm back, I've brought Spike." Like they were going to be so glad he was there. Dawn had to give it to her sister, she was Nerve Incarnate. "Spike, these are some of the slayers based here. This is Marla, Ana, Hee Sun—"


Marla stepped forward. "Buffy. We really don't want this to be difficult."


"I actually do remember all the names. Spike probably won't, not right away. You guys can help him, though."


"We're here to escort him to the cells."


Buffy dropped the smile pretence then. Marla towered over her, but when Buffy drew herself up, there was no one bigger. Possibly in the entire world. "Spike lives with me, in my rooms. Actually, he lives here. He is part of this, us, what we do. He is your colleague. I hope soon he'll be your friend."


"He's a notorious vampire. His allegiance is at best unknown. He goes in the lock-up, or he doesn't enter."


Dawn had hoped they wouldn't be this organized about it. Or that Giles and Xander, racing back ahead of them, would've called the contingent off. She looked up; every open window all the way around the courtyard was peopled with faces, the other inmates of the castle, watching.


Buffy glanced up then too, her eyes narrowing. She took a breath.


"You know, I made a mistake." Her tone was conversational, curiously light. But her voice was loud enough to be heard across the courtyard, probably all the way up to the top floor. "My friends can tell you, it's a mistake I make over and over again. Something major happens, something that affects me deeply. And instead of talking about it, I keep it to myself. I bury it deep inside me. So those closest to me don't know the truth, the importance, what it meant to me, how much it should mean to them. When we were fighting the First in Sunnydale, and afterwards, it was about Spike. I kept to myself how much I cared about him. Why I trusted him. What he meant to me. How much I needed him, as a fighter, and as a friend. I didn't take the time to explain to anyone how moved I was by what Spike did—how, out of love, he quested after his soul. How he fought for it and won it and came back to lay his sorrow and repentence at my feet and make amends to me. He made them, over and over, to me and all of us, even though I never truly reciprocated. He stayed with us, took shit from us, fought with us, and in the end at Sunnydale, he stayed behind to suffer and die so that we could win, and survive, and be here today. I should've been talking to all of you about his heroism every damn day since, I should've been teaching you about the great champion of that battle, who saved all our lives. I didn't. That was my big mistake."


Dawn thought she heard drumming, but it was her own pulse, thrilling to her sister's words. Spike listened with his mouth slightly open, eyes large and bewildered.


"That's why you're making your mistake right here. It's okay, it's not your fault. You didn't know. But now you do." She looked at them all—first at Marla, meeting her eyes, waiting for her expression to change. At the other eleven girls, each for as long as it took. "I'm sorry I never told you Spike's story. It's a wonderful story and you all should know about it. There are a lot of other stories too, the lore you all should have to be better slayers, and I promise you, I will tell them all. But right now, Spike and I are tired, and thirsty, and hungry, and we want to go inside and rest."


None of the girls said a word, but they broke their barrier, moving to the right and left. Dawn saw how they looked at her sister, some almost worshipful, one or two with flickering resentment, but most with respect and curiosity. They took in Spike with wide wondering eyes--this fresh perspective on him, delivered by such an unimpeachable source, was going to take a little adjustment.


Taking Spike's arm, Buffy led him up to the huge iron-girdled main doors, opening the smaller door carved into one of the big ones.


"Spike, come in. Welcome." He stepped through slowly, as if wary of what would be on the other side.


"Speaking of private," Willow said, "I'm not really family either. I'll see you in the morning?"


Spike turned. "Stay an' eat with us, Miss Willow."


Spike's invitation surprised them all. Willow smiled. Dawn thought Buffy would be annoyed, but she seemed relieved. Spike was gazing around—the ante-chambers walls were heavy grey stone, some covered with obscure, not-very-clean tapestries.


"Quite a place this is. Bit of a stage-set."


"I prefer that house we just left," Buffy said, once more scooping his hand into hers, "But this has come to be home. As much as anything is home anymore. And parts of it are cozier than this."


"Your real home was destroyed," Spike said.


She squeezed his fingers. "My real home is you."