The Keeper of Truth

Chapter 7

Summary: "There's always consequences." Spike is proven right when Willow's spell brings Buffy back, years from where she's supposed to be. He'd be bragging that one up, if Spike of season 2 knew what the hell Buffy was talking about.

Rating: R for now. Maybe more later.

Disclaimer: The usual. BTVS is not mine.

Distribution: If you want it, email me.

Feedback: Oh yes please. Dragolyn@hotmail.com

Author’s Note: Due to the fact that for some reason, I can’t post italics on ff.net, thoughts are put into brackets like <these>. Next chapter update will be in about 10 days since I’m off on vacation to the Grand Canyon.

*************

Mexican jungle

1998

The room glimmered with soft light. Candles flickered on every flat surface, illuminating only the necessary places, letting shadows envelope the corners. Red draperies covering the walls glowed, giving the light a red, sensual cast. Propped on his elbows above her, Spike looked down at Buffy’s face, appreciating the blush cast by the light on her pale skin.

He shifted on the bed, curving his body beside hers, her hair tickling the V of his elbow. Careful not to spill the small basin of water that rested between them, he reached into it and grabbed the small sponge. Wringing it out slightly with a squeeze of his fist, he stroked it along the side of Buffy’s face, leaving a trail of wetness behind.

"Sorry ‘bout all the washing. I’d leave you to sleep in peace, were it up to me, but your watch-faery insisted you get the scrub-down every day. Didn’t want to cross him. You know, that bit about biting the hand that feeds you and all."

Her forehead, small and square, glistened with a thin layer of sweat. Totally absorbed, he dabbed the sponge over her temples and above her eyes, taking in the subtle arch of her brows, the shadowed sweep of her eyelashes, the delicacy of her eyelids… shaking himself, he pushed his hand away, soaking the sponge in the basin.

"Not that he’s feeding me so well, you realize. No bloody O negative to be had, he says, and if there were, well, even then he’d still make me drink that animal swill. Big on keeping humans safe, he is." A lock of her hair stuck to the damp skin of her forehead. He smoothed it back, denying to himself the truth of his hands lingering on her head. The soft tresses felt warm beneath the coolness of his fingers, like something alive, a plant or the earth beneath the sun. He nearly expected the strands to wind around his knuckles like vines, pinning him to her. Stroking her with long sweeps of his hand, he smirked inwardly, challenging himself to keep touching her. Challenging himself to pull away.

"A regular humanitarian, our Hugh is. Not unlike yourself. The two of you would get on right nicely. Birds of a bloody feather." The skin of his palm tingled, as though the mere act of touching her gentled the humanity back into him. Yanking away, he fell back onto the mattress, panting. He rolled his head back to face her, panting, then snapped his mouth shut, reminding himself of the senselessness of breathing. Gaping at her, he stuttered, "Not that we’re doing too poorly ourselves."

<What’s happening to me?> he thought, rubbing his palms on the blanket as if to clean them of contamination. He spread his fingers out in front of his face, stretching taut the skin of his palms. They looked untouched, the same pale skin creased into life and love lines. <Life line,> he thought, tracing it with one finger. <How ironic>.

"Whatever it is you’re doing to me, Slayer, I don’t like it. I can feel you crawling around inside me, all warm and pulsing with life, and it makes me… it makes me want things I can’t even start to understand. Just a bit ago, your mum was going at me with an axe, and now I’m here, nursing you like I…" <Love you? No. I wasn’t about to say that.>

He gazed at her, his eyes wet and sore with helplessness. "Whatever it is, it’s eating me up. All of me, all of who I am. Maybe it’s not you that’s doing this. Maybe it’s because I can’t hunt, can’t feed. Not so much a vampire now as I am a… a…"

What was that, below her lip? A twitch? Just an involuntary spasm of muscle? "Slayer?" he asked, rising up above her and touching her chin. "You waking up?"

Her lips twitched again, then opened in a yawn. Moaning, she flung her hands up to scrub at her face. "Spike," she moaned, squinting at him. "Where… where are we?"

"Morning," he said gruffly, relief lightening his features. He hadn’t been worried about her. Not really. He’d always known she’d wake up no worse for wear, but… But. "We’re home, I guess. Nice of you to finally wake up. Been waiting, you know. You sure took your time about it."

She turned her head, rolling it back and forth, as though proving to herself it was still attached. Blinking over dry eyes, she looked at him. "I’ve been awake," she rasped. She licked her lips, dehydrated. "When I heard your voice, I knew I wasn’t dead. Bloody this, bloody that… in heaven, no one talks like you do."

Taking hold of the sponge, Spike dripped water onto her lips. He started to wipe at the water that ran down her chin with the edge of the sheet but stopped himself, remembering. <Slayer. Vampire. That’s the drill. None of this pansy nursemaid nonsense.> "You all right, then?"

"I’m weak," she said, her voice proving her words. "But yeah, I’ll keep." She turned onto her side and faced him. Curling into a ball, she wrapped her arms around her legs. "I’m cold, though, which is weird since it’s so hot in here. What happened to me?"

Spike moved the basin before her movements could spill it. He pulled the blanket up and tucked it around her shoulders. "Dunno what happened, really. Hugh says it’s a spell gone wrong. Thwapped you in the head, magically. You’ve been asleep a good long while."

"Hugh? I’m guessing you don’t mean Grant."

"Your new best friend. A sort of Mary Poppins-type of faery. He’s been taking care of you for the last week. Found us this house to hide out in. Not a bad bloke, really."

"Where’d he bring us?" she asked, touching his arm as if by accident. Her hands itched to feel his skin, to reassure herself of his presence. "It’s hot here. Are we still in Mexico?"

"Barely." Jutting his thumb towards the window, he said, "Guatemala’s about a lick that way. The train stopped at the border, smack dab in the middle of the jungle. You wouldn’t remember that, being that you were out for the count, but we had a hellish time getting you off that train." <Hugh had a hellish time getting *us* off the train> he corrected himself silently, grimacing.

"What are we going to do in the jungle?"

He shrugged. "Live, I reckon. For a while, at least. You’ll be wanting to head back up to the States eventually, to kill off that hell god before she can kill you."

Fighting back a shudder at the memory of Ben’s face, Buffy nodded. "Yeah, but that’s so not something I want to think about right now. We’ve got a few years to kill before then. We’re just gonna stay here? Alone?"

"The middle of nowhere is a decent place to hide out. Especially with Momma Brownie here to take care of you. And as for me…"

"What about you?"

Covering his panic at the thought of heading back to Angelus’s neighborhood, he said, "Not really looking forward to the repeat journey back to California. The ride down here was bad enough. Especially the last jag, trying to juggle you around. You should be glad you don’t remember that."

Buffy closed her eyes. "I do remember some of what went on around me," she whispered. "The sound of the train’s whistle… birds, lots of them, singing. And I heard you… what you were saying to me. About changing."

His face tightening, Spike looked away. "All rot," he said, his voice rising in defense. He twisted his hands together, smashing the lines of his palms. "Total rot. Not a word of it true."

"Don’t, Spike," she said simply. She opened her eyes and searched his off-turned face. "Don’t lie to me."

Silence grew between them, enveloping them in tension. Spike watched the flicker of the candles on the nightstand, his jaw clenched. She kept her gaze glued to his face, afraid that if she looked away, she’d miss any hint of capitulation. The candle flames sputtered as if reacting to the emotions swelling around them. Red light moved over Spike’s face as though it were liquid; Buffy thought that it would burn her fingers if she touched it.

Finally realizing he was planning to remain silent, Buffy let her eyes close. Her mind, still heavy with weariness, drifted away from the man lying beside her. She let it go, let herself remember the identical man she’d known, the one with a chip in his head instead of on his shoulder. The way that man would look at her when she’d enter a room, as if he’d been waiting a lifetime just to see her walk through his door. The way he’d fight beside her, with wiry grace, and fight with her passionately, whole-heartedly. His voice, the words he would say, courageous words no one else could ever be brave enough to let loose. She could hear him in her mind, hear his last, private message to her.

"You don’t understand what’s happening to you," she said, her tone low but tender. "I heard you say that."

He didn’t respond, but the line of his mouth tightened up a fraction more. Giving him a moment to come clean was difficult, but she held off, waiting. After several moments passed without change, she touched his hand, a pressure of her fingers so quick and light, he could pretend not to feel it if he so chose. Which he did. He blinked once, deliberately, as if telling her to go on.

Sighing, she folded her hands under her cheek and continued. "You feel alive now, after being with me. Like you’ve lost your evil. Well, poor you. I guess you can imagine I’m not feeling too sorry for you about that."

Twisting his lips into a grim smile, he nodded, but didn’t look at her. "You’re right there, Slayer."

"The day I died, you said something to me, something that made me realize I cared about you. You stood in my house, looking up the stairs at me, and you said these words to me that… that tugged at me. ‘I know you’ll never love me,’ you told me. ‘I know I’m a monster, but you treat me like a man.’ And I did treat you like that, not always, but then." She broke off, coughing.

Spike dragged his head around and met her gaze. There was a spark of some impalpable emotion in his eyes, one that both heartened and mystified her. "You’re saying that you were able to forget… to forget about this?" He vamped out, brandishing his forehead lumps like weapons of defense.

She reached up to him with one hand, covering the lumps, then stroking them with tender caresses as if they were a wound. "Let’s talk about now," she said, watching his eyes close. She trailed her fingertips over his temple. "I treat you like a man, so you feel like one. It’s that simple. Maybe… maybe neither of us understand this… this connection we have. But maybe we don’t have to."

His cheek felt smooth under her hand. She traced the ridge of his cheekbone, delving into the hollows beneath, then lowered her fingers to his jaw, his neck. Feeling him swallow hard beneath her touch threw a ghost of a smile on her lips. She continued, rubbing her knuckles over the prominent shape of his collarbone beneath his black cotton tee-shirt. Showing no sign of hesitation, only patient curiosity, she let her hand roam lower onto his chest.

In a quick jerk, he caught her hand, fisting it inside of his and pressing it against the hard plane under which, his heart once beat. He searched her face as if reading her thoughts. His expression held an almost imperceptible note of pleading. Pressing her flesh against him, he started to speak, but couldn’t. He released her hand, but didn’t pull away when she raised it to his face, to outline the contours of his vampire mask.

"I see you," she whispered, her fingers pressing on his skin, so hot he felt branded, claimed. Her eyes, large and liquid, captured him. "You. I see you."

His voice, when he found it, sounded gravelly, as though it had fought its way up from deep inside his body. "Slayer… Buffy." Clearing his throat, he continued. "This… these changes, between us… Just because I didn’t want them to happen… that doesn’t mean I want them to stop, either."

"You can live like a man. I know you can. I’ve seen you do it."

He weighed her with a critical squint. "No, you’ve seen ‘chip head’ do it. And if you think I’m heading back up to Sunnyhell to voluntarily stick my balls under a knife, you’re dead wrong."

Her face glowed back at him, lustrous with crimson candlelight. When she took his hand in hers, the very air between them seemed electrified. Looking down at their entwined fingers, her lips curved upwards. "Your chip was just a motivation. Couldn’t you find a better one?"

The white of his fingers contrasted with her tan, glaring their elemental differences up at Spike. He watched the pad of her thumb move in circles on the back of his hand. Her bravery astounded him nearly as much as her gentle insistence. An indefinable feeling of rightness flooded him. Covering their join hands with his free one, he felt his whole face spread open in a smile.

*****

Sunnydale, Summers home

2001

The smoke rose between them, spiraling up from the gold goblet. Willow held the mystical herb by its stem. Pinching bits off, she sprinkled them into the goblet. Meeting Tara’s eyes through the smoke, she gave her a reassuring smile and began the summoning ritual.

"Anyanka, I beseech thee. In the name of all women scorned…" Adding more herbs to the fire, she took a heartening breath and continued. "In the name of all women scorned, come before me."

Silence fell over the living room. The girls looked at each other, confused. As the smoke began to dissipate, Willow frowned and looked down at her book. She threw another pinch of herb into the goblet. "Come before me!"

Tara looked around. "Maybe she doesn’t like us," she said, a nervous smile growing on her lips. "Maybe we’re not scorned enough for her to…"

"Or maybe she just doesn’t like me. We were never all crazy about each other. I guess we’ll have to find another way." Reaching for a book of matches, she relit the goblet. "Will you give it a try?"

Pinching off a bit of herb, Tara held it over the goblet. She closed her eyes a moment, lines of concentration furrowing her brow. Releasing the herb, she said, "Anyanka, I beseech thee. In the name of all women scorned, come before me."

She materialized before them in a burst of power so strong, it sent goose bumps up Willow’s arms. The demon mask she wore made it easier for Willow to separate her from the Anya she’d known. Tara jumped to her feet and moved a few paces away, her face pale. She looked at Willow, gesturing for her to be cautious.

"Anya…nka." Willow looked at the demon, not sure of what to say. "Umm… nice to see you again."

"Why have you summoned me?" Anyanka asked, her words forthright. She crossed her arms over her chest. "What is it you wish?"

Willow fidgeted nervously with the hem of her shirt. "Well, that’s kind of a funny story, actually. I mean, not funny ‘ha-ha’, but funny, I turned the whole world into a terrible place kinda funny."

Pulling Willow back from the demon with feigned casualness, Tara gave the demon a polite smile. "H-how about some lemonade?" she asked, pointing Willow towards the couch. "You two chat, and I’ll… I’ll be right back with that."

Leaving them alone, Tara went into the hallway. She opened the closet, searching for a weapon she could use again Anyanka. "Just in case," she whispered to herself, pulling out a dagger with an elaborate handle from the mess of weapons that had once belonged to the Slayer. Tucking the dagger into her waistband, she headed for the kitchen, her ears peeled for noises of distress from the living room. When none came, she relaxed slightly and poured lemonade into three glasses. She settled them onto a tray and moved back into the living room.

The room was silent. Willow looked up as Tara entered, her eyes wide. "I… I told her everything. She knows it all."

"L-lemonade?" Tara asked weakly, putting the tray on the coffee table. She held a glass out the Anyanka, forcing her hand not to tremble.

Anyanka stood in the center of the room, her face clouded with thought. Ignoring Tara’s offering, she sighed and threw her hands up in the air. "Fine," she muttered, "We’ll fix your stupid timeline."

"I know you’re not too thrilled about being a human, but…" Willow gave her a tentative smile, "but hey, look at the bright side. Xander’s a pretty neat guy, and… and… oh, you’ll get to make lots of money."

"Fine. Whatever. Let’s just get it done." Anyanka fingered her necklace. "I’ll send you back to your friend. You know where she is, right?"

"Umm… well, she was sent back to Sunnydale." Willow frowned, looking at Tara. "I don’t think she would’ve left. This is her home."

Tara shook her head. "She wouldn’t have stuck around. Too dangerous. This is a small town, and someone would’ve recognized her. Buffy’s too smart for that."

Rolling her eyes, Anyanka said, "Right. So, you find your friend, then I’ll send you back to her. She’ll probably be in Sunnydale eventually, if she died here. Humans are always drawn to their own deaths."

Willow’s face lit up with realization. "That’s right!" She jumped to her feet and grabbed Tara’s hands in her excitement. "Maybe this didn’t go so badly after all! I mean, yeah, the world pretty much sucks, but hey, if we leave Buffy in the past long enough, she could kill Glory before she’s ever in any danger!"

"What good would that do? I mean, once we change the timeline back…"

"No, see, Glory’s an inter-dimensional god. Her death is final, no matter where it’s done. It’d stick." Turning to Anyanka, Willow grinned. "She’d want to do it right after Glory showed up in Sunnydale, before anyone realizes there’s a god in town. That’d be the safest for her. Probably in September of 2000."

Anyanka tapped the ground with the toe of her shoe. "So, I’ll send you back to that time and you can do your little spell. Satisfied?"

Tara moved closer to Willow. "That means Buffy would be messing around in 1998 for two more years. She could do a lot of damage in that time."

"It won’t matter. When I find her and do the reversal spell, it’ll undo whatever she’s done. And she’ll get to stay alive." Her eyes were bright with relief. "After all this, everything will work out just fine. My spell didn’t flop as badly as I thought it did."

"Then let’s get going. Just let me grant the wish that brought me here, and I’ll send you back." Anyanka gave Tara a nod. "What do you want?"

Puzzled, Willow said, "Tara? You have a vengeance wish?"

Unable to look at Willow, Tara nodded. "I… I wasn’t sure, not until just now, if it was the right thing to do. But… Will, you ruined the whole world with your magic, and listen to you! Yes, your spell *did* flop badly! Just take a look around you! My whole world has been painful and dark, all because you took it upon yourself to play God."

Willow took a step forward, stricken. "Tara… god, no, I didn’t mean to…"

With a shake of her head, Tara covered Willow’s lips with one finger. "I… I’m sorry. I hope you’ll understand that I’m making this wish out of love." Taking a deep breath, she turned to Anyanka and said, "My wish is that after the timeline is restored, Willow will lose all of her magical abilities. She’ll be a regular girl."

Above the sound of Willow’s gasp came Anyanka’s firm voice. "Done."

Chapter 8

Disclaimer: The usual. BTVS is not mine.

Distribution: If you want it, email me.

Feedback: Oh yes please. Dragolyn@hotmail.com

Author’s Note: Due to the fact that for some reason, I can’t post italics on ff.net, thoughts are put into brackets like <these>.

****

The bed creaked as Buffy turned onto her stomach, waking up. She pressed her face against the side of Spike’s shoulder, rubbing her cheek in groggy circles against the softness of his tee-shirt sleeve. They’d held hands for hours in a comfortable silence before falling into sleep, side-by-side and almost innocent in their amazement at each other. Spike slept on his back, his mouth tipped open. The line of his teeth gleamed white in the candlelight. Reaching up, Buffy ran her fingertip lightly over the blunt ends, so flat and human looking. <If I didn’t know what he was, I’d never guess he *was* a what. He looks like a regular person.>

<And that’s what we can be here,> she realized, watching the bleached strands stick up in tufts as her fingers played. The thought froze in her brain. <Not the Slayer, not a vampire. Just us. Just a girl and a guy, lying in bed, finding their way together. Here in the jungle, where no one knows me but him, I can have a normal life.>

Excitement fluttered through her, filling her body with energy. The house around her seemed to buzz with life, making every cell of her body ache with the urge to leap out of bed. She fastened her gaze on Spike’s face, searching for any sign of alertness and coming up empty. "You still asleep?" she whispered, knowing he was. She threaded her fingers into his curls, pulling at them, enjoying the softness. "There’s lots to do, you know. Can’t sleep the night away. We have this whole house to explore. And I want to meet Hugh."

Surfacing slowly from the depths of sleep, Spike sighed and smacked his mouth shut. He rolled his head on the pillow until his lips found her forehead. "Still sleepy," he said, his words tickling her skin. "Should’ve known you’d be a morning person."

She smiled and took his hand in hers, rubbing the hairs on the back with her thumb. "It is so not morning."

"Morning is whenever you wake up, to my way of thinking." He yawned out of habit. Sitting up, he stretched his arms over his head. "What’s with the ‘early bird gets the worm’ routine? You that anxious to go try on your new life? See how it feels to be a normal girl for once?"

She was surprised to hear his words echo her own thoughts. "What’s wrong with that?"

"Not a thing, pet," he said, settling back into the pillows and stroking his hand over her hair. "Not a bloody thing. Only… look at what you have here. You, me, the bed… that’s a boatload of normalness for you. No patrolling, no demons, no Watcher or end-of-the-world-oh-my to worry about. Relax. Enjoy." Making a gasp of mock-horror, he said, "even sleep in!"

"Not counting the months in the coffin, I haven’t slept in for… well, since before Mom died, that’s for sure. No, since before the Initiative… and college, I had morning classes. And there was training, Giles liked to do that early when we could, and…" Rolling her eyes in self-annoyance, she relaxed into the mattress and pulled the blanket up high around her shoulders. "You’re right. This is my new, normal-girl life. And part of that life definitely includes lazing around in bed."

Dropping his hand lower, he splayed his fingers over the skin of her upper arm below the sleeve of her shirt. His mouth quirked with amusement. "Well, that about covers sloth. Let’s see what other deadly sins I can talk you into."

She closed her eyes, letting her mind delve fully into the feel of his cool skin caressing her warmth. An innocent touch, really, she knew. His hand on her arm. Nothing more. But the way her body reacted to him screamed of fire and ice, intensity, bodies moving together in the dark- anything but innocence. Opening her eyes, she gazed at him, putting all her feelings for him into the look.

The smoldering flame he saw in her eyes brought a smirk of awareness to his lips. "What?" he said, squeezing her arm deliberately. He danced his fingers over the soft skin, moving towards the pulse at her wrist. "Something you… want?"

Buffy paused a moment to enjoy the anticipation of what she knew was about to happen. There was a tingling in the pit of her stomach, a warm tightening that seemed to grow inside of her. His fingers found her pulse and pressed into it, then ran back up her arm, brushing against the side of her breast as they moved up her shoulder.

Suppressing a gasp at the rush of heat the graze filled her with, she reached out a shaking hand and placed it flat against his chest. She clenched her fingers in his shirt, scratching him through the material. "Something I want," she said, the huskiness of her voice matching her eyes, which felt heavy with desire. So heavy, she closed them and kept them closed. "Aren’t you going to kiss me yet?"

She felt him moving over her, closer, lowering his face towards her with movements so gradual, she couldn’t stop her fingernails from digging into the skin of his chest. He hesitated, a shudder rippling through his frame. Forcing herself not to rush him, not to rush *them*, she released the tension from her hands and caressed him, urging him to move as he would. Her eyelids pressed together as she dropped all her preternatural senses of him, so conscious she was of letting this happen on his own terms.

There were images floating in the darkness behind her eyelids, crackles of red and green lightening. It had been so long since she’d cut off her extra awareness, but somehow, it felt right. <Just a guy, just a girl>, she thought, watching the florescent lightening sparkle. <This must be what blindness feels like. Only, not blindness. I’m just… normal now.>

All she could hear was the sound of her own labored breathing. The lack of sensation began to nibble at her edges, and suddenly the world felt too small, too dark. Before she could open her eyes, the scent of Spike’s arousal reached into her, deep inside, easing the momentary panic. Then came the feel of his breath on her lips, so intense it could’ve been the coldest cold or the hottest heat; he burned her.

"Spike," she whispered into his mouth as it grazed her own, once, twice. "This is…"

"Us," he whispered back. He held her face between his palms, raising it to his. He brushed another kiss over her. "This is us."

<Us is softer than I’d thought it would be,> Buffy thought, her breath hitching as his lips graced her forehead, her cheekbones. Then she realized, with a sigh of appreciation, the reason behind his gentleness. She raised her hands to draw his face down. His forehead, flat and human, pressed against hers. She opened her eyes and stared into his, so near she could see the flecks of navy that overlaid the lighter blue.

"I want you," she said, dropping her eyes to look at all of him. Her mouth sought out his. Kissing him hard, she said, "You. This is not you. Gentle… nice, yeah, but come on… Show me what you’ve got, Spike. All of it." She pressed her closed lips flat against him, then opened slightly, flicking her tongue over the line of his mouth, urging him to open for her, to accept. "All of you. Just… be with me. Be with me."

Her words unlocked him. Where he had been hesitant, he was now demanding. He pulled her against him, sudden and hard. Her head fell back as his mouth moved, nibbling at her lips, then soothing them with his tongue. She kissed him back with depth, feeling as if she was falling into him, falling inside of his skin. A moan ripped through her as his hands spanned her hips and drifted upwards, over her ribs, to cup her softness.

"God," she breathed, her hands tearing at his shirt. "Too many clothes. Way too many."

"Wait," he said, stiffening. His hands dropped with obvious reluctance from her breasts. Cocking his head to the side, he frowned. "Someone’s here. Listen."

Gritting her teeth, she flopped back onto the pillows. "Look, if you’re still not sure you want to love a Slayer, that’s one thing. But using stupid excuses like that to…"

"Would you shut it a minute?" he said, putting his hand over her mouth. "You don’t know how wrong you are. Did it seem like I didn’t want you a minute ago?"

Blush crept into her cheeks. "You could’ve been…"

"What? Faking?" Rolling his eyes, he grabbed her hand and pressed in against the bulge pressing against his zipper. "Can’t fake that, pet. Wasn’t even sure I could do that at all. Broken back, remember? It’s not you, Slayer. You, I like. Voices in the hallway of our supposedly private hide-out, I don’t."

"Listen," she said, the sound hitting her ears. Her eyes widened with alertness. "Those can’t be voices. There would have to be hundreds of people out there."

"I’d say you’re right, there must be hundreds of people out there. ‘Cause those are voices. Speaking… I don’t know what. Some kind of… language."

"Isn’t that helpful," she said, shooting to her feet. "People, speaking language. Great. Any guesses as to who they are? Or if they’re even people? People, most of them can see me. No one here would know me as the Slayer. But demons… they’d sense it right off."

Spike shook his head. "I can’t get a feel for them," he said, swinging his dead-weight legs over the side of the bed. "Could be anyone. Or anything."

"One way to find out," Buffy said, moving towards the door. She looked back over her shoulder, and shook her head at Spike. "Stay there. Dragging yourself across the floor will not help me. I don’t want to have to worry about tripping over you if whoever’s out there wants a fight."

"Tripping over…" He glared at her. "I’m not totally useless, you know."

"Just. Stay. Put."

The door was heavy, made of a dark wood Buffy didn’t recognize. Placing one hand flat on the door to steady herself, she turned the knob and slowly opened it a crack, just enough to give her space to peek outside. Voices filled the room as the door opened, moans and screams overlapping fervent conversations in a language foreign to them both.

"Oh… God," Buffy said, slamming the door shut and sagging against it. Her face paled. She swiped a hand over her mouth, closing her eyes. "I think I’m gonna be sick."

"What? What do you see?" Spike rocked slightly on the edge of the bed, the sway of his leaden legs reminding him of his helplessness. Pulling himself back to sit against the headboard, he said, "Slayer? You all right?"

She nodded, swallowing hard. "People. Lots of them. Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. Well, not thousands of people, but… parts. People parts."

"Parts? Of bodies? Pet, parts don’t talk."

"These ones do." Rubbing her hands over her face, she kept her back pressed against the door. The last thing she wanted was for the carnage in the hallway to come into the bedroom. "They’re naked, and… and headless, all of them. And it gets worse than that."

"Worse than headless? Hard to manage that."

Looking at Spike’s crotch meaningfully, she said, "Worse."

"Ah. Um…. okay. And these people and their parts are doing… what?"

Biting her lip, she shrugged. "Wandering around out there. Crying. They don’t seem to be going anywhere. They’re just sort of… standing around. Waiting, maybe."

"What would they be waiting for?"

"I don’t know. Not really big on the caring at this point either. You want to tell me how to get Hugh up here? Is there a phone or something? He lives here. He could maybe tell us if decapitated people stand around in the hallway a lot, or if this is something special just for us."

"A phone? Didn’t see one." He looked at the nightstand. "Nope, no phone."

"How did you get him up here when I was unconscious?"

"Like this," he said, covering his ears. "HUGH!"

"HUGH!" Buffy screamed, adding her voice to his to carry the call over the voices of the people in the hallway. "HUGH!"

A knock came on the door under her back, startling her. She shrieked, scuttling across the room in surprise. Pulling herself together, she avoided Spike’s laughing eyes. "That’s… that should be him."

"How do you know? It could be… one of them."

She shook her head. "Most of them didn’t have any hands to knock with." Opening the door, she tried to cover her surprise at the appearance of the creature who rushed inside. The Brownie looked like a cross between a Saint Bernard and a monkey, with a healthy dose of not-natural thrown in. "You’re Hugh?"

"Told you it wasn’t Grant," Spike drawled, enjoying her discomfit. "Hugh, meet your mistress. This is the Slayer, awake now, as you can see."

Ignoring Spike, Hugh fell to his knees before Buffy. "Mistress, I apologize, a thousand times and again. You must think so poorly of me. The ghosts… they’re a bit early this decade, I didn’t know they’d arrive before you awoke from your shock."

"Ghosts?" Throwing a hand up to bring Hugh to his feet, Buffy pointed at the closed door. "Those people out there are ghosts?"

"Mayan ghosts," Hugh explained, standing. "This mansion… it was built on the site of the ancient Mayan temple, built by a demon who called himself a shaman. This demon- Lotaxh- sacrificed human beings in an effort to please his master, the god of chaos."

"Which one?" Spike asked from the bed. "Set? Cizin? Kali?"

Shuddering, the Brownie gazed up at Buffy with fear-stained eyes. "I do not speak the name of such a god, not here, not over his own temple."

Darting an evil look at Spike, Buffy patting Hugh’s head. "It’s okay. Whatever’s wrong, I’ll take care of it."

Hugh sagged with relief. "Oh, mistress. Slayer. I knew you’d help them. That’s why I brought you here. The poor souls need such a one as you to free them."

"Wait. What do you mean, that’s why you brought her here?" Spike gave him a narrowed glinting glance. "I thought you wanted to take care of her. Keep her safe."

"Oh, I do, I do. I’m a Brownie, that’s…"

"That’s what you do," Spike interrupted. "I got that already. But if your idea of helping her is bringing her here to fight your battles, I think your days as a working Brownie are over."

"I did help her, you see? She’s awake, healthy, whole… and with you, I can smell that the two of you have been…"

"What!" Buffy cut him off, her tone biting with annoyance. "You can *smell* that we’ve been making out?" She watched a minute as Hugh sputtered for a response, then waved him off. "Never mind that. We have a hundreds of ghost parts screaming in the hallway. What do you mean, I can free them? Free them from what?"

"The shaman," Hugh said. He walked over to the window and tugged on the shutters, making sure they were tightly shut. "The demon shaman still lives in this jungle. As long as he lives, the ghosts of his victims are trapped between worlds. It is their curse, you see, the poor souls. Doomed to an eternity of nothingness, they materialize every decade on the day of mid-season, searching for a way to kill the shaman and end their torment. Annabella heard them crying only once, bless her soul. She bid me to help them, and so I must. And so, I brought you here to be my hands and good, strong back."

"You want me to search out this shaman guy and kill him?" <So much for the whole ‘normal girl’ thing.> Buffy shrugged, thinking of the pieces of people crying for help. <One last fight. That’s all. Nothing I can’t handle.> "I can do that."

"He’s strong. Tall as well," Hugh said in warning, holding his hand up several inches above his head. "At least this tall."

Buffy looked down at his hand, a foot below her own height. "Umm… won’t be a problem, really," she said, fighting back a laugh. "How do I kill micro-shaman?"

Eyeing her uncertainly, Hugh drew a hand over his throat. "Like this. His neck, that’s the vulnerable place."

"Do we have weapons?" She scanned the room, then looked at Spike. "A sword would work best."

Pointing, Spike said, "In the closet, there. When do we leave?"

"We? There’s no ‘we’ about this." She retrieved the sword from the closet and swung it in a broad arc, testing its weight. "There’s me, who goes and kills the shaman, and there’s you, who stays here and recuperates. Forget the ‘we’."

Ignoring Buffy’s words as predictable, Spike looked at Hugh. "You don’t want her going out in that jungle alone, mate. Demons aside, there are also dangerous animals… snakes, wild cats, and the like."

"Oh yeah, like I can’t take care of myself." The sword hissed through the air as she spun with it, brandishing it within inches of Spike’s head. "Wimpy ole Buffy, that’s what they call me. How would you fight off an attacking animal? Scowl at it real hard? Scare it off with the glare of your fangs? I don’t think so."

Hugh looked back and forth between Buffy and Spike, unsure of who to obey. "He could be a help to you, mistress. You’ve no knowledge of the paths through this jungle. The vampire has been down the main path; he could show you the way."

"Why don’t you show me? Not like you’ve got a hopping social schedule. No hot dates planned tonight, right?"

Shuddering, Hugh cast a frightened glace towards the window. "No, mistress. That demon is something I stay far away from."

"Get my cart," Spike said, hefting his legs over the side of the bed. "I’ll ride along. Slayer can build herself some arm muscles and push me."

"My arms are just fine the way they are," Buffy said, hefting the sword back towards his head. "See? Strong enough to cut through your neck if you don’t quit acting like a big baby. You know that if I take you along, I’ll be worrying about protecting you. I need to focus on the slaying, not on the protecting of the defenseless vampire."

Growling, Spike said, "Come a step closer and call me defenseless, Slayer. I’d love to show you just how wrong you are."

Buffy flashed him a grin. "Later on, I’ll hold you to that threat. Right now, I’ve got a demon to decapitate. Hugh?"

"You don’t want me to aid your search." Hugh shook his head furiously. "If you bid it, I must, but mistress…"

"Just point me down the right path. I’ll take it from there. Demons, especially magickey demons, sorta tend to prick at my Slayer senses. Shouldn’t be a problem to hunt him down." Pointing at Spike with the sword, she narrowed her eyes. "Put me on the path, then come back up here and guard Mr. Pouty here. Paralyzed or not, he’s big with the stubbornness. I wouldn’t put it past him to crawl through the jungle on his elbows, just to prove me wrong."

"Wouldn’t crawl," Spike muttered, his face a portrait of frustration. "Wouldn’t have to if you’d just…"

"Shut up," Buffy said. She placed her hand on the doorknob. "I have to run through these ghosts. Apparitions or not, they look real. Something about them being headless and… other-parts-less makes me not want to linger and say hello. You coming, Hugh?"

"Stay where the Slayer placed you," Hugh said to Spike. He took his place at Buffy’s side, ready to rush past the ghosts.

"The *Slayer* didn’t place me anywhere, you ponce," Spike said, reddening with annoyance. "I’m a free agent, no matter what sort of scent you picked up between us. If I decide to spend the night lounging about in bed, well, then, that’s my choice."

"And if you decide to crawl out of this house, we’ll just see how many choices you get after I beat you into a pulp." Buffy smiled to soften the words, but her eyes read serious. "I’ll see you soon."

"Fine," Spike said, watching them go. The door slammed shut on the Mayan voices in the hallway, the thud reverberating through his body with finality. "I’ll just… be here."

***

Killing the small shaman was as easy as Buffy had expected. After cleaning the blood from her hands, she walked up the hallway towards the bedroom, delighted to find it empty of ghosts. Entering the room, she smiled at Spike, who was sitting up in bed, reading.

"How long has the ghoulish gang been gone?" she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. She pulled off her shoes and climbed up to sit next to him.

"The screams and such died off about twenty minutes ago." He closed his novel and placed it on the nightstand. Examining her with his eyes, his lips twisted with enigmatic emotion. "Took care of the demon?"

Buffy nodded, reading the stiffness of his face and adjusting her demeanor accordingly. "He’s dead." She reached out and traced a line down the back of his hand with her finger. "You okay?"

"Fine, for a defenseless invalid," Spike said, his eyes flashing with indigence. "If you think I’m such a weakling, why are you here with me? Touching me? Or do you just like being the one with the power?"

"Hey," Buffy said, tension riding the word. "I do *not* think you’re a weakling. You’re hurt, you idiot. But you’ll heal. I know you will, I’ve seen it happen already."

"By that time, there’ll be no demons left to fight," he said petulantly.

"That’s what this is about? You want a good fight?" She couldn’t keep the amusement from her voice. "No problem. There’s plenty around here to do. First, you and I can spar, once you’re back on your feet. And there’s hunting. How are we supposed to eat if I can’t hunt and neither can Hugh? We’ll need you to get us meat."

"Hunting," Spike said, rolling the word around his tongue as if trying it on. "Suppose I could give that a try."

"You’ll need a good source of blood. Hugh can’t keep buying it from the locals, not without raising suspicion anyway. So, go hunt some jungle pigs. They’re out there, Hugh showed me their tracks."

"Pigs and sparring. Please, help me contain my excitement."

"The sparring is important. Another two years, and we’ll have to head back up to Sunnydale. If we k…" She swallowed hard, then continued, "If we kill Ben, then Glory won’t kill the other me. But Ben’s not a little guy. He can take care of himself. We have to keep up our skills, especially knowing he could turn into Glory at any moment."

Looking at her closely, Spike said, "You think you can do that? Kill a human?"

Buffy took a deep breath. <No. I can’t kill Ben. I *like* Ben. But…> She stiffened her chin with resolve. "I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?"

"Or I can do it," Spike said, nodding in understanding. "One way or another, you- the other you- won’t have a hellgod to worry about."

"Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, we can enjoy just being us." His hand felt cold beneath hers. She clasped it between her palms, lending him her body heat. "Forget about titles and callings and inclinations and just… just *be*."

His eyes caught hers, deep blue pools of emotion that assessed her boldly, merciless. He drew her into him with that gaze, as though he was examining her soul and taking his time with the judgment. With reckless courage, she moved up his body, and kissed him. Not a passionate kiss; not even a friendly kiss. Just a press of lips against colder lips. When she moved away, it was only a hairsbreadth.

"Can you do that?" she whispered, her mouth grazing his as she spoke.

He pulled her roughly, almost violently against him. Grabbing his shoulders, she buried her face in his neck, inhaling the kaleidoscope of scents that had belonged to every version of him she’d ever known. Leather and cigarettes, bourbon, and an underlying tang so elemental, she knew it only as his very essence.

"Good answer," she said, inhaling gingerly so as to not discourage his arms from squeezing around her. "Great, even. But… words please?"

Tipping her head back to face him, his eyes softened like a kiss even as they burned her with their intensity. Seeing his face, she had every answer to every question she could ever think to ask him. But she had to hear him say it. "Spike?"

Words so honest they seemed painful rumbled against her as he pulled her to his chest. "I can’t *not* do that," he said, and to Buffy’s surprise, he sounded full of joy.

Chapter 9:

*****

Two Years Later

The Mexican jungle

The bed sheets twisted around Buffy’s body, constricting her as she tossed and rolled. Beneath the heft of blond hair that spread over it, her face was wrinkled with fear, her eyes squeezed shut in sleep. A moan rolled out from between her lips, low and long and gut wrenching, taking the form of a name as it went. “Dawn.”

<<The tower shook beneath her feet as she raced upwards, towards the platform where her sister was tied. Helpless. In terrible danger. “Dawn!” she screamed, throwing her body up the steps. The fear growing inside of her propelled her and kept her focused, kept her feet so precise, she could not trip. She had to make it there, before… and then she was there.

“Dawn!” she screamed again, her eyes widening. Horror gripped her with a freezing fist. She could not move as she stood at the top of the steps, watching the two figures at the other end of the platform. Her sister, brown hair waving in the wind, bent limply over a figure. A figure in black, who clutched her against him. A familiar figure, whose duster had been cast off, whose shirt stuck wetly to his body. “Spike!”

When he turned, Buffy took a step back. “Spike?” she whispered, narrowing her eyes. A terrible calm seized her as she took in his crouching stance, his vampire ridges and fangs, and most of all- most of all- Dawn’s blood. The thick redness dripped from his chin, adding to the mess that covered his shirt and hands.

<I won’t look>, Buffy told herself, but betrayed the thought in the next second. Her eyes were drawn without mercy to the sight of her sister’s body, gutted and hanging from the ropes that bound her. Even Dawn’s face- <her beautiful face>, a voice deep inside her mourned- was cut to disfigurement and shrouded with blood. Taking a breath, Buffy closed her eyes. <Close your eyes. The end of your world is here. You’re in hell. Close your eyes>.

The last thing she felt was Spike’s body hurling into hers. She screamed…>>

Screaming, Buffy sat up in bed, her arms waving with remembered distress. “Oh… oh god,” she said, choking back tears. Feeling the bed beside her, her heart sank to find him gone. “Spike. It’s time.”

Suddenly, the door flung open and banged against the wall. She jumped, pulling the blanket over herself as Hugh ran in, wild-eyed and frantic. “Hugh,” she whispered, calming herself. “It’s okay, it’s just Hugh.”

“Milady, are you injured?” he says, rushing to her bedside. “I could go find the vampire?”

“It’s just a dream, Hugh,” she said, sitting up and slipping her feet into her slippers. “A nightmare.”

“A Slayer dream? Did you see the future?” He looked nauseated at the thought which, considering Buffy’s reaction to the dream, was fitting. “Is there danger ahead?”

“No, not a Slayer dream. Just your regular, ole doozy of a nightmare.” Shuddering, she rubbed her arms, cold in the oppressive heat of the jungle. “Danger… there’s always danger. We’ve known for a long time that we’d eventually have to face the life I left behind in Sunnydale. The dream was just telling me that… that time’s up.” <And that there’s danger, but let’s not freak Hugh out any more than he already is.>

Visibly relieved, Hugh, patted her arm. Going to the dresser, he opened a drawer and dug through her clothes until he came up with a warm cardigan. “Here, Mistress. Warm yourself. I will fetch your vampire.”

“No, you don’t have to. I know you don’t like it outside after dark, even with all the lanterns lit. But… where is Spike?”

With a barking laugh, Hugh pointed out the window. “Trapping the pig.”

Even though shaken, she had to smile. “Porky’s back, huh?”

“Oh, yes. The vampire came tearing through an hour ago, ranting on about his trap being broken again.”

“Again?” Slipping the shirt over her tank top with shaking hands, Buffy stood. “That’s the third trap this week. Porky’s smart for a jungle pig.”

“The vampire says the pig will die before dawn.” Hugh’s face, wrinkled and brown, was alit with humor. “I say, the vampire will be back before dawn, pigless and in a mood so foul, I think I may leave for the village for the day.”

“Good plan,” Buffy said. Waving her hand at him, she said, “Now, out with you. I’ve got to finish getting dressed.”

“You’re going after the vampire? I don’t believe he’ll appreciate the assistance. He seems to hang his manhood on this pig’s beating heart.”

“Hugh,” Buffy said, her voice an equal mix of warning and laughter. “Picking on Spike is a fun time, believe me I know, but…”

Rolling his eyes, Hugh shuffled towards the door. “He’s taken the north path, Mistress. Finding him should be simple for you, not to worry.”

“Thank you, Hugh,” Buffy said, giving him a smile that fell the moment the Brownie closed the door. Going to the vanity table, she grabbed a brush and pulled her hair back into a hasty ponytail. “Not to worry,” she echoed. Giving herself a long look in the mirror, she shook her head, watching the heavy tail swing back and forth behind her. “Not to worry. As if finding him was the tough part.”

*****

She followed the north path through the jungle, lighting the string of lanterns that hung from the tree branches as she went. Red mud squished beneath her boots, thick and gooey. Making her way carefully towards the clearing, she focused hard on keeping her footing. When she found the broken trap, it was all she could do not to turn around and head back to the house, to pretend her dream had never happened. And when she found the orchid Spike had left for her on the wooden platform the trap had been built on, she did turn around. She made it ten steps up the path before her cowardice shamed her into turning back. <Be strong, Slayer. Just because he picks my favorite flower doesn’t mean I can protect him from this.>

After clearing the wooden shards from the platform, she laid down on her back and looked up at the stars, holding the flower’s stem between her hands like a fragrant talisman. <Take your time, Spike>, she thought, sending the words out into the blackness of the night sky towards his ears. <Enjoy your last moments of being just yourself. Your last moments of simplicity, before we have to go and mess things up again.>

A tiny, sensible voice in the back of her head told her that they’d only be gone for a little while. They’d come back and their home would still be here. <But it took us so long to *get* here,> Buffy countered. <To be able to see each other as Buffy and Spike, leaving all the titles and baggage behind. Going back will change everything. We’ll have to earn all this… this comfort, this peace… earn it all again.>

And it had been peaceful and comfortable, the past two years. They’d fought, of course. The memory brought a twisted smile to her lips. Fighting was as much a part of their relationship- of their dance- as making love. In her mind’s eye, she could see his lips curved in sarcasm as readily as love, but the love was always there, softening both their edges.

<When we go back, it’ll change us. Change this. Change everything. If it doesn’t kill us.> The stars blinked above her, adorning a sky so wide and open, Buffy felt like it could swallow her. A stray thought crossed her mind quickly <maybe I want it to swallow me>, but she pushed the notion away. <You are still the Slayer, on hiatus or not. This is still your job, no matter how terrible it makes you feel.> Groaning, she threw an arm over her eyes and let out a loud, sputtering sigh. “I’m an idiot,” she groaned, annoyed with the swirl of feelings inside of her.

“Not as big of one as Porky,” Spike called.

Buffy opened her eyes and sat up. She watched him walk slowly up the path, a large lump slung over his shoulder revealed, as he came into the spread of the lantern’s light, as Porky. She squinted, wondering why his clothes looked so oddly flat, then smiled as she realized he was naked and covered in a thick layer of red mud.

He grinned at her as he approached; she could see the light of the moon glinting off his teeth even with the distance between them. Naked, covered in mud and blood, he looks so happy that Buffy wished again that they could put off the conversation she’d come here to have with him. <No wimping out>, she told herself, wincing as she noticed the way his smile widened as he reached the clearing and saw his flower in her hands.

<Two weeks>, Buffy thought, feeling the welling of tears in her eyes. She blinked them back, squaring her jaw for courage. <He looks so happy. We both are so happy, but it’ll only take two weeks, then we’ll be back.>

“Bring me anything?” he said, quickening his pace up under the heaviness of the pig.

Buffy stood and pulled his skinning knife out of her belt. “You forgot this,” she said as he got to the platform. Wrinkling her nose, she tossed it down, impaling it in the dirt. “You left it on the kitchen table again, oh sanitary one.”

He shook his head once, sharply, looking at his knife in the mud. “Now I’ve got to wash it.”

“Oh, of course. Because you wouldn’t want to dirty the pig.” Pointing at it, she kicked the broken trap. “I see you finally got revenge on Porky. Only took three traps to bring him down.”

Spike flung the pig’s heavy carcass on the ground at Buffy’s feet. “As they say, third try’s the charm. That, and the spear.”

“Guess so.” Tipping the flower at him, she smiled. “Thanks for the orchid. They’re my favorite.”

“As you tell me every day when I bring you them,” he said with a smile that warmed her down to her bones. Then the smile twisted upwards with mischief. He came towards her, muddy hands outstretched. “Come here, Slayer.”

Shrieking, she jumped back as he tried to embrace her. “Get away, you’re filthy! Hugh just washed this shirt, and you know it!”

“No problems there, love,” he said, taking hold of her shoulders. Mud from his hands, red and warm, slid under the neck of her shirt and down her back. “We’ll just take it off.”

He went to strip it from her, but she beat him to the buttons, undoing them quickly before he could tear them apart. “I’ve learned a thing or two in the last couple years,” she said, shrugging out of the shirt and tossing it onto the pile of his clothes. “Like, that you and buttons are not mixy.”

“Too slow,” he agreed, the anticipation on his face shadowed by the gloom of night where the lanterns failed. “Especially when I know there’s skin like that underneath, just waiting for my touch.”

Naked, she held him off with a look. “My turn to play,” she said, her voice a throaty whisper. “You got to last time.”

He nodded, unable to move words around the lump that rose in his throat as she trailed her fingernail over the flat muscles of his chest, making a line in the mud that headed towards his nipple. It puckered under her touch, encouraging her to bring the other hand up. She placed it flat over his other nipple, enjoying the warmth of the mud between her skin and his. “Lots of possibilities here,” she said, rubbing slow circles in the slippery stickiness, digging underneath the mud for the feel of his skin. “I finally see the appeal of all those mud wrestling shows Xander was into.”

She trailed her hands around the back of his ribs, pulling him to her. Rubbing her body up the front of his, she raised herself on tip-toe, bringing her mouth to brush over his. Breathing into him, she balanced her body by leaning fully against him and brought her hands up to slid into his hair, mussing it, pulling him closer to her, ever closer.

When she kissed him, she tasted salt, fused with the sweet tang that was pure Spike. Against her lips, his mouth felt cool and yielding. The smell of mud, earthy and elemental, combined with the scent of their arousal. Their limbs entwined with precision born of years full of practice.

“I love you,” she said, wanting to hearten them both, but the words came out burdened with sadness. <Suck it up,> she told herself. <You have to tell him.>

Opening her mouth, she searched for the words to tell him, but in her reluctance couldn’t find them. <Coward. Big fraidy-cat. Some Slayer you are.> Tracing her fingers over his face, she stroked the line of his neck and down further, to the notch in the center of his collarbone and outward, over his shoulders. Gripping his upper arms in her hands, she turned her face up to his, closing her eyes. <Hear me,> she willed at him, her chest tightening. <Know what’s going on without me having to say the words. Then make love to me, here in the mud so we don’t have to talk about it now. Let’s be just us, for another hour at least, before real life comes rushing back.>

Dropping his forehead against hers as he felt her hands run down his back, over the tautness of his backside and curve around to the front, he groaned, aching for more of her, always more. But the feel of her tense muscles under his hands combined with the sound of her voice told him that she needed something different.

“You’re my world,” he said, opening his eyes and staring into hers, so close their eyelashes brushed. “My bloody world. Now, tell me what’s worrying you.”

Sagging against him, she exhaled heavily. <So much for pretenses.> “Thanks a lot,” she said. “I’m trying to stall, here. That thing about procrastination getting you no where? So not true.”

“Right, Slayer,” he said, wrapping her in his embrace. “Because it’s getting you so far with me. You going to tell me what’s wrong, or keep playing games?”

“No games. You need to know. It’s just…” she stepped back from him, needing to pace. The mud squished between her toes as she moved around the broken trap, undaunted by her nakedness. Throwing up her hands with helplessness, she gave Spike a level look. “It’s time.”

“Time for what?” he asked, but he knew what she was talking about before the words had passed his lips. Something tightened inside his chest, making him inhale quickly. “You’re sure?”

She nodded once. “I had a dream. We leave in the morning.” Picking up his pants, she tossed them to him. “Put these one. Spare Hugh the sight of your… you know.”

When he didn’t retort with ‘I thought you liked my ‘you-know’, when he only stood silently, the pants hanging from his hands, Buffy knew that he was as dismayed by the thought of returning to Sunnydale as she was. “Spike?” she said, pulling her jeans over her muddy legs. “Put your pants on.”

“Hugh’s taking care of the train tickets and what-not?” The words, flat and casual, rolled out of him, taking no thought, bearing no impression of the emotions that were making his stomach churn. “Is he coming along with us?”

“He’s staying here. I told him to.” Buttoning her shirt, she moved back to Spike’s side, bringing him the rest of his clothes. “We won’t need him there. It’s only for two weeks. He’ll be better off here, keeping the house ready for us to come home to.”

“It might be okay,” he said, but the lines of tension blossoming on his brow betrayed him. Rubbing his hands over his face, he knocked some of the drying mud off. “You haven’t had a Slayer dream about going back for at least a month. Maybe that means everything’ll turn out fine.”

“Or maybe that just means that my Slayer dreams aren’t super reliable. Because they aren’t. It’s not like they haven’t confused me in the past. It was a regular nightmare I had tonight. Just your regular, run of the mill, demon-eating-my-sister kinda dream, but I know it was a sign.”

Spike frowned. “Something’s going to eat your sister?”

“No. Like I said, it wasn’t a Slayer dream. It wasn’t prophetic kinda thing, just…” She broke off, shuddering. Pulling her arms around herself, she said, “Just really freaky. I can’t get it out of my head. It was a sign, telling me that it’s time to go back. And that going back is dangerous.”

“Doesn’t matter much, pet. Dangerous or not, we have to go back. If Glory doesn’t die, the other you will. We have to kill her. End of story.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Sighing, she pushed a hand through her hair. “I won’t be able to go into town. The timeline… it’s too risky. You’ll have to go.”

“So I will, then. Not a problem. I’ll take care of it. You could even stay here. Kick back with Hugh. Keep our bed warm.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll just send you back there to do my dirty work while I’m sitting in the sun, sipping a martini.” She glared at him. “You could die. You’re not exactly Mr. Popular in Sunnydale. What if I … the other me… catches you killing Ben? I’d be sitting down here, waiting for you, and all the time you’d be a pile of dust in Sunnydale, dead after getting in the way of my stake. The other me’s stake. She’d kill you on sight.”

“I can handle myself, Slayer.”

“I know that,” she said, touching his arm. “I do.”

“But you’re still scared.”

“Of course I am. You’re my… well, I love you. Being scared for you when you’re going up against a hellgod in the Slayer’s backyard goes with the whole ‘I love you’ package.”

“You told me yourself that Glory’s too weak to come out and attack me. And Ben’s just a human. Weak.”

She dropped her eyes, acquiescing his point, then raised them and met his with determination. “There are other things that could go wrong.”

“Drusilla? I’m sure she’s long since left town.”

“Not just her. There’s… you. You haven’t killed a human in years.”

“And you’re worried that this’ll bring back my taste for it?” He touched her hair, stroking over it with his palm. “I’d have to be a crazy fool to give up what we have here, Buffy. I’m a lot of things, but not crazy. And I’m only a fool when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?” she said, her lips parting as he ran his thumb over them.

“Your eyes all big and shiny… your mouth open for me to kiss… Like you’re thinking the whole world could go to hell, and you’d still want to stay here in the jungle with me, world be damned.”

“That… pretty much sums it up,” she whispered as he bent and kissed her once, gently. “It’s not like I think you’ll turn all demoney again. But… don’t you ever miss it? Your old life?”

“Not much to miss there. Being Angelus’s punching bag didn’t hold much appeal.”

An uncertainty crept into her expression. “Do you ever miss Drusilla?”

He hesitated a second, his hands growing still on her hair. Then, tipping her chin up to make her hold his gaze, he said, “Yeah, sometimes. Her fecklessness. But I don’t miss who I was when I was with her. Here…” He looked up at the jungle canopy, illuminated with the lights of the lanterns, then back at Buffy. Bending down, he snatched the orchid from the ground and tucked it behind her ear. His fingers stroked the petals, brushing her skin. “It’s better here. With you.”

Turning her face into his hand, she exhaled heavily, releasing the tension from her body in a breath that heated his skin. “I wish I could just snap my fingers and have this all over with. A big, magic poof, and suddenly it’s two weeks later and we’re home again.”

“Things will be fine, pet. You’ll see. We’ll be back here, together, in no time.” Giving her a final kiss, he pointed to the pig. “You want to feel sorry for someone, stick around. Porky there is about to become breakfast meat.”

She watched him pick up the knife and tuck it into his belt, watched the muscles of his back shift beneath the thin material of his shirt as he lift the pig and heaved it onto the broken trap, out of the mud. “You’re sure? About Ben? You can do this?”

“Killing a human won’t call my demon back to play, Slayer. We’ve got no worries. It’ll be easy as pie.” He sliced the knife into the pig, pulling at the thick hide. Blood dripped over the ground, over his knees, staining his pants and shirt. “Bugger. Never should’ve gotten dressed.” He stood and unbuttoned his shirt. “Slayer, you mind taking these back to the house when you go?”

She stood over him, still as a statue, her mind working way too fast as she tried to tell herself the blood on his hands belonged to the pig, that it wasn’t foreshadowing of any kind. But her dream came back to her, slamming her with images of William the Bloody feasting on her little sister’s blood. When she saw his shirt fall from his shoulders, bile raised inside of her. <Too much like the dream… I can’t see this. This is bad.> Without a word, she turned and ran for the house.

“Buffy? My clothes?” He searched the shadows on the clearing, but couldn’t find her. “Buffy?” Leaving the pig where it lay, Spike started back to the house after her. <To hell with Porky. To hell with this whole sodding place. We don’t need it to be happy, Buffy and I. We’ll be fine, out there in the world together. Just bloody fine.> As he trudged through the mud, he smirked, irritated with himself. <Almost managed to convince myself that time. Now I’ve just got to convince her.>