Crossing over into unchipped country
 by dutchbuffy2305

Author's note: Big hugs to Meko00, LadyAnne, mommanerd and Ayinhara.

Buffy gets home from evening class and steps into the welcoming warmth of the house with a shiver of relief. There is something so hostile about Cleveland weather, and her memories of California become more and more golden the oftener she gets them out to drool over them. Balmy nights and sunny days, thermal underwear a distant rumor. She heats up some chocolate and gets up the stairs to the study, where she can hear everyone being busy and talking a lot. The sounds from below indicate that Xander is busy in his work room, probably in the company of Andrew. They might be sealing Andrew's entire X-men collection in plastic, or whittling stakes.

The bright copper head bent over something invisible on the big table looks up. "Hey Buff. How was class?"

"Okay, with a smidgen of disappointment."

"Did you sit next to Hot Guy?"

"Hot Guy was not there, hence the smidgen."

"How about my interdimensional vortex generator?" Willow says proudly, indicating the shimmering circle of light in front of her.

"I'm thinking it would look really nice in my ears?"

"Bad idea. You'd be tearing across the galaxy for the rest of your natural life. Which would then be really short, I guess."

Buffy does a mock shiver and holds up her hands to show she won't touch.

Willow turns back to her research. A glowing hoop of blue fire lies on the table. Willow handles it with a pencil, careful not to touch it. Dawn and Kennedy sit chatting at the other end of the table. Buffy lets her tiredness wash over her and leans back, sipping slowly from the hot chocolate. She wishes she'd remembered to put in those little marshmallows her mom used to have. She thinks she did a reasonably good job of touching base with her friends just now, light-hearted and asking after them, not just talking about her own concerns. They know that she's still not feeling all quippy and happy Buffy, and Europe only made it worse, because it was full of tall well-dressed people who didn't speak English, a fact that Dawn and Willow handled way better than she did. She's glad to be back home, even if home is now Cleveland. 

She yawns. Early to bed, she guesses. She puts down the half-empty mug of chocolate, but her tiredness makes her miss the table and she grabs hastily after it. Her outstretched pinky touches the fiery hoop and with a silent explosion of light a vortex opens and sucks her in.

The vortex spews Buffy out after milliseconds, or centuries, she can't tell. Her milling legs catch solid footing and she stumbles, propelled forward by her own speed until she manages to stop. Gray concrete swirls around her and she throws up the entire contents of her stomach. The world steadies and comes into focus. She's in a big space, somewhere unbelievably hot, sweat exploding from her skin in a haze of droplets. Urgently she peels off her down sleeveless vest, her fleece sweater, her long-sleeved T-shirt and then she's still too warm in her pink thermal undershirt. She's not in Cleveland anymore, baby.

That leaves her with wool trousers, thick socks and boots. She peels off the already sodden socks and takes stock of her surroundings. She's sitting on the splotched, rough concrete of an old factory floor. The big doors to the outside are opened out into the night. The silence here is deafening compared to the subsonic roar of the snowstorm. Far away she can hear some traffic.

It smells like home, and nostalgia and heartache set in with breakneck speed. If she didn't know she'd been flung through an interdimensional vortex she'd think she was back in Sunnydale. She shakes off the sadness, which she feels is inappropriate for adventures. She's an experienced interdimensional traveler after all, she's met ancient Slayers and enigmatic shamans in cheap print dresses. She balls up her winter clothes and hides them behind some old crates. Shoes in one hand, she starts to explore cautiously. To the left there seems to be some kind of old office space where a faint light is shining out. She paddles over there silently, her tender winter feet cringing away from the dirt and roughness of the flooring. 

She peers around the wall through the windowpanes into the small space, cluttered with a library's worth of books in tottering stacks. A hunched shape is reading one of them by the light of a few candles., illuminating only the sparsely printed page, a poem she thinks.

The dark form looks up and throws his book face down. '"What are you sneaking around for, Buff? Trying to surprise me?" 

He stands up and moves a few steps closer. Buffy's heart shoots up into her throat, then sinks down into her bare feet and starts up a wild ricocheting dance.

"Had a nice feed, did you? You smell all human," the voice continues.

"Spike?" she croaks.

"Expecting someone else?" he says and walks up to her.

The way he walks makes her heart scream. How well she remembers that cocky strut and roll, taking his time about it, fishing out a cigarette and his lighter from his jeans pocket while he walks and lighting one. He smirks at her through blue-gray smoke.

"C'mere," he says. "Give me a taste of what you ate, pet."

A sound tries to make its way out of her throat but fails. Spike stops stock still at ten feet away. "What the fuck! I can hear your bloody heart beat!"

She can't speak. Destiny is dealing her a low blow and she's petrified by it. He's on her faster than her eyes can track and has her neck in a crushing grip. She sags against him in defeat, completely overwhelmed by this turn of events. She's limp and will-less, unable to defend herself. But it's Spike, after all. She won't have to. 

"Who are you and what have you done to my Buffy?"

The air is thick and slow around her. She stares at the milk white furious countenance above her through spider webs and dew. This can't be her Spike. He snarls at her as if he hates her and he has an air about him as if he's never been insane in his life. He exudes lack of soul and barely contained bloodlust with every vibration of his body. She's actually feeling a sliver of fear for this one.

"Who are you and what have you done to my Spike?" she counters two beats late. 

She may be a little rusty, but she does remember quipping. This Spike pushes her away from him, still holding her neck, with her artery close under a big black-lacquered thumb, and looks her over carefully. He raises the other finger and points at her.

"No games, you cunt. My Buffy does not have a heart beat or body heat. You're older than her. Spill."

"I accidentally touched a magic object, an interdimensional vortex generator. It flung me here. Is this Sunnydale?"

"Where else?"

"In my world, Sunnydale is a big hole in the ground, courtesy of you."

He grins at that. "I've always been bad."

She can't let that one go. "No, you haven't, William."

His hand jerks and rattles her head like a doll's. "What the fuck! I told you, no games. Where is my Buffy!"

"How would I know," she says, irritated. "Probably in Cleveland where I came from. " She sees him frown. "Surrounded by a powerful witch and two slayers," she adds. "She's probably dust by now."

He brings his face very close to hers. "You better hope not, Slayer. You better hope she's right as rain, because then I will exchange her for you. Otherwise you die."

When Buffy hears him call her 'Slayer' she tears up like a wimp. The Spike notices it and sniffs her suspiciously.

"You're not that scared. Why cry?"

She looks into his cold blue eyes and something inside her swells and bursts open like a boil, leaving her weak and shaken.

"He used to call me Slayer all the time."

Tears are running down her face now. His smirk is evil. "I usually love it when girls cry before I rape and eat them because it makes their blood taste better. But now I don't want you to cry, I want you to pay attention. Tell me more. How is your world different? We need to get one of these interdimensional whatsits for the exchange."

Instead of answering she says, "Do you love her?"

He brays with laughter. "Don't be daft. She killed my Dru. I probably hate her. But she's mine, my get, my lieutenant. First minion of the Master of Sunnydale."

"The Master? I killed him."

He cuffs her, "Don't be stupid. I killed him, the Most Annoying One, and now I'm Master of Sunnydale. Have been for six years now. A sweet gig, and I don't want your little interdimensional fooling around to bollix it up."

Buffy almost covers her ears and screams. She makes her voice come out even, knowing that Spike will read her every emotion from her smell and heart rate anyway. "I killed Dru, and then you killed me?"

"Right."

"And this is 2003?"

"'Course," he says, frowning, but fishing for a cigarette again.

"Things went differently in my world" she says. "I never killed Dru. As far as I know, she's still roaming the world."

His face goes slack and wondering at that. "Dru? Dru alive? My Dru?"

It's a relief somehow to see him like that, get the face she associates with herself, Spike blindly and blissfully in love. He can't be that different then.

"So. You never got chipped?" she asks.

"What? Of course not. Burnt the fuckers out who were trying that thing. I fell for that in your time?"

"You were distracted, I guess," Buffy offers, obscurely needing to exonerate her Spike. "Dru dumped you, and you were pretty cut up about it."

Her ears are ringing and her cheek hurts. She's lying on the floor, and realizes she's been hit by a furious Spike with a burst of vampire speed, which hers never seemed to use much.

"You're lying," he grates, towering over her.

She shakes her head numbly. She receives a kick in the side for it. It's very reminiscent of her kicking Spike when he was possessed by the First. She crosses off one tally. Still plenty left.

"Don't damage me too much," she says flippantly. "I might not be able to get you to the vortex generator otherwise."

He roars and smashes a chair through the window. That is so Spike, taking out frustration on inanimate objects. The love boil that burst open in her heart races flames to her cheeks and fingertips. Too late, too late, it sings. The real Spike will never know now.

A minion in game face sticks a worried head around the door. "Boss?"

"Bugger off!" Spike says, a little calmer. "Get my car ready."

Buffy sits up. "Is it still the DeSoto?"

Spike rakes a hand through his hair. "How the bloody hell do you know all this stuff about me? What was I still doing in Sunnydale if I wasn't its Master? You are the Slayer, right?"

He delves behind a stack of books, she hears clicking and he surfaces with a thick wad of cash, which he stuffs in his jeans pocket. 

"We were enemies for a long time, but finally we became allies. First to defeat Angelus."

Spike nods at that. "Right. Same here. We killed the old man."

The pang she still feels at the thought of killing Angel is very small now, more of a reflex than a real feeling. "Is he in LA now?"

"What? You just heard me say, we killed him, dusted him. Of course he's not in LA."

"So he didn't come back?" 

"No, why would he? Did he in your world?"

She nods, wondering still. "He was raising Acathla, and I ran him through with a sword and sent him to hell."

She registers his incomprehension. 

"We, my Buffy and me, dusted him because he had a filthy soul, and was trying to kill us together with your old friends," he says.

Oh. Of course, there would be no rising of Angelus if she wasn't around to sleep with him. Oh.

She crawls up from the floor. Spike does not extend a hand to her. 

"You killed my friends?"

"We killed them, pet. Had us a real ball doing it, too."

"Filthy soul, you say?" she taunts, angry now. "You went and got one for me!"

He gapes. "Never."

"Oh yeah. Dru dumps you; you get chipped, fall in love with me, and get a soul for me."

Why she leaves out that they were lovers before he got the soul, she's not sure. He roars in anger and starts for her throat again, but this time she's ready for him. The all-out fight that ensues destroys most of the ancient office furniture, although it seems to be made of steel. The books scatter and fly around in the tiny space until they can't set a foot down without crushing some ancient tome. The fight is oddly out of whack. She caroms into a wall of books, expecting resistance but going through it like a fist through butter, and then the second time she's counting on give and painfully rams into a solid steel desk with her butt. Buffy is a little weirded out to notice that she's really enjoying this. She hasn't even reached for her stake. Is she incapable of staking this Spike because she loved the other one? Geez.

She manages to get him up against the wall and positions the stake over his heart. She's pressing up close to him and can't help noticing the outline of his body under his tight black T-shirt. 

Arousal flares through her, love riding hard on the heels of anger, and she sees Spike take a deep whiff to determine what he's smelling exactly.

"Bloody hell, slayer," he growls. "You loved him back, didn't you?"

"No way," she bites back, "I used him as a sex toy. What Slayer would love a vampire?"

His face turns soft and he smiles sweetly at her, using his free hand to stroke her upper arm.

"I would love you, Slayer," he says huskily. "Such a pretty girl you are, with your big green eyes and your tawny hair. Come here."

The stake drops from her hand and she's kissing him before he's finished his sentence. He tastes like her Spike, exactly like him, brassy and smoky at the same time, brimstone and pennies. She feels him harden against her and moans helplessly. His whole body tenses in preparation for she knows not what and she's flung across the room. He straddles her, applying merciless pressure to her throat.

"Are you insane, you daft bitch? Falling for a ploy like that? Of course I wouldn't love a Slayer. Any Slayer is my enemy, and if you weren't one you'd be my lunch, not my date."

He despises her, she can see it in his face. His lips are curled in disgust and he shakes her head and pushes on her throat until she sees black stars dance in front of her yes. Note to self:  he's not the real Spike. He's just another vampire.

He sits back on her thighs and lights his third cigarette. "So. Dru's still alive. Why'd she dump me?"

But he does love his Dru. She's always thought that was what made him different, his ability to love. There's hope.

"She was mad because you'd allied with me to kill Angelus."

She sees the flash of pain on his face and wishes she could kiss it better. "And then you got chipped, and when she came back you threatened to kill her to save me."

He shakes his heads and smokes pensively. He's gorgeous, his face and hair a vision in creams and blues, the smoke curling around his head enhancing his eerie beauty. He looks younger and smoother than her Spike, she sees. She made him suffer so much that she made a vampire age. An achievement she can be real proud of.

She can hear a car roll up. The minion comes in, dangling the keys proudly.

"Here you are, boss."

Spike doesn't take them. He remains sitting on her hips, finishes his smoke and asks the minion. 

"Which way is the car pointing?"

The minion gibbers a bit but points away from the big doors.

"Get back in and turn it for me, you stupid bugger. And remember next time, or you'll never get tenure."

"Tenure?"

"Manner of speaking," Spike says curtly, but winks at her.

He jumps up like a big cat and stalks off in the direction of the car, one hand unerringly swiping the duster off its hook in mid-stride. Buffy sits up, staring after him. What does he expect her to do?

"Slayer!" he calls out mock-sweetly. "Are you coming or do you want me to make you?"

She gets up stiffly. Lying on the floor like that has made her remember she was really tired, although the balminess of the climate here cushions tiredness like the relentless cold in Cleveland doesn't. She wobbles for a moment and feels disoriented. She must be getting old, because events are developing faster than she can follow. She only just got here and already she's leaving.

She walks over to the DeSoto. In her universe she hasn't seen it since her so-called date with Spike. The car frames him like a painting, Dorian Grey. She opens the car door and crawls in reluctantly. "Why don't we fly? Would be lots faster."

"Too much security these days, Slayer. This won't attract any attention."

"Maybe not the car, but the trail of people you eat certainly will, " she retorts. 

How can she find this ruthless killer even remotely charming? The thing is, she does. She should try to keep the two Spikes separate in her mind.

"You volunteering to donate some blood?" he smirks at her, showing his tongue.

She shivers. The tongue. She looks away from him and tries to look bored, but is very much afraid he'll see right through her like he always did.

"Off we go then, Slayer."

"Wait!" she says. "My clothes. I'll need them in Cleveland."

He hesitates but nods. She gets her clothes from behind the crates and dumps them in the back.

They roar off. 

Baker, Barstow, Primm. The names zoom by in a blur, flashing in his narrow field of vision for seconds before he's past them. He's put his window down so he can get some fresh air and see a little more of the road, as it's night anyway. The snoring of the Slayer beside him can hardly be heard over the loud growling noise of the old-fashioned eight-cylinder engine.

Spike wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it. Bleeding Slayer just lay down and was off in minutes, sagging against him like he was her boyfriend. As if she trusts him completely. He pushes her over to rest against the door, but it's somehow wrong on a deep visceral level, and it upsets the balance of his world. He's the Slayer of Slayers, killed three of them, and keeps one of them around as his minion, a petty revenge born of the anger he felt when his companion of more than a century was ripped away from him by her little baby-soft hands. 

He shakes away the game face that still threatens when he thinks of Drusilla's death. He doesn't ever want to forget it, which is why he still keeps the annoying ex-Slayer around, who even in death has the most galling sense of duty and honor and gives him his due as her sire punctiliously. He often sends her on long and dangerous missions because he can't stand having her underfoot all the time. It's more out of a sense of outraged possession than affection that he wants her back. Maybe it'll be time to stake her when he gets her back again, huh? 

He sticks his head out of the car, howls at the moon and swerves playfully at a few cars coming in the other direction. The tooting of their horns and the flashing of their lights follows him for half a minute and he laughs. He lights up and smokes contentedly. Actually, this is fun. There's a quest, there's a Slayer he can needle to his heart's content and possibly kill if the mood strikes him. How would he tell the tale? Met this Slayer, killed her twice? He shakes his head and blows a little shred of tobacco from his lips. He can play this anyway he likes, that's what makes this such a blast.

His eyes are needed to keep him on the road and away from the scarce traffic at this time of night, but for the rest his nose tells him all he needs to know about his surroundings. The mild foggy air of the coastal town changes into sharp cold desert night, varied by snatches of small town miasma he travels through, a fug of human breath and sweat, gas and stale cooking. Each town has a unique combination of smells, the powder and decay scent of old people, milk and shit from the babies. He detects the rich blood scent of fertile women, mitigated or strengthened by diet, tacos or hamburger, polyester sweat or wind-dried cotton. The further he drives inland, the drier the air gets. At a long stretch between two towns the air gets so pure and empty he can detect the spoor of a single desert fox crossing the road in the millisecond he needs to pass through it.

The fat-bellied moon flops up over the low ridge on his left. Something shifts in his internal awareness of the world around him. Almost sunrise. In a quarter hour or so he will wake the Slayer. She turns around under her blanket and he gets a good look at her face. So changed in looks compared to his Buffy, who still has the round face and big eyes of a seventeen year old, but so similar in the power of their will. Apparently life has stripped away all softness and sweetness from this one, just as death has with the other. The blanket slides off her throat and he has to fight off a surge of hunger for a moment. He should have taken someone to feed from, but he never thinks when he's in a hurry. He's old and strong-willed enough to fight it off until tonight, when he will hunt and drink with impunity.

He grins to himself when he thinks of the bitching that will ensue from the woman next to him. He's been the victim of her tongue for six years now, and he just knows this one will be exactly the same.

Spike contemplates exacting some retribution on this Slayer on behalf of his other self. The tale is beyond belief. Dumped, chipped, souled. It's bitterly shameful, and he doesn't know if he can manage to keep his resolve or if he will kill her in a proper fight. Killing Slayers is his business, the foundation of his fame. Turning her was payback for killing his beloved. Humiliating rather than killing this one seems in order, for turning his other incarnation into the very epitome of everything he's not. Weak and goody-goody beyond belief. He wants to know every detail of the other's sorry tale, needs to torture himself with what he's escaped from.

Sun's getting really close. He's the Master of Sunnydale, and she'd best not forget it. Now she'll drive him for a change. He pulls off the road near Littlefield and shakes her awake.

"Wakey, wakey Slayer. Time to earn your keep." 

She smiles fuzzily at him before jolting awake and nearly leaving a Buffy-shaped hole in the car door when she remembers everything. Her hand flies to her neck, as if she can feel the touch of his gaze there. Her body races and panics, and he has to admire her composure, because none of this is visible on her tight face. Too bad for her, he can sense every variation in her heartbeat, smell minute changes in her hormone level and the sharpening of her faint sleepy odor into a sweat of fear. He shows her his teeth. 

"It's me, sugar," he says in a honeyed tone. "Did you sleep well?"

He just knows he can piss her off twice as easy by pretending to be his unlucky shadow, who presumably sweet talked his way into her confidence or some such, instead of using snark and wit, which she seems to enjoy.

She yawns and stretches. When her skinny form is animated with her spirit he can see a vague echo of his luscious Buffy in her movements, the fierce warrior spirit that imbues the Slayer, and they are uncannily similar. Then her face sinks back into lines of worry and discontent and the resemblance fades again. Has her nose grown or what? These humans grow taller, fatter, thinner and shorter before your eyes. Wrinkles appear on their foreheads like slugs' tracks, their brows sink over their eyes and their cheeks fall in. Second chins appear and the spines shorten and bend and before you know it they're dead. Rotting away in their coffins, not like him, cheating Old Nick for more than a century now. You have to eat them quick, when they're young and fresh, before they lose their flavor, like tender summer fruit, strawberries or raspberries, sweet juice exploding against his palate. 

Once when he was young, he made the mistake of befriending a human being. He forgot about the passing of time, and when he looked the friend up again he was old and bent, almost dead. He hasn't forgotten the jealousy in the old man's eyes upon seeing Spike young and beautiful as ever. What could have possessed the other Spike to engage with a human being? Heartache lay around the corner, look away for a second and they're dust in the wind. Not him.

The Slayer grumbles and bitches about showers and breakfast but he pays her babbling no mind. If he listened to every word prey and their ilk mouthed at him he'd never get his dinner on item. He curls up on the backseat and falls asleep instantly. He wakes on time to steer her east on the I-70.

He wakes up because the car is standing still. The Slayer's heartbeat is going into overdrive and he can hear her harsh panting. He checks out the sound of the motor, no problem there, then the mileage, but there is still be plenty of gas. No screams, so sirens, nothing out of the ordinary. 

"Wake me up for money if you need more gas," he mumbles and goes back to sleep.

Again the car stops. He gives her money, watches her carefully as she buys water, food and gas. She doesn't try anything funny, and indeed, what would it be in this universe? No one she knows is alive. His Buffy saw to that. This Buffy needs him to get to Cleveland and find the amulet. His contacts. He rolls back into the same pose so that she will think he sleeps on. Her fleece sweater is soft under his head.

The third time he wakes it's slow, because the Slayer's heartbeat has slowed. He cricks himself up on his elbow to investigate. She's sleeping, again, on the front seat. It's too light outside for him to drive, so he settles back to sleep, irritated at the weakness of humanity. He orders himself to wake a few minutes before sundown, so he can drive off the minute it's dark enough.

The Slayer doesn't even wake up when he shoves her upright and drives off. She's managed to turn off on the I-76 at the right moment, for which he's thankful. They're deep in Nebraska – Gothenburg, Overton, Elm Creek - before she regains consciousness. She doesn't smell so fresh anymore, and the deep grooves between her eyebrows are an indication that she's not feeling so hot. This is none of his concern. He hopes she keeps her gob shut so he can pursue his own thoughts.

So. Dru's alive and well somewhere in another dimension. He's not sure how that makes him feel. The first few years after her dusting he'd have gone after her like a shot, done anything to join up with his Dark Beauty again, but now? A fellow gets settled, gets used to things as they are. The moment he thinks this he's appalled at himself. He's never in his whole long life stayed anywhere longer than a few months, maybe a year. How come he's been letting himself get cooped up in Sunnydale for so long? Has his Buffy been influencing him? 

He starts tapping the steering wheel to lighten the building tension in his body. Dru. Alive. Wait, didn't the Slayer tell him something about getting dumped by her? That can't be right. He opens his mouth to bark a question at her, but sees from the corner of his eye that she's rubbing her temples and licking her lips as if in thirst. To proud too ask, huh? He must have been a bit distracted and all, there are better ways to get a woman to talk than snarling at her.

"Slayer? How about we pull over for dinner and a shower? Not necessarily in that order?"

She perks up immediately and smiles at him with her dry lips, her big tired eyes regain some sparkle. Way to go, Spike old man. She'll sing like a canary.

An elastic cord stretches between Buffy and Sunnydale, and driving away from the town is making it longer and thinner. Any moment now it'll snap. She didn't realize how much she was longing for home until she smelled the scent of a Sunnydale night and heard the peaceful sounds of surf and highway rumbling in the background. In the rest of the world everything's so intrusive. The shape of the houses and the cars, how people dress, jumps on her retinas and hijacks them, fascinating and irritating her with the differences. Every city has a different shape to it and the McDonaldses are just plain wrong, with icky local specialties and just not hitting the sameness she longs for.

And there is so much weather all the time. Not only in Europe, which she on the whole only pretended to like, but also in Cleveland, rain, wind, snow, it never stops. You have to dress for it, it's on TV, people keep mentioning it in their small talk. Somewhere in her guts this just registers as wrong, as if the balmy unchanging warmness of Sunnydale is imprinted on her soul as the only right kind of climate.

She rolls her shoulders and tries to concentrate on the road. She's never driven this long at a stretch and it's hard. She has to force herself to go on, driven by a need to get back to Cleveland and be done with this too familiar alternate reality that taunts her with might-have-beens. She forces herself but actually she'd like to turn back and let Sunnydale's presence soothe her again and she can't let that happen.

The past summer, when the triumphant feeling of defeating the First started to fade she let herself go, just for a few days, she thought. She let out all the inappropriate mushiness and hurt and undigested lumps of maybe-love and wallowed in them. It was just a few days, and then she tried to reconnect to the others again, but it's as if they'd gotten so much of a head start in those few days that she's never managed to catch up again. They all have these plans and dreams, schools they want to go to, businesses they want to start, and she doesn't seem to have any. Not that she wants to have fantasies like Andrew, who thinks he's going to be the next great thing in script writing or comic book drawing, or a Watcher like Dawn or a contractor like Xander. But it's scary not to have any dreams, so she's been making them up when the others ask about hers. She dutifully enrolled in night classes when they got back from the confusion of Europe, but she doesn't know what she's doing it for. 

Buffy suspects that if you take away the Slayer, the girl that remains is just kinda small. She has no wants and no dreams, she gave up on them a long time ago and she doesn't know what to replace them with. 

She rubs her eyes with one hand and the car makes a sickening lurch to the left. It takes her endless rubbery moments to get back into the right lane and her heart keeps thumping in her throat. Her body feels full and hot, about to burst into flames or splatter apart into little shapeless pieces. She pulls the car over as soon as she can and rests her head on her hands. The vampire behind her stirs and mumbles something. She can't muster enough energy to reply to him and he stops moving. She's thirsty and tired, her head aches, but she can't make herself decide to go and buy some food and drink. She doesn't have any money on her; she didn't have her purse when she was snatched away from her friends.

The only thing to do is get back on the road and drive, back on the black ribbon that stretches all the way to Cleveland. She doesn't know where she is now, she's never had a head for distances or geography, it's just this dry and arid place, white from the glare of the sun, cars the only thing that give brief color to the landscape. She sits up and drives on.

Buffy waits as long as she can to replenish the gas. It's getting colder already. She buys water and food with Spike's money. No soda or hamburgers, just plain water and apples. She wants to be light as air, as insubstantial as she can, not weighted down with meat and starch. The feeling is familiar from when she Slayed, the later years, when not eating was a kind of power game she played with her body, to see if the Slayer energy diminished when she did, like she wants to be ready for take-off when the moment comes. She did fly once, jumping straight into that vortex swirling below Glory's tower, and secretly she'd like to try again. Snow starts at first powdering and then thickly covering the side of the road, and she goes on until she can drive no longer; she stops the car and feels herself falling, flying towards sleep spread out like a black landscape beneath her.

*

When she wakes up it's dark and Spike is driving again. She feels awful, dried out and headachy, thirty-two rather than twenty-three. She sneaks a peek at Spike at the wheel and marvels that she mistook him for her Spike for even a second. There's a wildness about him, a lack of containment that she thinks she remembers from meeting him long ago. But she can't be sure. It's not as if she paid a lot of attention to the original Spike at first. She does remember taunting him in the bathtub, all chained up and chalky pale with poor feeding, but even then he was stripped of real power. Or what he perceived to be his power, his ability to kill. There is no point in engaging this one in conversation. It's just hard to feel herself react to his face or a casual touch of his hand or the flare of his duster. She hopes her guts will catch up with her brain sometime soon.

When he mentions food and a shower she practically slavers and wags her tail, so goodbye to staunch Buffy. She'd do almost anything to feel clean and taste a hamburger. They get off the road and check in at a motel. She has to put on all her Cleveland clothes again and her nose almost freezes off in the thirty feet to the motel office, her boots crunching snow with loud crackling sounds. Middle America weather is back. It's pretty clear what the clerk thinks when Spike asks for a room for a couple of hours and lots of towels, but she doesn't care.

She hesitates when she steps into the stuffy room with its bland ugly furniture and synthetic carpet. A motel room is so cheap, she thinks. And yet all Spike and she ever did was fuck in his crypt or outside. She fingers the slippery maroon polyester sheets. Spike's sheets were cream and of a good quality cotton. They almost never used them.

"No time to sleep," the other Spike says brusquely. "Grabbing a shower and eating is all we're gonna do. You shower first."

He leaves and Buffy is grateful for his tact. It's vaguely embarrassing to be in one room with him if there's a bed. The bathroom is barely clean, with strips of mold so thick she's almost afraid they'll tear themselves off the wall and attack her, but the shower is heavenly. 

She's wrung out her hair and is trying to dry it with the inadequate dryer they've screwed to the wall here when Spike comes back in. He's wiping his face with his sleeve and the first thing Buffy thinks is that his manners are awful. Then the realization that he's been hunting hits her, that he's killed a person while she was blithely showering! The dryer whuffs jerkily next to her ear as she sinks down on the bed and stares at him.

"What?" he says, mildly irritated. He has a sated, lustful look on his face, lips full and eyes at half-mast, that she only knows after sex, in that minute before she kicked it off his face with her words or her fists. He flings a jacket and some other items of clothing on a chair.

"Brought you some warm things to wear, Slayer."

She can hardly speak, anger and betrayal clog her throat. "Did you rape before you killed her, or after? Was she Dawn's age?"

He lifts an eyebrow while he's shrugging out of his duster. "Didn't have time for fucking the food, love. Who's Dawn?"

She watches, paralyzed with choices, while he undresses nonchalantly and walks buck naked to the shower, swaggering and sleek. She stares but doesn't see him. She ought to stake him right now. He's a killer. She knew this in theory, but she's never seen the reality of it this close. When he was manipulated by the First, the bodies rising in the cellar were horrific, but she didn't feel him kill them as she feels the loss of the unknown life right now. She should have known he wasn't letting her shower out of chivalry, it was just practicality. He kills, she showers; he showers, she has a hamburger. Jesus, who knows how many people he killed just now?

The dryer dies in her hand. It needs another coin. She stares stupidly at it and stomps off to the bath room, stake in hand. She's gotta do something or she'll explode. She opens the door he hasn't bothered locking and freezes on the threshold. Spike hasn't bothered with trivialities like shower curtains. He's hanging lazily against the shower wall, cream against the blotched white, eyes closed against the water, his hands lazily stroking his erect cock. Buffy sees a tiny splatter of blood on his neck bleed down quietly, pinking a trickle of water and then getting lost in the fall of water running over his chest.

She's staring, heart clenching at this sight, and knows she won't be able to put a stake through those languidly bunching chest muscles. She's lost it, it's official. Her friends were right after all, she is blind to Spike, and she probably couldn't kill him if she saw him drink a victim right in front of her nose. She turns away, putting the stake in her pocket again, she needs to think. All her instincts are overset, they are too stupid to keep her Spike and this one apart, and her brain has never been a reliable guide.

"Leaving already, Slayer? Thought you were going to lend me a hand..." Spike drawls after her.

Yeah, yeah, enough with the innuendo already. She finds no funny quip ready on her tongue and makes do with slamming the door. The situation is impossible. She's on a road trip with a serial killer and she's just been letting it happen. From the moment he said they were leaving for Cleveland until now she's just tagged along behind him. It has to stop. 

She tries to think over her options. She could dust him right now and drive on to Cleveland on her own. She'd have to take his money before it dusted with him, though, or she'll never get there. Does she need him? The trip will go slower without him, that's for sure. And didn't she just decide she couldn't dust a Spike, however evil? Might as well bow to the inevitable and let him whisk her to Cleveland with all possible speed. One they get there, when or if they manage to locate the vortex spiral, will be soon enough to have another try at killing him. 

And really, this is another world. The weight of her own world was a heavy enough burden to bear, has had her on her knees and occasionally with her nose in the dust, and she's just learning how to stand up straight again and not doing a very good job of it yet. The Slayer of this world is the one to take care of this Spike, and her responsibility is to get back to Dawn in one piece. Crystal clear, if you just take a moment to check it out. If she can't prevent him from killing for ever after, at least she can see to it that he doesn't kill anymore in her presence.

Spike ambles out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel and not bothering to have one around his hips. Of course she looks, why shouldn't she? She'll just have to add one resolve extra to her new little stack, and that is not falling for the lure of this Spike's hot little body. That said, his dick is still half hard from his jacking off in the shower, and it makes her feel tingly, which is kind of shameful. How pathetic is it that she had no trouble at all keeping her hands off a Spike who was living in her basement, for God's sake, and yet this one is just oozing edibility? Best not think that thorough, or she'll like herself even less.

Spike dresses while she watches. He rakes his hands through his wet curls with a sigh and she guesses he wants gel to flatten it down. He never could be persuaded that the curls are cuter. She refrains from saying this. 

"Let's get your dinner, Slayer."

"I'm not made up," she grumbles but complies. She's made her resolve now, she's gotta be strong to see it through. And she'll have to get some clothes at the next stop, because it's just awful to be wearing these totally smelly old ones. Vamps don't sweat, but she does.

At the B-rated hamburger place across the road she demolishes her burger with gusto. Spike smiles.

"You tear into that burger like it's a pumping artery, Slayer. Some things don't change."

What does he know? She hasn't eaten this much in years.

Spike plays with a cigarette but doesn't light it, which would get him kicked out in no time. Very cool and controlled for Spike, she thinks. Must be the Master thing that's taught him patience like this, or maybe he always had it. She wouldn't know, after all.

"So," he begins, "why don't you tell me a bit about your world. I think the branching off point is your not killing Dru, right?"

Buffy nods, too busy eating to reply just yet.

"Why didn't you?"

That's a good one. She tries to cast her mind back to that moment in the underground club, holding Dru at ransom to get the clueless vampire groupies out.

She swallows a big bite. "I guess I saw your reaction to Drusilla. And I knew some of what Angel did to her, and maybe I felt a little bit sorry for her."

Spike snorts. "Just because she was driven insane by Angel and Darla before they raped and killed her doesn't mean she wasn't a killer, love. All vampires were human once, remember? Doesn't make us any less evil."

Buffy chews on that while she demolishes her second burger. "I know. You started out a sensitive Mama's boy, William, and still you got to rank pretty high on the Evil Top One Hundred."

Spike preens a little. "That I did. Do." He puts the cigarette on his lips and absentmindedly pats his pocket before he remembers and lays it on the plastic daisy patterned table cloth. He's making a little daisy himself, from cutlery and salt shakers, and the cigarette makes a petal. Buffy looks at it in wonder. Geez.

"And how can you be sure Dru is still around? Or did we stay in Sunnydale all those years, same as I did?"

Buffy thinks deeply and takes a few big swallows from her nice cold Coke. "You helped me defeat Angelus because you wanted her back, and then you left..."

Spike's hands grip the pepper shaker hard. Oh, bad boy, I could cut you to the quick..."What? Wanted her back? From who?"

"Angel...Angelus I mean. You were in a wheel chair. I dropped an organ on you after you captured Angel to restore Dru to health."

"Ah! So that panned out then!" Spike nods in satisfaction.

"Uh-huh. Well, I understood from you she was kind of too fond of her Daddy..."

Spike growls and his fingers tear eight little holes in the long-suffering table cloth.

"And?"

"I saw you again a year later, when Dru had dumped you for a Chaos Demon. Then you returned to Sunnydale for..." She just manages to swallow "the gem of Amara." She's not responsible for this world, true, but to let loose a Spike in it who's invincible would still be a very bad idea. "....and got captured by the Initiative soldiers..."

"Must have been out of my mind," Spike grumbles. 

"Dru returned to Sunnydale a year later, with burns on her face, and tried to get you back. But you'd fallen in love with me by then and offered to stake her for my loving you in return."

Spike looks as if he's swallowed something bad. "I find that bloody hard to believe. Why the hell would I fall in love with a Slayer?"

"You tried killing me first," Buffy says pointedly, kind of enjoying this. "Many times. But you failed."

"Huh."

Buffy looks up and away, trying to think how to phrase this. "Time passed. You tried to rape me in my own bathroom and felt so bad about it you went and got a soul."

Spike curls his lip. "In your own bathroom? How'd I get in then? You must have invited me! And I don't rape Slayers, I kill them in honorable battle."

"Yeah, well. You lost it for a few, I guess. It was a bad thing to do, and you repented. You got your soul, went crazy, became sane, and sacrificed yourself to defeat the First Evil and the Turok Han from the Hellmouth. Sunnydale slid into a great big crater, end of story."

Spike looks gobsmacked. "That's just...rubbish. I would never do any of those things. Don't even know what they are."

Buffy shrugs. "Get your head around this: you loved me. A lot. Everything follows from that. Weren't you the same with Drusilla? Love's bitch?"

"Hey!" Spike says, pointing his finger at her. "You don't get to say that"

Buffy shrugs again and thinks about a third hamburger, but decides on a milk shake. Chocolate. She's not vanilla girl anymore. Spike gets one too, and they slurp up the frothy stuff in tandem. Buffy smiles, imagining how they must look, Slayer and vampire drinking from straws together, like skewed mirror images. It's a sad smile, because this is the wrong vampire.

"I loved you, you say," Spike says pensively and licks a drop of milkshake from his lips. "And you never loved me back, but you still kept me around all these years and didn't stake me?"

"Uh, yeah. Basically."

Spike watches the Slayer slurp hard to get the last dregs of her milkshake out of the cup. She glows from the shower and all that food she gobbled up, and she's looking very attractive and edible. He won't eat her, though. He's gonna kill her in a fair fight, and leave her dead. There's a Drusilla in her world, and he owes her for that. Still, he doesn't quite believe her story. It's too farfetched to be completely fabricated, but he's betting she's leaving a lot of stuff out. 

She flicks him one of those absentminded but assessing looks. He thinks she's comparing him to the other Spike, and she keeps on doing it, probably without knowing it. Didn't love Spike back, huh? He knows she was hot for Angelus before he turned her, so it's not that far off the mark for this Slayer to go for a vampire, but still. Odd. 

"So, what do you do all day? What does a Master Vampire occupy his time with?"

The Slayer is looking at him with a little devil in her eyes, taunting him a bit. It's almost like flirting. He likes it, even if she is the Slayer. Always her way, it is, getting in a quip rather than a kick. Although she was mighty fond of the kicking and the killing, too.

"Oh, you know, what does a man do? Hunt and feed at night, make up tasks for the minions, keep them good and scared."

"And by day?"

"Sleep, watch telly, fool around with the girls."

"How about making evil plans, ending the world?"

"What? I'm in it for the fun, love, not serving on someone's evil agenda." Christ. Who does she think he is, Hitler? What gave her such a skewed idea of what a vamp wants? His milksop alter ego he supposes. Can't imagine what got him into rooting for apocalypses, though.

"So you just kill for the thrill of the hunt and to feed?"

'Yeah. What other reasons are there?"

She shrugs. "I thought you might have dreams of killing and terrorizing whole cities..."

"Terrorizing sounds just dandy, pet, but no point in killing off the whole population, is there? The idea is to keep the humans oblivious, fat and happy, and then cull the herd."

"Cull? Ew. Thanks for making me feel like a cow. But I get it. The Happy Meals on Legs thing."

Nice turn of phrase, he admits. She sighs and tosses her hair. The light catches the vampire bite on her neck. He reaches over the table and touches the mark.

"That looks like one of Angelus's. Did you enjoy it?"

She freezes and looks at him like a frightened rabbit. He traces his thumb over her jaw and turns her head the other way. His finger finds another raised pair of bite marks. 

"Turn a bit more into the light, love."

To his surprise, she does. He gets up so he can see and feel the mark better. He bends over and gives it a lick before she knows what's happening to her.

He sits back, greatly surprised. "Drac? You do get around, Slayer. Are there any famous vampires who didn't get a piece of you?"

A lovely flush, hot blood flooding to her cheeks, she looks utterly bitable at that moment.

"Just you," she says between clenched teeth.

"Ah."

Curiouser and curiouser. She rallies quickly though and gets back at him with an unerring stab at the wrinklies.

"Do you have a regular girlfriend?"

"None of your business."

"Do you still miss her? Drusilla?"

"What's this? Twenty questions? And a fine thing it is, you asking about her, when you were the one who killed her!"

He subsides and rubs his eyes. No, she wasn't. Still can't get his head around that bit. Or his heart, rather.

"So," she continues, "the Buffy in this world and you are not an item?"

"Christ, no. She's my minion. Won't say we haven't fucked occasionally, but she's not my type. Straight-laced little black and white bitch, she is."

The Slayer flushes again at that. Ha. He looks down at his hands to hide his smirk and sees he's been shredding the straw in to a little daisy shape.  He crumples it and stuffs it in his paper cup.

"Do you make a lot of minions?"

"No," he says curtly. "Never liked doing that. Lot of bother, they are."

He needs to get back on topic. Hellmouths and whole towns sliding into a big hole, was it?

She nods understandingly and goes on, oblivious of his sudden fidgets. "Because of what happened with your mom. I get that."

He almost rips her head off right then and there. The paper cup crumples under his fists and he needs to get out of here now before he smashes the whole place. "You know nothing about me and my mother. Shut up."

He stalks out of the diner, Slayer irritatingly close on his heels, still yapping away.

"She loved you, you know. That was just the demon talking."

He throws himself behind the wheel and tears out of the parking lot, although the slippery bits of snow almost make them spin against a row of cars. The Slayer barely has time to close the door behind her. He can't believe she knows all that. He'd never so much as mentioned his mother to Drusilla again, who probably thought that was a good thing. His other self must have bared his soul to her, the git, laid it belly up and quivering below her feet. And he just knew she'd kicked it, taken a pleasure in grinding her heels into his soft underbelly. She's like that. And it wasn't true what she'd said. People are the same after they'd been vamped, just minus the inhibitions; she's a prime example herself. Righteous little Slayer, righteous little vamp.

Although here she is, looking cold and disapproving, but not so righteous that she isn't prepared to go gray by traveling with him for days. He shakes his head and stares at the road. If she opens her mouth he doesn't know what he'll do. Kill her probably. Bitch.

It's starting to snow again, and visibility gets worse and worse. The Slayer doesn't pay the roiling snowflakes much attention and starts yawning. After a bit of that she crawls over to the backseat. He eyes her curvy bum so close to his face and contemplates fucking it, sliding in and out that hot little cunt, but it's hard to imagine doing that without thinking of feeding. The Slayer removes the bum from his field of vision. She starts tossing and turning to find a comfortable spot and he hopes she drops off quick. 

The snow is turning into a snowstorm now and driving slows to a crawl. They won't make Cleveland tomorrow at this rate. Sodding snow. Slayer almost made him feel like a domesticated idiot staying in California for so along, but there's good reason not to spend winters in Middle America. Iowa, hurry on up and slide by faster. Adair, Stuart, DeSoto. Hey.

At about five o'clock in the morning, when he hasn't covered more than 200 miles in seven hours, the engine gives up. He's an idiot, hanging on to an old car like that. He should have let the minions steal a new one, a SUV or something. Bugger. He's in the middle of nowhere, the last town twenty miles or so back. Not a car in sight, not a farm, nothing but roiling white closing in around the car, making the world small and confined. The Slayer snores on, oblivious. He lets her sleep. Fat lot of help she'll be in a bind like this.

He gets out of the car and roots around in the trunk. He thinks he remembers seeing a road map there a couple of years back. He does find it, but it's dated 1979 and has almost disintegrated. The only other things in the boot are an old burgundy velvet dress of Drusilla's that gives him a painful pang in the region where his heart used to be, and a blood spattered axe. He can't remember whom he killed with it.

He trudges back to the car. His short extravehicular activity has rendered him stone cold and covered in snow. The map is useless, not enough fine detail to make a guess at small towns or outlying farms nearby. He checks out the Slayer, who's curling up into a tight ball and shivering in her sleep. He tosses the dress over her shoulders, but knows it won't do much good in the long run. It must be below zero out there and she'll die if they don't get somewhere warm, because there's no telling how long the storm is going to last.

An hour till sunrise. He'll be safe from the sun as long as the snowfall continues, and he can always burrow into the snow if the sun decides to make an appearance. They have to strike out now, before the cold starts to get to the Slayer and renders her unable to walk.

He bends over to the back seat and shakes her awake. She gives him that unnerving sweet smile again before she's completely awake, then starts frowning and withdraws from his hands.

"Is it time already? It's still dark."

"The car broke down," he says. "We have to get walking before you freeze to death."

She's slow to take this in. "What?"

She looks outside and sees the white wall of snow and wind bearing down on them. "Shit. Can't you fix the car? We can't go out in this, we'll die."

"You'll die for sure if you stay in the car. If we walk you have a chance."

"Can't we wait for help? Can't you phone in or something?"

He just raises his eyebrows and looks at her. She sighs. "No cell phone, I guess. Mr. Technologically Challenged."

He fishes the cell phone out of his pocket and holds it up to her. Its battery is empty. He never had the car loader installed like he meant to.

She grimaces and rubs her face. Finally, she nods. "Okay."

She dons the stolen jacket, hat and mittens without another word on their being looted from a person he just killed. Very sensible of her. He gets back around the car and roots in the trunk for the piece of rope he noticed but didn't have any use for five minutes ago. He ties it around his waist and the Slayer's, despite her protests at being treated like a dog or a toddler.

Spike sets off on the road. He's betting on seeing a signpost for a town or a farm within a few miles. The map makes it seem as if this part of Iowa is scattered with small towns, and he hopes scattered doesn't mean fifty miles apart. It doesn't matter. Sitting in that car growing colder by the minute is sure death for the Slayer and he hasn't given up hope of reaching Cleveland sometime this week. 

After a minute or so of leaning into the howling wall of the blizzard he turns around to see how far they've got. He can't see the car anymore. The Slayer bumps into him and sputters a bit about it, but he's concentrating too hard to pay attention to her. They have to stay on the road or perish. 

There is no time anymore. There is just a faint rhythmic strengthening and abating to the onslaught of snow in his face, as if the wind is a frosty giant's breath, a giant who needs to inhale every now and then. Hundreds of these polar breaths have gone by when he bumps into something. He can't see a thing; it's either still night or he is snow-blind, but his hands feel the shape of a mailbox. A strip of skin tears off, he shouldn't have touched the metal thing, but he doesn't feel it. He takes a sharp right and strides south into the white maw of nothingness, hoping the farmer has put his drive at a perfect straight angle to the road. The Slayer trips and falls when the rope tangles with the mailbox post. They are both slow and stupid and it takes a while before they're straightened out again.

Spike's set his mind far ahead, expecting a long traipse, so the sudden appearance of a screened porch about six feet from his face is a surprise.

He raps sharply on the door. Only then do the Slayer's mitts land on his back.

"Why are we stopping?" 

He can hardly understand what she's saying, her teeth are rattling so hard. She must be seeing even less than he is.

"There's a farm here. We're going to ask for shelter."

The Slayer, who he thought was practically comatose, yanks on his duster lapels and brings his face close to hers. He can't see much of her except the lilac tip of her nose, but she's probably directing a stern, forbidding expression at him.

"One thing, Spike! You're not eating these people, understood? I want your word of honor on this. And let me do the talking."

"You think I didn't learn some tricks to get in a house in the past hundred-odd years?"

She snorts. "Do you have any idea what you look like right now? Bela Lugosi looked healthy next to you."

"Hey! You check the color of that Barbra Streisand thing on your face lately? It's probably frozen and it's gonna turn black and drop off!"

For a moment he thinks she's gonna cry, and it would be interesting to see what would happen with tears in this temperature. She shakes her head and lifts her nose higher. She'd be almost cute if she didn't remind him so much a certain vampire named Buffy. Spike, we need to concentrate on doing serious evil. Spike, we're not in it for fun and games. He is his own man, evil to the core, and no little chit is going to tell him otherwise.

"And you'd accept my word, Slayer? How come?"

"I've seen you keep it," she says levelly.

How strange that she'd trust him. He really ought to disabuse her of trusting vampires, for her own good, but he nods and holds up his hand, which is an interesting shade of blue gray.

In spite of her fighting words the Slayer is so weary that he's practically propping her up. Her threats don't pack much punch now. Still she insists on pretending to take charge.

"Is there anything else about this world I need to know? Is America still America? Not invaded by demons or anything?"

"Bit late with that, aren't you? No, I defeated and killed everything that might have ended the world, and I think I would have noticed if it had."

The inner door is opened and securely closed behind a thickset man in pajamas, a robe and a down jacket. He opens the screen door and looks down at them.

"What have we here?"

"Sir?" the Slayer says politely, although the effect is a bit ruined by her stiff cheeks and chattering teeth. "Our car broke down. Could we please use your phone and wait inside for the tow truck?"

"Tow truck?" The farmer looks at them as if they're insane. "Ain't no truck gonna come out and rescue you in this weather. Come on in, I wouldn't leave a dog outside in this." He hands them a sturdy brush. "Here. Get that snow off you so you don't ruin the carpet."

"Does this mean you can get in the whole house now?" the Slayer hisses at him in an undertone. Single-minded, that's what she is. Thinking like the Slayer even in a situation like this, although you could call them rescued by now, he reckoned.

"Mother!" the man calls out. "We've got visitors!"

The clock in the hall strikes eight o'clock. It's a scary thought that he hasn't even been able to tell that the sun has long since risen. A stout woman, comfortably bundled up in trousers and a thick home-knit sweater pads down to them. Her beady eyes rake him over critically. He looks away from her inquisitive gaze, not caring to reveal his predatory eye, and surreptitiously inhales the musty lived-in smell of the house. Doesn't seem to be more than two people living here, middle-aged people, cough drops, liniments, yesterday's cooking, and a faint trace of incense.

"I'm Nancy Andersen, and that fool man over there, because I bet he hasn't introduced himself yet, is John." She waits for a few seconds and then asks, with a hint of asperity, "And what are your names?"

"I'm Buffy Summers and this is...Spike," the Slayer says quickly.

"Hi, Mr. Summers, hi, Buffy."

This trick seldom fails, and the presence of the Slayer only makes it more believable. People always let stranded travelers in their houses, especially if there is bad weather, and many were the farmers who'd regretted letting him and Dru in. Andersen looks at him sharply and distrustfully, no doubt because bleached hair and black leather aren't exactly acceptable outside of New York, but he can distrust all he want, there's nothing the man can do now, he's in. Too bad he's so old. Doesn't seem like there are any nubile daughters, and him a veal kind of man. Not that the Slayer will let him, and he promised. He still can't believe that she accepted his word, but the worst is that he knows he'll keep it.

Spike brushes the snow off her, and she does the same for him. It's curiously intimate. She leans on his shoulder while he lifts one of her boots to get the snow off the soles, her mittened hand receiving impressions of creaking leather and a solid shoulder as through a layer of cotton wool. Her own shoulder is gripped securely by his big hand, the touch of which she remembers well, but she doesn't feel the cold of it through her stolen jacket and thick layers underneath. It's matter of fact, and he's not smirking or nudging her with his elbow or anything, but it's as personal as a kiss.

She and the real Spike had that together for a few short months, before every touch became scintillating and dangerous. And then afterwards, her Spike never came this close to her again all the time he lived in her basement. Even when they slept against each other he kept his hands away and the moment she got up the distance was back. In fact, it never left, she sees that now, and she's getting a glimmer why he didn't believe her when she said she loved him. Their hands coming together and bursting into flame was the most intimate thing they did. The other Spike doesn't sense any of this, she's sure of that, he's not shy or contained around her, and if she reminds him of vampire Buffy it doesn't seem to set off any embarrassment or great feeling. Which is kind of sad in itself. Poor other Buffy. As if Spike is the only person in the world who can offer her this enormous all-defying love, and if he doesn't there's nothing.

Mrs. Andersen escorts them to her guestroom, a plain space with a wooden floor and throw rugs. There's just one bed in it. Buffy doesn't think that would be a good idea at all, and turns to Mrs. Andersen, but Spike's iron grip on her upper arm halts her. 

"We're much more innocuous when we're a couple instead of people traveling together," he hisses in her ear.

Buffy doubts this, but as Mrs. Andersen babbles on about hot showers and is putting out towels and spare clothes on the bed the right moment slips by.

She gathers up the acid-washed narrow-ankled jeans and check shirt that have been laid out for her and walks briskly after Mrs. Andersen to the bathroom. This is going to be so weird, sharing a room with evil Spike, whom she doesn't even know, and pretending to be his wife? Rampant ickiness. She checks her face in the mirror and has to conclude Spike was right about her nose. It's now bright red and itches. Very attractive, especially with the icicles of snot melting and running down. On the other hand, it's a good and safe thing to tone down any attraction around him. There be worms in the shoals of physical attraction to any Spike. She showers, relaxing in the heat and realizing she's both hungry and sleepy. Spike should be hungry too. Crap, Spike's without her supervision right now. He could have eaten Mrs. Andersen while she's been showering. She dresses hastily, seeing by her reflection that a too big check shirt and dark circles under her eyes do nothing for her looks.

Spike's lounging naked in the wicker chair, a feat of endurance in itself, smoking slowly and pensively. There are no bloodstains or drained bodies lying around. Just to be sure she asks.

"What are you going to eat, Spike?"

He lifts heavy lids over eyes that are bluer than the smoke of his cigarette.

"Making the difficult choice between chicken and mice, unless you're offering? Thought not. That is if they have a chicken coop."

Buffy doesn't know what to say. I'm glad you didn't eat our hostess sounds lame. Maybe he will keep his word.

"Don't they have cows or sheep or something?"

"This is Iowa, love, they're farming grain. Might have a couple of heads of cattle for the milk, perhaps, but not great big herds like you're imagining."

"I'm imagining nothing, Spike. The only worthwhile knowledge I have is about slaying and shopping," she says bitterly.

"Self pity doesn't become you, Slayer," Spike answers unfeelingly. "Have you no pride in what you are?"

He gets up to leave for the bathroom stark naked.

"I see you have big plans for Mrs. Andersen," Buffy remarks.

Spike gets a faintly revolted look on his face and rolls his eyes. "You act like we're actually married," he complains, but dons a towel. "D'you miss it so much, fussing over your pet vampire? Did you hold his willy for him when he had to pee? "

He leaves the room with the broad swagger of a man who knows he's scored a hit. Buffy wonders for a few moments if she should follow him and make sure he doesn't eat anyone, but her instincts are completely dormant on the subject and mostly nudge her to go down and have breakfast. Enticing odors of fried sugary dough are wafting up and she's hoping for waffles or pancakes. Her search for a dryer yields nothing, and she braids her wet hair to get it out of her face. 

Buffy finally ventures down the stairs on her thickly stockinged feet. Mom and Pop are already waiting for her at the breakfast table.

"You hungry?" Mrs. Andersen smiles her pearly white dentures at her and indicates a chair. 

Strangely enough, when you think that the last thing she did before falling asleep was eat, she is. She nods silently, and watches the homely comforting actions of Mrs. Andersen's hands, which pour coffee for her in a flowered mug and deposit a stack of pancakes on her plate. There's a carafe of maple syrup, she sees. She really wants blueberry, but something tells this is a one-syrup household.

She's halfway through her stack when Spike comes down and slides in next to her, smelling of wet hair and cheap shampoo. Waves of fabric softener waft up from his blue and white plaid shirt. He looks smaller and more harmless in the farmer get-up; even his face seems blander than before. She looks closely and registers the absence of eyeliner, which makes the blue of his eyes less noticeable and dramatic. His hair's bubbling off his head in unlikely lemon sorbet curls, which she last remembers from an insane basement moment.

Mrs. Andersen pours him coffee, but he refuses the pancakes, which is no great surprise.

"I'll just eat a bit off Buffy's plate."

His refusal to eat is met with frowns and disapproval.

"Son, you need to eat in this cold," Mr. Andersen tells him bluntly. "You're pale and skinny as it is. I'm sure the missus would like to see some meat on your bones."

For some inane reason Buffy blushes fierily at this remark, and covers up her confusion and irritation at her own blood vessels making fun of her by reaching for her coffee mug. It doesn't exactly smell like her favorite frappaccino, but it'll have to do.

Mrs. Andersen's sharp eyes rest on her. "You're not wearing a ring, honey. You two are married, you said?"

Another flush makes her sweat in her borrowed flannels. Next to her Spike makes a tiny sound of exasperation, which she knows only she recognizes, and puts his hand over hers. Thank god he's not wearing polish, she thinks, but below these sane thoughts another Buffy howls in anguish and tears up. Her hand twitches under his but he keeps it in place.

"We needed the money," he tells the Andersens ambiguously. 

Buffy admires this. They can make up their own interpretation whether this was before or after the wedding, and the subject is so delicate they will likely not touch on it again. And she's right, an uncomfortable silence falls, disturbed only by the irregular ticking and whirring of an old clock somewhere in another room. The overly sweet sauce and the fatty textureless pancakes are making her nauseous but she can't stop eating, it's like a void inside her needs filling. She peers surreptitiously around her while she eats on, but the room is so bland there is nothing for the eyes to rest on. Everything the Andersen's have is generic, owned by millions of people across the country, the patterned plates, the dishcloths, the toaster. 

There is only one thing missing and after another pancake she realizes it's music. There ought to be some kind of bland pop noise in the background, but there's only the clock, the buzz of the old model fridge and the furtive eating and moving sounds people make in a quiet room. She wishes they would turn the radio on but after practicing several requests for it she realizes that the storm is probably blocking all transmissions anyway.

She out-eats Xander in the pancake stakes and manages to finish the mug of coffee. It does nothing for her alertness. Her head is blanketed in snow and in spite of all the sugar and caffeine nothing much makes an impression any more. She can't hide her yawns and Mrs. Andersen sends her to bed. 

"Sorry I can't offer you anything to occupy you, Spike," Mr. Andersen says. "I'm up to my ears in  taxes and I already fed the pigs. Best get some rest as well."

Buffy slowly climbs back to her bedroom. Her socks slide silently on the polished wooden stairs and it's almost impossible to lift her foot to the next rung of the stairs. It takes an age for her hand to descend on the railing and she doesn't feel wood under her hand but felt or a thick moldy layer of decay. She decides to stop, she wants to turn around and tell Spike they have to get out of here, snow storm or not, but her feet go on doggedly ascending, almost obscured from her line of vision by a wisp of hair that swings in front of her eyes. 

There is the guestroom door, a darkly stained affair with a red heart and the word 'Marilyn' fixed to it. Her hand comes up and presses the handle. Stumbling and yawning she shucks off her clothes, put on only an hour ago, and slides the flannel nightgown Mrs. Andersen has thoughtfully left for her over her head. The blue gingham sheets are cool and welcoming and she wriggles under the thick covers luxuriously. Sleep, just what she needs. She's so tired, although why this would be so when she slept away most of the night in the car she doesn't know. Maybe that trek in the snow took a lot out of her. 

Spike slides in next to her, yawning just like she is and there's something not quite right about that, but she can't think what. He nestles against her back and falls asleep immediately. Buffy hangs on to consciousness by sheer force of will, fighting for another few seconds to think about this, but she feels so safe, so very safe that she lets go. Her dreams are ready and waiting for her.

There are little blue checks all around her, braids swinging, and so is her axe. She smoothes her little white apron and casts around for someone to kill. Oh, hey, there's Spike. For someone reason she never got around to killing him before, and it's totally okay because he's a vampire. She hefts the axe high and brings it down on his sleeping neck with a satisfying crack. Two more chops and it's done. There is very little blood. He wakes up, winks at her and blows out his last sigh theatrically. So typical, always tries to get in the last word, even when it's clear she's won.

"Won't be enough, you know," Spike remarks conversationally from behind her. 

He fastidiously swirls the duster closer around himself to avoid the blood that is fountaining up from his other body. There is suddenly a lot of blood spraying around and she looks at her little white apron in dismay. It's now a little red apron. 

Spike tweaks her left breast casually and lights a fag. "I'll just wake up again and start over. No keeping me down, pet."

He's up in every sense of the word, that's true. She might as well since her apron is stained anyway. With a sigh she cranks his engine, going on patiently until the engine starts with a great roar and he's off to the horizon.

Well, that was different. Still, ultimately not very satisfying, like most dreams. A girl likes to get her hands on some real meat, after all. No matter how many baloney sandwiches you eat in a dream, you still wake up hungry.

The sun sets and Spike wakes up, deliciously warm, pressed up against a softly breathing bundle of blood and bones. This is the kind of waking up he likes. Breakfast in bed. The tremor of blood rushing under Buffy's silky skin is tantalizing, and his hard-on against her flannel-covered bum makes for a perfect combination. Spike decides that he's going to keep his prey alive a little longer in the future now and then, just for the pleasure of waking up like this. He buries his nose deeper in her fragrant hair and gives an experimental lick along the top of her spine. Buffy sighs softly but doesn't wake up. He starts to pull up the long nightgown, softly humping his cock between the cleft of her buttocks. He can hear her heart rate accelerate, she's going to wake up any moment now, he'd better be quick. The gown bunches around her middle and he slides in a finger first to test the waters. She's wet and shivers around his finger. With a start she wakes up.

"Wha?"

Fuzzy and sweet. He might just get lucky. Then a Slayer-powered elbow in his solar plexus disabuses him of that notion and he sits back laughing and coughing at the same time.

"Thought you wouldn't let me get this far, Slayer. You sleep pretty deeply. What were you dreaming of?"

She's beet-red and almost speechless with fury.

"How dare you? How dare you?"

He grins and leans back in the pillows, well aware of the picture he makes against the gingham sheets. He pushes down the comforter and takes his hard cock in his hand, pleasantly stimulated by the glare of the blushing Slayer, so angry she gives off waves of heat against his sensitive skin. She gapes at him.

"You're going to do that right next to me? Are you out of your mind?"

He thinks briefly and shakes his head. "Don't think so. Got to get my jollies some way, don't I, now that you're not obliging?"

"'You're the crassest, crudest, most insensitive thing ever!" she stammers out and flounces out of the bed angrily, flashing him some golden thigh and cheeks.

"You've known me for, what, six years, and you haven't come to that conclusion yet?

"I guess not!" she says with averted head and bangs off, in search of the bathroom he supposes.

It's easy to imagine the velvet heat he'd felt around his finger for a moment around his dick instead and he's shooting into his hand when the Slayer storms back in, shouting something and yanking on his arm.

"Stop playing with yourself, Spike, something's wrong. The lights don't work and there is no hot water or anything."

He glances up and blinks a few times to get his eyes to focus. The room is lit, but not by the fringed lamp overhead. The drapes aren't drawn, and outside all is black and grey whirling endlessly around itself. A glow seems to emanate from the walls and floors themselves. He just needs a moment to get back some control over his limbs and then he'll get up and kill somebody.

"Let's get dressed, Spike. I've got a feeling about this. How come we slept the day away? And us in one bed? That never would have happened if I'd been normally tired."

She's right about that. He gets out of bed and reaches for his borrowed clothes. He turns around to watch Buffy dress; Slayer's too distracted to care about showing off just about everything to him. Nothing he hasn't seen many times before, but it's different when it's a live body and can blush in shame or arousal.

She catches him looking and turns around angrily. Her bottom is just as edible as her tits and it's nice to get a good eyeful, but it's mightily strange that the idea of staking him never seems to cross her mind. After all, he never sleeps without a stake nearby in case one of his minions gets uppity, and her alter ego is the one he's most wary of. It's an odd sensation to be trusted so much. He doesn't think it's ever happened to him before. It's not a good thing, mind you, makes a bloke soft, makes him weak. The only person you can trust is yourself.

The Slayer comes up to him and thrusts her hand in his left pocket, an action so surprising he almost takes it for an attack and is whirling halfway across the room preparing for a kick when he sees her bemused face and her hand holding up his lighter.

"Geez, Spike, jumpy much? I thought we might need this in case the magic lighting fails."

"Right! Good thinking, Slayer," he says, a little embarrassed. Crazy bint. Knows what he keeps in his pocketses, even, if that doesn't mean they had a thing he'll eat his hat. "You'll be needing the light, while I will be able to see everything."

"Yeah," she says, distracted. She's staring down at her feet, where, now that she's alerted him to it, her own tracks can be seen crisscrossing each other in a thick layer of velvety dust. "Ew. How about the bed?" She steps over to it and slaps the comforter. Great clouds of dust billow up and a hole appears in the cover. It disintegrates under her hand. "And I slept under that? How come I didn't freeze to death?"

"That's because I was keeping you warm," he says quickly. "Foregoing my natural disgust at sleeping with a human being for the mission."

"Hah. Keeping me warm with the heat of your ice cold vampire feet? I don't think so."

They've started moving as they speak, and he holds the door for her automatically. She stops and crosses her arm across her chest.

"Just this once I'll allow you to go first, Spike. Be my guest."

Well, well, who's being all perky and witty here? A far cry from the tired woman who sat next to him, slumped and despondent. Adversity agrees with her. Which surprises Spike, because he got the distinct impression she was fed up with being a Slayer and all.

He concentrates on his awareness of the old house surrounding them. He senses no people close by, no animals, nothing living as far as his ears and nose can reach. The bare boards on the landing creak and they both freeze. But there is no reaction whatsoever, neither in the physical world nor in the blanket of magic he can feel covering the house.

The stairs bitch and moan like a whole batch of tortured souls but they've both stopped reacting to it by now. Downstairs the same glow lights the hallway and they split up to check the other rooms without needing to discuss it. You'd think she'd been guarding his back for six years, so seamless is their cooperation.

He finds a wrecked and empty sitting room, a windowless pantry and a small room without any furniture at all, the walls a pale yellow with bunnies cavorting all over them. He heads to the kitchen, where the Slayer is still poking around.

"Look, Spike," she says, without even checking if it's really him, she just knows, apparently, "it's all empty and dusty and old. Ancient."

He takes another look around. He wouldn't call it old, actually. It's not such a distinct style he can pinpoint the exact decade all this stuff belongs to, but it's not fifties or anything. He spots a green and brown stylized flower pattern; he guesses late seventies. That would be old to the Slayer, he supposes. In keeping with the age the Andersens seemed to be.

"Okay, what's left of the house? Attic? Cellar?" he asks.

He knows that she knows which one it'll most likely be, there's an inevitability about gigs like this, but he agrees to go up to the attic together first. As expected, it's a jumble of old furniture, rotted washing and sad-eyed lonely toys.

They each take an old brass curtain rod with them so they'll have some sort of weapon. The Slayer has left her stake in her own clothes, and who knows where they are now? Mrs. Anderson took them away to wash them. Maybe they'll find them in the basement; although why people would need a basement with all of Iowa available to build on, he can't guess.

"Ready, Slayer?"

"Ready, Spike," she says with a crooked grin. Enough nostalgia in that smile to make a bloke queasy. He doesn't want to know.

The door to the basement swings open without a sound. Nothing but utter darkness comes wafting out, and not a whiff of earth or dampness, which is suspicious in itself. He gives the Slayer a look. She nods. He puts a careful foot out for the first step down. The world slows down after that, or maybe he's speeding up. It's suddenly Technicolor brightness and he flinches in unreasoning fear of sunlight although he knows it isn't, all in the middle of falling down the stairs and landing with a loud thunk on the swirling concrete. The Slayer lands on top of him only a second later, forcing the last bit of air out of his lungs so he can't even make the appropriate lewd or sarcastic comment. The swirly concrete dissolves into magic symbols and when he looks up he sees the Andersens again. They don't register on his other senses so they're not really there or something. They're standing outside the pentagram he and the Slayer have fallen on and he suspects he won't be able to leave it, but punches the air anyway. His fist strikes up a shower of blue sparks. Magic barrier, just like he thought. The Slayer wants to try for herself, of course, and gets the same result.

Mrs. Andersen looks on with a woeful expression on her face, wringing her hands. "I'm so sorry, Buffy and Spike. We needed the sacrifice for our taxes, it's nothing personal."

"Don't talk to them, Nance. We agreed on that. They're drug addicts, and not even married," John Andersen says gruffly and doesn't look Spike in the eye. He's fiddling with something on a crude little altar which looks like it's made out of orange crates and prairie grass. The wall behind it is painted a shiny black, contrasting wildly with the colorful loops and squiggles of the pentagram underneath Spike's feet. He tries to scuff a line of it with his feet, but it's painted on the concrete and keeps right on shining. It's as if Keith Haring painted a pentagram in the style of Joan Miro, thick black lines outlining red and yellow patches. Or maybe the subway plan of a city that's not London. Whatever it is, it has them stuck.

The Slayer is standing back to back with him, which is as it should be. "See anything?" he asks her.

"Yeah," she says. "Look at what Mr. Andersen is doing. He's using an interdimensional thingy that looks just like the one that got me into this universe."

Mr. Anderson is using a number 2 pencil to poke at a shiny blue bracelet of light on the altar.

"Ready, Father?" Mrs. Andersen asks nervously.

She's picking at a hangnail. Spike still can't sense her. Maybe she's a ghost? No kind of demon he knows has this lack of presence on his people radar.

"Talk to her," he says to the Slayer in an undertone. "Find out why they're doing this."

The Slayer complies immediately. She makes a good minion. "Mrs. Anderson," she asks plaintively, in an 'I'm an innocent victim' voice, "why are you doing this to us? I don't use drugs, and we were getting married soon, honestly. As soon as we've saved up enough money for a nice ring and a dress."

Spike continues to watch Mr. Andersen, who's steadily and patiently fiddling away with his pencil. It looks like a precise operation, like using a PDA or something, as one of his minions likes to do.

"Oh, honey," Mrs. Andersen wails, "If it was up to me we wouldn't be doing this, but we have to. We were so wretched when our baby girl died, and John's brother-in-law said he knew someone who'd help, and he turned out to be a demon, and it didn't help at all, it backfired terribly. Gus died, and we never got Ingrid back, but we still have to pay a yearly tribute to the demon. A young man and woman, and he eats them and leaves the town in peace."

"Nancy..." Mr. Andersen implores, but his concentration is on the altar.

"The house looks so empty, Mrs. Andersen. What happened to you two?"

The Slayer is doing well at this. Spike strains but can't make out the details of what Mr. Andersen is doing.

"We died too, Buffy, we died too," Mrs. Andersen admits sorrowfully. "We went to hell, of course, and every year we have to do this, and..."

"Nance!" Mr. Andersen barks. "Don't talk to them. It's coming."

"Mrs. Andersen, please, I was someone's baby girl too, and you wouldn't do that to my mother, would you? Her name is Joyce."

The woman utters a wail of anguish. "We can't! It's gonna eat your souls! It needs two souls or it'll come out and eat everyone!"

Spike thinks it's time for a change of tack. "You're fucked anyway, you old twit. I haven't got one, I'm a vampire."

Mrs. Andersen walks around to him and gapes. "A... vampire? What's that? Father? Did you hear that?"

Spike vamps out to make his point and Mr. Andersen goes white as a sheet. Funny to see that on a ghost.

"Let us out, Mrs. Andersen, we can fight your monster, we're strong. Do you have weapons?" Buffy is saying behind him.

Spike grinds his teeth. Here he was going for threatening, dammit, and then the bloody Slayer goes in a completely different direction. Doesn't the woman know when to take her cue from him? He checks the altar again, and the black wall behind it is starting to bulge and sizzle. Right. Not much time for shilly-shallying around anymore.

"Gimme your wrist, Slayer."

"What?"

"Your wrist. We need something to paint out those concrete swirls. Don't think Mrs. Ghostly and Mr. Concerned Citizen are gonna be much help."

She stares at him with blank eyes and a frowny forehead. He throws another look over his shoulder, yanks her wrist to his mouth and bites.
 

Buffy has long since ceased to expect Spike's teeth in her flesh so when the blood arches from her wrist like a Technicolor fountain she's too stunned to react. The feel of his cool fingers gripping her arm tightly is more urgent than the pulsating arterial spray or the slight sting from his bite. It wasn't like taking a bite from an apple; he was raking his teeth into the soft skin of her under arm, tearing it open. She looks up into his face and sees his pupils gazing large and hungrily dark upon the bright red stream as he licks his lips slowly. He looks away from her, she doesn't know why, and she's not prepared for the sudden swoop of his head back to her wrist. His tongue licks her wounds, with a raspy briskness that she can't connect at all to the endlessly delicate lickings of her pussy way back when. 

Her thoughts are hazy, and her mind trails after her like a fluttering ribbon when she whips her head around to check out what Spike sees. Bright red blobs on the shiny white floor, hissing and burning away the markings on it and before she can decide what to do her feet leap after Spike, who goes straight through Mrs. Andersen with a roar. A little wail hangs in the air where she used to be. Buffy turns to Mr. Andersen and his doings at the makeshift altar. Without stopping to think she picks up the brass rod which is still lying at the foot of the stairs and throws it at, and through, him. It strikes the bulging cellar walls with a hollow clang and bounces ringing onto the floor.

Mr. Andersen's face twists up like a Silly Putty parody of disappointment and his mouth opens wide in a silent scream. The shiny blue ring of light expands with a flash and a pop like a photo in a black- and white movie. Then there is no more basement wall, there is a roiling darkness and a jet of foul air leaps out to meet them. When the demon pops out his giant head and stretches his rubbery lips wide in anticipation Buffy totally gets the bad breath deal. His tobacco brown teeth look like all his victims from his entire existence are still rotting away merrily in every crease and surface.

She feels no hesitation. The rod is back in her hand, she must have picked it up. Quip and weapon leave her in the same instance.

"Tongue piercing, anyone?"

In its way this moment is wonderful. For a little while her path is shining true and straight ahead of her with no branching or off ramps. She must kill this thing, and her favorite fighting buddy is beside her. He will anticipate her every move and guard her back. 

The demon spits out the curtain rod disdainfully. "Yeah, baby, slay me with your tooth pick," he rumbles and waves of dark laughter ripple out from him, setting Buffy's teeth on edge and sending a sickening wave of fear to her stomach.

The one giant eye is surrounded by thick wrinkled purple flesh, the sclera bright yellow, and Spike comes in from the left with a masterful lunge. He hits right in the middle of the black well of its pupil and the eye bursts open and spews fluid all over Spike's wild curls. The roar that comes from the big mouth slams Buffy into the far wall. Spike has sensibly ducked beneath it after his spraying.

"Slayer!" Spike pants. "Get an axe or a saw! Bitty staves aren't going to kill Yaphet Kotto Senior here! I'll distract him."

"Whoo! That hurt!" the mouth brays. A massive shiny tentacle wriggles out of the hole from beside the ear and wrenches it further open to allow a bulging shoulder through. "Is that a curtain rod or are you just happy to see me?"

The tentacle grows longer and grabs Spike around the middle. It smashes him up against the ceiling and back down against the floor. "Bamm-bamm! Bamm-bamm! We'll have a yabba dabba doo time, a dabba doo time, we'll have a gay old time!"

Buffy scrabbles across the floor near the far wall, trying to get to the other side of the basement, where she thinks she saw a work bench. Spike looks sort of limp and leaves bloody stains on both the ceiling and the floor.

"Wiiilllllmmmmmmaaaaaa!!!"

Buffy pulls herself up by her fingertips. Someone tweaks her ass, which is so not the right time for this. She cranes her head to check out how Spike got loose but then spots another tentacle trying hard to get a grip on her and visibly succeeding inch by inch, growing longer and thicker.

The frenzied singing and the Spike smashing continue. "It's time to play the music, It's time to light the lights..."

Bamm bamm!

"Slayer..."  It comes out like "Zhazher" and Buffy's hands frantically feel their way about on the work top. With a feeling of relief she finds a heap of assorted tools, a saw, a hammer and so forth. The mad singing goes on and on, pouring from the foul mouth like vomit.

"It's time to put on makeup, It's time to dress up right, It's time to raise the curtain...

She turns and throws the big file and the screw driver into the thick glistening arm that's playing with Spike, just to hurt it some and maybe even shut it up.
 

Thick oily laughter bubbles behind her as she directs her attention back to the work bench. She's not expecting a sword but a saw would be nice, or an axe. She finds a nail extractor and finally a bonus chainsaw. Time to go Giles and cut through some red tape. Contrary to popular belief Buffy does not kill all things mechanical on sight and the saw's drive catches at the first pull. She slices off the tentacle that's trying to gain grip on her waist. A sluggish fluid like crude oil seeps out. 

"Owie!" the beast carols gaily. "And now let's get things started, Why don't you get things started, It's time to get things started, On the most sensational inspirational celebrational..."

 
The best place to get rid of the thrashing tentacle is close to the portal and she sets the vibrating blade against the meatiest part of the black fleshy arm. The blade goes through easily but the circumference of the arm is huge, and since it doesn't exactly keep still it takes a few minutes before she's through. Spike drops to the floor and lies motionless while she continues to saw. Another tentacle tries to wriggle out from the portal and although it keeps on getting wider and wider, it's still too narrow.

"Aw! You cut off my pinkie!" the liquid voice booms in her ear, making her teeth rattle and ache with subsonic tremors. "The rest of me is gonna sit on you and squash you like a bug!" The big face starts to retreat.

Spike tugs at her arm. Blood drips down on his face from his battered head, but he can still walk and talk. "Come on, Slayer; let's make ourselves scarce before Fred Flintstone comes back."

The saw starts to buck in her hands and stops. Buffy tries to get traction on the floor, slippery with black and red fluids, but Spike's sturdy boot heels win over hers and she's tugged along willy-nilly. This is not acceptable. Her duty is clear, the monster must be destroyed, and she's not going to be deflected from her purpose now that she has one.

"Spike, stop. I'm going to kill it before it destroys the whole town or worse."

"Who cares? Let's steal the Andersens' car and get out of here fast."

They reach the stairs and Buffy makes her stand on the first step. She's stronger than Spike, or she used to be, she thinks as he continues on upwards. Subtler tactics need to be deployed.

"Spike, I can't believe that you're walking out in the middle of a fight. My Spike never was a coward."

"Slayer, I do hope you don't think I'm going to fall for that piece of transparent emotional blackmail!

"Stop with the excuses already. It'll be fun," Buffy says firmly and manages to halt his progress. She tries to look up to him winningly, because although she can't see his face, he can probably see hers.

Spike comes to a decision. "All right. Let's go kill the big smelly bastard. I hate it when something I'm killing tries to be witty at me, puts me off my game."

"His pop culture references were way behind the times anyway," Buffy says, stung.

"Spongebob Squarepants!"  The voice booms in their ears. A jet of putrid dark fluid leaves its lips and Buffy dives to the right just in time. The smell gives her an idea and she fishes Spike's lighter from her pocket and flicks it on. She thrusts it just below the stream of monster logy and it flames up with a deep rumbling whoosh that makes her ears pop. 

The demon utters a wordless scream and withdraws into the portal, where she can hear it burble and whine in a moist basso profundo.

"Good thinking, Slayer," Spike says from the other side of the basement. "Now why don't you crawl in after it and set the whole thing on fire."

"Yeah, right. I'm so over the whole death wish thing. If we had a kind of bomb we could throw into the portal, something that couldn't be put out so easily?" 

She strains to see a little better in the dimly lit basement, but it's not very likely that there will be hand grenades or cannonballs lying around like in cartoons.

"Did you happen to spot a bottle of turps or lighter fluid on your little foray just now? I could make a Molotov cocktail from one of those," Spike says.

"We're going to offer him a drink?"

"Forgot you weren't there when the Nazi's invaded Finland, love. Trust me, it'll work just fine."

Buffy gets back to the bench and finds the plastic and glass bottles with murky fluid she passed over a couple of minutes ago. "Something like this?"

"Yeah. Exactly like that."

Spike tears some strips from his filthy bloodied shirt and stuffs them in the necks of the bottles. He silently holds out his hand and she places the lighter in it. Tentacles explode from the black hole, straight as spears right at her, and she only just manages to roll under them. The head follows the arms, blaring loud indistinguishable words and Buffy feels the air get heavier and slower, pressing down on her. From the corner of her eye something orangey bright arcs through the air and she sees the monster turn his head, snap out with his long black tongue and flick it back into the wide toad-like gash of his mouth. Spike falls on top of her and claps his hands over her ears. He's gonna wrench off her head and she doesn't know why.

The world turns inside out and when she's managed to heave Spike away the basement is back again, not a single trace on the wall to indicate there was a hole in the world just a minute ago. The floor is a whole different story; it's blotched and glistens with blood and oily splatters. Two big pieces of tentacle are lying limp and dead across the altar.

Spike holds out his hand to her. She takes it and half stumbles against him. He steadies her with a hand on her hip and she doesn't slap it away.

"Let's go get the device, Spike," she says, and her voice sounds small and flat.

"Yeah."

Spike slurs a bit and slumps down on her. He's not holding her up anymore, she's supporting him. He does look very battered, lumps and cuts vying for territory on his pale face. She puts her arm around him more securely and props him up with one hand under his shoulder. Walking the few steps towards the wall is harder than she thought, her legs are jittery and her feet are woolly and uncertain on the floor. Spike's hand is hooked around her hip, digging painfully into her belly, but she knows he'll fall otherwise.

Hooking Spike's arm over her neck so she can still keep him upright she reaches for the oversized piece of squid ink spaghetti. The moment she touches it, it snaps back into action, tautly coils around her arm and lifts its pointy end, searching for her face as if it has a purpose.

She can't hold Spike and fight at the same time. "Spike! Wake up. Stand up. I have to fight." 

The other tentacle has joined the play and they snake around her legs and torso, on their way up to her neck. Now's she's getting really mad. It was just a fight until now, but this is pushing her boundaries. She hopes there's no special reason these tentacles are back in action again, are they vampire tentacles or something? She grabs one and tears it into two, shouting and stamping with the effort. At last it breaks and she gasps in relief as the coils around her middle loosen. The moment the last breath of air has left her throat, a cool slick necklace winds around her neck and draws tight. She wants to call out to Spike, whose weight she can no longer feel, but it's too late. She can't get a grip on the thing squeezing the life out of her and her sight is starting to dim. Not like this, she thinks frantically, not now, lemme get home, I was just getting...

Spike draws her off the floor again and she leans against him, gulping great big draughts of air, clasping him tightly because her rubbery legs threaten to topple her. She leans her forehead against his shoulder, which is sticky and smells of iron filings and oil, and attempts to get her bearings back. 

"Thanks," she croaks into the flannel.

His hand lies reassuringly on her neck and he presses her closer. "You too, Slayer. Can we go now? Is this dead enough satisfy those righteous Slaying criteria?" 

"Yeah."

But she can't move just yet, although she knows she should. The tentacle pieces could become alive again, she's embracing a dangerous vampire, they could freeze to death, but she needs a minute to get back on her feet, she doesn't want to face the reality of alternate universes and wrong vampires just yet.

Spike pushes her hair aside and breathes on her neck. "Feeling better now, aren't you, love? Heart getting all slow and quiet." His lips move against her skin and they don't feel cold at all. Buffy leans against him a bit more, but there's nothing going on here, just two tired warriors taking a well-deserved rest. He feels so solid and real, anchoring her with his body from her thighs up to the crown of her head, Spike everywhere.

She pats his shoulder blade, but her hand is too heavy to lift so it becomes more of a stroking. Spike pushes his hips against hers, and it's still okay, she can handle it, it's not her Spike. He licks her neck and now she's awake, her whole body tingles with awareness and a small moan leaves her mouth. This is not safe, but she arches against him and pushes back, so good, such a long time ago. His hands stroke down her back firmly, up and down, cupping her ass for a moment and then pushing the tension out of her back muscles again and she relaxes against him further. She's too limp to come into action herself, but can he please lick her neck again? 

"That's right, love, let Spike take care of you, so sweet and warm you are, good little Slayer, all hot for Spike, the prettiest little bum you have and such nice skin, so sweet and salty, so tender..."

He licks and licks, she sags against him so he has to prop her up by shoving his hand between her thighs. Her legs buckle and Spike's all that's holding her up now. Her neck falls back and she wants only one thing now, Spike inside her. Why is she still wearing these damn jeans?

"... so sweet and hot, pulsing inside, all that lovely blood, let Spike have one little sip, just a drop, promise, cross my heart and hope to die, right here, one tiny drink from your sweet neck, let me drink from it like a chalice, my Slayer, my sweet..."

His sexy babble finally penetrates what remains of her brains and she wrenches her neck away. He wants to drink from her? How can he say that? It hurts on so many levels that she's speechless. Betrayal gives her strength to shove him away.

He grins unrepentantly and licks his lips. "I see the disapproving look is back. Don't be such a tight arse, Slayer. It'll feel good, I promise.

The bright path of her future, that shone so straight and true a moment ago  has scattered into a rainbow of choices, no white or black, just red and yellow and blue to pick and choose from. Which is right and which is wrong? It's up to her. Her tongue moves over her lips and Spike takes a step closer to her, smirking again and holding out his hands to her breast already.

She turns away. "No. No drinking, no biting, no nothing. Let's torch this place and get out of here." 

Spike sighs but shrugs. "Take it or leave it, Slayer. Would have been fun, though. And aren't you forgetting a little something here?"

He holds up the interdimensional device with the same pencil Mr. Andersen used. Buffy swallows. She almost forgot that in her insane fuck-the-wrong-vampire moment. 

"Right. Good thinking, Spike." 

They are complimenting each other a lot, polite and thoughtful, like strangers. Which they are. 

She finds an old plastic bag and Spike shoves the shiny bracelet in. She walks painfully to the stairs, Spike close on her heels. So close that her back tingles all over, but she's not going to go there, she's firm on that. 

At the top of the stairs, Spike lights another piece of his tattered flannel shirt and tosses it down. The basement goes up in flames with a whuff and a muted bang.

"The bastards took my duster too, damn them all to hell."

"Not to mention my boots and some really nice underwear," Buffy agrees. "Let's get out of here. Take their car, like you said."

"Right."

The Slayer ahead of him is stumbling and bumping into things. Spike brushes past her brusquely and takes her unwilling hand into his. Stubborn bint that she is! He can see so much better than she can in this murk, she should just have let him go first. She tries to wrench loose, still pissed about the little fiasco downstairs, he reckons, but he ignores it and forges ahead. They must be in the downstairs hallway but it seems unwontedly long. He bumps into a wooden barrier, which ought to be the front door. He kicks it open and sure enough they are on the porch. The reverberations of the kick go on for a long time. At last they die down and everything is silent again. It's still pitch dark outside but the snow reflects what little light there is. Almost midnight, he gauges. He's lost less than twenty-four hours and the portal device is already in his possession, pretty fucking good as adventures go. The Slayer is bringing him luck. He thinks ahead of the actual activation of the portal. It should be a piece of cake if his contact comes through as expected, and he considers possible courses of action afterwards.

Too bad he didn't manage to wangle some blood and pussy, and his own silly fault it had been too. He really should learn to keep his gob shut, but when his cock and fangs are doing the thinking for him his mouth pretty much tends to run away from him. However, the Slayer is still gently steaming under her borrowed clothes, angry or not, and that bodes well for the future. He'll simply not mention biting or drinking at all and strike when he's good and well inside her, when she's screaming for more. How difficult can that be? His hard-on is giving him plenty of grief, and the discomfort overshadows all other cuts and bruises, of which there are many. He's of a mind to try again right here and now, but he sees the Slayer stiffen up and shiver in the suddenly frigid air, and regretfully sets his plans aside until they find a more congenial venue.

The house creaks and settles again. The clear night sky indicates low temperatures, and he looks doubtfully at the Slayer in her jeans and flannel shirt. The first and biggest barn is no more than fifty yards away, but it's risky. They'd better search the house for some warmer clothes for the Slayer, maybe even use the rotted bed covers.

A deep sigh trembles through the house. Spike looks around and sees nothing out of the ordinary. The floor starts to rattle beneath them. A rumbling comes closer and closer. The Slayer doesn't react but stares with big unseeing eyes at the dimly lit expanse of snow outside. He decides they can't wait anymore and they should make a run for it. He seizes her limp hand and pulls her outside.

"Get a move on, Slayer. We'll look for a car in the big barn over there."

The Slayer mumbles something he doesn't want to listen to and hangs back, trying feebly to get her hand out of his. It's annoying to see her return to morose silence, especially when he was thinking she was some kind of alright as a fighter. He pulls on her arm sharply and they run stumbling and slipping to the shelter of the big wooden structure at the other end of the yard. Behind them there is a whooshing and a dull thud. Spike whips around to check out the danger and sees a softly billowing cloud of pale powder dust where the house used to be. There's a gust of warmer air over his face but it dissipates quickly. The dust clears from the air and the moon obliges them by popping into the sky from behind it. He sees there is nothing left of the farmhouse but a rubble-filled pit, still hazy with heat and settling house fragments. 

Where the porch used to be there's a shapeless heap of a different substance. Spike pokes it gently and it falls apart into their own discarded clothes. His duster! With a shout of joy he fishes it out of the heap and shrugs it on. He is taller and more commanding when the soft old leather falls in its accustomed folds around him. He strides towards the barn with strong easy steps.

The moon's appearance brightens the whole scene so much he can make out the details of the cast iron weather cock on top of the barn. Spike jumps on top of the structure in one big leap, just because he feels like it. He balances on the roof beam and looks around at the white world spread out beneath him like a pristine table cloth, with only the picnic missing, although the Slayer would make a damn fine starter. The quarter moon throws long shadows away from the barn and the other outbuildings that are still standing, until they finally peter out and the silent plains begin, glittering eerily and seeming infinite. 

Spike throws his head in his neck and hollers upwards, "Look Ma, no hands!" He jumps down with a back flip, down into the white mound of sugary snow that the wind has blown against the side of the barn, arm outspread. He disappears into a cloud of powdered sugar that enters his nose and mouth and ears. He waits until the snow clears up and he can see the stars again. They pierce the dark blue porridge bowl of the night with their prying eyes. When he was a young boy he believed that the souls of his father and sisters looked down upon him from above and would tattle to his mother if he was naughty. Now he knows there is no one looking down on him, because with all the things he's been up to they would have been raining fire on his head on a daily basis. 

He never really believed it even as a young man, but went to church every Sunday nonetheless, his mother on his one arm, the prayer book filled with his father's scribbles in the other. There will never be names and dates of William's children on the flyleaf, like his father meticulously kept adding. "A son and heir!" his father's careful script announced behind his name. He'd shown more restraint in writing down his daughters' particulars, all of whom he subsequently buried during his short lifetime. Spike remembers their funerals, remembers his love and sadness, but the memories have lost their sting and seldom intrude when he rifles through his past.

He spreads his arms and makes swimming motions. "Look Slayer, I made an angel in the snow."

She hovers at the edge of his vision, a black blot against the spangled splendor of the sky. He can tell she's wearing her disapproving expression just by her hunched-up arms crossed body language. She may be this great warrior, but she's not very playful, is she?

He wishes Dru could be lying beside him, and they would stay like that for hours, impervious to the cold, free as night birds. He'd name the stars for her and make up stories about them because Dru didn't like the real ones. She always got mad if he forgot the ones he'd made up before, like the one where Cassiopeia was a beautiful princess who lived happily in a castle with her Daddy, tending her little babies and roses and nothing exciting or bad ever happened to her. 

A boot in his ribs reminds him of his present circumstances, Dru-less and bound to the serious straitlaced Slayer. She's standing over him and glowers at him. Under other circumstances he might think it was a sexy glower, but the cold makes her look pinched and worried.

"Car, Spike? Cleveland? Getting back your minion?"

Does she really think he gives a shit about his stupid minion? 

"What are you waiting for, then, Slayer? Can't get the barn door open with your own lilywhite hands?"

"Can't start it," she admits stiffly. "And it's an old car, probably won't run at all."

Spike leaps up with a showy flip, which is wasted on his unappreciative public, but a man's got standards to keep up. The car in question is a perfectly respectable looking pick-up truck, no more than twenty five years old. How convenient that it didn't fall apart with the house. He climbs into the driver's seat and flips down the rearview mirror. Of course there is a key taped there, not a lot of car thieves in the middle of those endless cornfields. The truck starts at the third try, but shows a nearly empty tank.

He jumps out and winks at the Slayer, who looks daggers at him. May the best man win, he thinks, knowing that it's him. He potters about the barn, whistling a cheery tune, and finds several neatly lined up gallon-containers of gas. He just loves these neat and careful people, who are now gnashing their teeth in hell as they watch him escape. He fills up the tank and climbs back in. The Slayer sits slumped on the passenger seat, still lost in her own unhappy thoughts, if her furrowed forehead is any indication. 

He turns the truck to the north and strikes out for the highway. In less than a mile they're there, and it's even been swept clear of snow. He stops the car and debates with himself whether to go back for the DeSoto or not, and decides the risks of it being towed away or stolen are minimal and he can retrieve it on the way back. He climbs out and walks around to the passenger door. The Slayer stares back sullenly. He climbs in and sits next to her.

"Your turn to drive."

"It's still dark!" she protests.

"Our friend from Bedrock banged me up pretty good back there. I need some time to heal," he says. 

She doesn't answer but slides silently over to the driver's seat and drives off. 

Spike shifts around until he's found the least uncomfortable position and closes his eyes. 

When he opens them again there's something lying over his face that smells of Slayer and a past meal. His aches and pains have abated for the most part, and now he's just really hungry. The Slayer's scent so close makes his mouth water and he has to force his game face back into hiding.

He lifts the jacket up and has to close his eyes to the bright light. Still day. He checks out the rest of him and sees the Slayer has covered him with a rough grey horse blanket as well as her down jacket, and has hung something on the side window to protect him from the sunlight. How thoughtful of her. If she keeps this up he's gonna think she has soft spot for him. 

"Where are we, Slayer?" he asks softly, so as not to startle her. Not a very reliable driver, this girl. She has to have been driving for at least eight hours straight.

"Couple of hours from Cleveland," she says and yawns widely.

Spike ponders his options for a few moments and then suggests, "Why don't you find another motel? You need to be fit and alert if we're to get you back home. Kip for a few hours."

"Is kip like sleep?" She yawns again. 

She gets them to the next motel in one piece and is still yawning when she gets back with their room key. Spike runs for it while she holds the door open for him. Very efficient and all.

The Slayer stumbles to the bead and crashes down fully clothed. "Wake me in a few hours, 'kay?" she mumbles and passes out.

He might as well grab a couple of more hours, it's still light outside anyway. He wakes himself up just after sundown and has almost succeeded in stealing outside, shoes in hand, when the damn woman suddenly blinks awake and is on him in an impressive display of alertness.

She has him in an iron grip. "No killing people," she says grimly.

He tries an elbow, wants to step on her feet, but she's got everything covered. He never realized just how strong she was. 

"Perhaps," she says silkily, "you've been underestimating me, because I'm not a very experienced driver and don't much like the cold. Perhaps you don't realize what it means that I'm the oldest surviving Slayer ever. Let me spell it out for you: you will not kill people, not on this trip. Understood?"

He nods and she releases him. He doesn't understand how, but she manages to block his vicious headbutt backwards and the crippling blow to the midriff he had in mind, and now he's lying on the floor with his cheek in the polyester carpet and his arms cruelly twisted behind him. Okay. He'll accept that she is his equal in the person to person fighting stakes, but she has other vulnerabilities.

"Ow," he says. "You're giving me carpet burn."

"Stop whining," she says, not unkindly.

Spike wiggles his hips, trying for her weak spot, and for a moment thinks he's succeeded when she gets off him with a muffled exclamation. He rolls over and faces a stake, poised at exactly the right place. He'd forgotten she must have recovered it with her clothes. Her face is soft and warm from sleep but glows with determination. If she wasn't standing between him and a much needed meal, he'd like her more.

"Slayer," he says, softly and reasonably. "How could you possibly enforce that? You'll need to sleep once in a while. You could really use a shower right now for instance, and what would keep me from popping out for a bite?"

She quirks an eyebrow. Summers, Buffy Summers, licensed to kill him. "Your word. Again." 

"I couldn't have eaten those ghosts anyway, now could I?"

The Slayer doesn't answer, just shifts the position of the stake minutely so she's more comfortable. She's obviously not gonna take no for an answer. He doesn't think she'll stake him, not really, but the boredom of facing her off a minute longer is already threatening and he'd really like something to eat. 

"But what will I eat? I need blood or I won't be able to function properly to fulfill the mission!"

"Pig's blood," the Slayer answers. "We'll find a butcher." 

"Don't tell me the poor sod drank pig's blood for all those years?"

Silence from the Slayer.

"He did?"

He tries to think of a good reason not to go for it. "Isn't that really fattening?"

Her voice darkens. "He was always lean as a whip."

He relaxes and looks up at her. She's sitting across his thighs, and her hand is still holding the stake, but her other hand is splayed on his stomach. He doesn't think she even knows she's doing it. She's staring straight through him, her eyes dark green with remembrance and grief, the emotions scudding across her face like storm clouds. If he wasn't so hungry this would be the best moment to take advantage of her, but he lets it go.

"Get off me, Slayer," he says gruffly. "Let's grab a shower and get going to find my contact. I've had it up to here with the Midwest already, let's not extend our stay longer than necessary."

The Slayer returns to the here and now and looks at him silently. Then she nods and gets up. She gathers her recovered clothes and heads for the shower. Spike shucks his coat and is sinking down in a chair, preparing to wait for her when he sees her look back at him. He wipes the scowl from his face and tries to look blank, a canvas for her to draw on. She doesn't extend her hand or say anything but he knows it's an invitation anyway, or as much of one as she can allow herself to give. He gets back up and walks towards her slowly, unbuttoning his shirt, not saying anything, because he knows he'll fuck up again if he does.

They have to stand close together in the cramped little bathroom and he can see every tremble of the Slayer's hands as she undresses. This is not the heated aftermath of battle, nothing here to create a mood, just plain bathroom fittings and ugly tile. It only serves to make the living breathing woman in it more beautiful to him, filled to the brim with the gentle simmering of life, a myriad fragrances swirling around her body like a ball dress, a cloud of warmth exploding from her breath. 

The hardened points of her small breasts almost brush his chest as he slides the shirt from his shoulders and he sees her catching her breath. He moves his hands down slowly, very slowly, doesn't want to scare her off, and undoes the first button of his fly. Her bloodwarm hands slip under his and finish the job for him. He's in a hurry now, yanks the jeans of his legs and follows the Slayer into the shower. Her heat throbs against the palms of his hands moments before he actually touches her and he stifles a moan. When his hands do meet her flesh everything happens in a blur, handfuls of hot Slayer ass, she's climbing him and eating him alive, her hot mouths draw him in and devour him. 

"Slayer, you're so..." Shut up, shut up, he sings to himself on the rhythm of his hips, don't talk you fool, don't think of dinner, just fuck and shut up. He closes and opens his eyes, dark red from the inside of his closed lids alternating with flashes of fluorescent lighting on white tiles, while the Slayer vibrates under his hands, slick with water and need, saying unintelligible things to him.

When they finally make it out of the shower he can hardly stand. How long have they been at it? The Slayer is like a demon in her insatiable lust, wringing the last scrap of stamina out of him, and he drops down at her knees where she sprawls on the bed covers like a lewd goddess and worships her anew. He crawls up on the bed beside her and collapses. He can do no more, but she's merciless and forces him in again. He's covered by warm pliable slayer flesh like a blanket and her smooth neck rests with the unmarked side against his lips. He hardens again at the thought, it would be so easy, his whole body tautens like a bow, ready to twang and let go, and the Slayer flutters around him at the slight movement. He's about to explode again himself, he won't need more than a couple of strokes when he thinks of drinking her dry, feeling the blood hit his parched throat like a blessing, but he won't, bound by his word like the gentleman he once was.

Spike's post-coital driving style is so laid back that he rolls into corners at the very last moment while Buffy hangs on grimly to the little handle above the door of the old pick-up. She doesn't want to slide into him when he takes one of these liquid turns, which probably feel cool and speedy to him but are really very uncomfortable if you’re a passenger. She doesn’t want to slide into him because she can still feel him inside her, and she's feeling odd all over, trembly and hot, about to burst into tears. She can't believe she did this, made him do this, because it's just wrong. She doesn’t love him and he doesn’t love her and they're the wrong people in the wrong place.

Tactile memory and muscle memory have both betrayed her tonight. In fact every sense she possesses has conspired to make her feel for precious moments that he was the right person. The padded silk of his luminescent cream skin, his scent, tobacco and hot metal before the shower washed it off, later like musk and an echo of the way of her own bed smells in the morning. His eyes grey and stormy, but bluer than the sky if the light catches them, tiny pink nipples and lush reddened lips. The sound of his voice, just a tremor between her thighs or cooling butterscotch chocolate poured down her neck, whispers against her skin to make the goose bumps race up and down her spine. The way he tastes, for which there is no comparison, uniquely Spike. When their tongues shiver against each other delicately she closes her eyes and she's no longer Buffy, no longer anchored to the world by duty and gravity and stuff, but something floating free above it all.

And yet something so perfectly fitted the one moment often strikes a wrong the next. The fine malt voice caws out a harsh sentiment and she almost draws back, chilled, until she warms again by a velvet tongue lapping her nipples until they scream. She's exhausted, she has worn herself thin by rubbing the glass goblet to a fine sheen, but when she rings it the sound is dull and falters quickly. All the positions and orgasms in the world cannot make her forget a request for her blood.

She sighs. She can hear how tremulous it sounds and she throws a worried look at Spike, who sits there presenting his perfect high-nosed profile, cream and silver against the backdrop of the night and smokes non-stop while he drives. She doesn’t have the energy to hassle him about it. He flicks her a quick smile and pats her thigh. He always gets her moods, and his touch goes straight through her jeans to her deepest innermost places. She needs to think of something else. She'd better ask him some questions about this contact of his they're on their way to see, to stop thinking about that thing they did, although actually it was more like seven things. Oh boy. This shouldn’t be so bad, it’s no different from what all the Lorenzos and Jean-Pierres failed to do for her in Europe, just two lonely people comforting each other. No reason to be so angry with herself, she could just forgive her little mistake.

The thing is, she knows exactly the moment she decided to give in to it. It was when he said he wouldn't kill anyone, though not in so many words, when he surrendered to her. Is that what she likes in a guy, to be top bitch to him? Or is it just Spike? Her self-esteem is like a yoyo these days, up and down all the time. She remembers what used to happened to yoyos, the string would get slack and rough and Mom would throw them away. 

Spike was all touchy, cuddly guy afterwards, insisting on keeping his hand on her neck all the time in the butcher shop, which was so embarrassing. His finger rested lightly on her artery, and she had no idea anymore what message he was sending. Buffy works death magic and enslaves second vampire? Vampire holds Slayer in thrall? She sits up straighter and shakes her head. Go away, deep thoughts. Not now.

"So, tell me about that contact of yours. You’re still sure he’ll be able to provide us with the magic we need to operate the portal?

Spike sits up straighter and his face tenses. To Buffy’s surprise he steers the truck to the side and parks it. 

He turns to Buffy and takes her hand. He clears his throat. “See, there’s this really ancient and powerful vampire who holds court in Cleveland. Maybe he's even the oldest living vampire. Him and me did a deal before, so I guess we could make it work."

“He owes you a favor?”

Spike scratches his head and doesn’t meet her eyes. “Not exactly. I thought I’d offer him a trade, but now I have to think of something else to persuade him with."

“What trade were you gonna offer....”  Buffy’s voice trails off when she realizes who was gonna be offered in exchange for the magic.

"Oh. Oh! You sneaky bastard! You two timing...You were gonna offer me to this creepy old vamp?” 

The words stick in her throat. She shouldn't be so surprised, he's just an unsouled vamp, but she’s been fooling herself again that he's different. The yoyo shoots sideways and does a back flip. Not evil temptress Buffy, luring men to their death, just delusional Buffy, who thinks she just needs to have sex with vampires to reform them.

"'Course I would! You're my enemy! ‘S only reasonable, Slayer." He sighs and tries to placate her. “Now we’re partners, okay, we fought together. Wouldn't sell you now, you know that.”

No, she doesn't. In fact this earnest avowal of partnership is as surprising and unsettling as his confession just now.

A slight headache is starting behind her eyes and she tries to rub it away by pinching the skin between her eyebrows. “Okay. Rewind. Ancient vampire. Powerful, but willing to negotiate.”

"Yeah, well, maybe." His voice sounds doubtful. "I delivered something he really wanted when he came to Sunnydale a couple of years ago, hunting. Scary looking bloke, he’s so old that his hands are cloven like hooves."

Something tickles in the back of her brain. “Sunnydale? Ancient vampire? Name of Kakistos by any chance?”

Spike nods, surprised. "You know him?

Buffy throws her hands to heaven, exasperated. "We killed him, you idiot. That creep is your contact? I didn't exactly get friendly vibes from him when he was trying to kill me and Faith.”

“Right, that was her name.”

Buffy screeches. "You traded him Faith? That is so inhuman! Didn't you know what he'd do to her?”

“Well, yeah. So? Didn't know the girl. And besides, Slayer, risk of the trade and all.” 

Yes, Buffy, do try to have a pointless conversation about morality with an unsouled vampire. Rewind again. Forward.

“So we’re going to talk to this very powerful, unfriendly, ancient vampire...

“Oldest in the world,” Spike adds helpfully.

"Oldest in the world, who looks like something we’d rather see in neat cutlets on the barbecue than have a chat with. What’s the plan now?”

Spike assumes that raised eyebrows, innocent face he uses when he's bluffing. “We’ll have to improvise.”

“He'll just welcome you, a strange vampire on his territory? You have rules of hospitality?”

“Not exactly, pet. We’d have to have a bloody good story to convince his perimeter guards to let us in.”

"And our cover story is...?”

Spike shrugs. “Something will occur to me. We can always fight our way in if need be.”

Buffy shakes her head. “No. No, no no no. We make a plan first. Not a vague harebrained plan like yours but a serious plan with research and deployment and stuff.”

Spike snorts. “Right. And where’s the legion of Watchers who's gonna do that for us? Waiting for us at the school library, no doubt?”

“We’ll make the plan ourselves. You're a Master Vampire, I'm the oldest surviving Slayer. We can so do it, we don't need Watchers.”

Fifteen minutes or so later they agree on a plan. “I pretend to be a captive Slayer – and you do understand the concept of pretend, don't you Spike? You won't forget in the heat of battle and trade me off for real?"

“Hey! Who do you think you're talking to? Have I ever reneged on my word as a ...vampire?”

"Not in the past three days, no. With me and my stake to persuade you every inch of the way." Buffy ticks off the points on her fingers. "You pretend to trade me off, we capture the tame magician you say Kakistos always has with him, and then we leave. We leave. Together. Or we fight. Agreed?”

“Sound plan, love. Spoken like a true general. Go in, kick ass and leave. Perfect. But you know, maybe you could change your looks a little? Look a bit more like a prize?”

Buffy blushes so hard her ears tingle. Her Spike would never ever have suggested that she looked less than perfect. Guys. But he's right, they're gonna deliver a performance, and looks matter.

"Are we talking lipstick and a comb through my hair here, or are we talking Xena costume? Last thing, not gonna happen. Ever.”

Spike backs off. “Fine, pet, fine. Not that you need a Xena costume to look very, em, appetizing.”

Buffy glowers in his general direction of his grinning face and proceeds with the combing and lipsticking. Motel quality, alas, but better than nothing. Spike starts the car again and they cruise on through one of Cleveland's industrial areas, where, according to Spike, Kakistos reigns in an enormous derelict factory building.

“What's with you guys and abandoned factories? Why not go for, say, a mansion? A nice hotel? Factories tend not to have much in the way of modern comforts.”

Spike shrugs. “Kakistos is three thousand years old, doesn't need to eat or shit, doesn't need sunlight or a nice view, and heating and electricity are concepts he's probably never got the hang of.”

The car approaches a brightly lit chain fence which surround a giant brick structure, some kind of nineteenth century tycoon's dream of the ideal work place. 

“See? Buffy says. “Someone loves electricity."

Spike scowls. He slows the car and they drive up to the gate at a crawl. A couple of big hulking vampire goons step out of the shadows and bend down to Spike’s window.

Spike stares straight ahead. “Tell Kakistos that the Master of Sunnydale is here and has an object that will interest him.”

The goons confer rapidly in a strange language. 

“Is that Ancient Greek?” Buffy whispers to Spike. 

“Huh. No, Chechen. They're all the fashion in goons.”

"Oh.”

Spike leans towards her and yanks on the zipper of her down coat. 

“Hey! Hands off.”

“Don't be so prudish. We’ve got to show off some goodies, don't we?” 

"I thought we were selling the fact that I'm a Slayer, never mind the size of my boobs?”

“Always helps to add a bit of sex into the mix, Slayer, you ought to know that.”

Buffy feels her cheeks heat and Spike chuckles and squeezes her thigh, moving his hand upward to her groin in a kneading motion. Buffy slaps his hand sharply, excited and irritated at the same time at the involuntary clenching and flooding her pussy is doing. “Spike! Knock it off! They'll be able to smell..."

Spike smirks his nastiest, most irritating smirk at her. "Exactly, Slayer.”

Great. Buffy scoots away from him and sits fuming in silence while they wait for Goon 1 to return. She checks out Goon 2, who's standing with crossed arms on her side of the car. He bares his pointy teeth at her and scratches his crotch ostentatiously. Ew. She moves a couple of inches back in Spike's direction. There are nuances in evilness, that is very clear right now, and Spike must be almost at the good end of the scale if these guys are any indication. Jeez, what a creep.

Goon 1 returns and confers with Goon 2. If they are newish vamps, why can't they use cell phones? At this rate, half the night will be used up in waiting. Goon 1 motions the car through the gates and two other, almost identical goons fall into step beside it. Spike drives so slowly that the vamps can keep up with him while going no faster than a dignified parade walk, as if he is the President. Buffy groans and tries to think of something to make the time go faster. The suspense is killing her. 

Spike’s finger hooks behind the waistband of her jeans. "If you're bored, Slayer...” he offers sotto voce. 

It's pretty hard to say no, even with Goon 4 walking not four feet away from her window. “That is gross, Spike, with people looking on. That means no.”

He sighs. “Thought you wouldn't. Look, there's the gate.”

As the car rounds the corner to the north wall of the giant building Buffy can see there’s a tall broad gate in the factory wall. She can hardly believe it was original, but it's very impressive. Big doors flank the opening and she can see torches flickering in the interior. On the other end of the gate a neat row of a dozen or so XXL black stretch limousines are parked. Maybe Kakistos runs a funeral home on the side.

Spike stops the car when Goon 4 gives him a hand signal. He steps out and bends in to grip Buffy's arm hard. "One step behind me, Slayer and not a word!”

Buffy nods. He yanks her out roughly and doesn't help her when she almost falls on the concrete. This must be so much fun to him, she thinks. Or maybe he’s already been there, done that with her alter ego. He stands as tall as he can and struts forward into the big hall, duster flaring out behind him. He still looks pretty short next to the goons 3 and 4, Buffy notes with a strange kind of sad, sweet feeling she has no name for. 

She follows behind him, keeping her eyes downcast but letting them rove around the dark echoing space she enters. It's so big she can't see the ceiling and mostly empty, with some movement she can't yet see at the edges, and glimpses of people moving in torch light at the far end. She wonders what they made in here when it was still a factory, why it had to be so big. Workers would need so much time to move from one side to the other; also she thinks people didn’t have roller blades back then. She can make out a small throne with a little figure on it. She walks on behind Spike, and it takes a long time before they finally approach the throne. It has grown in their long trek down the aisle. There is no wedding march, only low key wailing and murmuring. She can't pinpoint the source of the sounds, but as her vision adjusts she can see more clearly. 

The throne is enormous, and so is the bulky ancient vamp sitting on it, sipping leisurely from a drooping naked white-skinned form. He lifts his ruined swine face as Spike approaches and smiles a blood spattered yellow-tusked smile. He drops the neck he was drinking from and the red headed girl slides down without a sound into a small heap at his feet. She can't be more than fourteen or fifteen. Her little white breasts are covered with purple bruises and bite marks. Buffy has to look away; the girl's white skin reminds her painfully of Dawn. She doesn't want to look Kakistos in the eyes either; afraid he might sense her anger. 

Now that her eyes are more used to the dark, she can see chained up vampires dotting the walls at regular intervals like statues in a church. They are all female, mostly naked or randomly hung with rotted scraps of cloth, frighteningly skinny like concentration camp victims, showing every bone in their humanoid bodies. Their hair is long and matted and their nails grown long and curved. One of them pokes out her own eye when she walks past her. They gnash their teeth and shriek at her with broken voices. She almost feels sorry for them, and is glad she can't understand a word they say, if they are saying words.

She looks away from the beseeching eyes and black stump of tongue of the crazy vamp on the left and concentrates on what's in front of her. Row upon row of vamps in all shapes and forms line the back wall of the factory interior. Some of them look a bit like the Master, bat-like with their mouths stained red, others like younger versions of Kakistos, and some wear their human faces.

"William the Bloody!" Kakistos' voice booms. She remembers that voice. On his left there is another vamp she remembers, Mr. Treat or something.

"Hail to Kakistos, Prince of Cleveland," Spike says, and Buffy has to bite her lip at the Prince moniker. So un-American.

"I ask a boon from you, Kakistos. I want your magician's services."

Spike's being very direct. Maybe that's the way to go in vamp society. No, an elaborate ritual starts, and her attention wanders away from the conversation to take in potential opponents and exit routes. Her conclusions are chilling; anyone here could kill her, and there is no way out. Great. Spike and Kakistos are still boasting of their prowess and past deeds. Buffy takes another sweep of the pack around the throne. The dense mass of vampires shifts a bit and she sees a cage quite close to her at the foot of the throne. In it is another of the emaciated female vamps, not chained, but huddled down in a pitiful heap of bones, and is she seeing that right? Actually gnawing on her own thin olive skinned arm. Ew. The vamp acts as if she's heard the mental exclamation and lifts her head. Dark eyes stare at her from under matted black hair and she bares her teeth at Buffy. She hisses something at her. Buffy strains to hear it and inches closer to the cage.

"Bee…" the vamp whines. "Kill Bee…."

Buffy steps back hastily, every muscle in her body clenched to smother the sounds her mouth wants to make. She stuffs her fist between her teeth and drives the nails of her other hand in her palm. It's Faith. She takes a deep shuddery breath and blinks furiously to keep the tears away. Faith vamped, killed by the only vampire, the only being she'd ever been afraid of. Killed horribly, no doubt, and now kept in a cage like a psycho dog, starving and insane. Oh God. She has to find some way to kill this poor creature, put it out of its misery. Poor Faith. The thought that she was rutting away with a vampire just hours ago now makes her sick. This is what vampires do to Slayers, what Spike perhaps did to the Buffy from his universe, and she's been entertaining the thought of not killing him?

She feels cold through and through, her face freezes and she's biting down hard on her own teeth. She has to get out of here, torch this whole filthy place, kill them all. 

Spike and Kakistos seem to have reached some kind of agreement.

"You brought me another Slayer?" Kakistos rumbled. "She smells familiar. Smells like your bitch."

Buffy is unprepared for the vicious yank on her hair Spike uses to bring her closer to Kakistos' murky gaze. She suppresses an indignant squeal and keeps her gaze below Kakistos'. The old vampire leans forward to get a better look or maybe sniff at her. One of his cloven fore hooves digs absentmindedly into the still white body puddled at his feet and he brings the hoof to his mouth and licks it off with relish. Buffy remembers seeing him killed and wishes she could do it right now. She owes it to Faith.

Kakistos wants to take possession of Buffy immediately, but Spike bluffs and postures until he sighs wearily and waves to Mr. Trick or Treat to take them to the court magician. Mr. Trick walks them past a row of the gibbering shackled vamps, who start to writhe harder when Buffy comes closer and try to spit at her, throwing themselves at her. The chains abrade their cold flesh and sluggish blood creeps out.

"Is this the vamp equivalent of prison?" Buffy asks Spike. 

He shrugs. "Dunno love. I usually just kill a minion that displeases me. Of course, if you're into torture…They say Kakistos brought these vamps with him when he removed his court from Athens and moved here in the eighteenth century."

Creepier and creepier. Mr. Trick depresses a brick in what appears to be a completely unmarked wall and a door opens outward. Buffy meekly follows the henchvamp and Spike through, but a gob of spittle lands at her feet just when she wants to step over the threshold. 

The vampire who spat glares at her in human face. She was a tall girl once, and is even now less emaciated and damaged than most of the other prisoners. 

"One girl," she says in a low monotonous voice. "One girl in all the world…" She spits again.

Ew. These vampires know she is the Slayer. That explains the extra writhing and cursing efforts they've been putting in for her benefit. Buffy turns away and steps through the door.
 

Spike emerges from the dim hall, which seemed hushed but had as much susurrating background noise as a beach, into a brightly lit stark white interior. Computer screens on worktables line the walls and shackled vamps sit typing busily. You'd have to shackle most vampires to make them do data entry instead of killing and partying, Spike reckons. He prefers a simpler approach. He just kills a great big computer nerd and let him do all day what he likes best, namely sit behind the computer. Trick looks around proudly at the modern conveniences. 

"Committing Internet crime?" Slayer says, a sneer in her voice.

Mr. Trick ignores her completely. Spike decides to take pity on the fuming Slayer and says, "Nice set-up. Yours?"

Mr. Trick smiles a wide toothy smile and his gold incisor keeps flickering as he talks enthusiastically. "I'm making so much money doing my thing on the web, this setup and everything be legal now. The big man don't get that these are not the old days, when you could get away with just inspiring terror. Government could just drop a bomb on this factory, we'd go poof. But it's legal, see, so they won't. The big man can get his mind around cars, just about, but he don't like electricity, never mind the Internet. Works just fine."

The pug faced vamp on the right gives him the finger behind his back. It makes her chains rattle and Mr. Trick is on her in a flash. "I don't like insubordination," he says silkily, "fucks up productivity."

Spike doesn't see how he does it, but the vamp falls apart silently and dust rains on the keyboard. 

"Damn," Mr. Trick says. "Vampire dust is hell on keyboards. I go through keyboards something terrible. Call up a replacement from the holding tank," he instructs one of the other data vamps. "Make it quick." 

Spike likes this Mr. Trick. He should get one of his own, let him run Sunnydale operations. He follows the vampire through another door. The cell into which he emerges closes in on him like a damp pillow clamped across his mouth, stiflingly soft and clammy. A middle aged, dun haired man sits at a small table, writing with a quill on a thick stack of parchment sheets. One of his legs is shackled to the wall with a long chain. Kakistos is really big with the shackling, he must be so popular with his workforce.

Mr. Trick greets the man by cuffing him sharply about the ears. "Got a customer for you, my man. Sit up straight and listen good. Kakistos want what Mr. the Bloody is offering so you better cough up the magic pronto this time."

The man looks up slowly, ignoring his bleeding ear. Buffy guffaws softly near Spike's ear. The magician looks right past him, sending a wide mirthless smile at the Slayer. They know each other? The wariness and enmity they broadcast reassure him a little. Even if they're both human, they don't seem to feel like natural allies. Good. He doesn't want the Slayer to do a Bounty on him.

The Slayer's body language has been all over the place anyway since they fucked each other senseless in that motel room. One moment she's sending out come closer, fuck me vibes, the next inute she's all cold eye, I'm about to stake you, you horrible creep. Confuses a bloke alright. Sometimes a girl means no, apparently, even when she's throwing him on the bed and riding him like he's Black Beauty. Someone gave her quite an education. Never mind about that, they only need each other as long as their quest lasts.

"Mr. The Bloody. Ethan Rayne. What can I do for you?" the Magician says.

Spike grabs the other chair and sits down without waiting for an invitation. "Call me Spike. I need to find out how operate a magic device. Can you help me with that?"

Ethan shrugs and raises and lowers his sandy eyebrows. "Probably. Should I want to?"

Mr. Trick shakes his head. "Dudes, don't even try to make deals with each other. You be surrounded by hundreds of mean hungry vampires, there is no point. I'll even leave, I'm so not scared of whatever you can cook up."

He leaves. Ethan sighs. "He's right. Janus knows I'm more than interested in improving my situation, but I haven't managed to wangle my way out of this over the past five years , so....Let's get down to business."

Spike leans back and balances his fingertips together so he can think better. "I need to open a transdimensional portal to a specific dimension. I have a device that's capable of it but I don't know how to work it."

Ethan nods. "Show me."

Buffy nods at Spike. He doesn't need her permission, thank you. He gets the plastic bag from his duster and unwraps the portal opener.

Ethan's eyes narrow and he picks up the shiny bracelet with his feathered pen. "Interesting. I can make this work. Which dimension do you want and what do you want to do in there?"

Spike's eyes meet Buffy's briefly. "Slayer here's been exchanged with someone else; she's from that dimension originally.  She wants to get back."

"Really? Well, it is true that you can't just travel between dimensions, there is always an exchange. The exchange can be controlled, but if you don't do that, the universe grabs the closest equivalent from that dimension automatically."

Spike looks thoughtful. "So if I wanted to travel to another dimension, what would happen?"

"If there was a Spike or something like it in the target dimension, he or it would be exchanged for you and end up at your starting point."

"And if the Spike in that dimension was dead, for example? As in dust in the wind?"

Ethan's brow furrows and he thinks for a few moments. "Tricky. An undefined situation. You could end up in hell, or in limbo, or end up not existing at all, depending on what happens to vampires in that universe. In that case, you'd better to do a special spell to define something else to exchange. Your weight in steer manure or something like that."

"Very funny, Rayne."

"Not really. You must appease the Gatekeeper of the gate you're going through. He's the one that keeps track of the balance. There's one for every portal between the universes, an infinite amount of them. If you weren't a vamp, a drop of blood would do it. If you don't keep him happy, he'll go for your soul."

"What does a gatekeeper look like?" Spike asks idly, watching Ethan's hands arrange spell supplies deftly and competently.

"Great big black toad-like things, voice like an avalanche."

"Oops," the Slayer squeaks. 

Yeah, he was thinking something along those same lines. Great. They pissed off a gatekeeper? He tells Ethan about their Iowa encounter.

Ethan makes an amused noise. "You messed with a gatekeeper? Good job. I don't know if they are in communication with each other, but if I were you I wouldn't travel through the interstices more than strictly necessary... "

"Why don't you start doing the magic? Return the Slayer here to her dimension, and let me go along."

"What? No way. You think I'm going to let you loose in my dimension? Forget it," Buffy says firmly. 

He can hear her heart pounding away. What is she thinking, silly bint, that it's a declaration of eternal love? 

Ethan grins that too wide grin again. It doesn't reach his dark deep eyes. "Miss Summers, so nice to meet you again. I'm a little confused here. Who am I doing this deal with? You or your charming swain?"

The Slayer blushes.  Blushing is good, all that lovely blood flooding about. Would it taste any different if he were to bite her pink cheeks right now? More heated, full of excited hormones? 

"We're equal partners in this venture, Ethan. And it's Ms. Summers."

Ethan inclines his head graciously. "Do forgive me; I forget my American manners, surrounded as I am by people from other eras. Many of whom, by the way, were colleagues of yours once, now sadly limited in their freedom." 

Spike gets it, of course, and he hopes the Slayer won't, but then her eyes snap open wide and she goes after the words like a dog after a bone. "Colleagues? What do you mean? Slayers?" He sees her get it. "All the shackled vamps are former Slayers?" 

Spike tries to count how many he saw. Five hundred feet of factory wall, a vamp every six or seven feet? The mind boggles.

Rayne is obviously enjoying the Slayer's discomfiture and grins like a shark, and not the vegetarian kind either. "I bet my beloved Rupert and his council mates never saw fit to tell you just how many Slayers ended up in Kakistos' court, did they, Buffy?"

The Slayer clenches her teeth and the grinding is so loud even the magician must be able to hear it. She jerks her head at Spike. She wants to talk. Spike gets up and starts towards her. He doubles back and takes the device out of Ethan's hands and sees surprised approval on her face. Bugger it, he knows perfectly well he's no slouch, but it is annoying that it surprises the Slayer so. The chip thing must have ruined the other's brains or something. 

"Spike," the Slayer begins tightly. "We have to do something. Free Faith and those poor Slayers. We can't allow that creep to torture them and..."

Spike casts his eyes to heaven.  "Slayer, for God's sake, they are vampires, and have been for fuck knows how long. There's no bleeding point in doing anything for them. They won't thank you for it, they'll just kill you."

"Ethan could free them!"

"You'd free a cartload of psychotic vampires? Are you out of your mind?"

"No, you're right, we should kill them, that would be the kindest thing."

Is that what she thinks? That being a vampire is torture? "Wanna give me a merciful death, Slayer?" He extends his arms and crooks his head aside. "Go on then. Why wait?" 

The Slayer looks cornered. "Not you. You're...never mind. Don't sidetrack me.  We'll promise to free him, if he programs the device and frees all the ex-Slayers. I'm betting they'll go straight for Kakistos and give us an opportunity to escape in the confusion."

Spike whistles. She's on to something. "Slayer, I take it all back. This is just nifty. But, um, what about the magician? Got the impression you were old enemies. Or does he get a free pass because he's human?"

She shrugs. "Evil or not, in my book he ranks way below Kakistos on the evil scale. Win some, lose some. Should he happen to come to some harm between here and the door, I won't shed a tear about it."

"Right. Let's do it. Device, protection spell for me, free the Slayer vamps."

"Spike, you're not coming with me..." the Slayer starts, but gives up halfway. 

He'll persuade her yet, but they have to get some more pressing concerns to take care of first.

"Ethan," the Slayer says without preamble, "could your magic dissolve your chains?" 

Ethan flicks his fingers and the chains disappear. He flicks them again and they're back. He crosses his arms and looks at them with a superior little half smile. "Not a problem. It's the after I'm more concerned about."

Spike winks at Buffy. "Neat little trick, Mr. Sunshine. Can you do the same to a specific set of chains in the factory?"

Ethan leans back. "Possibly. My question always is, what are the benefits to me?"

The Slayer leans forward aggressively into his face. "How about your life and your freedom? That's about as much as you can expect!"

Spike sighs inwardly and has to exercise some prime self-control not to react. Will the fucking Slayer please stop interfering with his delicately balanced negotiations? She has no concept of the give and take that can exist between opponents. It could be vital to allow the magician to save some face, but what does she do? Spell it out brutally and deliver some none too subtle threats. He never had this with Dru; whatever she said could always be written off to her insanity, if it happened to make sense, so much the better. 

"What she says, Mr. Magoo. You create the confusion, we help you get out, for the rest you're on your own."

Ethan nods. "Fair enough. But how will I know Ms. Summers is not going to wreak vengeance for my past trespasses?"

"Slayer?"

The Slayer shrugs. "This universe is not my responsibility. I'll leave you to the Slayer in residence."

"All right. I'll do it. Hand me the device."

Spike gets the bag from his duster again, but the Slayer stops him. "Ethan, lemme tell you about your present fate in my world," she says, and her voice is as hard and clear as glass. "You're in a government prison. No one knows you're there and you'll never get out. Just a little hint not to go gallivanting off on your own through the multiverse."

"I'm an honorable man," Ethan says, but doesn't even bother to put any sincerity in his voice. "I'd never do something like that. Anyway, we can't activate it in here. The whole building is shielded and also impenetrable to magic because of all the magnetic fields. Computer cabling."

"Just so we know that," Spike says and goes to stand close behind Ethan while he works. He starts making a protective circle from little pots and vials he gets from cupboards all over the room and starts scribbling spells, muttering multi-syllabic words under his breath.

The Slayer thinks this is the prefect moment to continue haranguing him. "And you were the one who sold Faith to Kakistos, you disgusting evil...monster! That she's a Slayer doesn't make it less horrible, it makes it worse. She served the Good. She's an innocent victim, Spike."

"So were we all, once. Remember? All vampires started out as human beings, not just the ex-Slayers. Doesn't stop them from being monsters, doesn't stop you from killing them. Is as it ought to be."

"That's sounds really logical in theory, but it doesn't feel like that! Faith can't be a number to me, she's no faceless vamp!. If you know people, you should treat them differently, because they make you feel different." 

What is she beating herself up for? There is no shame in living by your feelings and instinct.

"Did you treat the other Buffy like that?" she asks.

"Please, love, all that yammering and clanking of chains all day long would ruin my enjoyment of life. Death, whatever. She's my minion, and as long as she minds me, she gets treated all right."

"Minds you?" the Slayer hisses. "You mean does exactly as your tell her to."

"Well, yeah! What are minions for?"

What the hell did she expect? He grabs her by the upper arms and presses her into the side wall of the little room to contain all that useless thinking. She's sending out such a deliciously mixed cocktail of signals, it's enough to make a man's head spin. The tears that glisten in her big eyes and her heaving little bosom tell him she's prey, vulnerable, her fists tell him there's power here, be wary, and the press of her springy belly against his cock is pure sex. What's he to choose? He wants them all, her blood, her pussy and her fists. He wraps a big hank of her long hair around his hand and bends over for a kiss.

Ethan coughs politely. "If you two can spare a moment of your time, the device is quite ready."

Spike eyes it suspiciously. "Ready to transport the Slayer and me to her dimension, complete with protection spell for me?"

Ethan nods. Both he and Ethan ignore the protesting sounds from the Slayer. 

"How do we activate it?"

"You both have to grab it at the same time."

"From what I heard," the Slayer says, "I won't get to meet my counterpart? She'll be flung right back to this dimension?"

"That's right."

The Slayer looks disappointed. "Too bad."

"What were you planning, love? Staking or reforming?"

"Ha ha. Staking, of course."

"What? You weren't gonna try and convince her to get herself a soul? You'd make a poor missionary, pet."

She always rises to his bait, so cute. Spike takes the transdimensional device and puts it away carefully.

Ethan mouths some words and they can hear a sudden ringing sound from the big hall; all the chains tumbling to the floor at once. There is a moment of petrified silence and Spike notices with chagrin that he's holding his breath in anticipation, like a human being.

Then a single sobbing scream rents the air. As it reaches crescendo a thousand other voices join in and for a second it's like attending a pop concert, all these female voices screeching on one high note. Then the unity breaks and a random caterwauling and thudding starts up.

"Okay, people, now's the time. Run."

The Slayer and him grab Rayne under his arms and push through the door, through the stunned ranks of the data entry vampires and into the dim confusion of the hall. It's all milling bodies and waving lights. One vampire has become a living torch and runs shrieking into a huddle of other vamps, setting them on fire. This is all good. No one will be paying attention to them.

He meets the Slayers eyes and knows they'll take off at the exact same second.

They are running through the hall. Screams echo through the big space, the scent of old blood tickles his nose. Rayne hangs like a rag doll between them; they're running faster than any ordinary human could. Everything is confusion, no one is minding them at all. He rips off a skull-like head from one of the freed vamps. It's like tearing off wet toilet paper. He runs through a spray of blood like a kid running through a sprinkler and licks his lips in appreciation. Only vamp blood, but better than that pig swill the Slayer made him drink.

The Slayer is glorious as she runs beside him. Her power and determination arc around her like shining wings. She twists and wends between the milling vampires, now kicking, then thrusting out with her stake without breaking stride. Her face is open and accepting, seeing all, no shame now, she and her power are one. She's beautiful like this, a queen. His heart yearns towards her, should he throw it at her feet?

They explode out into the brightly lit night and slow down. Ethan doubles over coughing, and then stumbles on towards one of the ridiculous limos. 

"Come," Spike pants to the Slayer, and pulls at her hand.

Her wings are folding back in, she's pulling all that gorgeous energy back inside, making herself small, crossing her arms before her heart. He aches to see her withdraw her radiance and go dark and dull. Her Slayerness makes an almost palpable wall between them, and yet it is the only thing that connects them, makes them equals, where ordinarily just the ephemeral thread between hunter and hunted would briefly span. He toys with the thought of killing her now, at the apex of her powers, which might make it different from when he killed her the first time. But no, he knows what the very essence of her glorious nature would turn into, that her holy conviction would turn inside out and become warped and rancid. A joyless love of torture and submission into eternity. Some people are not made to be vampires and can ruin even the limitless freedom of that existence with their self-made shackles.

She wrenches loose and stands firm beside the door, stake ready. "No. We should kill as many as we can. Torch the place."

"With what? We have to go, we could do it right here, let's just move, Slayer! Let these creeps kill each other, none of our business."

Her face is so small and tight. "I have to kill the Slayers, Spike. They deserve to die. I owe it to them. I owe it to Faith. "

She sets her mouth and turns back. "I have to free Faith. I'm going back in."

Buffy is just about to hurl herself back through the factory entrance when a small form in game face bursts out of the door. It halts and swivels its head toward Buffy like a snake, as if there is no human spine in there at all. The face melts with a crunching sound and a grunt from the vamp. Buffy looks in vampire Faith's haunted dark eyes and she's paralyzed. This Faith must have been killed pretty soon after arriving in Sunnydale, hadn't even had time to choose the Mayor and turn evil. She was more innocent than the living Faith she knows. She was a victim. How can she kill her?

Faith shifts back and forth from game face another time and says with a big grin full of fangs, "Howya doing, B.? Any last words?" 

Buffy opens her mouth to answer, although she has no clue what she's gonna say. Before anything can come out Faith turns gray and disintegrates before her eyes.

Spike looks at her levelly, stake still held at the height of Faith's heart. "Thought I'd spare you the decision, love."

What should she say? Thanks? He's the one she blames for selling Faith to Kakistos and at the same time she knows she's being unfair. Faith never stood a chance against Kakistos without her, Spike or no Spike. Still, her grief feels muted. Things that happen here don't really matter because this is not home. This was not the real Faith.

Spike gently takes her hand and tugs her towards where the truck was parked. He is not Spike. She shakes her head to get rid of the fuzziness and looks back to where Faith's dust speckles the concrete.

"Bugger! It's gone!" Spike says. She bumps into him because he's stopped. "We'll take a limo then. Always fancied me a ride in a hearse, got cheated of that when I died."

"Spike. Help me burn down this building. We can't afford to leave Kakistos alive."

Spike hesitates only a second. He nods at her and streaks off in a burst of vampire speed. It seems in direct opposition to his assent until Buffy sees him return with a kicking and struggling Ethan, carried by the scruff of his neck. 

"Calm down, mate. You can't afford to let Kakistos on your tail either. Do a fire spell or something," Spike says.

Ethan straightens himself and brushes down his black star-spangled coat. "I told you, the building is impenetrable to magic. Cabling, remember? Magnetic fields?"

Spike paces up and down. "Think of something else. Collapse it? Trap them inside until the sun comes up?"

Ethan shakes his head. "Won't kill them. Tunnels."

Spike glances at the cars. "There's gas in the tanks. Let's get that out and douse the building."

Ethan gets a crafty look on his face. "I've got it. The building is protected against magic and people entering, but not against inanimate objects. We'll put the cars on fire, drive them to the gate and jump out. They'll explode Inside, in a purely mundane way. We've got a dozen limos here, ought to do the trick."

"Brilliant. Save two for our own getaway, though. Alright, go make the other two ready. Slayer and me'll drive them up and jump out, won't harm us."

Ethan's very quick and efficient when his safety is at stake. In no time the first two cars are ready for takeoff. Buffy drives the first one up to the gate at a modest thirty miles per hour, and jumps out at the last minute. She's calculated it a little too narrowly and almost crashes into the wall. Spike falls on top of her and takes the time for a quick grope before he rolls off and hastens to the next car. Buffy's determined not to be out-speeded by him and races after. The first explosion rolls out of the gate, closely followed by the second. A few vamps try to storm out but Buffy gets the first one and sees Spike hurry after the other two.

Another two explosions, and two more. It gets to be routine, drive up, jump out, roll, stand up, hop into the next one. When Buffy's heard explosion nine she gets up to find only one limousine left. The other one is already accelerating in the direction of the gate. Ethan's understandably hasty to leave here and they should be too, now they can think about getting away.

She's just in time to see Spike rip out the door of the last car. She hurries to the other side and opens the passenger door. The dashboard covers are ripped open and Spike's fiddling with a piece of wire. Hotwiring, Buffy knows this from TV.

When they've plowed through the goons and the gate and are safely on the road again, Buffy puts her hand briefly on Spike's arm.

"Thanks," She says. For Faith, she means. It's important to say it to him, because she so often hasn't said it to the other Spike.

"I know," he nods but keeps his eyes on the road.

"We could use the portal opener right now," Buffy says. "Why wait?"

"Don't like to do it from a moving vehicle, Slayer. Also, we can't be sure if the Amazing Rayne didn't try and double cross us. Don't trust too much on other people's skills. Maybe it'll work, maybe it won't. We best be gone. Might even think of stocking up on flammable goods in case we meet a Gatekeeper in the portal and it's as cranky as the one we saw in Iowa." 

"Okay. Let's drive to my house? Or where it is in my dimension? If we cross near there we'd be safe after the transition. And I don't think the vampires are gonna be organized enough to follow us there."

"Yeah, vampires are the least of our concerns now, I reckon."

Buffy can't keep herself from checking the rearview mirror many times, though. She sees that Spike can't either. No driverless vehicles show up behind them and after ten minutes or so she relaxes in her seat and breathes out deeply. The moment she does the next hurdle pops up in her brain, grinning like a tumble doll on crack. Spike intends to cross with her into her home dimension for reasons he's kept secret so far. How do you solve a problem like Spike? The answer according to Giles would be devastatingly simple, but as she pleaded about Faith a few minutes ago, once you know a person the rules change.

It's like one of those decision trees. Staking: when impossible, go to box X: prevent him from entering your dimension. When impossible, go to box Y; please contact one of our employees at the following number. Only there is no one to call, the buck always stops with her. A leaden feeling descends. She remembers it well; she's been wearing it with varying degrees of confidence for years. Now that it's back she can be grateful for the days of reprieve, having a lighthearted adventure with a trusty companion. 

She tries to sigh the heaviness away. She needs more data.

"You sound a little blue, pet. What are you thinking of? Feeling sad because this is nearly goodbye?"

Admitting that would be crossing a line she doesn't want to cross. 

"I'll miss you, Slayer. Never thought I'd say that. Started feeling different about you."

Okay, so two minutes ago she thought this would be exactly what she wanted to hear, but now that he's almost saying it, she dances away from the feeling like a skittish horse. Not another vampire lover. Not the unsouled version.

"Spike, you're a great warrior and the perfect partner on an adventure like this, but I don't...I mean..."

The amused glint in his eyes makes her stop. "I'm not the guy you love? I got that, pet. You're not the woman I love either. There's the possibility - if we continued to work together - feelings might develop. But we won't. No hard feelings?"

"No, no, God, no. I'm glad we agree on this. I was afraid..." Buffy hesitates.

"You thought, me being Spike and all, I'd fall for you head over heals like my departed look-alike? Yeah, well, let's face it, I'm the real thing. Not a muzzled caged sad sort of vampire but the real Big Bad. I eat your kind, and I'm not planning on changing that. Wouldn't go down too well with you, I wager."

"You wouldn't, like, go to Africa to get a soul?"

"Emphatically, no."

Spike emphasizes his words with one of his sweeping gestures, making the limo swerve a bit. Limo swerves go on longer than ordinary car swerves, Buffy can feel it in her belly.

"Okay. I'm glad that's settled, then." Buffy says.

"Yeah, me too."

"Yeah."

The silence returns. Spike drives on. He fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it one-handedly. Buffy wishes that the limo had a radio or CD-player but there's a gaping hole where radios normally are. Maybe Kakistos couldn't get his head around radios either. She doesn't want to look at Spike again, but she doesn't want to close her eyes and fall asleep either. She's done enough sleeping the past few days, and the adventure part is almost ending. Her neighborhood is approaching, and with the device in their possession, it won't be too hard to get back to her own dimension or universe. 

She sees his right hand lying motionless on his jeaned leg. She's never looked really closely at Spike's hands before, and they are pretty big for a man as modestly sized as he is. Are his feet big too? There was only one thing she'd cared to measure in the old days, but it's embarrassing that she doesn't know this already. She stretches her neck to get a look at his feet. They seem enormous, but that could be due to his battered thick soled combat boots. 

She returns her gaze to his hands. The black polish has nearly worn off. She opens her mouth to sat something about it but shuts it abruptly. All this getting friendly with him will lead nowhere. She could pretend she was making up for lost time, but the hard truth is, it's too late. Her eyes fill up and she looks away into the dark hole on her right. Stupid tears. Too late.

Spike puts his hand over hers. Never heavy, his hands or limbs. He only weighs on her conscience, never making her feel physically trapped and pinned like a bigger guy would. 

"What do you want in my dimension, Spike?" she asks as the limo turns onto her street.

Spike cruises along slowly, both hands lax on the wheel now . He looks at her, his face tilted slightly down at her, eyes thoughtfully slitted.

"Something that's missing in mine. You think if you know, it'll help you decide whether to stake me or not?"

He grins at her confusion. Still reading her like a book, just like the other one. She used to hate him for that, but now she welcomes it. She smiles back, she can't help it.

"Here is the house." 

It looks the same as hers. She and her friends haven't started personalizing it in the three wintry months they've lived there.

Spike stops and kills the engine. "This is it, eh? Moment of decision. What'll it be, Slayer?"

Buffy swallows. "What can you give me to make it easier? What promise?" Her voice sounds hoarse, no doubt telegraphing her feelings to Spike, who probably already knows about them from dozens of other signals.

Spike looks back steadily and takes her hand again. As the coolness of his palm enfolds her much smaller hand a sob sticks in her throat. She brutally forces it down and nearly chokes from it.

"One: I won't stay there forever. Once I find and take what I want, I'll return home. Two: You have the portal device at your end, so I'll need your help to return. Big incentive for good behavior."

He's still not saying what he's gonna do in her world, which she takes to mean that she won't like it.

"What does good behavior mean?"

She wants to bare her neck and say, here, take it all, but knows it for folly. Spike doesn't make a bid but balances his fingers together, stretches his arms and pops his knuckles loudly.

She considers briefly and tells him the bottom line. "Don't kill anyone."

Spike leans forward and puts his hand on her thigh. "Slayer," he says, "that's unreasonable. You can't ask me to live like that!"

Buffy just raises her brows and withdraws her hand. He exerts the subtlest of pressures on her thigh. 

Buffy stares straight ahead. She's afraid that if she looks into his eyes she'll waver. "My world, my rules."

"Slayer..."

She crosses her arms securely.

Spike sighs and his voice is very close to her ear now. "Pig's blood it is."

She turns into the voice, her arms fall loose from their tight folding and she finds her lips and inch from his. His face is so close to hers that she can't focus on his eyes, a blue and white blur swimming in front of her. His arms have snaked around her back.

"One for the road, Slayer?"

The kiss is honey and smoke, his nose resting against her cheek, his fingers threaded in the hair at her neck. His lips are softer than sugar and more sweet. Buffy flows like molasses against his skin and wishes she need never solidify. Spike pulls away first and after a breathless second or two she opens her eyes to find him far enough away from her to get a really good look at him. The bright sodium lights of the street lamps make his skin milky white, his hair silver and his eyes darker than the night. The silence between them is prolonged and solemn. She looks back without saying anything. 

Spike blinks and the connection is severed. They turn away from each other as if on cue. Spike reaches for the plastic bag with the magic device. He holds up the portal opener with Ethan's swan quill.

Buffy nods and they reach out to grab the blue ring of fire simultaneously. 

Blink. 

Buffy is stretched like spaghetti and strung around the universe's fork. Black strings creep in of their own accord next to her pale limp strands, crowding her out, smelling of squid, no, oil. She struggles against the sticky black tentacles, it's her fork, her sauce. The vortex spits her out. Metal clangs and she finds herself in her own Cleveland basement. She's chained to the wall and handcuffed in a very uncomfortable position. Handcuffs? Those are new. The cuffs are a little too high. The other Buffy must have been wearing really high heels.

She's galvanized into action when the realization hits. The other Buffy! She's home! The basement is silent but is a silence that rings with the absence of a great noise the moment before. Where is Spike? She needs to see him, remind him of his promise. She needs to see him once more.

"Xander!" she bellows, straining against the cuffs. "It's me, I'm home! Get me out of here!"

But those can't be Xander's footsteps she hears tip-tapping lightly and rapidly down the stairs. Dawn!

"Dawnie!" 

"Buffy!" Dawn hurls herself around Buffy's neck and doesn't let go for a long time. "I was so scared, Buffy..."

Buffy's nose is squashed against Dawn's breastbone. She can't have grown this much in three days, can she? 

Dawn looks her over with a smile. "You look as if you've been without a comb or moisturizer for days."

"Hey!"

Remarks like these will go stale very quickly, but it's good to be under a sister's scrutiny again.

"I'll tell you about it later. Unlock me, I need to go find Spike."

Dawn guffaws. "Spike who's in the insanely big hearse? He's wrapped around our front porch right now, not going anywhere soon. How did you find him?

"Dawnie, stop yammering and get me loose. It's not the Spike you know, it's one from another universe and he's unchipped, unsouled and dangerous." 

Dawn jitters up and down from nervousness, unable to decide what to do first. "I have to go warn Xander."

"Dawn. First, cut me loose. Then go warn the others."

Dawn unlocks the cuffs with shaking fingers and Buffy sprints up the stairs, Dawn on her heels.

Buffy finds less mayhem and slaughter than she expected. Xander is standing on the porch, staring at the limo. Spike is still sitting in it, looking a bit dazed. Its crumpled nose is pressed up against the side of the house as if it was trying to get in, barring Spike from exiting through his missing door.

"Spike! You alright?"

"Bit shaken. I seem to remember the car wasn't moving?"

So does Buffy. "Maybe," she says slowly, circling the car, "you were aimed for the basement like me, where the other Buffy was. But you don't have an invitation so you bounced off the magic barrier, car and all. For which I'm kind of grateful, because it would have been hard to get the car out of the basement."

Spike grunts and feels his head. "Not exactly grateful here. On the upside, at least I have wheels."

He crawls out of his seat and manages to kick open the passenger door with Buffy's help. She grabs his arm to steady him when he almost falls out. The pointed silence behind her reminds her that they're not alone.

"Slayer, help me get this car down to Mother Earth."

Spike completely ignores Xander and Dawn, and Buffy realizes she can't do the same.

"Hey Xander."

Xander walks up to her but doesn't hug her like she expects. "You look...different. No time to shower I guess?"

"What's with you guys? Here I am, back from a harrowing adventure through different dimensions, driving halfway across America, and all you can do is comment on my personal hygiene?" Buffy says automatically, but her eyes have already swiveled back to Spike. 

The front end of the limo lands on her front yard with a thud. 

"Let me give you a hand, Spike," she says.

"Ta, pet."

The back of the car follows the front. Spike starts to move to the drivers' side but Buffy halts him with her hand. The black leather feels stiff and cold.

Spike picks off her hand gently but firmly. "I'll be back, Slayer. Dunno when."

She watches him clamber in the driver's seat and start the car. With a lot of wheel-churning and cursing Spike gets it positioned pointing to the street. "I'll be off, then. Cheers!"

And he's gone. Buffy stands and watches the car drive off in the direction they came from. Just before the turn the taillights wink on. Responsible driver, Spike. The sound of the receding engine goes on for a long time in the quiet suburb.

She turns to the house with a sigh and meets the avid stares of Xander and Dawn. Xander makes the universal gesture for 'well?'

Explanations seem unavoidable. "So, how much do you guys know already? You met vampy me, I guess?"

Xander's hand goes to a bandage on his neck she hadn't noticed yet. "We did, Buff, right when she landed on your chair with a big bang. The unrestrained type, you as a vampire. Not like I remember from when our nightmares became true."

"I'm sorta glad I didn't meet her. It must be so weird seeing yourself as a vampire."

Xander nods. "Willow has been giving many and detailed accounts of her personal experiences with this phenomenon. So, we didn't stake the Buffy vampire right away like Kennedy wanted, and researched first. Will realized we needed her if we wanted you back, like when Spike got the demon when you went to the Slayer dimension? Right now, Will and Ken are off buying spell supplies. And doing a movie. We would have tried a spell first thing tomorrow, Buff."

"Hey, that's cool. I can take care of myself, remember? I hooked up with the Spike from that world-"

"The same one who vamped you there?" Dawn says.

"Um, yeah. Well, he had a car. We figured the device came from Cleveland, and we had to get there to find one."

"We?"

"Yeah. We made a deal. I wanted to get home, he wanted his Buffy back," Buffy says defensively.

Why does she always have to defend her choices? Can't her friends trust her after all this time?

"It was an emergency. I allied with who was at hand," she says, going for stern and lectury. "No time for the fine points of morality."

Xander looks up at nowhere, in that remembering look he has, which comes out disconcertingly lopsided because his new eye doesn't quite track that far. "Wasn't it you who said, 'you can't beat evil by doing evil'?"

"I didn't do evil. I temporarily decided not to take immediate action on evil. That's not the same."'

"I thought there were vibes, Buffy. You two were vibey. And there were beseeching looks and hands on sleeves. I may be one-eyed but I'm not blind."

Buffy looks to Dawn for support, but her sister crosses her arms and nods. "There was vibeyness."

Great. She's back, in every sense of the word. 

"But Buffy, I don't see why he's here, in our dimension. Unchipped and unsouled, I guess? How's that work with your so-called deal?"

If you put it like that it does sound wrong. The suspicion what she ought to have done nibbles uncomfortably at her peace of mind. Knowing what's right and being able to do it aren't the same thing at all, though. Blue eyes, knowing exactly what to do to her next, long strong fingers plying her body, they cloud the issue where they shouldn't. 

"He gave his word he wouldn't kill anyone. He needs something in this world."

"But you don't know what? And you accepted a vampire's word? Playing a risky game, Buff. How will you feel when he breaks it?" Xander says, and she hates him for asking the question. 

He's never exactly been Spike's advocate, or Angel's, even when they were souled, so this comes as no surprise, but usually she finds it easier to dismiss his opinions. 

"Well, I'm off to take a shower since my smell and appearance are so offensive. I'll wait until the others are home to tell the gripping tale of my adventures. "

She has one foot in the door when a car turns onto their street. Her heart does a little double take but stands down again quickly. The engine sounds different. Never mind, shower and moisturize first. She has missed her personal care products and she's so gonna burn these clothes.

"What was he like, Buffy? The other Spike?"

Buffy sits stretching idly and watches Willow work the vortex generator. Willow delicately manipulates settings that apparently only witches can sense. 

"Different. Wild. Evil."

"Uh-huh. I sense a certain...lack of disapproval in your voice, Buffy Summers."

"I meant, obviously, that he had no chip and no soul, and he'd never fought by our side."

Buffy turns around and raises her arm up behind her head, pulling with the other arm until it creaks. The gradual loosening of winter's hold on Cleveland has made running a daily exercise once more. She's just come back and is keeping Willow company while she stretches and cools down. Willow's preparing the dimension device for Spike's return; she and Xander don't want to take any chances with the unchipped Spike when he returns. If he returns.

"Come on, Will, quit the fishing expedition. Ask outright if you wanna know something."

Willow looks at her from under her lashes. "We talked about this before, Buffy. Wicked energy?"

"What do you want me to say, Willow? Was I in love with the original Spike? I guess. Do I mourn him? Yes. Do I wish I could move on? Maybe. Not with Jean Pierre the would be magician or Lorenzo the black belt, anyway. Talk about lame."

"That must have made Spike happy, that you loved him back."

Buffy shakes out her arm muscles fiercely, concentrating too hard to be able to look Willow in the eye. "I kinda told him at the last minute."

She throws Willow a quick look. Willow looks back with a softness in her eyes that makes Buffy squirm inside. "I thought you two were making the most of your moments together in the basement. I'm sorry, Buffy."

There's not much to say in answer to that.

"Look, Buffy, I'm done. See the change in frequency?"

"Huh. Not really. And did you program in the extra thingy Ethan told me about, the exchange thing because there is no Spike in this universe?"

"Yeah. I used a drop of my blood. No other Spikes in any universe whatsoever will be harmed by the execution of this spell. Hey, remember Lorenzo? I though he was particularly good looking. What was it exactly that was lacking with him?"

Buffy flicks her towel dangerously close to Willow's grinning face. "Wicked energy. Need I say more?"

"I rest my case. Did you get to see what Ethan used to protect your new Spike?"

"Not my Spike," Buffy says automatically. She tries to replay before her mind's eye Ethan's actions in the stuffy little room behind Kakistos great hall. "I don't think I did, or I didn't know what I was seeing. Why? Everything went well, didn't it?"

"Sure. I just did some research on the Gatekeepers, and it's not wise to get on their wrong side, is all."

"Nothing happened last time. I'll just make sure never to use these gateways again."

"Sounds sensible to me," Willow says absently, checking her work one more time. "What is the alternative Spike after, Buff, do you know that?"

"No. He wouldn't tell. But if it's the gem of Amarra he won't find it."

Willow makes a face. "He could find it in his own dimension, couldn't he?"

Buffy shrugs. "Let's not mention it at all, huh? Anyway, he certainly wasn't invincible when we fought the Gatekeeper, so I feel safe in assuming he doesn't have it. I can't think of anything else he'd want here."

"Me neither. Except you."

"No way, Will, no way. Not this one!" Buffy says, but Willow's words set off a thrill down her spine and her heart does a drum roll.

*

Buffy enters her bedroom and throws down her bag. Normally the sun has already set when she comes in at this hour, or the heavens are grey and somber with imminent snow or rain, but now the last rays of the sun shine on something white just outside her window. She opens it - it takes Slayer strength to do that - and leans out.

The lone tree in their depressing little yard, which she's so far seen as a white ghost, or a black dripping skeleton, has transformed itself into something straight off a Japanese scroll. The bare dark brown branches are dotted with the cutest little white flowers. The setting sun gives them a pink sheen as they curl around the writhing bark, a veil that clads their nakedness with beauty.

Growing pretty petals, preparing for spring. She decides it's a symbol for herself. This is who she'll be. It's a sign. 

She goes to sleep with the window and curtains wide open. She opens her eyes again after a while and finds the room glowing with sourceless blue light. It sucks the color out of her furnishings and her hands seem grey. She gets up and walks to the window. Spike is lying on one of the thin branches of the little tree, arms behind his head, staring up at the moon. He's bare chested and bare footed and the top button of his jeans is open. She says something to him but can't hear her own words. He hears them anyway and grins at her. 

He holds up his bare arm, pale blue in the full moon's spotlight and she sees he's hurt. Black fluid drips out and spatters on the white blossoms. 

"You should put a band-aid on that, Spike. Simpsons or Powerpuff girls?"

"Bart please," Spike says faintly. He holds out his arm for her but it's too far away.

She can see the branches shine through his pale torso, he's fading. No, she has it wrong. He's hollow. He's made of glass and the moonlight fills him up, gives him substance. She leans out of the window further, perilously close to losing her balance. Too late. She falls. She sits bare-assed in her front yard, surrounded by cartoon band-aids. She looks up at the sky. Spike is gone, and so is the moon. Mocking laughter sounds from the utter darkness around her. 

"He's mine," a forgotten voice says. "I drew my starry hair around him like a veil and you will never find him."

Buffy stands up, she's not going to take this lying down. She stumbles into a hole she hasn't seen. She tries to get up again but silent black stuff rushes in, filling up the hole, and she can't swim. The lid slams on with a soft click and she's back in the coffin. 

"Spike! Spike! Help me! Get me out!" she screams but the sound is muffled and weak. 

She'll have to do it herself, like last time. Grimly she sets to work for the thousandth time, she has the routine down pat now. Rip the satin with the little blade she's never without these days for just this emergency, punch through the wood, claw through the earth. When she emerges coughing all is still black. She has to save Spike. She jumps up as high as she can, she has to storm the bastions of heaven. At the third try she catches the hem of the night's black garment and tears it down. Grateful stars twinkle down at her and there is shining Spike, lying unscathed in his twiggy bower. 

"Took your sweet time, Buffy. Did you forget about me?" he chides her.

He turns his head away in sad reproach and the night darkens again. A hot wind strikes up and blows Buffy away. 

She awakes gasping in bright spring sunlight. She's way too hot under her thick duvet and sweating with heat and fear. She throws it off and lies listening to the frantic pattering of her heartbeat. That was some nightmare. She hasn't had digging-herself-out-of-the-grave dreams in a long time.

She goes to check on her flowering tree first thing. It's still there. The blossoms are bright pink. Weren't they white last night? Maybe someone has bled watery ghost blood on them. She shivers in spite of the mild temperature.

A shower and new spring clothes make her forget the momentary wiggins and all is so utterly normal at breakfast that the nightmare seems just that, a random dream because she was too warm. Willow and Kennedy bicker, Andrew and Xander discuss obscure comic books and Dawn is reading. This means she can sip her coffee and eat her yogurt in peace. 

Funny that she expected something to be different. Dreaming of Spike, of course. Doesn't mean anything, because she does that all the time. Rational thought doesn't lift the heaviness from her heart. Could she have saved Spike? Forced him away from the cave with her? She rolls her shoulders and plans to go out for a long run tonight after class. Nothing better than a hard workout to dispel deep thoughts and vampire cooties.

That evening, she's lacing up her running shoes in the hall when a car rumbles to a halt outside. The laces snap and she's on the porch before she knows she's moving. It feels as if there should be a Buffy-shaped hole in the door and little dust clouds hovering. Wile. E. Buffy.

Her Roadrunner is standing in her yard already, deep black against the dusky sky. Behind him the blotched pink of another DeSoto makes for an incongruous fashion statement.

"Spike!" She cringes inwardly at the transparent joy in her voice.

"Slayer."

He doesn't move, just stands there with his hands in his pockets. Buffy's running shoes have stuck to the path and she sways but doesn't go forward.

"Hey," she starts again. "You're back. You got your prize?"

"Yeah."

Spike shifts the lapels of his duster. It's ripped in many places. Buffy would like to know what happened to it but her tongue is as paralyzed as her feet.

"You still got the portal device? I'm ready to get back home."

"Spike. You could..." Buffy begins, but Spike swiftly steps forward and puts a finger on her lips. 

"Don't say it, Slayer. Wouldn't lead to anything good, don't we both know that?"

Tears prick in her eyes. Spike sighs and brings his hand around her face to cup her cheek. Buffy leans into it for the few seconds he allows his hand to remain there. There's still an arm's length of empty space between them and Spike makes no move to bridge the gap. She swallows. He steps back and runs a hand through his hair. He inclines his head in the direction of the car, where Buffy now sees a dark shape sitting on the passenger seat.

"Who..." but she doesn't really need an answer. Of course he'd go and fetch her.

"Aren't you afraid she's gonna dump you a fourth time, Spike?"

Oh God, she sounds like a jealous ex.

Spike is unfazed and looks at her calmly, though his feet are starting up a little shuffle. "I'm not the remake, Slayer. I have every confidence I'll manage to keep her in line."

"But you can't know that for sure!"

"You never can, with love."

"So you still love her, six years after her death. Wow."

"I do. I'm love's bitch and proud of it too."

"I'd want to be someone like that," Buffy says wistfully.

"And very bad you'd be at it, Slayer. You've got all the empathy of a park bench. You're a leader, a wanter, and you'll find someone to take care of these wants for you. As long as you admit to them, is all."

He's really going to leave. He's going to take Drusilla and leave forever. By the sinking of her heart she knows she expected something else. Foolish heart. She might have known. Men leave, even the real Spike did.

"Slayer? The portal device?"

"Yeah. Sure. I'll go get Willow."

There is a silence after that and Spike looks at her as if he's waiting. She replays the last thing she said in her head and scurries back into the house. 

"Willow! Spike's back!"

Willow comes down the stairs, with mussed hair and still buttoning her blouse. "What?"

"Can you get the dimension thingy? Spike's back, we need to get him to his own world. He's taking Drusilla."

"He's taking who? Right. Okay. I'm on it."

Willow returns with the device floating a few inches above her hand. If you're a witch you don't need a pencil. Buffy walks back outside, Willow close on her heels. Safe behind the Slayer, although these days Willow could probably zap Spike with a look at twenty yards.

"Tell your witch I want the car as well."

"I'm standing right here," Willow says. 

Buffy can hear what expression she has on her face. "Never mind, Willow. He has a different view of human beings from our Spike."

"Huh. Well, I'm ready."

A tall shape, her head crowned with a mantilla and comb, moves faster than her eyes can blink and stands next to Spike. She cradles a stiff unmoving creature with spotty orange and white fur. A dead cat? 

A high voice speaks. "Spike, the stars are calling me their daughter and I must see them better to hear what they are riddling about me. We must be off now or they'll be cross with us."

"See?" he says. "I'm needed. Goodbye, Slayer."

He grabs Drusilla's hand and strides off a few paces, but then turns and holds up a finger, as if he almost forgot something. He opens the trunk of the car and heaves a tall oblong package out of it. It's a dark green tarp, wound and wound about with several colored nylon ropes, orange and blue. Duct tape is used in many places to seal loose flaps shut. 

"Little present for you. Do with it what you will."

Spike lopes off to the other side of the car and opens the door for Drusilla, who's still stroking her motionless furry companion and staring at the cloudy April sky, her head thrown ecstatically back.

She graciously folds herself in the passenger's seat and sits regally waiting until Spike is back at her side. He drives off in a roar of faulty exhaust pipes. Buffy watches Spike and Dru pull away. She doesn't see what Willow does, but the car doesn't even reach the end of the driveway. It shimmers blue and vanishes. Long after it's disappeared the sound of the Sex Pistols and the rumble of the old engine still echo down the street. Well. She's almost sad it's over. Weirdest adventure ever. 

Maybe Willow says something to her, she's not sure, but Buffy hears her go back into the house. She's still staring down the empty street. The sun has set completely now and although the sky is still pale purple, the only things she sees are streetlights and the glowing curtained windows of neighboring houses.

"So he's going back to 1985?" Xander says right behind her. 

Buffy jumps up. "Jesus, Xander, you startled me."

"I suppose you were too enthralled with what his majesty was saying?"

"Why d'you call him that?"

"It's the way he acted, as if you'd obey his every command. That alone would clue me in he wasn't our Spike. Come, it's getting chilly and Willow is brewing mead."

"Mead? What's mead?"

"I don't know but it smells good."

They turn to get back inside, but the package gives off a small grunt. Buffy jumps in surprise for the second time in two minutes. The package almost blended with the driveway surface in the rapidly falling darkness.

"What the hell is that?"

"Present from Spike," Buffy says. "I dread to think what's in it. His sense of humor is not refined. You got a knife?"

Xander puts on his can do face and produces a Stanley knife. "Take care, Buffster, I keep them wicked sharp."

"You are the Yoda of tools," Buffy says gravely.

She starts sawing at the multiple orange nylon ropes and the duct tape and the triple folded tarp that Spike has wrapped his present in. It's getting chilly, and although the hard work is keeping her body warm, her feet are getting really cold. 

"Come on, Xander, help me get it in the house," she says. 

The others are all snugly ensconced inside, so together they lug the protesting present up the front yard and onto the porch. They can't get it in, so it's a vampire. Why the hell would Spike give her a vampire as a gift?

"I don't wanna invite it in, Buff," Xander says worriedly. "If this misfires..."

He's right. She waves him in, indicating that hot chocolate would be very welcome. The package sighs. Maybe the vampire would like chocolate as well, although the ones she's met generally prefer blood. She tries to rip straight through the three layers of tarp, but it's hard going with her little knife, however sharp it may be.

Xander comes out with mugs of hot chocolate and a saw. 

"Let me do this Buffy," he says importantly. "This is taking too long. You get warmed up, okay?"

"Thanks, Xan." Buffy says. "Give a shout when you need help, but don't stake it. That's my call."

She goes inside and leans against the radiator in the kitchen to get warm. April, they call it. The trees seem to agree that it's spring, but it's not a temperature a normal human being would call mild.

It's very silent out there. She gets a nervous feeling and since she's all warm and toasty again goes back outside.

Xander saws.

The saw slips for a few seconds and the vampire utters a muffled yelp. 

"Shut up!" Xander says nervously. 

Then Buffy takes a turn. She saws and cuts and wrestles with the miles of duct tape Spike has used to wrap the demon up. She hears her friends talking and walking about in the warm comfy house. Damn Spike and his damn present. She could just stake it, or leave it on the porch all night. The sun would take care of it in the morning. She sighs but sticks to her work. She's not completely sure but she doesn't think Spike would give her something useless or annoying.

Finally her knife cuts through and she can rip off a triple thick flap of tarp. She lugs the package under the porch light and drops it with a thud when platinum curls are revealed. What the? This looks like another Spike. Where on earth did Spike find yet another version? She saws on with a vengeance, and after another quarter hour the complete and only slightly cut head of a Spike is revealed. The rest of his body's still trussed up like a turkey and his mouth and nose are taped shut. When he sees her his head falls back. He just looks at her for a long time and then turns his face. Thanks a lot, Spike two, she really needed to meet Spike three.

"Xander!" she bellows.

Xander comes out, wiping his mouth. A sickly sweet odor wafts from his cup. Willow follows after him.

"Look guys, another version of Spike."

"I don't really get all these Spikes, Buff. How come there are so many?"

"Willow?"

Willow puts on her lectury face. "Every time someone makes a decision, a universe in which the decision is different splits off. So you get all the possible universes."

"So what decision did this one make, Buffy?"

"How should I know? Version two killed me when we were still in high school, before Angel turned into Angelus and everything. This one may never even have met me. Willow can find out what kind this one is and send him back," Buffy says.

"And if it's a souled version? Wouldn't you consider keeping him?" Willow asks.

Buffy shakes her head. "Like a pet? Believe me, I have my belly full of other Spikes after having had number two's company all across America."

Buffy feels a need to punish this Spike well up, she'd like to get in some payback for the indignities she suffered on that journey. She leaves the tape on his face undisturbed and starts sawing away at his ropes. What possessed the other Spike to use orange nylon rope? Nothing harder to cut, dammit. She has to bite her lip from time to time when she catches the worried, impatient look in Spike's face. Serve him right. Where did the other Spike find him, she wonders. From what time line? He could be from anywhere, any alternate universe.

She relents and tears off the duct tape with a quick jerk, remembering from childhood experience that that hurts the least. 

"Buffy," is Spike's first word.

How dare he call her that! The use of that name is reserved for one Spike only. Buffy slaps his face in a fit of uncontrolled fury. "Slayer to you, you creep."

She'd like to kick him, punch those false blue eyes, destroy the cheekbones and the pretty skin. They're beautiful packaging for lies and deceit, and as thin and flimsy as tinsel and tissue. She's fallen for it once, and she's learned her lesson. She can't trust her instincts, which are loudly telling her once again that this is Spike and go for it, girl. She needs an instinct transplant, a gut makeover. Her hands tremble and she feels sick. She could almost rip his head off with her bare hands at this moment. Almost. She suspects that if she couldn't kill a Spike she knew for certain was evil, she might have a little more trouble with this unknown quantity.

She slams the Stanley knife into Xander's hand. "You finish him," she says curtly to Xander. "I'm going to run like I planned, or I won't be responsible for my actions. 

"But Buffy..." Xander protests weakly, but she's off after another yank on her laces.
 In the past few days Spike's been hit on the head, swaddled like a dead baby, starved, jolted and shaken. Seeing Buffy again and then getting slapped in the face for saying her name is just the last of a series of incomprehensible occurrences. He knows Drusilla has something to do with it because he caught a whiff of her distinctive scent perfuming the air and heard her talk, but why she would dump him on the Slayer's doorstep? Beats him. The man he's heard talking he couldn't identify. English, that's for sure, and there was something familiar about the timbre of his voice, but that's as far as he gets.

Buffy turns away from him after her stinging words, her face set and tight, and walks up to the street. Spike can hear her footsteps accelerate and within moments she's out of earshot. This is one reunion scenario he's never imagined, not in his lowest most hung-over mornings, or even when he was a disappearing ghost skulking in Wolfram & Hart's abandoned offices. Uncertainty, tears, indifference, all these possibilities have crossed his mind. But to slap him in the face and run off? So much for thinking her last words to him were true, and that she'd finally welcome his love.

The witch stands over him with her arms locked and an impressive glower directed at him. What's he done to her? Last time they spoke they were on a cautiously friendly basis, although he now remembers he was angry with her for kicking Buffy out of the house. She doesn't smell scared or angry, if doused in too much Allure, and she's looking good, chic and classy in her Italian outfit, glowing with recent sex. He thinks with the annoying Potential, but he isn't sure. She's clearly worked through most of that pesky guilt.

"What's Buffy so cheesed off about? Time of the month? No, scratch that, I'd smell it if she was," he asks Willow.

Neither one of the Scoobies answer him. Of course. Loyal to Buffy again, covering her lapses. 

"Like the new color, Willow. Nice highlights," he says. Anything rather than just listen to Harris sawing away at all those ropes. Xander isn't looking as sharp and sleek as Willow. The weight loss is good, but his face looks worried and pasty. The smell of old booze seeps out of his pores.

"Have we met?" Willow replies frostily.

Spike gapes. Old pain comes rushing back. The Scoobies ignoring, him, pretending he hadn't fought a summer by their sides. Right. Feeling free to ignore him now that Buffy has given the example. He's no longer a meek hanger-on of Buffy's, though. They may not have changed, but he has.

"What the fuck? First Buffy, now you, pretending we don't know each other? Why don't you explain to me why you all seem to have grown stakes up the arse? We fought together, defeated the First. I died. Little friendliness wouldn't hurt!"

Willow's gaze sharpens. "What? How do you know that? Our Spike died a hero, yes. Burned up the Turok Han. You're not him, because you're here. Don't try to fool us. I'll find out where your universe split off from ours, but you might as well tell us yourself."

"Are we speaking the same language here?" Spike asks. Now he's getting pissed off. "What dimensions are you talking about? I guess I left this one when I died, but the rest of the world went on as scheduled. I was resurrected by the amulet, okay? Returned in LA in Angel's office. Been there ever since, fighting the good fight, just like before. Dunno how I got here, but..."

Xander has stopped cutting. "How many eyes do I have?"

Oh, right, play twenty sodding questions with him. "This isn't a movie, you nit! You've got one eye because I pulled the preacher off you in time to save the other one. Happy now?"

Willow kneels beside him. Her face has lost its set, determined expression and she's really looking at him now. "Is it you, Spike?"

"Who else!"

"Didn't you see who kidnapped you? Didn't you see that was another Spike?"

Another Spike? She seems completely serious. "Are you having me on? What other Spike?"

Xander nods at Willow. "His nose and mouth were taped shut. He must have been in the trunk the whole time from LA to here, you know? Gee, Spike, I bet you're real hungry."

"Yeah, that too. Mostly brassed off though. Explain more."

Xander helps him sit upright. He's still swaddled in the stiff indestructible tarp like a bloody mummy, but at least he's not lying flat and helpless on the ground anymore.

Xander and Willow exchange looks. "Okay, here goes. Buffy was accidentally sucked into another dimension by a device I was studying. There was a Spike there, who'd never been chipped or souled, and Sunnydale was never destroyed. You remember when Buffy went to the shadow men dimension? We got an exchange student too, a vamped Buffy," Willow says.

Whoa. The thought of his Buffy vamped makes his insides cramp. All that glorious life gone cold and sluggish in her veins. He shakes it off and nods to Willow to go on.

"Well, she and the other Spike found another device in that dimension and traveled here. The Drusilla from that other place had been killed by the other Buffy - you still following? - and the other Spike found the Drusilla from our dimension and took her back to his."

Spike's head is reeling, but he's gotten the gist. Drusilla. He should feel something, but it's been so long since he's even thought of her. That part of his past has been closed for years now. "So Buffy thought I was another Spike from a different dimension and that's why she was t-ed off at me?"

"Yeah, she and the other Spike got really friendly and she..." Xander stops after a pointed look from Willow.

All the puzzle pieces fall into place. Buffy's hurt and disappointed look, her haste to get away from him. She not only thought he was the wrong Spike from another dimension, even if she'd gotten the right ID he'd still have been the wrong Spike. What should he feel now? Peculiar, for starters. It would be pointless to be jealous of someone who's basically him, just not burnt and burnished in the same fires, but he decides he is. And mad. Here he is, a self made hero, went through the most horrific trials for his lady, and then she decides she prefers the original version. Enough to make a man bitter. If she thinks he's gonna come after her like he always has before, she's wrong. No more.

The orange rope finally parts and he can move his arms. About time. He holds out a hand to Xander. "Let me do that. Super strength, remember?"

Xander hands him the Stanley knife. "The Buffster shouldn't have taken off like that, Spike. Won't she be surprised when she gets back and finds you!"

Spike doesn't answer but concentrates on getting out of the damn tarp as fast as he can. At last it's sufficiently loose that he can wrest his legs out of there. It's a good thing vamp muscles don't need stretching. 

"Can I use your phone?" 

"Sure," Willow says. "Who're you gonna call?"

"Angel. Gonna ask him to send the company jet to pick me up."

Spike has to wait at the door. Xander hurries past him and invites him in. "Company jet? Dead Boy's got a company jet? Wow. But - You're gonna leave already? Buffy won't like that. She'll mellow when she finds out you're the A-brand Spike. And why don't you stay a few days and tell us all about your adventures? It's not every day an old friend rises from the dead!"

It's like a punch in the gut. Xander calls him friend, who'd have thought? Dying gets you friendship points apparently. But it's not enough to keep him here. He really wants to be gone before Buffy gets back, lick his wounds in peace. Put away his dreams of going to Europe, surprising Buffy and living happily ever after. Sentimental sod. Prat. He's been hanging around Buffy for years, changed his very nature for her and gotten nothing but a grudging 'I love you' before he died. His alter ego is in her company for one trip and she falls for him head over heels. More than a man can be asked to endure. 

"Sorry, Harris. It's not about you and Willow. Don't wanna see Buffy is all."

Xander actually puts a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. I get it. I'll drive you to the airport."

Spike has to avert his eyes to avoid an unmanly moment. "Thanks. Appreciate that."

Dawn and Andrew walk in when he's in the middle of his conversation with Angel. He finally managed to reach him after enduring many moments on hold from the switchboard and squeals from Harmony because he's been found. Andrew's eyes nearly pop out of his head when Spike nods at the boy and holds up a hand in greeting. Then the silly little twat goes and faints at Dawn's feet. Dawn just gapes and looks at Xander for a hint about what's happening here.

Spike holds up three fingers. He's almost done, and Angel is sending the jet over. Grudgingly, true, but he's doing it.

"Dawn?"

"Spike? Real Spike?"

"Yep, it's me. Back from the dead."

"Wow. How? Where's Buffy?"

He can see Dawn vibrate, hesitating whether she'll hug him or not. They had never returned to the terms they used to be on before his soul, but there was definite thawing before he died. So he holds out his arms, figuring he can take a rejection, and she surprises him by rushing into his embrace. The sensation of her tall and curvy form pressed up against him tells him quite plainly he shouldn't hug Dawnie like a little kid anymore. She squirms out quickly, embarrassed already. Still not quite grown up, his Nibblet, but close. She looks stunning, more beautiful than ever.

Andrew wakes up from his faint and props himself up on his elbows. "Spike? Is it you? I can't believe it. You're like Jean Grey, I kept hoping you'd return and be, like, even better. Are you better than ever?"

Spike hesitates but goes over to Andrew and holds up his hand. Andrew grasps it with two of his and lets himself fall against Spike's chest when he's been hauled up. 

"Oh Spike. I missed you so much."

Yeah, well. If only Buffy had reacted like that, huh? But overly dramatic or not, the boy is sincere and he'd be cruel to ignore that. He claps Andrew on his shoulder and gently disentangles himself.

"Wow, Buffy must be so happy!" Dawn says.

Xander makes a face. "Buffy's gone off in a snit, Dawn. She doesn't know it's the real Spike this time. Well, she'll be really surprised when she gets back."

"Please, people," Spike says. "I'd prefer it if Buffy didn't know. I'll give her a call someday, promise. I'd really like to go back to LA and live my life there. I've got evil to fight, pretty girls to rescue."

"You could fight evil here," Willow says.

"S not your offer to make," Spike says, but he's grateful for it nonetheless. He smiles at her. "How are you doing, Will? Still seeing Kennedy?"

She nods.

Maybe Buffy will change her mind when she's worked out her anger, be happy to see him. Maybe. But he's not prepared to wait around humbly again, eat crow as long as he can be near her, like before. He's his own man now, he's got important stuff to do. 

He looks at the four young humans staring at him. The weight of their expectations and hopes is plainly shown in their gazes and it does bother him to take off like this. No, he's not gonna give in. Sunnydale and the people he knew there belong in his past. He should look ahead, plan for the future and not hanker after what he can't have.

"Xander? That ride you promised?"

"Right. Dawnie, the keys?" Xander says, shaking himself out of his staring.

"I'm coming along!" Andrew says. 

"Yeah, me too," from Dawn.

Willow nods. "Count me in."

Spike looks at them and suddenly misses a face. "Hey. Where's the demon girl? Out dying her hair?"

The look on Xander's face tells him enough. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that, mate. She was a good woman. Forthright. Stood up for herself."

He can see emotions warring on Xander's face and remembers with a pinch that Xander has a grudge to bear on that account. 

"Yeah, she was," is what Xander says. "More than I gave her credit for."

They nod restrainedly at each other. Spike looks at Willow. He hopes he didn't make another gaffe like that when he asked after Kennedy.

Willow seems to get his silent query and shakes her head to assure him. "Kennedy is just visiting her folks for a few days. She's fine."

"The other little girls? Faith?" 

"Faith is in New York with Robin. Amanda was killed. The other's are mostly in England, with Giles. He's resurrecting the Council and creating a school for Slayers. We've been in Europe too, most of this fall, rounding up other new Slayers."

Spike nods. "Angel said that's where Bu...you guys were."

There is really no reason to wait anymore. Slowly the little group starts moving. Dawn hands Xander the car key, Willow gets a coat and finally they troop to the car. Spike tells them some of his LA adventures, the werewolf, the ghost, Harmony.

"Harmony? Harmony Kendall?" Willow screeches. "Ew. Are you two back together again?"

"God no," Spike says. No need to tell her about the interrupted fling, though. Everything will get back to Buffy in some form; he has no illusions about that.

"Can I count on you to keep silent about me?" he asks them all when the first signs to the airport appear.

Sitting in the car like that with five adults gives him enough scent information to assess that Andrew and Dawn are sincere when they promise not to. Only Willow hesitates. "Buffy's my best friend, Spike. If she really wants to know..."

"Fair enough."

When Xander's Lexus slides into the airport parking lot there is only about half an hour to kill until the jet arrives. Angel's instructed him to wait in a certain airport bar, where he will be collected by a W&H official who'll deal with security. The Scoobies decide to wait with him, which Spike appreciates more than he'd like to admit.

Andrew wins the fight for the bar stool next to him and looks at him with that fawning gaze of his. Annoying little git.

"Spike, you are my shining beacon of heroism. Whenever I have a difficult decision to make I think to myself; what would Spike have done, and it works every time."

"Look me up in LA some time," Spike hears himself mutter to his dismay. "We'll go hunt demons together."

"Cool!" Andrew says and drains his Zima in one adoring gulp. While Spike is patting his back and passing the extra paper towels Willow has requested from the barkeep he sees a triplet of eerily identical pinstriped men approach. They can only be W&H lawyers. They need one look to identify him, which impresses him mightily, and head straight towards him. 

"Mr. Spike?"

He nods. 

"Follow us, please."

The Scoobies all hug him, one by one. He's had enough sentimental moments this past hour to last him a lifetime, and the funny thing is, he's been so thoroughly conditioned that their scents don't trigger the faintest hint of bloodlust. Not like when he meets new people, when he has to work a little to keep the hunger at bay. They're family, in a way, doesn't matter if he likes them or not.

"I don't know if I can hold out to Buffy under torture," Xander tries to joke, "but I'll try, pal."

Pal, friend, Mr. Spike. How the world has changed from Fangless, Captain Peroxide and soulless creep, huh? He thinks it ought to mean more, but it's only a drop on the hotplate of his feelings. Only Buffy's love can douse that burning lump of coal inside him where he used to have a heart. He'll just have to grow past that, won't he? Never mind. He'll be in LA within in the hour and see his bed before sunup.

The plane has its usual annoying array of tiny bottles. He's sure he's sent Harmony a memo about stocking the jet with a case of Glenfiddich, but she must have forgotten about it. He'll have to confine himself to the JD and American beer in his own cupboard, then.

To his surprise the limo that's waiting for him in LA doesn't drive him to his apartment as he directs. It stops at the Wolfram & Hart building. 

"Mr. Angel is waiting for you, sir," the doorman who opens the car door instructs him.

Yeah, he didn't figure anyone less than that would give out these orders to the company cars. Angel is sitting in his gigantic office, managing to look small and forlorn in its chilly monumental expanse. Poor old git. He never says he's lonely, but Spike can tell anyway. Who wouldn't when the people you love die or leave you one by one? It's mostly just him and the old fellow these days, with an occasional guest appearance from Wes.

"Sit down," Angel instructs him curtly. 

He seems mad, but then he never exactly gives off friendly vibes, so Spike ignores the anger and settles himself on Angel's desk. He roots around in the bottom drawer and finds the Laphroaig. Gets himself and Angel a hefty shot and claps his hand on the meaty shoulder. 

"Good to be back."

Something moves in the heavy still face. "Why don't you just tell me what happened, Spike? You thought we wouldn't find out?"

Spike is nonplussed. "Find out? Find out what? That I'd been kidnapped?"

This time Angel actually turns his head to look at him. He's beginning to resemble an aged tortoise in his spare slow movements, peeking distrustfully from under his heavy stiff shell. They should get out together more, kicking demon ass would do him a world of good. 

"That you've been on a killing spree with Dru, of all people. What did you do, get rid of the soul?"

Spike is speechless. It's clear that his other self must have been the one doing this, and for the first time he really believes what Willow and Xander have been telling him. All right, the evidence is damning, but Angel should have asked for an explanation before accusing him.

"You're sitting right next to me, Liam. Don't tell me you can't sense the soul on me. I know you still have yours."

"That's what's bothering me. I know we can still do evil with our souls, believe me. But what possessed you to do it? Dru? Hey, I'd understand. It's hard to remain good."

Angel is looking at him expectantly. If he just confesses his sire will give him absolution. In a sudden blinding flare of anger he smashes the shot glass with its last sip of whiskey against the wall.

"No you nonce," he says, "In fact it's not hard for me at all to do good. I made a choice and I'll stick to it. You should have researched more carefully. Buffy traveled to another dimension where there was another Spike. He's the one's been after Dru and causing mayhem your town."

Beyond a faint deepening of his perpetual scowl Angel doesn't react. "Really?" he says. "Very inventive."

"Oh please. Call Buffy, or Willow, Xander, Dawn and Andrew. They've all seen us both. And there's no need to do anything about this, because the other Spike has returned to his home dimension. And he's rid you of Dru in the process. One less responsibility."

"Dru's not my responsibility!" Angel protests.

"No? Your get, isn't she?"

"Angelus's get," Angel continues stubbornly.

"This is ridiculous," Spike says and walks off. He can't take it right now. He just wants to go home. Angel does have a way of making it hard to look after him or give him a bit of company. Home is telly and beer, and a medium hard bed to lie in. They know where to find him if they need him.

When he gets to his apartment he discovers he doesn't want to go down there after all. It's only a barely habitable basement, it's not home. He climbs up on the roof and sits smoking and thinking the rest of the night, staring at the luminous city fog, the lights stretching away on all sides, the occasional plane rumbling overhead. He leaves when the night has paled into lilac and the horizon is about to flame into orange fire. For a second he thinks of staying on the roof and to hell with everything, but it lasts no longer than that. He can't, not just yet. He's not finished. Also, he's been a fool, as usual.

What did he expect? Something else, something impossible. For Buffy to fall weeping around his neck and profess eternal love. The lonely night out here has made crystal clear that that is never going to happen. She's the Slayer, first and foremost, acts instead of thinking. It's what he accepts and therefore loves about her. Buffy didn't know he was alive, expected someone completely different and freaked. He shouldn't blame her. She's moved on, and so should he. Grow up, be his own man instead of hankering after happiness through someone else.

Angel needs him. The whole team needs him. He'll visit Charles, offer Wes some help with Illyria and keep his poor old sire alive a bit longer, attach him more firmly to the world.

He'd told Xander he'd give her a call and he hadn't meant it at the time, but now he decides that he will. Perhaps they can meet sometime and try to be friends. Time he gave up on what he'll never get, time to move on. Start thinking about another girl. His bed is empty and lonely, and he knows there'll be a lot of offers if he lets it be known he's interested again. The idea doesn't appeal just yet, but he's sure it will some day soon.

After a quarter hour of all out running the emotions driving Buffy begin to simmer down. She slows to an easier lope. It's pitch dark but the street lights are on and a soft drizzle is falling, perfect running conditions. Usually when she's running she replays past victories in her head, because the memories jack up the adrenaline and she runs faster. But now she keeps seeing the Spike lying there and saying 'Buffy'. Her Spike only ever said that after they'd become lovers. What does that mean? She can hear her heart thudding faster and faster. Her breathing is becoming harsh and rough and she has a stitch in her side. She's in perfect condition, why is the going so hard tonight? Sweat is running down her cheeks, hot, stinging sweat, and she has to stop a moment and wipe it off with the sleeve of her shirt, she can't see from all that sweat streaming in her eyes. Her chest heaves and her nose runs.

It doesn't go away with a few stretching exercises and okay, she'll admit to herself she's crying. Fine, now what? Why the hell would she cry? Because secretly she's convinced that the Spike lying on the ground in all that tarp, staring up at her is her Spike, that's why. Silly, but there you have it, her heart clings stubbornly to that ridiculous conviction. She knows he's dead, she saw him burn up, didn't she? If he's become not-dead, she would have known. He would have let her know. He'd have been on her doorstep the minute he was not dead anymore. So. It's quite clear that this was not her Spike, but some other model, and she's not gonna try another version again after her less than salutary experiences with the last one.

Still, she'd better turn around and make sure. There can be no harm in that. She doubles back and starts running. She's been gone for about half an hour now; it'll take her at least that long to get back. Suppose he was her Spike. That meant that somehow the other Spike had found him in her home dimension, accidentally or on purpose, while he was searching for Dru. If not, if it's some completely different model Spike, Spike two must have gotten hold of a transdimensional device, which is quite disturbing on its own. Both options really need looking into.

The mild drizzle turns into rain and when Buffy gets home she's dripping wet and pretty damn cranky. The house is empty. No Spike, no friends. Thank God the car is gone, indicating a mundane outing, or she'd be worried. Huh. She showers, heats some leftover soup and watches television. She's yawning after her long day and all that crying and eventually she falls asleep. They'll wake her if they get back, if anything interesting is afoot. If it had been her Spike who was tipped out of that trunk there would have been a party or a note, right? Right.

Buffy wakes up with her spine in intricate knots and a taste of dust bunnies in her mouth. She's lying on the couch, TV still on, gray daylight peeking through the windows. It's a good guess nobody woke her, huh? Did they not come home at all, or maybe tiptoe in, thinking she was in bed? 

She forces her body into its natural knotless state and yawns with abandon. It's still early, so she contemplates taking another few hours in her own bed. In the hall she notices the full row of coats hanging on their hooks, so everybody's probably home. Just to make sure that there is no Spike in the basement, be it on a cot or safely chained up, she slides down silently on her bare feet. Nobody in the basement whatsoever. Pity. Willow must have sent him to his home dimension while she was running. This notion doesn't sit too comfortably in her mind and she pushes and pulls at it to make it fit in but it won't. It's really not fair that Willow just did that while she was gone. She might have guessed Buffy wanted to see or interrogate any Spike that passes by.

During her long and uninterrupted shower she slowly comes to a boil. If she doesn't get answers soon she's gonna shriek like an old-fashioned kettle. She's clean on the outside but inside there's churning and fuming like a thermal mud pool. What were they thinking, sending that Spike away? She's the Slayer, she's the one making decisions about vampires, especially Spikes.

By the time she's dressed and made up for the day her top's long blown. What are her friends thinking, lying abed at all hours? She needs to talk to them.

When she comes down for breakfast everybody is up. Grouchy and red-eyed, but up. And really grouchy, did she think grouchy already? At first she just thinks they've seen one movie too many and she's kinda resentful they took Dawn along because she has school today, but gradually she starts to feel it's directed at her. Unpleasant memories stir behind firmly closed doors in her brain. Perhaps that feeling of exclusion should be addressed right away before it festers. Lance it right now.

"What did I do wrong now? Did I ignore a school performance, a new spell, the latest edition of X-men or a newly crafted side table? Well?"

Dawn puts down her bowl of Sugar Puffs with a clang. "No Buffy. You just did what you always do." 

Her tricorder must be out of order, because she can't parse this into an actual slight. "Few more details, Dawn? Actual felony, date of?"

"Dawn..." Willow says warningly, but Andrew cuts her out.

"What does a person have to do to get your attention? If, you know, like dying isn't enough? If like being this amazingly beautiful superhero isn't enough?"

He leaves the room with a flounce and a toss of his short hair. Some people just have this inflated sense of self worth. Superhero her ass. Supergeek maybe.

A dreadful suspicion insinuates itself into her thoughts. Was her first intuition right after all? That would explain Andrew's anger and their guilty looks. Her skin bursts into one big glowing advert of shame, she's sure she must be beet red to her toes. It can't be true. She can't have made that big a mistake, please don't let it be true. She has to sit down and looks straight into Willow's stricken face, which gives her an inkling how she looks herself right now. Her eyes burn harder than her cheeks and she has to clench her lips to keep her chin from wobbling like a big disgusting pudding.

"Willow?" It comes out very small and squeaky, but it's enough, Willow relents at once and rushes over to hug her.

"I'm sorry, Buffy, we thought it was the right thing to do. You were so mad, and he was so devastated, we wanted to help him." 

Her eyes plead for understanding and forgiveness, which makes the dreadful size of her stupidity even clearer to Buffy.

Being hugged always makes you cry harder, and this soft fragrant Willow hug is no different. Buffy gulps and hiccups on Willow's velvety sweater.

"What did you do to him? Did you return him to hell? Was he dead there?"

"Oh, no, sweetie, nothing like that! We put him on a plane to LA. He lives there, he's helping out Angel and his crew."

"B-but how?" Buffy stammers. "He was dead. He burned up. I left him to burn up in that cave. I left him."

Now that there seems a glimmer of a chance of seeing him again she can allow herself to dwell on the enormity of that deed. She can't remember making that decision in cold blood, or imagine ever making it again.

"I don't know exactly, Buffy. He said something about the amulet resurrecting him."

Buff's mind is flitting to and fro over Willow's words.

"A plane. Is that safe? What if he flies straight into the rising sun or something?"

"Well, LA is west from here, so the chance of meeting the rising sun would be kind of slim."

"Oh. Yeah."

Xander has refrained from joining in this conversation so far, but apparently judged this time ripe for a fortifying cup of coffee.

"Thanks."

The caffeine clears her brain and her gaze sharpens. "How long has he been in LA? Why didn't he call?"

Xander's eyes are brown and unreadable. He lowers his eyes and takes a sip of his own coffee. "We didn't go into that, Buffy. He just wanted to get home, and I could understand that. Must have hurt, what you did. Can't have been what he expected when you two were so close right before he died."

Thanks, Xander. Talk about rubbing salt in a wound. The small flare of anger does help to make clear to her what she should do right now. She puts on her general's cap and issues orders.

"Will, could you book me the earliest flight to LAX? Xan, will you drive me to the airport? I'm gonna pack. Hey, it'll be a lot warmer in LA than here, I can wear my new spring clothes!"

Buffy flies up the stairs and throws in her lightest summeriest clothes, which is quickly done, as the fall of Sunnydale has obliterated most of her wardrobe. Too bad she didn't invest in more cute underwear. What she has is mostly kind of practical. Never mind. It will only get ripped off, she hopes. The anticipation gives her a dull burning in her lower belly, the good kind. 

Internet master Willow has arranged a flight for her, Xander takes her to the airport and Andrew forgives her for slighting his hero. Dawn is silent and doesn't force any kind of judgment on her, for which she's grateful.

Her patience is sorely tested. The security checks and waits are endless, and she wonders how Spike managed to get through all this. Does he have ID now? She's too keyed up to read the fashion magazines Willow thoughtfully bought her or the snacks Xander got. All she can think of is Spike. Her Spike. How his face will light up when he sees her into that glowing expression of love she's remembering and craving all of a sudden. How they'll run towards each other in slow motion, or anyway it will seem like that, and they'll kiss. Talk, maybe cry a little, and then make gentle, reverent love like they should have done when they were sleeping together on the cot but she couldn't bring herself to do for some reason.

The ungentle, irreverent sex she and the other Spike had together intrudes annoyingly on these sweet dreams and she has to stifle a little gasp as she remembers the things they did together. She hopes her fellow passengers won't notice her flush and squirms a little in her seat. None of that now, as Spike would say.

For the first time she thinks the words to herself. I'm in love with Spike. I love Spike. She said it, true, but it was kind of a scary moment, she wasn't sure about it at all. They were a formula she thought she ought to say, as Spike was dying and she should show her appreciation. She was testing the words to see if they felt true and they did, more than she had expected. Only when she was fleeing from the destruction, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, she realized that they were also the last words she said to him, and that she wouldn't get to say them again. She'll get to say them now, which is important, and she'll have to be the one to say them first, to let him know it's alright now. No more fears of loving a vampire, no more bad memories between them. 

As long as she's in motion the time seems to pass quickly enough. She can dream while she stares at the clouds which obscure her vision of the earth below, but when the plane lands the waiting and the agonizing start again. More security checks. Finding a taxi. Realizing she doesn't know his address. Calling Willow and waiting while that staunch friend climbs on the web again, or does whatever she does, to discover a certain illegal vampire's location. 

This wait is unexpectedly short. Within two minutes Willow rings back with the information. 

"Gee, Will, way to surf the net," Buffy says admiringly.

Willow laughs. "Not everything is on the net, Buffy. I just called Wolfram&Hart, and got Harmony Kendall on the line. She wasn't too keen on revealing Spike's address, but when I threatened her with a telephone spell she caved."

"What is a telephone spell, Willow?"

"I made that up. I didn't think Harmony would know enough to get it..."

Harmony. Buffy can't stop thinking about Harmony while the taxi takes her through the rapidly falling dusk to Spike's apartment. Spike wouldn't take up with Harmony again, would he? It would be so lowering to have her as a rival. Buffy wants to recapture her happy airplane dreams but it isn't easy. Spike has been alive again for an unknown period of time, and he didn't call her. What if he doesn't love her anymore? What if he has a new girlfriend? Those thoughts aren't fun at all and refuse to go away when Buffy tells them to.

The area she ends up in looks pretty much derelict, ill lit abandoned warehouses and stores. Like Sunnydale alleys, only whole neighborhoods of them, and the good side of town is a whole lot farther than two hundred yards away. The driver refuses to drive on but in his incomprehensible foreign accent offers to take her to a motel nearby. She declines. LA demons can't be that much different from the Sunnydale or Rome variety, she can take care of herself.

She hoists up her bags and tries to find her way to the address she wrote down. Most of the buildings aren't numbered anymore, if they have ever been, or maybe the signs are covered by the torn and flapping remnants of posters and ads. Buffy wishes she wasn't wearing her bright pink and hopeful Manolo Blahnik imitations. And her bags would not be an asset in a fight, although maybe they are heavy enough to kill a demon if she uses them to hit with.

At last her vampire radar gives the vaguest of pings. It could be Spike, but if it's another vampire she'll not kill him right away but coerce him into taking her back to habitable territory. This is a worse part of LA than she's ever seen before.

She totters down a broken concrete stairway. She doesn't want to touch the wall, wary of its warm moist smell. The number that is scrawled on a piece of cardboard near the door matches the address Willow gave her. There is an actual doorbell. She breaks a nail the first time she rings it. The wait that follows is long enough to make her think several times of everything she thought of to say on the plane and discard those words completely. A joyful reunion seems not so likely anymore. She tells herself it's silly to feel like that, not as if he ever used to live in grand surroundings, but whether this is a step up or down from a crypt is hard to say.

She rings again. Maybe he's out already, doing whatever he does by night in LA. Rescuing people, not killing them, she assumes. 

At last she hears a faint shuffle behind the door. It opens by a crack, and a deep silence falls. 

"Spike?" Buffy's voice wavers out.

The door opens slowly to reveal a tousle haired Spike, clad only in half-buttoned jeans. He doesn't look happy to see her. He just stands there and looks at her speechlessly. He just looks and looks, and it's as if he disappears behind his eyes. A cold fist closes around Buffy's heart and squeezes it firmly.

"Hi," she tries again.

Still no response.

This is not the kind of ambience Buffy has prepared her speech for. She'd been thinking more of a romantic, opulently decorated room, Persian rugs, soft couches, candles, like his crypt only better. With Spike kneeling at her feet in adoration and her telling him how much she loves him. 

This cold closed-off stranger, this smelly basement entrance, seem like a forewarning of the outcome she suddenly fears. It can't be too late. It can't be that one moment of panic has doomed her, it wouldn't be fair.

"I'm sorry about what happened in Cleveland," she plows on gamely. "I wigged and I shouldn't have. Can I come in so we can talk?"

The moments Spike needs to think this over aren't any fun at all. They tick by and she starts counting her breaths. In, out, thirteen times and her breathing has gotten more and more shaky and her bags weigh a ton. 

"All right then," Spike says reluctantly and turns away to lead her in. A few steps in the dark hallway - too dark for her to see anything - he suddenly takes a left and she bumps her nose into the bare skin between his shoulder blades. The scent memory of his skin takes her straight back to the Cleveland motel she and the other Spike stayed in right before they encountered Kakistos. Gunsmoke and hot metal, creaking bed springs and rivulets of shower water running into his sodden curls as he knelt at her feet and licked her into ecstasy. She stumbles over nothing and knows her heart is racing. This is wrong wrong wrong. She shouldn't have memories of the other Spike. For once she gave into needs and wants instead of staying true to her sense of righteousness and already it's coming back to haunt her.

The brightly lit space she enters starts out blurry but clears up into a bare, clean basement apartment. Grey paint over bricks, functional furniture, lots of emptiness. No candles, no rugs, nor gothic ornaments or a fifties style jukebox like Spike had. No books, no postcards tacked onto the fridge, and the bed in the corner is narrow and neatly made up. The only lush thing in the room is the red couch.

She puts her hand on his bare skin, feels it jump under her fingers. "Did you just move in?"

"Been here for five months. Why?" 

He quickly moves aside a step so that her hand falls away. Brief cool velvet.

The cold hands around her heart reminds her it's still there and squeezes harder. Five months. Not only ample time to decorate a bare apartment, but certainly enough to place a couple of phone calls. Ouch.

Spike lifts one of his retro looking kitchen chairs and sits on it wrong side around, his bare arms leaning on the narrow backrest.

"What did you have to tell me, Buffy? Make it short. I've got work to do."

Buffy swallows down the frog in her throat. "I'm sorry about last night, Spike. I wigged and I should have followed my instinct. I should have known it was really you instead of..."

"Yeah, pet, I got that. The other Spike confused you, didn't he? Do forgive me if I'm sort of miffed about another guy 'confusing' you," Spike says. 

He isn't going to make it easy for her, that's clear. She also guesses him to be hurt and angry, possibly even jealous. She can work with that.

"Spike, I was forced to make an alliance with the other you. Why are you so upset about that?" Buffy tries, but her heart is battering against the cage of her ribs. It seemed a good idea at the time, sleeping with the other Spike, an allowance she'd made for herself. Not always being the stern general, but just the girl Buffy, who could succumb to the lure of a hot bod and not have to bear the consequences.

"Is that all that was, pet? If you say so. Didn't seem like making alliances to me when we were together. Having sex, " he amends quickly.

Buffy thinks this is an opening. "Right. We were together, and we can be again." 

Would this be a good moment to mention that she loves him? There doesn't seem to be that kind of a mood between them right now.

"Yeah?" Spike says heavily. "I dunno, Buffy. Maybe you know what you want, but that's not my main concern anymore. I don't know what I want. Don't wanna throw myself at your feet again, that's for sure. Got my own purpose to worry about. Paid my dues to you, didn't I? We're even."

He starts getting clothes from a scantily filled closet, a black T-shirt, socks, shoes. He doesn't look at her. When he's finished lacing up the shoes he reaches behind her to retrieve his duster. For a few seconds he's physically so close that Buffy can't help herself and reaches for him. He freezes when her hands fall on his shoulders and looks down on her with such anger and loathing it's like a blow. She staggers back and let her hands drop.

Now. It's gotta be now, before he's gone. Maybe he just needs some time to mull it over, she can at least give him some reassurance.

"Spike, I love you."

He thrusts his chin forward and looks at his feet for a moment. Then he looks her full in the eye again. "Thanks for saying it, Buffy."

A swirl of his coat and he's out of the door, leaving Buffy and her bags in the neat, impersonal space. Buffy thinks for a second about bursting into tears or crashing on his couch but the night is too young for that. She won't give up that easily. Leaving her bags where they have fallen she hurries out of the door behind him, hoping to catch up with him in the alley. They can patrol together, bond again. 

Outside there is no sign of Spike anywhere. The alley is silent and empty. Crap! Buffy runs to the end of the alley, cursing her shoe choice. Where has he gone? A flash of light on a bright head directs her attention to the rooftops, and she sees him jump straight across an alley to another roof, black leather flaring out behind him. Very dramatic. She never saw him do this in Sunnydale, and she never went in for it a lot either. She can do this. She can go wherever he goes, and she'll have to make it fast if she wants to catch up with him. She flexes and springs. Maybe it's kinda undignified to follow the guy who has declined your offer of eternal love, maybe you could call it stalking, but man is it fun to jump from roof top to rooftop, the chase singing in her veins, the city spread out beneath her like a skipping pattern on a schoolyard. Evil beasties in LA, here comes the Slayer!

Spike catches her scent while he's sitting in front of his dinky TV, moodily surfing across the boring stuff that's on all the channels. Fate's way of flipping him the bird, providing no distractions from the maelstrom of his emotions. There is nothing in the whole apartment to deflect his attention away from the evil Buffy thoughts, which grab him by the balls time and time again and suck him down into the abyss of unrequited loves and bleak futures. 

He can't really believe it. This must be some kind of episode, his nose playing tricks on him, like other people see pink elephants or bugs crawling out of their navels. Which he's actually seen, so maybe his brain needs other venues to vent hallucinations. But no, it's real, it's really real, and then the doorbell rings, confirming the realness. He totally freezes, and the TV blares on about the great abdominal stimulator band that will give you washboard abs while sitting on the couch and eating doughnuts wholesale or some such rot. Plastic people smile with too white teeth and show off their toned airbrushed bodies.

It's Buffy. She's come after him, all the way from Cleveland. He waits for the rush of ecstasy that he expects to follow this realization but to his surprise feels only anger fountain up from deep below. He's never allowed himself to feel anger like this at the years of cavalier treatment from Buffy and all of a sudden it comes close to choking him. She's been such a bitch, and he thought he'd forgiven her, and he'll still maintain that he did, but he can't forgive the last two slights so easily. Being ignored and cheated on may not have been such major blips on his usual radar but they loom pretty big now.

He swallows a few times, tries to cool down the anger, but it won't go away. He turns off the TV and walks slowly to his front door, wondering a little about his state of mind and utterly unable to think of what he's going to say to Buffy.

He says very little. Buffy plunges straight in with the apologies and clearly expects them to make up on the spot and live happily ever after. He sees her face fall and despises himself for the satisfaction this gives. Yes, he's been here for months and he didn't call her. Yes, the apartment is pretty bare. Did she never realize all the rugs and candles in the crypt were for her? His anger and frustration mount with every ill-chosen word that comes out of her pouty mouth. Look at her, all dolled up and pretty, if a little wilted after her journey, too dim to understand that he's not gonna fall at her knees ever again. Like she's God's gift. Bitch. 

She saves the worst insult for last. She says she loves him. She says it like it's great news, thereby proving that she didn't mean it when she said it on the Hellmouth, just as he's been fearing ever since. If he'd gone to her the minute he was recorporealized she wouldn't have known what to do with him. And now she's met some other Spike and suddenly she loves him for real? Yeah, great, just what he always wanted, not only coming second after to Angel, because there's not much he can do about that, but being third best after his own unsouled self. It's just too much. 

Spike gets dressed, ignoring Buffy's eager little body and her delectable scent as best as he can, and gets out. Up and away. He needs to think, he needs to kill something. Or fuck something. Maybe if he has his dick up another pussy he will be able to shake off that love he still feels, maybe he will realize it's just not getting laid for two years that's been bothering him, but not love, please, not love.

The moment he's out of the door he jumps up on the roof, thinking it'll give him a few minutes head start. Not that he's sure she'll come after him. She might go to her motel and sulk, which he gives about a seventy percent chance, or lie in wait for him in his bed, all warm and soft, ten percent, although it's the one he'd find hardest to resist. His antennae are receiving on maximum, so he knows the second she decides to come after him. He can hear her land on the roof with a thump and the clacking of her heels. Not big on the subtlety, his girl. The Slayer, he means.

He speeds up, knowing that she'll catch up eventually, but wanting to let her work for it. And bugger, if this isn't a hell of a lot more fun than just going out hunting on his own. Being chased adds spice, and besides, he wants to racket up a few kills without her help. Just like he always does, but it counts more if she knows, that's all. 

His ears catch faint moans and the tell-tale rattle of garbage cans. Could be tonight's first. The usual, of course. LA girl, no better than she should be, thinking she'll give her customer undisturbed service in a quiet alley, finds herself in for more than she bargained for. Most of the time he just rips off the offending vampires' heads, or dusts them in the act, as it were, but a perverse impulse makes him want to play a little first. Give Buffy time to catch up so she can admire his fighting skills. 

He wrests the vampire's fangs away from the girl's neck, where they've started making inroads in the soft flesh. 

"Hey," he says. "Bit selfish, innit, starting on your own. Give a bloke a share, there's a good boy."

The vampire gives an inarticulate cry of rage and swipes wildly at Spike with his claws. Claws? Only very old vampires tend to get claws, at least in his experience. He thought he knew most of the old ones, Darla schlepped them around enough vampire courts back in the days, paying homage, and as far as he knows few of the American ones are still alive.

This one turns out to be young and inexperienced for all his fancy claws and Spike tires of the game of punching him pretty quickly. He stakes him with minimal effort and turns to the girl to see how badly she's hurt. Not too bad, for although she has one hand clamped against her neck, and her shirt glints with a wet black spot, she's walking towards him with a swing in her hips and a gleam in her eye.

She halts before him, weight cocked on one hip, and with her own red tipped claw draws a tantalizing line from his neck to the top of his jeans. "That was weird, pretty boy, weird but cool. I think I owe you one," she drawls out slowly in a Southern accent. Little import hooker, you've gotta admire her cool, propositioning him just seconds after almost being killed. 

Spike feels the Slayer's eyes pricking in his neck and bends over to the girl to lay a hand on her skinny hip. 

"I just might," he says, equally slowly, appraising her from top to toe, making her preen and toss her hair. 

He vamps out. "But I don't think I could control myself. Better run!" He adds a growl for good measure and sends her stumbling and cursing away to the better lighted thoroughfare.

He should have drawn that out a bit longer if he hoped to get Buffy riled up, but it just wasn't enough of a challenge. He resists the temptation the check behind him. Doesn't need his eyes for that anyway. His spirits dampen unaccountably and now that he's no longer flying over the rooftops, the reasons why he didn't want to stay at the apartment and hash things out with Buffy are putting themselves forward again. He turns to the right and walks off. He needs time to think things over. Decide why exactly he's so intent on staying angry with Buffy, when he could just as well have been lying in her sweet arms by now.

Faint panting and the sound of skin slapping the pavement approach from behind, and Buffy falls into step with him. He looks with astonishment at her bare feet until he catches sight of the mutilated shoes she's carrying. How inconsiderate of him to take to the rooftops when's she's wearing stilettos. Hah.

Buffy doesn't seem particularly bothered or riled up by his half minute of playacting, because she coolly links her arm through his. Spike stiffens but doesn't pull away. Actually this is kind of nice, strolling arm in arm with his Slayer through the night. Perhaps if she'll keep her mouth shut he can calm down a bit, let go of his anger.

"Spike, why exactly are you mad at me? What did I do?" Buffy goes on, oblivious of his mood as always.

Spike sighs. Shut up, Buffy.

"Is it because I didn't fall in love with you in time? I should have gotten a move on sooner? Oh, right we were in the middle of a battle, the perfect fluffy moment. Or because I thought the other Spike looked just like you? Or because I freaked and was afraid to trust my instincts, when it really was you?"

It's edifying to hear the litany of things she feels guilty about. 

"Doesn't matter, Buffy. Let's not talk about it."

"It matters to me, Spike. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to feel hurt."

He knows that. All he can hear, though, is that she's not mentioning she slept with the other Spike, which he's ninety-nine percent sure she did, even if it's Xander who said it. He also knows she regrets it, and would undo it if she could. She didn't know he was alive, did she? So why can't he forgive her for it? It's not unlike what happened between him and the Anya. He should be bigger than this. Instead he walks on silently, gruffly, but secretly basking in the warm presence at his side. It's only a matter of time before his ridiculous desire to be hers becomes stronger than his anger, after all.

They stroll on silently along a deserted avenue and pass an unexpected little park. Spike herds Buffy in there and sits down on a bench. He's sure the park would be a mess by daylight, but the hazy backlit purple of the sky and the distant streetlights make it a temporary idyll, scraggly bushes casting interesting inky black shadows on the sparse grass, hiding the syringes and empty bottles.

Buffy sits looking down at her hands every time Spike casts a surreptitious glance her way. The half-light makes hollows on her face where they normally aren't and he thinks she looks like Titania. Just hoping he's not Bottom, is all.

She heaves a deep sigh and her right hand grasps his, which was lying limply on his leg. There she goes again.

"Those last nights in Sunnydale were wonderful, Spike. I've thought about them a lot and it seemed...We'd put our differences and memories aside, I thought, and we trusted each other. It was beautiful. Where has that gone?"

He doesn't know either. Maybe skulking around Wolfram and Hart during all these months of intangibility made him forget about it. The nights in the basement seemed different when he looked back on them, his awe and reverence at the moments themselves now feel like gullibility and blindness. When he should have pressed on, he hung back, just like the mistakes he always used to make but in reverse. 

"Can't we at least have that back? If you can't be my lover, won't you at least be my friend?"

For God's sake, she'll have him crying next. He doesn't want to be her friend; he wants to be her...Um, yeah. What was the reason again he's been hanging back? He still can't make himself move or speak, but Buffy doesn't let go of his hand, or his arm, and puts her head on his shoulder. Persistent. She always was.

Every time his emotions form the same circle. He starts at the place where he loves her and never wavers from that. Then everything they went through together, or he put her through, or she made him do. And then he runs into the recent past and the little mistakes she made, accepting the other and not recognizing him and it's like a wall he runs into, he can't get past it or over it or through it. So he retraces his steps, back to the love, to being unable to imagine not loving her, seeing a future together and he's back at the slippery wall. Why can't he get past this? It should be so easy to forgive her. He always forgives everyone their trespasses against him. He accepts people how they are, that's his job, to go on from that. But he can't. So he picks up his tired emotions again and runs the circuit one more time. Repetition doesn't change anything. 

He stares unseeing at the semblance of nature around him. It's not the real thing, not by a long stretch. Maybe, if humanity abandoned the city and you checked back in after a hundred years the stunted bushes and sickly grass would have come into their own and be like their realer cousins in actual countryside. He'd have the time to wait it out, but she doesn't. She's only got a few short years to learn, or unlearn, what life shortchanged her of. 

He's weary. Sitting out the night won't break the circuit.

The haze above him thins for a moment and a lone start shines through. It makes him think of Dru. He wishes her luck with her new beau, and hopes they'll be together for another hundred years. And stay far away from him and Buffy. 

He rises, pulling Buffy up with him. She gives a small cry when she stands up again. Right. Her feet must hurt, although actually walking on the pink contraptions she holds in her hand seems worse to him.

He hesitates. It would be churlish to let her walk back, and there's very little chance of a taxi out here. 

"D'you want me to carry you?"

Buffy looks up gratefully. "Please."

Well, he's not going to be all romantic and play white horse, just so she knows. He slings her up in a fireman's carry and starts running. Buffy squeaks once in protest but then meekly allows herself to be carried home upside down. He realizes his hand is on her ass, and maybe this wasn't such a clever idea after all. Warm little hands pull his T-shirt out of his jeans and hot lips press a kiss on his back. 

"Cut it out!" he says sharply, but she only giggles.

"As long as your hand is where it is, mister, I'm allowed a little kiss," she says.

He slaps her curvy jeaned bum with his other hand and her squeal goes straight to his groin. Brilliant, Spike. Next time just let her walk on her tender little feet. With every step he takes he senses the faint jiggling next to his cheek and the scent of her this close is overpowering. At last she's stopped her wriggling and her attempts at loveplay.

"Spike, you can put me down now. I can walk."

Spike ignores this. He's not in the mood to give in to her whims. 

"Spike. Put me down."

Spike doesn't hesitate and sets Buffy down immediately; the tone of her voice indicates trouble. He swings around and the source of her urgency is clear. He must have been so deep in the blanket of Buffy's scents and sounds that he didn't hear the thundering behind him. A demon the size of a bus is storming their way on its thick legs, and as it resembles a hippo most of all, if hippos were purple and had a few more horns, he knows mere violence won't do. They run away from it together at first, but then Buffy veers off to the right. The demon swerves, oddly graceful and light on its feet, and goes after Buffy, leaving Spike in the clear.

"Bad girl!" it grunts from a mouth wider than a dumpster and as fragrant. 

Buffy avoids the lumbering thing like a seasoned toreador, jumps up onto a balcony and holds out her hand to Spike. He throws her his extra knife and hastily dances out of the way himself. 

"Aim for the third eye, Buffy!"

The oversize hippo demon needs some time to turn in the narrow alley, cutting back and forth like a big car. Spike uses the opportunity to run up and jump onto the creature's neck. It's too thick for him to encircle and break, but he pulls himself up by one of the horns on its forehead and yanks its thick greasy mane away from its eyes. The third eye shines forth with a golden glow. Buffy comes through as he knew she would and the knife lands perfectly in the middle of the eye.

The demon bellows out its indignation and stumbles to its knees. The abrupt fall pitches Spike over its head and against the alley wall, where he oozes down like a stain. When he scrabbles upright, Buffy's holding out her hand to him. He takes it.

Together they inspect the enormous recumbent form. "Big and ugly," Buffy observes. "Never seen one in Sunnydale. You know about them?"

Spike grins at her. "Yeah. They're called unicorns. Too bad were not qualified anymore to go for the peaceful solution."

"I thought unicorns could only be tamed by...oh. I imagined them a little differently."

"I know. Girly fantasies, pretty white horsies with only one pointy horn, eh?"

"Ew," Buffy says. "This one has tons of horns. Why is it still called unicorn?"

"If you help me heave it over, I'm completely willing to show you to which horny appendage the name refers to," Spike says with a straight face.

"No, thanks," Buffy says.

There could have been quips, or smirks and innuendo, but Buffy seems to shy away from the topic just like he does. 

They leave the unicorn where it's fallen and walk off. 

"Why can't pretty fairytales ever be true?" Buffy complains. 

"Because you've only been fed the cleaned up version," Spike says with a shrug. "The original stories were a bit more direct about the ugly realities."

"Huh."

She waits patiently and with a sigh he swings her over his shoulder again. They're not too far from his alley, and he sees Mr. Park from the Korean all-night store turn his head in surprise as he strides past the bright beacon of its lit windows. He nods to Joe, the bouncer from "Bare Naked Ladies", having a last smoke outside before closing up. Into his alley and down the stairs.

He sets Buffy down, none too gently, afraid of succumbing to temptation if he touches her one second longer. There's no point in denying he wants her, not even to himself, but as long a she hasn't figured out what he wants from her, and how he wants it and when, there's gotta be no touching whatsoever. He's not a strong enough man to hold fast to his principles if his dick is engaged.

He thinks of not letting her back in at all. He can see that Buffy knows he's thinking it. To her credit she doesn't try to pull tricks like tears or wobbly lips. She's really trying hard to please him, he might even get to like that if he's not careful. He hesitates such a long time that Buffy begins to turn away with a pitiful slump to her shoulders.

It's the shoes that clinch it. She'd have to come in to get fresh ones from her bag, anyway. He relents.

"You can stay on the couch," he says. Gruffly, he hopes.

Buffy's heart rate slows down a little in relief. It's been way up since she arrived here. 

There follows awkward shuffling around each other. The apartment seems very cramped and when Buffy showers her scent immediately creeps to the farthest corners. He refuses to pretend they're strangers and has his own shower like always, striding bare assed though the room, clothes strewn everywhere. Buffy sits on the couch with her knees drawn up to her chest and watches him openly. He works hard not to notice all that softly gleaming pale skin when he walks past her and then the bathroom hits him hard with the accumulated steam and Buffy scent. Underlying the artificial components of the shampoo is the hot strong womanly smell he adores, sweat and musk and pussy. 

He just showers. It's so difficult not to touch himself, when he's aching and hard from seeing her. He can still feel her body draped over his shoulder, bouncing against his through the soft dark of the night. He's not going to succumb, he's not. After he's brushed his teeth and taken twenty deep breaths with his forehead pressed against the cool foggy mirror he ventures out. He's had to resort to wearing a towel after all.

"Night, Buffy."

Buffy is still sitting on the couch and smiles at him widely, tossing her loose hair behind her shoulder. He can still remember the times when he only saw that big smile directed at others, and even at the end there wasn't a lot of smiling between them. Here it's like beacon on a lighthouse, its beam sweeping him every few seconds. Makes him nervous, he's not used to having that much light shine on him.

"Good night, Spike," she answers softly. Her breasts shudder with her slight movements and he can see her nipples prick through the thin shirt. He looks back up hastily and her flush comes and goes deliciously. He shuts his mouth and flicks off the lights before crawling into bed. 

He's extremely uncomfortable. He can't even lie on his sodding back without making a ridiculous tent in the thin blanket. Buffy's twisting and turning on his couch. He should have had that wank in the shower after all. Hopefully she'll fall asleep soon. Buffy's still smiling at him when he closes his eyes, standing golden and almost overexposed in bright sunlight amidst waving poppies. She holds out her arms and twirls for him. Her white skirts billow up and he sees she's not wearing knickers. He runs for her joyfully but he's forgotten about the sun and bursts into agonizing flame. Buffy stretches out her hand, and he tries to reach her. He just manages to touch her fingertip with his before he falls apart into glowing cinders.

He wakes up from this dream when Buffy slides into bed with him. He's lying on his side and she's arranging herself silently and carefully against his back. Spike lies rigid, caught in the dream's despair. If she makes any move that is overtly sexual he'll toss her out on her bare ass.

Buffy's too smart for that, thank God. She does seem to be picking up some cues, like finally shutting up as they were preparing for bed. He feels her arm fold around herself, her knuckles lightly touching the skin of his back. The other hand alights hesitantly on his shoulder blade. She shuffles a bit with her feet and draws up her knees within an inch of his, and than she carefully rests her cheek against his other shoulder. If she stays like that it's okay, he reckons. No funny moves though.

He's wound tighter than a clock, not that he owns one, he hasn't even bothered to set the microwave clock to the right time. Buffy seems to have no such problem. Spike can feel her heart slow down, followed by her breathing. Her skin cools slightly and she jerks a few times with involuntary muscle spasms. A tiny snort and her hand falls slackly off him. 

He's not gonna get any sleep at all. Her breath wafts tantalizingly over his back, setting off waves of goosebumps with every repetition. He can monitor the rise and fall of her rib cage by the intermittent touch of her breasts against him, and it's so incredibly alluring, this sleeping package lying trustingly against him, he can't imagine how he ever did this with not the least thought of sex. In the basement at Revello Drive he was always conscious of dozens of people living close by, listening in maybe, judging them. Buffy must have felt that too, he supposes. And then of course there were the threats hanging over them, death and mutilation. Not so strange, maybe, that they were just sleeping and comforting each other. Maybe he will forgive her for not making use of those opportunities.

It's funny that he's never been truly alone with her like this. They're free. There are people living above him, but he doesn't know them, he only knows night dwellers like the people from the all-night store and the pole dancing club, not ordinary citizens with day jobs. Nobody would know or comment, whatever they would get up to, no curious Scoobies or sneering Potentials, derisive demons. And yet they don't get up to anything. 

He sighs and wants to turn over but can't because of the sleeping Slayer at his back. He just wishes she could have chosen him first for a change, that's all. He wishes she hadn't gotten tangled up with other Spikes, making what she does have to offer less, somehow. Sullied. These thoughts revolt him, but he can't help thinking them.
 

Buffy wakes up in the same position she's fallen asleep in, only much closer to Spike. When she'd snuck into bed with him she'd been careful not to touch him with any parts of her body except her hands and her face, but now she's clinging to him like a limpet to a rock. Her mouth is smushed against his back and she's made a wet spot with her drool. Drool is probably not the most effective weapon in winning your guy back and she can only hope he hasn't noticed. She ought to get back to the couch before he notices, but she doesn't want to give up the tiny bit of terrain she thinks she gained last night. The physical connection that's always existed between her and Spike is very important, it's the foundation of everything they have. They were so well matched, for fighting and for bed. That connection is what she needs most. Everything will follow from that.

She very gently disentangles herself and inches away from his body. Just when she congratulates herself on a successful retreat Spike stirs slightly and says, "Hey."

Buffy twitches in embarrassment. She knows she shouldn't have done it. She should have just stayed on the couch, humble and repentant, and waited for him to make the move. She wants to do this right, but so far everything's come out wrong.

"Spike."

Spike turns around and faces her. His scrutiny is unnerving and Buffy wishes the indirect sunlight didn't illuminate the apartment so brilliantly. The light makes it seem even barer than the night before, there is nowhere to hide her feelings here. She casts down her eyes, unable to bear the steady bright blue gaze. Spike slips a finger under her chin and lifts it gently. His hand has a pleasant body temperature. She's been keeping him warm all night, a fact that gives her a faint thrill of pride and pleasure. That's something at least she can give him.

"Buffy."

She has to look up now, can't hide herself in the hollow between his collarbones anymore.

"Yeah?"

"You hungry? All I have is coffee and beer."

Buffy was hoping to start a more fundamental discussion than what to have for breakfast, but Spike is right. Food is important. Or maybe it's important that they get out of bed first, before issues become muddled. The mere possibility of issues is enough to make her feel warm, so yeah, some distance is a good idea if she wants rational discussion. 

Buffy puts her hand on Spike's chest. His skin is much smoother than the cheap sheets and the thick muscle under it shifts and quakes a little bit. Spike puts his hand over hers and turns her palm towards his. Maybe he started out removing her too intimately touching fingers, but their hands flare up in a sudden flameless heat, invisible but undeniable. They both shudder with it and make no move to separate. Buffy's heart thuds loudly in her ears and she can hear every gurgle in the pipes that run through the room and the mumbling of the fridge. Her stomach joins in with the chorus.

Spike's gaze returns to her face, searing the skin with the glacial coldness of his eyes. His hand continues to burn against hers so his eyes must be lying. When he casts them down again she gasps with relief. Her eyes skip over his face, happy to have escaped his scrutiny, caressing the hollows below his cheekbones, the slight curve of his nose. His lashes lie still, no breath or heartbeat to make them tremble. She can't stop herself from softly kissing the pale bluish lids and tracing a path over his cheek and down to his mouth. His lips are soft and sweet for an instant before he jerks his head back so violently it bangs against the headboard. 

Buffy hears her own loud shocked panting. Spike's hand is still in hers, his hips an inch away from her body. No, his cock is touching her. His face twists up and he tries to crawl away from her. He falls out of bed, because he can't seem to let go of her hand. She's pulled along helplessly, coming down hard on her knees. She'll have carpet burns.

"Fuck, Slayer, fuck, let go of me!"

His voice is rough and panicky. 

"Spike, I'm not...I'm sorry. Look. I'm letting go, look. You let go."

She's on her hands and knees between his legs. Her breasts are brushing against his skin and she can see his tiny nipples harden. His cock bobs as his ribs heave in and out with his agitation. He stares at their hands. Hers is starfished wide open, lax. His brow crinkles and he's biting his lips to keep something in. Buffy's heart twists and she can't bear this for another second.

"Spike, really, I've let go. I'm not holding you. You're free. You can let go."

Finally his hand falls away from hers and he covers his face. Buffy crawls away from him. It must be torture for him to feel her so close. 

"Spike. Are you alright? Are you in pain?"

He doesn't answer, just lies there on his thin gray carpet, face working and taking shuddering breaths. His cock is still hard and straining and she can't imagine what combination of feelings is churning inside him right now.

"Spike, I'll go. I'll go away, right now. I'll stay away if that's what you want. I just need you to tell me first that you're okay. Spike?"

Buffy's never felt this helpless. What's wrong with him? Why does he cringe from her touch? She aches to feel him, cradle his head to her breast and soothe him. She wants hold him and kiss him better, but she's sure she shouldn't touch him now.

Spike rolls away from her and rubs his hand over his face. He props himself up on his elbows and finally turns to look at her. He's so beautiful, moisture shining under his eyes and pearling on his lashes. His mouth is dark pink and swollen and she wishes it was from her kisses.

"Spike?"

She can see clenching and unclenching of his jaw muscles. Why doesn't he say something? What's he feeling?

"Spike? Tell me, what's wrong, please?"

"How can I tell you, Buffy, for Christ's sake? I don't know myself. I can't think when I'm with you!"

He rises to his knees with that uncanny grace he always has, even in his smallest movements and the most embarrassing of situations.

"Spike?"

With a deep sigh he lifts his head to looks at her again. His eyes are dry. His hands start sliding up and down her arms while he obviously tries to think of what to say. Does he realize this makes her temperature rise and her heart beat faster? Of course he does. He knows everything about her, he can read her body like a book, her scent the words and her heartbeats the diacritics.

"Leave, Buffy."

She can't take the words in. What? Did she misread his body language just now? He looks up at her earnestly, his thumb still doing that maddening dance on her inner arms, stirring all sorts of things that belie his words.

"I can't drive you away, Buffy. I'm not strong enough to do that. I love you. But I'm asking you to leave me alone. Being with you is gonna eat me alive. I don't want to be your slave, and I don't know that I can be anything else."

Buffy doesn't want him to be a slave, however willing, she wants the man who's as strong as she is, who leaps mountains and skips hills, who will love and fight with the same abandon as she. It's what he used to be, after all. She doesn't know what to feel. Her heart is bungee jumping like crazy, flapping helplessly to the whims of the elastic cord. Part of her thinks just wrestling him to the bed would be a good idea, and this would be where she's careening upwards, and when she's shooting towards the lowest point of the trajectory, the other part of her votes for more groveling. She does nothing.

Spike disengages and gets up one swift movement. Buffy's turns over just in time to watch his progress across the floor. His creamy butt disappears behind the bathroom door. This is so confusing. She's left feeling aroused and sad, happy because somewhere in there he said he loves her, devastated that he wants her to leave. How is she ever going to get past this hurdle?

She sighs wearily and dresses. One of the advantages of sleeping with vampires is that you don't wake up all hot and sweaty. All her excess body heat has been absorbed by Spike. 

He's taking a long time in the bathroom. Buffy's annoyed by this and then ashamed at herself. She decides to go hunting for out for breakfast to distract herself. She can't think with an empty stomach. Upon inspection Spike's fridge doesn't contain anything but a couple of bags of blood, and a six-pack of beer just like he claimed, so she decides to go out and get some in the store she saw last night. 

Mr. Park smiles at her kindly and seems to recognize her from before, which is quite a feat seeing as that she was being carried upside down over Spike's shoulder. Oh well. Who cares about dignity anyway?

She returns to the apartment with her purchases and there is a tense moment after she presses the doorbell. Spike will let her in, won't he? Yeah, he does. He's even made coffee and looks a lot calmer than he did a short while ago. They sit down at Spike's small kitchen table and she breakfasts on coffee, melon and yogurt. Spike sips coffee. It's so normal that she could almost forget she's never done this with him before, or the tense scene earlier. This is what Spike always claimed to want, breakfast table, footsie. Does he still think that?

"Convenient, a store this close," she says instead.

"Huh. People know you, you can't even nick stuff anymore."

Right. A soul doesn't come supplied with Civil Law 1.01, she supposes. Spike rubs his belly.

"You can go ahead and drink your blood, Spike," Buffy says. "I've seen it before, it doesn't squick me."

Spike gets up to heat blood. "By the way, I can deal with the yogurt. Not easily squicked either."

Buffy guesses she's being condescending. Also Spike's being prickly. Better continue with the disarmament plan. 

Spike sits down again, holding his mug of blood. It's a small miracle he owns more than one, actually. She pictures his empty kitchen cabinet filled with cereal boxes and mugs with texts on them like '98.6', or 'Kiss the Slayer'. Chances on that seem to be kind of receding. 

She can't think or talk about what he just said, but she can't bear the silence. "I'd like to know what's been happening to you since your resurrection, Spike, Willow could only tell me a few little things?"

She's afraid he won't even bother talking to her anymore.

"She told you about the Amulet? Angel found the package in the mail, opened it, and out came yours truly, resurrected as a ghost."

She hadn't absorbed the ghost part when Willow told it. "So - where were you during the time in between? Was it hell?"

Spike crossed his arms. "So, in spite of my hard-won soul, you immediately assume I went to hell? Interesting."

"I didn't mean that. I meant a hell, like Angel."

"Well, I'm not much like Angel nor have I ever been, so I don't know where you get that assumption. I was trapped in the amulet, and no time had passed for me when I got out."

Spike stares morosely in his blood. 

"You were a ghost. How long? How did you get your body back?"

Spike sighs. "Months. I haunted Wolfram and Hart for months. I was slowly sinking away into hell, only my will allowing me to influence the world and not fade away. Then one day I got another package in the mail, and flash, I was corporeal again."

"So, um, why didn't you call me when you got back? I would have liked to know you were alive," Buffy says and can't stop her voice from trembling.

"Didn't I just tell you that?"

Spike jumps up and starts pacing. He doesn't look at her but runs his hand through his hair until the gel gives up the struggle leaving it standing in wild curls. Oh, to have her hands in them.

"I don't think I understood that, Spike. You say you love me. Isn't that enough? I love you."

"It isn't enough. I want to be my own man. Not dangle at your shirt tails again like I did in Sunnydale. I've got a soul to guide me, don't need you anymore. Angel needs me here, as well."

Buffy's icy cold hands clench around the coffee mug. It's still hot, but she welcomes the pain, it's like comfort, distracting her from the agony in her heart. Spike's words squeeze it so hard, there should be blood running out of it.

"Did you hate it so much, working with me?"

"No! It's just...I'd fallen so low, Buffy. Chipped and chained and insane. Had to take whatever life dealt me. Now that's different. I want to make the decisions, do what I want."

He gets out a cigarette and fiddles with it. His face is tilted down, but he looks at her from under his brows. "And I was afraid you wouldn't much care for hearing I was back. And I was right about that, too."

"Spike, I told you I was sorry. I just freaked." 

Buffy can hear the panic in her voice. What he says sounds so final. "I spent days in the company of, like, the Free Range Spike, and I kept reacting to him like he was you, because he was. You are the same person, only you have changed, reformed. So when I saw you I couldn't let myself be happy again, because I'd been fooled before."

"Free Range Spike? And what does that make me? The henpecked battery chicken with clipped wings?"

"No, well, yeah, but you escaped from the cage and you became like the Robin Hood of chickens and..." 

"Vowed never to eat worms again? Brilliant simile, Buffy."

Buffy takes refuge in her yogurt. She seems to be making things worse with every word she says. 

"You're still mad at me, I guess."

"It's my only defense, Buffy."

The Korean yogurt is not settling well in her stomach. Should she confess all? It doesn't seem that things could get worse.

"I'm sorry I slept with the other Spike. I thought you were dead, I thought it didn't matter. I wish I'd known you were alive, I never would have..."

Spike silences her with a gesture. "Don't make it my responsibility, Buffy. You decided to do that, and it's your prerogative. It's my prerogative not to like it much, okay?"

"But it's not like I was cheating on you! I didn't know!"

"It still feels that way," Spike says curtly and gets up. "You'd best pack your bags and leave now, Buffy. Maybe if you think on it you'll understand why. Besides, I've got business to attend to. Your Spike left a trail of slaughter and Angel thinks I did it, so I need to talk to him about it."

Buffy has half risen out of her chair but falls back at these words. "Slaughter? But he promised..."

This is too much. Her eyes brim with tears and that is just so sending him the wrong message.

He pauses and looks back. "I'm sure he meant it at the time, Buffy. I would have, but I wouldn't have been able to hold on to that promise then, especially not with Dru around. A vampire needs a soul for that," he says kindly. "Don't fret over him, Buffy. You're better off without him."

He opens the door and waits for her. Buffy hastily stuffs her things in her bag and is gently pushed outside. The door shuts behind her and there she is, standing outside in the bright sunlight of a warm LA morning. She sits down on the concrete steps leading down to Spike's apartment and tries to let the morning's occurrences penetrate. She trusted the other Spike not to kill anyone, she was sure of his promise. Now everything is topsy-turvy again. Soulless vampires can't be trusted, she was right after all. No, she refuses to think that's true. Her Spike had changed so much before he got the soul, she could trust him. He's proven to be worthy of that trust so many times. It's the history the other Spike misses, being chipped, being forced to work with her and the Scoobies to survive. Loving her. That made him change. If the other-dimensional Spike had loved her like this Spike does, or did, then she could have trusted him. But he loved Dru.

At first she thinks she's doing fine. She can just sit here in the warm California sunshine and get up enough will to plot her next step. She can't believe Spike said he loves her but refuses to act on it. He looked so devastated. Gradually she realizes she's crying and has been for some time. As usual, her brain is lagging behind on things her heart has already understood. Spike meant to say goodbye to her, he really did. He loves her but he can't bear to be near her. She slept in his bed but he refused her.

She fishes in her purse for tissues and cleans her face and blows her nose. How have things come to be like this? Spike makes it sound as if he'd have felt the same if she had recognized him right away, if she hadn't slept with the other Spike, which he didn't seem too surprised about. It can't be true. It's gotta be plain hurt feelings and jealousy. She refuses to buckle under to stuff like that. She'll just have to persevere. How, she doesn't know yet, but she will win her man, and do whatever she has to do.

The heat and the smells rising out of the pavement and the dumpsters nearby intrude on her musings. Ew. She's been sitting on these pretty nasty steps, in the sun, without sunscreen on and her dress, so carefully selected and hopefully packed, is creased up in a thousand pleats from her nervous hands. Great. Way to get your guy back if you look and smell like you've slept in a dumpster. She gets up hastily and tries to smooth out her skirt.

Suddenly she feels a curious sensation beneath her feet, like a tingling of her vampire sense. It must be Spike, passing though an underground passage. Sewer, most likely. She jumps up and decides to follow him. She quickly stuffs her bag behind a dumpster and looks around to find a sewer cover.  It costs her several Cotton Candy nails, but she gets it open and jumps in. Something tells her Spike went left and she goes in that direction. Step one of any plan she could make is staying close to her prey, and her dress is a write-off anyway. Spike is worth a second pair of shoes. 

When the door clicks softly shut behind Buffy Spike blows out a long sigh. This is the proper start of the rest of his life. He should be relieved that it's finally over, no chance of them ever getting back together. He's alive, she's alive, they met, they said goodbye. It could be that simple. Nothing ever is, of course.

He wishes he wasn't a vampire, though, and couldn't feel her sitting right behind his front door crying and being miserable. It makes the shine go right off his neat new beginning. The soft sobbing and snuffling outside is like nails scratching on blackboard, and of course, his whole apartment still smells of her in every nook and cranny. He yanks off the offensively fragrant sheets from his bed and balls them up. He opens his one barred little window. The mug she used can be washed up, and he'll have to buy cleaning supplies to scrub the shower and everything she touched. 

It's over. Why can't she just go away? He's been perfectly clear he didn't want her, so why does he have to fight the urge to fling himself outside in the sunshine and take her in his arms to make everything better? Ten minutes ago he was convinced he did the right thing for himself, and already doubt is creeping in. This can't be good. He'd best go away and occupy himself elsewhere, or he'll cave in, he knows he will. He decides to go to the office and talk to Angel, like he told Buffy he would. 

Spike enters the sewer by his handy trap door. Every step gives him some measure of relief from the pressure of Buffy's proximity, but after the first few turns he notices it isn't getting any less. He halts and listens. She's coming after him in spite of what he said, so there's gonna be another sodding scene. 

He's still confused about how things happened this morning. All he knows is he was about to give in, unable to withstand the lure of warm golden girl flesh in his bed, the plea in her eyes, the scent rising from between her breasts. The delight of lying in her arms when he woke up was visceral, unbelievably powerful. Their hands burst into flame again, just like in the Hellmouth, and that convinced him everything had been real, that she had meant what she said at that moment. But then something stopped him. Not as if he'd planned to make a stand. He doesn't regret it, but he wishes it felt more finished and done with, but it doesn't. Buffy doesn't seem to think so either, slogging close on his heels in the tunnels. As if he can't hear her. 

He thinks he's shaken her off at the entrance to Wolfram&Hart and is just putting his mind to talking Angel and Wesley out of doing rash things to him, when a bevy of black clad pseudo commandos pours in. The stunned Slayer is strung between them like a trussed chicken. How the hell did she get the secret code? Shouldn't have set it on her birthday, then, you prat, he tells himself. 

"Oh bloody hell," he says.

"Buffy?" Wesley says.

"Buffy?" Angel, understandably surprised and annoyed. To the commando leader, "I'll take it from here, Jenkins. Thanks." 

"Spike!" Angel says, turning to him. "Why did you let her in?" 

"Hey!" Spike protests. "I didn't. She must have followed me."

Angel muscles in between him and Buffy and bends over her solicitously. He gestures to Wesley who produces the requisite antidote from somewhere and sprays Buffy with it. Spike isn't quite sure where his eagerness comes from, but with a sudden burst of speed he's the one who extends a hand to Buffy. Whatever's been said between them this morning, she's his and not Angel's, and bugger the consequences.

"Buffy," Angel says again, his voice dripping with solicitousness. "Now is not a very good time for a visit. I'm really busy."

"I just want to talk to Spike," Buffy says reasonably. "I won't bother you and Wesley, okay?"

Spike releases the warm little hand he discovers he's still holding and turns to Angel. "I'll take her to the airport."

"I'm sorry, Buffy; we have important business to discuss with Spike. Harmony will arrange a limo to take you anywhere you want," Angel says smoothly.

"Spike, you're not going anywhere until I first hear some corroboration for that fairy tale story of yours," Angel says curtly, king of the heap. "You think you can run out of here with Buffy as an excuse? You've been slaughtering wholesale, and you'll answer for it."

The difference between Angel's tone of voice when he addresses Spike or Buffy is incredible. Does Angel think Buffy and he somehow aren't listening when he's talking to the other?

Spike sighs and turns to Buffy. She'll back him up, thank God, wipe the cobwebs from the old man's brain. Buffy actually goes and stands squarely in front of him, defending him like a tigress her young. No, scratch that. Her mate. It's the first time she's ever given him such physical acknowledgement, in front of Angel of all people, and in spite of everything it's amazingly sweet. He's not going to fall in love all over again is he? That would be so pathetic. He yanks himself back from that precipice and steps beside her. He doesn't need defending, he's his own man. Buffy looks puzzled, on the verge of being hurt, and that's not what he meant. He nods at her.

"What?" Buffy says. "Angel, don't be ridiculous. Of course Spike didn't do that. It was an evil Spike, from another dimension."

Spike inches even closer. None of Angel's business that they've fallen out. He glories in her living scent, here in Angel's musty tomb-like chamber. He knows Buffy doesn't have his full range of senses, that she won't smell him like he smells her, but she does have her vampire radar. Is she able to distinguish between him and other vampires, he wonders. He's always assumed so, because she used to know exactly where he was and what he was doing. 

Angel and his tame Watcher turn to her, their eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Really?" Pryce says. "Quite a coincidence that he turned up here, don't you think?"

"Well, I wasn't there, of course," Buffy says, "but the other Spike's goal in this world was to find Drusilla. In his dimension, I killed her and he wanted her back. If she happened to be in LA at the time, it would be only logical that he'd come here. Why he kidnapped Spike I don't know. Maybe it was his way of thanking me."

"For what?" Wesley says. 

Yeah, that's what Spike would like to know. For letting him shag her? Bit extravagant.

Buffy shrugs. "We helped each other while we were traveling to Cleveland from Sunnydale. I allowed him to come to this world to search for Dru. If he came across Spike accidentally..."

She bites her lip. 

"So, Buffy," Pryce says pensively, in that deceptively mild manner of his, "you allowed a notorious and evil vampire to roam freely in this world?"

Buffy blushes hotly and looks daggers at Wesley. "Just because that's not the way it's done in books..." she retorts angrily.

Spike doesn't quite get what she means. Pryce may have been a Watcher, but he's clearly done his bit in the trenches. A ninny could see that, and there's the obvious respect Angel and the others hold for him. 

Wesley shrugs this off. "Five years is a long time, Buffy. People change. I believe my question is a valid one."

"I miscalculated that one," Buffy says reluctantly. "I thought he'd keep his word, like this Spike would. He didn't."

Spike's proud of her, she's never liked admitting mistakes. She walks some distance away from him and the rest of the group and sits her pretty butt on Angel's big desk, just like Spike himself always does. She crosses her arms and faces the two big men, chin lifted defiantly.

"Everyone makes mistakes," Wes says. "The point is, how will you rectify it?" 

"No problem," Buffy shrugs. "Willow and I sent him and Dru back to his home world, which is not my responsibility."

She grimaces after saying this, as if hearing the words out loud bring home their not-quite-right-ness. Spike decides to go and stand next to her again, show her she's got his support, in a brother-in-arms sort of way.

Spike's ears pop, like in the airplane, and he must have blinked while he swallowed, because without transition there is a bulging emptiness hovering behind Buffy. She seems oblivious. He opens his mouth to warn her but time has slowed to treacle. He can practically see the air waves shimmer in front of his face and slowly travel to Buffy, but then a platinum haired man in black has already leaned out, grabbed Buffy by the neck and crotch, and yanked her back in with him. He winks at the room in general with a particularly annoying, evil smirk on his face.

"Spike!" Buffy screams and he can see her kicking and twisting to get leverage on the man holding her.

"Buffy!"

Spike sprints forward, elbowing the two big immovable lugs out of the way, and dives after her, but the portal has closed and he slides over the table, mowing down the phone and all the other clutter on Angel's desk. His feet cannon into the trophies Angel has hung there, unicorn horns, swords and whatnot, his upper body and head shatter a display case with another precious bauble. Something small and glittering arcs through the air. It must have originated from the portal. Angel catches it and then Spike's head falls down to the floor and connects there with a thud.

When he rolls over and jumps straight to his feet, the others are still staring stupidly at where Buffy disappeared. Of the portal, or whatever it was, no trace is visible.

Spike vaults over the desk and strides over toward Angel. The glittering object is his lighter, or a copy of it, looking absurdly small and delicate in Angel's big hands. Buffy hasn't lost her ability to think on her feet in a dire situation, an ability which is also notable for not being used in other areas of her life. They can track her with the lighter, do a spell maybe. There isn't a moment to be lost.

"Pryce, you and your department start researching portals and dimension magic or whatnot," Spike says, jabbing a finger at Wesley.

Wesley's eyebrows rise high, but he nods.

"Harmony!" Spike bellows.

Harmony scurries in. "Boss?" she says and looks at Angel.

"Get the jet over to Cleveland again. Arrange for someone to pick up Willow and her interdimensional device and fly her over here." 

Harmony sneaks a look at Angel to check if this is okay. Angel nods and says, "It's for Buffy, Harmony. Follow Spike's orders."

The pink rosebud lips pout but she moves off with efficiently clicking heels.

"Right, that's covered. I'll call up Willow and tell her what happened, tell her to stand by. Further suggestions?"

"We'll be ready for her," Wesley says. "We've got significantly more resources than she could muster on her own." 

"Brilliant. Get to it. Angel?" 

"I'll tell the Magic Contracts Department to go looking for anything we might have on these portals. You seem to know something about them, Spike."

If he wasn't in such a hurry, Spike would have demanded an apology from Angel for suspecting him and Dru of painting the town red. Although, now that he thinks of it, Angel is looking anxious and acting extremely helpful. He'll just forget about it, then. And bugger if the old sod hasn't put his thick finger on a sore point. He knows bally all. He couldn't be arsed to ask Buffy about her adventures, but if he had he would have known whether there was more to it than portals and magic devices, Spikes and Drus.

"Dunno much, yet," he answers curtly. "I'll tell you more about it after I've called Willow."

"Wouldn't it be better if I called Willow?" Wesley asks delicately. "We've worked together before."

"And I haven't?" Spike asks, bridling at the slight. "I fought a dozen apocalypses with Buffy and her Scoobies. I'm calling her." 

Exasperating fellow, that Pryce. Always assuming he knows best. He won't call him on it, though, coz he's not been on top of his form lately.

Spike gets Harmony to call up Willow and patch her through to his cell. The phone rings in his ear, going on excruciatingly long.

"Spike, do you realize what time it is in Cleveland?" Wesley says.

"Why don't you go do your thing, Pryce, instead of hanging about and assisting people in simple tasks like phone calls? Every minute may count if we want to rescue Buffy."

Angel returns with someone from the Contracts department and bloody Willow still hasn't picked up the phone.

"We'll need more info, Spike. Contracts needs to know what parties may be involved before they can be of assistance." 

"I'm on it," Spike snaps. "Fucking Scoobies won't pick up."

Angel stands close to him, and dammit if the old bastard isn't inhaling deeply, trying to get a whiff of Buffy, he reckons. Angel doesn't say anything, but odds are he knows they haven't been having sex. Spike has, as usual, made the wrong decision at the wrong time. They could still have been having fun in his bed if he hadn't acted up like a diva on speed.

"Yeah?" Willow picks up, noticeably out of breath.

"It's Spike. Buffy's been kidnapped into another dimension by another Spike. The jet's picking you up at the airport in an hour. A car is on its way to you. Take the device. What else can you tell me about the portals?"

"Whoa, whoa, Spike, slow down, buddy. What happened exactly?" 

"There was a hole in the air over Angel's desk.  A gateway I guess. A man, a Spike I think, leaned out and grabbed Buffy. I tried to get to her but it closed too fast. She managed to throw his lighter at us. Can you use that to locate her?"

"There was...Buffy's gone? His lighter. Okay. I'll get dressed and pack. Hey, Spike, remember Buffy's the Slayer? She'll be alright. And if that was the same Spike she met before, they're kinda friendly, so she won't be in any danger from him....I mean they're like co-travelers. Allies. "

"Any word on who owns the portals?" Spike says between clenched teeth. 

"Gatekeepers, they're called. Big, black and dangerous, according to Buffy. Oily and flammable, too."

"Gatekeepers," Spike says tersely to Angel and his flunky, covering the phone. "Big black oily blokes."

The flunky nods at Angel and leaves at a gallop.

"Willow?" Spike says. "Hurry."

He turns around and the office is empty. Everybody busy doing their thing, he hopes. Angel's gigantic comfy chairs look very appealing all of a sudden and he flings himself down in one of them. He can't get his fucking fag out of the packet and the fucking cheap lighter won't work.

When the drooping cigarette is finally ensconced between his lips and the first calming drag taken he drops his head back and rests it against the fat soft suede. He can't believe he's allowed this to happen. Buffy may be dead for all he knows and all he can think of is his foolish pride, being stupid enough not to take what she'd been offering him, which is like everything he's ever wanted. But no, he was hurt, his pride was wounded, he felt he had to take a stand. Oh, what the hell, these are all excuses, he was plain afraid of turning into the old whipped Spike again. As if she wasn't worth it. Buffy being snatched by his evil counterpart is like a slap on the wrist by fate. And that's the best case scenario, mind you; if she's dead or vamped...he can't think on. He won't think that, he won't. She's the bloody Slayer, she's survived an amazing eight years on the job, she'll survive this as well.

Spike finishes the fag and grinds it out on the arm. He goes over his list of to-dos again. Has he forgotten anyone who might contribute something useful? He'll try Lorne, just for the record.

Lorne is so deeply immersed in office gossip that he knows everything already. 

"It's the Barbed One! Spillikins, baby, give us a hug. Anything for the hero and his beloved. Name your names for the welcome home party, I guarantee you they'll show up if I give them a call."

"I was thinking more of some extra help in the rescue attempt," Spike says. "Didn't you come from another world? Do you know how to open portals?"

"Once was enough," Lorne says with a grimace. "But I know someone who helped us before. Hard to get hold of, but I'll give it a try because it's you. Blue haired beauty who can open a gateway with a snap of her fingers. A tad temperamental."

Time is like taffy. Sometimes it wads up and clogs your molars, and at other times it stretches like gossamer. Whatever state it's in now, it's taking too bloody long for anybody to come back and give him some results. He's itching for action, aching for it. Buffy's his and he wants her by his side now. What he said this morning seems ludicrous. He will take any crumb she gives him, what does he care? As long as he has her and not that other pillock. He replays the smirk and wink he saw that poncey white haired bugger give him before the portal closed and he wants rip his throat out, beat him to a bloody pulp before he stakes him. How dare that smirking bastard take his girl? He's got no right.

He's so caught up in his vengeful fantasies, pacing up and down the length of the thick carpet in Angel's office, that Harmony has to call him several times before getting his attention.

"Spike? Spikey? They've arrived at the airport and the chopper is landing on the roof as we speak."

"They? Willow?"

And after the endless waiting and pacing everything happens at once. People pour into the big office from all sides. Willow, Dawn, Andrew and Xander enter; then Lorne and the bride of Frankenstein, only blue; Wesley; Angel with a passel of weedy suits trailing after him. They all start talking at once, and he's lost in a sea of confused excited voices and tall bodies. Finally, he jumps on the table and roars at them in game face to shut up. It works. Everybody does and looks up at him with these scandalized faces.

"One at a time, people!" Spike bellows. "Willow!"

"Aye, aye, cap'n. Able sea woman Rosenberg reporting – sorry Spike. I brought the device and prepared a locator spell for the lighter. Where can I work?"

"Pryce, can you pool your research with Willow's and get her a space to work in?"

Wesley nods.

"Angel?"

"We don't seem to have contracts with the creatures known as Gatekeepers, but we might have some blood oaths, carved in rock, dealing with the Portal Covenants. We're still trying. We could use some more info." 

Spike points at the dark and the auburn head bent closely together. "Wesley and Willow, when can you be ready to brief the lawyers?"

Wesley and Willow exchange a few words and promise half an hour. 

"Lorne?"

Lorne and the blue haired lady come up. She looks at Spike with frank appreciation. He leers back automatically.

"This is Meerna,  Mistress of Dimensions. She could open up a portal for you right now. She advises against it, because the Gatekeepers are big, nasty and powerful. You need some heavy mojo to take along to the In Between."

"Thanks," Spike says and sits down wearily. 

He might have known that the moment he relaxed the other Scoobies might come bouncing up like puppies. He acknowledges them briefly. Good of them to come. They don't seem to be really worried yet.

A knot of furiously conferencing Watchers and witches breaks and they come over to him to report.

"We've got them pinpointed, Spike. They're not quite in the same location, but close together in the home dimension of the Gatekeepers, the In Between. Here's a cloaking amulet to keep you below their radar. Meerna will send you in, and you will carry Willow's dimension device to get you and Buffy out. Contracts are working hard on getting some leverage on the Gatekeepers to get them to clamp down on the other Spike, cite him with littering or jaywalking portals or some such infraction," Wesley says in his inimitable precise way.

"Good work, Wes," Spike says, impressed. "All of you. Will you take over while I'm off?"

"Spike," Angel says. "We're going in together."

"Bloody hell we are not!" 

Spike can't think of anything worse than having Angel in the way when he's rescuing his girl. But then again – he might need the extra brawn? He decides he doesn't – Buffy brings her own brawn. What he could use is mojo, so Willow might be an asset.

"Willow?"

"Better not, Spike. Every extra person coming along will incur us extra debt to the Gatekeepers. I'm paying in blood as it is to let you through without flinging some other Spike back here. Although I'm not sure what the rules for the In Between would be," Willow says.

Angel is talking to Wesley, who thinks Angel shouldn't go. Spike holds out his hand to Willow, who gives him the device with a guilty look at Angel. Her little girl conscience is the thing he likes about her least. He nods to Meerna, who mutters impressive words but in the end simply licks her thumb and draws a line in the air, starting above her head and down to the ground. A portal opens. Spike can't see through to where he's going, he'll just have to trust that everyone else knows what they're doing. He will find Buffy, he promises himself. There is no way he will even consider a future without her.

"Close it behind me quickly. Don't let anybody else in, unless the lawyers have a solution," Spike instructs Meerna. He steps through.
 

"Sorry, love," the other Spike says with a very unrepentant smirk and gives her little pat on her butt, "Didn't have a choice."

Buffy's feeling too disoriented to call him on it. They're standing in a kind of bright arena-like space, with a circular field in the middle and tier upon tier of white seating rising to the ceiling. No, scratch that, no ceiling that she can see. It stretches away into infinity; she gets dizzy when she tries to follow the endless succession of seats upwards. She stumbles and Spike grips her middle more securely for a second but then hastily steps away from her, keeping a steely hold on her forearm.

"Dru won't like it if your scent is all over me," he says by way of explanation.

Dire circumstances or not, Buffy can't suppress a snigger. "Glad to see you're still you, Spike," she says, strangely relieved to discover this. "Pussy-whipped."

He extends a threatening finger to her but doesn't deliver on it. She's clearly lost her power to enrage him. Good on him, he should focus on his true love. 

"Hey, and thanks for your gift. That was really very thoughtful and kind of you."

She's said it, and that should discharge any obligations in that direction, in case she has to stake him or something in the future.

Spike shrugs it off. "Couldn't resist making use of a perfectly good opportunity. 'Sides, Dru was taking a bit too much of an interest in him. Thought she could torture the soul out of him or some such rot."

He yanks her around by her arm, which is really getting sore now, and not in the good kind of way.

"Here she is," he says to someone.

Buffy has to shade her eyes against the white glare to see who he's talking to. It's an old scraggly-bearded man sitting in a low chair on the first row. His twisted hands shake where they rest on a cane. He catches her glance and shoots her a venomous glare in return before he resumes his business with Spike.

"Your lady will be released, Mr. The Bloody. Your debt to me is cancelled."

"Not my debt," Spike grinds out with a vicious twist on Buffy's arm. "His debt."

"Never mind," the man says and bares nearly empty gums. "There's a bond across dimensions, don't you think?"

He can't help that he's that old and ugly, but he could at least wash regularly and get dentures, Buffy thinks with a shiver of disgust.

"Yeah, right," Spike says. "Just don't think I'm ever doing the wanker a good turn again."

He releases Buffy and steps up to the old man. "Well? Where's Drusilla?"

More pink oozing gums. "You're released from my obligation, but I'm afraid our hosts may have a bone or two to pick with you."

Faster than the eye can track an enormous blobby black shape descends between her and Spike and he's whisked away by three thick tentacles. His surprised shout lingers while he becomes smaller and smaller in the hazy distance until even the last little black speck disappears. There's a smell in the air like a black top road broiling in hot summer sun, and if the tentacles weren't so gigantic she'd be reminded of the Gatekeeper in Idaho.

The old man steeples his hands and directs his attention to Buffy.

"Well, Miss Summers, we meet again. I bet you never gave a thought to my plight after your soldier boy took me away, did you?"

Buffy gapes. Riley? Riley took away who? Oh my God. Can this wreck of a man really be Ethan? He was already old, like fifty maybe, but this shaking wreck looks more like seventy-five, and not a healthy seventy-five either.

The old man cackles. Buffy tries to recognize his voice, but that too has changed, it's become cracked and wavery.

"Yes, Miss oblivious little Girl Scout, this is what the US soldiers did to me. They called it interrogation. I call it torture. How about that, Miss Summers? Is this what you had in mind for me?"

Buffy can honestly say that she didn't. Ethan locked up and watched over by the army seemed safe and neat, and not at all morally ambiguous. She does plead guilty to completely forgetting about the man from that moment on, she'd been only too happy to be relieved of a difficult problem. She wouldn't have killed him, simply because he was human and so not in her jurisdiction. 

"I'm sorry," she says. "I never meant for this to happen."

"I believe you, but that goes to show that you should devote a little more thought to your decisions, shouldn't you? Killing on sight is simplistic but works for vampires, although you seem strangely reluctant to kill William the Bloody in any of his incarnations. You and my old friend Ripper should have thought a little further ahead than that."

It's not pleasant to admit this to the old rogue, but he's probably right. She didn't even like what the Initiative did to the demons, and she'd have had no qualms about killing them if she met them in natural conditions. And what's more, Riley has once again threatened to mess up her relationship with Spike, even if indirectly.

"I apologize," Buffy says. "My faith in the government was childish and naïve. Shall we leave it at that? And by the way, how did you manage to get out?"

Ancient Ethan grins his wide unappealing grin again. He waves his arm and from somewhere another man steps forward. It's Ethan, looking much the same as the one she met in Kakistos' great Hall.

"While you and your undead paramour were making googly eyes at each other, it was quite easy to follow you and obtain the transdimensional device, which you left behind on a piece of Cleveland pavement. You'd intrigued me with the mention of my alter ego's fate and it wasn't hard to track him down and spring him from his detention," the younger Ethan says.

Oops.

"I still don't see what you want from me."

Does he want her to bring in Giles or something? What did he want all those other times? Looking back, she can hardly call him really evil, not compared to Glory or the First. He just seemed to like making mischief on a small scale, creating chaos. How her worldview has changed in these past years.

"Not so much from you as through you. Power. You were silly enough to tell me the tale of killing a Gatekeeper."

Buffy ducks involuntarily and wishes she could shush Ethan. There's not a tentacle in sight, although there's that faint tarry tang in the air.

"I knew they'd be interested in acquiring your body and soul," the second Ethan says.

Buffy doesn't like the way he separates the words 'body' and 'soul'. Like hers could be separated from each other.

"And what about Spike?"

"Once I alerted the Gatekeepers, it was quite easy to nab him and Drusilla whilst they traveled home from your dimension."

"Okay, now you have us both, or the Gatekeepers have us both. What are your plans?"

The elder Ethan sinks gingerly back in his chair. "That, Miss Summers, is the luxury of this position. I have plenty of power at my beck and call, and there are so many opportunities for mayhem and destruction that I haven't been able to settle on any one of them yet. But frankly, my dear, the idea is to mess around with a certain government agency on a serious scale. You can probably imagine that I'll want a little more out of you than just that grudging little apology. How does pain sound to you? And as to the vampire – what better punishment than to part him from his recently regained beloved?"

Buffy stops paying close attention to his ranting when she hears there are no apocalypses in the offing. Not Ethan's modus operandi at all; he's just off to one of his usual brilliant starts and won't stick it out until the end. She ponders what her next step should be. Obviously Spike must be made into her ally again. They'll have a better chance together, or with the three of them if Drusilla can be found. She's rock solid certain that her Spike will come to the rescue, no matter what he thinks of her at the moment. And maybe even Angel and Wesley with their evil company will chip in. She doesn't know, however, if they have enough info to even start. It's not as if she gave Spike a detailed account of her adventures. Not as if he was willing to listen to her either.

A third Ethan comes up and says something in an undertone to the others. This one's wearing eyeliner and a lot of flashing silver rings. Ethan two says something in a strange language, waving his arms around at the same time and a length of thick smelly fire hose wraps around Buffy's chest and lifts her easily into the air.

Some time later, she's aware of staring into yellow eyes bigger than a skating rink, attached to a mind with depths she can't fathom at all. She wishes she was wearing her skates so she could kick a nice big crack in the evil pupil. Everything goes black.

*

Buffy comes to during the last part of a fall from a considerable height and smacks down hard on a metal surface, making it reverberate and ring. The white circle which hovers above her is slowly being covered by a black bulge, devouring it as the moon eats away the sun during a lunar eclipse. The disappearing light makes her see she's in a curved closed space that gets smaller and smaller near the top, where the opening is, like a bottle. 

Snick. The lid closes and Buffy is left in utter darkness. It's so dark that her body immediately loses its sense of balance and she sinks to her knees so she can touch the floor and not fall over. It's hard to tell which is up and which is down, especially since the floor doesn't seem to be level but curved like the walls. She can crawl a few yards either way, making it, at a guess, less than twenty feet in diameter, and it was about forty feet up. The metallic sounding surface feels like rough cast iron. There is an oily tang of Gatekeeper in the air, which mixes oddly with the blood smell of the iron. 

She shouts 'hello' but the sound falls dead and the lack of any echo makes the space feel smaller. She starts worrying about air. What if there is no supply of oxygen? Maybe Ethan's watching her on a closed video system and is enjoying seeing her slowly suffocate. 

What is wrong with her anyway? She could have dealt with those Ethans easily, but she just stood around moving her mouth. No wonder Spike declined to be her boyfriend, she's lost it. She's not a Slayer anymore but a damsel, and who'd want one of those after the real thing? She's got to get her act together, stop moping and start kicking ass. Buffy decides starting with the belly of the bottle would be a very good idea. Again, high heeled sandals prove to be a bad choice in footwear. Not that she minds destroying them, since they've been thoroughly baptized in an LA sewer, but some nice hob-nailed boots would have been more sensible.

Standing up proves difficult and kicking the wall is like missing a corner ball and she tumbles backwards on her ass. She fails to brace herself in time and her head slams into the floor with a dull thud. It hurts, but the floor pressing up against her back gives a sense of safety. She's afraid of disappearing if there is no one to see her, if no sound to testifies to her presence. She pushes her hands flat on the rough iron surface and scrapes the tops of her fingers until they bleed. She bleeds, therefore she exists. 

*

Buffy wakes up when the whole interior of the bottle rings with sound. She can't believe she's actually fallen asleep, not when there isn't a flat space to be found in the whole damn thing, a torture she couldn't have imagined when she first lay down. Her spine feels like a hoop. It's still completely dark, but she has the feeling there was some light in here a moment ago. The afterimage of it still exists where it had fallen on her sleeping face. When she closes her eyes there is bright orange superimposed on the back of the lids instead of womb red and green.

Suddenly she knows something. There is someone else in here. The tingle at the back of her neck tells her it's a vampire and the twitch in her lower belly makes her think it may be Spike. She stands up swaying, her hands spread out to keep her balance. Her fingertips are raw and painful.

"Spike?"

Instead of an answer she gets a full body check from a cool solid vampire. He slams into her embrace, his hands splay out over her ass and her back and he kisses her hard and deep. It's difficult enough to stand up straight by herself on the curved floor in the bottle's pitch darkness, and the hard body and frantic lips against her make her lose all remaining sense of balance. They roll over, fall against the side of the bottle and slide down to the lowest place. 

His body presses against hers just so, the way she remembers, his hipbone here and his knee between her legs, though she doesn't know when she opened them. She fits perfectly against his chest and only has to tilt her head a bit to get kissed some more. His hips grind into her with delicious force. He wrestles with her skirt and panties, and thrusts inside her impatiently. Buffy grunts with surprise, her mouth still full with tongue of Spike, realizing he hasn't even said a word to her yet. His hand burrows between them, searching for her breasts. If she could have forced her buttons to pop with her mind she would. This is so much like their first time in the derelict house and yet not, because instead of her punishment he's now her reward.

But he's so cold. She knows he's a vampire, of course, he's always been that, but she's gotten used to room temperature or tepid, but it's like a column of frozen soft drink rams inside her, ice, making her fizz and burn, because you can get burned by ice as easily as by fire. She writhes and steams, not knowing if she wants to escape the chill or embrace it. If she heats it up, will it evaporate or burst into its own flame? She wants to scream, cry out her frustration, but he claps his hand over her mouth and she bucks harder and harder without success and finally erupts into a geyser of hot and cold pleasure, a flame of white heat sparking through dark ice. She's a liquid creature, borne up by sweet fluids, not knowing who she is and where.

She returns to being Buffy, still helplessly speared on a shuddering Spike. He's not cold anymore, she doesn't know why she thought he was. The hand slips off her mouth and she captures a finger, biting down hard. Words come tumbling out.

"Spike, oh Spike, I'm so happy, I thought we were over, I thought you hated me, Spike..."

"Shhh...," he says. "You don't have to say anything. It's fine. C'mere."

"I can't be more here than I already am," Buffy points out reasonably, which is so much in contrast with being fucked into the ground that she can't stop giggling against his mouth.

It's ridiculous to be happy when you're imprisoned like a genie in a bottle within in a strange dimension, but the relief of having Spike here and knowing herself forgiven is just too great. 

She tries to get his duster off, which doesn't work because Spike needs his arms to support himself above her. He's single mindedly applying himself to the task at hand and Buffy gives up on her desire to feel more skin and satisfies herself with rucking up his T-shirt. His hipbone bangs against her clit with terrifying force and regularity, and she floats off into that space where all sensation is concentrated in that one tiny point. He breathes harshly into her neck, gnawing at her tendons and she comes, contracting so violently that she can hear his bones creak when her legs clench around his hips.

"Oh God, Spike, I love you so much..."

"Unh," he snarls between clenched teeth, she can just envision his agonized I-don't-want-to-come-yet face and the urgency in his voice revs her up again. They know how to do this so well, they really match; they're two of a kind. He can let go with her, and she has no shame showing him all her moves, in a way she never dared to with Riley. He doesn't get overwhelmed, she doesn't break. 

She feels him pulse inside her and lifts her hips with her heels to give him maximum counterpressure and he groans his release against her throat.

She'd like to lie there and bask, or anyway she thinks she'd like that, but he leaves her with a wet plop and turns her over, yanking her hips up to his and thrusting right in again. More sex is good, too. It's not the sweet and gentle make-up sex she imagined, and it's weird and also strangely hot just grinding into each other in the darkness. She really wants to see his face, not that she could in this position, but she'd like to see how he looks at her with his sweet boyish eyes all wicked and dancing. He's not as talky as she remembers either. Maybe because he can't see her, he can't praise her beauty when it's dark, after all. She always wanted him to shut up and now she misses the words, isn't that silly?

Spike roughly pulls her closer and higher, she's standing now, bent double like a calzone, and he's putting in the stuffing, still thrusting into her like a maniac. She's come like a zillion times already. This angle hits her sweet spot even harder and when he stuffs a thumb in her ass she cries out in surprise. It's unbelievable, and it just goes on and on and on. She falls over again, she has no balance in this damn curved prison, but Spike catches her and folds her in another position, her legs on his shoulders and it feels as if he's gonna split her apart.

It's wonderful, really, but she'd like them to talk, the make up sex won't be real unless there is some spoken confirmation of their feelings. Actually, she's even getting a little wigged by all this wordless grunting and heaving. Sex is good but words are important too.

"Spike..." she manages to say between orgasms. "Let's just lie still for a moment, just hold me, baby."

Spike is silent for a moment. "Just a sec," he says. 

He scrabbles around somewhere and when she lies down it's on his duster, which is so very romantic. All they need is candles. 

"Your lighter?"

"Haven't got it with me," he says.

He slides his arm under hers and she snuggles up against him. She's perfectly happy. There's nothing in the world but her and Spike. They are the only lovers and life couldn't be better. Except that the hard surface of the prison is digging into her hipbones; the duster is a sweet thought but doesn't have a lot of spring in it.

She wants to talk to Spike, tell him how clever he is to have found her, and how happy they'll be, but his hand has found her clit and she's not gonna be talking for a while.

She kisses him, slowly, sweetly, savoring his soft lips against hers, he tastes like heaven, and hey, she should know. The moment of sweet suspension doesn't last long. He brings her off and he's still hard, or again, and unerringly finds her pussy. His tongue dances over hers, keeping her on a simmer, occasionally boiling over violently as he presses her buttons over and over. Buffy loses all grip on time or purpose and she's carried along on the ride, for what length of time she doesn't know. Finally Spike rests his forehead against hers, his face and hair damp with her sweat.

"Baby..." she says uncertainly.

He's been fucking like a man possessed and she's not sure where his head is. 

"You okay?"

His head moves slightly against hers and she takes that for a nod. She strokes the long quivering muscles of his back, trying to soothe him like she would a nervous animal, one that night break out and bite her if she isn't careful. He levers himself up slightly and grasps her hand in his. He brings it to his mouth and sucks hard on her grazed and still painful fingertips. The gesture goes straight to her pussy at first but he sucks a little longer and harder than is necessary. 

"Ah, Slayer, your blood is like nectar..." 

Buffy feels an unaccountable chill. Well, she is naked and the warm vampire lying heavily on top of her has sucked all the warmth and energy out of her. She shivers and he reacts immediately.

"Let's get you dressed and out of here. We're not out of the woods yet." 

That seems sensible and she dons her flimsy summer dress, which still gives her a sense of safety when she puts it on. Strange. Safe from who?

"Gotta go. Come on, Slayer."

That's the second time he's called her Slayer, or is it the third? A chill grips Buffy from top to toe and immobilizes her. Who is this talking? She was so certain this was her Spike. What if he isn't? If she wasn't able to tell?  Everything that's happened in the past hours has been joyful and right, but if this was the other Spike it was nothing more than rough sex. Granted, the best kind of hot and heavy tussling she could possible have, because they know how to do this so well and nothing squicks them, but if it's been another of her mistakes? She stands stock still, shocked to the core by this thought. How can she ever explain this to her Spike? Fucking the wrong vampire once might be forgivable, barely, but twice? Oh, God, no, why does she always do the wrong thing? Why?

Spike's hand finds hers in the dark and tugs her against his body. He grinds his hips against her in a token gesture of lewdness because he's clearly more about the urgency of leaving at the moment. 

"Hold on tight, Slayer, gonna take a little trip."

Flash! They're standing outside in blinding brightness, and the prison does look like a big black bottle with its full belly and long neck. She stumbles because Spike isn't holding her up anymore and when she's regained her footing there are two Spikes standing there, looking almost identical with their black dusters and white gelled hair. Two pairs of blue eyes smirk at her and she gets two nods.

Spike stumbles through a thick stringy veil like cheese sauce that has cooled too much. He falls into a tube of pearly nothingness that stretches away on both sides and disappears into slow curves. How the hell can he know if he's in the right place? He checks his pocket for Willow's device, which will get him out if need be. The smooth wall stuff yields under the pressure of his fingers. When he keeps pushing his hand slowly disappears in it. Creepy.

He walks cautiously to the left, not because he detects anything different from the right hand side but on principle. After going on for what seems like several miles, and why he didn't borrow someone's watch he doesn't know, the air seems to be getting warmer and the tunnel slopes downward slightly. He looks back at the stretch of relatively straight tunneling he's just walked and he gets the notion that it looks very much like an intestinal tract would look from the inside out if you cleaned it out and hung it up to dry. Hopefully Meerna hasn't sent him into the guts of one of the Gatekeepers. Or maybe the universe is a giant beast anyway and his own reality just one of the cells of its body. He'll never know, and it will most likely not help him gain his objective. Onwards, Spike. Save the girl.

Suddenly he hears voices coming from behind. 

"Shut your trap, you pillock! I can't believe one of us is actually a council member. Selling out to the establishment!"

Other voices sigh and murmur answers.

There is no way for Spike to hide; there is only one tunnel. In desperation he throws himself at the tunnel wall and it reluctantly allows him in, enveloping him in a membrane like tough aspic. He can even see out a bit through the grayish murk. The stuff quests at his nose and eyes with tiny slimy fingers and he clamps his lips shut tightly, blinking furiously to be able to keep on watching.

Four people troop by, one in a wheel chair and one with bound arms, propelled by two others. 

They don't say anything enlightening as they pass by at a good clip. The moment they're out of sight Spike fights free of the intestinal wall or whatever it is and follows them. His hands and face tingel from the fluid the wall was trying to digest him with.

He almost goes too fast, nearly running into the unexpected space that opens up, and manages to draw back just in time. The group of four is clearly visible in the painfully bright white light that shines into the round space. The walls are rounded the inside of a pearl, although he can't quite see the ceiling. Three of the men bear an uncanny resemblance to each other, although they're dressed quite differently. The one in handcuffs wears conservative suit with a flashy shirt and tie and shoes that strongly remind Spike think of the obsolete word 'bounder', the two others are in casual gear. Their dark blond hair is cut into various lengths, but the color is identical. The man in the wheelchair could be their father, he has the same features only he looks much older, ravaged and destroyed by time.

The captive man in the suit is set apart from the other three. He looks around wildly and tries to break into a run, but from above a tentacle as thick as Godzilla's tail comes from above and easily plucks him from the floor in mid-run. He screams a high gurgling scream, and Spike sees him become limp and resigned. Another tentacle descends from the ceiling. He can't see its origin, but the beastie it belongs to must be as big as an apartment block if the size of the tentacle is any indication. The second tentacle opens up the lid of one of the bottles and drops the blubbering man inside.

The three look on in satisfaction. "Council flunky. Sold out like Ripper," the one in the ponytail says bitterly.

"Lady Drusilla will make short work of him," the one in the wheel chair says. 

The others fall silent to listen to him. Interesting that the oldest and weakest seems to be the boss.

"At least we made the giant Inklings happy," the old man says. "We'll have free rein across the worlds, and some enjoyable moments when the Slayer and her scrub stand trial."

Spike grits his teeth and counts to ten. The men walk off into the opposite direction into another tunnel. Spike waits until he thinks it's safe and then ventures out towards the three bottles. If Drusilla is captive in one of them, chances are that Buffy is in another. He looks up cautiously, aware that he wouldn't be able to do much more against the giant tentacle than the man in the suit had, vampire strength or not. There is nothing to see, nothing but the impenetrable pearly glare, infinity, but in spite of that his neck prickles with warning. Willow's account of Buffy's fight with the Gatekeepers made them seem like ordinary demons, fightable, beatable. He's not so sure about that now he's seen them here.

He raps his knuckles on the dead black stuff of the middle bottle. "Buffy?" Sound is flat here, and he gets no resonance from the bottle, nor an answer. He tries the other one, with the same result. At last he taps on Dru's bottle. Nothing. He concludes the inmates can't hear anything from the outside. He gets back to the middle bottle and jumps up to the top. The lid is much bigger than it seemed from below, and there is a neat handle, about twice his body size. It appears impossible to move. He can't even see a seam where it fits into the bottleneck. He stamps on it for good measure. Jumps up twenty feet or so to land back on it, but produces so little sound that he concludes it would never work. 

Maybe he can capsize it? The bottles look to have rounded bottoms, they can't be that stable. After half an hour of trying he gives up that venue as well. His body mass is simply not sufficient to topple one of the giant things, no matter how much vampire speed he adds to the equation.

There is one other option. He gingerly brings out Willow's device and tries to program it the way she showed him. He does the best he can, takes a deep breath and activates it. 

He finds himself in a space so deadening to all his senses that he sways on his feet for a moment. A vampire normally knows everything there is to know in a big circle all around him, getting input from his ears, his nose, his eyes, all preternaturally sharp, not to mention his sense for the magic and the demonic. Now all this is muted, cut off sharply by the walls of the bottle prison. Where he can normally read by starlight his eyes sense nothing at all, his nose smells only a vampire, and his ears hear nothing but a faint scrabbling like the nail of a mouse trying to get out of a trap. His magic senses tell him there is a demonic creature in there, but weakened and faint.

He walks the two paces to where the vampire is curled up on the floor. During those few seconds the life force flames up abruptly, followed by the vamp hurling itself at Spike. It's not precisely an attack, although it's rough and uncontrolled, it tries to touch Spike everywhere, with its hands, its fangs and its cock. Spike rebuffs him with a blow, but that doesn't seem to matter, the acknowledgment of his existence seems to focus the vamp and shake him out of his mindless state.

"Who're you? How did you get in here and why would you bleeding want to?" the vamp says.

Spike tries to pry off the grasping fingers and hungry teeth.

"Name's Spike," he says tersely. "Not interested in you, actually. I'll be off, then."

The vamp clamps on even tighter. "Bloody hell. You again? I'm Spike, you ponce. You the souled creep that's dangling after the Slayer?"

Spike's anger flares up like a rocket and he punches the other man in the nose. "Mind your own business. Slayer's mine."

"You're hers, you mean," his alter ego says, joyfully, retaliating with a blow to Spike's chin. The tension in his body has loosened and Spike can feel him bounce a bit on the balls of his feet. Itching for a fight, just like Spike himself. 

"Shut up," Spike says, determined not to get into pointless scrapping. "Mine. What have you done with her? Where is she?"

The other calms down, but keeps his hand fastened on the lapels of Spike's coat. "Wish I knew, mate. If her and me were together we'd get ourselves out in a jiffy. Tried to exchange her for Dru, but that bastard Rayne double crossed me."

"Bastard who?"

"Rayne. Ethan Rayne. 'S the Magician programmed the magic portal device for us. Hey, which one do you have? The witch's?"

Spike can't let that 'we' and 'us' pass. He slams his double up against the curved wall of the bottle and rams his head against the wall once or twice for good measure.

"Mind this, you arse hole. There is no us where you and the Slayer are concerned. There is only me and the Slayer, got that?"

"Didn't seem like that when I was putting it to her, mate." 

Spike hits him on his filthy mouth. 

The other goes on gleefully. "Never heard a woman scream like that. She was insatiable, wrung me out..."

By now Spike is punching the other Spike wildly and uncontrollably, making the other giggle and flail back, helpless with laughter. This only makes Spike angrier but he can't get a grip on the slack laughing body. They end up on the floor together.

"She's mine," Spike growls. "Mine, mine, mine." 

He accompanies the words by banging his opponent's head on the floor. "You ever lay your filthy hands on her again and I'll personally twist your stupid head off."

"Feisty!" the other Spike carols. "She'd like that, you know. Thought you'd gone soft, the things she told me about you. Getting a soul. Getting chipped. There must be something wrong with you, mate, big bad turned big softie, no proper vamp would ever let something like that happen to him."

Spike punches his elbow into that annoying blabby mouth. "Shut up. Apologize. Say you'll never ever touch her again."

He's sitting on the other Spike's hips and realizes the annoying sod is getting off on the fight, and so is he. Aw hell. Aching for a fight or a fuck, idiot that he is. Should have made love to Buffy, angry or not, get the edge of this appetite. Only he can't ever do that again. What's right and proper between vamps is all wrong between vamp and Slayer, and it's this which led to him getting a soul.

He drives his knees in the other's side, but the zest's gone out of him.

"Come on, mate," the other Spike complains. "You can't just stop fighting like that? Where's your passion, where's you fire? It's like stopping mid fuck when the girl hasn't come yet! You can't do that to me!"

"Shut up, you berk, it's just a scrap, not a holy mission."

"There's no difference. What happened to you? You gotta live life to the brim, not stop halfway and start rationalizing and weighing options like a bloody merchant. We're vampires, we fight, we fuck, we live until it kills us, that's the fun of it. All out or nothing. Remind me to never to get a soul if it changes you into a civil servant, thinking of the cost first and the feeling never. No, stop, I don't need reminding, I would never ever do it."

"Not even for Dru?"Spike asks. 

The other Spike stops his kicking and struggling and thinks deeply. "No love, not even for Dru. Because what came back wouldn't be me anymore and so it wouldn't be any good anyway. She wouldn't want me afterwards."

Hearing it from his own mouth, as it were, makes it worse somehow. The other Spike is right. He isn't the same. Most of who he was is still there, but he has changed, as he meant to. Because he thought it was what Buffy would have wanted. Turns out she didn't, right? Only got interested in him again after she met the original version, to remind her of who he used to be. Which is too bad, because he likes who and what he is now, and he's not going back or pretend to.

He falls back on his haunches and sighs. It's galling to have to admit defeat. "You're right. She doesn't want me like this. She wants the old Spike with fire in his guts, who went all out for her, never mind the obstacles. She wants you."

"Well, I don't want her like that," the other says matter of factly. "Grand lay, mind you, wonderful mate in a fight, guards your back, but she's nothing like my Dru. Bit melancholy and subdued. I like 'em crazier."

"Huh."

The other Spike slaps his face. "Oh, wake up, you stupid sod! She does want you. Kept crying and sniveling and remembering you every time she saw me. She didn't fuck me, she fucked your memory. Big difference. Huge difference. Now let's get out of here and find our women."

Spike doesn't react. 

His alter ego stands over him and kicks him in the balls. "All right, you wanker, if you're not going to rescue her, I will. And she'll be so sodding grateful she'll fuck me into smithereens and won't be thinking of you ever again."

Spike jumps up and backhands him savagely. "Let's just stop," he says. "Let's get our women out, you immature idiot, instead of wasting our time with this."

His alter ago grabs his cock and gives it a squeeze, a mixed pleasure at best when his balls are still sore form the punch. "As long as you enjoyed it, eh? Let's do this again where we can see each other."

Spike doesn't agree. Fighting is fun, sure, but not just with anyone. There has to be a point to a fight or he can't quite rouse himself to do it anymore. He has become a wanker, from his earlier point of view. He remembers meeting Angel when he realized for the first time the sod had a soul, the betrayal and disgust he felt. He hauls up his other self and holds on to him tightly while he fingers the controls of the device.

They stumble out in the brightly lit space and Spike pushes the other vampire off of him. 

"Neat trick," the Spike says admiringly. "Let's get Dru."

"Are you nuts? Dru would only be extra trouble, which we really don't need. We'll get her after we find Buffy."

Spike stares at his other self. It's not like looking into the mirror, looking at the pale face gives him the same sense of estrangement a photograph does. He's a handsome fellow, if he says so himself, if still as weak chinned as when William stared into the looking-glass. The white hair, neatly kept in place, because the world certainly doesn't need to know he has curls. His mother's nose. Pink sensual lips, now stretched in a grimace from effort. The is the face Buffy professes to love. His Beauty reacted to the inner Beast at first; would she think the spirit matches the fair outside now?

The other grabs his arm and tries to work his hand inside his pocket. "Gimme the device and I'll get Dru. Which bottle is she in?"

"Not telling you unless you let go," Spike says and shakes him off. 

"I'm serious," the other Spike says and vamps out. "Hand me that thing, you pansy, or I'll give your lily white ass a licking it won't recover from!"

The other launches himself at Spike with a roar and Spike feels a thrill race up and down his spine. It makes him hard, he feels alive, and his game face slams down without volition. He bares his teeth in an answering growl. They've only been playing so far, he's not even really mad at the other Spike for sleeping with Buffy, because who could blame him? He blames Buffy. 

Now the stakes are real. He's not going to let that git come between him and Buffy. In spite of himself he breaks through a barrier he's set for himself, like a glass ceiling in the house of his violence and as he bursts through the shards are flying. He shoots up into the stratosphere and it's so liberating to let go of himself again, to lose those self-imposed boundaries. This isn't Angel, or Dana, who he didn't really want to hurt, this is himself, his bad half, who deserves a whole lot of punishment, and who better to dole it out and have a ball while he's doing it?

The world narrows to this precise moment in time and place, where there isn't even a Buffy anymore. He smells blood, he hears panting and grunting, maybe his own. There's growing tension, an expectation growing to the bursting point. At the last possible moment, he draws back from the release, which would be the tearing off someone's head. 

They land with a crunch of bones and leather against the nacreous wall, which first rebuffs them and then starts sucking actively, trying to draw them in. Spike doesn't care. There is just his fists and his fangs and if his cock gets slammed against the other's now and then that's all the better. He bangs his head forward, hears the satisfying crunch of a cheekbone, feels the incongruous softness when he gets a handful of curls for a moment. Wetness, blood slicking the skin over tense muscles, grunts and the scrape of nails. His teeth tear into skin and gristle, cold unappetizing blood crawls into his mouth. It tastes familiar. He'd rather be tasting Buffy. 

Something gives under his thumb and he pushes hard. When he feels a wet globe under his fingers and hears a yell of pain from the other Spike he retreats slightly. Might need him able to see well enough to fight later on. Spike marvels at himself, while his hands go on raining blows on the other's exposed belly, the amount of control he still has while at the same time going all out. He has changed, even if he's doing something as basic to his vampire nature as fighting a rival. It might as easily change to fucking and many times has, in his long and wasted life. 

Sensation is everything to an immortal being, the search for it is worth every drop of energy, every amount of effort. Without change and strong sensations there is only endless sameness and joylessness. Without joy eternity is nothing but a grind, without it eternity is hell. Not for him the oblivion of the eternal now any longer. There's always a past and a future now, the world has sadly changed. He has changed and he'll never be the same. 

He stares in furious blue eyes, which aren't thinking at all. The knee in his groin takes him unawares. He doubles over and while he's trying to regain his balance he falls to his hands and knees. Rough hands yank off his duster. While he's rolling over and jumping to his feet the other is already yards away, sprinting as fast as he can with his trophy in his hands. Spike launches himself after his quarry with a roar of fury that surprises him and spurs him on to greater speed. He has to get the device back, he needs it for Buffy. Complacent fool, thinking about eternal life while fighting is inviting trouble. He cannons into the other Spike's back. They land heavily on the floor and slide on for while he tries frantically to get a grip on his duster. The other tries as hard and curses with frustration. Spike hangs on tenaciously but they are evenly matched. 
 Buffy looks frantically from one Spike to the other, and although she can spot some differences they are no help at all. They are both looking kinda beat up, and if their wounds and contusions aren't each other's mirror that information gets her exactly nowhere. What's the point of knowing that the one duster is in tatters on the left and the other on the right? She didn't ask and she just can’t tell. She assumed it was her Spike with her in the bottle, but how will she ever know?. What would she say? Um, gee, my Spike, did I have sex with you just now or was it your evil twin? The zinging in her fingertips and the sparking in many other places is not very helpful. Both Spikes make her tingle just as much.

They grin at her confusion in unison and cross their arms. The Spike with the most damaged duster looks a little glummer than the other so he must be hers. She hates herself for thinking that. Like having a soul and loving her would necessarily make a guy glum. No, what’s she saying? He was wearing an undamaged duster this morning, now they’re both ripped. The unsouled Spike is looking glum. Now what would he have to be unhappy about? Because he didn't have sex with her just now or…of course. Dru. Dru's being held by the Gatekeepers somewhere.

She turns around and sees two other prison bottles. Behind that is a bottle rack, stretching to the sides and upwards into infinity. Full of people or creatures that didn't get out, she presumes. They'd better get moving.

"What's the plan? Is there a plan?"

One of the Spike's frowns at her and grabs her arm possessively. "Of course. Let's get out of here."

The second Spike comes up and pets her arm soothingly. "Make nice to the lady, you oaf," he snarls to his look-alike. "C'mon, darlin', we gotta go."

Buffy looks from the one to the other in confusion. Are they trying to pull a stunt on her? Are they in it together or something? No, they growl at each other, which is totally weird as they're in human face, and they don’t let go of her arm. They're both tugging at her, and while she's more than woman enough to get loose and doesn’t feel threatened, she is getting annoyed. Two bulky men -- at least from her perspective— towering over her, eyes flashing dark blue in anger, sculpted lips pouting, free fists clenching. It would be ridiculous if she wasn't so apprehensive and antsy.

"Well? Who's who?" she snaps at the two gorgeous creatures posturing against each other. "Decide already!"

"If you can’t tell, Slayer, too bad for you. Why don’t you try picking one of us, eh?"

Buffy opens her mouth to indicate the utter pointlessness of that exercise when a tornado suddenly appears above the Spike who said this. It wraps around him and lifts him up with dizzying speed. Another Gatekeeper's arm, only a hundred times bigger. She hopes she and Spike two didn't kill a baby Gatekeeper. What with the gravelly voice and the bloodlust it seemed pretty adult, but then you never know with demons. 

Another thick arm reaches out of nowhere and knocks the air out of her . She twists around to hold out her arm to the remaining Spike but he too is being airlifted out. To where? A worse place than the bottle prison? The trip through the pearly nothingness is very disorienting. She has no idea what is up or down or in what directions she's traveling and her stomach makes her pay for this uncertainty.

She's dropped down unceremoniously into the enormous amphitheater again. This time the stacked tiers aren't empty, they're literally black with spectators. Row upon row of frog faced yellow eyed monsters, filling the air with their fetid breath and subsonic rumbling voices. Great. The scary thing is, the black guys in the farthest rows she can see don't seem to be any smaller than the guys in the first row. That means they're really, really big. She cranes her neck all the way up to see of she can get a peep of the big Gatekeeper with the tornado sized tentacle but it's just brightness and nothingness that threaten to make her dizzy again. She lost her last meal, and had none to replace it with, so she decides there will be no more vomiting for now. Hopefully she'll be able to fight well enough on her empty belly.

At a guess, the demons are gonna play Caesar, and she and the Spikes are the gladiators who're gonna do the greet and die, thumbs down thingy. She's seen plenty of films about the subject, thank you. Arena confrontations never end well.

She makes a full circle to check out possible exits or helpful surfaces but there is nothing but smooth white stuff. Not stone, not sand, just stuff, neither hot nor cold, not smooth or rough. Huh. The Spikes behind her are doing the same thing, turning with her, taking care to stay in a triangle so that none of their backs is exposed at any time. They'd make a good team, if you could get around the weirdness of two identical guys.

Suddenly she notices a change during her umpteenth slow circuit of the arena. A patch of tan and red and pink mars the uniform blackness of the first rows. Buffy recognizes the yellow stained beard of old Ethan and the other Ethans standing next to him. It's still weirder than seeing two Spikes, because they are two strongly separate personalities.

"Look!" Buffy whispers to the Spikes. "Three Ethan Raynes. And I know rollerboy Ethan blames me for his imprisonment."

"Crafty bugger followed us and stole the device," Spike remarks. "Bastard got there before me."

Buffy throws him a disbelieving look. "I know. Were you actually planning to go back for it after you found Dru?"

"'Course I did. Wouldn't want to waste a brilliant opportunity, now would I?"

"What are you talking about? That the guy changed Rupert into a Fyarl?" the real Spike interjects.

The other Spike guffaws. "Heh. Like the way that Ethan bloke thinks. How did it end?"

"I helped him out," Spike says curtly, sounding a bit ashamed.

"Of course you did!" the other exclaims in disgust. "You would, Miss Goody Two Shoes." He elbows her Spike in the side, and he retaliates without a second thought with a fist in the nose. Buffy gapes. Do all guys turn twelve in her presence? Jeez.

The awful thing is that she can see her own past actions played out in Technicolor. She grits her teeth. 

"Spike, I apologize for all those times I punched you in the nose."

Spike throws her an unreadable look. "Apology accepted."

"Silence!" a loud human voice calls out. "This court is now in session."

No need to all rise, she guesses. Nor swearing on the Bible, presumably.

A big hulking black Gatekeeper next to the Ethans stands up. It sings out like a synagogue cantor in a language Buffy doesn't understand. She checks with the Spikes, but they shake their heads.

One of the middle-aged Ethans stands up and directs his words to the captives. "Hereby stand accused Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer and William the Bloody, vampire, for willfully murdering a Gatekeeper. Another William the Bloody, vampire, for interfering with prison regulations."

Murdering? "Hey! The creep was trying to eat my soul! I have the right to defend myself against that!" Buffy calls out hotly.

The spokesman Ethan remains silent, clearly not intending to translate this for her. Buffy steps backwards, making the triangle with the Spikes smaller. She's not so sure her idea of fighting herself out of this predicament will work. Who can fight a Gatekeeper as big as an office building? 

Gatekeepers stand up one by one and add their voices to the meeting. They can really sing, most of them, but she remembers the evil glee with which the one in Iowa smashed Spike into bloody pulp, and isn't inclined to give them points for musicality.

At last a Gatekeeper who's seated way up in the audience, which means he's the biggest so far, stands up. In a voice that makes her teeth rattle and shake he gives a very long incomprehensible summation. Suddenly all Gatekeepers rise and sing out one long painful note. Buffy claps her hands to her ears but it doesn't help enough, she feels like a bomb has exploded under her skull. Spike, no, the other Spike, leans in and gives her neck a long cool lick. She slaps him off in annoyance before she realizes he was licking the blood from her ear. 

"You lick it off," she says to the other Spike. "Not him."

Her Spike turns his head and they stare into each other's eyes for what seems like a long time. 

"You sure you're asking the right person, Slayer?" he says.

Shit. No, she isn't. She was for a second but he's kicked that security right from under her feet with his simple question. She turns her head around to the other Spike who smirks at her and licks his lips. Back to hers, who does the same. They're conspiring against her! This isn't funny. 

She opens her mouth to speak when a notable hush falls over the Ethans and the crowd. They all look upwards and Buffy automatically follows their gaze. Far, far away in the scintillating white glare a black speck is visible, growing bigger quickly. Buffy tries to guess at the distance, but as the speck grows and grows and still hasn't landed she realizes it must be incredibly big. If a tentacle or Gatekeeper this big is descending, it's not going to pick them up, it's going to squash them. 

"Guys!" she says sternly. "We have to get out of here now!"

"Up there, with the Magicians we'd be safe!" one of the Spikes says and points upwards. 

They turn and run to the opposite end of the arena. They'll need to build up speed to make it up that high, must be four or five stories easily. They turn. Buffy's running flat out and makes her jump. Another loud sustained note sings out over the arena, in a lower key this time. Three tentacles flash out of nothing to suspend the three of them in the air.

"Bugger, bugger, bugger." the two Spikes say as one.

Buffy says nothing; she's too winded and angry. Her hands shake. She's not in the mood to die, there's tons of stuff she wants to do with Spike, but there's never been a moment that felt more like a Glory repeat. There's no Buffybot or Troll's hammer to help her out now. Maybe if Willow was here she could set fire to the whole lot of them?

"Incende!" she calls out on the off-chance, but just like there’s no Bible swearing, Latin is not a power language here.

The tentacles turn them to face the opposite side of the arena, still suspended high above the floor. Three impossibly neat well-dressed men with harshly angled briefcases stand on the first row and hold up a piece of paper.

"Cease and desist the execution," the tallest of them intones. He has an impressive voice. "I'm an associate with the firm of Wolfram&Hart, known as the Pantheon of Lesser Gods, 2nd level of Hell. We represent Ms. Buffy Summers and Mr. William the Bloody, dimension 2356. The condemned must be available to be material witnesses against Gatekeeper Idaho 2351, who is accused of incitement to worship and the consumption of fifty-eight human souls, for which it failed to obtain the Gatekeeper Council's permission, and which is illegal under the Portal Charter of  4312 B.C."

"Go lawyers go!" a Spike guffaws. 

Buffy doesn't quite know what to think. These are Angel's lawyers? Are they gonna save her ass or will she be beholden to them in some mystical kind of way she wouldn't like?

"Spike? You know these guys?"

"Not these fellows specifically, no. I reckon they're some of Charlie's flunkies. They'll save our sorry arses, all right."

There is conferencing among the lower-tier Gatekeepers, making Buffy think not of singing, but of a didgeridoo contest. She twists her head to take a peek at the Ethans, who're furiously conferring amongst themselves. When she turns back one of the Spikes is looking at her and giving her an encouraging smile. He's the one. She smiles back. If he thinks everything will be okay she'll quit worrying which is doing her no good anyway up here in the air. She tries to follow the tentacle up to a body, but it's like Jack's beanstalk, if you want to see where it ends you'd have to climb it. Now that she thinks of it, that doesn't seem too bad a plan.

"Spike!" she hisses. "We'll climb up and kill them all. Let's go down fighting."

He raises his eyebrows and looks doubtful, which is not what she expected. "We got a beef with all of them then? They sound more like customs officials than evil demons, love. And aren't you forgetting your duties towards Dawn? She needs you home and alive."

Well, well, who died and grew up? That'll take some getting used to.

The conferencing comes to an end and a sequence is sung by the largest of the group of humming Gatekeepers. The lawyer seems to understand what it being said. He rises up and flourishes more papers. 

"Unacceptable! No crime was committed because the Gatekeeper in question was engaged in illegal activities wholly separate from keeping gate. Miss Summers had the right to defend herself. We do not concur with the removal of her limbs."

Buffy is very, very grateful that her limbs will not be removed. She did forcibly remove some limbs from the errant gatekeeper, but sheesh, it's not like they don't have limbs to spare! They can grow them back. There was no mention of Spike. Angel hasn't authorized the sacrifice of Spike, she devoutly hopes. She's a bit hazy on what happened with the ring of Amara, but she can’t imagine they’re friends.

More humming and tootling. Buffy's getting bored. She tries to wiggle her foot sideways. If she stretches out real far she can just touch Spike's jeaned leg with her big toe. Spike gives her a slow, sexy smile and extends his big scuffed boot so that her toe and his boot can play footsie together. Come to think of it, did he even remove the boots during their lovemaking aka grunting sex fest? Probably not. She wonders if she would have cared when she could have seen him not remove his boots. It's one of these deep philosophical questions that never will be answered.

The spokes-Gatekeeper carols another offer to the trio of lawyers. The lawyer stands up and gives a minimalist bow in the direction of the big guys. 

"Release of Ms. Summers and Mr.The Bloody, dimension 2356, following a to be negotiated apology is acceptable."

"Noo! It's not acceptable! I want my pound of flesh!" Ethan Senior screams shrilly. "It's not fair! I brought them to your attention! I'm owed my vengeance!"

The Gatekeeper honcho sings him a question.  Ethan subsides and hunches back into his wheel chair, rubbing his chin and looking at Buffy from under his bristly old man eyebrows. The Ethan Buffy met in Kakistos’ Hall bends over and whispers a suggestion in his ear. The old man’s face brightens. 

"The Mediator is offering me the opportunity to dictate the terms of the apology. How about this, Miss Buffy Summers? You can only take one Spike with you. The Gatekeepers know who's who because they are attuned to the differences between dimensions. Can you?" he asks, rubbing his hands.

Buffy refuses to answer this.

"Are these terms acceptable to you, Miss Summers, Mr. The Bloody?" the lawyer asks.

"Yes!" her Spike says quickly before she can react.

Buffy can't believe he's okaying this. He wants her to publicly demonstrate her ability to differentiate him from his evil twin? That's just great. She has many abilities, but this may very well not be one of them.

"Are you insane? That's ridiculous! We're not gonna accept those terms!"

The lawyer, however, has other ideas about who's boss. "Okay, Mr. Spike."

He nods to the oldest Ethan. "Agreed."

Buffy is dropped from the arm holding her up without any warning at all. She's picking herself up and pulling her dress over her ass again when a steady buzzing noise attracts her attention away from her grooming. Thirty feet or so above her the Spikes are being spun around rapidly, circling each other all the while, like the fastest merry-go-round in the world. They're not gonna make it easy for her, so much is clear.

How dare Spike agree to this ridiculous and humiliating idea of making her choose! Is he out of his mind? Is this his petty revenge for her inability to recognize him in Cleveland? Duh, she answers herself. Of course it is. Great, just great. She'll pick the wrong one, given her track record so far. Although she's leaning towards the opinion she's had sex with the right Spike, she's not a hundred percent sure of this. She bases this on his behavior since then, and on the certainty that her Spike would never allow the other Spike to get quality time with her in a private bottle. Not with his jealousy and opinion of the other Spike's character.

Buffy has to think this through and come out with the right Spike in tow, or her life will be empty and meaningless forever. Given: she'll pick the wrong one. Therefore, she should just go for the one her guts tell her it's not. She's really really sick of this, she's groveled, begged, been silent and humble and supportive, but now that’s just not the real Buffy. From deep inside she feels that upwelling of anger her that she knows as the Slayer's Wrath. She can rely on that anger, it has helped her out of many a tight spot so far. It's righteous anger, not to be confused with feeling sick and miserable and beating on your boyfriend to make the feeling go away. 

The two Spikes are sown like black seeds on the floor of the arena. They are so similar in the way they roll over, get up and shrug their dusters in place. How could anyone know who's who? She can't. And she's not going to.

The two vampires stand next to each other, in the same arms-crossed pose and smirk at her. Buffy folds her own arms over her chest and advances on the Spikes.

"Listen up, guys. Not gonna play this silly game. I'm a woman, and the Slayer. I love one of you. I know I can't pick out the right guy just by looking at you, because let's face it, you look exactly the same. I know my limitations. I'm not perfect and never will be. Now, Spike that I love, you can either accept that and make yourself known, or you can throw away your chance to be my lover, boyfriend, or any other designation of your choice."

There. She's had her say and she'll stand by it. She gazes at the two Spikes and at first it seems her speech has had anything but the desired effect. They both look at her with admiration. She knew it. Spike loves the mighty Slayer, not the crow-eating wimp. The risk is that the other one is kind of built on the same principles, but she's betting he'll stand by Dru.

Spike remembers killing a little girl and tossing away her cheap rubber toy in the gutter. The little yellow duckling bobbed helplessly on the shallow stream and finally disappeared around a corner. He feels like that rubber ducky now. His stomach churns with apprehension. His face must stay impassive, as impassive as the other Spike truly feels. He can't help a sickening fear that she won't be able to do it, that she really can't tell them apart. If she loves him, she has to know who's who, right? Then her face loses its insecurity and he sees her dress herself in power and grace once more. 

All his anger and resentment just fall away from him when he sees her standing there, legs wide and arms crossed, flaming with the knowledge of who she is and what she can do, and he hears her voice firmly refuse to play the game. That's his girl, she's the one. Doesn't just play along, always thinks outside the box and stays true to herself. Yeah, Buffy, here I am. I'm yours. He steps forward, feels his cheeks stretching in a grin. The smile on her face dazzles him when he comes for her. She'll be his surrogate sunshine, her whole body is glowing at him with her eyes all big and happy. Without looking back he hastily slaps something in his alter ego's duster pocket and then he's standing right in front of her, can't resist grabbing her in a brief tight hug.

He doesn't even notice the transfer to the bleachers until his feet hit the ground again.

The three suits are holding back the surging mob of Ethans and black blobs with their armored briefcases, so Buffy and he can walk unhindered to the luxury extra-wide gateway. He closes his eyes during the travel through the interdimensional portal. He never loses the feel of her in his arms, warm and real, big enough to heat him through and through, tiny scrap of a girl that she is. It's the size of her heart that matters.

His feet sink slightly into the surface he's standing on. Must be the carpet in Angel's office. He doesn't want to open his eyes yet, but he can feel the silent gazes of at least a dozen people pressing in on him. He pulls Buffy hard against his body for a last moment, then grabs her hand, steps away, and turns to face the multitudes.

A deafening chorus of shouts and applause starts up the moment he does that. All he can see is smiling faces, directed at him and at Buffy. Lorne, flunky, Harmony, Xander and Andrew, more flunkies, Dawn jumping up and down, Angel with a big grin, flunkies....Angel with a big grin, no less, while he's coming back the hero, handsome man saved the girl? And where's Pryce? 

Dawn rushes past him, enveloping Buffy in a big, crushing hug, except of course the Slayer doesn't crush. He sneaks a peek at her while Andrew does a good imitation of Dawn on him, but Buffy's still glowing and looking happier than he's ever seen her, disheveled hair, torn dress and filthy feet notwithstanding.

Everybody wants to pump his hand and clap his shoulder. Harmony tries a full body slam and he has to pry her off his lips where she's trying to take up residence. 

"None of that, now, Harm," he says and she pouts at him. 

"You'll always be my Blondie Bear," she says defiantly. 

He should have brought her the purple unicorn as a gift, he reckons. Disabuse her of some of these silly notions. She's done well enough on them, though. Hasn't even got a soul and look where she is. He just tugs at a lock of her carefully casual hair and wishes her well.

Buffy excitedly throws out snatches of her adventures. "Xander, you'll never guess who we saw!"

"Um, no?" Xander says.

"Three Ethan Raynes!" Buffy says triumphantly. "He's the one who sent the other Spike to snatch me! He wanted revenge."

"Four Ethans," Spike says. "One was a Watcher, and they fed him to...killed him."

"Ew!" Dawn says.

"And what do we learn from this, children?" Xander says. "Kill the bad guys the first time around instead of running them out of town. They always come back, like in sequels."

Spike glares. 

"Or, you know, you could just date them?" Xander trails off.

"I don't think that worked when Giles tried it with Ethan," Willow says without a shred of irony, and Spike stifles a grin. He's gonna remember that little tidbit for later use.

Spike tries to pull Buffy down on the couch with him, but she's too wound up to sit still and wanders around the room chattering her head off. He'd just like to go home and have her to himself, but he knows the dues to friendship and team spirit must be paid.

"Spike!" Buffy exclaims suddenly. 

"What is it, love?" 

"No, not you, the other one. He's still trapped in there. We have to save him," Buffy says.

"What category does he fall in?" Xander says, "Big bads to kill or guys whose twins we date?"

"Shut up, Xan," Willow says.

"Willow. The device. We need to get back in, Spike!" Buffy is frantic.

"You have your Spike," Andrew says. "Why do you need two? You could leave one for other people!""

"He helped me; it isn't fair to leave him to be killed by the Blobs." 

"I gave him the device," Spike says quietly. "I reckoned he was on his own, after that. Don't forget Dru and him are vampires without souls."

"You gave him..." Buffy gapes. "Okay. Cool. Good thinking. Yeah, I don't think I need to...yeah."

"Hold on, Buffy," Xander says sharply. "So, he could still cross to our dimension and start killing again, Spike? Just because this Spike is good, doesn't mean we should give all vampires a pass from now on!"

Spike shrugs. 

Buffy looks at Xander with a frown on her face. "It's not a free pass, Xan. You haven't met the Gatekeepers. He has a chance of getting out of there, no more. Not even fifty-fifty. And he knows I'll kill him if he comes back to my dimension."

"What about other dimensions? He could still go there and wreak havoc!" Angel chips in.

Buffy bites her lip and straightens her spine. "I can't be responsible for all the dimensions. I'm not the only Slayer in the Universe. They'll have to fend for themselves."

Spike nods, and catches a mirroring movement from Angel. Christ, they agree on something. He needs a drink.

After the flunkies, including Harmony, have scurried back to their workplaces, Angel gets out the Laphroaig and pours shots for the small group that's still there, determined to celebrate. He's really trying, poor old thing. He deserves points for effort. 

Buffy declines the whiskey, as he knew she would, and complains about her disheveled state.

"God, I could use a shower and clean clothes!" she says, and Angel immediately offers her the use of his personal shower. The whole party troops upstairs, the Scoobies exclaiming about the private elevator. Angel takes Buffy along to show her the bathroom. Spike's not at all bothered by this. Not in the least. He trusts Buffy.

Predictably, Dawn and Andrew sprawl on the oversize sofa and try out the chairs. Angel comes back alone. Good. Xander gets voluble with his second glass of whiskey and fawns over Dead Boy's latest incarnation, penthouse and private jet exclamations coming out again and again. Angel allows the fawning; he seems to enjoy been sucked up to. He must be missing it from all his absent and dead friends, right? Spike really needs to go wash out his brain. All this jealousy ain't pretty.

Spike walks off and leans against the wall, still nursing his first whiskey, thinking about Buffy in the shower. Nobody's watching him, he could just go check out how she is. He walks up to the bathroom slowly, unsure of his reception. Annoying but true. The rules always seem different in the real world, certainly with Buffy. 

The sight that greets him still gets him where he lives, even if he's seen it all before, in much less romantic settings. Buffy's standing in Angel's gigantic granite shower cubicle, wreathed in steam, eyes closed. She's the antitheses of everything the shower cubicle stands for, like design, hard angles, absence of color. She's gold and pink and brown, dozens of shades of bronze, and she doesn't have a straight line anywhere. Her hands wander dreamily over her body, now hiding a golden breast and brown nipple with a veil of soap suds, then revealing them again. The breast springs loose from her hand and she languidly extends an arm above her head and performs a ballet version of a stretching exercise. She's Aphrodite rising from the foam, and he's not thinking of what caused Aphrodite to be born there, or Botticelli's Venus after some months of rigorous exercise and tanning. 

The glass of whiskey almost slips from his hand and he quickly gulps down the remaining fluid. Does she always act like this in strange guys' bathrooms; guys who don't even have locks on their bathroom doors? She slides her hand down her outstretched arm from the wrist to the shoulder and then lets it travel down her slick body, circling the navel and descending over her mound to disappear between her legs. Christ. He sees the wicked little smile on her face and finally gets that it's a performance. For him, he hopes.

"Hey, you," Buffy says with one of her big spotlight smiles. "Come on in, you must be feeling pretty filthy too."

"Always," he drawls and shows her his tongue.

She pinks a little, becoming rosy and shy down to her nipples. She rises to the occasion, however, by lifting her arms and twirling for him. Spike feels a rush of fear cramping his guts - it's so much like his dream from last night that he takes an instinctive look upwards for the sun, although he knows he's in a bathroom under a solid roof.

Buffy notices his hesitation and lowers her arms quickly, like she's folding in her wings. He really doesn't want her to go back into her cocoon so he steps forward, pushes through his sudden fear and starts undressing. 

"It's a bit scary," he says to her in the most conversational tone he can muster and steps into the shower cabin – it's almost as big as his whole apartment.

Buffy looks up at him with her eyes widening, but when he closes the distance between them to nothing her nervousness subsides and she puts her wet cheek against his chest. 

"Why?" she says softly.

"Because," he shrugs. "I dunno, Buffy. The real world coming between us? Reaching the pinnacle of your dreams and not knowing what the landscape will look like from up there?"

She hugs him tighter and he closes his eyes, his cheek on her sodden hair. "I like being your pinnacle," she says with a smile in her voice. "I'm sure there are other mountains we can scale together, you know?"

"You think we will?" he asks.

"Yeah."

They stand under the rushing water of the shower, content to let their tired limbs be washed clean. The water noise makes a blanket of sound they can huddle under and pretend the world doesn't exist for a few minutes. 

"I don't know," Buffy says after a bit. "Maybe it's scary, but it can also be a relief. When I finally gave myself over to being a Slayer it was like that."

"Hmm."

Buffy shivers and Spike reaches over to turn off the water. "Let's get you dried off."

Buffy lets him dry her off, which is so new and intimate it's more gratifying than mere sex. He acquits himself of this important task with great thoroughness, gently lifting up her breasts to dry every fold of her exquisite flesh, between her toes, behind her ears. Buffy giggles and leans against him. 

"Now I'll do you," she says when she's had enough of his patient fiddling. 

Her approach to drying off is much rougher and more direct than his. She leans into him to pass the towel behind his back and than starts shimmying the towel left and right, traveling from his arse to his neck. The only thing he has to do is lean into this miniature tornado and watch her jiggling breasts. Her whole body has softened and filled out with the thinnest most elegant little layer of extra flesh, not enough to propel her out of size zero, but sufficient to make her lose the gauntness of the last year in Sunnydale. She again looks like what she is, a young woman just blossoming into maturity, instead of a hardened tired warrior. Her lips are full again and smile often, her eyes sparkle up at him and he loves the wicked little tweak she gives his cock, who's an eager participant in these little games.

He fills his hands with her buttocks and marvels at their soft fullness. "Buffy, your arse is the most gorgeous thing on this earth. A bum like that would make the moon jealous."

"The moon?" she says with a worried look at her backside. "You think I'm fat?"

"Aw, Buffy, you know what I mean."

"Just kidding," she says.

She grips him strongly around the ribs and walks him backwards until they land on Angel's bed. She maneuvers herself on his lap and starts a serious kissing offensive. She must be joking. Not on Angel's bed, for God's sake.

"Buffy! Not here," he says, forcing away her hands from his dick. "This is Angel's bedroom. We can't do it here."

Buffy pouts at him. The lip. He has to be strong and not get that lip. 

"Besides, I don't want to. Want me some privacy and enough time, and not have half a dozen people wondering where we are, love."

Buffy sighs but snuggles against him. "You could call me sweetheart again, or Goldilocks, you know."

"I will," he promises. 

Who knew she remembered stuff like that? He's a little touched. A lot, actually. The enormity of him lying here with a willing, relaxed Buffy hits him again. She's his, for the first time she's really his girl. He falls silent, his hands immobilized on her warm silky thighs, suddenly flattened and awed by his being chosen. After six years of enmity and striving, hopeless love and unexpected sex, violence and insanity, she's his. He's hers. 

Even Buffy senses his sudden shift of mood and stops playing. "Hey, silent Spike," she says. "Whatever happened to talky Spike?"

"He got lost," Spike says, he doesn't know why. 

"Can I get him back?"

"I don't know, Buffy," Spike says, a little disturbed by this. "You wanted me to change, and I did. Might be some good bits got left by the wayside as well as bad bits...Dunno."

"It's okay," Buffy says hastily. "You're okay; you're the one I love. Whoever you are now. Whole package, warts and all."

"I have no warts," Spike says, feigning indignation. "Which you know, because I'm absolutely positive you checked out every inch of me at one time."

Buffy blushes at the memory. "I did. And I will again, soon," she promises. "But not now, I agree. It would be tacky to use poor Angel's room, when he can never...you know."

Spike considers telling her about the werewolf, but having a soul doesn't mean going that much against his own interests.

"Let's get dressed and go back to the others," Buffy says.

Buffy has borrowed some clothes from Willow, which pinch or flop in all the wrong places, but Spike has to get back into his torn and dirty ones. Buffy looks critically at his black T-shirt. "I liked the clothes you wore last year," she says. "Although the arms are a good thing."

All the compliments are making him nervous. It seems unnatural, somehow. He'll need some time to get used to the reality of Buffy.

Buffy hesitates as they are about to walk back into the living room. Spike puts his arm around her waist and pulls her hips against his. If she thinks he's gonna hang back humbly like he always did in Sunnydale, she's got a surprise coming. Buffy bites her lips and smiles at him shakily. 

"I get it now, Spike. It is scary," she says.

She draws closer to him and they enter the room together. Angel glowers at him, but as that's his default setting these days, Spike pays it no mind. The Scoobies react well, he thinks. Willow gives them a big smile and a wink, Xander a reserved nod, Andrew and Dawn a repeat of their hugging thing. 

"Two heroes, destined for each other," Andrew says with a catch in his voice. "Like Faramir and Éowyn."

"Actually," Dawn says, "there was A...aow?"

Andrew lifts one eyebrow like James Bond, and Dawn shuts up. Yeah, well, Spike's read the books, too.

"It's not kyrumption," Angel says, or something like that. 

What's he talking about?

Lorne nods and waves at them. "By spikenard and saffron, I could sing, just watching you two turtle doves coo and twitter. Congratulations, my sweets."

Spike sees Buffy look a bit askance at Lorne's green horned exuberance and parrot colored suit, and he bets she doesn't get his sense of humor either. There are some attempts by Lorne and Xander to revive the party, but everyone is starting to flag badly. Spike misses his other teammates, and he guesses so does Angel. 

The view from Angel's window really is gorgeous, much better than from his own rooftop. The sky is purpling and the first flash of orange light from the rising sun reflects on one of the mirrored-glass office buildings. Who'd have thought Spike the vampire would ever look upon a sunrise like that, huh? Or bring home the Slayer as his girlfriend? Not him, that's for sure. Nor the other people present, but they're taking it better than he could have expected. He's just lucky that the brash Kennedy and the old Watcher aren't present. Wouldn't have gone as easy on Buffy otherwise. They're still not out of the woods in that respect. Nothing's settled yet.

While he's been staring out of the window like the dreamer he is, people have begun breaking up the party. There's kissing and shaking hands and Buffy and the Scoobies are saying goodbye. Buffy comes up to him, and he doesn't know what he was expecting, but not her perfunctory kiss and pat on his butt. 

"See ya, honey!" she says sweetly.

And off she goes. The last second he could have called out a question passses and she's gone. He schools his face to indifference and nods to Angel and Lorne. 

"Time to hit the tunnels," he says. 

"Don't forget the meeting!" Angel calls out.

Spike has no clue what meeting gramps is talking about but he doesn't care. He needs all his wits to keep his face impassive until he's safely in the sewers. Once outside the Wolfram & Hart entrance he gets out a cigarette with shaking fingers and tries to light it. He wishes he still had his silver lighter, but it's the only thing that hasn't resurrected with him. He must have left it in the basement in Sunnydale that last morning. 

His hand shakes. Okay. Buffy's gone off with her friends and hardly bothered to say goodbye. That must mean she's counting on meeting him really soon, like today. This reasoning is impeccable, but the accompanying feelings are mostly quivering with apprehension. They're not sure at all. He beats them down ruthlessly and shuts the lid on them. He's Spike, Hero and Souled Vampire extraordinaire, and of course his newly found love is meeting him tonight. If she was going back to Cleveland she'd have made more of the goodbye, of course she would. They haven't even talked about the how or the where of their relationship and he realizes that even in his fantasies, he's never thought much beyond being acknowledged in the presence of her friends and waking up in her bed. There clearly is more to a relationship than that. Where to live? Together or apart? What about money? If these were the things Buffy was wigged about two years ago he may have to forgive her for that in retrospect. It's utterly frightening. 

He's not gonna live in Cleveland, he decides. That would mean being in the Slayer's entourage, obeying her orders. They'll work together side by side or not at all. He lights another cigarette and pushes off from the sewer wall he's been leaning against to get himself moving. Slowly he makes his way home. Every step brings him fresh obstacles. No wonder Buffy despaired of making him understand what kept her from loving him. There are so many things. 

Love is only a beginning, and as he walks, somberly chain smoking his way through his crumpled packet of fags, he gets a notion they might not make it past that. Christ.

When he gets home he hits his second wind. He throws away his ruined clothes and gets out fresh ones. Right, laundry. He'll have to be less haphazard about that. Better sheets. In fact, better apartment altogether. He can't let Buffy live without sunlight. That is, if she'll deign to come visit him once in a while. What's he been thinking? She can't live here. Dawn, Hellmouths, God knows what other obligations she has. He sits down again, head in hands. Too many obstacles.

From under the bed Spike pulls out a carton of stuff he got at a garage sale a couple of months ago, when he was feeling more hopeful. It's mostly books, with one treasure inside, which was the main reason he bought it: Omar Khayyam's Rubaiyat, a favorite of his for a hundred years. Thou, singing beside me in the wilderness. He puts the carton on the kitchen table and lies down on the bed with the musty age-softened book in his hands. It's a cheap edition, but he's never much cared about that. As long as the words are still readable, a book's condition has never mattered to him. 

He must have fallen asleep, because his internal clock is telling him the day has passed in an eye-blink and it's late afternoon already. One lonely ray of warm evening light shines through his one tiny window. Buffy's taking her time about coming, she couldn't have been saying goodbye to the Scoobies all day, could she? She's gone back to Cleveland. No, she wouldn't. 

He searches for his cell phone and finds it in his freezer. That is weird. He must have been drunk, and put his vodka in the bedside drawer. Buffy hasn't called. No, she doesn't even have the number, she couldn't call. Never mind, she's not coming and he's just gonna drink down his dinner and get over to the club like he always does, waiting for the night to fall and grow old enough to offer some challenge. He'll need to kill several big somethings tonight if Buffy's not coming.

 A girl could get paranoid, suspecting her sister and her best friends of delaying her on purpose, because there has never been a day as long as this one. Buffy gets the urgent shopping because there was this mall that had clothes that would never reach Cleveland, and also the lunch at the unique Californian Tex-Mex-Japanese place, but it all totals up and she's seldom felt as drained as when she waves the Wolfram & Hart jet off. And yet her heart's doing a mambo, or maybe a Viennese Waltz, or the Frug; whatever it is, her legs aren't anywhere near keeping up, and her thoughts, well, they are at a place that is at the same time definitely down to earth and high above the clouds. Above the ozone layer, baby.

Exotic dancing or not, she almost falls asleep in the cab driving her back to Spike's place. And then his door is once more locked and impenetrable. She's waited here before, and she stands patiently although there's a growing conviction in her heart that he isn't in there. It reminds her uncomfortably of the last time, only a few days ago, although so much has happened since that it seems longer. She did tell Spike she was just taking Dawn and the others to the airport, didn't she? She presses her cheek and the palms of her hands against the door but she feels nothing. Not that her compass has always been pointing reliably north lately, but she feels pretty sure that this time it is accurate.

Okay. She finds her bags are sitting obediently behind the dumpster; they must feel right at home there by now. She could just wait for the hardworking hero to return, except maybe he's not working but resting. Her feet take her unerringly to Bare Naked Ladies. The front of this establishment oozes red lighting and a heavy bass beat, and Joe the doorman gives her a friendly nod. Spike's neighbors are uncannily good at recognizing people they've only seen once, by night and upside down. 

"Hi," she says, a little hesitantly. 

Joe keeps smiling and considerately blows his smoke away from her face.

"I'm looking for Spike. I thought you might have seen him?"

Joe is a man of few words. He grins even wider without losing his hand-rolled cigarette and jerks his head in the direction of the club's interior.

"He's in there?" Buffy asks. "Can I go in?"

"Sure," Joe says and removes his bulk a few inches to the side, so that Buffy can just squeeze through if she doesn't mind a little contact with his big belly. 

Very pleasant. The things a girl has to do to get her man.

Once inside it's easy to spot Spike. He's one of only three customers, which doesn't surprise Buffy considering the general unattractiveness of the area and the club itself. On stage, two bored girls are flirting with a shiny pole and trying to make their fake breasts jiggle. Red and blue lights flicker uncertainly in an attempt to add mystery to the performance.

Spike is sitting at a table right in front of the stage, a whole row of glasses evidence of a lengthy stay. He's smoking pensively and staring into nothing. Or at the girls, Buffy can't tell. For a few seconds she debates getting onstage herself and shaking some booty but she decides not to, although it probably would get his attention. She settles for a lap dance. She sneaks up silently, circling behind Spike to approach him from the other side, covered by the sensual thrumming music the speakers produce.

"Hey, Buffy," Spike says without looking up. 

His voice isn't slurred, but then he always could carry his liquor. Clearly, it's pointless to try and sneak up on a predator. Buffy walks up to him as she planned, puts her hands on his shoulders and drops a kiss on his hair. He doesn't react, so she proceeds to clamber onto his lap. He looks up at last and the expression in his dark eyes goes straight to her gut, or a little above and to the left actually. 

"Hey," she says back and hugs him hard. 

She hides her face in his neck and plans on staying there for a long time. His hands come up and fold over her back. He's the perfect size for her, large enough to make her feel feminine and delicate, but not too big and hulking like some guys she won't name. At first he holds her loosely, noncommittally, but gradually his arms tighten round her and his lips seek out the soft place below her ear. Buffy relaxes in the safe yet exciting Spike scent of hot metal and gun powder, laced with tobacco and cheap Scotch. The best smell in the world.

"I hope you didn't have to wait too long. There was emergency shopping, and lunch, and delayed planes. I'm thinking the revenge of Harmony," she says.

Spike sighs deeply and draws back to look at her again. She smiles a careful little smile, not at all sure what's going down with him, and the tiny twitch of his lips she gets in return has more impact than the widest grin. Warmth spreads out from somewhere in the vicinity of her ribs and blossoms behind her eyes, loosening every facial muscle she has. She can't breathe, she brims over with the intensity of her joy but she feels unaccountably sad at the same time. Is this what it's like, when you smile at him, and he looks back, and you know you love him and he loves you? She doesn't know what to do with her hands, so she kneads his shoulders desperately. Breathing can't wait any longer and comes in short pants, and a quivering starts up in her thighs. 

"Buffy..." Spike says. 

They kiss and Buffy experiences serious tunnel vision. Her eyes try to close all the time, but she wants to look, she doesn't want to miss any one of his many expressions. She can just see one of his eyelids, oddly delicate and threaded with tiny blue veins, his long lashes trembling with her breaths. The curve of his nose blocks her view of the club and she traces the hollow beneath his cheekbone, up towards his ear and his hair, where the skin becomes fine and white instead of rough and male. He tastes like danger and home at the same time, a taste that needs exploring. The insides of his soft lips, the curved and full lips themselves, his tongue, his smooth hard teeth. 

Buffy breaks loose, gasping. She's forgotten to breathe because he doesn't need to. He used to start breathing because she did. 

She sits on his lap, her chest heaving, her pulse racing and her breasts and belly pressed up against his hard chest as close as they can get. Spike's thumbs find the sensitive spot below her hipbones unerringly and she twitches when his hands grip her there and around her hips. He shoves her into a better position for his hard-on and Buffy starts rocking on it, determined to make the most of every single moment.

A hand descends on her shoulder. "Spike, lad, why don't you take the lady somewhere else, eh? The other customers are complaining that they want what you're getting and the girls don't like it."

Spike rises up and sets her down on the floor. She wobbles a bit, but a steadying hand at her middle is already in place. He shrugs into his duster, throws some money onto the table and nods to the manager. "Sure, mate. Consider us gone."

One of the girls shoves her silicone chest in Buffy's face as they thread their way through the empty tables. "You treat him well, girl, you hear? Some bitch stepped on his heart real hard, and he deserves a break."

Buffy can only hope her blush isn't visible in the club's muted lighting and nods. "I'll take care of him," she promises earnestly. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Good luck, Spike!" the girl calls out after them.

Spike squeezes her hip and propels her further to the exit. As they stumble outside, too tightly entwined to notice the step, Joe catches hold of her elbow and shakes a meaty finger at her. "No funny business, girlie, or we'll know where to find you."

Spike's got some partisans lined up alright. He must be a regular here. 

"Lay off, Joe," Spike says. "We're good."

Whoa. Those are powerful words and Buffy floats to Spike's apartment, safely caught in his arms, holding on tight to his hip in case he suddenly disappears. 

The bright light that floods the apartment is harsh and unforgiving, highlighting the remaining souvenirs of fighting on Spike's face. Buffy doesn't know what she looks like right now. She hasn't seen a mirror since the airport toilets, but she doesn't care what the fluorescent glare reveals, nothing he hasn't seen before. She slides a tender finger over the green bruise ornamenting his left jaw and kisses the healing cut on his lip.

Spike is the one who's most affected by the change in surroundings. His hands dangle from his wrists like empty gloves and he's looking agonized and torn. Buffy flicks a look toward the narrow monkish bed. Not right now, she guesses. Talk first. She grabs one of his hands and tugs him to the kitchen table. There's a big carton of musty old books and other junk on it. She fingers a lopsided lamp, its tassels bleached and uneven. 

"Decorating?"

For some reason this snaps Spike out of his funk. "About time, innit?" he drawls. 

He switches on a few smaller lamps and turns off the overhead light. He's so the romantic. Then the sexy prowl returns as he advances on her. His hands have remembered how to function properly and Buffy gratefully allows herself to be drawn into his embrace. Spike has another goal than the kitchen chairs and drives her towards his saggy red couch.

He rucks up her skirt and rubs his jeaned erection against her bare hips. She gasps, in a much bigger hurry than she was a minute ago. He's so exactly right in the way he feels and smells and the small grunts he makes while urgently undressing her, trying to open her zipper and undoing her bra at the same time. Her breasts spring free of Willow's bra, and they're so sensitive, she can't help moaning loudly when his hands roughly brush one and tweak the other.

"Oh, God, love, you burn me with your skin...so hot...so smooth..."

"Spike..."

She fights the buttons of his jeans and finally wins. Spike utters a strangled yelp when something goes a little bit wrong when she yanks the pants down his legs, but he's a vampire and his big hard cock settles solidly in her hand, quivering against her belly and she can't wait another second, she wants him inside her. 

"Spike...now!"

Spike grunts a laugh. "You're like a queen, impatient woman that you are. Let me just get my jeans off, you know that makes it better if I can move my knees, don't you?"

"Yeah, yeah, hurry already."

Maybe it isn't such a good idea to try and get his t-shirt off at the same time he's taking off his pants. In the end Buffy's rewarded with the whole length of incredibly silky vampire skin, slightly cooler than hers, which always makes her feel powerful and hot and majorly sexy. He slides in as though he does this every day, and she remembers exactly what it used to feel like. It ought to feel completely different and better because she loves him, but it's mostly the same. Why can't her stupid body distinguish between her Spike and the one from the other dimension, souled and unsouled? His skin is best double cream in every incarnation, his eyes as blue with the right lighting, his voice the same cooling butterscotch chocolate. Their taste, their scent, identical. Inside this pretty velvety wrapping is someone different from all the other existing Spikes, and that man is the only one who deserves her love. 

She loves him. She will love him well. The thought makes her tremble inside and if she hadn't come right then just from loving him she might have had to stifle a sob, but the orgasm that crashes through merges all feelings into one big burst of rapture. All that exists is the slide and thrust of his hips against her pussy, angling her legs just so that he hits her good spot inside, while she clutches his back with her hands spread as wide as they can go, glorying in the feel of the muscles working beneath the smooth skin. He bends over her closely and licks her neck. She shivers straight through to her clit, so good, her man finally with her in the way he's meant to be.

Spike's eyes are narrowed by lust, staring intently into her own. Can the color blue burn, so hot it scorches you? Buffy thinks it can, like the sky over a desert, or the place where a flame is the hottest.

"This is much better when I can see you," Spike says.

The last remaining doubt slips from Buffy's shoulders and her ribs heave with a sharp intake of breath. 

They tear and worry at each other frantically. Buffy gasps and contracts until she can't keep her eyes on Spike's blissful face any longer. She clenches his biceps so hard she must be leaving bruises but she can't stop. His hoarse shout of release fades away and Buffy finds herself upside down on the couch, clothes still stubbornly adhering to her wrists, bra around her neck. Spike is sandwiched between her legs, half on the floor, his hair wildly spiraling away from his head. He sinks down on her with a groan and his muscles relax. This starts them sliding and Buffy gives him the last little push to land on the floor. She giggles and gets on her knees to look down on him. Spike stares back at her wordlessly, drinking her in and she feels suddenly shy.

"Did you maybe wanna, like, talk?" 

"I am talking to you, Buffy. My body speaks to you of love. Do you feel it?"

"I..." Buffy can't answer, her heart is too flooded with tears and gratitude and happiness. 

Spike's voice is cracking, so soft that she has to strain to hear it. "You don't have to say it, Buffy. Your body is telling me. You see? You're shaking all over, your heart's doing the pogo, there's salt in your eyes and your throat is thick with love. I know what you want to say. I believe you."

Buffy understands with perfect clarity why he didn't believe her in the Hellmouth. Her mouth was speaking, and with her head she meant what she was saying, but her heart was somewhere else, still fighting the übervamps. It wasn't the right moment. It's not surprising he kept believing she loved him way back when, because she sure as hell had no idea what to think or feel at that time.

Spike looks up at her, his eyes big and dark when the light of the sad lamp no longer illuminates them. Buffy bites her lip, rhythmically stroking his hair, trying to find words. She would like to tell him again she's sorry, take back everything she's said the past years, but she already knows this doesn't work. She needs to find that place of certainty and passion inside, because that's the place where she and Spike meet.

She grabs his wonderfully big hands and twines her little pointed fingers inside his. There's no bursting into flame, no sudden magical signs. It's just his hands against hers. She doesn't regret that, because they're past that, she thinks. They're free, no prophecies or sacred destinies to work around. She doesn't have to love him, they can simply choose each other. 

He smiles, and she's determined to remember every little crinkle in the corners of his eyes, and also that his scar is on the left and that his right eye has a brown spot in the blue. His one eyetooth is a little bit crooked and it's more perfect than the smoothest Hollywood smile. 

There's a sadness, a resignation in him that makes her frantic. She wants him to be as happy as she is right now. They're not gonna end, she doesn't want them to end, ever. He slips his hand out of hers and smoothes a spot between her eyebrows. 

"Don't worry so much, Buffy. Relax. This is now. This is the first time we're really together. Let's just lay back and enjoy it, " Spike says. "Shall I tell you what I love about you? Yes, exactly, the way you held your breath just now when I kissed your nipple, and I adore your bellybutton, and the way your belly slopes down to your pussy like this, and the way you're so responsive that you're just about quivering right now, every hair on your body is standing up and waving at me..."

Buffy wants to reciprocate but his tongue makes her feel as weak and floppy as a jellyfish and she just sinks back into the pillows and lets him lick her into oblivion. Her thighs shake and she clamps them around his head to have more contact with his body. He understands and shifts around so she can feel his full length against her. She angles her head backwards and licks his cock, draws the foreskin away so the glistening purple head is visible. She tastes the salty velvet of the skin.  Delicious as it is, this is not intimate enough. Spike may be able to read her every thought through the quivering of her muscles or the beating of her heart, but she needs to see his face to feel the connection.

"Spike, get inside me? I wanna see your face."

His tender half-smile when he looks down at her is too much and she quells the urge to scream and drum her heels in ecstasy because she's a grown woman. She doesn't want to start crying again either, and the sheer amount of emotion she feels is just scary. Who knew feelings could be so big, could make you feel like they're sitting on your ribcage and crushing the breath out of you?

"Not going anywhere, sweetheart. Just hold on tight and I'll give you a ride," Spike says with a curl of his lip and he's so perceptive, he just knew she needed this to lighten the weight of all that love.

She can talk again. "I love you," she whispers shyly, and it's still new enough to make her blush from top to toe. Look at that, even her nipples are blushing, and Spike bends over to give them an appreciative kiss. 

"Ready?" he asks.

"Ready," she says and gives him a wiggle.

His first thrust is slower than she'd like and she lifts her hips to give it extra impact. Their gazes tangle and there's the good kind of tension again. It's like sparring, like a race, only now it's about who can make the other come first instead of landing the first blow. Her body knows how to do this without self consciousness and she tenses and prepares for the counter attack. Her feet scrabble to get some traction and they're off again, dancing their dance.

Later, they settle against a chimney stack up on his roof, where there is plenty of space to sit and look up at the foggy sky, their only company ancient rusted television antennas and, surprisingly, a fishing rod. Buffy sits on Spike's lap and leans her head against his shoulder, dreamily content, while his fingers roam idly over her breasts and belly.

"So – all the things you said to me the other morning – you're not thinking that anymore?" she says.

"I still feel the same way, Buffy. That hasn't changed. It's just that I can't not take a chance on us and go for it."

Her brand spanking new certainty that all was right vanishes in a puff.

"Oh," she says in a tiny strangled voice. "What does that mean?" 

"That I'm not so sure we're gonna make it. You know, sunset, riding off into. But I'd still rather have the pain than be all safe and free and alone, see?"

Buffy swallows hard. She can do this. What does she know, anyway? She's never had what you might call a successful relationship. But, pain? She's guaranteed to bring pain? Not what a girl likes to hear, but she doesn't want to be all-about-me Buffy anymore. She can be mature and wise, too.

"I'm good with that, Spike," she says. "We'll just give it a shot. Picket fence and fat grandchildren can go to hell. We'll just be that weird, incredibly handsome couple who get to see the world and have fun adventures in the dark."

His smile is a little wider already. "Take it a day at a time? Warts and all?"

"Shut up about warts alreadt, Spike, you're wigging me out." 

She slaps him playfully and then takes a sharp breath, not sure how he's gonna react to even a light slap. Better get used to thinking first; there's so much history. Spike grins and twists her nipple hard. Buffy sighs in relief. Not everything that went down between them two years ago was bad, but it's hard to distinguish what was and what wasn't.

She turns onto her back and snuggles against him. "This is nice, you know, looking up at the sky like this. I could get used to it."

Spike gathers her closer. "Next time you visit, I'll have some furniture up here. Plants, even."

"Visit?" Buffy says, with a repeat of the sinking feeling. "I was thinking of living here."

"What?" 

Now Spike looks really surprised. "But – Dawn. Your friends..."

"We couldn't have done this in Sunnydale, but things do change, you know. Dawn is graduating next month. She's going to college in the fall, and taking summer school in England. The others don't need me. I'm a free woman, Spike. I can live wherever I want."

She's stunned him; she can see that, made him silent. She's gonna try so hard to also make him happy.

"Do you want me to live here? Or should I get my own place?"

"God, Buffy, I never thought – of course you can live here." He looks around in despair. "It's a terrible place. You can't...I should make a garden for you here. You could potter about in the daytime and stuff."

"Spike? Sweet thought, but when have you ever seen me potter about in a garden? Put me in a mall and I'll lead you to Target in a second, but tracking and killing a weed? Just not me," she says, trying to make him laugh.

"Right." He pulls her up roughly and kisses her hard. "I was sure you were gonna stay in Cleveland, guard your Hellmouth, and I didn't plan on joining you there. But if you're coming here..." he doesn't finish the sentence but hides his face in her neck.

Buffy tangles her fingers in the soft curls at the nape of his neck. "I can slay anywhere. Maybe do some demon hunting for bounty, you know?"

"It thought you were dying to be normal girl. What changed?"

"Come on, Spike. I suck at normal things, like work or college. I've never even dated a normal boy more than once. I mean, what was I thinking? Slaying is the only skill I have, and now I don't have to, I'm beginning to enjoy it."

Off his disbelieving look, "I know, fighting the First, or Glory have never been fun. Or coming back from the dead. But staking vampires, or killing demons? I just love the hunt, and the fighting, and the awesome sex after. I was just finding that out when all the bad stuff happened and hit me dead on. Mom dying, Glory, me dying. You know that, you were there." 

He murmurs something against her neck.

"What?"

"How long can you stay?" he repeats.

Buffy ticks the dates off on her finger. "Couple of days; I have to be back on Sunday. Then Dawn goes to England at the end of May. So, not long until I come back here. And maybe you can come up to Cleveland sometimes?"

Spike stretches luxuriously. "I could. Take the jet again." 

Buffy follows the stretching with her eyes and can't keep her hands from wandering after. The skin of his arms is softer and whiter on the inside, and the line of his outstretched arms and body make a perfect triangle from his hands to his waist.

"You know, if I could, I would say something about male beauty right now. Sculptures and stuff."

If vampires could purr, Spike would, Buffy's sure. He stretches even harder, tilting his body over to be in easier reach for her and she slides admiring fingers over his hipbone and buttocks. He sighs deeply and slides his hand on her neck, under her hair. He's still a neck kind of man.

The Los Angeles night sounds make a romantic background to their lazy stroking and slow talking. Cicadas, car horns blaring, gun shots, snatches of rap music. Buses rumble by like thunder, elephants trumpet.

"Spike? Are there wild elephants in LA?"

"You never know in this town. Could be they're filming Hannibal's attack on Rome?"

"Hannibal attacking Rome? Ew. But why the elephants? To carry Starling?"

Spike kisses her through his smile, which is much more interesting than Julianne Moore or Jodie Foster. He stops too soon and pricks up his ears.

"Elephant, eh? I think we're not hearing trumpets or buses. That's a unicorn. Let's go get it, love."

Buffy zips up hastily and helps Spike tuck himself away and do up his buttons.

"Aren't unicorns rare?" 

"Very rare."

Buffy snuggles up to him while they lean over the parapet and watch the purple monster trudge up and down the alley, occasionally raising its ugly horned muzzle and bellowing sadly at the moon. It's a disconsolate sound and Buffy shivers, glad to lean her head against Spike's solid shoulder.

"It's a girl," Spike says, and he sounds regretful.

"No need to be sexist," Buffy says. "We could still kill her."

"She's probably searching for her mate."

"Did we kill its mate? Oh, Spike, that is so sad! I feel awful. And now it's doomed to wander the earth, forever searching for its lost soulmate? Shouldn't we kill it to put it out of its misery?"

"Nah," Spike says. "Who knows, the unicorn guy might come alive again, or she could find another nice boy unicorn."

They leave the demon to its mourning and jump hand in hand to the roof on the other side, in search of something really evil to kill.

THE END

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