She awoke in a strange room.

It was nearly reminiscent of the mornings in LA. Slowly coming to oneself in a state of delayed actuality. She remembered the room; remembered the smell of breakfast cooking upstairs and the fights the noisy couple on the third floor broadcast to the full of the building's occupants. Remembered the sinking feeling of self-abhorrence as the stark reality of where she was sank in. As the drifting recognition of the reason she had run away in the first place attacked with memories that she did not want. A life that was no longer hers.

Awaking in the Winsel House, while similar enough to draw the memory, was also incomparable. A note and a nod—nothing else.

It didn't take long to pinpoint what had awakened her. Giles was up and about, and from the sound of things, not making any attempt to execute his morning routine with a mind for his current housemates. Buffy rolled her eyes and sat up slowly, stretching her arms over her head and releasing a yawn that nearly knocked her back to sleep. She had known that agreeing to room with her Watcher would mean late nights and early risings—she just didn't know that it would start immediately.

Even if his modus operandi made sense, seeing as they didn't want to be here all that long.

"Buffy," he said, vaguely surprised to see her as she walked into the kitchen and sniffed at the coffee he was brewing. "I didn't expect you up for some time."

"Ah, yeah," she replied with a sleepy grin, stretching her side. "These floors thought differently."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I—"

"Ah, no big. Don't worry. Besides, early bird and all that." She propped herself up on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs with calm casualness. "So, what's up? Game planning-it?"

Giles smiled and raised his coffee mug to his lips. "Well," he said. "If you want to eat breakfast, I believe they serve it at eight; you have a half hour to get ready. After that, I suppose it will be a matter of guess and check. We should try another location spell, but if last night's conclusions were at all reliable...we might be looking for her by a good old fashioned combing of the city."

Buffy shrugged, stifling another yawn. "Well, it's not exactly like Natchez is, you know, huge. If we do have to search for her, it still shouldn't take all that long."

"Provided she stays here, within reason."

The Slayer nodded. That enough made sense. "The best game plan, if that's the case," she said, "is for me and Spike to take patrol at night. I have no idea where the cemeteries are around here, or if there's more than one, but we might as well be productive. And if Faith can't be found by a simple location spell, she might be working some mojo of her own."

"I had thought of that. You're right, of course. Willow's spells have been known for their...well...glitches, but she is rather talented at performing location sanctions. If Faith has contracted herself to a higher power to keep us from finding her..." Giles sighed and settled against the kitchen table, crossing his arms. "We cannot afford to be here for long, Buffy. Not with the Hellmouth unguarded and the unidentified group that evidently caused Spike's handicap running around and doing God-knows-what."

She pursed her lips in thought, a frown marring her brow. "So...if things don't go well...we just let Faith go?"

"No, of course not. But the Hellmouth—"

"Is there. And will always be there. Whoever those commando guys are...I don't think they're trying to cause trouble." Off his look, she shrugged helplessly. "Well, yeah, we need to get to the bottom of it—I'm all for that, but if we have to be here longer than we thought, I think they can keep the Hellmouth under wraps. I mean, they targeted Spike because he's a vampire, and from what he's told us, there were others." She paused at that, biting her lip in thought. "Maybe we can have Angel watch over—just to see if anything happens."

Giles's eyes narrowed at her. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"Would you rather there be no one there?" Buffy drew in a breath. "If we knew more about the commandos, I'd feel a lot better. But, bottom line, we don't know how long this is gonna take. And—"

"We're getting ahead of ourselves already. I propose we see how today fares. Who knows?" A weary smile drew across his lips. "Perhaps we will be on our way home before nightfall."

Buffy tossed him a wry glance. "You really think so?"

"No. Of course not. After all, when has anything ever come across that easily?" He stood to cross the kitchenette and dump the rest of his mug down the drain before making his way toward the door. "In the meantime, though, I fully concur with your idea to patrol at night. Spike has her scent, so that will work in our favor." The look in his eyes became serious, and he turned again. "It will be up to you, Buffy. I do not trust Willow with magic far enough to allow her attempt to apprehend Faith in such a manner. She is not yet at that level, and I believe you would be the first to agree."

Naturally so. While her friend had come amazingly far in the past two years, she was still very young in the practice. Whatever spells that had been conducted often purchased with them nasty side effects or results so far from the intention that the incantations were subject for review. Throw Willow and binding into the mix and she might teleport Faith to some torturous hell dimension—and despite whatever had passed between them, Buffy couldn't hate her. Not fully.

But she was so close that the line between irony and humor was becoming more and more blurry.

"Well, I'll leave you to your business." The Watcher pulled open the front door and paused. "If anything comes up between now and breakfast, you can find me in the bookstore."

"Naturally," the Slayer replied. "Where else?"

He tossed her a pertinent look but was gone without rebuttal. And she was left to her morning routine. She showered, dressed, tended to more superficial cares just in case she met Mr. Right at the breakfast table.

Hah. As though her Mr. Right would be waiting at the breakfast table. As though her Mr. Right existed. The men she met on her everyday agenda were just unappealing. She tried—she had tried and failed with Parker. And failure was not something that Buffy took well.

Even still, it was there and there was nothing she could do about it. The entire Parker incident had made her motivation in active pursuit of a love life something of the forced nature. There was something monstrous about human men. With demons, one couldn't expect any differently. That simple knowledge was enough to drive any rational Slayer insane with overly fastidious expectations that made the fall even harder to survive.

She had thus consigned herself to the bitter understanding that meeting men in Natchez was a likelihood confound by the acknowledgment that she was indefinitely cursed.

She was running a few minutes behind—Slayer speed notwithstanding. It didn't really matter, of course, but she wanted to prove to someone that she could be at one place when she needed to. There was something universal about the Slayer stereotype that consigned her to the dud line when it came to punctuality. Once, just once, she would like to prove all self-imposed expectation wrong.

Not that Slayers had a stereotype. She didn't know if that was possible for secret superheroes.

She had just reached the door when a sharp feeling of the neither good nor bad variety attacked her subconscious. It was nothing out of the norm, but similarly incomparable to anything she had experienced with sub regularity. For a minute she stood, unsure of what to do. Stood until her spider-senses made the obligatory leap forward and convinced her to turn around and peek in on Spike before leaving him alone.

The picture he presented nearly coaxed a warm smile to her face. It had to be the most uncomfortable-looking sofa in the history of uncomfortable-sofas. And yet, he hadn't complained about the arrangements. The look in his eyes the day before in the diner was enough to attest his surprise in even being included. After everything he had done for her, it didn't seem right to not accept him. Even if his claims remained that his actions were based on pride alone. It didn't matter.

Things had changed since the night at the Bronze. She didn't know what, but she couldn't look at him in the same light. It was bizarre. He had always been, well, Spike. That annoying vampire that just didn't know how to leave her alone. A pest. A nuisance. Something to stake if she got too terribly bored. Spike.

And yet, on the extremely rare occasion, he did something that reminded her that he was a man once. That he was more a man than the demon inside. That in itself was something she had never thought to admit—not to herself, and certainly not to the vampire in question. But she was the Slayer. She was in contact with demons hands-on every day. She had seen them all. The good, the bad, and the very ugly. And after five years of professional slayage, she knew how to call them.

There were the evil ones. The weak ones. The strong ones. The harmless ones. The souled ones.

Then there was Spike. In a category all by himself, there was Spike. Spike who was neither monster nor man—but played the part of man so well that it often took several attempts to remember what exactly he was and how artfully he colored history red.

And despite however much she wanted to believe it, whatever had happened to him to make his dining on humans a non-possibility wasn't where he stood out. There were so many things he could do if he wanted. Things he could use others to do for him. A respected vampire such as he should have no difficulty in manning a small squad of cronies. But he didn't. And instead of turning to his evil brethren in his time of need, he had come to her.

Spike was with her now. In the den of the townhouse. In a town to catch Faith.

All because he had said no. Because he had respected her that much, even without realizing it.

It was impossible not to see him in a different light after what had happened.

And the shades of variety were shaking her foundation. There was no justification to feeling this warm candor toward Spike, regardless of what he had done.

But she did, and if she had to take it to her grave, that was what she would do.

A low moan hummed through the air and the Cockney in question shifted upward, coming three more inches closer to tumbling off the sofa completely. She didn't know why he hadn't bothered to unfold the trundle bed. It looked as though he had simply collapsed with no thought to personal comfort.

Which she could believe.

It was strange. She had never seen him asleep—never really given thought to the concept that Spike slept. He looked so...normal. Not smirking. Not sneering. Not driving her up the proverbial wall. Just a guy who was as exhausted as any human, given what he had been through the past couple of days.

She shouldn't be here. Should he awake and find her staring at him, he would undoubtedly call her on it. And she would have no good explanation other than the plain admission that she was emerging from a two-year blindness and seeing him as a person rather than a vampire. The notion itself was something he would rebuke, but true nonetheless.

She shouldn't be here, but she couldn't tear herself away. There was just...something. Waiting for these feelings to go away had proved futile. Her gratitude and her slow acceptance of him was growing more in depth and feeling every day following what had transpired. She was seeing him, and she couldn't help that.

Only she had to. Because if he knew some of the thoughts that had been running through her mind, he would laugh her out of the house. It was preposterous. She knew it—hell, up until two weeks ago, she had been preaching nothing but. This was Spike. Spike as in gross. Spike as in vampire. Spike as in—

He murmured again and turned in his sleep, shirt riding up to expose a sliver of alabaster skin at his abdomen.

Oh god.

This was so inconvenient.

Buffy licked her lips and forced her rapidly growing one-track mind onto other venues. If anything, what had happened was an opportunity. Yes—an opportunity to change the nature of their relationship. To build on hostility and turn more into candor—no, forced. Forced was much better—acceptance. Business associates. That's what they were. Buffy and Spike, partners in...well, not partners. Partner was such a complex, multi-level word and she couldn't afford to conjugate the variety of meanings. Not now.

No, no. Not ever. Forget the now part. It was never going to happen.

But still, she did want something more than what they had been trading. Ever since the Bronze, their association with each other was at a bizarre crossroads. They wanted to snark, and had, but without the usual venom which made their mutual comments awkward and forced. When he looked at her now, there was softness in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

Thus, at looking at all the available evidence, there was no conclusion to meet other than he was willing, if not eager, to move their relationship from the hate phase into the forced-tolerance phase.

If she wanted to be truthful with herself, she would have upped the notch to looking-away-quickly-so-you-don't-catch-me-staring phase, but such was so far from the realm of acceptable outcomes that she ignored its cry altogether.

Peace-offering. I'll bring him back some munchies. Yeah—he'd like that. Spike likes food. Oh god, what if he reads something into it? What if 'croissant' translates to 'wild-monkey-sex' in Spike-lingo? What if he thinks...okay, Buffy. Calm. Slow breaths. In and out. A croissant is hardly a marriage proposal. Besides, been there, done that, and so not doing it again. She frowned. Though throw hashbrowns in the mix and that's an entirely different story.

In the meantime, she decided there was no harm in trying to make the guy as comfortable as possible. She moved for her room, never taking her eyes off him, which was simple since the den and her guest quarters were adjoining. The large armoire that housed all the additional pillows and blankets was about three feet away from the foot of her bed, pressed against the wall. She could still see him; he hadn't moved, hadn't given any indication that he was awake—and if not for the occasional shallow breath that he indulged—alive. A soft baby-blue comforter and a pillow were at her disposal; she moved back toward him, warier than she would have like to have confessed.

A snake ready to strike. That's what he was.

A lean, muscular, snake.

So not good.

Giles had assured her the night before that she didn't have to be quiet on anyone's benefit. He was accustomed to sleeping the night through regardless of circumstance—only jarred if someone shoved him out of bed. And Spike was even more so of the same regard. To quote her very politically incorrect Watcher, the vampire slept like the dead.

Based on what she was seeing, though, it was feasible.

Buffy drew in a breath and tried to push him back onto the couch so that he was no longer in danger of falling to the ground. The action persuaded a low murmur through his throat, but nothing more. When she lifted his head to situate the pillow beneath, he purred appreciatively and shifted, but did not awake. And when she settled the blanket over his taut self, he crooned and relaxed, as comfortable as ever.

There. First move made. Though she knew he would be able to tell just from the scent whom had affixed his accommodations, there was some satisfaction in getting away with the job before he awoke. That way he could choose to mention it if he cared to, or ignore it properly and let her know where exactly they stood. If the hate was behind them. If they were ready to behave like adults.

Thus, with a nod of satisfaction, she turned promptly at the heel and made her way for the main house. She was gone before he could turn over in his sleep and clutch the blanket tighter to him. Inhale the scent that fragranced its texture. Recognize her, and address her with a long whimper of her name before succumbing to deeper slumber.

*~*~*

Buffy was surprised to see Willow traipsing down the stairs as she pushed the front door open. The redhead was committed to schedules and order, almost more so than Giles—thus to see her as such was almost cause for panic. The Slayer's own tardiness notwithstanding, it was a rare day in Hell when her best friend was not punctual to a fault.

Then again, rare days were coming in leaps and bounds. Had someone told her this time last week that the Scoobies would soon depart for Mississippi, she would have laughed that someone out of the room. And yet, here they were.

"Hey," Buffy called, waving a little. "Everything all right?"

Willow glanced up and blinked, then offered a tired, wan smile. "Okay. I think I scarred Wesley for life when I freaked out in the middle of the night, but other than..." She shrugged and shook her head. "Yeah, everything's rosy. Peachy keen is me. I'm just a big ole bowl of keen peaches."

Yeah. Uh huh. Buying that. "What happened?"

The Witch's smile thinned even further and a long sigh escaped her lips. "Nothing. Sadly, a big whole lot of nothing. Wes accidentally got up close and personal and I wigged to the ninth degree. Then I embarrassed myself even further by making the colossal mistake of assuming Anya has a heart and would take pity on me in a time of need. Instead, she was all with the making me even more uncomfortable and said that I should sleep with Wes as a step of getting-over-Oz." Her eyes dulled and she shivered a bit. "Then, to make a long story even longer, this guy who's staying in the room across from mine evidently heard the entire thing and came out to see me."

Buffy's gaze widened. "He came on to you?"

"Well...no." The redhead sighed. "Really, really not. In fact, he so didn't come on to me that he felt it imperative that he meet me outside my room not five minutes ago and list the many ways in which he did not." At the look on her friend's face, she nodded in wry concession. "Yeah. I know. Hypocrite. There's just times when I think that I'm ready...I mean, I'd like to at least be acknowledged. And yeah, I'd've hit him or...or something if he'd tried anything, but what's wrong with being hit on? Really? I'm mopey and post-relationshippy and I need some confidence, dammit."

"Will, I'm sure he didn't—"

"Yeah. I know." She blew out a deep breath and shrugged. "It's okay. Really."

It obviously wasn't, but there was nothing that the Slayer could do but nod her empathy. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Yeah." Willow gestured to the parlor. "Tummy's all with the grumblies. Time for breakfast, methinks."

Buffy was far from satisfied, but nodded all the same. Though while all evidence pointed to the contrary, she had thought the redhead past the part of moping all the time and finally getting around to what was important.

The parlor led to one of two entrances to the dining room, and given all, it was the easiest measure. Quiet chatter filled the air—awkward and forced—and just seconds before the Slayer could fully enter the room, her friend emitted a sharp gasp and hastily shoved her to the connecting wall where they were out of sight.

"Will—!"

"Oh my God, Buffy. Oh. My. God."

"What?"

"Didn't you see him?"

Given the fact that there were several 'hims', the Slayer opted for no. "What are you talking about?"

"Either I've finally gone off the bend or..." Willow paused and turned to peek slowly into the dining room, where they were undoubtedly attracting an audience. "Okay, no bend-going-over. I'm sure now. That's him."

"Who?"

"Josh Lyman."

Buffy just looked at her expectantly.

"Josh Lyman?" The redhead was saying the name as if it meant something. "Deputy Chief of Staff?" She looked quite convicted. "In the White House? Honestly, Buff, don't you ever watch CSPAN?"

The Slayer's eyes bulged a little but she opted with a shrug. "I already deal with demons, Will. I don't really need to add politics to the mix." She turned to glance into the dining room. "So, he's important?"

"Important? Did you not hear me say Deputy Chief of Staff?"

Buffy looked back and shrugged. "So...important?"

The Witch never got the opportunity to reply. A man had entered the parlor and was strolling toward them at his leisure, evidently having caught the tag of their discussion enough to add a quick, "Yeah, but don't spread it around. It tends to go to his head."

Willow was staring at the newcomer hard, eyes wide and skin pale. "Oh God."

"You know," came a voice from the dining room, "seeing as we can all hear you, I think it's safe to come in now."

Buffy glanced back to her friend, shrugged, and did simply that. Giles, Wesley, Xander, and Anya were sitting at one side of the table; two men and a blonde at the other. Judging by the oddly pleased look on the younger man's face, she decided he was Josh, gave him a once over, and shrugged again.

Willow and the man filed in slowly after; the former looking numb.

It was Giles who broke the silence, delving into his eggs and adjusting his glasses with needed diplomacy. "So...you work in the White House?"

"Yeah," Josh replied, still grinning at the notion that he had been identified. "We don't really like to announce it when we go out, but yeah."

"Oh please," groaned the girl at his side.

"I would've expected you to recognize at least one of them," Willow grumbled as she reached for the ham-steak. "You're supposed to know everything."

"Excuse me if my powers of deduction do not reach the standards of American politics," Giles retorted good-naturedly.

"It's okay," the blonde woman was saying. "Really. We're more a behind the scenes operation anyway. Sam and Toby do the speechwriting...Josh is, well...you know. And I'm his senior assistant."

Willow's eyes widened and she sized up Sam considerably. "Oh God."

The elder, balding man cracked what seemed to be the first smile of the day. "That answers my question."

"What question?" Xander asked. He was looking rather pale, himself, but similarly not wanting to be left out of the loop.

"Which one of you was the one in the hallway last night."

"Oh God."

Giles frowned. "Last night?"

The Witch whimpered as her face fell into her waiting hands. "Don't, please."

"Willow came to our room last night because she did not want to have sex with Wesley," Anya said without blinking, her tone and bluntness drawing a series of interesting looks from the other side of the table. "I told her that she should go back to him as to acquire her necessary post-relationship orgasms in order to proceed to the next stage of her emotional recovery."

Buffy just stared at the former demon, unsure whether to laugh at the reaction she was mounting or feel bad for her friend. Xander reached out to pat his girlfriend's hand and mutter something about the proper etiquette when speaking with strangers in public. It was the Deputy Chief of Staff, though, that broke the ice, rising to his feet to reach across the counter and shake Willow's hand. "Hi," he greeted. "Josh Lyman."

"Josh," the blonde berated as she tugged him back into his chair. "Leave her alone."

"At least I apologized," Sam mumbled.

Buffy's eyes widened. "He's the one?"

"Oh God," Willow moaned.

Wesley pursed his lips and cleared his throat. "So," he said. "I trust you are in Mississippi for the speech in Vicksburg?"

At that, Sam and Toby released a collective groan.

"Josh is actually here for something else," the blonde replied coolly, evidently the elected spokesman for the party. "They're supposed to be in Vicksburg for the thing, but we got lost coming in from Jackson and ended up much further south than anticipated."

"Which was Leo's fault," Josh clarified. "He's never been to Mississippi."

"Ah," Wesley replied with a nod. "Myself, I have only been here on one prior occasion. To this very town, point of fact. If you would like, I could—"

Xander stomped on his foot, evoking a shrill gasp from the former Watcher. "You don't wanna do that," he quickly advised. "Wes isn't exactly Galileo when it comes to navigation."

Toby looked ready to open his mouth and comment when a crash sounded from the front of the house. The front door flew open with a struggle, and the smell of slightly scathed leather tinted the air. For the string of heated profanities that followed, the Scoobies released a series of sighs and muttered advanced apologies.

All except Buffy, who tensed especially as the peroxide vampire marched intently into view, tossing his blanket aside before anyone could voice a question. His eyes caught hers immediately, but he looked away with much of the same. "Mornin' all," he said, nodding before pulling up a seat next to the Slayer. "So kind of everyone to wait."

"Oh God," the blonde said. "There are three of them."

Spike glanced up, eyes wide. "Three 'f what?"

A pert smile crossed the elder Watcher's face, and he removed his glasses for a customary polish session. "It seems that Miss Moss, here," he said, "has an affinity for British men."

The vampire merely grinned and nodded. "Ah. 'S nice to meet a crew with good taste. Name's Spike, luv. What's yours?"
"Donna," she replied with equal flirtation.

Buffy wanted to kick him under the table, but dared not risk it.

"Spike?" Josh echoed. "What kind of name is that?"

The Cockney merely glanced up and grinned. "No worries, mate," he replied, "not lookin' to intrude on your turf. Jus' introducin' myself to the lady 's'all."

"My turf?"

"Spike," Willow said quickly. "I don't know if you...well, care...but these guys work in the White House. So...you know...manners."

He favored the Witch with a cocked brow. "Don' roll out the royal carpet for many, Red. Gotta be more than a glitch in history 'f you're lookin' to impress. 'Sides, I knew that." He tilted his head, studying Josh for a minute. "Aren' you that bloke that invented a secret plan to fight inflation?" He waited until the other man's face fell accordingly before barking a laugh. "Nice goin', mate."

That was all the motivation Sam, Toby, and Donna needed to burst out laughing simultaneously.

The redhead's eyes widened respectively at the vampire. "You watch CSPAN?" she demanded.

Spike shrugged easily, reaching for the hashbrowns. "On occasion. 'S usually the bird talkin', an' she's a bloody hoot, so I'll catch a few minutes 'f it strikes my whimsy. 'Sides, Rupes's flat's so bleedin' dull that it makes watchin' your government funny."

"Can I clarify that I did not invent a secret plan to fight inflation?" Josh demanded. "I was joking with Danny and the press took it seriously."

"Yeah," Toby replied. "Because there's only so many ways to interpret, 'Yes, we have a secret inflation plan.'"

Willow turned to Giles. "Spike watches CSPAN and you don't?"

He took her comment in stride but did not reply, his eyes settled instead on the vampire. "My flat is not dull."

"Yeh, from your standpoint. It wasn' until last week that you stopped chainin' me up in the tub."

Toby's eyes widened and Josh was staring at them in all out shock.

Buffy chuckled nervously and elbowed the vampire in the side. "That...that's just some...uhh...British slang. 'Chains' and 'tubs.' It's all the craze over there. In...ummm...England." She met Spike's gaze, his glittering with amusement. "Isn't that right?"

"Whatever you say, pet." His eyes landed on her plate and he made a face of disgust. "I swear to God, Slayer, 's gonna be your bloody appetite that does you in. Here..." He turned and grasped the serving dish that held the grits and dumped a hearty portion onto her plate. "Try somethin' new. Won' kill you."

She glared at him. "Say," she said loudly without drawing her gaze away. "Is there anything with extra garlic?"

"What," Josh drawled, wiping his mouth with his napkin. "You gonna cut her meat for her, too?"

"Stop it," Donna intervened. "It's sweet."

"It is not sweet," he objected.

"All I'm saying is, I wouldn't mind special treatment like that from my boyfriend."

Buffy glanced up, eyes wide. Giles smothered a snicker. Xander began choking on a piece of bacon. Willow just laughed.

To the Slayer's great surprise, he did nothing to discourage the notion. Rather, Spike apportioned the rest of the grits to himself before reaching for the pancakes. "Sorry to say, pet," he retorted, "but your honey's prob'ly too concerned with his hair—or lack thereof—to give much of a damn 'bout your diet."

"Hey!" Josh yelped, reaching to feather his thinning brown curls at the allegation. "First of all, I'm her boss, not her boyfriend. Second of all, anyone who looks like a walking Ken doll shouldn't be making jokes about other people's hair."

"Oh dear," Giles mumbled with a sigh.

"Can I just clarify that Buffy is so not Spike's girlfriend?" Xander asked, raising his hand.

Toby turned his eyes to the Slayer and quirked his head. "Buffy?" he asked.

"I know, mate," Spike said, nodding in agreement. "Rightly awful name."

"So says he whose name is a verb used when someone pours alcohol into punch."

"Nickname," the vampire retorted darkly. "An' not exactly how I got it."

Buffy's gaze widened appropriately. "Spike..."

"What? Wanker asked. 'm tellin'."

"Oh no," Sam said, trading a sympathetic glance with Giles.

However, Toby did not follow up. He merely delivered a long, stern look before breaking off with a dry chuckle. "I cannot tell you," he said to Josh, "how glad I am that Sam and I are getting out of here today. This is exactly what you deserve."

"We have to give the President the speech," the younger man clarified.

Willow moaned at that. "The President."

"What I deserve?" Josh demanded.

"An' what?" Spike drawled, eyes dancing as he sopped his helping of food with maple syrup. "Curly here not get an invitation to the party?"

The Deputy Chief of Staff's eyes widened. "Curly?"

"No, he's coming," Sam continued, unhampered. "He just has a thing first."

"A meeting," Donna clarified.

Xander nodded encouragingly. "Oh," he said, desperate to edge away from the animosity that seemed to follow Spike wherever he went. If nothing else, leaving a good impression with the President's people seemed to be a plan of reason. "What kind of meeting?"

"A meeting of the government," Josh barked before whirling to Toby. "How do I deserve this?"

"After this year? So many reasons."

Giles nodded and cleared his throat, wiping his mouth and scooting his chair away from the table. "We ourselves must be departing as well," he said, shooting Buffy a long glance. "We're not exactly here to sightsee."

"Oh," Donna replied, earnestly interested. "What are you guys here for?"

"We're here to find Faith," Anya said.

"Oh...well...that's good. Faith's always a good thing."

"I wouldn't mind a little faith right now, myself," Sam agreed, eyes glued to his plate.

Spike chuckled wryly, dipping his toast into the pond of syrup he had before him. "Trust me, mate," he retorted. "You'd mind."

"Sam," Toby said suddenly, rising to his feet. "Come on. We gotta go."

The man blinked slowly and looked up. "What, now?"

"No, of course not. After all, the President's speech is probably not that important. Just tell me when you would prefer to leave and—"

That was all it took. Sam cleared his throat and jumped up. "Right." He turned his eyes awkwardly back to the table. "Well...it was interesting. And...I hope you are successful in finding your faith, though I might suggest looking at some of the more—"

Toby was at the door, staring at him, deadpan. "Sam."

"Right." The man nodded at Willow. "Again...I didn't mean—"

"Yeah," she replied. "Yeah. No, it's okay. It's really, really okay. I...yeah, it's okay."

He smiled slightly. "Well, thank you. We have to leave now."

"Yeah."

"So do we," Josh said, swallowing his last bit of scrambled egg, nodding after the Communications Director as he disappeared from sight. "Gotta drive them to the car place so they can rent another. And then we have the thing."

"The meeting," Donna intervened, following suit.

"The meeting. Of the government. It was...interesting meeting you."

"I'm sorry," Giles said simply.

"'m not," Spike objected.

Buffy kicked him under the table.

"Ow! Watch it, Slayer. An' eat your grits."

Josh and Donna paused at the door and nodded. "Yeah," the former said. "'Kay."

Then they were gone. The Scoobies sat in awkward silence, staring at the four places that had been abandoned in such a rush that, were they anyone else, they might have had grounds for offense.

"Well," Xander drawled. "We have just discovered the reason we never leave the Hellmouth."

"Because we might run into the President's guys?" Willow replied.

"I didn't like them," Anya said. "Their administration is in favor of raising taxes and stealing my money. In a society established on capitalism, how is one supposed to acquire any capital if they are taking my money?"

Harris patted his girlfriend on the back. "It's called democracy, sweetie."

"I don't like democracy," she argued. "Communism is so much easier to understand."

"This being the reason they don't allow former demons to run for office," Buffy observed before turning her attention to Spike, who was using his last few pieces of pancake to absorb the rest of the syrup. "And the reason we don't allow vampires to socialize."

He shrugged unapologetically. "I don' bend over for governmental types," he replied. "Don' bend over for anyone, come to think of it." He paused at that and raised his head to look at her. "But 'f you really want me to, luv, all you hafta do is ask real nice like."

"Someone remind me why we invited him," Xander asked.

No one had a chance to reply. Sam had popped his head back in, eyes centered on Willow. "I really am sorry if you—"

"Sam!" Toby yelled from the front.

"Okay," he continued. "Well...I just...bye."

And that was that.

Buffy pursed her lips and glanced to her dumbfounded friend. "So that's the guy who came onto you?"

"He didn't," she said slowly. "As he has told me numerous times."

"Still...works for the President. You could do worse."

"Oh, and I'm sure I will."

"Might I remind everyone why we're here?" Giles asked reasonably. "After that display, and our astounding lack of people skills so radically highlighted, I suggest everyone return to their rooms and prepare to start the search. Willow—"

"Location spell?"

"If you will." A long, trembling sigh escaped the elder Watcher, and he removed his glasses. "The sooner we return to Sunnydale, the better."

Buffy licked her lips and nodded in agreement, eating up the last of her grits. That was more than reasonable—the initial weirdness of the morning still hovering over the table like a ready storm cloud, gathering the precipitation in wait for the next meeting.

It was that and so much more than that. Something else had happened here.

The air thickened and she sat back. Skin tingling with that preemptive knowledge that she was being studied. It took a few seconds, but she eventually realized that she had cleaned her plate and glanced up to meet the vampire's sparkling eyes.

"Told you you'd like 'em," he observed. Then, even lower, he added, "Thanks for the blanket, luv."

Heat pooled in her stomach for no reason other than the burn of his eyes. The sultry purr of his voice for words that no one except for her was supposed to hear. Even if nothing suggestive was mentioned. Even if nothing. And, as though nothing of the past half hour had occurred, she was again standing in the living room of the townhouse, watching him as he slept.

Oh God.

So inconvenient.


TBC

Feedback

chapter 8

<-