Boxes crowd the hallway like they’ve been breeding. Xander shoulders his way through the door, arms full of glossy magazines and righteous disbelief.

“These are all soap opera digests?” he says, voice already climbing. “How could anyone possibly need so many?”

Spike doesn’t look up. He’s crouched by the table, sorting through stacks like they’re sacred relics. “There were over two thousand episodes of Passions,” he says, calm as a librarian. “That’s an essential reference library. At least I use them. Unlike your dolls.”

Xander grits his teeth and heads for the stairs. “Maquettes are not dolls,” he snaps. “They’re limited edition works of sculpture that you are being criminally reckless with!”

A box slips from his grip and hits the landing with a dull thud. Spike doesn’t flinch.

“They’re overrunning the bloody apartment is what they are,” he mutters, trailing behind. “I’m gonna seem a right tosser living here. I mean, look at this place.”

They reach the top. The living room is a shrine to pop culture excess – shelves groaning, television blinking, the air thick with unresolved tension and the faint smell of bubble wrap. Xander drops the box on the nearest surface and exhales like he’s just finished a marathon.

Spike stands beside him, arms crossed, surveying the chaos like it personally betrayed him. No one speaks. The silence is loud.

Spike stands in the middle of the living room, arms folded, gaze sweeping across the cluttered landscape like a disappointed landlord. Comic books spill off shelves, game controllers tangle in cords, action figures loom from every available surface like judgmental sentinels.

“Comic books, video games, dolls – pardon, maquettes – with nary a surface uncovered,” he says, voice dry as dust. “It’s hardly an equitable division of real estate.”

Xander doesn’t look up from the box he’s unpacking. “I’d remind you that I paid the entire security deposit and most of the rent,” he says. “I’m not your sugar daddy. Are you planning on ever getting a job?”

Spike shrugs, unapologetic. “Bit of a challenge, that. No social security number, can’t work daytime shifts, hundred-year gap in my resumé…”

Xander snorts. “Well, how do vampires support themselves? I mean, you gotta keep Renfield in flies, right?”

“We rob our kills, traditionally,” Spike says. “But I’ve got this annoying soul now. Makes that a mite difficult.” He tilts his head, considering. “I suppose I could be a vigilante. Just kill folks who deserve it. Child molesters. People who talk during the movies.”

Xander pauses mid-stack. “I forgot the downside of sharing a place with you. The actual ‘sharing a place with you’ part.”

He gestures vaguely toward the hallway. “You should talk to Dowling. I bet the Supernatural Crime Unit could use a consultant on vampire behaviour.”

Spike bristles. “Vampire behaviour? We are not a monolithic bloc of sheep, you life-ist son of a…” He stops. Reconsiders. “Y’know, that ain’t a bad idea.”

He’s thinking on it more now. “Wonder if I can get a badge and a gun?”

Xander’s already halfway to the door. “On second thought, let’s go across the hall and see how the girls are doing.”

Across the hall, Buffy stands with arms crossed, toe tapping against the hardwood floor. The apartment smells faintly of incense and leftover takeout. “Let’s make this fast, D’Hoffryn,” she says. “I’ve got to adjust the Feng Shui in my new room. And look up what ‘Feng Shui’ is.”

D’Hoffryn has materialized with the usual flair – smoke, brimstone, and the faint sound of paperwork rustling in another dimension. “My time is valuable as well, Slayer,” he says, voice oily with condescension. “Fortunately, my council has reviewed your proposed addition to the mystic book and we approve.”

Giles steps forward, glasses already halfway down his nose. “Then it’s official,” he says. “The barriers between Earth and the magical dimensions will henceforth be naturally strong. Lesser demons, like the one we banished from this building, will no longer be able to break through with the same ease.”

D’Hoffryn raises a clawed finger. “You do realize, of course, that naturally occurring portals, such as Hellmouths, will not be affected.”

Buffy nods, already weary. “We discussed this. The bigger the rule change, the bigger the potential complications, right? We can’t push it too far, or we get pushed back.”

D’Hoffryn’s smile is thin and sharp. “I merely point out that the demons who do cross over will be powerful indeed. We must remain vigilant. I was suggesting as to expanding the ability of the Council to sense such incursions.”

Giles considers. “We’ll review them. Some type of early warning system would be prudent.”

D’Hoffryn straightens his robes, preparing to vanish. “Then I take my leave. Do not regret your recent ordeal, Rupert Giles. Though harrowing, it may reap rewards. Having seen the folly in idle wish fulfilment will steel you against the temptation of using the book to alter reality for your own personal ends.”

He disappears in a flicker of light and sulphur, leaving Giles shouting angrily at thin air.

“There is absolutely nothing to fear on that score,” he says, voice clipped. “I remind you we were drawn unwillingly into that demon’s world. We’ve all seen quite enough to know the dangers of tampering with the laws of the universe.”

Buffy rolls her eyes, perched on the arm of the couch with one leg swinging. “Ignore him, Giles. He’s a goat-faced jerk who’s just mad because we get to write the new rules of magic instead of his stupid club.”

Giles doesn’t smile. “But that doesn’t make him wrong,” he says quietly. “I was the only one of us who couldn’t resist the demon’s illusions. Am I really equal to this task?”

Buffy slides off the couch and crosses to him, her tone softening without losing its edge. “Yes. And you know what else? You don’t have to do it alone. We’re a team, remember? And now we all live together, in our awesome new grown-up yet super-cheap apartments! It’s like Friends! Love, hilarity, and fun in housing we shouldn’t be able to afford.”

Giles exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “Yes. Smashing,” he says. “I should get back to mine. Ancient tomes to unpack.”

Buffy hesitates. “I’m worried about you living alone. I know you can afford it, now that some of your assets are unfrozen, but…”

“The rest of you are right across the hall,” Giles says, already turning toward the door. “I’ll be fine. Just adolescent moodiness. As the ancient sages said, this too shall pass.”

He exits with the quiet dignity of a man who’s still learning how to carry his own ghosts. Buffy watches him go, then turns back to the room, where the others are already arguing over pizza toppings and magical ethics.

Willow bursts into the apartment, arms full of folders and a faint shimmer of residual spell craft clinging to her coat. “Hey!” she says, breathless. “I was just telling the guys…I got the security spells all set up on their place. Ours is going to take longer, since it’s where the demon first crossed over. Gotta hit it with extra mojo. But I’ve got job interviews.”

She drops her bag on the counter and exhales. “I’m thinking maybe we keep the book at their place until ours is locked down.”

Buffy glances up from the couch, where she’s half-buried in throw pillows and a half-eaten tub of hummus. “Fine by me, if the boys don’t mind.”

Xander leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, already smirking. “Great idea. Even if the bad guys get in, they’ll never make it past the protective odour field from Spike’s rancid laundry.”

Spike, sprawled in the armchair like a vampire-shaped warning label, doesn’t miss a beat. “Or the aura of stale virginity emanating from Harris’ meticulously catalogued Dungeons and Dragons cards.”

Xander straightens, wounded. “MAGIC cards! Dungeons and Dragons MODULES! Completely different things! Dungeons and Dragons cards are a cheap dumbing down of the concept for people too lazy to put in the time to comprehend the magnificent jewel that is the Gary Gygax System…”

He trails off, eyes narrowing. “And I just lost the argument, didn’t I?”

Dawn appears in the doorway, holding a small box and looking apologetic. “Oh hey. Xander, I took some of your stuff by mistake.

Xander fumbles with the box, nearly dropping it before Dawn catches the edge. “Oh, uh. Thanks!” he says, voice cracking just slightly. “I’ve been looking for those… things.” He looks at her when she turns away, turns away from her when she looks back. “You’re moving okay?”

Dawn smiles, awkward but warm. “Great. Living with my sis, you know, like the old days. But less snark and more outfit sharing.” She glances toward the boys’ side of the hall. “You guys?”

Xander shrugs. “Big fun, hilarity, and high jinks. Hey, they’re showing The Princess Bride at the Rialto tonight. Chance to finally see it on the big screen?”

Dawn hesitates, shifting the box in her arms. “Oh, I would, but I’ve got a new part-time job. Bike messenger gig. Sorry. Um… maybe Spike could go with you?”

Spike, leaning against the doorframe like he’s auditioning for a noir reboot, doesn’t miss a beat. “I’d be delighted,” he says, voice dripping sarcasm.

Buffy enters with a book cradled in her arms like it’s radioactive. “Here’s the book,” she says. “The magic book that shapes the laws of magic itself, that only you, Xander, are strong enough to protect from the forces of darkness.”

Xander straightens, solemn. “Thank you, Buffy. I swear to you, I shall guard it with my life.”

Spike rolls his eyes. “Whilst I shall stand here awkwardly, feeling vaguely uncomfortable and wondering why we’re all speaking in exposition.”

Buffy leans in, whispering just loud enough for Xander to hear. “You’re doing great. Be patient. Give her space. And dial back just a scooch on the trying. I’m walking her to work. Gonna talk you up the whole time. Don’t worry. You got a Slayer for your wingman.”

Xander watches her go, heart thudding in a way that feels both ridiculous and real. “Best. Sitcom. Ever,” he murmurs. “Thanks, Buffy. For real.

In their apartment, Spike looks at the book like it’s something alien, as if a glow was coming from it, with theatrical disdain. “So,” he says, voice low. “The power to write anything and have it become reality, in our hands. Does this strike you as a particularly bad idea?”

Xander doesn’t look up. He’s pacing, slow and tight, like the room’s too small for the weight of the question. “Hold up,” he says. “If you think you can make Buffy love you by writing it in there…”

Spike snorts. “Oh, piss off, Harris. That’s the sort of thing the old, soulless me would’ve done. I’m no bloody saint, but I ain’t that bloody selfish.” He sets the book down, more gently than expected. “Anyway, I’m over her. We’re friends. Got a mutually respectful relationship of mature equals and it’s all very mature.”

He says it like a punchline, but there’s no laugh.

Then, quieter: “But listen, mate. What happened with you and Dawn… She really did love you. Ain’t nobody’s fault her emotions got rebooted to factory settings. It was an error in magic, innit? If you wrote that it got fixed, you’d just be setting things right. Giving her back what she lost.”

Xander stops pacing. His voice is steady, but his hands aren’t. “I’ve thought about it, believe me. But it’s too big a risk, with the book’s Monkey Paw tendencies. What if she feels every emotion she ever felt all at once? What if she gets stuck on the new settings forever?”

He looks at Spike, eyes raw. “It’d be the height of selfishness to do something like that, just because I’m terrified of losing her. Right?”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full of everything they can’t fix.

Spike’s lounging against the counter, mug in hand, posture casual but eyes too sharp to be relaxed. “Too right,” he says. “I was watching a bit of Dr. Phil – not that I make a habit of it, mind – on the importance of self-love. Universal truth, innit? You’ve got to love yourself before you can truly love someone else. Or them you.”

He pauses, lets the silence stretch just long enough to feel intentional. Then, with a shrug: “You ever hear of The Secret? Caught that on another show. Premise is, the energy you put out into the universe comes back to you. You mope about, you attract mopey. But you’re positive – like me – lookin’ on the bright side, it all works itself out…”

Xander slams a hand on the table. “WLL YOU SHUT YOU MOUTH!”

His voice is raw, the kind that’s been holding back too much for too long. He steps forward, jabbing a finger toward Spike. “You are so full of crap! A blind man could see you’re not even close to being over Buffy! The only one you’re fooling is yourself… AND YOU EVEN SUCK AT THAT!”

The room goes quiet. Not the kind of quiet that settles now – more like the kind that coils. They stare at each other. No movement. No breath.

Then Spike straightens, tilts his head just slightly. “What say we pop ’round the pub for a pint, in lieu of me tearing out your jugular?”

Xander’s already halfway out the door, coat in hand. “Sold.”

The pub’s loud, but not loud enough to drown out the silence between them. Spike lines up a dart, squinting at the board like it’s offended him personally. Xander watches from a table, nursing something amber and unconvincing.

“So,” Xander says, voice low. “Angry Xander. Sorry about angry Xander.”

Spike doesn’t turn. “Just don’t start thinking I’m gonna let you punch me up the way Angel did. I do not have that prat’s masochistic side.” He throws the dart. Bullseye. “Thought you were getting help with all that, anyway.”

“I am,” Xander says. “Dr. Mike – my counsellor – he says feeling helpless is the root of my anger issues. And I’ve had an extra helping of the helpless lately.”

Xander finally turns, leaning against the dartboard frame. “She seems comfortable with you. Dawn, I mean. Even though her emotions were reset to before you had your soul…”

“Yeah, well,” Spike says, “less pressure with me, I’d imagine.”

Xander shrugs. “It’s more than that. You understand her. Always have. Maybe better than I do.”

Spike sees Xander’s anger move, his fingers gripping the darts tightly. He stands, walks over, picks up a dart. “You throw this at me, I swear to God, you’ll end up with a pincushion for an arse.”

Xander doesn’t throw. Just holds the dart like it’s a question he doesn’t want answered. “I’m not jealous. I just mean… you always seem to know what she needs. What we need. Like when she was fading away, and you put her on the phone with me, so we’d be together when…”

He trails off. The pub noise swells around them – laughter, clinking glasses, someone yelling about the ball game on the screen – but none of it touches the moment.

Then, quietly: “Will you help me get her back?”

Spike doesn’t answer right away. Just nods, once, like he’s already decided. He watches the foam settle in his glass, then glances at Xander across the table. “Happy to, mate. But you gotta give the girl space. Might not feel like it, but what the Little Bit’s going through…it’s about her, not you.”

He swirls his drink, eyes distant. “Put yourself in her shoes. Feeling years’ worth of stuff all at once? Must be like losing her mum all over again.”

Xander stiffens. “Oh my God! Joyce. I didn’t even think about…”

Spike nods, not unkindly. “Course you didn’t. Too busy with your own worries. Being selfish is human nature, but it ain’t true love.” He leans forward, voice low. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying you don’t love her. But love doesn’t make us saints. You’re gonna think of yourself first. We’re flawed creatures, men. Real love, when you strip out all the baggage, can make us what we are. That’s the gift and the curse. But you gotta let it.”

He raises his glass, not in toast, but in quiet resignation. “End of the day, if you love someone, you do what’s best for them.”

They both look down at their drinks, the silence stretching between them like a held breath. And then, together, not rehearsed but inevitable:

“Even if it’s not what’s best for you.”

The bar hums with low conversation and the occasional clink of glass, but the moment Spike finishes speaking, it’s like the air tilts. A woman steps forward from the shadows near the jukebox, her voice soft but clear.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help hearing what you just said.”

Spike turns, caught off guard but not displeased. “Got a bit loquacious, did I? Sorry.”

She smiles, and it’s the kind that makes time feel optional. Her hair’s a cascade of dirty blond and dusk, eyes framed in something vintage but sharp, like she walked out of a noir film and into a poetry reading. There’s a quiet elegance to her, but it’s laced with something wilder. Like she’s been places. Like she’s still going.

“No,” she says. “It was beautiful. Like poetry.”

“You think so?” Spike asks, voice dipping into something softer.

“Well, I’m no expert,” she says, “just a fan. But it reminded me of the romanticism of Shelley or Keats, filtered through the modern aesthetic of a Raegan Butcher.”

Spike blinks. “I must know your name, for you are my new favourite person in the world.”

“Thelma,” she says. “Don’t make fun.”

“Of a lady endowed with such rare beauty and taste?” Spike says, hand to his chest. “I’d sooner rend my own heart from my breast. Uh, with a prison shiv.”

From the table, Xander groans. “Yeah, cool story, but we were kinda in the middle of something.” Before he can finish, a tap on his shoulder interrupts. He turns, mid-sentence, then double-takes.

The woman standing behind him is dressed like she walked straight out of a gear catalogue and into a comic con. Tactical boots, utility jacket, and a tool belt cinched at her waist like it’s part of a superhero uniform.

“No offence,” Xander starts, “but I’m not looking for…” He stops, eyes wide. “Is that a Diamond Back Arctic Box tool belt?”

She raises an eyebrow, amused. “Is that a Hellboy B.P.R.D. patch?”

The moment hangs, absurd and electric.

More drinks later and back in the booth huddled together, Thelma leans in, voice velvet and reverent. “I don’t know what to say. Your words are like expert lovers, having their way with my emotions.”

Spike blinks, visibly flattered. “Well, I do try to keep my metaphors limber.”

Across the table, Xander’s companion, her name Ninny, stretches her arms with theatrical flair. “I think I work in construction because there’s something primal about it. Something incredibly… well, sexy, really.”

Xander grins. “That’s exactly why I got into it.”

Thelma turns to Spike, eyes soft and glinting. “What do you say we go back to our place?”

Ninny slides closer to Xander, her voice low and coaxing. “I bet your muscles are sore. I just finished a massage course. I’d really appreciate it if I could practice on you.”

Xander hesitates, caught between flattery and caution. “If I was single, that would be tempting. But even though my relationship status is what the kids call ‘complicated,’ how I feel isn’t.”

Spike nods, adopting a tone of mock solemnity. “My status is, sadly, less complicated. But as I’m trying to behave in a more thoughtful and measured manner overall, I agree it’s best not to rush into…”

Then it happens.

The women lock eyes with them. Green light swirls in hypnotic circles, not harsh but soft, like candlelight caught in a whirlpool. It’s not magic exactly, but it’s not not magic either.

Spike straightens, voice suddenly bright. “Your place sounds smashing.” Xander, dazed, mutters, “I hate our place. It’s full of maquettes.”

Then they turn to leave.

They’re walking fast, half-jogging through the neon blur of the street, laughter trailing behind them like a scent. Xander’s grinning, eyes wide with possibility.

“I think we’ll be having the thing,” he says, breathless. “Do you think we’ll be having the thing?”

Spike shrugs, hands in his coat pockets, boots clacking against the pavement. “If that’s what the ladies want, it’s only gentlemanly to provide it. If they want me to disembowel you, I’ll do that too.”

Xander nods solemnly. “Yeah. That’s the polite thing.” Then she’s there.

Anya appears beside him, sudden and sharp, like a memory with teeth. Her tone is flat, unimpressed. “Okay. I try to give you some privacy, but this has gone far enough.”

Xander startles. “Oh, hey, Ghost Anya! I can’t talk right now. I have to go to her place.”

Anya crosses her arms. “You realize this is a trap, right? These aren’t real women. They’re ridiculous caricatures.”

“That’s what we like about them,” Xander says, still walking.

“They’re presenting exactly what you want,” Anya continues. “Making no demands upon you whatsoever and flavouring it all with the promise of hot monkey sex!”

Xander beams. “I know! Isn’t it awesome?”

Anya’s voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its edge. “I’m pretty sure you’re under some kind of spell, so they’re magic. Not succubi… I’d go with Sirens. That puts their power in their voices.”

She steps in front of him, forcing him to slow. “But Xander, you can fight it. Think of Dawn. Think of me. If you’re really sorry for hurting me, ask yourself if you’d want to do that to someone you… someone you’re not afraid to commit to.”

In front of them, looking back, Ninny whistles, soft, melodic, and wrong.

Xander’s eyes glaze for a moment, then snap wide with manic clarity. “Asked and answered! Gotta go!” He bolts.

Anya watches him disappear into the night, her expression unreadable.

“Yup,” she says. “Definitely Sirens.

They step into the apartment, breathless and half-drunk on enchantment. The air inside is thick – humid, perfumed, and wrong. The walls shimmer faintly, like they’re breathing.

Ninny stretches, her form rippling and shifting. Scales emerge where skin had been, her eyes now slitted and luminous. “Finally,” she says, voice deeper, slicker. “I am so glad to get out of that ridiculous guise. This man-child has pathetic fetishes indeed.”

Xander, still hopeful, blinks at the transformation. “Is this it? The place of the sex?”

Thelma, now fully revealed, her beauty sharper, more alien, nods. “It is.”

Spike eyes her new form, noting the gills, the iridescent sheen, the way her fingers end in delicate claws. “Well, you look scalier than you did a minute ago,” he says, “but oddly I don’t care one whit.”

Thelma recoils slightly. “Ew. Hands off. The passion isn’t with us.” She gestures past them, toward the far end of the room. “It’s with the Mistress.”

The Mistress does not walk. She oozes, her massive form sliding into view with a wet, sucking sound that makes the floor shudder. She’s enormous – slug-like, glistening with layers of translucent slime that shimmer under the apartment’s low lighting like oil on water. Her skin is mottled and veined, a palette of bruised greens and purples, and her body pulses faintly, as if it’s breathing through every inch of itself.

Atop her grotesque bulk sits a crown, if it can be called that, woven from jagged coral and tangled seaweed, dripping with brine and tiny, twitching crustaceans. Her hair, if hair it is, hangs in damp ropes of kelp, swaying with each undulation of her body. The scent of salt and decay floods the room.

Her eyes are small and sunken, but they gleam with centuries of hunger. Her mouth stretches wide, lipless and wet, revealing rows of uneven teeth that seem to shift and rearrange themselves as she speaks.

“Well, hello sailors,” she croons, voice syrupy and thick, like molasses poured over broken glass. “You’re about to have the most memorable night of your lives.” She grins, and the slime bubbles. “Because it’s going to kill you.”

Some time later, the room looks like a fever dream.

Spike is down to tiny boxers – dark, snug, and absolutely not dignified. Xander’s wearing something equally ridiculous, superhero-themed and slightly too tight. They’re mid-pillow fight, feathers in the air, limbs flailing, laughter echoing off the walls.

Spike ducks a swing, grinning. “Y’know, I’m starting to feel a tiny but objectified.”

Xander swings again. “Really? I find this empowering.”

Across the room, Anya stands watching, appalled. Her ghostly form flickers slightly, but her expression is solid fury.

“Xander, you’re better than this! Spike is better than this!” she snaps. “Oh, for Astaroth’s sake. The only one who can hear me and he won’t listen to a single word!”

She paces, muttering to herself, trying to piece it together. “Wait… that’s it. Sirens mesmerize with barely audible tones. If he can hear me, maybe my voice can drown them out. It’s not what I say…it’s how loud I say it.”

She steps forward, eyes narrowing. For a moment, she admires the two of them… half-naked, ridiculous, and somehow still endearing. A sexy thought flickers through her mind. She smirks.

Then she walks straight up to Xander, arms passing through him like mist, and yells – just like old times.

“Xander! Listen up! You’re being exploited, you idiot! You’re going to be humiliated, drained of your life energy, and devoured! Is that what you want?”

Xander pauses mid-swing, turning toward her voice. His eyes are glassy, but something flickers behind them.

“Maybe?” he says, hesitant. “I kinda want all the voices in my head to stop yelling at me. Especially you.”

Anya exhales, relieved. “Good. You can have some peace and quiet. You can think for yourself. But you have to demand it. Do you hear me? You have to fight for it!”

The pillow slips from Xander’s hand. The feathers settle. Something shifts.

Xander clutches his head, trying to block out the Sirens’ whispers. His fingers press hard against his ears, but it’s like trying to dam a flood with paper towels.

“I hear you,” he says to Anya, voice strained. “Just for seconds at a time. But I can’t fight the other voices… not long enough to make a difference. What do I… Wait… Hold on. I got it!”

He dives toward the nearest table, knocking over a tray of drinks. His hand scrambles through the mess and emerges triumphant, clutching two pirate sword-shaped cocktail sticks. Tiny, plastic, and absurdly heroic.

Behind him, Spike approaches with a sultry swagger, voice low and purring.

“Ha! Grave miscalculation, throwing away your weapon. Now you’re in for the pillowing of your life, my fine-feathered…”

Xander spins and jams the cocktail swords into Spike’s ears.

Spike howls. “What the hell?”

He staggers back, blinking, then realization dawns. “You little bugger. You poked out my bloody eardrums! I’ll kill you!”

All thoughts of seduction, sirens, and skimpy attire vanish. Spike launches himself at Xander, full vampire fury, half-naked and wholly enraged.

Mid-leap, Xander mutters, “Suddenly what I just did seems ill-advised.”

One of the Sirens turns to the Mistress, delighted with what they’ve done. But the Mistress is horrified, squelching and screaming from her slimy throne. She yells at Thelma – if the vampire can hear then they’ve lost their control!

Spike blinks awake, groggy and disoriented. The room is a mess of feathers, overturned furniture, and lingering enchantment. He looks down.

“Half a mo’. Why am I parading about in my knickers?”

He turns, sees the Mistress. Guesses the entire situation all at once. “Ah. Hell. Bloody Sirens.”

Spike stands his ground, shirtless and furious, surrounded by Sirens with serpentine hair and eyes like drowning pools. They slither closer, their voices a velvet trap, their limbs a tangle of temptation.

He bares his fangs, snarling. “Oi! My fangs are up here!”

The Sirens giggle, undeterred, closing in like a tide of silk and venom.

From the doorway, the Mistress, crowned, coiled, and cruel, drags herself out with languid disdain. Her voice is honeyed rot.

“He’s all yours, girls.”

And just like that, the room becomes a battlefield of seduction and resistance, mythic absurdity and ensemble chaos. Spike, half-naked and fully defiant, is about to make it very clear that he’s nobody’s prey.

The Sirens regroup, their voices rising in eerie harmony, trying to reassert control. Their song slithers through the air, seductive and sharp, aimed straight at Spike’s fractured mind.

But Spike is already mid-rampage, slicing through one of them with feral precision. His face is twisted in vampire fury, his voice a snarl.

“Sorry! I can’t hear you,” he growls. “But my eardrums regenerate soon, so pardon me for killing you quickly.”

Across the room, one of the Sirens gestures, summoning Xander with a whisper that cuts through the noise. He obeys, eyes glazed, body moving like a puppet with a grudge.

“Leave my woman alone, you fiend!” he shouts, charging forward in nothing but white underwear and righteous fury.

He smashes a glass bottle against Spike’s back. Spike winces. “Ow! You’re a hard man to ignore, Harris!”

Xander doesn’t flinch. “Try ignoring this!” He leaps onto Spike’s back, arms wrapped tight, clinging like a sweaty koala in a death grip.

Spike staggers. “Oh, that is just not necessary! You’re all sweaty!”

Xander, triumphant and loud: “And you’re gonna be all dead!”

Then, under his breath, with a grin: “Ooh, I like that. Total catchphrase potential.”

Spike hears Xander’s voice, muffled, distant, but enough to cut through the siren song.

“Sort of heard that,” he mutters, eyes narrowing. “Better end this quickly.”

He grabs the last siren, Ninny, while Thelma lies shredded at his feet, her glamour dissolving into ash. Xander watches, panic rising.

“No, please,” he begs. “I need her! Without her I’m nothing!”

Spike doesn’t look back. His voice is low, almost kind. “Speaking from experience, mate… you’re stronger than you think.”

Then he sinks his fangs into Ninny’s throat and drinks – deeply, decisively. Her song dies mid-note.

Seconds later, it’s over. The room is just a room again. The sirens lie broken on the floor. The enchantment has lifted.

Xander blinks, disoriented. His limbs are tangled, his body pressed against Spike’s in ways that defy explanation and basic physics.

“Hey,” he says, confused. “Why am I so upset? Why am I practically naked? And why am I horsy riding…”

He trails off, realizing certain body parts are reacting to proximity, sweat, and lingering adrenaline.

Silence.

Spike has noticed too. He’s having his own involuntary reaction. Neither of them moves.

Xander, still inexplicably on Spike’s back, mutters, “We will never speak of this again.”

Spike, flatly: “Bloody well right.”

More silence.

Xander’s hands are still on Spike’s chest. He doesn’t move. Then, softly, like he’s asking the universe a question it’s not prepared to answer:

“How are your muscles so hard and your skin so soft?”

Half an hour later, the boys are back at the bar. They’re sitting away from each other, Detective Dowling in civvies between them. “Sirens, huh? That’s a new one on me. Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll notify the department to keep an ear to the ground for the boss lady.”

Xander nods quickly, anxious to leave. “Civic duty accomplished. I better call it a night. Early start tomorrow. Take care, Dowling.” He waves. He doesn’t wave at Spike. He’s still embarrassed.

As he walks home in the evening air, he talks to Anya, who’s still next to him. She’s calm for once, listening intently.

“Thanks again, Anya. Don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Probably been eaten. Sirens have this thing they do. Think human sushi.

Xander pulls a face. He’ll never touch sushi again. “Yeah, I’d rather not. What I did want to do is say I’m sorry. For everything. All that went wrong with us… the things I said, and did… the altar-leaving. You getting killed.”

Anya wasn’t expecting his emotional confession and stops. She closes her eyes slightly and then looks down.

“I wasn’t exactly blameless. But you were the much bigger jerk. I’ll give you that. So, thank you. Now, stop beating yourself up. Me getting killed wasn’t your fault. I chose to stay and fight. Stop making it all about you.”

Xander smiles at her, remembering the good times. “Listen… I could use the book. Try to make you a new body. I know it’s risky, but I bet together we could…”

But Anya raises her hands and goes to hold his, even though they go through him. “Xander… Stop. I won’t lie. It’s tempting. But too much could go wrong. Starting with the fact that even I’m not sure if I’m real or some Jiminy Cricket your mind’s making up, to help you in situations like tonight. What I really want is to figure out what I’m here to do, do it and move on to whatever comes next. Will you help me with that?”

Xander looks at her. “I’ll fight every demon in Hell, if I have to.”

“See? You can have a mature relationship with a woman. A ghost woman… sure, but next step, a real one.”

He turns and fishes for his key, puts it in the lock. “Don’t rush me. It’ll take time, but I’m not giving up.”

Anya reassures him, sounding pleased. “There’s my boy. Maybe tomorrow we can talk about more responsible ways to use the book. But for now, go get some sleep.”

Anya is gone now. Xander spots something at the end of the street, turning the corner into their block. It’s Dawn. She’s laughing, pushing a bike. And she’s being escorted by a friend. A male friend Xander doesn’t know.

He rushes inside, not wanting to be seen. He slams his front door, annoyed once more. He stares at the book on the table, right where he and Spike had left it.

He picks it up.

In the bar, Spike is keen to continue his night: patrolling will shake the last of the Sirens from his brain. “Thanks for the beer, mate. That app of yours makes some ace suggestions.”

As he gets up though, Dowling has a question. “Tell me one thing. Do you still love her?”

Spike turns, irritated. “Hellfire and damnation! Why does everyone think I’m some sort of mooney-eyed kid…” He stops. It’s pointless to argue. “Some things don’t go away overnight, y’know?”

They walk out of the bar together.

“But I feel good about where it all is at. Making a bit of progress every day.”

Dowling puts his arm around his friend, gesturing at the sky. “That’s the ticket. Just be the kind of guy you can feel good about being. The rest will work itself out.”

Elsewhere in San Francisco, a young raven-haired woman pulls up at a bar stool in a biker bar, just two blocks away. The bartender doesn’t recognise her: she’s pretty enough that he would have remembered.

“Hey. I’m new around here. I’m wondering if you can help me? I’m looking for someone, an old friend. Goes by the name of Spike?”

The bartender tells her that he can’t help. He says that he’ll ask about, asks her if there’s a name and a message. How she knows the guy.

The woman looks at him sweetly, grateful for the help.

“Oh,” she starts, smiling. “He’s the one that got away…”