Tuesdays were good. Daytime classes and the late afternoon free, doing paperwork in the dojo's small, spare office. Or, doing paperwork if you had to. Like, if a whole box of shiny, new weapons hadn't just been delivered. From China, complete with funky stamps and weird tape and nifty recloseable plastic baggies. Oh, and weapons.

"Whatcha got?" Dawn seemed to have a sixth sense for shiny and new.

"Box of danger," Xander intoned.

Dawn squealed.

Xander dragged the box out of the office and onto the main workout floor, bowing awkwardly as he stepped up, watching Dawn to make sure she did the same thing, laughing inside at her pregnant waddle, marveling at her innate grace as she settled, cross-legged on the floor.

He rummaged in the box and came up with a smaller box. "Here, be careful," he said, weathering the petulant glance she sent his way.

"Oooooh," she said. "Knives." She sorted them onto the floor into piles - British commando knives and double-edged daggers, a pair of dirks and three sets of sai and way, way down at the bottom, a wickedly curved blade with a short, leather wrapped handle. "You ordered it!" she squealed, turning it over and over in her hands, pulling it out of the sheath for a closer look.

"Don't tell Spike," he said with a fake frown.

"Don't have to tell me, I faxed the order, you git."

Xander looked up to see Spike in the doorway. He didn't glance back at the mirrors - it was still too disconcerting to not see a reflection.

Spike walked into the room and held out a hand. Dawn handed over the knife reluctantly, and he twirled it through his fingers in what Xander thought was an infuriating display of preternatural skill. He got over it when Spike handed the knife back and slumped to the floor, pushing a sword and a bunch of plastic aside to rest his head in Xander's lap.