Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy.

Episode 1: U-Turn by Wendy

The alarm went off, a shrill intrusion into the blissful unawareness that was sleep.

Dawn Summers opened her eyes, threw out her arm, and hit the button on the alarm. She sighed deeply and looked at the clock. Just a few minutes till sunrise. She got up and slipped on her robe, then padded toward the door. As she made her way quietly down the dark hall, she paused by her mother’s room. No noise. Good. Her alarm hadn’t awakened Xander and Anya.

She tiptoed her way down the stairs and headed for the back door. He was there on the steps, head in his hands, a dozen or so cigarette butts in a pile next to him. It was still dark, but she could see the faint glow of sun on the horizon.

"Spike, time to come in."

He sighed, looked up at her. This was their morning ritual. No matter what he found to do during the long nights—killing demons, sitting in front of the telly, drinking at the Bronze and watching vapid teens dance and snog and whine about their worthless lives—sunrise always found him on the back porch of Buffy’s—Dawn’s—house, wishing he could just sit there until the sun rose and turned him into ashes. And he’d do it, let it happen right in the very spot where he realized how much he loved her, that wanting to kill her and wanting to shag her paled against the desire to ease her pain and give her happiness.

If it weren’t for Dawn, he’d do it.

"C’mon, Spike. Quick, before I have to vacuum you up."

She wasn’t going to leave him alone, he knew, so he unwound his limbs, stiff from a longer-than-usual night on the porch, and followed her to the back door, where she stood impatiently, holding the door open for him.

"What’s for breakfast this morning, sweet bit?" he asked as they entered the kitchen.

"Blueberry pancakes—your favorite." She opened the refrigerator and began taking out milk and eggs and blueberries and a pitcher of blood, which she placed on the counter.

He smiled to himself. It was just like her to think of him having a favorite food. Even with the evidence of his vampire-ness in front of her in the form of the pig’s blood, she still focussed on his human qualities, like his interest in human food. As he nuked the pig’s blood to a temperature that wouldn’t make him gag, she bustled about the kitchen, whipping up pancake batter as if she were Martha Stewart reincarnated, and not a human wrapper around the mystical green glowy energy known as the Key.

She always made pancakes from scratch, she claimed, because they tasted better that way, but it was really because it took longer than making them from a mix, and she felt Spike needed a lengthy transition from the dark nights of despair and grief back into the world of the living, or at least the living undead. While she cooked the pancakes, she chattered about school, about Willow and Tara’s new off-campus apartment, which she was helping redecorate, and about some TV show she’d watched last night. She did this every morning, even on weekends when she didn’t have to get up. She knew he needed the routine, needed a reason to come inside in the morning.

The others needed it too.

Spike had polished off a plate of pancakes when Xander walked into the kitchen, freshly showered, hair wet and slicked back.

"Mornin’ Dawnster. Mornin’, You." He still hadn’t gotten used to living with a vampire. Yeah, he’d set up the basement with a bed and a cable TV connection so Spike could watch his soaps in peace without annoying the rest of the household, but he still didn’t like it. Dawn had insisted that Spike move in where she could keep an eye on him, and he found it impossible to say no to her, not now.

"Xander, you’re up early. Did I wake you?" Dawn said anxiously.

"No, no. You can’t wake someone who wasn’t even sleeping to begin with." He sat down at the table, and she put a plate of pancakes in front of him.

"Awww," drawled Spike. "Big day in wood shop? They actually going to let you play with the grown-up tools?" This was also part of their morning routine—Spike and Xander, trading insults.

"Actually, Bleach Boy, I’m going in early to talk to the foreman about a raise. All the extra hours I’ve put in over the past few months, plus now I have a family—and a bloodsucking leech--to support. I think I qualify as worthy."

"Don’t suck blood now. I sip it, real gentleman-like," Spike said, lifting his mug to his lips.

Xander opened his mouth to say something, then checked himself. "Dawn, I almost forgot. Could you do me a favor?" he asked. "Anya needs some help at the Magic Box this afternoon. She’s expecting some big shipment of crystal balls or magic toads or something, and she needs someone she trusts to handle the money while she checks them in."

Dawn looked over her shoulder. "No problem. I’ll do it," she said.

"Yes problem," Spike growled. "Let Rupert do it. It’s his bloody shop."

"Spike," said Dawn. "You know Mr. Giles is still working on the report for the Council of Watchers about…" her voice caught a moment, "Buffy’s death."

"The wanker’s had three months to write the soddin’ thing. He’s not done yet?"

"Guess tearing out your heart every day and contemplating it instead of moving on is a particularly British thing, for both the living and the undead." Xander snapped. He didn’t much like Giles’ increasing reclusiveness since Buffy’s death, but he didn’t have any idea what to do about it.

Suddenly, there was a clatter, a crash, and a curse.

"Damn it!" Dawn had dropped a plate of pancakes on the floor and was staring at it, tears in her eyes. Spike jumped up and knelt at her feet, picking up the pancakes and pieces of broken plate.

"It’s alright, Nibblet. No major damage."

Dawn sniffled, shaking slightly. Spike touched her hair gently. "It’s okay."

"No. It’s not okay." She turned and fled, leaving a perplexed Spike and Xander staring after her.

Xander shrugged helplessly. "Not your fault—this time. She’s under a lot of stress."

A frown furrowed Spike’s brow as he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. Xander shot him the evil eye, and Spike put the cigarette back.

"Xander!" An annoyed blonde wearing a tattered plaid robe and seemingly not much else entered the kitchen. "Did you forget that we were supposed to have sex this morning before you left?"

"So, I was talking to Margaret at the student union this morning," Tara ventured as she and Willow walked down Main Street toward the Magic Box. "She told me there’s a waiting list for that computer science seminar you wanted to take, you know, with Professor Rogin."

Tara made a sympathetic noise. "I know, honey. But don’t you think Buffy would want you to go back to school?"

"I guess," Willow said. "But she also knew how important it was to fight evil, and since she’s gone and Faith is in prison, there’s no one except me and Spike who can do it."

"Excuse me, Dawn, could I have a minute please?" Giles looked awful. He was showered and shaved and dressed neatly—ever British, he was always up to the mark. But his face was drawn, and he’d lost weight. The shadows under his eyes told of many sleepless nights—about four months’ worth—and the hand holding a pen and a notebook shook slightly.

"Sure, Mr. Giles," Dawn answered. "What can I do for you? Would you like me to pick you up something for dinner?"

"Of course, Dawn." Giles nodded. "Later then." He wandered back into the office, never seeing Dawn’s look of relief, and the surreptitious swipe at her eyes.

The sun had just set, and a full moon was rising. It was time to patrol. Instead of heading to the cemetery, though, Spike was walking toward the Magic Box to pick up Willow. Most of the shops on Main Street were closed; only the Magic Box tended to draw an evening clientele. He had just paused for a moment to flick his cigarette to the ground and stamp it out when he heard it, a muffled scream. Unbidden, his bloodlust rose in anticipation, and he took a few steps in the direction of the sound. He shook off the demon, tried to regain his bearings. What was he, a bloody ambulance chaser? He couldn’t feed any more, and besides, he didn’t want this. He didn’t want any of it.

He’d drawn close enough to hear voices, a loud, deep voice threatening murder, a higher, more feminine voice, pleading. Then, the voice changed, no longer plaintive but angry: "Get the hell away from my daughter, you bastard!" He found himself running closer and turned a corner into a back alley to see a woman, her daughter behind her, something large and ominous raising its arm to her. Spike didn’t stop to think. He felt rage, and he acted. He hurled himself at the large figure, fangs bared and aimed at the throat—and fell to the ground with a roar and a searing headache. A human! Not a demon attack! Through the mist of pain, he saw the woman take advantage of the man’s momentary inattention to pull something out of her purse. The hiss and subsequent agonized cry told Spike that it must have been pepper spray. He huddled on the ground, his head aching from the force of the chip’s pain, the groans of the mugger, and the screams of the woman and her daughter. Then he saw flashing lights—oh good, the police. The bloody, ineffectual Sunnydale police.

They were cuffing the mugger, talking to the woman, who was explaining that the blond man with the black coat had tried to save them. Spike grimaced to himself. Yeah, and a fine job of it he’d done. Chalk up one more failure for William the Bloody. The woman had saved herself, her and her daughter. He couldn’t help remembering another woman, another daughter—and an axe.

Spike wasn’t a hero. He never would be.

He felt a presence next to him and looked up. It was the daughter, a mite of a thing, all wispy blonde pigtails, skinned knees and tear-streaked face.

"Mister? You ok, mister?"

"Yeah, kid." He sighed. "I’m … okay."

This was okay. In fact, it was nice. Real nice. Well, it was Heaven, so by definition it about topped the list of All-Time Nice Things.

Buffy Summers was dead. She wasn’t sure how long she had been, but since this was Heaven, it didn’t really matter much. She was sitting on a bench in the Elysian Fields, catching up with her mother, when a white-robed figure glided up to her.

"Will you come with me please?"

"You must return." It was a deep voice, but it didn’t make a sound, echoing instead inside Buffy’s head.

"Return? Where?" she asked.

"Fill it yourself," she snapped, turning to walk away.

It was 8:30 p.m., and the Magic Box had finally closed. Anya was counting money, Tara and Dawn were sitting at the table playing with the tarot cards, Giles was in the office, and Willow was still up in the loft, reading.

The door opened, and Xander walked in.

"Well, hello, fine people. And may I introduce you all to the new Assistant Foreman of Donovan Construction’s carpentry crew?"

Anya’s face lit up. "You’re the boss now? That means more money and less work, right?"

"Uh, yes and no, honey. It means more money and more responsibility."

Anya’s face fell. "More responsibility is more work. I don’t like it. I’ll never see you. We’ll never …"

Xander interrupted. "Play Parcheesi, I know, Ahn. We have some rollicking games of Parcheesi, but we’ll just have to cut down on that a little."

"Oh, is that what they call it these days?" Spike had entered from the back room, smirking at the domestic drama unfolding.

"Xander, since we’re all here, why don’t we order pizza or something?" Dawn intervened, wanting to head off another battle between the vampire and the carpenter.

"Oh, Spike, good, you’re here." Willow came down the steps, carrying an open book. "I found this spell that I think will help us locate vampire nests. If it works, we’ll be able to dust almost as many vamps per week as Buffy ever did. We can use it in addition to the ball of sunshine spell I’ve been using, since you, uh, can’t really use the ball of sunshine too safely..." She looked up from the book and noted the crowd. "Oh, hi everyone! Is it dinnertime already?"

"It was dinnertime two hours ago," Tara said, uncharacteristically sulky.