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

Chapter 7: So Near, So Far

There was something ironic about sipping a cup of hot tea while watching the sweltering California sun peek over the tiled roofs in a promise of another scorching summer day, but at the moment, Giles was too tired to dwell on it.

Eight-thirty in the morning, and an all-night research session had provided nothing of any relevance to aid them in Willow’s disappearance.  Oh, certainly, he’d learned quite a bit about various talismans that resembled the mark on the young man’s wrist, and he’d most definitely acquired more knowledge on the powers of singing than he’d ever thought imaginable, but none of it was pertinent to their current situation.  At least, he didn’t think so. 

And without something a bit more to go on, he was afraid that they would just be spinning their wheels here in Sunnydale. 

The thought that he had perhaps been too hasty in despatching Buffy and Spike on their own to New Orleans had crossed his mind more than once, but the Watcher was refusing to dwell upon it, or the idea of his Slayer spending so much time in the close company of the vampire at all.  Granted, it had been his idea to send them off together in the first place, but that had been borne of necessity more than anything else.  Just because Spike was chipped, it didn’t mean he couldn’t still be dangerous.  He just hoped that the pair had reached some sort of understanding along their travels to make it as painfree as possible.

“Hey there, Mr. Ex-Librarian Man,” chirped Xander as he entered the courtyard outside Giles’ flat.  From his hand swung a brightly colored sack, the scent of fresh pastry already heavy in the air.

Giles looked at his watch with a small frown.  “Aren’t you supposed to work today?” he asked.

“I called in sick.”  A quick glance between the seated Watcher and his closed front door brought a confused smile to his face.  “Please tell me your air conditioning isn’t busted.  Because if it is, I’m putting my vote in right now for moving this research shindig to Starbucks.  No Willow means no playing coffee Nazi which means unlimited java goodness.”  It was a feeble attempt to make light of his best friend’s absence, but even he didn’t buy it, and Giles’ responding smile was half-hearted at best.

“Tara’s asleep on the couch,” he said in explanation.  “I didn’t wish to wake her just yet.  It was a very long, very unproductive night.”

“So no go on the information front, huh?”  He settled himself down on the step next to the Watcher and held the bag open to allow the older man to extract a donut.  “Guess that makes us zero for two then.”

“It’s unfortunate your friend didn’t have any additional information.”

“OK, first of all, not my friend.  We just graduated together.  The guy spent most of high school either stoned or in Snyder’s office.  I mean, yeah, he did clean up some senior year, but frankly, the fact that he’s pulling the graveyard shift at that gas station just goes to show he’s only got about two functioning brain cells left.”

“Weren’t you fired from that gas station?” Giles asked between bites, glancing surreptitiously at the young man out of the corner of his eye.

“And that’s so not the point here.”

Stifling his smile, the Watcher reached for his tea, sipping at it for a moment before continuing.  “You said when you rang last night that he recognized Spike as a vampire and that he seemed appropriately frightened of him.  You don’t think that might have curbed what information he shared with Spike?”

Xander shook his head.  “I think it made him more likely to spill his guts actually,” he said.  “He seemed genuinely shocked by the fact that Spike paid for his gas instead of just being a drive-off.  Kept going on about purple fans and thank yous.  It didn’t make much sense, but then again, no big shocker there.  The guy couldn’t even remember that Anya hadn’t been at our graduation.  Of course, he spent the whole time we were there staring at her breasts---.”

“Do you think he’s reliable then?  If his memory is so sketchy, perhaps his information isn’t trustworthy.”

Another shake of denial.  “Nah, he’s the real deal.  I can’t really blame him for being distracted by Ahn’s chest.  She was wearing that tiny little white thing when we went.  Doesn’t really leave a whole lot to the imagination---.”

Giles cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken.  “I suppose it’s late enough for us to wake Tara and resume our research,” he said, rising to his feet.  “I do hope Buffy calls us today with an update.  I’d like to hear that they’ve arrived safely.”

“Or that she’s finally staked Fangboy’s ass.  That would be good news, too.”  He stopped, brows furrowing.  “Wait.  Except that would leave the Buffster stranded out in the middle of nowhere with a big pile of dust and a rusty old jalopy she can’t drive.  Scratch that.  She can stake his ass once they get to Mardi Gras town.”

For a moment, Giles fumbled with his teacup and donut, wondering which of his now occupied hands he could use to open the door.  He finally opted to stick the pastry in his mouth, holding it between his teeth as he pushed the egress ajar.

As a blast of artificially cooled air met the two already-sweating male bodies, Xander sighed in exaggerated relief, standing on the threshold with his head thrown back, basking in the comfort the inner sanctum offered.  “Ah, blessed arctic ambience,” he said.  “Sometimes, I really wish I was an Eskimo.  I’d even put up with all the whale blubber if it meant not being drenched in my own bodily fluids all day.”  His head lowered, glancing nervously at Giles.  “You know I meant sweat, right?”

The sound of Xander’s voice roused Tara from her spot on the couch, wide eyes blinking as she sat up.  There was a moment of blankness as she looked at her surroundings, followed quickly by the sudden realization of where she was, a hesitant flush staining her cheeks as she hastened to lower her eyes.  “I’m s-s-so sorry,” she stammered, jumping to her feet.  “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“No, really, it’s all right,” Giles assured.  “We did have a long night, after all.  And Willow’s fallen asleep in that same spot more than once.”  At the young woman’s surprised look, he amended, “Well, Xander has, at any rate.  Willow tends to be rather diligent in staying awake for our research sessions.”

Her gaze flickered to the doorway.  “Where’s Anya?” she asked.  “Isn’t she going to help us today?”

Xander shrugged.  “Dunno.  She was gone when I woke up.  She seemed kind of weirded out by our little gas station encounter last night.  But I’m sure she’ll show up some time.”

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

She knew she should go over to Giles’, but somehow her feet didn’t want to cooperate.  Instead, they were curled up against her, her knees drawn up while she hugged her legs close, and she was staring blankly at the opposite wall of her bedroom, her hair hanging limply around her face.

Anya hadn’t slept at all during the night, slipping out of Xander’s bed somewhere around four, walking herself home while she mused on thoughts of death, and mysterious warnings from old friends, and the possibility that something serious could happen to disrupt the life she was beginning to forge for herself.  As far as lives went, it wasn’t one she would’ve chosen, but things were finally beginning to shape up for her here in Sunnydale, and all of a sudden, it looked like Willow was going to be the one to smash the whole thing to smithereens.

Stupid witch, she thought irritably, perching her chin on the knees she hugged close to her body.  Why does she have to go and ruin my fun by getting herself kidnapped?  Everything was just hunky-dory.  Lots of sex, a nicely-shaped boyfriend who looked like he’d finally found a job he could stick with, no death on the horizon.  And then presto!  All of it was taken away in a blink of an eye, all because Willow was part of some apocalyptic nightmare about to happen on the other side of the country.  Well, maybe not all of it.  She still had Xander, even if he had been too tired to have sex more than once last night.  But her peace of mind was officially missing in action, and death…well, death had decided to pop its ugly head up and remind the ex-demon that this time, she could very well end up on his dance card.

She had actually started coming to grips with Halfrek’s warning, deciding that maybe her old friend was over-reacting, or that as long as she kept Xander from going to New Orleans, the pair of them could at the very least avoid the worst of the mass destruction and deliverance of all things evil that seemed to be brewing down there.  Then, they’d arrived at that damn gas station.

And everything had pretty much gone to hell in a human-shaped handbasket.

It was that clerk’s fault.  What was his name again?  Bill…Phil…Will…Kill… Anya scowled.  Kill, yeah, that’s what she wanted.  What she wouldn’t do to be able to shove a little lethal vengeance down the little creepmeister’s throat right about now.  Maybe have thousands of bees sting that wagging tongue of his.  After all, he was the one who’d brought up graduation, dredging up the past and forcing Xander to remember that, yes, Anya Jenkins had run away from the impending apocalypse, fearful of her own life, only to return when the coast was all clear.  They’d argued about it briefly on the way home, ending with Xander’s declaration that she would never do something like that now, not after becoming a member of the Scooby gang and all.  He hadn’t even bothered to listen to her when she’d tried explaining about the whole not-wanting-to-die thing, a pursuit she considered rather valid considering they had such a short span on the mortal plane, and instead returned the conversation to his growing worry for the redheaded witch.

Stupid Willow, she repeated.  This is all your fault.

The part of it that was so maddening was Anya wasn’t even sure why Halfrek had even bothered to show up in the first place.  Self-preservation was very high on the ex-demon’s priority list, and even without her old friend’s coaxing, she would’ve moved the earth to make sure her safety odds were as good as possible.  So then why the extra nudge to stay as far away from New Orleans as she could manage?  It wasn’t like it was high on her exotic getaway spots.  Surprisingly enough, she’d only ever been to the Southern city once in her lifetime, well over a century earlier, and that visit was hardly motivation enough for her to return…

She stiffened, eyes widening in the dim light of her bedroom as flashes from her past streaked across her mind’s eye.  Holy crap, she thought.  That couldn’t be why Hallie’s gone all doomsayer on me, is it?  How could one have anything to do with the other?  That was a hundred and some odd years ago, with someone who was most definitely not Willow.  It couldn’t be.  Did Halfrek even know about the voix mortelle?  No.  It wasn’t logical.  And yet…

It was the only connection to New Orleans Anya could find.  And if this was the real reason she was being warned away from it, the idea of kidnapping Xander and disappearing to somewhere in Siberia all of a sudden sounded a lot more appealing…

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

The chill wafting across her shoulder was the last thing she was expecting, and Buffy’s eyes blinked against the dark shadows met by her waking gaze.  She was still lying down, but no longer on the leather of Spike’s back seat.  It wasn’t the slick vinyl of the sleeping bag, either.  No, what rested under her cheek was the stiff cotton of a cheap pillowcase, the scent of too much fabric softener filling her nose, and the cold embracing her skin was air conditioning.

Groaning slightly, Buffy sat up, her limbs stiff from inactivity, her legs swinging over the edge of the mattress as she glanced around the small hotel room.  At some point, Spike had stopped again, but how he got her inside during the daytime without even waking her was beyond the Slayer’s understanding.  She only knew that she was here, and the vampire was…

…sprawled across a chair in the far corner, legs kicked out in front of him, head propped up on a borrowed cushion from the bed.  His eyes were closed in slumber, the murk of the room deepening the hollows of his cheeks, but even in the gloom, she could see the angry welts adorning his hands and wrists.

“Spike!” she called out, leaping from the bed, all thoughts to her own injury gone in light of the burns she was now witnessing.  Stupid, pig-headed vamp.  What in hell did he think he’d been doing?  All he’d had to do was wake her up.  Her shoulder was doing much better; she certainly could’ve walked the few feet from the car on her own so that he could have his blanket for protection.  At the very least, why didn’t the demon own any gloves?

Crouching at his side, her hazel gaze scanned the wounds before flickering around the room, spying her duffel tossed to the floor next to the door.  She had her first aid kit in her hands in a flash, emptying its contents onto the bed, scrambling for the antiseptic cream before returning to Spike’s side, and was unscrewing the cap when his eyes opened.

“The Slayer kneeling at my feet,” he rumbled sleepily, lids heavy as he looked down at her.  “Must be in the middle of dream number fourteen.”

She ignored his gibe, lightly taking his hand in hers.  The heat of the burns seemed foreign on his cool flesh, and she winced silently at the lividity of the inflammation.  It was much worse up close, and Buffy wondered yet again why he would subject himself to this rather than wake her up.  “So, is this masochistic streak a vampire thing, or a Spike thing?” she said.  “Because I don’t get it.”

“’S’nothing,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on the lines between her brows as she set to work, easing the cream onto his hands.  Her tone was sharp, but there was no denying the worry haunting the hazel, even in the dark.  He’d spent the hours after their midnight pitstop listening to her breathing in the rear, reliving the kiss under the stars over and over again in his head, wishing he had the nerve to pull the DeSoto over and press the issue of whatever was happening between them.  She wanted him---well, her body did, at least---but was he merely a substitute for Soldier Boy?  Was she just interested in forgetting whatever had happened to her in Sunnydale?

“You needed your sleep,” he further offered.  “The less you move that shoulder, the faster it’ll mend.”

“You sound like Mom,” she said, but there was a twinkle in her eyes as she glanced up at him through her lashes.

“And I’m takin’ that as a compliment, pet, whether that’s how you intended it or not.  Your mum’s a right smart bird.  Could do worse than---.”  He hissed as the cream came into contact with a particularly sensitive portion of his hand, almost jerking it away from her grasp.  “Don’t know why you’re fussin’, though,” he said through gritted teeth, reluctantly relaxing back into her administration.  “Not like I can get an infection from it.”

“It’ll make it feel better.”

“If that’s your idea of better…”  Spike’s voice trailed away as a warm, directed stream of air caressed the flesh of his wrists, his gaze fixated on the tiny purse Buffy had made of her mouth as she blew across the cream.  He was instantly hard, imagining those lips in that exact same position, only aimed at his cock instead.  So bloody erotic, and did she have any idea what exactly she was doing to him?  Part of the vamp wondered if it was a calculated attempt to get a rise from him, or whether this was just another shade of Slayer seduction wrapped in Buffy innocence.

Bloody hell.

An even bigger part didn’t really care.  Not when he felt like this.  Don’t argue with it, mate, he thought.  Just enjoy it while it lasts.

“What time did we stop?”  Her voice was muted, matching the mood of the dimly lit room, but she didn’t move, keeping his hands lightly clasped in hers, even after she was done with the cream.  Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to stop touching him.  The netherworld of her dreams had been ghosted with firm lips pressed to hers, strong arms cradling her against a firm chest, the throb of punk music echoing in glistening trails across their skin.  Logic told her she was taking a huge risk by opening this door, by allowing possibilities to take form and intrude on her day-to-day life, but for once, Buffy didn’t feel like listening to it.  “I don’t remember much after falling asleep.”

“Just before noon.  Thought I’d grab me a catnap while you were still out of it.”

A quick glance at her watch.  “And it’s just after three now.”  This time, she raised her eyes, meeting his for the first time since coming to his side.  “Are you still tired?  Because if you need more---.”

“You’d be surprised what’ll do me,” Spike replied huskily, and extracted his hands from hers, straightening in his chair.  “If we get back on the road now, we’ll be Big Easy way just after midnight.”  The corner of his mouth lifted.  “S’long as you promise to let me sleep when we get there, that is.  Can’t go on this way indefinitely, you know.  Gotta get myself sorted sooner or later.”

She smiled in kind.  “No, really?  And here I thought the Big Bad was a tough guy.  Turns out he needs his beauty sleep just like the rest of us.”

“You could stay awake for a century and still be beautiful, pet.”  The compliment was past his lips before he could stop it, and when Buffy flushed in embarrassment, standing and turning away from him, Spike mentally kicked himself, grimacing and shaking his head.  Oh, sure, play the poncy git when she’s just making with the funnies.  That’s not goin’ to scare her away.  Not at all.

“I think we’ll probably end up beating Willow there, don’t you?” she was saying, busying herself in packing away the scattered bits from the first aid kit.  “No way can that Freddie match your pace.  Not if he’s human like Tara says.”

“That’s probably goin’ to work to our advantage,” Spike replied.  “We’ll have time to do some pokin’ around before they get there.  I know some people---.”

“You keep saying that.  Are these people people, or are these demon people?  Because I’m not sure I’m really big on the needing to rely on a demon thing.”

“A bit of both.”  He stopped, his face suddenly serious.  “You’re gambling on my aid here, Slayer, and last time I checked, I had myself a tent in the demon camp.  Or…were those noises of gratitude just that?  Noise?”

Buffy waved her hand in dismissal.  “That’s different.  You don’t count.”

“Oh?  And why’s that?”

She seemed surprised by his change in attitude, eyes widening as she looked at him.  “Hello?  Chip, remember?  You can’t hurt me.  Or my friends.  Ergo, not a worry.  Not really.”

Even though the words were true, it didn’t lessen their sting, and the vampire scowled, ducking his head.  “Way to go for boostin’ a bloke’s ego, Slayer,” he groused.

“Because your ego is in such danger of deflating, right?”  She rolled her eyes.  “Try it on someone who doesn’t know you so well, Spike.  This girl’s not buying.”

She had turned her back on him, returning to her tidying, when she felt his hand wrap around her arm, swivelling her shoulder around so that she was forced to face him.  There was a flash of furious blue and then his lips came crashing down on hers, bruising her mouth in a ferocity that had nothing to do with the tenderness that he’d exhibited out under the stars, and everything to do with danger teetering on the edge of a cliff, threatening to jump and take everything with it.

It was over before she could respond, leaving her gasping, staring up into Spike’s demon visage, his golden eyes ablaze in a combination of righteous fury and sorrowful bitterness.  How even his vampire gaze could convey so much, she had no idea, but before she could even think to move, he had closed the gap between them again, his tongue darting out to the edge of her lip, catching the drop of blood that was beading there.

“Don’t think a moonlight kiss means you can just slip your leash over this vamp’s neck and he’s not goin’ to notice,” he murmured, his cheek hovering just millimetres from hers.  Even just a drop of her blood, that pungent Slayer lifeforce he’d thought he craved, burned his throat in an agonizing fire that made his erection throb within his jeans, forced the adrenaline through his veins with the force of a hurricane’s gale. Not the smartest thing he’d ever done, he decided.  Drinking at the font of temptation when they still had miles to go was sure to drive him to distraction.

“Or that this little piece of plastic in my skull means you’ve sussed me out for good,” Spike added before she could respond.  His game face slipped away, and he pulled back so that he could meet her startled gaze.  “You don’t even know the half of what you’re playin’ with here, pet.  That’s not to say I’m not lookin’ forward to the game, but maybe you should consider reading the whole rulebook before you go makin’ your next move.  ‘Cause underestimating the other players?  Surest road to gettin’ yourself hurt.”  He pulled back and nodded toward the door.  “Now, why don’t you be a good little Slayer and scamper off to check us out of this joint, eh?  The sooner you settle the bill, the faster we can hit the trail.”

Buffy frowned as she watched him brush past her, frozen in her spot as his words whirled around in her head in a riotous melee.  “What’re you doing?” she asked as he picked up the telephone.

“Gettin’ our New Orleans accommodations sorted,” came the reply.  “I don’t really fancy any more hotels, do you?”

Her voice was faint, her confusion still supreme.  “I guess not.”  Her hazel eyes swept over the breadth of ebony as he stood with his back to her, punching in a series of numbers on the touchpad.  OK, admitting to herself that she was attracted to Spike had been a Goliath step for her.  She had even been enjoying the camaraderie that had been developing between them ever since they set out.  But his words---not a threat, but a promise that there was so much more she was only beginning to grasp---underlaid those emotions with an intoxicating thrill, tipping all of it on end, as if someone much bigger than she had picked up her world like a giant snowglobe and given it a hearty shake.

It was going to be interesting to see where they all landed once the flakes settled.

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

His hands were shaking as he pulled over to the side of the road, his face even more pale as he rested his forehead on the steering wheel.  The tremors that were vibrating through his body could have been withdrawal symptoms, or from some sort of fever, or a reaction to the weather. 

They were none of these. 

What shook Freddie now was fear.

A glance into his rearview mirror betrayed Willow’s sleeping form slumped in her seat, the slightest of sheens causing her freckled cheeks to glow.  In spite of the circumstances, she had been quite cooperative, and he’d even ventured to remove the tape from her mouth this afternoon so that she could have a real lunch, instead of some vitamin shake.  She’d just glared at him the entire time she’d eaten the sandwich, those green eyes doing their best to immolate him on the spot, but she’d remained silent until he’d started tearing a fresh strip of tape from the roll.

“I don’t like you very much,” she’d said tightly, her lips thin.

Her words had made him smile, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye as he returned the tape to the toolbox.  “That’s perfectly all right, darlin’,” he’d replied.  “You never have.”

Once she was back in place, he’d popped in the cassette Stella had specially made, watching the redhead slowly drift to sleep as the sultry songs orchestrated specifically for this purpose suffused the air of the van in piquance.  For a bit there, Freddie’s own lids had started to droop, but a quick stop at a gas station and two extra-large coffees later, and he was back to himself, head clear of the music’s allure. 

It had taken two hours for her to stir.  He’d expected a little bit of movement---he’d loosened her bonds slightly when they’d stopped for lunch---so the first rustling hadn’t garnered more than a quick glance in his mirror.  It wasn’t even the second that jarred the toolbox at her side.

It was the third.  The one that picked up the box of cassettes from the passenger seat and slammed it into his side.

Plastic had gone flying as the wheel jerked in his hands, and Freddie had fought to regain control of the vehicle, small eyes darting from the road before him to the redhead straining against her bonds.  As quickly as he could manage, he’d popped the tape out of the player, turning the radio on to a country station in an attempt to clear the air of the effects of Stella’s singing, and then watched as Willow immediately relaxed, her mind slipping into a normal sleep, the effects of her power dissipating like smoke.

He had been warned.  He’d even seen evidence of Stella’s power more than once.

All of that was nothing like the raw sway that had erupted from Willow.  And in her sleep. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like that.

As he took a deep breath, Freddie waited for the shaking to subside, rubbing at the mark on his wrist that seemed to be pulsing in rhythm with the unseen power behind him, trying to will away the rising sense of dread in his stomach.  Stella had said this could happen, but she wasn’t worried about it. 

He had to trust in her.  It’s all he’d ever done. 

He couldn’t afford to stop now.

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

Chapter 8: On Green Dolphin Street

Not talking once they got into the car had seemed like a really good idea at the time.  With the sudden shift in their relationship, and Spike’s dangerous promise of things she was only beginning to grasp, Buffy didn’t think she was in any position to try and be all normal girl with the conversation, or banter girl, or even pissed-off Slayer girl, for that matter.  What she didn’t realize was that if Spike wasn’t talking, it meant she wasn’t talking.

And if she wasn’t talking, that meant she was thinking.

And thinking plus a confused-slash-uncomfortable Buffy did not add up to kittens and daisies.

It still took her an hour to work up the nerve to get her vocal cords to work.  That was exactly fifty-eight minutes after she’d reached the decision that any mental processes that she could achieve at the moment would only serve to heap on the pile-o-rama of tension that was already tapdancing inside her head.

“I can’t believe it’s still so hot,” she finally managed.  Inwardly, she groaned.  Ohmigod, I’m talking about the weather.  Pathetic much, Buffy?

The look he shot her was quizzical, that eyebrow cocked in mild amusement.  “That’s because it’s still summer, pet,” he replied.  “Time hasn’t decided to do a runner for it just ‘cause you’re stuck in here with me.”

“It’s not so much being stuck.  It’s more like…mutual tolerance.  Right?”

“Is that what we’re calling this?”

“Calling what?”

“You.  Me.  The troika of kisses.”  He smiled, his eyes reverting back to the road ahead.  “The fact that we both want more of that.”

“Oh.”  It had to be a new record for her.  From weather talk to making out talk in three sentences flat.  Maybe she would’ve been better off thinking instead of talking after all.

“Callin’ it mutual’s all well and good,” Spike was continuing, “but, have to say, the fact that you’re ownin’ up to your share of responsibility here is making me start to get fussed about this mess Red’s gotten herself in.”  The look of confusion she shot him caused him to chuckle.  “Buffy Summers admitting she’s got a yen for the Big Bad?  Sounds like the fifth horseman of the apocalypse to me.”

“What?”  Her indignation, in spite of the tease in his tone, caused her to sputter.  “I don’t have a yen.  Why would you say I have a yen?  I am most definitely yen-free.  Yen-free Slayer here, at your service.”

The long slide of his eyes over her sweating form brought a flush to Buffy’s cheeks, and she folded her arms across her chest, turning her head to stare down at the map that rested in her lap.  Crap.  That even sounded double entendre-y to her.  Knowing Spike’s passion for all things lewd and lascivious, it was no wonder he was looking at her like something to eat.  And not in a bloodsucking kind of way.  More in a lay back and spread those---.

It was all she could do not to groan out loud at the sudden sensations that were tingling her thighs as the thought of Spike’s mouth anywhere near her sex effectively skewered all the rational ones she’d been trying so desperately to cling to.  Who did she think she was kidding?  Those fantasies she’d been so quick to dismiss prior to their little road trip had been brought out in glorious Technicolor at the first kiss they’d shared in front of Fang, and to deny what he was saying now sounded absolutely ludicrous, even to her.  Capital Y, capital E, capital N.  Any more capital and she’d need to declare herself a state in order to accommodate it.

“No need to get your knickers all in a twist about it, pet,” Spike said, and though the amusement still clung to his voice, there was a somnolent caress to his tone that almost immediately soothed some of the scattered nerves that had escaped Buffy’s control.  “Truth be told, as delicious as it sounds to have that gorgeous mouth of yours ‘fess up to what you’re actually feelin’ for a change, I’m not so sure my head’s straight enough at the mo’ to do this particular topic of conversation the justice it deserves.  Not to say it won’t happen.  But maybe not just yet.”

“So…all that stuff back at the hotel.  Does this mean you were just trying to mess with me?  Because that is sooo not the way to ensure you make it to New Orleans outside of a vacuum cleaner bag, Spike.”

“Ah, now on that, you’re not gettin’ off quite so easy.  Now, on the odd occasion, my mouth has been known to have a tendency to get ahead of my brain, yes.  But not back there.”  He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.  “Meant every word, Slayer.”

The silence that ensued wrapped both of them in heated arms, losing them in the whirlwind of thoughts that rambled through their heads.  So many questions…so many bewildering feelings…not very many satisfactory answers.  Buffy was grateful for the reprieve he had offered her, but as she sat there, listening to the road whoosh by in a comforting rhythm, part of her mused on the vampire’s implicit confession. 

In spite of his earlier bravado, his reluctance to discuss it now---not that she could, not in any intelligent fashion at least---showed her that he was just as rattled by the shift in their relationship as she was, albeit seemingly more in control as to how it affected him outwardly.  Spike never seemed to be lacking in the insight department, and the fact that he was withholding those opinions he held so near and dear to his heart was ample evidence for her that this was just as much of a shocker to him as it was to her.

And now she was stuck thinking again.  If only…

He was the one to break first.  “If you think it’s hot now,” he said, the huskiness that had accompanied his previous words replaced by a more neutral mirth, “just wait until we get to New Orleans.”

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

Eight hours, two bathroom pitstops---

“Told you not to get the extra five ounces on that Slurpee, Slayer.”

“But they were free!”

“Free does not always equal good.”

“That’s rich, coming from the guy who does his home shopping at the junkyard.  Is that this month’s decorating tip from Better Crypts and Graveyards?”

“Just because I nick most of my stuff doesn’t mean I don’t have discerning tastes.  Just means I know how to save my pennies for the important stuff of life.”  He’d grinned.  “Like a lovely, flowing, streaming rush of---.”

“If you don’t want me to ruin your precious leather seats by having an accident, you will not finish that sentence.”

 “You’re sure you don’t want me to just pull over?  Think that tree’s got your name on it, actually. Oh, wait.  My mistake.  Just a bit of black rot.”

“Ha ha.  Very funny.”

“That one’s leaves don’t look too rash-worthy, though.  Your delicate little Slayer thighs should be safe as houses usin’ those.  All the conveniences of caveman plumbing, right there at your fingertips.”

“Bite me, Spike.”

“Love to, pet, but something tells me if I did that about now, you’d bust open like some over-ripe tomato.”

---and several states later, Spike was rolling to a stop on the darkened street, the faint sounds of a trumpet filtering through his open window, punctuated by the occasional bark of laughter. 

At his side, Buffy dozed in a light slumber, thin tendrils of her hair clinging to her sweat-beaded forehead.  She had fallen asleep just before they’d hit the city, and though she had voiced a growing excitement about their arrival while they chatted, Spike didn’t currently have the heart to wake her.  She’d see enough once they were settled, he reasoned.  In searching for Red, she’d probably be in and out of every cranny the place had to offer just to root her out.  Besides…

His gaze softened as it glided over the curve of her cheek, absorbing the relaxed set of her mouth before settling on the visible pulse at the base of her neck.  Letting his thoughts stew in the back of his mind while they’d talked today had given him permission to admit at least one thing to himself; for whatever reason, he needed her to be all right, to get what she needed, what she wanted, and right now, what she needed was sleep, time to rest to prepare for the stress of what lay ahead.  He wouldn’t be the one to take that away.

Why he felt like this, Spike wasn’t sure.  The world’s a more interesting place with her in it and all that rubbish, he thought distractedly, fighting the urge to reach out and brush back the hair that fell over her face.  Wanting to shag her was one thing; he knew how to deal with that.

Wanting to protect her was entirely different.

Carefully, his hand dropped to the door handle, easing it open with a slight creak that made him grimace as his eyes darted over to the Slayer.  No movement.  Good.  He’d be in and out before she even knew he was gone.

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

She didn’t know what wakened her.  One minute, she was asleep.  The next, her eyes had fluttered open and she had realized the car was no longer moving.

Sitting up, Buffy frowned as she saw the empty driver’s seat, leaning over to peer out Spike’s still-open window.  We can’t need gas again, she thought irritably.  I swear this thing guzzles like there’s no tomorrow.

What met her eyes, though, was a sight she hadn’t expected to see quite so soon.  Sure, he’d told her that they would probably arrive some time in the middle of the night, but part of her hadn’t really believed the vampire.  He had a way of exaggerating even the smallest of details to the point of non-recognition, making it hard to know just when he was stretching the truth.  This looked to be one of the non-stretchy variety.

A narrow city street lined with a row of darkened buildings, most of them with balconies on their second floors, greeted her.  It was difficult to see what exactly they were for---they could have been homes or offices for all Buffy knew---but, from the structure directly opposite the car, the unmistakeable blare of a trumpet coaxed its way into the moonlight, with the rolling bass of accompanying drums following, almost causing the street to vibrate in concord.

It was too late for that to be happening anywhere but at a club, she thought.

Which meant they were there.  In New Orleans.  Finally.

But…where the hell was Spike?

As she climbed from the car, Buffy grabbed her bag, making sure to slip the stake that had been rolling around beneath her feet into one of its inner compartments.  Better to be safe than sorry.  If this is one of Spike’s favorite cities, no doubt other demons feel the exact same way.

Outside the DeSoto, the air was pungent, a combination of sticky pastry sweetness, smoke, and raw sewage that the Slayer wasn’t too sure she found agreeable.  Eau de Big Easy, she thought.  The unique perfume was nothing, however, compared to the heat that rippled visibly in front of her, closer even than it had been in Sunnydale, immediately drawing whatever fluid that was in her skin to the surface.  Doesn’t matter about the smell, she grumbled as she made her way to the club door.  I can’t breathe in this anyway.

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

The keys dangled from the demon’s hands, catching what little light was in the bar and scattering it in individual shards across Spike’s cheeks.  “I even had someone go in and change over all the sheets,” it said brightly, a too-eager smile creasing its scaled face.  “Black satin.  Just like you like ‘em.”

“Thanks.”  The vampire took the overlarge ring, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he straightened his shoulders.  So far, so good.  Nobody was acting like they knew what had happened to him in Sunnydale, and as long as this crowd didn’t learn he was working with the Slayer, this little escapade for Red could still turn out to be fun.  Just had to make sure he didn’t lose his Big Bad image.  Might put a crimp on things if he had to suddenly start defending himself for betraying his “kind.”

“I still can’t believe they changed the name of the street, though,” he said disdainfully.  “Whatever happened to taking pride in your history?  Totally strips me of my faith in humanity.”

The demon laughed, too loud in its desire to please.  “It won’t last long,” he assured.  “As soon as someone offs the guy who bought the block, they’ll change it back.  Just wait.”  His face brightened.  “Or you could do it.  I can tell you where he lives, where he works.  Maybe even sell a few tickets for when you do it.  Nobody puts on a slaughter like---.”

“Spike?”

Fuck, the vamp thought, as her blonde head appeared at his elbow.  This would’ve gone so much easier if she’d just stayed in the bloody car.

Outwardly, he gave no indication of being flustered, and instead turned to gaze down at Buffy.  “Thought you were sleeping,” he said, his tone light but slightly brittle.

“I was.  And now I’m not.”

The demon watched them with a frown.  “Who’s this?” he asked.

Hazel eyes hardened as they swivelled to look at Spike’s companion.  “I’m Buffy.  Who the hell are you?”

“Pablo.”

Her gaze swept over his seven-foot frame, taking in the dark red scales and bony musculature.  “Huh.  You don’t look Mexican.”

“And you don’t look like Drusilla.”  Pablo turned back to Spike.  “What’s going on here?  How come you’re hanging around with…”  He stopped, sniffing pointedly at the air before screwing up his face in disgust.  “…a human?   I always thought you and Drusilla were forever.  Don’t tell me you gave her up for…for…for this.”

“We---.”

“She dumped him.”

Spike’s jaw clicked in anger at the interruption, his head tilting to look at Buffy in irritation. She appeared calm, totally at ease considering she had just started them down the path of too-many-questions, and her hands hung casually at her side.  He caught a glimpse of the stake she had grabbed in her half-open purse.  Bugger.  The bitch was going to get them both killed if she kept this up.

“No way!”  Pablo’s beady pink eyes went wide, darting between the two blonds, noting the sudden closure over the vampire’s face before returning to Buffy.  Obviously, she was going to be the one who was going to spill on the details.  “What happened?”

She shrugged.  “Chaos demon.  I guess that little antler fetish of hers finally got too tempting to ignore.”

In spite of his annoyance, Spike snorted in amusement, catching the twinkle buried in the depths of her eyes before relaxing his guard.  Buffy wasn’t stupid.  She wasn’t about to start something when she knew they were going to have to rely on his contacts in order to find Red.  Better to give the demon the gossip he was looking for and get going, before more awkward questions got asked.  If they got the proper story out there now, they could count on Pablo to spread the word so that they wouldn’t have to go through this every time.  And she was smart enough to have sussed that out already.  Wonder if she’ll ever stop surprising me, Spike thought, draping his arm protectively over Buffy’s shoulder.  Here’s hoping not.

“Riiiight,” the vamp agreed.  “Turns out, I was the wrong kind of horny for Dru.”

There was a pause.  “That still doesn’t explain why you’re with…her.”

Beneath his touch, he felt the Slayer tense, and wondered momentarily if she was going to crack.  Hold it together, he thought.  Just stay with me here until I can get us out of this.

But she beat him to the punch.

“Since when does Spike have to explain anything to someone barely qualified to be the stick that scrapes the mud from his boots?” Buffy said.  Her voice dripped in ice, and when Spike glanced down at her, there was no mistaking the fiery glints flashing in the grey-green depths of her eyes.  Ever so casually, she tossed her hair back, inadvertently exposing the column of her neck, the scar she bore from Angel’s bite all of a sudden in full view.

She would never come out and say anything, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t give the rumor mill plenty of ammo to get it started.

Pablo’s gaze widened at the sight of the bite, darting from it, to Spike, to Buffy, and then back to Spike.  The question faded from his eyes, to be replaced by the same respect that had been gleaming there when she’d first arrived.

Affecting his best smirk, the vampire hooked his thumb through his belt loop, lowering his head just enough so that his blue eyes glittered dangerously through his lashes.  “I’ll get back to you on that whole slaughter business,” he drawled, and began sauntering away, Buffy tucked firmly against his side.

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

He waited to speak to her until they were back in the safety of the car.

“So, care to enlighten me on that little display in there?” Spike asked, his head tilted, watching her in hungry curiosity as she strapped herself into her seat.

Studiously, she avoided his eyes.  “Just because I’m blonde, doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” Buffy said.  “It’s not like I haven’t been in a demon bar before.  Slayer, remember?  Part of the job description.”

“You know he thinks you’re some kind of thrall now.”

“Well, duh.  That was the point of the whole hair thing.  I’m quippy girl, not flippy girl, in case you haven’t noticed.”  She sighed, stretching her neck to the side to work out the stiffness from her sleep.  “I saw how he was looking at you, like you were some kind of god or something, and figured that if he was typical of your contacts here, it would probably be better for your image if I looked harmless.”  She smiled, finally turning her gaze to look at him.  “Besides, that should work to our advantage in the long run.  Element of surprise.  I can be your secret weapon.”

He had nothing to say to that.  Hearing her refer to herself as something that belonged to him---even indirectly---sent an unexpected trill down his spine, and he settled himself back, hand going automatically to the keys in the ignition.  Your secret weapon, she’d said.  Yours. 

He liked the sound of that.

“Did you get what you came here for?” she was asking, and he had to stop himself for a moment to refocus on the here and now.

“Yeah,” Spike replied.  “Pablo’s the bloke I called about getting our accommodations sorted.”

“Don’t tell me we’re staying with him.”

“We’re not.  We’re staying in a flat he rents out as part of the tourist trade.”  At her quizzical stare, he elaborated, “We’re not paying for it, if that’s what you’re fussed about.  We don’t have the kind of dosh Pablo usually gets for his places.  I just…called in a couple favors.”

“Oh.”  She was silent as the car pulled out into the street, staring out her window.  “So, it’s not around here then?”

“No,” came the answer.  “Faubourg Marigny.  Off of Elysian Fields.  On a street that now carries the unfortunate moniker of Green Dolphin.”

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

As glad as she was to finally be in New Orleans, as glad as she was that she was one step closer to getting Willow back, even as glad as she was that she wasn’t going to be cooped up any longer in the stuffy DeSoto with its definite lackage of air conditioning…Buffy kind of regretted that it was dark when they arrived.  Though there were some streetlights, Green Dolphin turned out to be more of an alley, very dimly lit, and she could barely make out their destination as Spike eased the car to a stop.

The flat in question was actually a tiny cottage, renovated from disarray to a quaint standard that she was sure the tourists found charming.  She as hell sure did.  The details were next to impossible to make out, but as Spike fumbled with the keys, muttering something under his breath about “soddin’ too many,” Buffy let her fingers intertwine with the vines that clung to the walls, breathing in the earthy pungence that evoked images of winding roads under blazing summer skies.  She waited on the threshold when he finally got the door open, listening to him fumble for the light switch, unable to refrain from giggling when she heard a sharp thud followed almost instantaneously by a, “Bloody hell!”

“You OK in there, Spike?” she called into the darkness.  “You didn’t get jumped by a big, bad boogy man, did you?”

She was answered by light, a warm incandescence flooding from the narrow entry, and saw the platinum blond rubbing at his ankle, glaring at the offending hat stand that stood sentry on the other side of the entrance.  “Stupid place for it,” he muttered, and then turned on his good foot to turn the lights on in the rest of the house.

It wasn’t what she was expecting.  Maybe she’d had delusions of Southern grandeur, pictures in her head from Civil War movies of sweeping staircases and elegant wooden furniture.  Whatever the cause, it didn’t prepare her for the ultra-modern décor, the polished black marble floor gleaming up at her in decadent insouciance, the plush white leather couch opposite the fireplace, the chrome and glass accessories scattered throughout the open living area.  In the corner, near a set of patio doors that led to a midnight garden, sat a black baby grand piano.  Cool air wafted from an invisible source, chilling the sweat that clung to her skin, the barely audible hum of the conditioner underlying the ambience like a throaty chuckle.

Buffy’s eyes widened, her duffel frozen on her uninjured shoulder.  It was probably a good thing they weren’t paying for this; no way could this fit into Giles’ modest Watcher budget.

It took her a moment to realize that Spike was no longer in the room, and she pivoted on her heel, skidding slightly against the polish, as she looked around for other exits.  A stainless steel kitchen, separated from the lounge by a curved breakfast bar, was empty, as was the surprisingly enormous black and white bathroom just off the lone hallway.  That left only one other door, and hesitantly, Buffy nudged it open.

“We got us a little problem,” Spike said, his arms folded across his chest, hands tucked inside his armpits.  He wasn’t looking at her when he spoke.  Instead, he was gazing at the king-sized bed in the middle of the room, the plethora of white pillows at its head beckoning to the Slayer to come and join them in repose.

“I’m going to guess this is the only bedroom,” she replied, measuring her words carefully.  “Unless there’s some secret passageway behind the fireplace or something that leads to another wing that we just can’t see from the road.  Because you know, there’s always a secret passage in these kind of places.”

“Bugger,” the vamp said under his breath.  “I should’ve been more specific when I called.  ‘Course there’s only the one bed.  The prat thought I was comin’ in with Dru.”

“So?  It’s no big.  We’ll just share it.”  That made him turn, raising his eyebrows in surprise, and Buffy flushed.  “I meant, in an alternating way.  As in, I get it, then you get it, then I get it, and then you get it.  An every other night deal.  There’s a perfectly good couch out there we can use as well, you know.”

“You sure about that?  ‘Cause I’ve got no problems with---.”

There was no mistaking his leer.  “No.  Not going to happen, Spike.”

He shrugged.  “Problem solved then.”  As he began to brush past her, he was stopped by her hand on his arm.  “What?  We have to sort out bathroom passes, too?”

Her words were hesitant, the hardness from her previous denial gone.  “I…I was just going to say, you know…you can have it tonight.  The bed.  You’ve been all Driving Miss Buffy for over two days now.  This should give you a chance to get caught up on your sleep.”

Her offering was unexpected, and Spike tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he scanned her face.  “Thanks,” he said, and slowly reached up to casually brush back a lock of hair that had fallen over her shoulder.  He fully expected her to stiffen, to pull away and slug him right before she called him a monster, but for some reason, he didn’t care.  He just had to touch her.

She didn’t do any of that.  Instead, she just stood there, staring up at him, her normally easy-to-read face suddenly inscrutable to him.

“I’m goin’ to go unload the car,” he said, reluctant to leave her, but knowing it had to be done sooner or later.  “Feelin’ a bit peckish, I think.”

“Oh!”  The mention of food sparked the synapses in Buffy’s brain to fire, and she frowned.  “If Pablo thought you were coming with Dru, does that mean there’s nothing for me to eat in the house?”

“There won’t be much,” he agreed.  “Just some basics.  But you can run out in the morning and pick up some supplies while I’m sleeping.  Plus, I’ll give you the name of a butcher where you can go pick me up some more blood.  My stocks are runnin’ low.”

“Oh.  OK.”  He was almost out the door when she spoke up again.  “Don’t plan on getting used to being coddled, Spike.  Once you’re fully rested, I fully intend to see you pulling your own weight around here.”

“Well, I plan on pullin’ something…” he responded with a chuckle, and disappeared into the hall.  Thank god for English-isms and Buffy’s lack of sense when it came to them, he thought.  If she knew he meant he planned on getting to her, he wasn’t sure he’d be making it through the night dustfree.

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

She was already curled up on the couch, changed from her clothes into shorts and a t-shirt, when he came back in from the car.  “That didn’t take you long,” Spike commented as he headed for the kitchen.

“Five years of slaying and sneaking out of the house really hones your dressing speed,” she replied.  “You’d be surprised at how fast I can move if I set my mind to it.” 

“Promises, promises,” he murmured good-naturedly as he poured out a blood packet into one of the mugs.

“What was that?” she called from the living room.

“Nothing!”

He knew he didn’t have any real reason to be feeling this way, but somehow, Spike couldn’t shake the sense of domesticity that had settled over him ever since arriving in New Orleans.  Well, since Buffy had stood up to Pablo, that is.  He’d been so looking forward to prowling around his old haunts, but now, his passions seemed to be diverted elsewhere, his thoughts lingering on introducing her to some of the pleasures the city had to offer.  Oh, sure, they had this business about Red to sort out, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t have fun at the same time, did it?”

“Don’t forget to write down the name of that butcher before you go to sleep,” Buffy reminded him when he emerged from the kitchen, his mug of warmed blood cupped in his hand.  “And is there a map or something to help me find my way around?  Playing Christopher Columbus is all well and good when you’re on vacation, but I don’t want to waste an entire day if I get lost.”

Spike gestured toward a small desk against the wall.  “There’ll be touristy rigamarole in one of the drawers.  Just help yourself to whatever’s there.  You can always ask the locals questions, too.  They’re used to it and generally can be pretty friendly about the whole matter.” 

Her gaze flickered to the furniture in question before sliding back to him.  “You know what I just realized?” she said.  “There’s no television.  What are you going to do during the day when I’m gone?”

“There is a telly.  It’s in the bedroom.”  He grinned.  “Pablo and I go way back.  He knows me pretty well so he made sure I was set up here proper, just the way I like it.”  His grin softened.  “And since when are you worried about me bein’ entertained outside of your presence, Slayer?”

“I’m not.  It’s just…just…”  She floundered for a moment, searching for a valid excuse.  “A bored Spike will go looking for something to keep him busy,” she declared triumphantly.  “And you and I both know that doesn’t always turn out very pretty.”

Spike chuckled.  “Got me there,” he admitted.  A few steps toward the bedroom, and he stopped, ducking his head to look back at the blonde.  She had already stretched herself out, golden hair splayed over the large armrest, hazel eyes dancing over the immaculate furnishings.  “And, Buffy?” he murmured, waiting for her to look over at him before continuing.

The fact that he’d used her given name didn’t go unnoticed by the Slayer, and she felt her heart pounding inside her chest as she looked up at him.  He was etched in chiaroscuro relief against the walls, a study in shadows surprisingly resplendent.  No wonder Pablo had picked this place for Spike, she thought.  It suited him perfectly.  All black, and white, and hard edges, and plush surprises.  “What?” she said, her voice barely a breath.

His words were coated in caramel, his eyes almost ebony as the irises consumed the blue.  “Don’t be thinkin’ I’ve forgotten about what I said in the car,” he warned.  “There’s a lot for that beautiful head of yours to wrap itself around, but, just so you know, I plan on bein’ there when it does.  Just a bit knackered right now, is all.  Maybe I’m all mouth and no trousers here, but I don’t think so.  Fact is, you and me both know something happened last night and it wasn’t just gettin’ yourself stuck on that vamp’s blade.  It was…well…”  He stopped, his tongue running over the edge of his teeth while he contemplated his next words.

“Bloody spectacular,” Buffy murmured, repeating the description he’d used when she’d pressed on the exact same issue, her gaze locked on his.

The corner of Spike’s mouth lifted to hear the awkwardness of the slang fall from her California tongue.  “Yeah,” he agreed, and turned back toward the hallway, his voice trailing after him.  “G’night, luv.  Sleep tight.”

Chapter 9: Footprints

He was trying to be as quiet as possible as he reshelved the books.  A very late call from Buffy had informed the small group of her safe arrival in New Orleans, refueling the Scoobies’ vigor in research.  As a result, both Xander and Tara had stayed up until well past six that morning, and were now collapsed in slumber on either end of the couch.  Even Anya, who had shown up on Giles’ doorstep the previous evening with no explanation for her earlier absence, had done her share, even if she didn’t last nearly as long as the others.  Giles was chalking that up to her relatively recent incorporation into the gang.  Tara might’ve been newer than the ex-vengeance demon, but at least her commitment to finding some answers could be explained by her devotion to Willow.  Anya really had no such ties.

The stack he was carrying slipped precariously within his grasp, and Giles quickly fumbled with the uppermost tomes, leaning them against his inner arm as he fought to regain control.  The top book skittered to the floor, landing with a quiet thump against his toes, and the Watcher winced as he crouched down to pick it up.  Over the open pages, however, his hand hovered, his eyes narrowing as he squinted to read the fine print surrounding the exposed picture.

It took only a moment for him to set the others in his hold aside, picking up the escaped text and crossing hurriedly to the desk where his glasses sat.  Another quick perusal, this time with his spectacles firmly in place, deepened the frown on his face, and his head lifted to stare at the sleeping ex-demon in the chair.

“Anya,” he said quietly, hoping she would wake up without disturbing the others. 

There was no response. 

“Anya,” Giles repeated, this time a little louder, his feet stepping involuntarily closer to her as if the reduced distance would aid in rousing her.

Still nothing.

Using his finger as a page holder, the Watcher tucked the book against his chest before striding to her side, reaching down to tap her lightly on the shoulder.  “An---,” he started.

She jerked at the first touch, eyes flying open to stare wildly around, little recognition for her surroundings in the brown depths.  “Not the black bunnies!” she shrieked, pressing herself back into the chair, her breathing suddenly ragged.

Her reaction startled Giles, driving him back by a step, while at the same time, it incited Xander’s own awakening.  It took only a moment of confused blinking for the young man to focus on the situation, and in a flash, he was up and at her side, brushing the hair away from her forehead, making calming shooshing noises under his breath.

“It’s OK,” he soothed.  “It was only a dream.  Everything’s all right.”  He smiled as she visibly relaxed, leaning her head against his hand.  “Which one was it this time?”

“The one with David Copperfield and the roulette wheel.”  She scowled.  “I hate that man.”

“What’s going on?” Xander asked, looking up at Giles.  “I thought we agreed that the occasional closing of the eyelids was acceptable.  Did somebody change the rules while we were out of it?”

The Watcher held up the book, baring the title for both of them to see.  “Did you go through this as I requested, Anya?” he asked.

She squinted, scanning the name of the text.  The smallest of hesitations separated the crease in her brow from the eventual nod of her head.  “You saw me reading it, Giles.  Just like you saw me reading the other four hundred and twenty-three books you asked me to look at.  There wasn’t anything in it that would help Willow.”

“Really?”  He flipped the book open and extended it so that the page was again exposed.  In its center, amidst a table of similar drawings, was an engraving of the same circle marking that had adorned Freddie’s wrist.  “Did we decide that our only clue as to Willow’s current predicament wasn’t worth further inquiry then?”

Rising to his feet, a frowning Xander took the book from Giles, scrutinizing the picture before looking back at Anya.  “How’d you miss this?”

She shrugged, striving for nonchalance even as her heart pounded in her chest.  “The pages must’ve been stuck together.”

As if to test it, the young man flipped the pages of the book, watching as they flowed smoothly with a hushed whisker, then returning to the one in question.  “Maybe you were just tired,” he said, but a flicker of doubt lingered in the timbre of his voice.

“Being tired does not exclude her culpability here,” Giles admonished.  He walked over to the stack he’d been returning to the shelves.  “If she was too tired to satisfactorily do the research, she should’ve taken a break earlier.  As it is, we’re going to have to go back through the books she’s already checked.  We can’t afford to miss anything else at this stage.”

The frosty tone of the Watcher’s voice caused Anya to bristle, and she rose from her chair, hands on her hips.  “It was an honest mistake,” she argued.  “I can’t believe you don’t trust me.”

“Now, Ahn, that’s not what he said---.”

She jerked away when he tried to touch her arm.  “You’re supposed to be on my side, Xander Harris.  Isn’t that what people in relationships do?  I’ve certainly supported you, even when you looked like a complete ass.  Or have you forgotten the dead armadillo debate---?”

“I’m just saying, maybe there’s a good reason why you missed this.”

“And there is.  The pages were stuck together.”  Her voice was hard, her words clipped, and she waited expectantly for one of the two men to respond.  When she was met with silence, she threw up her hands and marched to the doorway.  “Fine.  Be that way.  If I’m so untrustworthy, obviously my research skills are no longer required.  Not like a chart of gardes is going to be much good to you anyway.  It didn’t even have the name or location of the djab it represented in there.”  Twisting the doorknob open, she shot one last angry glance over her shoulder.  “Have fun trying to find Willow,” she barked.  “Try not to get dead.”  And with that, she left the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

The reverberations it left in the room startled Tara into waking, and she sat up, blinking against the morning sunlight.  “What was that?” she queried softly.  “Did I miss something?”

“OK, color me confused,” Xander said, staring at the door.  “Now, I know that particular bunny dream has a tendency to leave Anya a tad on this side of crabby, but…whoa.  That was extreme even for her.”

Without saying a word, Giles extracted the book from the young man’s grasp and quickly scanned the text.  His frown deepened as he flicked through the pages, finally looking up to meet Xander’s bewildered gaze.  “The discussion on djabs is on three pages prior to this chart,” he said quietly.  Two sets of eyes turned to the door.  “How did she know that’s what the chart was for?”

His mouth was grim as he began heading for the door.  He didn’t know why she’d been hiding the information from them, but that was a thought for another day.  “I’ll go get her,” Xander said.

“What was that all about?” Tara asked again once she and Giles were left alone in the apartment.

He handed her the book.  “We know now what the mark on Freddie’s wrist was.”

“What are these?”

“Gardes.  They’re used in vodou culture as both a magical shield from djabs and as an identifying mark for worshipping members.”

“And a djab is…?”

Absently, Giles removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes.  “Literally, it means devil, from the French diable.  In this context, though, they are lesser spirits than the traditional lwa of vodou.  More individualistic.  Their primary function is for magic rather than religion, rather like providing a service in return for proper payment.”

“So Freddie is a member of some vodou group worshipping some unknown djab?”  Even the usually open-minded Tara sounded skeptical at this explanation.  “But what does that have to do with Willow?”

“I don’t know,” the Watcher admitted.  “But perhaps if we can discover the identity of this spirit, we might have a better clue.”

The young witch rose from her seat, yawning widely as she followed Giles back to the stack of books he’d abandoned.  “Is Anya all right?” she asked quietly.  “She was so…jumpy last night, but I thought it was just because of the research.  She didn’t seem to like any of the books you gave her to read.  She kept asking me to trade with her.”

The unsolicited confirmation of his fears regarding the ex-demon didn’t register on Giles’ face as he began sifting through the piles, removing the titles that bore any relation to the topic of vodou.  Somehow, Anya knew more than she was letting on, but for whatever reason, she wasn’t sharing.  Perhaps she considered her reasons valid.  Frankly, he didn’t care.  He wasn’t about to let anything happen to Willow, just because Anya had some hidden agenda.  If Xander didn’t return with her firmly in tow, Giles would go out and bring her back himself.

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

She was lost.

In spite of having the map from the desk, and in spite of the directions she’d gotten from the old lady with the glass eye, Buffy had still managed to turn herself around enough so that she wasn’t even sure which direction was which anymore.  Not that she really cared because she was having fun just taking in the local color, but Spike might have a few choice words if she showed up back at the house without his blood, simply because she couldn’t find the butcher he’d mentioned.  Not to worry, she thought.  I’ll just get it later.

She knew she was in the French Quarter, and from eavesdropping on some of the tourists that seemed to have multiplied like bunnies as soon as she’d emerged from Green Dolphin Street, Buffy had learned that she had stumbled onto the outdoor market, a popular shopping area for the locals and tourists.  The aroma of freshly ground coffee mingled with the spiciness of herbs she didn’t recognize, and it set her stomach to growling as she walked past the open stalls of fruits and vegetables, smiling at the various vendors who called out to her as she passed, each of them pressing her to buy his or her wares.  It didn’t take her long to succumb to her hunger, purchasing a small bag of apples to munch on as she walked. 

The farmers’ market merged into the flea market, a mishmash of tie-dyed dresses, carved masks, and mass-produced “stained glass” very obviously designed for the tourist trade, with the odd silver designer shop thrown in for good measure.  For a brief moment, Buffy considered buying something to take back---maybe one of those blackface pecan-shell magnets, or some of that hot sauce---but then memories of why exactly she was here in the first place took hold, and her step returned to the path before her.  Willow.  She was here for Willow.  This was save-her-best-friend time, not be-a-gawking-tourist time.  There’d be time for sightseeing later.

Turning herself around, Buffy made her way back to the produce stands, buying some more bits to take back to the house.  When one of the vendors smilingly suggested she try something more exotic, she hesitated before nodding in acquiescence, deciding this would be her daring tourist act for the day.  Food out of the way, she knew there was no more putting off finding the butcher and found a quiet nook away from the hustle and bustle to more closely examine her map.

“Can’t find what’s not lost,” a throaty voice chuckled from behind her.

The startled Slayer jerked her head up, twisting her torso to look at whoever had spoken to her.  In the doorway of the shop she sat in front of, lounged a heavyset black woman, her fleshy arm oozing over the doorjamb from the weight that pressed against it, a jangle of beads hanging from her neck.  A wide smile creased her weatherworn face, lighting the black of her eyes with a merry twinkle, and Buffy felt herself relaxing in the woman’s presence.

“Well, since I’m the one lost here, I don’t think finding myself’s going to be a problem,” she replied.  She gestured toward the map.  “I’m just trying to find---.”

“Alain’s.”

Buffy frowned.  “How’d you…” she started, only to see the name and address Spike had written out for her sitting in plain view on the ground between them.  She smiled, her disquiet ebbing.  “Oh.  Right.”  She hesitated.  “I don’t suppose…you can tell me where Burgundy Street is?”

“On the other side of Bourbon.  Not too far from here.  Very walkable.”  Her eyes narrowed, and her smile faded as she watched the young blonde begin the arduous task of refolding the map.  “He has after dark hours as well, you know,” she finally ventured.  “You should tell your…friend…to fetch it for himself.”

In spite of the heat, her words sent an icy chill across the Slayer’s skin, and she slowly lifted her hazel gaze to meet the black one boring down at her.  “What are you talking about?” she asked slowly.

The woman laughed.  “Alain’s is a highly specialized market, and it is very obvious…”  She looked up pointedly at the sunshine that beat down on Buffy’s bare legs.  “…that you do not wish to purchase his wares for yourself.”

“You knew it was a him, though.”

“Because I can see him floating all around you, darlin’.  Smiling.  Laughing.  You’re all covered with him.”

The chill had begun to seek into her flesh, and Buffy rose to her feet, holding her map and purchases close to her body.  “Are you a witch?” she quizzed, senses alert.  It had to be the only explanation.  Why else would she claim to be able to know about Spike?

Another laugh, deeper this time, rolling in amusement.  “Lord, no.  I just…see things.  That can’t surprise you.  Someone with your kind of power must have friends who are just like me.  Enemies, too, I’d reckon.”

“Yes.  No.  I don’t know.”  She shook her head, as if by doing so that would cause the confusion to settle into something she recognized.  “You said, I’m covered in Spike?  What is that supposed to mean?”

“Is that his name?  Spike?”  The woman nodded.  “Fitting.”  Her eyes twinkled.  “You might want to tell him to try experimenting with color, though.  He may like the black, but one of these days, he’s going to need to wrap himself in red if he wants to stay safe from the serpent.”

Now it was just getting weird, and Buffy’s feet began inching their way backwards.  “I’ll…tell him that,” she said, choosing her words carefully.  “And…thanks for the directions.  I’ll just…be moseying on along…”

  “Wait.”  There was no mistaking the command in the voice, and the Slayer stopped automatically, scolding herself even as she did so.  “Wait,” the woman repeated, and disappeared just inside the shop.

This was her chance to run, to leave the crazy woman far, far behind, but Buffy’s feet refused to move, waiting patiently on the walk until the woman reappeared.  As she approached, Buffy focused on the string that now dangled from her thick fingers, the small leather bag swinging gently from it.

“You have not been in my city long enough to have got one for yourself,” the woman said, and placed the string around her neck, letting the charm nestle in the vee of her tank top.  “This is a gris gris.”   She pronounced it gree gree, her accent lilting against Buffy’s ear.  “Even those who are chosen can need protecting sometimes.”

The Slayer didn’t say a word, keeping her gaze locked to the other’s as she backed away, waiting until there was several feet between them before turning around.  OK, first thing I do when I get back is have a word with Spike, she thought determinedly as she hastened her step.  Nowhere in the brochure did it say anything about psycho locals making with the mojo if you parked yourself on their stairs.  Somebody should’ve warned me.

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

The forest pulsed with life, from the slight rustle of the wind through the leaves overhead, jostling them aside to expose the errant stars to the ground, to the faint skittering of insects beneath the undergrowth that sprawled across the forest’s bed.  Even the smell of fresh rain that hung in the air filled Spike’s body with the tremors of life, and he inhaled deeply, drinking in the offering as if his existence depended on it.

He knew right away he was dreaming.  He may have been proud of his body, as far from shy as one could get without getting arrested---although that had certainly happened on more than occasion, much to the chagrin of more than one dead police officer---but as far as he could remember, he’d never stood naked in the middle of a rain-soaked clump of trees before.  Not that he wouldn’t have if the need had arisen, but the whole thing smacked of something ritualistic, magic, which, in Spike’s personal experience, never usually amounted to anything good for him.

So it was a dream.  Had to be.

He stood at the start of a dirt path, facing the depths of the forest with that surety that could only be provided by dreams that he was supposed to go into it.  His blue eyes lowered, watching the mud created by the recent downpour squelch between his toes, smiling slightly as he wriggled them in the mire.  Something about playing in the muck brought out the kid in him, not that it needed much impetus, and he was about to squat, to scoop a handful of it up so that he could feel it slide between his fingers when he saw them.

Footprints.

The unmistakable outline of small feet disappearing into the darkness.

Right then, he thought.  S’posed to follow.

So follow, he did, being careful not to disturb the marks of the one before him, walking slightly to the left of the path as he wound his way through the trees.  Deeper, and deeper, and while the shadows grew longer, they were punctuated with increasingly brilliant patches of moonlight, shimmering the green of the foliage so that it gleamed in a radiance that made the poet in him want to resurface.  He fought the instinct, though, keeping his mouth silent, traveling further into the woods with an uncharacteristic silence.

It wasn’t a clearing as much as a widening of the path, and Spike stopped when he saw her sitting on the wet earth.  The rain had soaked her through, gluing her golden hair to her neck in individual strands, drenching the gauzy gown so that it molded to her flesh like a second skin.  Her nipples were hard beneath the dress, twin shadows that made his mouth water, and as his gaze slowly slid down her torso, lingering on the curve of her hip, her giggle echoed throughout the forest.

“Took you long enough,” Buffy said, a smile playing on her lips.

“Didn’t realize there was a time limit,” Spike replied.  The sound of her voice tore his eyes from the promise of her skin, and he found himself shocked by the vibrant green staring back at him, shimmering with the same life that permeated the trees, reflecting their emerald hues in spite of the lack of sunlight.

“I have an expiration date, you know,” she said.  “Kind of comes with the job.  That’s why I have to grab what I can, when I can.”  Her smile grew wistful, pulling at Spike’s gut, drawing him a step closer.  “Except sometimes I forget that.  It gets hard.  You know.  Saving the world has a tendency to be mildly distracting.”

“Can’t say that I’ve got any personal experience with that, pet.”

“You helped me with Angel, remember?  The big giant stone statue ready to suck in the world?”

“And I didn’t stick around for the curtain call, if you care to think back.  Me and Dru were halfway to the border by the time you finished up there.”

“But you still helped,” she argued.  “You can’t deny that.  You can’t deny what you did.”

“I did it for Dru.  Nothing altruistic about it in the slightest.  Makes a world of difference.”  Why was he having this argument? Spike thought.  Usually, when he dreamed about Buffy, it involved fists, sometimes fangs, very often other body parts as well.  This sudden penchant for conversation was unnerving.

“And driving me to New Orleans now?” she continued.  Slowly, she rose to her feet, but didn’t move from her spot, the gown falling in sticky folds to wrap around her legs.

“Funny what the promise of bodily damage to my person can motivate me to do.”

“That’s a load of bullpucky and you know it.”  Defiantly, she folded her arms across her chest, but instead of hiding her breasts, they thrust out over them.

His eyebrows shot up in amusement.  “See, now I know this is a dream ‘cause no way would the Slayer ever use the term ‘bullpucky.’”

“Someone’s being Mr. Avoidy,” she singsonged.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not!”

“Are…”  She sighed, shaking her head.  “This is such a waste of this dream, Spike.  We can go on and on like this until you wake up, but then where will we be?”  Her eyes softened, gazing at him in a way the vampire had never witnessed outside of his own imaginings.  “You saw a path, and you chose to follow it.  Why is it so hard for you to admit that you wanted to do this?”

“Y’know, this whole metaphysical debate with myself might work a helluva lot better if you didn’t look like the Slayer.”

She clucked her tongue, frowning in mock admonition.  “There’s Mr. Avoidy again.”

Spike growled, but was unable to take his gaze from her, watching as she just waited for him to respond, those green eyes driving into his chest to pluck out the truth, forcing it to his tongue.  “So…I like Red.  S’not a crime.  She’s smart, and she’s got a rough lot sometimes gettin’ stuck in the shadows.  I can relate to that.”

“And?  What about me?”

Another growl.  “You know I want you, Buffy.”  He could move then, muscles stretching to step forward, sapphire glued to her face as he closed the distance between them.

“And?” she breathed as he stopped just inches from her.

“And?”  Spike frowned.  “And?  No and.”  His hand came up, began tracing the line of her clavicle through her dress.  “Just want.”

“There’s always an and.”

“Y’know, I’m thinkin’ Dream Buffy’s just as much of a stubborn bint as Real Buffy.”  He remembered his nudity then, the prickles in his mouth wetting his tongue as it ran along his teeth, his cock throbbing where the tip brushed along her fabric-covered waist.

She laughed, and edged herself closer, allowing his hardness to nestle between their bodies as her arms lifted to around his neck.  Skimming her lips along his jaw, she stopped just beside his ear, her breath fanning warmly across his skin.  “Like you hate it,” she teased.

“Uh huh, hate you, Slayer,” he breathed, eyes fluttering shut as he savored her nearness. 

“That’s why you followed me, then?  Because you hate me?”

“Followed ‘cause you left a path a mile wide.”

“Exactly.”  Tiny teeth caught his earlobe, tugging at it gently as she pressed herself against his lean form.  “Why do you think that is?”

“Don’t…know…”  Christ, how’d she expect him to think when she did that?

“C’mon, Spike…think about it…”

“Can’t…”

Her mouth was open now, against his neck, sucking at his jugular with an insistent rhythm that matched the throbbing in his cock.  His hands curled into her waist, the moan escaping from the back of his throat as the world eddied around him.  When he felt her slide back up to his ear, he almost pulled away in frustration, his need for her to continue straining against his skin.  Stop talkin’, he wanted to say, but couldn’t, locked within her embrace as sure as if she’d lashed him to her.

The ringing that came from her mouth wasn’t what he was expecting, though, and Spike stiffened, confusion tempering his desire.  “What was that, luv?” he asked, his voice husky.

There was another ring, this time more shrill, more insistent.

Sounds like a bloody phone, he thought…

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

The third ring woke him up.

Spike’s body jerked reflexively against the white comforter, sliding along the satin sheets as his arm shot to grab the phone that sat on the nightstand.  “What?” he barked roughly into the receiver.

A moment of silence preceded the slight cough from the line’s other end, and the vampire fell back against the pillows, rubbing sleepily at his eyes.  “Bloody woke me up, Rupert, you know that, right?”

“I’m…sorry, Spike.  I assumed Buffy would answer.”

“Well, you know what they say about…Never mind.  What’s so damn important you’re callin’ and disturbing my beauty sleep?”

As Giles relayed the findings from that morning, Spike scrabbled for a pencil and piece of paper from the nightstand, jotting down a few notes as the Watcher spoke.  Better to get this right from the starting gate, he thought.  If I mess up the Slayer’s first real leads for findin’ Red, she’ll stake me for sure.

“Is that it?” the vampire asked when Giles fell silent. 

“We’re still…looking,” came the reply.  “Unfortunately, Xander was unable to find Anya, and rather than waste more time looking for her, we focused on the books she’d supposedly checked last night.”

“Any idea on why she’d scarper off like that?”

Spike could almost hear the rubbing of Giles’ glasses through the phone as the Watcher sighed.  “Not really,” he admitted.  “She’s been acting…odd since Willow disappeared.  Well, odder than her usual.  Xander seems to think she may know something more than she’s tellin’.”

Spike snorted.  “Doesn’t take a genius to suss that one out.”

“He’s going to resume the search for her now that we’ve covered the texts she didn’t.  I’m certain we’ll have some sort of explanation for all this before the day is through.”  There was an awkward pause.  “How are…you?” Giles asked, his voice tentative.  “Buffy merely said the pair of you had arrived safely when she rang last night.  You don’t…sound as if you’re…worse for wear.”

“Nah,” Spike said.  “You don’t have to worry about your Slayer goin’ Rambette on my undead ass.  She and I came to a…”  He grinned, glancing down at the erection that still lingered from his dream.  “…mutual understanding.  I scratch her back…”  He had to fight not to chuckle.  “…and she scratches mine.”

Relief flooded through the phone.  “I’m glad.  I was…worried you would be unable to work together on this.  I can’t believe I’m saying this, but your help will be invaluable in our retrieving Willow safely, I’m sure.  I…appreciate what you’re doing.”

The twinge of guilt that sprung in his stomach took the vampire by surprise, and his smile faded.  “Hey, now, Rupes,” he warned.  “Don’t you be goin’ soft on me.  Or is this all part of your higher callin’ rigamarole you were spoutin’ at me in my crypt not too long back?  ‘Cause I told you then---.”

“Yes, yes, I remember.  You’re not a white hat, Spike.  I’ll make sure it gets announced at the next meeting, just so everyone is clear.”

It was all he could do not to slam the phone down.  Soddin’ Watcher was laughing at him!  There was no mistaking the patronizing tone of the Englishman’s response as he pretended to play along, and Spike pursed his lips to stop himself from saying something that would only get him into trouble with Buffy if she found out.

“You do that,” he said tersely.  “Are you ‘bout done?  Because I’ve got a few more hours of sleep ahead of me.  Made record time on this road trip, not that you care, but I just know the Slayer didn’t tell you.  Think that merits some extra shuteye, don’t you?”

“Yes, quite.”  He chuckled.  “Tell Buffy I will call if we learn anything else.”

Spike glared at the phone after he replaced in the cradle, anger at how the Watcher was perceiving him roiling in his gut.  Not a white hat, he groused.  Big Bad here.  Just doin’ this to get nearer to Buffy.  That’s all.  No other reason.

Dream Buffy’s words came back to him then, and the vamp scowled.  All right, so maybe he was a little concerned about the witch.  Didn’t make him a bloody good guy, now did it?  Just meant…fuck…he didn’t know what it meant.

His blue gaze flickered over the paper he still held in his hand, and his brain automatically began ticking over.  This kind of information actually narrowed down the search parameters considerably, whether Rupert realized it or not.  With this kind of a lead, Spike knew exactly who he needed to go to.  It just meant making a few more phone calls.

Before he knew what he was doing, the phone was back in the vampire’s hand, the number punched in automatically.  It wasn’t until he heard the demon’s voice on the other end that it dawned on Spike how quickly he’d gone into doing what he could to help Buffy and her friends.  Not goin’ to think about it, he decided.  Just goin’ to do this, and get it over with so me and the Slayer can get back to the important stuff of figuring out what the hell is happening between us.

Out loud, he affected his most Big Bad voice.  “Need you to do some things for me, Pablo,” he said.

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

Pablo was the last person she expected to see when she pushed open the front door of the cottage, juggling the bags in her arms.  “I didn’t realize you did house calls,” she said cautiously, hazel eyes darting around the empty room.  “I wish I’d known before I spent the day getting lost in this place trying to find what I need.”

“Only for Spike,” the demon said.  “Just making sure my favorite vampire is happy, is all.  I was just leaving.”  He pressed himself into the wall, allowing her to pass without having to touch him, not even bothering to disguise the wrinkling of his nose as she went by.

Buffy frowned when she saw the stacked gift boxes behind the couch, setting her own shopping on the breakfast bar.  “You have Saks here?” she asked, turning back to look at him.  A pang of disappointment that she hadn’t found it herself during her excursion was quickly pushed aside.  Probably couldn’t afford to buy myself anything anyway, she thought.  Not without either Mom or Dad’s credit card in my hot little hand.

He nodded.  “Over on Canal Street.”

“And those are here because…?”

“Because…I picked up some stuff for Spike.”

Her frown deepened.  “What kind of stuff?”  Her curiosity was getting the better of her, and she took a step toward the couch.

“Stuff that gets a certain perky little blonde spanked if she goes pokin’ around it without askin’,” came from Spike behind her.

Buffy stopped, turning to see the vampire lounging against the door jamb to the bedroom, arms folded across his chest, a dangerous glint in the depths of his eyes.  A sharp retort sprang to her lips, only to freeze there when she remembered the demon behind her, and the Buffy-is-a-thrall show she’d initiated last night for his entertainment.  Damn. 

“That a promise?” she teased instead, tilting her head seductively as she glanced at Pablo out of the corner of her eye, trying to gauge if he was buying it.  Not that this was really all that hard, she thought.  Though she had yet to see Spike today, the memory of their innuendo from the night before clung to her with silken fingers, and she felt her face begin to flush as she gazed at the blond vamp.

Spike chuckled.  God, he loved this game, and by all appearances, so did Buffy.  He felt his cock harden inside his jeans and straightened so that it wouldn’t be quite so noticeable, hands dropping to loop through his waistband.  “Only one way for you to find out,” he drawled.

The sound of Pablo’s feet scraped across the marble floor, though neither of them turned to look at him.  “Don’t let me disturb your little lovefest,” the scaled demon said.  “Even if it does turn my stomachs.  I’ll see you tonight, Spike.”

“Yeah.  Tonight, mate.”

She waited until she heard the door close before moving, pivoting on her heel to break the spell that had settled between her and Spike to walk determinedly to the boxes.  “So, really, what’s in here?” she quizzed.

His hand had wrapped around her wrist before she could remove the lid from the uppermost package, pulling it away with a cluck of his tongue.  “I’m guessin’ you were always the first at the Christmas prezzies,” Spike said with a smile.  “Thought Slayers were supposed to be all patient-like.”

“I’m just wondering why I had to go out if you had Pablo the personal shopper on retainer the entire time,” she replied.

She hadn’t pulled herself away from his grasp, Spike realized.  In fact, she was just standing there, looking up at him quizzically, waiting for him to answer, not even the usual pissed-off, you-annoy-me-just-by-being-here look in her eyes.  “’Cause I don’t think you want to be tryin’ to explain why I need someone to fetch me takeaway when I’m s’posed to have my meals on tap right here,” he murmured, and let his thumb caress the vein in her wrist, feeling her pulse through the fleshy pad.

That was enough to remind Buffy, and she carefully extracted her hand, stepping away so that she could regain control of her traitorous heartbeat.  She’d been doing so well, too, she thought.  She’d gone most of the day without thinking about him---well, too much---or the kisses they’d shared, or the way his cool touch seemed to enflame her, even with the most casual of caresses.  Once he’d walked into the room, though, all of that disappeared faster than donuts around Xander, and she struggled to appear as nonchalant about it as possible.

“Good point,” she conceded.  “But it still doesn’t explain these.”  She gestured toward the boxes.

“Rupert called.  Seems like they’ve got a bit more information.”  Briefly, Spike explained to Buffy about the vodou link.  “And if that songbird’s got some kind of wonderful goin’ on in the vodou world, I know exactly where we can go to get the dish on her,” he finished.

“And that merits the Saks spree…how?”

“The bird we need to talk to wouldn’t let us two feet inside her place without lookin’ the part,” he explained.  He picked up the top box, lifting the corner nearest him to peek inside.  When Buffy ducked her head to try to see what it contained, he snapped it shut, tossing it aside to pick up the second.  “You weren’t around for me to ask, but I’m laying odds you didn’t pack for this possibility, so I called Pablo and asked him to bring around something that might work.”  A glance inside the second box seemed to satisfy him and he passed it to the Slayer, not even waiting for her response before doing the same with the third and fourth.

The look she shot him was wary as she crossed to the couch, sitting down before pulling the lid off the top box.  “Don’t know why I need…” she started to say, only to stop, eyes widening when she saw the red evening dress folded carefully inside.

“Like I said,” Spike drawled, surprisingly pleased when he saw the delight flicker in the hazel depths.  “Something tells me you weren’t plannin’ on playing Cinderella while we’re here.”

Quickly, Buffy tore the lids off the other boxes, exposing two more dresses, one sea-green and the other black.  “And the reason there’s three?” she asked, unable to tear her eyes away. 

“Thought you’d like a choice.”  He watched as she rose to her feet, pulling each from its wrapping to hold it up in front of her, unable to hide her smile when she saw the various accessories accompanying them.  This was something he’d done more than once with Drusilla, buying pretty frocks to try and distract her from the increasing delusional spells she’d suffered from, knowing she would thank him afterward with kisses and blood.  He could hardly expect the same from Buffy, but for some reason, he didn’t care.  Just witnessing the unadulterated joy on her face was all the thanks he needed.

“Do I want to know how you paid for these?” she asked, absorbed in examining the beaded handbag that had been nestled in with the red dress.

Spike grinned.  “Let’s just say, I’m probably goin’ to have used up all those favors I had owed to me by the time we blow this town,” he replied.  Picking up the box he’d tossed aside, he tucked it under his arm as he stepped toward the bedroom.  “Pablo’s sendin’ a car around at sunset to pick us up,” he said.  “You want the shower first, or do you mind if I take it?  I haven’t been able to wash up proper since Rupert called and woke me up.”

“You go first,” Buffy said distractedly, and then realized what he said, looking up at him with a tiny frown.  “A car?  What about that bucket of bolts that got us here?”

He shook his head.  “For some reason, my baby doesn’t meet Iris’ standards.”  When she laughed, he merely rolled his eyes.  “It’s a classic, I’m tellin’ you.  She’s just as blind as you are.  There’s absolutely nothin’ wrong with it.”

“You just go on believing that, Spike,” Buffy giggled.  “The rest of us will just enjoy the twenty-first century in the grand comfort to which we’ve become accustomed.”

She was lost in the gowns before her, and Spike turned on his heel to head to the bathroom, knowing it was pointless to continue this conversation any longer.  “Sunset,” he reminded her.  “Which means you’ve got about two hours to pick one and get ready.  I don’t want to be late.  Iris doesn’t usually hang out there all night, so if we want to make sure we catch up to her, we have to be there early.”

“Sure.  Whatever.”

A pause at the door, and the vampire looked back to see her holding the black dress up to herself again, twirling slightly as if she was pretending to dance.  The corner of his mouth lifted wistfully.  “Not that it makes a difference,” he said, and waited to continue until she looked up to meet his gaze.  “But, I like the green one.”

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

Her foot tapped impatiently against the marble floor as she glanced again at the clock on the wall.  Sunset, he’d said.  You’ve got two hours, he’d said.  I don’t want to be late, he’d said.  And now here she was, dressed to the nines, and Spike was nowhere to be found.

Actually, she knew where he was to be found.  The chipped vamp was currently locked in the bedroom, and she could hear his occasional curse filter through the walls, a crash of something being thrown periodically punctuating his swearing.  She’d knocked on the door once, to let him know that she was ready, but had been violently rebuffed by a vehement, “Bugger off!”  Since then, she’d left well enough alone, figuring he’d emerge when he was done, more than once wondering just what was happening on the other side of that door.

A quiet rap led her to the front entrance, and Buffy pulled it open to see a man in a dark suit on the step.  “I’m here with the car,” he explained, nodding back to the road where the silver outline of a luxury sedan sat waiting.

“We’ll be right out,” she said.  No more stalling, she thought as she marched over to the bedroom, and lifted her fist to pound on the wood.  “Spike!” she called out.  “The car’s here!”

“Fuck,” she heard from inside, followed by a heavy sigh.

When the door opened, Buffy was standing at the couch, reaching for the silk wrap that rested there.  “Took you long enough,” she said, and turned to face him, stopping in mid-swivel at the sight that greeted her.  Though the idea that wherever they were heading was someplace that dictated eveningwear, the Slayer hadn’t really given any thought as to what that would mean for Spike, so lost she was in the indulgence of getting dressed up herself.  Now, though, she found herself wondering why, as her hazel gaze swept over his lean form.

No jeans.  No t-shirt hugging those tightly defined muscles.  No boots clomping heavily across the floor.  Instead, the polish on his dress shoes rivaled that of the floor’s, while black tuxedo trousers hung gracefully from his narrow hips.  The crispness of his white shirt accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, almost daring her to come over and rip it off him, and she found her mouth suddenly dry as the image of what he’d look like just in the pants danced before her mind’s eye.  The matching jacket hung from one hand, while the black tie dangled from the other.

He was glaring at the narrow ebony strip when he walked through the door, head bowed.  “Can’t get this bloody thing on right,” he growled, and his fingers tightened on the fabric.  He lifted his eyes.  “Dru always…”  Spike’s voice trailed off, his features softening when he saw her standing across the room, all thoughts of the quarrelsome item of clothing vanished from his head as he found himself drowning in Buffy.

She’d chosen the green after all.  Chiffon silk that shimmered in the light of the room, it clung to her curves as it fell to the floor, allowing only the very tip of her sandaled foot to poke its way out.  A single strap over her left shoulder, fastened with a gold rhinestone clasp in the shape of a vertical bow, allowed the gentle drape of the fabric to cling to her breasts, while the sleek upsweep of her hair exposed the column of her neck in such a way as to make his mouth water.  The realization that she had selected the gown he’d preferred was lost to him, though, temporarily overshadowed by the struggling poet within him bursting to come out and expound on her glory.

She was radiant, the beauty he’d always known her to be allowed to shine without the fetters of her calling for one of the few times he had witnessed since first meeting the Slayer.  At that moment in time, she was merely a woman---which actually seemed a horribly inadequate term in light of how he was reacting to her---glowing from that inner strength he so begrudgingly admired, reaching into his chest to palpitate his heart in a coercive attempt to beat for the first time in a century.  He was torn between wanting to take her on his arm and show her off to the world, and just taking her, period, right there on the white leather couch, to feel the silk of the gown crumple beneath his fingers as he fought to reach the softer silk of her skin.

“The…car’s here…” Buffy breathed, and the mere sound of her voice shattered the spell that bound the vampire, reminding him why exactly they were dressed this way.

“Right,” he said.  He held up the tie.  “I don’t s’pose I could get your help with this, pet.  It’s been awhile since I’ve had to fuss with one and without a mirror…well, without a reflection…”

“Is this what’s got you all growly?” she teased, crossing to stand in front of him.  Nimble fingers plucked the fabric from his grip, and Buffy reached up to slide it around his neck.  “I hope you didn’t break the bed in there.  It’s my turn to get the room, remember.”

The touch of her fingertips as they brushed against his neck seared rational thought from Spike’s mind, and he gazed down at the top of her head, watching how she bit at her bottom lip as she struggled with the tie, forcing himself to stay still even though his every muscle screamed for release.  “Just…don’t like…askin’ for help,” he finally managed to say.  “Feel enough like a poofter as it is.”

The knot was done, and Buffy gave it a final pat as she looked at it with satisfaction.  “Well, you don’t look like one,” she said softly.  Her body didn’t seem to want to move away, his proximity acting like a drug to her system as her hand lingered at his neck, her gaze suddenly fascinated by the minute scar on his chin.  The urge to dart forward and run her tongue over it caused her to color, but even that wasn’t enough to force her to break away.  “You look…very nice.”

His eyebrow lifted.  “Nice?” he teased.  “That all?”

Though she smiled, she couldn’t seem to meet his eyes.  “I don’t see you handing out compliments on how I look,” she replied.  “So, you get nice.”

When she finally turned away, the space where she’d stood yawned like a canyon before him, and Spike’s hand darted out to close on her shoulder, staying her motion, the tenuous strap under his fingers suddenly reminding him that it was the only thing holding up the delicate material of her gown.  His eyes were dark as he met the green now boring into him.

“Absolutely breathtaking,” he murmured, and then smiled, unable to resist adding, “If I had any breath to take, of course.”

His joke made her giggle, and she stepped back from his loosened grip, picking up the wrap she’d dropped over the back of the couch.  “The car’s waiting,” she said as she headed for the front door.  “We better go.  I want to find this Stella before she does anything to Willow.”

Spike trailed after her, long arms sliding into the sleeves of his jacket as he moved.  “So, you got yours,” he said.  “Where’s mine?”

Buffy hesitated, her hand on the knob.  “Dapper,” she finally said.  “You look dapper.”

His moue of disappointment was more put-upon than anything else.  “That the best you can do?” he complained, watching her disappear through the entrance into the darkening night.  “I give you breathtaking, and I just get dapper?  Dapper’s a nancy boy word!”  The laughter that floated back to him made him smile, though, and Spike just shook his head as he followed after the Slayer, his expectations about the night ahead swelling inside his chest.

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

As they stood just inside the entrance of the club, Buffy’s gaze swept over the crowd, every man in a tuxedo, every woman in an evening gown.  She’d been wondering about feeling conspicuous on the trip there, but that fear was now banished as Spike’s hand settled in the small of her back, his fingers electric through the delicate fabric of her dress, the pressure slight as he guided her toward a small table near the dance floor.  Her Slayer senses were going overboard, and she realized with a start that nearly everyone in the place was a vampire, the few exceptions being the occasional misplaced demon dotted throughout the crowd.

“This is a demon bar,” she hissed under her breath as she slid into the chair Spike pulled out for her.  “What is it with you and taking me to demon bars?”

“First off, Midnight’s not a bar,” he said, lifting a finger to get the attention of one of the waiters.  “It’s a very posh, very exclusive nightclub, and if Iris hears you callin’ it a bar, she’s goin’ to kick the pair of us out of here faster than you can pull out Mr. Pointy.”

She waited until he was seated before speaking again.  “And this Iris can tell us where Stella is?”

“If she can’t tell us exact, she can at least aim us in the right direction.  Vodou is a little hobby of hers.”  He turned in his chair when a waiter appeared at his elbow.  “Glass of O-neg for me and…”  He looked expectantly at Buffy.

“Just water,” she said, eliciting a sigh from Spike and a small frown from the waiter.

“I’m sorry---,” the man started, but was cut off by a small wave of the vampire’s hand.

“She’s new in town,” he explained, throwing the Slayer a condescending look that made her bristle.  “Just bring her a glass of Chardonnay.”

“Spike,” she said sharply.  “I don’t do wine.  Alcohol and Buffy are very non-mixy things.  And hello?  Underage here.  Aren’t they going to get in trouble for serving to a minor?”

Doing his best to appear casual, Spike leaned across the table, taking her hand in his and running a lone finger along the inside of her palm.  “The last thing a tasty little morsel like you should be fussed about in here, luv, is whether the management cares if you’re under the legal drinking age,” he said in a low voice.  “In case you haven’t noticed, even the pair of us together might be just a tad outnumbered should someone decide to challenge me for your…attention.”  The way his tongue glided over the last word told Buffy it wasn’t her attention he was talking about, and her body involuntarily tensed, readying itself for a battle even though no one seemed to be paying them any extra notice. 

“Now,” Spike continued, his finger still tracing hypnotic invisible paths along her veins, “if you don’t want to get tossed out on your ear before we even get to see Iris, you’ll shut your gob and let me take care of this.”  He smiled, but she wasn’t sure if it was part of his façade for the crowd or one of genuine mirth.  “Besides, whoever got drunk on one glass of wine?”

She pulled from his caress, inwardly seething but shooting a saccharine smile to the waiter hovering behind the vamp.  “Glass of Chardonnay, please.”

It wasn’t until they were alone again that Buffy spoke up, her smile gone.  “This whole thrall act is getting old very fast,” she complained.

“Believe it was your idea, pet,” he said, tilting his head as he gazed at her.  The bite of disappointment rose in his throat, but he swallowed it back, maintaining his calm exterior as he searched her face, trying to determine if it was just general irritation at her current helplessness or something more genuine directed at him.  Was he reading everything that was going on between them wrong?  He’d woken from his rest that day with a clearer head, deciding that pursuing the physical relationship with her was not only a good idea but something he actually wanted.  She was gorgeous---seeing her in that dress certainly clinched that one---and when she wasn’t being a complete bitch in trying to make him feel like something she found stuck to the bottom of her shoe, she was fun to be around, that sexy vulnerability she kept so well hidden shining through her Slayer exterior.

Shit.  And maybe he was thinking too much about this.

“I know,” she conceded with a sigh.  Her gaze strayed to the band up on the stand, her body beginning to sway unconsciously to the strains of the saxophone that undercoated the ambience in caramel.  “So where’s this Iris person?  Can we just see her and get this over with?”

“You don’t go to Iris,” Spike said.  “Iris comes to you.”

Her eyes went wide.  “You’ve got to be kidding me!  How in hell is this going to help us?  She doesn’t even know we’re here, or that we want to talk to her, or---.”

The vamp’s smile was tight as the waiter appeared from nowhere, setting the drinks down before them.  “Trust me, pet,” he said.  “She knows.”  He’d barely lifted his blood to his mouth before Buffy had the wine to her lips, downing the pale liquid in a long continuous swallow that mirrored her frustration with the situation, watching in amusement over the rim of his glass as she handed it straight back to the waiter and asked for another.  “What happened to being non-mixy?” he probed cautiously, sipping at his drink as his eyes drilled into hers.

“One’s not going to do anything to me,” she announced, her voice already just a little too loud.  “You said so.”

“But you ordered another.”

“For show.  I’m not having you wig out on me because I’m breaking some secret vampire drinking code, or something.” 

He saw the slight tremor in her hand, the shine beginning to glaze over the Slayer’s eyes.  Slamming the wine had gone straight to her head, its effects already scavenging her body.  Better not let her actually drink that next glass, he thought.  Not if I don’t want some kind of scene on my hands here.  That means getting her away from the table for a bit.

“Wanna dance?” Spike asked, rising to his feet, one hand extending to her.

“With you?”  She couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice.  “You dance?”

“Wouldn’t be askin’ if I couldn’t do it,” he replied.  A quick glance around brought to his attention a couple nearby vamps looking over at them, and he made a quick decision.  Reaching down, Spike took her hand in his and pulled her to her feet.  “On second thought,” he said, “I’m not askin’.  C’mon.”

There were only two other couples on the floor, but as Spike curled Buffy into his body, his fingers wrapping around hers, his hand finding that spot at the small of her back that seemed to be waiting for him, the only thing he was aware of was the heady scent of her perfume mingling with the sweetness of the wine on her breath as it wafted to his nostrils.  The color of her gown made her eyes sparkle in a radiant emerald, and he felt his muscles sing as her soft breasts pressed against his chest.  God, she was beautiful, and in his arms, and why did he ever doubt that this couldn’t be a good thing?  They just fit, like he’d never fit with anyone before, not even Dru, their bodies matched in a contrast of hard and soft, their rhythms matched in an unspoken agreement as their feet carried them to the tender caress of the dance.

For a moment, his eyes drifted shut, losing himself to the moment, only to snap open when the fear that she would see overtook him.  It was only when Buffy rested her cheek against his lapel, the smallest of contented sighs escaping her throat, that he let the last of the tension in his shoulders go, his head dropping so that his lips brushed against the faintest tendrils of her hair, his eyes fluttering closed again. 

They could’ve been anywhere.  Under the moon.  Inside his crypt.  On top of the Hellmouth. Neither one of them cared.  At that moment, the only thing that mattered---the only thing that existed---was the world within their arms.

It was just…right.

When he felt the tap on his shoulder, Spike ignored it, hoping that by doing so, it would go away.  The few seconds reprieve almost convinced him that he’d imagined it.  When it came again, however, this time more insistent, the vampire couldn’t help the growl that rumbled in his chest as he lifted his head, opening his eyes to gaze irritably at the waiter trying to get his attention.

“Iris would like to see you,” the waiter said simply.

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

She realized he was still holding her hand as they followed the waiter down the narrow corridor, but what surprised Buffy the most was that she would’ve been disappointed if he’d actually let her go.  He could be doing it as part of our whole thrall act, she thought, only to quickly dismiss the notion when she remembered his obvious arousal pressing against her as they’d been dancing.  No, Spike was attracted to her---of that, she had no doubt---and she was starting to think that maybe the idea that some type of relationship between them wasn’t so crazy after all.  He was the one who kept bringing up the idea of them talking, which frankly scared the holy water right out of her, but the fact that he wanted to, that he was so adamant about doing it, only impressed upon her further his seriousness about their situation.

What is it with guys wanting to talk these kind of things to death? she thought.  First Riley, now Spike.  What was wrong with just following your instincts and skipping over the talking things out phase?

You used to like to talk, the little voice inside her head said.  Before Parker.

Bonehead Parker, Buffy thought grumpily.  Him and his fancy I-understand-your-pain words.  Screwed up everything in me trusting guys who say that.

But this thing with Spike could be different, and deep down, the young woman knew it.  He didn’t treat her with kid gloves; he even seemed to get off on her ability to best him half the time.  And in spite of his predilection for wanting to kill her and her friends, that, too, seemed to be changing.  Just another of the surprises about him that she was discovering on this little trip to save Willow. 

Of course, there was the whole physical attraction part of it, too.  Couldn’t forget that.  Would it be wrong to just indulge in something superficial for a change?  Go into it with few expectations---unlike Parker---and she couldn’t get hurt.  It was definitely something to consider.

She hung back as the waiter first knocked on a closed door, then opened it enough for the pair of them to enter.  Where she’d been expecting an office, she found instead what was obviously someone’s living room, decadently furnished in spicy Moroccan shades, with textures galore adorning the overstuffed couch, the hangings draped over the walls, the glass light fixtures attached the ceiling.  Standing before a lavishly stocked alcohol display was a statuesque blonde, but when Buffy searched the mirror behind the liquor bottles for the woman’s face, she found herself greeted with her own reflection.

“And why, oh why, is William the Bloody deigning to play with mortals?” the woman said lightly as she poured out two shots of whiskey from the bottle in her hands.

“Good to see you, too, Iris,” Spike replied, finally releasing Buffy’s hand to stride confidently toward their hostess. 

When he came to a halt just a few feet away, the Slayer was shocked to see the height difference between them, the amply proportioned woman towering over him by a good six inches.  Maybe she’s a vampire/Amazon hybrid, Buffy thought and found herself standing taller, watching as Iris turned to proffer one of the tumblers to Spike.

Everything about the club owner was immaculate---the carefully applied scarlet lipstick, the way her black gown hung in perfect pleats from her plethora of curves.  Her blonde hair was cropped short, but its masculine cut did nothing to detract from the very feminine aura that surrounded her.  Brigitte Nielsen on steroids, the Slayer realized.  Now there’s a scary thought.

“What you see is a helluva lot more than you’re ever going to get,” Iris replied, a wry smile curving her too-full lips.  “And you haven’t answered my question.”

“Since when do you give two figs about who’s in my bed?” Spike replied.  “’Specially since you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’re not interested.”  He took a step closer, his tongue darting to trace his teeth as his eyes raked over her long form.  “’Course, if you’re havin’ second thoughts, I might be willin’ to consider makin’ a change…”

“Spike!”  His name came from her mouth without thought, the sudden rise of possession in her breast overwhelming Buffy to the point of speaking.  Her feet carried her further into the room, but she stopped when both vampires turned to look at her, her gaze quizzically amused, his slightly bewildered.

“Someone’s pet is just a little on the jealous side,” Iris crooned.  “Don’t worry, little girl.  Your Spike is safe and sound.  I have no desires to take him up on his offer.  He’d probably break within the first hour and frankly, I’m more interested in stamina than style.”

“I think he’d surprise you,” Buffy retorted, cheeks flaming in embarrassment.

Spike’s eyes lingered on hers, trying to assess how much of this was put upon and how much was real, and she tore her own away before too much of the truth could be revealed.  Her outburst had come from nowhere, but as soon as she’d seen him playing up to the female vampire, she’d been unable to control it, and now wondered just what in hell was going on inside her head.

“Well, I will give you this, Spike,” Iris said.  “You do know how to pick women who are utterly devoted to you.  First Drusilla, now this little human.  Of course, Drusilla’s sanity left a little to be desired.  Is this one crazy too?  Or does she just have that daddy fixation that intrigues you so?”

Buffy’s hands balled into fists at her side, and she bit her lip in order not to say something she was sure would not lead to anything good.  She really didn’t like this woman, and the sooner they got what they wanted and got out of here, the happier she was going to be.

Setting his drink on the bar, Spike leaned against it, blue eyes surveying the room.  “And here I was hoping we might be able to do some business here,” he said casually.  “If I’d known you were only interested in discussing my lovelife, I’d’ve saved you the trouble and just dropped you a postcard.  ‘Dru’s history.  Bagged me my own blonde.  Wish you were here.’”

Iris pouted.  “Hanging out with humans is making you boring,” she complained.  “You used to be so much fun to banter with.”  She sighed and crossed to the couch, arranging her long limbs gracefully amidst the large pillows.  “Fine.  Be that way.  What’s the business that brings you around Midnight?”

Spike reached into his jacket and extracted the sketch he’d made earlier of Stella, handing it over to the female vampire.  “Lookin’ for this songbird,” he said.  “Name’s Stella.  She’s s’posed to be all into the vodou and since she’s from around these parts, I figured you’d be just the one to tell me where I could find her, where she works, that sort of thing.”

Iris’ eyes were impassive as they looked over the drawing.  “She’s a singer, you say?”

“Yeah.  Puts on quite a show from the way they tell it.”

“Is she demon or human?”

“Human.”

She shook her head, holding out the paper for him to take back.  “Sorry, Spike.  I don’t think I can help you this time around.”

“Can’t?  Or won’t?”

“Can’t,” she stressed.  “I’ve never seen that person before.  But if you want, I can put out some feelers, see if anyone else has heard of a black singer into vodou somewhere here in New Orleans.”  Her smile was mocking.  “Because that wouldn’t be unusual in the slightest, you know.”

He looked like he wanted to press on the issue, but after a moment of silence, decided better of it, tucking the sketch back into his jacket.  “Right then,” he said, crossing to Buffy by the door.  “We won’t be keepin’ you any longer.  Know you’re a busy gal and all.”

“Why exactly are you looking for this…Stella?”  She wasn’t even looking at them when she asked, focusing instead on sipping casually at her drink.

“She’s got something of mine,” Buffy said before Spike could reply.  “I want it back.”

Iris chuckled.  “And lovely William is playing the gallant boyfriend in helping you,” she said.  “How…droll.”

“Troll?” Buffy asked Spike, looking at him in confusion.  “There’s a troll?”

Rolling his eyes at her linguistic simplicity, he shook his head.  “Droll,” he repeated, emphasizing the d.  “Like…quaint.  Only…”  He shot Iris a dirty look.  “…not quite so nice.”

The female vamp’s chuckle deepened into full laughter.  “Stay for as long as you’d like,” she tossed back at them over her shoulder.  “Drinks will be on the house.  For old friends’ sake.”

The Slayer felt Spike hesitate, his muscles tense as his hand settled at her back, and followed his gaze as he looked back at the woman on the couch.  “Thanks,” he said slowly.  “It’s appreciated.”

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

“Is that it?” she demanded once they were back at their table.  “Your big source, the queen of all things vodou, gave us nada.  Please tell me you’ve got something else for us to try, because I am less than impressed here.”

“Sit back and drink your wine,” Spike ordered, eyes narrowed as they scanned the club.  He was distracted, had been since they’d left Iris’ quarters, and his tone was brusque as he spoke to her.

“We’re staying?  That’s going to waste this whole night.”  Buffy leaned forward, grabbing his arm to force his attention back to her.  “She doesn’t know anything, Spike.  Now, under other circumstances, boogie-ing the night away with you might be kind of appealing, but not right now, not with Willow out there somewhere.  What can sticking around here possibly accomplish?”

His eyes flitted down to her hand on his sleeve before lifting up to gaze steadily into hers.  “Hopefully, it’s goin’ to give us some idea on why exactly Iris is lyin’ to us,” he said softly.  “Because there’s no way in hell she doesn’t know who that Stella bird is…”