“Call.”
He knew he had the best hand – especially with the help of the ace in his boot – but Spike’s mind wasn’t entirely on the game.
Garlic? She thought garlic would keep me out if I wanted in?
Buffy seemed to be holding to her declaration that the night in the abandoned building had been the end of their particular freakshow. He hadn’t seen so much as a braided hair of the Slayer since she came to him for help in finding Rack. If she was craving him, she was riding it out.
Spike had strolled by Revello drive late one night and seen that the Summers house was battened down as if for siege, every door locked and every blind tightly shut. The only light had been in the kitchen, and turning his ears and steps in that direction, he gathered that Buffy and Willow were playing Scrabble. Not one little lost girl, but two, clutching each other’s hands to keep their respective Big Bads away.
The disinvite spell was noticeable in its absence, but that didn’t give him any encouragement. Buffy would have had to explain to Willow and Dawn, at least, why she was banning him from the house again, and Spike was fairly sure she didn’t want to do that.
Well, fine. Bitch. You can sit and shiver and await my pleasure.
“You planning on turning those cards up, Spike?”
He roused from his thoughts and realized the rest of the players were waiting on him.
“Read ‘em and weep,” Spike smiled, flipping his cards over.
There was grumbling and snarling as the others took in his hand, and then mewing as Spike began to gather up his winnings and place them in the large wicker-work box he’d carried along. These would do nicely to bring down his debt. A few more good hands and any thought of him being a welsher would be past.
“You’re cheating,” Frnxx rumbled.
Spike sighed theatrically and continued to sort kittens. They all cheated. That was sort of the point of the game. Just because he was better at it, given that he had a thought beyond, “Like to crush. Crush now,” there was no need to sound so righteously indignant.
“Yeah, well. What’re you going to do?” he asked with his most annoying grin as he fastened the clasp. He hoped the demon would try to start a fight, let him get some of this frustration out with a spot of violence. Hell, at the moment, he felt quite capable of taking them all on.
“Funny you should ask.” Spike looked up with gleeful anticipation, then stiffened, internal alarms going off as Frnxx held up a small glowing stone. “Got this from a friend of mine after I explained how you much you liked kittens.”
He launched at the demon, trying desperately to get there before the spell went off, but even as he moved, the scaly hand wrapped around the stone.
And then he was falling through the air, scrabbling desperately for footing on the table, realizing with horror that he had obtained a couple of extra feet and that those feet were covered in fur.
“You’re dead you pillock,” he tried to growl, but what came out was a spit and a hiss that sounded less than terrifying.
Frnxx laughed and Spike was suddenly dangling from a huge hand.
“Ain’t you the cutest little thing?” he crooned. “I could just eat you up.” Eyes glowed red. “For real.”
The sounds around the table changed from laughter to screams as Spike quit wasting time on panic or anger or anything else but the business of survival. His body twisted around and up and claws and teeth sank to the hilt in Frnxx’s wrist. The demon tried to shake him off, and he went with it, using the momentum to land on another demon’s head and go for the eyes.
Cute, my ass.
His second victim dived under the table, frantically beating at his own head, and Spike sprang again, this time throwing himself into the door. It swung open slightly under the impact of his body, but that was enough to let him wriggle through, and with a howl of triumph he escaped into the night.
His triumph only lasted until he found himself gasping and winded in an alley in a shabby part of town and the reality of his situation fully sank in. He was a cat. Paws, tail, and whiskers, the whole furry package. He, the Big Bad, was now fuzzy. God, first the Initiative and now this. Did it get any worse?
Calm down, mate. This isn’t the end of the world. Yes, it could be worse. The demon could have eaten you or you could be a stink-beetle. You’ll get out of this.
He forced down the panic and rage and made his mind turn towards solving the problem. Frnxx was no wizard, meaning he had gotten the spell from somebody else, meaning they could take it off. Of course, he’d have to find whoever it was first, and his ability to interrogate was limited at the moment. ‘Meow’ wasn’t going to get him much information. Panic tried to surface for a second time, and Spike shoved it away, hoping he would be able to continue to do so.
Someone other than the wizard who sold Frnxx the spell could take it off, and he knew people who did magic. Willow had changed the rat back into a person, so contacting her sounded reasonable. Or it did until he remembered Willow collapsed in the street sobbing over what had happened to Dawn. The red-headed witch wasn’t terribly stable at the moment. A cat wasn’t his favorite creature, but he didn’t want to make the situation worse.
Plus, she lived with Buffy, which meant that if he could make Willow understand what happened, then the Slayer would know as well, and that might not be the best idea. He had a vivid image of her cackling maniacally as she stuffed him into a carrier for a trip to the vet that would absolutely guarantee an end to their relationship. That wouldn’t do. He was neutered enough with the chip.
Giles was back in England and would probably be more amused than helpful. Unless he had managed to find out the truth about certain collapsing buildings, in which case, ending up in the pound was the kindest fate Spike could foresee.
Then there was Willow’s ex, but he didn’t know where she was or the extent of her power. Also, he had gotten in the habit of avoiding her ever since Willow found out about his encounter with Anya during the time that Buffy and the enormous hall-monitor had their shag-fest, and she had decided to make a few things clear.
He made his way across the cemetery, coming to a halt as he realized that Willow was seated on a tombstone directly outside his crypt.
“Evening, Pet,” Spike said neutrally. “What brings you out?”
“Hey,” she responded in a calm voice that belied the glint in her eye. “I thought we should talk.”
“Yeah?” He pulled out a cigarette and lit up. “To what do I owe the privilege?”
Willow smiled. “You know, Spike, we’ve had our little problems, what with you threatening to stick a bottle in my brain or ‘have’ me, and trying to murder me, and setting the gang against each other. But that’s all over with and we can put it behind us.”
“I can tell you’ve got a great big shoe ready,” Spike said in his most bored voice. “So why don’t you just drop it?”
“Ok.” She slid down from the tombstone and stood, looking at him levelly. “If you ever try to scare Tara, or embarrass her, or even go anywhere near her without a really good reason, you’ll go to sleep one day, and you won’t wake up. Understand?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to laugh, to ask if she was afraid he could convince her bird to walk the other side of the street, until he saw her eyes and knew she wasn’t threatening him. This was no dance. This was a statement of fact.
He couldn’t remember how he’d left it, with some crack no doubt, but from that day forward, Spike had found himself automatically putting the group between him and the quiet witch. It wasn’t all that difficult: she tended to hover shyly on the outskirts, so he just hovered, although not shyly, on the opposite side. Even during the previous summer when they’d all worked together, he hadn’t been in shape for much more than businesslike conversation. The upshot being that he didn’t know her, or what she could do, or where she was, so....
“Grrrrr.”
Spike snapped out of his frantic planning find that he’d gained a companion. The dog was large, scarred, and missing half of an ear, but the wounds were old and no fresh marks marred the rough coat. The impression given was that of one who had learned from previous encounters. He glanced down the alley and saw the way out was blocked by a fence too high for him to climb.
“Sod off,” he said shortly, hoping that the remark would translate.
The dog cocked his head and looked slightly puzzled as if aware something wasn’t quite right about his chosen prey. However, he apparently decided not to worry about it, or it just pissed him off, or something, and he moved forward in a stiff-legged gait.
Son-of-a-bitch.
The pun struck him, but he didn’t have time to be amused at his own cleverness. Spike went with his instincts as he usually did at such times, letting the cat's body dictate his actions. He screeched defiance, back arching and ears slicking to his head. The dog, still unimpressed, attacked with no further warning. Spike dodged frantically, but he didn’t have quite the control over the new form the he needed, and he howled in pain as claws raked his side.
“Aquor Canis!”
The dog yelped, so drenched that it looked like a bucket of water had been thrown on it, although Spike couldn’t see any bucket. What he did see, as he swayed, dizzy with pain and shock, was Tara standing at the mouth of the alley.
She set down the grocery bag she was carrying, put her hands on her hips, looked sternly at the dog, and said, “Shoo. Scat. Get out of here.”
The dog gave a half-hearted growl, and Tara tapped her foot meaningfully. “You heard me.”
With a whine, it dropped head and tail and slunk past her and out of the alley. She looked down the street after it, then deciding it was gone, turned back, her face softening as she moved towards him.
“Oh, poor kitty,” she crooned. “Poor little thing.”
Bloody hell.
He couldn’t remember ever having been more embarrassed, including the times he’d been chained in Giles’ bathtub, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and his side was giving him hell. Spike huddled into a ball but didn’t lash out as Tara knelt, careless of the effect the alley would have on her jeans, and held out her hand.
His cat senses weren’t that different from his vampiric ones, and he had learned the Scoobies’ scents long ago – it helped in identifying whoever was kicking down his crypt door at any given time – but the only one he had ever paid any attention to was Buffy’s which could arouse him from three blocks away. But at this moment, the witch’s scent spoke of comfort and the absolute surety that she would not harm him. Despite himself, he felt his muscles relax and he went to his side at her urging.
Tara parted his fur to look at the scratches, her touch barely disturbing the wounds, but he hissed in pain all the same, using the last of his self-control not to bite at her.
“That's not so bad,” she said despite the fire that gripped his side. “I can fix that.”
She climbed to her feet, went to one of the trash piles that littered the side of the alley and retrieved a small box.
“Easier to carry you this way,” Tara explained, apparently much more talkative with cats than people. She shrugged out of her bulky sweater and used it to line the box, then slid her hands under him and lifted gently.
Damn it, why doesn’t she just use magic? This hurts!
“Don’t be such a baby,” she said reprovingly as his question came out in a whimper. “You’re not that hurt.”
Sheer indignation held Spike silent as Tara settled him on her sweater then juggled box and bag into fairly stable positions and headed out of the alley. A block or so away, she set down the grocery bag and fished a key from her jeans pocket to let herself into a small buileing. It was an older apartment building, shabby and worn, but the tiny lobby she crossed was clean, and the tenants seemed quiet.
They had almost reached the stairs when a door opened and a woman stepped out. She was in her late 30’s or so, dark-haired and skinned with white teeth that she flashed at Tara in a grin.
“What stray you find this time?”
“Hi, Theresa. Just a cat that some dog was trying to use for a chew toy.”
The woman walked up and looked in the box. “Don’t look like much.”
Hey, watch it!
“Got a temper though,” Theresa laughed at the low growl that came from the box. “You gonna mojo him back to health?”
Tara shook her head. “He’ll heal by himself with ordinary-type help. Those scratches don’t need any magic. I’ll look after him tonight, and we’ll see in the morning. That’s ok, isn’t it?” she added anxiously. “He won’t be any trouble.”
“Honey, after what you did, you can keep a zoo up there,” Theresa said firmly. “I just wish you’d let me do something more to pay you back.”
“It wasn’t anything,” Tara said in the general direction of her feet.
“Not anything? Jimmy hasn’t been here in weeks. I hear he won’t even come on this block.”
“Well…uh…good.” She stepped back. “I’d better get him upstairs.”
“Good night,” the woman called, amused. Then, as Tara hurried up the stairs, Theresa called after her, “You should think about getting yourself a human friend sometime. Boys, girls, I got both interested.”
“I’m not quite ready,” Tara called back as she let them into her apartment. “And you haven’t gotten over being a matchmaker 125 years ago,” she muttered, closing the door behind them.
She didn’t exactly trade up from Revello Drive, did she?
The apartment was a tiny studio with a stove that was mostly a glorified hotplate at one end and an even tinier bathroom at the other. A cardtable and a couple of chairs sat by a window, and a futon mattress was rolled against the wall. The few bits of other furniture were of the cardboard box or plank-on-cinderblock variety.
“Ok, kitty,” she said, placing his box at the foot of the mattress. “You just stay there for a minute.”
She went off to rummage in one of the tiny cabinets while Spike tried to get his equilibrium back. He was going to have to try and let her know what had happened, but the how of it escaped him. He couldn’t write, Tara didn’t appear to plan using magic anytime soon, and giving a ‘Timmy’s down a bloody well’ impression wasn’t appealing. Of course, neither was becoming a housepet.
Grimly, he tried to stand and growled as his side pulled. Tara hurried over, her arms full of herb bags and a mortar and pestle.
“It’s going to hurt if you move, silly cat,” she told him, pushing gently at his back. “Hold still while I get this ready.”
He did as directed with a sigh comprised of equal parts relief and annoyance.
I can always tell her later.
Humming to herself in a surprisingly tuneful voice, Tara sat on the floor next to him, measured bits of the herbs into the pestle, and began to grind them together. He realized something as he watched her, relaxed and sure of what she was doing, not hunching her shoulders or hiding behind her hair. She was pretty. Not the stunning in-your-face looks like the other women in the Scoobie gang or the ones who had drawn his attention in the past, but pretty in a way that you had to think about and then wonder how you hadn’t noticed before.
Her clothes were a large part of the problem. It would take Helen of Troy to overcome the sweater he was lying on and Spike hoped that using it as a cat bed would make her get rid of it. He remembered the time he’d seen her family. Their rigidity had amused him then, but now Spike felt an unfamiliar pang at the understanding that Tara had probably learned early on to not draw attention to herself.
“There,” she said, interrupting his musing as she poured what smelled like rosewater into the herbs and stirred with her finger to form a paste. “That should do it. Be still, now. I’ll try not to hurt you.”
She smoothed the paste over the cuts with gentle fingers, but despite the lightness of her touch, the mixture was somewhat astringent and Spike couldn’t help flinching.
“Poor baby, I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Just a little more. What a good kitty. You’re a sweet boy, yes you are.”
Well. A fellow could get used to this.
It felt like it had been years since anyone had said anything remotely nice to him. Ok, ‘sweet boy’ had never been a designation he’d been interested in trying for, not to mention ‘good kitty’, but it was pleasant to have somebody to appreciate him, or at least a version of him.
Then he realized he was purring and almost choked in an attempt to stop. However, he wasn’t sure how it worked, and apparently his body wanted to purr. It purred even louder when Tara finished treating his cuts and then spent several minutes scratching under his chin and telling him how handsome he was and how brave and how generally wonderful.
God, that feels good. Mmm, fingernails. Wonder if she’d like me in the blue shirt…. NO! I’m in love with Buffy, and...oh, yes, right there. Besides, she thinks I’m a cat. I have to make her understand...
But again, his reflexes took over, and before he could formulate any sort of plan of communication, Spike drifted off to sleep.
The sound of running water had incorporated itself into his dreams and the cessation caused him to drift awake.
Wha’s going on? Why am I in a box? Cat. I’m a cat, and…Oh. My. God.
The tiny bathroom had apparently became rather steamy from her shower, so Tara had, logically, opened the bathroom door. Vapor curled around and caressed her as she toweled off.
Speaking of things I could get used to. Just look at what was going on under those sweaters.
She was squarely built with broad shoulders and the sort of figure that used to be called hourglass. The indention of her waist was framed by sweetly curved hips and breasts, the cooler air of the main apartment drawing her nipples to peaks. Strong thighs drew attention to the tangle of light brown curls at the join before descending to curving calves and delicate ankles.
The men of his human days would have called her a tidy armful and pursued her like hounds after a hare while his William self sat in a corner, trying to think of rhymes for Demeter. Perhaps it was just as well she hadn’t been around: he’d made a big enough fool of himself over Cecily. Although Tara would have been nice about the damned poetry, so who knew what would have happened?
Spike pushed away the thought, the sudden wistful question of what his life would have been if he’d lost his heart to a woman kinder than Cecily, and made himself concentrate on the current situation.
No wonder Willow had been so upset to lose her, and if he’d been paying attention when she first arrived on the scene, he’d have given the red-head a run for her money, threats be damned.
However that chance belonged to another life and another time, for he loved the Slayer with her ferocity and her edginess and her pain. Still, it was with a certain regret that Spike watched Tara close the bathroom door and emerge after a few moments in a tank top and pajama bottoms.
“How are you?” she asked, kneeling beside him again. She scratched him again along his jawline and he found himself leaning into the touch.
“I’ve set up a sandbox for you in the bathroom,” Tara continued. “And I’ll put the food out before I go to sleep. I guess we’ll have to see what happens.”
There were definite drawbacks to housepethood despite petting and soft-voiced endearments. And even those didn't really mean anything, Spike understood bleakly If she knew who he was, it would be all ‘you’re an evil thing’ and ‘get out of here’.
With a snarl, he lashed out, and Tara pulled back with a yelp, a line of blood appearing across the back of her hand.
“What was that for?” she exclaimed, putting her hand to her mouth.
He didn’t know. He only knew that he couldn’t bear her touching him anymore in that loving way when it wasn’t actually meant for him. Spike huddled in the bottom of the box, furious and guilty and sad all at once.
I don’t need her anyway. I don’t need anybody. I’ll sort this out on my own.
Spike knew the thought was ridiculous even as it formed in his mind. How was he going to reverse the spell when he was in feline form? He pushed the knowledge away defiantly. He didn’t want to trust her, didn’t want to need her help, didn’t want to find himself responding quite so helplessly to the kindness of a woman he didn’t even know. It was stupid: it was poufy: it was definitely not of the Big Bad.
Tara watched him for a moment, frowning. “Maybe you just need to rest,” she said dubiously.
She padded back to the kitchen, this time retrieving a can of tuna and filling a small container with water. She placed both items on the floor near his box, careful not to touch him again, and unrolled her mattress, covering it with a pillow and blanket that had been piled beside it.
“’Night, kitty,” Tara said softly and turned out the lamp.
He lay in his box, feeling like an absolute bastard and wishing he didn’t care.
Didn’t used to care. Used to take pride in it.
Part of him knew that time, that life, was past. Whether from the chip, falling in love with Buffy, some combination of the two, or something else altogether, he was different than he had been, beyond the fact that he currently had a tail. Even a year ago would he have had to talk himself into attempting to bite the girl in the alley? Would he have babysat the little sister of a dead Slayer? Not bloody likely.
He was a demon, supposedly immune from change, but the rules themselves had altered somewhere along the line, and Buffy wasn’t the only one who didn’t know where she fit in anymore. It was confusing, and frightening, and Spike didn’t like it one bit.
Spike looked at the sleeping figure on the futon. He had never heard Tara criticize or laugh at Anya, and she had never treated him as an enemy, although she had gotten between him and Dawn one time when the Niblet was upset. Was that why he felt oddly safe with her? Because she accepted people as they were? Because when she looked at him, she saw Spike instead of just a vampire?
His gaze sharpened as Tara begin to thrash, throwing the blanket aside and whimpering in her sleep.
“Glory,” she muttered, head rolling on her pillow. “No. Willow! Willow, help me!”
So, it wasn't all sweetness and light with her either. He was over by her side before he realized, ignoring the sting of his injuries. “Wake up,” he said urgently. “Pet, Tara, it’s all right. You’re safe.”
It came out as “Meow, prrrup! Rowr!” and the hand he reached to shake her shoulder ended up being a paw patting her nose, but Tara blinked awake anyway and stared at him groggily.
“Mm.” she said sleepily. “Bad dream. Good kitty. Not mad anymore?”
Tara’s fingers stroked the side of his head lightly, but she was already sinking back into slumber, and her arm dropped to lie across the mattress. Spike looked at her sleeping face with its tearstained cheeks, and not even sure why he did it, lay down next to her in the curve of her arm, tail over nose and eyes grimly staring into the darkness. At least, they did for a while. Slowly, inexorably, they fell closed and the last thing he was aware of was that he was purring again.
“Pretty good hit there, Buff,” Xander said. “I give it a 9.8. You didn’t quite stick the dismount.”
“Thanks,” Buffy snorted, tucking the stake back into her sleeve. “You Russian judges are all alike.”
Xander squinted at the dead demon. “Haven’t I seen him around before?”
“Probably. I know I have. I think he’s named Fn-xx or Frexx or something. I know x’s are involved. I didn’t know he was killing people though.”
“You just never know what those wacky demons will get up to next.”
Buffy abruptly turned away, hiding her burning cheeks as she remembered what a certain demon was capable of getting up to.
No. Bad. That’s why you brought Xander along to keep from thinking about that stuff or at least keep from doing anything about it.
He might not be able to keep her traitorous brain on track, but he could keep her body from finding itself by Spike’s crypt.
“Let’s call it a night,” Buffy said briskly, and they headed toward home, unaware that other events had been set in motion.
He woke slowly, content, but slightly confused.
Sun’ll be up soon. I slept all night? That was bloody...
Spike froze as his brain lurched into full wakefulness, reminded him of the previous night’s events, and pointed out a couple of very important items:
He rolled his eyes to the side and down and tried to become even more frozen in position as he saw Tara snuggled against him. She was still on her side, but her head was now on his shoulder, one arm thrown across his waist.
Spike moved his eyes a little further and then closed them in relief at the realization that his clothes, including his duster, had made it through the transition from vampire to cat and back again. Being in bed next to Tara had the potential to be bad enough. Being in bed naked next to Tara had the potential to be infinitely worse.
All badness could be avoided, however, if he could get out of there without waking her up, and Spike decided that sounded like the best plan he’d heard so far. Slowly, with excruciating care, he began to ease from her embrace.
Tara murmured in her sleep and rolled to her back with a slight frown. That would have helped Spike’s escape plan except that her new position provided him with a view of her throat and the upper swell of her breasts. A very clear memory from last night danced before his eyes and sent his body into a state of complete and somewhat painful interest.
He licked his lips almost hypnotized by the pretty curves that were so close to him and only partially veiled by her pajamas. Her cleavage beckoned, practically begging to be nuzzled. He would be nice. He would be considerate. The building would stay up. Surely, she would…
...kill you, you sodding idiot.
Spike’s brain made a last furious bid for ascendancy over the rest of him, pointing out loudly that there was no foreseeable way for Tara to be happy to wake up and find him caressing her, no matter how gently. If she didn’t kill him immediately, there was Buffy. And if the Slayer didn’t kill him, there was Willow...
Ah. That did it. Nothing calmed an erection like the concept of having it fried to cinders by a pissed-off witch. Spike shook his head and focused on retrieving the arm that had ended up under Tara’s neck.
Sorry, Love. Would have been fun though.
He finished disentangling them and carefully stood. It all would have gone swimmingly except that he was concentrating so hard on watching Tara he forgot to watch where he was putting his feet and one boot knocked against the water bowl.
“Hm? What?”
Tara stirred, beginning to wake, and Spike’s instinct for survival took over once again.
I’m not hurting her. I don’t intend to hurt her.
The mental chant must have worked because the chip didn’t fire as he caught the edge of the mattress and yanked it towards him, spilling her off the opposite side in a flurry of arms and legs.
Her yell of surprise/anger/fright was muffled as he upended the mattress on top of her and sprinted for the exit. Unfortunately, he landed on a small throw rug that she’d constructed from a shawl, and it went out from under him, sending him sprawling face-first into the door. There was a stinging pain at his neck, not to mention his nose, but Spike didn’t have time to worry about it, since from the sounds behind him, Tara was freeing herself from the mattress.
Blindly, he wrenched the door open, shattering the lock, and dived through, covering the stairs in one jump.
“Hey!”
Tara’s shout came from behind him, and he heard the door to Theresa’s apartment begin to rattle as he hit the front door of the building, but then he was out and running at full speed up the sidewalk.
He didn't realize that his neck chain was gone until he reached his crypt. Spike touched the slight ridge at the base of his neck and remembered the stinging sensation when he fell against Tara’s apartment door. The chain must have gotten caught on the knob somehow and been dragged free.
It didn’t have to be complete disaster. She’d never seen him wear the chain before, so as long as she didn’t show it to Buffy, everything should be ok. And why would she do that? There was nothing Slayerish about what had happened. She’d startled a burglar, and in the ruckus, the stray cat she had picked up had escaped. Her demolished door should cover up the fact that the ‘burglar’ had gotten in without opening the lock.
Spike’s cautious optimism grew as the day passed and no witches, Slayers, or dorky yet concerned friends showed up at his crypt demanding immediate and bloody retribution. By evening, he was feeling pretty good.
Once again, the Big Bad triumphs.
He sauntered cockily into the poker game, enjoying the nervous smiles of the other players when they saw his restored condition, especially after he heard that the Slayer had…well..Slayed Frnxx. Not that she had done it for any reason to do with him, but Spike saw no reason to let anyone else know that. He grinned smugly and managed to imply that he had the Slayer’s ear when it came time to choosing demons to kill.
Toward sunrise, he strolled back into his crypt and headed for the ladder that led to his bedchamber feeling sleepy but pleased with himself. He’d nap through the day and get back on his schedule. The whole thing with the witch could be written off as a passing encounter. Tonight, he’d go out and find some way to irritate Buffy into another fight, and...
He ground to a halt at the sight of his neck chain lying in a neat pile on the slab next to the refrigerator. Spike stared wildly around the crypt, but there was no other sign that anyone had been there, either upstairs or below. He eyed the chain nervously then finally picked it up. He couldn’t tell anything different about it. Nothing burned or tingled. The only change was that the clasp had been fixed.
Spike stared down at the chain for long moments, letting it dangle between his fingers. At last, he walked to his crypt door and looked out, careful to stay back from the rays of the rising sun. The cemetery was empty as far as he could see, but his sharp hearing detected light footsteps walking away into the dawn.