“What are those things?”

Spike didn’t bother to look up, concentrating on applying the final coat of paint.  “Hello, Anya.  What brings you to the basement.”

“Xander wants to know what you’re doing.”

“Xander can’t ask me himself, is it?”

“No, he’s being a big baby.  But his whining is annoying.”

“Yeah, bit like a buzz-saw.  Tell him I’m not doin’ anything bad, cross my unbeating, evil heart.”

Anya took a few steps forward.  “I will.  But what are those things.”

Several doll like figures were lined up against the wall, drying.  Spike had spent the last hour or two painting the finishing touches.  They weren’t great, but it’d been fun making them.

“They look like. . . us.”

“Are us.  All of us.”  All of them.  Buffy, and Dawn, and Anya, all the way down to Angel, Drusilla, and himself.  Even one based on the mongrel, not that he’d seen the laconic bass-player often.  He’d heard stories, though, and Red kept a few pictures.

“You’re making action figures!”

Spike grinned at her horror, placing Dru on her front so her long black hair would dry unsmudged.  He positioned the toy-Xander with the toy-Anya.  “Well, yeah.  Gotta get my kicks somewhere.”

He then proceeded to act out a few scenes, aware of Anya sitting down next to him.  Then she picked up a few dolls and they acted out some more.