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

Chapter 4: Honky Tonk

She wasn’t as good at map-reading as she thought.

After what had actually been a promising start to their road trip---hell, Spike had made it out of Sunnydale with all his appendages still attached; that most definitely qualified as a promising start---Buffy had been rudely awakened from her slumber by the slamming of the brakes, a series of British epithets only half of which she recognized, and a flurry of feathers flying into the windshield.

She had shrieked in surprise, covering her head as if whatever it was, was going to come crashing through the glass, and then peeked through her fingers as Spike twisted the wheel to the side and killed the engine.  “What happened?” she’d said as he jumped from the car.

He’d ignored her, but his curses had gotten worse, punctuated with a few vicious kicks at his tires as he ranted along the roadside.  Once she’d realized she wasn’t in danger of being inundated with feathers, Buffy had hopped from the car herself, to stand and gaze in the waning hours before dawn at the mess that was now perched atop the DeSoto.

“What is it?” she’d said with a grimace.

“A wild fuckin’ turkey,” Spike had snarled, grabbing the animal by the legs that had managed to lodge themselves in his grille and ripping it from the hood.  His strength tore one of the bird’s limbs from its socket as he yanked, sending a spurt of still-warm blood through the air to soak into the vampire’s jeans.  “Bloody hell!” he growled, and furiously tossed the turkey into the brush, only to look back and see the series of scratches across the metal that had been left in its wake.  As his face screwed up in dismay, Spike leaned forward to inspect the damage on his car, all the while muttering under his breath and shaking his head.

Buffy couldn’t get her eyes off the dead bird.  “That’s a turkey?” she’d said.  “It’s huge.  Not to mention, one of the ugliest things I’ve ever seen for a dead creature.”  She couldn’t help the smile she flashed to the blond.  “It even makes you look good, Spike.”

The look he’d shot her had been venomous, his eyes glinting in gold.  “Get back in the car,” he’d ordered, stomping around to the driver’s side.

“I don’t know what you’re so worked up about.  It’s not like it even put a dent in it.  Just a few little chicken scratches.  Except, I guess in this case, they would be more like turkey scratches.”

“Do you have any idea how much it costs to paint this thing?  Found that out last time I hit that damn Sunnydale sign.  That’s not happening again, I can tell you that.  Not with the prices Marco charges for touch-ups.” 

Buffy’d rolled her eyes as she’d slid back onto the leather.  “You’re such a guy sometimes, Spike.  It’s just a car.  It’s not even a cute car.  It’s an old, black, tin can with a motor.  And I still think it smells.”  Her smile returned, this time accompanied by a giggle.  “Of course, now it smells like wild turkey.”

The interior had been silent for a long moment as his fingers gnarled around the steering wheel.  As the muscles in his jaw flexed, he stared at the road ahead, his head tilting once to the side to audibly crack the joint in his neck, and when he spoke again, Spike’s voice was eerily calm.  “Wouldn’t be making with the funnies too loudly there, Slayer,” he said, his now steady hand descending to turn the key in the ignition.  “For someone who smells like she just took a bath in a vat of flophouse sweat, you’re not really in any position to be makin’ judgment calls on body odor, now are you?”

Her jaw had literally dropped.  So, she’d sweated a little.  It was summer, and hot as hell, and…and…She couldn’t even finish the mute argument as her cheeks flamed in embarrassment and she scrunched herself down in the seat, trying to put as much distance between her and Spike as was physically possible in the car.  I even took a shower, she’d thought angrily.  And it’s his stupid fault he doesn’t have air conditioning.  And I don’t smell.  And why do I care if he thinks I do?  Stupid vampire…

Things had pretty much gone downhill from there.

Daylight had made Spike even more cranky, arguing with her at every junction about stopping, demanding that now she was awake he be allowed to listen to his music to help pass the time.  That soft humming that had lulled her into a sense of complacency during the night was replaced by boisterous bellowing, a string of punk songs streaming from the speakers in neverending succession, until Buffy’s head was splitting from the noise of it all.  He’s not even trying to stay in tune, she’d mentally whined more than once, and tried to drown it all out by burying herself in the atlas.

Navigating was hard when all the windows were blacked out except for the tiny sliver directly in front of Spike so that he could see where he was going.  It was possible to make out the signs that zoomed past them, but only if Buffy squinted and peered through the paint, and more than once, she’d had to tell Spike to stop and turn around because she’d missed one.  But when she saw the sign for the Indian reservation and then looked down at the map in front of her, the Slayer’s heart sank.

“Pull over,” she instructed.

“Don’t tell me you missed another soddin’ sign,” Spike grumbled as he edged his way onto the shoulder, lowering the volume on the radio as he did so.

For a minute, she didn’t say anything, just stared at the tiny map in front of her, one finger on the colored patch that was the reservation and another tracing the thin line of the route Spike had told her to stick to.  Though the gap between them wasn’t that much on paper, a sinking feeling in her heart told her that that inch was just about enough to officially push the chipped vamp over the edge.

“We need to go back,” she said quietly, closing the map and folding her hands in her lap.  Calm.  I’ll just stay calm.  Pretend nothing major is wrong.  He doesn’t need to know how badly I’ve messed this up.  I’m so sorry, Willow.  We’ll get there.  Eventually.

“Don’t see what your bleedin’ fascination is with all these signs anyway,” he groused.  “We haven’t needed a single one you’ve made us go back and appreciate.  I’m sure this one’s no different.”  He dropped the car back into drive.  “It’ll be just dandy all on its lonesome back there---.”

Buffy’s hand shot out and grabbed the wheel, preventing Spike from turning back into the road.  “I don’t need the sign,” she admitted.  There was going to be no easy way out of this, after all.  Better to just take the pill and swallow it down.  “I know what it said.  It’s just for an Indian reservation.”

Spike frowned.  “Reservation?  You sure?  I don’t remember there bein’ a reservation on this stretch…”  Slow understanding crept across his face, a steely glint shining in the blue depths of his eyes.  “You better not be tellin’ me we’re lost, Slayer.”

“No, we’re not lost.  I know exactly where we are.”  She tried offering a bright smile in the light of his displeasure.  “I guess we shouldn’t have taken that left turn at Albuquerque.”

“Left at…?  That’s bloody north, you stupid bint!  If you’ve landed us in Butte after all---.”

“That was a joke, Spike.  Bugs Bunny?  Always getting lost?”  She waited for some sign of recognition, but getting none, sighed heavily and leaned back in her seat.  “We’ve just…gotten off the path by a few…hundred miles.  Northeast, by the looks of it.  It’s no big.  We’ll just turn around and---.”

“Sod that.”

The tires squealed as Spike spun the car around in a clean jerk, throwing Buffy against her door as he headed back in the direction from which they came.  Rubbing irritably at the bump on her head from hitting her window, she glared at the vampire and his stern visage.  “Don’t you even want to know how to get back to the main road?” she demanded, fighting back the urge to take the atlas and beat him over his gelled head with it.  Ha.  And he thought Angel wore too much hair gel.

“Don’t need it just yet, Slayer.  That’s not where we’re headin’.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Passed a motel and bar not too far back.  You and me are taking a little break from our rescue road trip here.”  He smirked as his sapphire gaze raked over her.  “Think we’ll both be glad you can spend a bit under a shower.  I know it’ll certainly clear the air a bit for me.”  He sniffed pointedly.

Buffy’s temper flared.  “We had a deal!  No long breaks, remember?”

“Sorry ‘bout that---well, actually, I’m not---but deal got tossed as soon as you decided to play at Lewis and Clark.”

She didn’t know who she was madder at---Spike, for being such an ass about their current situation, or herself, for getting them into it in the first place.  It’s not like I did it on purpose, she thought grumpily.  A mistake is a mistake.  I would never do anything deliberately that would put Willow or anyone at risk.  And now it looked like they were going to lose more time because of her poor map-reading skills.

Yet…a small part of her she didn’t want to acknowledge was actually glad Spike was forcing this.  A shower sounded exquisite at the moment, and though she hardly thought she smelled as bad as he was suggesting, the chance to cleanse her skin from the sweat that alternately appeared from the sweltering heat only to dissipate under the blowing air from her small fan---the one Spike bought you, the little voice in the back of her head reminded her---seemed like an opportunity not to be missed.

“Maybe they’ll have a fax,” she said quietly.  “We still haven’t found one so that we can send Giles that picture of Freddie’s mark.”  It was as close to acquiescence as he was going to get from her, but they both knew that the winner of this particular battle was most definitely Spike.

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

This is for Willow, this is for Willow, she intoned silently, her eyes closed as she inhaled deeply.  Her nerves were scattershot, running like scared mice from what she was about to do, and the nagging voice of her father kept resounding in her head.  Nice girls don’t do things like that, it was saying.  Or aren’t you a nice girl, Tara?  You’ll end up in jail, or worse, dead.  And for what?  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

Not nothing, she decided, and pushed the thoughts away, her hand wrapping tightly around the doorknob as her lids fluttered open.  Willow is not nothing. 

Mr. Giles was expecting her to come by his apartment to help him in researching why someone, especially an out-of-town someone, would want the red-haired witch, but Tara had taken a small detour on the way there.  At the moment, she was standing at the back entrance to the Bronze, summoning the magic she would need to open the locked door to the stage area, praying that it really was as deserted as it looked.  If someone had been around, she might have asked about the singer to see if anyone could offer any information they didn’t already have.  But no one was.  So, she was resorting to breaking and entering in hopes of finding some remnant the singer might have left behind that would give them a clue as to why she’d lied.

The words tumbled from her mouth, and she felt the resistance within the cold steel melt away, allowing it to turn easily within her grasp.  Inside her chest, her heart was pounding, desperate to escape, and the fear that she was going to get caught almost stopped her from following through on actually pulling the door open.  What are you going to find in there anyway? her anxiety worried at her.  Just let it go, you don’t want to do this. 

Except the image of Willow disappearing with Freddie through the throng of the Bronze’s Saturday night crowd refused to be ignored, and with an unsteady yank, Tara pulled the door open.

The blast of air from the air conditioning took her breath away, expelling it from her lungs with a scalpel-like precision as she slipped inside the inky darkness.  It’s not wrong, she rationalized as she felt her way down the hall.  I’m just going to look around a bit.  I’m not going to steal anything.  I just want to see what kind of aura Stella left behind.

Thankfully, the dressing room door wasn’t locked, and Tara eased her way inside, waiting until it was closed behind her before turning on the overhead light.  The scent was the first thing she noticed, an earthy musk she hadn’t perceived the previous night but which undoubtedly had belonged to the singer.  Inhaling deeply, the witch’s eyes fluttered shut as she concentrated, stretching out her neophyte senses to try and decipher the enigma of Stella.  Come out, come out, wherever you are, she chanted.  I know you’re here.  Everybody’s got a secret and something tells me yours is a whopper.

It was faint at first, a mere whisper across her tongue, but as she focused, it grew stronger, like a small light at the end of a very long tunnel nearing as she approached.

Power.  Similar to Willow’s, but…not.  Not as strong.  Shaded in that same musk that clung to Stella like a second skin.  And it tasted like blood.

Tara’s lids whipped open, the pulse that had finally started to quiet returning to a triumphant staccato.  It wasn’t what she was expecting to find, not in the slightest, and just the memory of the coppery fire coursing down her throat was enough to drive her stumbling back against the door, to send her shaking hand fumbling for the knob.  Out, out, gotta get out.

And her feet couldn’t move fast enough, flying her down the corridor toward the exit, her skirt tangling around her legs in a vicious frenzy, almost tripping her just as she reached the door.  Why don’t I wear pants more often? she thought crazily as she fell outside, the afternoon sunshine slamming into her body as her temperature jumped back up another thirty degrees, the sweat leaping to the surface of her skin.  Must remember for future Scooby adventures.  Skirts only work if you’re named Daphne or Velma.  Or Buffy.  She could do anything; it didn’t make a difference what she was wearing.

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

She was naked on the other side of that damn door and the thought of all that Slayer skin, glistening under the water, tawny muscles stretching as she lifted her arms above her head to rinse her hair, had given Spike an erection that made sleeping impossible.

He’d been lying when he’d made the comment about her scent, but the heat of the moment had made him lash out at the nearest available target, focusing his venom on her vanity, knowing that it would send her scurrying to her defenses more effectively than if he’d taken a swing at her.  He wasn’t exactly proud of himself for it.  He’d even debated for a moment about apologizing.  The night had gone so well, the gentle rapport they’d established prior to her falling asleep a cleansing balm to the aggravation that normally wedged between them, only to have everything go sour as soon as that stupid bird had wandered out into the road.

Silently, Spike banged his head against the pillow.  He hadn’t been paying enough attention to his driving.  Every breath, every second, had been consumed by Buffy…the musky scent of her skin, combining and cooling with the desert air that permeated the car…the sound of her remembered giggles as those sniglets she kept sharing got sillier and sillier…the one time she’d casually brushed against his hand as they’d both reached for their drinks at the same time…

Outside of that spell Red had done the previous fall, Spike had never seen the Slayer so at ease with herself, or for that matter, so at ease with him.  She seemed relaxed.  Free.  Even with the burden of looking for the witch bearing down on her shoulders, she’d managed to forget for just a little while and just…be.  And it had happened around him.  When was the last time that had happened?  Had it ever?  In the absence of magic, he meant.  Doubtful.  Even memories of seeing her with Finn hadn’t colored her so carefree.  There had always been that band of restraint, like she was holding something back, fearful of something inside being unleashed.  Soldier Boy had probably eventually picked up on that and that’s what had prompted his leaving.  Spike may not have liked the pillock much, but that didn’t mean he thought he completely lacked a brain.  After all, he’d done something right to get Buffy into his bed in the first place.

Seeing that side of Buffy now, though, was doing the last thing inside him Spike had ever expected.  More than anything, it created in him the urge to sustain that momentum, to keep her smiling at whatever cost.  And he wanted to be the reason behind it.

Spike sighed.  What was the point of being the Big Bad if you fell like a feather every time a pretty girl walked into your world?  Well, it was hardly every time, and this most definitely not just any pretty girl.  And it was so much more than that.  All these thoughts about Buffy, tangling with images of heat, and desire, and if he didn’t know better, tenderness.  She was the enemy.  Someone for him to destroy.  The someone for him to destroy.  He’d already killed two of her kind; what made her so bloody different?

They may have been Slayers, but they weren’t Buffy.  Luminescent.  Infuriating.  Intoxicating.  Fuck.

I should go tell her I didn’t mean it, Spike thought, as he sat up on the motel bed.  True to his word, he’d headed straight for the motel, pulling up and making Buffy go in and register them since the sun was blazing overhead.  She’d done so, but then had deserted him to find the room himself while she negotiated with the pimply clerk about using their fax machine.  When she’d returned from the main office, Spike had feigned sleep, listening as she rummaged through her bag, extracting the toiletries she would need for a shower.  A whiff of her shampoo, almost hidden by the musk of her body, had been all that was necessary to remind him of his weakness when it came to her, and he’d remained there in torment, waiting for her to disappear into the bathroom, almost hoping that she wouldn’t, that she would want to talk, or better, that she would want to do more than talk.

I’m tellin’ her, he decided, and leapt from the bed, crossing to the closed door of the bathroom in three long strides.  Not goin’ to come out of this looking like a prat.  Don’t want her believing that that’s what I really think of her.

His hand had already curled around the knob before he hesitated, staring at the marred cream of the cheap plaster wall as a faint melody filtered through the hollow music of the shower.  The smile to his lips came unprompted, staying him from entering, binding his path so that he could listen to the sounds of Slayer singing drifting to his ears.  Singing was a good sign, right?  Good mood and all.  He sang in the shower when he was feeling particularly jovial.  Maybe she wasn’t pissed anymore.  Maybe the events of the morning were already forgotten.  Forgiven, even.  Well, maybe not forgiven.  That might be askin’ a bit much from her.  Baby steps and all. After all, this was Buffy.  The bint who never forgave a vamp for anything.  Unless his name was Angel, of course.

The water stopped then, and Spike realized with a start that she was done with her shower, pulling back and stepping away from the door as the image of her lithe body being toweled dry flashed before him.  Couldn’t just walk in now to apologize, he thought.  She might have a few choice punches to throw if he tried to sneak a peek at the Slayer’s goods.  For that matter, hovering around outside the door probably isn’t going to look good either, he decided, and dashed back to the bed, just barely getting himself stretched out on it when the door opened, a flume of steam wafting into the cooler air of the main room.

When she saw that he was awake, Buffy froze, her hand stilled on the edge of the white towel she’d just finished wrapping around her torso.  Crisp lines of water dripped from her throat, arcing as it reached the uppermost curve of her breast, only to seep into the terry bound around her flesh.  “You’re awake,” she said unnecessarily, and carefully set her toiletries by the sink.  “That wasn’t much of a nap.”

“Got stuff on my mind,” Spike replied, his tone just as cautious as hers.  As he watched, she turned her back on him to gaze at her reflection in the large mirror, reaching for her comb with a steady hand.  “You feeling better?”

“Showers are definitely my friend,” she said.  For once, she was glad that vampires didn’t cast reflections, that she could comb her hair without having to see his face.  Her guilt at getting them lost had risen to astronomical proportions and she’d spent most of her shower debating whether she should tell him she was sorry for screwing up.  He was only doing this in the first place because she’d threatened him; in light of everything, he’d been a pretty good sport about the whole fiasco up to the wild turkey incident. 

“Look,” she started.

“Slayer,” Spike said at the same time.

They both stopped, Buffy blushing while the vampire ducked his head in embarrassment.  “You first,” he offered with a casual wave of his hand.

The faintest of tremors settled in the Slayer’s stomach as she fought for casual, desperate to sound like the fact that she knew he was watching her, could feel his eyes boring into her back, wasn’t affecting her in the slightest.  Somehow, she had a feeling that whatever kind of apology came out of her mouth was only going to be met with his usual derision, and the flood of dismay that spread through her veins burned her in surprise.  What did she care what he thought?  Except…she did.  He’d been trying, and she’d been a bitch, and now was the time for her to just swallow her pride and take being treated like one like a big girl.

“I never told you thank you for the fan,” she said, averting her eyes from the mirror so that he couldn’t see them, concentrating instead on putting her things back into her toiletries bag.  “So…thank you.  It was…nice.”

It wasn’t what he was expecting.  The only other thing that might’ve surprised Spike more at the moment was if she had come out and apologized for being such a pain earlier, or taken full responsibility for them being in their current situation.  Still, gratitude was not part of the Slayer repertoire, at least not gratitude to him for anything.  They had a cash and carry relationship.  Or, they had prior to this little jaunt. 

The hope that that was a death knell he was hearing for their previous status softened his gaze, tilting his head as he surveyed her measured nonchalance.  Take it easy, he reminded himself.  Don’t be saying anything to bugger this little truce up.  “Least I could do, considering I don’t have to be the one to worry about overheating,” Spike said.  He paused.  It wasn’t enough.  He had to tell her, had to let her know that the words had meant nothing to him, that nothing could’ve been farther from the truth.

“Which wasn’t a problem, by the way,” he added.  “It was just me…spouting off.  I shouldn’t have…I didn’t…”  A frustrated hand ran through his hair, pulling at the curls that had loosened as he’d tried to rest.  Why was this so hard?  “I don’t think it’s possible for you to ever look or smell bad, Slayer.  Would go against the order of the universe or something if that happened.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, his words sucking it out of her as her head jerked up, those clear, hazel eyes widening as they searched fruitlessly the reflection of the bed before turning to look at the vampire the mirror refused to divulge.  That was a compliment…coming from Spike?  He didn’t do that sort of thing; in fact, his voice was usually the loudest in bursting any bubble she might have about herself. Yet there he sat, eyes fixed on her face in a curious contemplation, and all of a sudden, her body didn’t seem to be her own.

Under her skin, Buffy felt a flutter electrifying her nerves as flashes from her shower overwhelmed her inner eye.  It didn’t make sense, this reaction to something she’d only fantasized about---and she had to be honest with herself on this at least; ever since that stupid spell of Willow’s, there had been more than one fantasy or dream about the chipped vamp plaguing her consciousness---nor did this urge to peel the towel away from her body to see how he would react.  Stop it, she scolded herself.  Vampire, slayer.  That’s your relationship.  Working only.  Absolutely nothing else.

And you better say something soon because he’s starting to make that little frowning face he does when he doesn’t get what’s going on.  And how is it you’re now categorizing the different faces he makes?

“I need to get dressed,” Buffy mumbled, crossing the room to the bag she’d slung over the chair, grabbing a clean pair of shorts and shirt from its interior as she deliberately kept herself from looking at him.

The mood was shattered, the tension that had been stretching between the two blonds released to jangle achingly back into each of their bodies, and Spike slumped against the headboard.  “Right,” he said.  “Because you’re…not.”  Shit, that sounded stupid even to him and he rolled his eyes, grateful that she had her back to him and couldn’t see what an absolute git he was being.

She stole a glance to the vampire on the bed.  “Aren’t you going to change?” she asked.  “You’ve still got dried turkey blood all over your jeans.”

He shrugged.  “’S’not so bad,” he said, his fingers straying to the stains on the denim, picking at the drying flakes so that they crumbled to the blanket.

“Ewww, you’re going to have to sleep on that, you know.”

“I think my sleep’s just about done for the day.  I was goin’ to suggest we pack it up and hit the road again.”  He grinned.  “We’ve got us a witch to catch.”

For a long moment, she stood and stared at him, her clothes forgotten in her hands.  He was burying the hatchet, and she didn’t know why, could only see a return of the man who’d shared the first half of the night with her.  Buffy’s breath caught as her head danced around the description she’d just afforded Spike.  Not a man, she hastily reminded herself.  Demon.  Vampire.  Not a man.  Spike.  But still…not quite Spike, or at the very least, not quite the Spike she thought she knew.

“Do you think that bar serves food?” she asked, finally finding her voice again.

Spike frowned.  “I hadn’t really thought about it, but I s’pose they do.  Most places like that do some sort of what they consider edibles.”  His head tilted in confusion.  “Why’re you askin’?”

“I thought…it’s just, my stomach’s starting to do its best thunder impersonation here and I thought we could get a real meal before we get back on the road.  Not that the potato chips and Kit Kats you bought last night aren’t good, but---.”

“Think they’d have buffalo wings?”

She almost laughed out loud at the hopeful look on his face.  “Only one way for us to find out,” Buffy replied.

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

After stepping in from the brilliant desert sunshine, Buffy had to blink more than once to let her eyes adjust to the dark interior of the bar, waiting just inside the door as Spike came rushing in behind her, his smoking duster thrown over his hunched shoulders to shield him from the deadly rays outside.  Once her vision was adjusted, however, she realized that she distinctly felt like she’d walked in on something straight out of the movies.

Everything about the place was immaculate, from the polished wooden floor, to the heavy tables scattered throughout the room, to the long mirror behind the bar itself.  A variety of road signs were bolted to the dark walls, with framed photographs interspersed throughout, inviting patrons to step forward and see just who had left their John Hancock for the world to witness.  From the jukebox in the corner, the voice of a country singer pining after a first love who had cheated on him filled the smoke-filled space, while the smell of hamburgers hung heavily in the air. 

Buffy’s stomach rumbled at the aroma, and next to her, Spike laughed.  “Guess that answers your question about the grub,” he said, hooking his thumb through a belt loop as he scanned the various occupants of the room.  He had taken the time to change his jeans, but though he was wearing denim and boots like most of the other patrons, it was there that the similarity ended, his attitude and bleached hair setting him even more apart than when he was in Sunnydale.  This was going to be interesting.

“Have to admit to feeling a bit peckish myself, now that we’re here,” Spike went on, nodding toward a table near the pool table in the back.  “Go park yourself while I place us an order.”

She frowned.  “I can order for myself,” she complained.  “And bossing me around?  Not the best way to keep me in a good mood.”

A raised eyebrow accompanied his pointed scan of her form.  “About the ordering, Slayer.  You’re in a bar, in the middle of nowhere, and you’re not legal.  They may balk at serving you even if all you’re after is food.”  His blue eyes gleamed.  “And as for the bossing…”  He glanced around at the grizzled faces staring at them over their beer mugs, the looks on the all male countenances a jumble of distrust, suspicion, and outright leering at the young woman, and leaned in toward her, dropping his mouth so that it hovered just over her ear.  “I’m goin’ to wager these blokes are a tad low on the evolutionary scale, pet, so unless you want it to look like a tender little thing such as yourself is footloose and fancy-free to enjoy their sort of attentions, I suggest we play this my way.  Understand?”

Her mouth was open to argue with him, ready to tell him just where he could shove his own Neanderthal thinking, when she caught the gaze of a tall young man draped over a chair nearby.  He was grinning, calloused fingers playing with the longneck bottle of beer in front of him, and as she watched, made an elaborate show of licking his lips, exposing the gap where two of his front teeth should’ve been.  Without thinking, Buffy slid her arm through Spike’s, pressing herself into his side in a desperate attempt to make it look like she was already with someone, and almost sighed in relief when her would-be admirer scowled at the rebuff.

“But you never get what I want,” she said in a voice that was just a little too loud, affecting what she hoped was a look of pouty dismay as she addressed the vamp.

His head cocked at her game, a twinkle lighting in the blue depths.  Oh yeah, he thought.  This most definitely just got very interesting.

“Fine,” he said in pretended exasperation, and grasped her hand, pulling her up to the bar.  He gestured with his head to the elderly man waiting behind the counter.  “Tell the nice man what you want then, luv, since you seem to think I’ll bugger it up.”

Buffy flashed the bartender her brightest smile.  “Could I have a hamburger please?” she said sweetly, almost cringing from the falseness in her voice.  “And a diet coke?”

“Make that two, only I want mine still bleedin’,” Spike added.  All of a sudden, he was behind her, arms on either side of her body as his hands propped himself up against the bar, his body pressing lightly into her back as his mouth dipped to her ear.  “See, you’ve gotta trust me more, pet.  That was exactly what I would’ve ordered for you.”  His chuckle was low, and an icy shiver ran down Buffy’s spine as she felt him turn his head to look back at the bartender, his cheek just barely gracing hers.  “You’d think she’d have sussed it out by now that I know what it takes to make her happy,” he tossed off to the other man, and threw in a, “Bloody women,” for good measure.

For the first time since they’d walked through the door, the bartender smiled, nodding his head in agreement.  “Won’t take me but a minute to get your food up,” he said, and nodded toward the empty tables.  “Why don’t you and your little lady have a seat there, and I’ll bring it out to you when it’s done.”

Straightening, Spike gave a cursory glance at the bar before grabbing Buffy’s hand.  “We’ll be at the pool table,” he informed the bartender, and led the surprised young blonde away.

She pulled away as soon as they’d reached the semi-private nook the pool table was situated in.  For a second there, it had gotten just a little too real, the slow caress of his thumb over the heel of her hand as he held it causing her pulse to skyrocket, the goosebumps to raise over her flesh in a mockery of desire.  What the hell is going on here? she thought as she casually picked up a cue stick, watching him out of the corner of his eye as he shrugged out of his jacket, the muscles in his arms flexing just ever so slightly.  Why am I reacting like this to Spike, of all people?  It must be a rebound thing, or maybe a heat thing, or a worried-about-Willow-and-desperate-to-be-distracted thing.

“You wanna break?”

She almost dropped the cue at the sound of his voice, jerking to step away from the table as she looked to see him watching her.  “You go ahead,” Buffy managed to get out, and then smiled in spite of herself.  “You’re going to need every advantage you can get.  I plan on wiping the table with you.”

His answering grin was wicked, the sapphire of his eyes not leaving hers as he leaned over to take his first shot.  “Don’t forget, Slayer,” he said, and glanced away just long enough to send the white ball careening down the felt, slamming into the balls at the other end of the table with a crackle that cleaved the air.  Blue flickered back up to green as he straightened.  “I’ve got a century’s worth of experience on you at this particular game.  I don’t plan on losin’ either.”

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

Her foot tapped noiselessly in the air as she flicked through the magazine, unable to resist sneaking another look at her watch.  Xander was late.  Damn him.  Probably stopped to get some donuts to take over to Giles’ for the research party tonight.  Like he couldn’t have done that once he’d rescued her from this place.

Anya cringed as she heard a distant crash from upstairs, followed closely by a muffled shout, and wondered for the seventh time since arriving why exactly she’d agreed to meet the young man at his place instead of making him pick her up at hers.  Correction, she thought.  His parents’ place.  His drunken parents’ place.  On the day after payday.  What a joy.

With a frustrated moan, the young woman tossed the magazine aside, rising to her feet.  I’ll leave him a note, she decided, and marched over to what he referred to as his desk, scrambling through the mess atop it in search of a pencil.  I’ll go over to Giles’ on my own and he can just meet me there.  I don’t need to wait around like some lovesick puppy who can’t---.

The loud clap caused her to knock over the stack of comic books on the desk corner, and Anya whirled to see the bright light already starting to fade, her initial shock fading into a delighted surprise as the shape of a dark-haired woman standing in the room took form.  “Halfrek!” she cried, forgetting completely about the note she’d been about to leave to rush forward to greet the new arrival.

The demon’s smile was warm.  “Anyanka,” she said, giving the smaller girl a brief hug.  “It’s been too long.”

“I haven’t seen you since I lost my necklace,” Anya said, pulling away.

“You know me.  Busy, busy, busy.”  Her wide gaze scanned the dank space, her smile fading.  “Isn’t this…interesting,” she commented, and then grimaced, sniffing pointedly at the air.  “Is that…bleach I smell?”

Anya flushed in embarrassment.  “It’s whites day.”

Halfrek shook her head in disappointment.  “Oh, Anyanka, it does hurt to see you’ve sunk so low.  Mortal, and living underground like some common rat, without any powers, and now this mess…”

She was about to voice her usual protestations about her current life when Halfrek’s last words sunk in, making her frown.  “What mess?” she asked.

“The reason I’m here.  I really must be quick because D’Hoffryn will absolutely kill me if he finds out I’ve come to warn you, but I just couldn’t let my oldest and dearest friend get herself embroiled in something like this without at least giving you a heads up on it.  ‘Anyanka’s a big girl,’ he’d say.  ‘She’s made her bed and now she’s going to have to lie in---.’”

“The mess, Halfrek,” Anya prompted.  “What is it you want to warn me about?”

“Why, the mess your new friends are getting themselves into,” she replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.  “You are associating with the Slayer now, right?”  She didn’t even wait for a nod, but just kept on talking.  “Between her and those greenhorns messing with powers they just don’t understand, things are going to start getting very uncomfortable around here, mark my words.  Well, not around here per se, more like around New Orleans, but still, uncomfortable nonetheless.  And all I have to say to you, Anyanka, is stay out of it.  Run as fast as you can in the other direction because you do not want to be around when it all hits the fan…”

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

Each laugh was like a live battery pressed against the knobs of his spine, at once both suffusing his body in an ever-increasing requiescence and charging his skin so that it tingled in her presence.  Though he had no easy explanation for her current amicable state, Spike wasn’t about to let it go, joining Buffy in their muted jokes about the bar’s clientele, sharing a few of his own encounters with colorful locals over the years, watching as each of his stories seemed to start a new fit of giggles in the petite blonde.

What surprised him was how much he was actually enjoying the Slayer’s presence.  For too many years, he’d only ever been on the acid side of her tongue, the target of well-timed quips and constant threats.  Now, she seemed determined to share with him the part of her that the rest of the world got to see---smiling, joking Buffy with more than a touch of vulnerable sexiness underlying the steely exterior.  It was the mood that had pervaded the car the previous evening but heightened, like a bar had suddenly been lowered to allow him a means to vault to her side.  The cause of it escaped him.  Spike only knew that the faint flush that now rose in her cheeks seemed to taunt his own skin to respond in kind, and he was constantly having to fight the urge to reach out and touch her.  All of a sudden, Buffy actually seemed accessible.

He watched as she wiped up the last of her ketchup with one of her remaining fries, lifting it to her mouth as she continued to share her current slay story, only to have a spattering of red drip down her chin as her words interfered with her eating.  Spike’s lips quirked.  “Got a hole in your lip, luv?”

Her flush deepened.  “It’s all drippy,” she offered as explanation, and futilely wiped at her face, trying to catch what mess she had made with the heel of her hand.  The last thing she currently wanted was to destroy the camaraderie that had sprung up between them.  Spike was acting like a normal person and not the sarcastic bastard she knew from firsthand experience he was capable of being; she’d actually been enjoying herself ever since they’d starting shooting pool and he had deliberately let her win.  He probably didn’t even realize that she knew, but Buffy had seen him check his cue more than once, allowing the occasional shot to veer wide, so that when the arrival of their food had put a halt to the playing, the Slayer had been marginally ahead, allowing her to tease him about losing to a girl.  She wasn’t going to let on that she could see through his act, though; somehow, she had a feeling that the pretense actually meant something to the chipped vamp.

The flick of his thumb across her chin caused her to freeze, and Buffy’s eyes widened at the contact of his cool skin against hers, watching as he slowly leaned back in his chair and held up his hand to show her the ketchup trail that now streaked across his thumb. 

“Missed a bit,” he said, before lifting it to his mouth and sucking at the pad, blue eyes suddenly darkened.

“Oh,” was all she managed to get out.  She didn’t know what in hell had just happened, but it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.  What wasn’t the most natural thing was the sudden racing of her heartbeat as she became too aware of her chin and the spot where his fingers had graced it.  Then, to see him put those same fingers in his mouth, a mouth that she couldn’t seem to stop staring at now, was, without a doubt, the most erotic thing Buffy had ever seen.  Erotic and Spike.  Two words she was now going to have some serious problems dissociating from the other.

He didn’t seem to notice her discomfiture.  “Seein’ as how you’ve managed to inhale half a cow there,” he said, gracefully rising to his feet, “I’m goin’ to say we better pack it in and get ourselves back on the road.  We’re going to have to make up for our little detour here if we want to stay on Red’s tail.”

Buffy nodded, grateful for the reversion to their reason for being together in the first place.  Back to business, she thought.  No more pretending that Spike is anything but an annoying demon chauffeur.  But the prospect didn’t exactly fill her with light and sparklies.  Instead, she felt an uncommon pit begin to burrow into her stomach and looked away from the vampire, focusing on the few fries left on her plate.  Crap, she thought.  When did I start giving a damn how I viewed Spike?

His head tilted as he scrutinized the Slayer’s suddenly serious face.  He’d felt her reaction to his touch; hell, his body had done its own version of the Macarena on the inside at the taste of her skin mingling with the ketchup on his tongue.  What he didn’t get was why it was bugging her.  Normally, she let that kind of thing slide, or squelched it in the face of some wisecrack.  This wasn’t normal.  This was…well, he didn’t know what the hell this was.  He just knew he didn’t want it to go away.

“I’m goin’ to have a word with the bartender,” he said.  “See if he knows a quicker way of getting back to where we want.”  He smiled as she lifted her eyes in surprise.  “Plus, maybe he can tell me where to get us a bigger atlas,” Spike teased.  “Maybe if the roads are bigger on the map, you won’t have such a problem keeping us on ‘em.”

She laughed in spite of his slight gibe.  “I think bigger is of the good,” Buffy said lightly, and watched as he turned on his heel to disappear to the front of the bar.  Maybe they were finally past the nastiness of their morning, she thought.  Maybe the rest of this trip might not be so bad after all.

“Didn’t think he’d hardly ever leave.”

Her eyes re-focused to see the lanky frame of the man who’d been ogling her at the door standing before the table, a wide grin splitting his face.  It was all she could do not to stare at the gaping holes in his dental work and instead, decided to return her attention to her fries.  “He’ll be back,” she said, hoping that would be enough to send him away.

It wasn’t.  “So what’s a pretty little thing like you doing hanging around with a scary guy like that?” he said, draping himself over the chair Spike had just vacated.

She rolled her eyes.  “Is there some kind of correspondence course guys take to learn really bad pick-up lines?” she asked, her voice cold, her eyes even colder.  “Because if you think that was supposed to impress me---.”

“My name’s Dave,” he said, ignoring her attempt to rebuff him.  His smile widened.  “My friends call me Fang.  Y’know, ‘cause of the teeth.”

“Really.”  This time she looked up, hazel shooting daggers.  “I would never have guessed.”

“What’s your name?  Probably something pretty, like Barbie or Lara or something.  There used to be a waitress in here, her name was Bobbie Sue.  I always thought she was the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen until you walked in.”

He didn’t seem to be getting the message.  Time to up the malice and hope he’d take the hint.  “You don’t get out much, do you?” she said, affecting the bitchiest tone she could manage.  That’s right, Buffy thought.  Let’s channel my inner Cordelia.  Isn’t this fun.  “Do they not have special hours or something at the home where they let you get out into the real world for more than a few minutes at a time?”

He laughed as if her mockery wasn’t intentionally mean-spirited.  “You’re funny.  Funny and pretty.  My favorite combination.  Right next to hot and horny, of course.”  The last was said with a suggestive leer, and he leaned forward onto the table to close the distance between them.

Buffy’s jaw dropped at his audacity.  He had not just said that out loud to her, had he?  Had she really been out of the dating loop that long?  Guys couldn’t actually talk like this to try and impress girls, she thought.  It has to be a local thing.  Or a stupid thing.  Or maybe both.  Seeing the current look on her would-be beau, she was going to put her money on both.

So wrapped in her shock, she didn’t even see Spike walk up until his pale hand had clapped down onto Fang’s shoulder.  “Looks like I’m missing a party here,” he said lightly, but the flexing of the muscles in his jaw spoke otherwise.  He’d missed the other man sneaking his way to the back of the bar, but when he’d caught the acidic tone of Buffy’s voice floating to the front, he’d immediately broken off from his conversation with the bartender to return to their table.  The flash of anger at seeing the git now in his seat had boiled from nowhere, and Spike was doing everything in his power not to tear the wanker’s head from his shoulders right then and there.

“It’s a private party,” Fang said, not bothering to look back or rise from his chair.

The vampire’s grip said otherwise as it tightened just enough to lift the man without hurting him.  “Something tells me Buffy here wouldn’t mind if I crashed.”  As he let Fang gain his footing, Spike stepped around to stand behind the Slayer’s chair, his hand dropping possessively to reach for hers.  “C’mon, pet,” he said, his palm facing up in waiting as his blue eyes never left the other man’s face.  “The road’s callin’ us.”

She didn’t even hesitate to slip her hand into his, standing to square off with her unwanted guest defiantly.  “Maybe you should go give Bobbie Sue a ring,” she started to say to him, only to cut herself off when the sudden caress of Spike’s thumb across the line of her wrist caused her to jerk her head and stare up at the vamp briefly in confusion, the line between the act she was sure he was putting on and reality blurring momentarily.  Probably just an automatic thing, she reasoned, tearing her gaze away from his unsuspecting face.  No big deal.

“You know you’re not fooling anybody.”  His beady eyes glittered as he shook his head, his tongue snaking out between the gap in his teeth to lick his lips.  “There’s no way he’s your boyfriend.”

“Really?  What makes you say that, mate?”

Though his tone was light, Buffy could feel the tension coiling through Spike’s body as he spoke, his fingers hardening within hers. 

“Well, first off, ‘cause she’s better than you.  I mean, have you looked at…”  He glanced at the young woman.  “…he said your name was Buffy, right?”  He didn’t bother waiting for a response before turning back to Spike.  “Have you actually looked at Buffy?  The girl’s hotter and classier than you.  Try looking in a mirror some time, bub.  The eighties are over.”

Spike’s smile was deadly.  “Not really into the whole self-reflection thing myself.  But then, I’d guess neither are you.”  He made a point of running his tongue over his incisors, his gaze mocking, the sucking sound he made with his teeth reverberating in friction between the trio.

Fang straightened himself to his full height, lifting his chin to make the six inches he had on the vampire look like even more.  “Don’t you be thinking I’m scared of you, runt,” he threatened.  “Just because you wear leather, don’t make you some kind of a tough guy.”

“I’ll wager my bite’s a tad more lethal than you might think,” Spike growled, his amusement at the situation vanishing.  He’d taken a step automatically forward when Buffy’s arm clamped around his bicep.

“Hey.”  She waited for him to glance back at her and saw the anger gleaming in the blue depths of his eyes, shoving aside the question of where it was stemming from for asking at a later date.  “Much as I like a good brawl, are we forgetting something here?”  She waited but was only met by his blank stare.  “Hello?  Can we say chip?  Or are we totally forgetting about Sunnydale?”

Fang frowned.  “Chip?  Who’s Chip?  Thought your name was Spike.”

Her mind whirled.  How was she going to explain it?  Wait, he’d said who… “My boyfriend,” she replied.  At both his and Spike’s frowning gazes, Buffy rushed forth to clarify, “Ex-boyfriend.  Ex.  As in before Spike.”

“Yeah,” the vampire drawled, catching her drift with an amused glint.  “Good ol’ Chips Ahoy.”  His blond head swiveled back to stare dangerously at the other man.  “That’s what I called him after I crushed his thick skull into cookie bits.”

The air was heavy between them as Fang visibly paled, uncertainty clouding his eyes for the first time since Spike’s arrival.  It took only a moment for Buffy to break it, giggling far too nervously to make it appear natural as she curled her arm through the vampire’s.

“Spike’s such a kidder,” she said lightly, and squeezed his arm, making it look affectionate but exerting her strength just enough so that he winced slightly at the contact.  “He didn’t kill Chip.  He just…roughed him up a bit.”  She leaned her head possessively against his shoulder, playing the smitten girlfriend role for all it was worth.  “Of course, now Chip thinks he used to be part of some secret government militia out to rid the world of monsters, but hey.  At least, he’s not dead.”

Her smile was bright, and it was all Spike could do not to laugh out loud.  Atta girl, Slayer, he thought, and relished in her weight against his arm, his nostrils flaring as her excited scent drifted to his nose. 

Fang still looked unsure, small eyes darting between the blond pair as his tongue flicked across his bare gums.  “Still,” he said after a long moment.  “You can’t tell me he’s your boyfriend.  I mean, look at him!  He’s wearing nail polish like some girl.  If that’s not a gay thing, than I don’t know what is.”

Her voice was hard.  “Some of my best friends are gay, I’ll have you know.”

“And so’s your boyfriend, sweetie.  Time to wake up and smell the lack of testosterone.”

Spike’s head tilted.  “For someone with so many holes in his mouth, you talk an awful lot, you stupid pillock.”  Turning just enough to gaze down at her hazel eyes, the words came tumbling out of the vampire’s mouth before he could stop them.  “I do believe he’s challenging my manhood, pet.  Now, can’t have that, can I?”

Ask him after why he did it, and Spike would’ve been at a loss for a good answer.  Maybe it was the nonverbal dare issued by the other man.  Maybe it was because he got caught up in their little act and forgot himself for a moment.  Or maybe it was just because she smelled so bloody good.  Whatever it was, it sent Spike’s lips crashing against Buffy’s, his hands tangling in the tresses of her hair as he pulled her against him, seeking out the recesses of her surprised mouth with the thrust of months of pent-up desire.

Instinct should’ve pulled her away.  Instinct should’ve reared its ugly head and screamed in her ear about how wrong it was to have this particular vampire’s lips on hers.  Instead, instinct drove her arms up and around his neck, pulling him even closer, pressing her tiny form against his so that the hardened buds of her nipples ground into his chest in delicious shivers, locking their bodies together in a heated dance that brooked no movement, denied no lingering passion.

His initial surprise vanished in the wake of feeling her against him, the tattoo of her heart pounding against his chest, and Spike deepened the kiss, tasting and savoring the nectar of the Slayer’s mouth as he forgot exactly why he’d done this in the first place.  Heady, and so much richer than he’d ever imagined, the world swept away as he lost himself in the caress, drowning in red and black as tiny hands kneaded at the muscles of his neck.

Her breathing was ragged when she finally pulled away, the hazel of her eyes overwhelmed by ebony as she fixated on the tremulous lower lip that had just been affixed to hers.  Not what she’d been expecting, and yet, so much more, and how in hell was she supposed to look Spike in the eye after this?  He was going to be Mr. Gloaty from now on, she could just tell, digging into her at every chance about kissing the Big Bad, letting him get to her when all he’d been doing was trying to prove a point to…

It was then that she remembered their audience, and turned her head to see a shocked Fang slowly inching his way away from their table.  Spike’s arms dropped to pull her into his side, his cheek lowering to nuzzle the top of her head, and Buffy found herself powerless to stop him.  How could she?  For the first time in months, she was actually feeling right in a man’s arms.  Like she belonged.

“Care to rethink that little assessment of yours?” the vampire said with a chuckle.  “Or are you goin’ to need something a bit more graphic?”  His hand slid down Buffy’s spine, ending at the small of her back to toy with the waistband of her shorts in a sensual play of his fingers.

Her intake of breath was audible, but Buffy didn’t move, instead allowing Spike to continue his gentle exploration as she waited for Fang to respond.  It didn’t take him long.

“No, no, I got eyes.  I think she’s crazy, but I’m not stupid.”  His backward step caused him to stumble slightly as he bumped into a wooden post.  “You ever want someone who’ll treat you right,” he said to Buffy, “you know where I’ll be.”

She couldn’t help her amused smile.  “Thanks, but I think I’m all set here.”  Grabbing the vampire’s hand from its nest in her back, she began pulling him toward the front of the bar, grabbing his duster from the chair as she passed it.  “C’mon, Spike.  Let’s get out of here.”

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

They didn’t speak until they were settled into the front seat of the DeSoto, the atmosphere stiflingly hot, the tiny purple fan only succeeding in moving around the scorching air in pockets of swirling motes.  Buffy’s body still thrummed in the memory of the kiss they’d shared inside, the fiery ice of his lips on hers lending itself to fantasies of more, and she had to visibly shake herself to clear her head.

“Not a bad little act, Slayer,” Spike drawled as he slid the key into the ignition.  Pre-emptive strike, that’s what he’d decided.  As deeply as the kiss had rattled him, as surprising as her response to it had been, he couldn’t even begin to think that it was in any way an indication of anything remotely real.  He’d just chalk it up to his inherent sexual prowess; it was much easier to focus on the superficial than to consider it might be deeper.  Even if a part of him was actually wishing it was.  Or that she would argue with him about its meaning.

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting him to say, but an avowal for her supposed ability to pretend was certainly not it.  A small line appeared between her brows as her eyes darkened, searching the impassivity of his profile for some hint of what he was playing at.  He thought she’d been faking that?  Was he high or something?  But then, why would he think otherwise?  It wasn’t like he was privy to her dreams, or the fantasies that popped up out of nowhere, or the stray thought that flitted across her head in search of something to light upon.  No, Spike had no reason to believe that she’d kissed him back because she’d wanted to, that even now, she was wondering how she could get him to do it again, and mentally kicking herself for her own foolishness.  And it looked for all intents and purposes that he wanted to keep it that way.

“Yeah,” she agreed, but there was no strength in it.  “I guess we showed Fangface.”

She was an awful liar, and Spike of all people was the most skilled at seeing through her, but at that moment in time, the vampire didn’t dare to admit what was staring him in the face.  Instead, he shot her a wry smirk and tossed the atlas that sat between them onto her lap.  “Find where this road hits something called Carter’s Creek,” he instructed.  “According to the bartender, we can cut our way down back to the highway without losin’ too much more time.”

It was back to business as he pulled the car away from the bar and onto the concrete, the blazing sun at their backs as he accelerated down the gray strip.  They had a job to do, a focus.  Find Willow.  Get to her before anything bad happened.  It wasn’t the time for thinking about personal stuff, or kisses that left both of them craving for more, or niggling doubts in two minds about who exactly was seated beside them.  Not the time for questioning everything that had up to this point seemed so black and white.  And not the time for contemplating bending and even breaking all the rules that they had thus far established.

Except it wasn’t working for either of them.

They sat in an awkward but pungent silence, hurtling down the road toward their task at hand, each lost in a perplexing eddy of emotion, unable to look at the other, pretending for the moment that all was back to normal.

When both of them believed that was impossible.

And fought with the fear the other would somehow eventually find that out.

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

Though she had been silent for nearly the entire time between Xander arriving home and going over to Giles’, sitting now on the Watcher’s couch, Anya’s mouth was twitching with the intense desire to speak, even if it was only to shout at them and call them a bunch of foolish humans looking for a death wish by even remotely getting themselves involved in this current predicament.  Except she couldn’t, not any more, and that fact more than anything else riled her stomach in acid, jittering her heel against the floor as the nervous energy trapped inside her body fought to escape.

“So why are we even still here?” Xander was saying, pacing in front of her like a caged animal desperate to escape.  “If what that gas station guy says is true, we need to mount up.  Sticking around Sunnydale isn’t helping getting Willow back.”

“We have no idea what the symbol even signifies,” Giles said, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.  They’d been having this argument for over twenty minutes now and he was growing weary of repeating himself.  Holding up Buffy’s fax, he added, “Unless you would care to impart your seemingly vast knowledge of mystical tattoos and tell us exactly what this means, Xander.”  He waited expectantly, and sighed when the younger man finally collapsed defeatedly into the chair.  “I understand your frustration, but without information that will aid Buffy and Spike, our best plan is to just stay here and do the research to find answers that will bring Willow back.”

“Yes,” Anya finally said.  “I agree with Giles.  Stay here.  Good plan.”

The Englishman frowned.  Anya never agreed with him.  Still, an ally was an ally.  “If you’d rather be doing something more productive than research,” he continued, “perhaps you’d like to go out and speak to the attendant.  It’s possible he might remember other details that he didn’t share with Spike.”

Rising from his seat, Xander crossed to Giles’ side and took the fax.  “Hey, I know this guy.  He graduated with us.”

“He was working a midnight shift.  You’ll most likely have to wait until later to attempt to see him.”

“That’s even if he’s working tonight,” Anya interjected.  Now that she’d broken her silence, she was finding it difficult to keep quiet.  “This is the Hellmouth, after all.  Odds are pretty good that he’s become somebody’s dinner.  Or is actually eating someone else at this exact minute.  You’re most likely just wasting your time, you know.”

His girlfriend’s odd argument caused Xander’s frown to deepen.  “What’s with the negative attitude, Ahn?” he asked.  “You’ve been all doom and gloom, what with the mopey silence on the ride over and now preaching demon destruction as if it’s the end of the world.  What’s up?”

She was saved from answering by a timid knock at the door, and Anya exhaled in relief as Giles rose to open it.  Halfrek’s details had been sketchy before she’d been called away on a vengeance emergency, but it was enough to convince the ex-demon that something very bad was on the horizon, and she wasn’t sure she had the fortitude to stick around for it.  She only wished she had the nerve to actually say something out loud to her boyfriend.

A shaky Tara stood on the other side of the door, her eyes lowered as she shyly accepted Giles’ offer to enter.  Her wave of greeting was contained, and she settled onto the far end of the couch, waiting for whatever instruction the others would offer.

“So, off to the gas station then?” Anya chirped, opting instead to distract Xander with the task he’d latched onto, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t press on the issue of her mood.  It could be worse, she reasoned.  She could be on her way to New Orleans like Buffy and Spike.  The one thing she’d gleaned from Halfrek’s ramblings was that whatever bad that was going to happen, was going to go down in the Southern city, far away from Sunnydale.  Maybe all she had to do was stay put.  And make sure Xander did, as well.  That way, at least the two people she cared about most would be safe.

“Off to the gas station then.”  Handing the fax back to Giles, the young man was halfway to the door, Anya right on his heels, before he spoke again.  “I’ll call you and let you know what happens,” he said, and disappeared into the waning sunlight.

“Gas station?” Tara queried when they were gone, confusion in her eyes as she gazed up at the Watcher.

“Yes.  We believe we may have a lead of some sort.”  Distractedly, he handed her the paper, glancing at his bookshelves as his eyes narrowed.  “I’ve got a number of texts I think would---.”

“Stella has some kind of power.”  Her voice was almost a whisper, echoing inside the living room like a ghost’s song, and her wide eyes were glued to the figure drawn on the fax.  It was only when Giles turned to look at her that she raised her gaze.  “Just like Willow.  There’s something…that…links them.”

“How do you know this?”

“I went to the Bronze.”  So quiet, like the words hurt to even say.  “I w-w-wanted to see if maybe Stella left something behind.”

“And…?”

Tara swallowed.  “Her dressing room tasted like…blood.  Like it was…old.  And very, very evil.”

Gently, Giles knelt before the blonde witch, blue eyes scanning her pinched face.  They were really only beginning to discover her capabilities, and though Willow’s support of her girlfriend had often bordered on the fanatical, he had yet to witness much of her power on his own.  “What happened?” he queried, maintaining his mild tone.

She shook her head.  “I ran.  It was…overwhelming.  It was so much like Willow, but…darker.  And…”  Her voice faltered, the words finally disappearing from her grasp, and her eyes ducked again to fix on the hands worrying in her lap.

His touch was light, but reassuring on her shoulder.  “She’s going to be safe,” he affirmed, the sudden need to ease her distress overwhelming.  “Buffy will make sure of that.”

She nodded, and though she rose to follow him dutifully to the bookcase, ready to begin on the research he felt would solve all their problems, Tara held back the doubt that had wrapped itself around her heart ever since she’d left the Bronze.  Giles hadn’t felt the residual power Stella had left behind like a fading perfume; he had no idea how anguished it cried out to her.  She didn’t want to think of the worst, but that was the way of her life.

Good things didn’t happen to Tara Maclay.  Not for any length of time.  Something always happened to take it all away.

And Willow was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

Which meant that this time…it would rip out her heart when she lost it.

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

His eyes were expectant as he gazed down at the dark-haired demon.  “Well?” he queried, fingers tapping together as he waited.

Halfrek sighed.  “It’s done.  I did exactly like you said.  I told Anyanka just enough and then I pretended to have an emergency and skedaddled myself on out of there before she started pressing too hard.”

D’Hoffryn’s smile settled in satisfaction.  “Excellent work,” he mused.  “I’m trusting you were adequately persuasive.”

He wasn’t really expecting a response, which was good for Halfrek as the memory of her former friend’s face flickered across her mind’s eye.  Maybe she had been, maybe she hadn’t.  Either way, she didn’t like it.  Interfering in Anyanka’s mortal life made her slightly queasy after all the time they’d spent wreaking vengeance together.  If the young woman chose to accept the advice and stay out of the conflagration that was already starting to burn in New Orleans, it still did not mean that the Slayer would fail to stop what D’Hoffryn considered inevitable.  On the other hand, if she did go to her new friends with the knowledge she now possessed, odds were good that the ex-demon would get caught up in the fight, potentially killed.  Even if she was human, it didn’t mean Halfrek had to like the idea of her getting hurt.  And the entire affair was enough to make her head spin.

Still, a job was a job, and as long as D’Hoffryn was her boss, Halfrek had no choice but to do what he said.

Even if it meant Anyanka paid the price for it…

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

Three hours of near-silence was driving Buffy to a desperation that she rarely felt these days, hungry for anything that would provide a distraction from the thoughts that refused to stop spiraling inside her skull, careening in cascades that brought alternating flushes and chills to her flesh. It probably would’ve been easier if Spike would just say something crude or mean-spirited, anything that would remind her of the maddening vampire she knew him to be, but he’d spent the time since they left the bar lost in his own daydreams, his radio tuned to an oldies station instead of the blare of that godawful noise he considered music, offering her only the occasional question when their path was uncertain.

Her lips still tingled from the remembrance of their kiss, and the notion that it hadn’t been entirely a game of make-believe with the vamp lingered like one of those instincts she’d spent the past five years honing. It didn’t make sense, though, for either of them to herald such a response. Spike made no bones about voicing his dislike for her and her friends; there was no valid reason for her to even think that would change now. What made even less sense was that she could in any way be attracted to him. He was evil. Soulless. A monster she was chosen to kill.

Even if at the moment all she could think about was how much she was actually enjoying being in his company.

When she saw the van, then, a dark shadow at the side of the highway, barely discernible in the early night hours, Buffy jumped at the diversion from her train of thought, catching a flash of a man’s pale skin as he rounded the far corner of the vehicle’s rear. “Stop the car!” the Slayer ordered, yanking down her window to stick her head out so that she could get a better look.

Though the DeSoto’s velocity slowed, Spike didn’t stop, frowning as he glanced in his rearview mirror. “What bug’s gotten up your skirt?” he asked.

“Not a bug,” she replied tightly, and grabbed the steering wheel to jerk it to the side. “A van.”

The vamp growled as he reclaimed control, skidding with a spit of stones onto the shoulder. “Killin’ us isn’t goin’ to help Red.”

“That’s a dark van we passed back there.” Her hand hovered on the door handle, waiting for the car to come to a complete halt before jumping out. “You said you smelled her when a van went by.”

He looked at her in disbelief. “You can’t honestly think it’s the same one?” he asked, incredulous. “Do you have any soddin’ idea how big this country is? Odds are it’s just someone havin’ a spot of engine trouble.”

“All the more reason for us to stop. They can probably use some help.”

She was out of the car before he could reply, and Spike grimaced as he slapped at the steering wheel. “Didn’t sign up for roadside assistance,” he grumbled. “S’posed to be driving to New Orleans, havin’ a bit of a lark while the Slayer goes gallivanting around tryin’ to find Red, and then back to the Hellmouth. Simple.” There was a moment, and then he swiveled his head to look at her through the back window, blue eyes sweeping over the golden limbs eerily orange in his rear lights as she strode determinedly toward the vehicle in the distance. “Bitch doesn’t even know anything about cars. What the hell does she think she’s actually goin’ to do?”

There was only a moment of hesitation, and then, with a barely suppressed growl, Spike shoved his door open, sliding out into the cooling night air with a heavy step that gritted beneath his boot. His eyes flickered to the van in the distance, and the dead scent drifting from it hit him immediately, furrowing his brow as he watched Buffy continue to stroll toward the vehicle. She had to know what she was approaching, right? he thought, his own feet carrying him to the rear of the DeSoto, blond head tilting as he regarded the pale form of the other man emerge from behind the van. The lack of a break in her step said she didn’t, though, and Spike involuntarily edged himself forward.

“Slayer!” he called out, his voice shattering the night quiet.

He could hear her exasperated sigh as she stopped, turning in her place to look back at him. “What?”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree here. That’s not the bloke who snatched Red.”

“You said you didn’t see the driver,” she accused.

“I didn’t---.”

“So you can’t know for sure that this isn’t him, now can you?”

“I’m tellin’ you, I don’t think---.”

“Newsflash, Spike. You’re not here because of your brainpower. You’re only here because of your carpower. As lame as that is. Besides, even if it’s not the same guy, he probably still needs our help. He could be broken down or something.”

Before he could reply, Spike frowned as Buffy went flying sideways, wrapped in a full tackle by the now vamped-out man, rolling into the brush along the road in a tangle of arms and legs. He shook his head. “He’s not interested in your help, pet,” he muttered and visibly winced when he saw the heel of her foot connect with the other vampire’s chest, sending him flying back onto the concrete as she regained her footing. Stupid git. Hear me call her the Slayer and attack, instead of turning tail and running like the wind. Deserve to be made mincemeat of.

“You’re not just planning to sit there and watch, are you?” Buffy shot to Spike as she ducked a punch from the newly recovered demon, letting her own hands reach forward to grab her attacker’s ankle. “Because this would go a lot faster if you maybe pitched in a little.” A graceful lift flipped the demon backwards, his face meeting the road with an audible scrape.

“Like you’re pitchin’ in with the driving?” Spike replied, arms folded over his chest as he leaned back against the trunk, his tongue snaking out to trace his teeth as his azure gaze slid over her lithe form. “’Sides, since when can’t you handle one itty bitty vampire all on your lonesome?” The gleam in his eye quickly faded, however, when the side door on the van slid open, allowing three more vampires to emerge into the moonlight, each one seemingly bigger than the one previous. He straightened, senses on alert. “Bugger.”

She wasn’t aware of the additions to the fray until the nearest one sucker-punched her side, bending her torso in a lissome curve as she squeaked in surprise and fell out of their way. Inwardly, Buffy cursed. Her head had been so distracted by Spike, she hadn’t even caught on that the guy was a vampire until it was too late, and now his buddies seemed determined to make her their midnight snack. This is all Spike’s fault, she thought angrily as she jumped to her feet, ducking just in time to watch one of the new attackers go sailing over her head. Just like always.

Concentrate. Battle at hand. Four against one.

Except it could be four against two if Spike would get off his ass and help.

Jerk.

Her fists landed with sickening accuracy, the tension that had been wound throughout her muscles over the course of the last few hours released in a cloud of scarlet anger. Quickly, two of the vampires were knocked to the side, momentarily out of it, and Buffy was left facing the original demon and the largest of his buddies.

“Never thought we’d bag us a Slayer,” the first said, his tongue darting out to lick wetly at his lips.

“And she’s cute besides,” the second noted. At some point, he had pulled a knife from a scabbard at his side and was now twirling it between his fingers, almost nonchalantly as his golden eyes danced over Buffy’s curves. “Think she’s a screamer?” A hungry grin split his face. “I like it when they scream.”

“Are you completely daft?”

The sound of Spike’s voice caught all of their attention as he sauntered to within several feet of the face-off. A stake dangled from his hand, and Buffy caught the glimpse of another tucked inside the back of his jeans, stifling the smug smile that rose to her lips. About time, she thought with satisfaction. Especially since I was beginning to think I’d have to ram a stray twig through these guys’ chests in order to get rid of them once and for all.

“This is the Slayer,” Spike was saying, ignoring her presence to concentrate on the other vampires. “She kills our kind. Very well, I might add.”

“Thanks, Spike,” she chirped, tossing the others a bright grin. Tag team banter. She could do this. Show the vamps a united front. Even if it was with Spike. At this point, it seemed obvious---to her, at least---that the chipped demon had stepped up to the plate ready to hit one out of the ballpark with those stakes in his possession. No way was she going to let on that things might not be completely copasetic between them.

“Though, have to say,” he was adding, “silly chit’s not so bright herself. She fell for the oldest trick in the book. Me and Dru used to pull the same act back in the day. Have to say, though, it usually works better if you’ve got a bird to do the whole damsel in distress act. Blokes are more likely to stop then.” He shook his head in mock disappointment. “Goin’ to have to have a word with her Watcher when we get back to Sunnyhell. Ol’ Rupes is slacking in his training. ‘Course, he might’ve told her and it just didn’t sink in. Like I said. She’s not so bright.”

“Hey!” Her cheerful demeanor quickly disintegrated into anger at his careless flippancy.

“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t know which end of a stake is up, though,” he finished, ignoring her protestation. Before the others could react, the blond vampire had tossed the weapon to the Slayer, his words and attitude distracting the others until it was too late for them to intercede.

She caught it in mid-air, her senses alerting her to the rising danger of the vampires she’d recently dispatched behind her, and Buffy whirled in her place to thrust the stake deep into the chest of the nearest demon. Before the dust could finish eddying around her, she had already turned to stare down the second, mouth set, hazel flaring as she caught a dim flash of platinum streaking past her out of the corner of her eye.

“Insert Stake A into Chest B,” she said, and lunged before he could react.

Two down, two to go, she thought grimly as the demon dust settled about her. She had half-turned to join the rest of the fight when Spike’s voice cut through the air.

“Buffy! Watch---!”

She didn’t even hear the rest of the warning as the knife the second vampire had been wielding sliced across her exposed left shoulder, carving the sinew in the joint with a deadly precision that sent rivers of blood washing down her arm, and Buffy gritted her teeth in order not to scream out from the pain. A vicious kick with her foot connected with his midriff, and she felt him crumple beneath her attack. The glance out of the corner of her eye, however, showed that he was still standing, staggering back to face her, her blood now staining the blade he held ready to use again.

The scuffle of Spike’s own fight happened within the periphery of the Slayer’s hearing, but she tuned it out, her mind shuttling itself back to allow her body to take control, instinctively turning her unhurt side to face her foe.

Another kick, another jab. Duck to avoid his clumsy swing. Roll out of his way. Up. Behind him. And there was his back, exposed and waiting.

The drive of her arm through the muscles and bones that protected his heart was powerful, and it wasn’t until the air before her had cleared of his dust that Buffy became aware of the throbbing in her left side, the stickiness that now forced her tank to cling to her body, the scent of her blood filling her nostrils. For a moment, the world swirled around her, and she took a deep breath, forcing herself to steady the muscles that were already screaming in revolt, before turning to scan the area for the remaining vampire.

Against the van, Spike was plunging his own stake into the original demon’s chest, the glee in the fight shining in his blue eyes. He hadn’t even vamped out, she realized. Bastard barely even broke a sweat. And for what? One measly vampire?

Anger boiled inside her, mingling with the pain and frustration of her thoughts from the past few hours, and she stalked to the blond’s side, her fist shooting out and hitting his jaw before he could even straighten from his kill.

The impact sent him hurtling into the nose of the van. “Hey!” a surprised Spike said, rubbing at his jaw in furious disbelief. “What the bloody hell was that for?”

“You knew he was a vampire!”

“Well…yeah.” His heavy brows knitted together. “Tried tellin’ you it wasn’t the guy who took Red.”

“But you didn’t say it was a vamp!”

Her anger seemed to be coming from nowhere, and Spike felt his own ire begin to fade as he scrutinized the flush in her cheeks. “Since when do I have to be telling the Slayer when there’s a vampire around?” he asked. “You’re the one who gets the tinglies, remember? You should’ve sussed out what he was, soon as you opened that door.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re not short circuiting here, are you? Because inquiring vamps want to know. You were just marchin’ up to him, plain as could be, without even a weapon if I remember correctly.”

“I would’ve found something,” she said through gritted teeth. “That’s what I do.”

“Yeah,” he drawled, and the next was out of his mouth before he could even think to stop it. “I s’pose you could’ve pulled out that stick from your ass to stake ‘em. Without Farmboy around, that’s got to be the only wood you’re keeping around these days.”

Blue met green in a desperate clash, both persons silent as they just stared at each other. A flare of hurt burned in Buffy’s gaze, shock at the venom in his tone mingling with genuine dismay that he would actually say such a thing. So much for my instincts, she thought. He’s the same old Spike. Mean, and hateful, and only interested in whatever’s going to cause the greatest amount of pain. I can’t believe I was falling for that whole I-can-be-a-decent-guy routine.

As soon as the words came tumbling out, Spike regretted them, wishing that he could just scoop them back up and shove them back in, pretend that they had never been said. It had just been reflex, too much conditioning to lash out when she was attacking him, and now it was too late to retract them. He could only stand there and watch the distress brighten the hazel into scorching orbs, a lick of guilt creeping along his spine.

For a moment, Buffy faltered, catching the current underlying the sapphire gazing back at her that brought her earlier questions rushing back to fruition, battling with the conclusions she had only just reached to quicken her pulse, the adrenaline that had been easing through her veins suddenly acting as if trapped within a hurricane. She almost would’ve thought it was…pain? Guilt? But this was his usual modus operandi. Can’t hit her with his fist, so the vamp attacked with words, driving them home with that sickening effortlessness that was his signature. No reason for him to feel guilty about it. That’s just the way he worked.

And then it was gone, lost when he ducked his head to brush past her and toward the car.

“Slay break is over,” he said tightly. “Time to hit the road again.”

He’d meant to go straight for the DeSoto, but as soon as he was on the other side of the Slayer, the scent of her fresh blood assailed his senses, whipping his head around to stare at the wound that adorned her shoulder. “Jesus, Buffy,” he snarled, and was back at her side in a moment, pale fingers pressing against the curling flesh on either side of the gash. He knew she’d been hurt, but she’d been holding herself so well, no indication of pain on her face, he’d figured it wasn’t a big deal. This wasn’t just a cut. This was the fuckin’ Grand Canyon. “If you’re lookin’ for a medal for bravery, think again. Ignoring this only merits one for being completely and utterly stupid.”

“That’s the second time you’ve called me stupid tonight,” she said, and tried to turn around, only to be met by his firm touch on her good shoulder. “What’s next? Dumb blonde jokes?”

He ignored her attempt to rile him, concentrating on the blood that still flowed freely from her injury. Its nearness was intoxicating, and though the back of his mouth prickled from the desire to just press his lips to her skin and suck, Spike thrust the thoughts aside. “Don’t s’pose you thought to pack a first aid kit,” he said.

She frowned. He was taking this worry thing a little far. “Well, yeah. In my line of work, it’s one of those don’t-leave-home-without-it kind of things.”

“Don’t move.”

She didn’t listen, turning around to watch the blond vampire make a dash for the DeSoto, fumbling with his keys to get the trunk open. “What’s the big deal? Slayer healing, remember? If you’re worried about me bleeding in your car, just give me a few minutes. It’ll stop on its own.”

The look he shot her over his shoulder was dangerous. “Thought I told you not to move.”

“You’re over-reacting. I’m fine.”

“Really?” His head was buried in the trunk, and there was a pause as he dropped the sleeping bag that had been in it onto the ground before glancing back at her again. “Have you taken a gander at what he actually did to you?” When she started to turn to look over her shoulder, he barked, “Well, don’t bloody look now! You’ll split yourself in soddin’ two by twistin’ yourself like that!”

She stopped, returning her gaze to watch him pull the small box from her duffel, grabbing it and the bag from the ground and marching back to her side. “Are we having a campout?” she asked blithely. Her head was starting to feel just a little woozy, and she briefly wondered if maybe she’d underestimated the extent of her injury. “I hope you’ve got marshmallows.”

“You’re goin’ to need to lie down while I stitch that up,” he replied. “So unless you fancy gettin’ a faceful of dirt---.”

“Stitches? It’s that bad?”

His eyes were level with hers. “Would I be playin’ Clara Barton if it was just a paper cut now?”

There it was again, hidden within the blue, only not, because Buffy could’ve sworn she could see it shining back at her as true as if he’d said the words out loud. He was worried about her. Worried about the injury that she knew was probably a little more serious than she’d originally envisaged. And yet none of it made sense. How could he go from being so cold and callous to concerned and caring without even batting an eyelash?

Mention of the aforesaid appendage was enough for her to tear her gaze from his, lowering her own lashes to hide the confusion she knew was there. It was maddening how Spike managed to drive what little control she had around him out the window, the mere idea of his eyes enough to send her pulse racing. Or was that the wound doing the talking now? All of a sudden, the world didn’t seem to be making sense, pitching in delicate waves around the corners of her vision before the crimson-tinged black wrapped around her skull.

He caught her before she could crumple to the ground, cursing under his breath as he dropped the first aid kit to do so. Silly bint had passed out from the blood loss, all because she was too damn stubborn to listen to him in the first place. Not that he really blamed her. He probably would’ve done the same if he was in her shoes. They didn’t exactly have much reason to trust each other right now, now did they?

Still, he’d have to stitch her up in a hurry if he didn’t want her dyin’ on him. Rupes would probably be none too pleased if his Slayer bit the dust on Spike’s watch.

Not that Spike would be happy about the prospect either. Far from it.

Laying out the sleeping bag while trying to hold her unconscious form in such a way as not to aggravate her wound proved more difficult than he thought, and by the time Spike managed it, his own shirt was soaked with the Slayer’s blood. The faintest of desires to take it off and begin sucking at the fabric flitted across his brain, but he shoved it aside as he gently stretched her out on her stomach, positioning her arm so that the cut was as closed as possible before kneeling at the bag’s edge, the kit at his side. He had a job to do. Time to buck up and get it done.

For the first time, he hesitated. Though he could see the wound through the sliced material of her tank top, there was no way he was going to be able to work on it without exposing more of her skin, which meant the top had to go, one way or another. His eyes darted to her face, the shallow breathing, her lashes surprisingly dark against her skin. God, she was beautiful, he thought all of a sudden, and then grimaced, shaking his head as if to clear it from the distraction. Back to business. The shirt. If he did this, she’d be pissed as hell when she woke up. ‘Course, if he didn’t, she might not wake up at all. Right then. Easy choice.

Decision made, Spike gingerly grabbed the hem of the top and yanked upward, rending it in half so that each fluttered like butterfly wings to her sides, exposing the tender arch of her spine in a long, clean line to his sight. The beginnings of her summer tan lines marred the golden stretch of skin, and his arousal was immediate, his mouth watering as unbidden images of a bikini-clad Slayer cavorting in the surf danced along his inner eye. The merest of tremors shook his hand as he reached for the kit again. It was probably just as well she was out cold while he sewed her up. Somehow, he had a feeling the distraction of her body---so near, so touchable, and yet, not his to touch---was going to put his stitching just a tad on the shaky side.

But he’d get it done.

He wasn’t letting her get away that easily.

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

The first thing she became aware of was the cool feel of leather across her bare back, a delicious weight that pressed her into the ground, forcing the scents of the earth up her nose to tickle her memory with images from her childhood. It should’ve been hot, she realized, but was surprised that it wasn’t, instead a comforting sheath from the cooling evening breeze.

As her other senses awoke from whatever sleep within which she’d been carried, Buffy’s eyes flickered open, adjusting quickly to the dark of the star-laden sky, the horizon tilted dangerously on end as she blinked once, and then twice, as if that would suddenly right it. Oh, yeah, she thought. Lying down. Makes sense. Ground beneath my cheek, sky over my head.

Except it wasn’t the ground her face rested against, but the slick covering of the sleeping bag Spike had pulled from his trunk. And the memory of what exactly had happened came flooding back in a kaleidoscope of living snapshots.

Her hands came up to shoulder-height, pushing against the earth in order to sit herself up, a sudden burning in her shoulder reminding her of the knife wound she’d sustained from the vampire. Almost immediately, cool hands were on her flesh, guiding her back down, adjusting the coat that slipped from her back, and Buffy realized for the first time that her top was no longer on her body.

“You probably shouldn’t move yet.” Spike’s voice was husky, carrying softly to her ears, and Buffy turned her head to see him crouching at her side. “You’ve stopped bleedin’ but you should wait it out a bit longer so that you don’t open it up again.”

“What…happened?” She was almost afraid of the answer. She’d passed out, she knew that, but beyond the scope of knowing he’d claimed she needed stitches, the Slayer was at a loss for why she was now semi-nude.

“I patched you up,” he explained, and then ducked his head, one hand coming up to worry through his hair. “Couldn’t get to it right with...your top in the way, though, so I had to…tear it off you. Sorry ‘bout that.”

Buffy frowned, glancing down to see the remnants of her shirt lying at her sides. Better not to press the issue, she decided. She was on her stomach, her injury was on her back, Spike didn’t see anything. Plus, for some reason, he’d covered her up with his coat. “How long was I out of it?”

The vampire straightened, long fingers extracting his lighter from his pocket as he reached for his cigarettes. “’Bout an hour. But you should give it another fifteen or twenty minutes before you move, pet. We’ll hit the highway then. You can stretch out in the back so you don’t aggravate it more.”

The tip of his cigarette flared in the darkness, casting his face in crimson shadows before ebbing back into black, and Buffy watched as he turned away. “Thank you,” she said softly, unsure if he’d actually hear her but having to get the words out anyway. When were the surprises going to end? she wondered. Her confusion had returned, the questions tumbling around inside her head, but through it all, the desire to show him her gratitude burned brighter than anything else. She didn’t know why. She’d never been great at figuring out the roots of her instincts. She just knew when to follow them. So this time she did.

The stiffening of his shoulders was all she needed to know that her words had carried to his ears. “Spike,” she called softly, and waited for him to turn back to her before continuing. “What’re you doing?”

He took a long moment to answer. “Looks like I’m smoking a fag,” he finally said.

“No, I meant…you know…with everything…” This was one of those times she wished she was more like her Mom. Joyce always seemed to be so articulate about saying what she was thinking. Buffy must’ve inherited the miscommunication gene from her father. She sighed. “Could you come over here, please?” she asked. “Watching you pace around without being able to move hurts my eyeballs.”

For a second, she thought he was going to ignore her request, watching as he stared over the treeless horizon into nothing. “Mind if I finish my smoke over there?” he asked with a gentle tilt of his head.

Buffy frowned. “Since when do you ask my permission about stuff like that?”

“Since you’re lying there with a few dozen stitches holding your arm in its socket,” he retorted, but there was a teasing quality to his voice that belied the severity of his words. Not waiting for a response, his boots crunched over the grit as he approached, and her eyes flickered to his pale face as he settled himself at the far edge of the sleeping bag, pushing aside the duster that splayed beside her.

“Too high,” she complained. “Looking up at you like that is going to give me a headache.”

“What do you want me to bloody do?”

There was a pause, and then, “You could stretch out next to me. We’d be even steven then.”

If he’d had breath, she would’ve taken it away with that suggestion. Ever since he’d finished administering to her wound, Spike had been fighting back the impulse to cover her body with his own, to feel her heat seeping into his skin, to caress the curves of her hips as they ground into his own. Covering her with his duster, he thought, was the next best thing, because when he got it back, her scent would be all over it. He’d be able to enjoy it all the way to New Orleans then. He’d just have to maybe put up with Slayer comments about wearing the coat in the middle of fucking summer.

And now here she was, saying words he wouldn’t expect to ever fall from the Slayer’s lips, and he was actually sitting back and debating as to whether it was a smart idea or not to do it. The sound of her voice had brought back his erection; would he be able to hide it from her long enough so that he wouldn’t end up as much dust as the other vamps? Did he really care?

“If you’re not going to lay down, I’m going to get up.”

That settled it. Her moving was not a good idea.

Flicking his cigarette into the road, Spike carefully eased his weight back onto his elbows, before lowering himself completely to the ground. Not going to look at her, he decided, eyes focusing on the stars above. That’ll make it easier.

“You’re wearing a different shirt.”

There was confusion in her voice, and he glanced down, frowning slightly as he gazed at the black tee. How the hell did she know that? he wondered. All his clothes looked the same. “Yeah,” Spike said out loud. “The other one kind of took a bath in Slayer blood.”

“Oh.” Pause. “Sorry.”

He could feel her eyes boring into him, and stiffened his neck to fight the urge to turn it and gaze into those hazel depths. Today had been a roller coaster---hell, his life had been a roller coaster ever since she stepped into it---and somehow, he just knew that looking at her wasn’t going to make it any easier to suss out. He just wished he could know once and for all what the hell was going on inside his head. Or hers, for that matter. She’d been hot and cold on him all day, one minute treating him like he was, well, someone, and then the next, back to hammering his face with her fist. He wasn’t sure how much of this he could actually take.

“How long before we get to New Orleans?” It wasn’t the question she wanted to ask, but the other words refused to come to Buffy’s lips, forcing her to settle on idle chitchat while her brain worked around its inability to just confront the blond vamp about what was going on between them.

“Provided you don’t make us stop for any more ambushes,” Spike said, “we should get there some time in the middle of the night tomorrow.”

“I really didn’t know it was a trap, you know.”

“I know.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “So why didn’t they show up on your Slayer radar?” he queried. “It’s not like you to be surprised like that.”

“You’re not going to tell Giles, are you?”

He snorted. “Not bloody likely. Somehow, it’d end up bein’ my fault, I just know it. I’m not givin’ him any excuse to come waltzing around so that he can stake my ass, unless it’s for something I’ve well-deserved and gotten some enjoyment from.” Like shagging his Slayer, he added silently, and then mentally chastised himself as his erection throbbed within the confines of his jeans. Fuck. That kind of thinking’s only going to make this worse than it already is.

As the stillness that settled between them lengthened, Spike began to wonder if maybe she’d fallen asleep again, and debated risking his control by turning to look at her.

“I was…distracted,” Buffy finally said, the timbre of her voice hollow in the cool air.

“By what?” he quizzed. The stars were suddenly interesting again. “The ride since we left the bar wasn’t exactly frolicking with fun.”

There it is, the little voice inside her head squeaked. Your opening. Ask him about the kiss.

“I’m worried about Willow,” she said instead, and shook a mental fist at the little voice. Ha, she thought with satisfaction. Don’t think you can fool me that easy.

Each time she spoke, her breath warmed his cheek, tickling the inside of his mouth with anticipation, reminding him of her proximity as he fought to contain the control she seemed to suck from his flesh by her mere presence. “She’ll be all right,” he said gruffly, and closed his eyes. There. Block it all out. Just wait out the next few minutes until you can get back on the damn road and she’s tucked safely away in the back seat. “Red’ll be all right,” he repeated.

“You’re going to help me…in New Orleans, right?”

“Sure. I know people, got a few markers I can call in. It’ll at least give us the lay of the land, but if that Stella’s sung in a single club in that town, don’t worry. We’ll find her.”

“I’m…glad I’ve got you as an ally in this, Spike.” How’s that? she asked the little voice in her head. Does that satisfy you?

Nope.

“Just don’t be spreading the word on that. I’ve got me a reputation to protect, you know.”

She couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled from her throat. “God, Spike, if your rep isn’t shot to hell already, it’s certainly already got enough bullet holes to make it look like Swiss cheese. I don’t think anything I could say now would make it any worse.”

He should’ve known it wouldn’t be words that broke his resolve. Her laughter hooked into his chest with kitten claws that prickled instead of hurt, too soft to inflict real damage but strong enough to sink into the unbeating muscle and tug with inexorable ease, forcing his chin sideways, the desire to see her face lit up in delight too great to ignore as his eyes met hers.

The darkness did nothing to disguise the bright hazel that gleamed back at him, and though her teeth exposed beneath her smile held their own shine, his gaze was locked on hers, blue drowning in green as her giggles slowly faded.

Nothing else, just her…and him…and you know you want to echoing inside two different heads. Inside her chest, Buffy’s heart suddenly erupted, everything that had seemed so baffling ever since that afternoon exploding into a white fury of simplicity as, without even thinking, her neck began to stretch forward, eyes flickering between the sinking sapphire of his aspect and that full bottom lip.

His met hers halfway, slightly tremulous, definitely unsure, afraid to taste yet hungry to devour. She was the first to part her lips, to sneak her tongue out and taste the nectar of his mouth, her breath shuddering through her body as she fervently wished she wasn’t bound to stillness by her wound.

Her boldness strengthened his resolve, and Spike’s hand came up, fingertips gliding along the velvet underside of her jaw, stopping on the fine point of her chin to pull it gently closer. Hurt, she’s hurt, he reminded himself, but deepened the kiss anyway, ignoring the implications and instead focusing on the pinnacle of her blood rushing so close, her body crying out to his as the scent of her arousal overcame the smell of her injuries.

Buffy was panting when he finally pulled away, the slightest of pouts curving her lower lip as darkened eyes rose to meet his. “I’m…” she started, only to have her breath catch in her throat when the fingers that had been on her chin rose to settle over her mouth.

“Don’t,” he murmured. “We start on the words and somehow we always end up mucking things up.”

She laughed, in spite of the truth in his statement. “That’s because you’re in love with hearing yourself talk, Spike.”

The retort came automatically to his lips, but he bit it back as the realization that she was teasing him tempered the ire that had risen in his gullet. “You seemed to be enjoying it this afternoon,” he reminded her in a guileless taunt, and was rewarded with a faint blush in her cheeks.

“You can be mildly amusing when you’re not being an ass,” Buffy replied.

“Think the same can be said about you, pet.”

“And the kiss?” Time to ask. All the gates were down. Hell, she figured she’d pretty much smashed them by initiating that last caress. What could she possibly have to lose now?

“Which one?”

“Either. Both. You pick.” She wanted to be able to look away, but the draw of blue was too great to ignore, and so she waited, gazing into his eyes, small teeth nibbling at her lower lip.

He seemed fascinated by the play happening on her mouth, and resisted the urge to join her in the biting. “You’re goin’ to think I’m a poof,” Spike warned, his voice a silken rumble against her bare skin.

“It’s better than hating you, right?”

It was meant to be a joke---he knew that was her intention---but the insinuation that she didn’t, that she might in fact be harboring feelings other than loathing caused the hair on the vampire’s arms to stand on end, surprising him with the abrupt wish to hear her confess to more. Sod it, he thought. If she can do this, so can I.

“Bloody spectacular, luv,” he whispered, and drew the pad of his thumb over the line of her jaw. “Both of them.”

And there it was, as much confession as he thought he could do in such a short period of time, hanging there waiting for the Slayer to either dash it to the ground to grind underneath her well-heeled foot or to embrace with even a fraction of the passion she’d shown during the pair of caresses. He scared himself by hoping for the latter; he just wished he could predict which she was going to select.

Buffy surprised him by turning her head just enough to catch the palm of his hand with her mouth. “Thank you for being honest,” she murmured as she pulled away. Her lashes lifted, a small smile curling her lips. “Is my time up yet? Do you think we can get back on the road now?”

The shift in topic was unexpected. “Yeah,” Spike said, and scrambled to his feet, breaking the spell that had woven around them. As he glanced down at her, saw her upturned face looking up into his, he amended his assessment. Not a broken spell, he decided with a tilt of his head. Just…suspended for a bit. She wasn’t running from him. She was just trying to get things back on track.

He grinned. Kind of ironic to think that he was part of that track now.

And the thing of it was…

They both knew it.