Author's Notes:

Okay, so I made myself write something fluffy and silly, because I'm tired of the angst taking over! Pretty please let me know what you think! Can I write light too, or should I stick to angst?

Three short chapters, already finished.

Disclaimer: Spike and company belong to Joss Whedon, ME, Fox, and some other people I'm sure. I write for fun, not profit.

Spike jittered about with an unlit fag dangling from his lips, folding a few shirts before abandoning that task to stack away some dishes, then being distracted by the leftovers that needed cleaning out.

Tossing out container after container of uneaten vegetables, he vowed to stop serving them. Pointless, it was. The chicken wings, on the other hand, had been all gobbled up. He growled, realizing he'd have to head to store for more. Selfish little bugger eating all his wings when vegetables abounded. At least she hadn't developed the taste for blood. Or whiskey. Those were still all his.

He'd half-swept the hallway when the blissful sound of silence flowed down the stairs. Sighing gratefully, the vampire collapsed backwards into his worn armchair. The little sweetling had been crying for a half-hour straight, first because she didn't wanna go to bed, and then because Daddy was too mean and she missed Mommy.

Spike missed Mommy too. But Mommy was out of reach. A brief jaunt to another dimension had turned into the weeks-long quest that wouldn't end, leaving him to go barmy playing Mr. Mom. It was especially difficult after nights like this one. It had taken all his willpower to keep from running in there and rocking the little one to sleep. But Mommy had made it clear that Daddy had better not spoil little Lissa while she was gone.

How did Buffy do this every day? And when the bloody hell was she coming back?

Never mind that he was essentially housebound. Thanks to a week of record clear skies, usually cloudy Seattle was too hostile an environment for a father-daughter outing to the park, and he wasn't about to face the wrath of Buffy for having conveniently adjusted bedtime to past nightfall in order to avoid cabin fever. Sodding summer months.

Normally he'd call up one of the Scooby lot, have them come sit so he could head out for a bit, but they'd all gone off on this quest too, leaving the flammable vampire (It's the dimension with two suns, honey) behind to tie the yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree.

He nursed his beer – no hard alcohol while on Daddy duty, normally not as much of a hardship but it'd almost been a bloody month without a decent drink – and contemplated all the ways Buffy would be making it up to him when she finally returned.

Dear Buffy. Take a good long look at the floor, because you'll see nothing but the ceiling for days when you get home. Yours, Spike.

Flicking through the channels, Spike hoped the weatherman predicting a nice drizzly day on the morrow was marginally more competent than usual. T'would be brilliant to be able set foot outside these four walls.

The phone rang. Glaring at it, Spike let the answering machine pick it up. Just about everybody he knew was in some other sodding dimension, and the ones that weren't weren't big on using phones, preferring the time-honored tradition of communicating via fists and fangs.

Beep. "Hey Buffy, this is Jenny… just calling to check up on you 'cause we haven't heard from you in weeks…" Jenny. One of Buffy's 'normal' friends, the kind he wasn't allowed to talk to (sweetie, do you know how hard it'll be for Lissa to make friends if their parents well… meet you?). Nice woman, his Buffy.

Okay, so maybe the fact that he was feeling bumpy in the forehead region just now was a point in her favor. He was thoroughly accepted in their usual circles, and not at all used to having to pass, as they say.

The chit was still talking. "Anyhow, playgroup is tomorrow afternoon at my house if you're not busy. I know the other kids are really missing Lissa…"

Playgroup. Away from the house. Cloudy day. Something to do. Somebody to bleeding talk to with a vocabulary larger than 'no' and 'mine'! Someone else to play endless rounds of tea party (a century of it with Dru was enough to turn any man off that pastime).

Spike would kill Mr. Weatherman if he'd been lying.

He grabbed the phone up. "Uh… Jenny?"

"Hi. Yeah. Is Buffy there?"

"She's… gone on a trip. To visit her… sick grandma. Grandma's taking much longer to kick the bucket than we thought so Buffy's not back yet."

"Uh… Oh…"

That didn't sound too promising. "Yeah, so… playgroup? Tomorrow? I could bring Lissa, right? Or is this a birds only thing?"


"Uh, women. Motherly types."

Jenny laughed. "Not on purpose. Just the way it usually works out. You're Lissa's dad I take it?"

"Uh-huh. Spi-" (We want Lissa to have friends!) "William."

Directions in hand, Spike smiled. He was going to playgroup!

He wiped the smile off his face. Bleeding nancy buggering ponce. He tried a sneer. There, that was better.

Bloody hell!

What did one wear to playgroup?

He flew up the stairs to check his wardrobe for something that didn't scream sexy creature of the night.