Jumping off the RTA bus, Buffy squinted against the brightness of the street. As a child, she had loved snow when she saw it on television, but a few weeks of winter in Cleveland had changed her mind. Fresh as they were now, the mounts of whiteness were blinding, especially to someone more used to darkness than full daylight. Soon though the snow would turn to a gray mush, with no redeeming quality whatsoever. She only hoped she would be out of Cleveland by then.

Hands thrust deep in the pockets of her too-thin jacket, head low against the wind, she crossed the street and walked through the apartment complex parking lot, heading straight for the building where the Watcher resided. In her mind, even after the past three months, he was still ‘the Watcher’, not ‘her Watcher’. Her Watcher had died in Los Angeles more than two years earlier. She refused to consider Spencer as anyone she had to protect; she worked alone. She went to him when she needed information, weapons or money, and that was about it.

Today, she needed money.

“Miss Summers. What a pleasant surprise.”

Tall enough that she had to look up to see his eyes, Spencer stepped aside to let her in. The tweed suit seemed to be the same one he had worn the last time she had come. His voice made it clear that he thought her visit was anything but pleasant, but she didn’t pick up on the sarcasm as she entered with a short, “Spencer”. They had had their fair share of arguments, which usually ended with Buffy leaving his apartment with a few well-chosen curses. She couldn’t do that today though, not if she expected to get her money.

“Would you care for some tea?” he offered, more inbred politeness than real desire to accommodate her, she was sure. He always offered; she always refused. Today, she was frozen to the bone, though, and she accepted with a smile that bared her teeth. Spencer raised a surprised eyebrow at her but walked into his small kitchen, leaving her to sit in the living room. Arms resting over her knees and fingers clasped for warmth, she watched the grayish snow melt around her boots and stain the carpet. Once upon a life, she would have cared, maybe even apologized. But that Buffy was long gone.

“To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” Spencer called out from the kitchen. “Any out of the ordinary demonic activity? Signs on the Hellmouth?”

She hated the trace of hopefulness in his voice at that last word. Spencer couldn’t wait for this Hellmouth of his to open so that he could record in his fucking diaries whatever would happen. Sometimes, Buffy also hoped the damn thing would open– and swallow both Spencer and his books.

“I had a dream,” she replied, turning her face toward the kitchen but keeping her voice level. Immediately, Spencer appeared, a metal box forgotten in his hands as he watched her eagerly.

“A prophetic dream? What did you see? Is it the Hellmouth?”

Again, that word, that tone… Why didn’t it register with him that anything that started with ‘hell’ had to be of the bad?

“Hellmouth, yes, but not this one,” she replied, keeping her annoyance for the man as much at bay as she could. “Sunnydale.”

The disappointment on his face was clear, and it tinted his words too when he answered.

“Sunnydale is not your concern, Miss Summers. The Watcher there is in control of the situation.”

The water for the tea was boiling, the whistling of the teapot so shrill that it made Buffy grimace. She waited until Spencer had reappeared with two teacups before she continued. The porcelain was hot beneath her fingers, almost too much to bear, but she forced herself to keep the cup in her hands and to let the warmth seep in.

“After dreaming about it for five nights in a row, I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be concerned,” she said, trying to keep the bite of her tone to a minimum. “I’m going.”

Spencer took a sip of his tea; his eyes were dark with disapproval. She was rather used to the look.

“Then why are you here, if my opinion counts so little for you?”

He knew, of course. And she knew he knew. But he was going to make her ask. Bastard.

“I need to go there as soon as possible.”

“I suppose you do,” he murmured in between two sips of tea.

When he didn’t add anything, she sighed and stood, leaving the untouched cup of tea on the coffee table.

“I need money to get there,” she snapped.

If he was disturbed by the way she towered over him as he remained seated, he didn’t show it and continued to take slow swallows of tea.

“You know that’s not how it works,” he said at last, mildly chastising. “Any expense must be approved by the Council beforehand. And in this case, I trust they will want more details about your dream, so if you would…”

“Make up the details yourself,” she cut in harshly. “I’m leaving tomorrow. With or without your help. If it’s without, don’t expect to see me again.”

Stomping her feet maybe more than was strictly necessary, she stepped to the door, only stopping when Spencer called her name.

“Miss Summers.”

Fingers still gripping the handle, she turned to look at him.

“Where will you be patrolling tonight? In case the Council authorizes me to pay for this expense.”

He was playing with her, and she gritted her teeth not to yell at him. She knew he could have given her the money if he had wanted to. There was no need to call the Council. He was just yanking her chain, and she hated him for that. Just as much as she hated that she had needed to ask for that damn money in the first place.

“Erie Street,” she said blankly, and left without a goodbye.

In truth, she hadn’t planned to patrol that night. Her ribs were still bruised from her last big fight, and she could have used some rest before getting to whatever was happening, or about to happen in Sunnydale. But saying as much would have prompted Spencer to ask how she had gotten hurt, and reprobation would have come soon after if she had admitted she hadn’t killed Spike yet. Worse, he might have put the dusting of the blond menace as a condition to giving her the money. She would kill him eventually, she had no doubts about that, just as she had no doubts that ultimatums wouldn’t help in the slightest.


Night fell too quickly, and it was barely past six when Buffy left her dingy efficiency apartment to walk down to Erie Street. The name had come first to her lips when Spencer had asked because it was one of the quietest graveyards in Cleveland – and the closest to where she lived. She didn’t like it much, though. The tombs were so old, many stones were broken or unreadable. With snow covering them, it was hard not to trip every other step. It was a sad place. Then again, she could take sad if it meant a quiet night.

As though summoned by her thoughts, a silhouette appeared just on the edge of her vision and she immediately tensed. Tranquility had just flown out of the window.

“Slayer.”

She didn’t respond to Spike. The bruises he had inflicted on her two nights earlier had finally got the lesson through, that his word games served no purpose other than to distract her. Instead, she took off her gloves to get a firmer grip on her stake, and waited for him to attack.

“Not even a ‘good evening’, then?” he sneered. “Where are your manners?”

She wanted to tell him to shut up and get on with it, but by now she knew the chattering was simply part of how he fought, as much as that left hook she had to watch out for. At least he wasn’t ranting anymore about how she had killed the love of his unlife.

Deciding she had waited long enough, she made the first move and attacked. He parried easily, and they fell once more in what she was sure, to an observer, would have looked like an odd but perfectly choreographed dance.

This was their seventh fight in three weeks – not that she was counting. It was also their sixth one since she had killed Drusilla. And they weren’t getting any closer to finishing the dance.

There had been close calls, on both sides, but neither had managed to finish the other yet, obviously. It infuriated Buffy, because she knew she fought better than he did. He was just lucky. Insanely lucky. They had been interrupted three times when she had had the advantage, and he had taken these opportunities to flee. There had been one time when they had started fighting late enough that Spike had given up with the approaching sunrise. And twice Buffy had chosen to retreat, including their last fight. Not this time, though. If she could snip this loose thread before leaving for Sunnydale…

“Really, Miss Summers.”

Spencer’s exasperated words rose in the night without warning and startled Buffy enough that she almost tripped over a headstone while evading a kick from Spike.

“I can’t believe you didn’t get rid of him yet,” the Watcher continued, as though not noticing that she was in the middle of a fight and not particularly inclined to being lectured. “Didn’t you mention you had taken care of the matter?”

She shot him a nasty glare; Spike laughed, the sound as cold as the wind.

“Lied to the suit, did you? Or were you too optimistic when you said you had taken care of me?”

With his last word, he sprung forward, feinting to kick on her right before punching her left side. She rolled with the blow to minimize the impact and was back to her feet instantly. Pain flared through her body but she kept the wince off her face.

“Miss Summers, if you would quit playing and stake this demon, we have to discuss your trip.”

Spike stopped moving at once and looked at her through eyes that were suddenly golden.

“Trip?” he repeated flatly. “You’re not leaving town, are you, Slayer? Not before we end this.”

The fury of blows he unleashed on her doubled in intensity, and too many of them passed her defenses. He was taking the fight to the next level, and, still bruised, too cold and too tired, she wasn’t catching up. She realized that, and judging by Spike’s icy smirk, he could see it too. Spencer, for once, also seemed to have a clue.

“I’m beginning to think you want to go to California to escape evil, not fight it.”

“Will you shut the fuck up!” she snarled, sparing Spencer a loathing glance. Why didn’t he draw a map for Spike, while he was at it? “Get out of here before you get us both killed!”

At that moment, her rage was deeper against Spencer than Spike. She knew why Spike wanted to kill her; she had staked his girl, he wanted her dead, clear and obvious. But Spencer was simply being an asshole, distracting her, as though he couldn’t see that she needed all her attention not to end up as Spike’s third Slayer. Or maybe that was what he wanted. He would get a new Slayer, if she died, and maybe that one would listen to him. At least, he was walking away.

“You were really going to head out of town.” Spike’s eyes flashed with mixed anger and outrage. “You’re mine to kill, don’t you get that yet? You live on borrowed time and there’s no way…”

He talked too much. He always talked too much. She cut him off with a spinning kick to the chest that sent him down in the snow. Immediately, she was on him, straddling him to keep him down, stake shooting toward his heart. He struck her hand at the last second and the piece of wood went flying, struck again and this time she was the one in the snow. Breathing hard, she jumped back to her feet and tried to find her stake, but it was nowhere in sight, probably buried in the snow. She hadn’t expected much action and had not taken a back-up stake. There weren’t any trees around for her to snap a branch and have a makeshift weapon. Spike on the other hand still had his; and both his eyes and fangs gleamed as he growled and slowly stood. She didn’t wait for him to attack; she retreated. She would dust him, in the end, but clearly not tonight.

Spencer’s tracks in the snow were easy to follow. Ignoring Spike’s shout behind her that she was a coward, ignoring the pain that lanced through her, she ran to the street, and caught up with the Watcher just as he was starting his car. She had to pound on the passenger door before he opened, but at least he didn’t hesitate and the car was speeding away as soon as she had jumped in.

“So, you flee in front of vampires, now, instead of killing them?” he asked on a conversational tone.

Her arms wrapped around her – she had had several bruised ribs before, but this time she thought at least two were broken – she ground her teeth and kept quiet.

“The Council agreed to your request,” he continued when she didn’t answer. “You will report to Rupert Giles while in California, and return to Cleveland as soon as the matter there is solved. I went to your apartment and gathered a few clothes. Your plane leaves in two hours.”

Somehow, she couldn’t summon the strength to be angry that he had snooped through her things, or that the pictures she kept beneath her mattress were now lost to her. Because it was clear to her that, whatever Spencer or the Council said, she wasn’t going to come back to Cleveland. She wasn’t coming back to confront Spike again. Let him come to her, to a battleground that she would make her own. And if walking away now meant that she was a coward, like Spike had said – she could live with that. The important thing was that she lived a little longer, and had another shot at taking him down.