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

The box of donuts remained perched in her hands, untouched by the others in the room.  Though Giles had pulled out the chair from the desk for her to sit upon, Anya had refused, steadfastly circuiting the room offering the pastries to the others.  It was only when everyone had declined that she stepped away from them, her smile fading into a frown.

“I don’t get it,” she complained.  “Willow casts a spell that turns Xander into demon-nip, Giles into Stevie Wonder, Buffy and Spike into the honeymooners from hell, and everybody forgives her just for baking you a few cookies.  Me, all I did was not tell you about some stupid staff that has…I have no idea what to do with our resident Wicca, and you won’t eat one stinking donut?”  She waited expectantly for some type of response, but getting none, tossed the box down disgustedly on the desk.  “You know, this really blows.  I come back here, ready to the right thing, and not one of you is willing to cut me a little slack.  What’s a girl got to do to get through to you people?”

“Telling us the truth in the first place might have been a good start,” Giles said sternly.

Xander stepped between them when he saw Anya’s jaw drop, her tongue ready to lash out in a way he knew was not going to make the situation any better.  “Ahn,” he said in the most reassuring voice he could muster, “you have to understand.  If you’d just said something in the beginning, Willow might be home already.”

“Oh, because you would’ve found a way to magically intercept her wherever she is on the way to New Orleans, just based on some ancient history about the voix mortelle?”  Anya snorted, rolling her eyes.  “Highly doubtful, Xander.”

Giles frowned.  “The voix mortelle?”

“That’s what all this about.  That’s what I came back to tell you.”

From her seat at the end of the couch, Tara rose, smiling carefully as she stepped toward Anya.  “You know,” she said.  “I think I’m hungry after all, and those look really good.  May I have a donut, please?”

Though she would’ve said before that moment that Tara was the one she least understood, Anya was grateful for the metaphorical show of support from the young witch and pushed the box toward her with what could almost pass as a smile.  “I got a little bit of everything,” she explained.  “So that whatever anyone wanted, they could get.”

“What we’d like is some answers,” Giles said.  When Tara glanced back at him, her eyes steady, he attempted to hold her gaze but failed rather quickly.  “And perhaps a jelly-filled donut,” he added, ducking his head as he stepped forward.

“So…you know what this is about, but you don’t know why Willow’s involved?” Tara asked quietly, wiping off some of the powdered sugar that clung to her fingers.

Anya sighed.  “I only know the history of what’s going on,” she elaborated.  “What’s actually happening now is anybody’s guess.” She waited until even Xander had selected a pastry from the box, crossing to the front of the couch to pace as if she was about to give a presentation.  Her fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt as she moved, and it was only when Giles had perched himself on the sofa’s arm, joining the other two who were seated there, that she stopped and faced them.

“About a century ago, give or take a decade, someone stole one of D’Hoffryn’s favorite toys---.”

“D’Hoffryn,” Tara interrupted.  “That was your demon boss, right?”

Anya nodded.  “He’s the one who got me into the whole vengeance gig in the first place.  Anyway, somebody stole the voix mortelle from his collection---.”

“You mentioned that.”  This time it was Giles who interrupted her.  “This voix mortelle.  What is that?”

“A staff.  Of sorts.  Magical.  D’Hoffryn has this fetish for phallic things, and being potentially apocalyptic? Well, that’s just a big juicy cherry on top for him.”  She took a deep breath.  “So, anyway, like I was saying---.”

“Did you say, apocalyptic?” asked Xander.  “I thought we’d already met our annual quota for averting potential end-of-the-world disasters.”

“Do you want me to tell you this or not?” Anya exploded, hands on her hips.  “Because I’m very much getting the impression here you guys would rather have a round of twenty questions.  I can do that.  It might take you until Labor Day to find out what you want to know, but hey, if that’s the way you want to play this, I’m in.”

She was frustrated, her voice too shrill even for her liking.  Didn’t they understand how hard it was for her to swallow her pride and come back here like this? she wondered.  Not to mention what might happen if D’Hoffryn ever caught wind of it.  Sure, she wasn’t part of the fold anymore.  That didn’t mean he couldn’t still get angry with her and send someone after her to punish her for opening her mouth in the first place.  It wouldn’t surprise her if he wasn’t the reason Halfrek had showed up in the first place.

As before, Tara was the one who came to her defense.  “We’re sorry,” she said gently.  “Just…go on.  We’ll be good.”

“Yes,” Giles added.  “Please continue.”  As if by afterthought, he leaned over and plucked another donut from the box, showing it to her as if in offering before settling himself back onto the arm of the couch.

She surveyed them suspiciously before sighing.  “Where was I?” Anya asked.

“Someone stole D’Hoffryn’s evil stick,” Xander prompted.

“Oh.  Right.  Well, like I said, the voix mortelle was one of D’Hoffryn’s favorites, so when it turned up missing, he was a little put out.  That’s where I came in.  Things were a slow for me on the vengeance front so D’Hoffryn asked if I could help him find it.”  She looked smug in spite of her earlier annoyance.  “One of my easier assignments, let me tell you.  Once the bodies started showing up, all I had to do was follow the trail they left behind.”

“B-b-bodies?” 

Anya looked at her as if it was a foolish observation.  “Of course, bodies.   What, you think a demon’s going to be interested in something that scatters rose petals in its wake?  Pretty, but not nearly as satisfying as a line of carnage.”

“Right.”  Giles cleared his throat.  “I presume this has something to do with the voix mortelle?  Does it…kill people?”

“No.  It summons Sira.  Sira’s the thing that kills people.  Eventually.”

The name drove the Watcher to his feet, a frown furrowing his brow.  As the younger people watched, he strode over to one of the piles of books in the corner, kneeling to set aside the top few before picking up whatever he was looking for.

“You know about this Sira?” asked Xander.

“It’s…familiar.”  He turned a few pages, and then stopped, eyes narrowing as he quickly scanned the text.  When his gaze finally lifted, he stared at a waiting Anya.  “This is a serpent demon.”

She shrugged.  “Yeah?  So?”

Tara’s eyes widened.  “Serpent?  Like in that book I found about the singing?”

For the first time since she’d started her tale, Anya looked guilty, eyes darting around as she ducked her head.  “You found that one, huh?” she commented.  “I was kind of hoping…”  She blushed under Xander’s level gaze.  “Never mind.”

“So, these people who took Willow want to summon this Sira for fun and frolicking of the murderous kind,” her boyfriend said.  “Didn’t we get enough of serpent demons last year with the Mayor?”

“But that’s not possible.” 

“And why not, Ahn?”

“Because the only way to summon Sira is with the voix mortelle and I broke it.”

“You…broke it?” Giles said.

“Betcha didn’t get a Christmas bonus that year,” came from Xander.

“I didn’t have a choice.”  With an exasperated sigh, Anya flopped down into the chair, leaning her head against the back cushion.  “By the time I found it in New Orleans, Sira had already been called.  The three who had done it were gathering power, using Sira to get rid of their enemies, pick out the demons they could control, that kind of thing.  The one who was in charge---God, what was her name?  Something French.”  Her face furrowed, and the others waited in silence for a full minute as she struggled to remember.

Xander leaned forward, his hand proffered in a rolling gesture.  “The one who was in charge…?” he prompted.

“Right.  Well, What’s-her-name had all these plans.  Huge, grandiose plans, which, now that I think about it, were really quite innovative for the time.  She certainly got D’Hoffryn’s attention.  He actually offered her a job, in spite of the fact that he hated her so much for taking the staff in the first place.  But she didn’t take it.”  Anya rolled her eyes.  “It wasn’t good enough for her, apparently.  She always had this impression that she was above it all.”

“How did you break the staff?” asked Tara.

“I’m getting to that.  There were three of them---What’s-her-name and her two partners in crime, Percy and Bettina---.”

“How come you remember their names and not the ringleader?”  Xander’s gaze was quizzical, elbows propped up on his knees as he leaned forward.

“Because Bettina’s the one who put me to work while I was there,” Anya explained.  “She and Percy were lovers, but by the time I showed up on the scene, they were constantly fighting because he kept challenging What’s-her-name about who was going to be in charge.  He had the drive, but she had more power.  I found out later that she was a mambo before they got their hands on the voix mortelle.”

“And good ol’ Percy was jealous because he was only a lambada?”

Tara looked over at Xander.  “A mambo is a female vodou priestess,” she said.

“I knew that.”

Closing the book in his hand, Giles removed his glasses to gaze at the ex-demon with a frown.  “If you were put to work,” he said, “does that mean Bettina made a wish?”

“Yep.  I was spending most of my time with her because she seemed to be the weakest link of the three.  I thought that if I had any chance of getting the staff from What’s-her-name, it would be through Bettina.  Well, she found out Percy was using the power he’d obtained from Sira’s summoning to consort with a whole plethora of female types, and went through the roof.  Next thing I know, she’s babbling on and on about how much better things were before they’d stolen the voix mortelle, and how she missed it when things were simpler, blah, blah, blah.  And then bam!  She goes and makes a wish that the stupid staff would just get destroyed so all the madness would stop.”

A faraway look came into Giles’ eyes.  “’…until the mortals revolted and separated the tongue from the crown, destroying the power and banishing the serpent to the morass from whence it came,’” he recited quietly, the passage they had read only earlier that day echoing between the members of the group.  “It’s referring to the staff, isn’t it?”

Anya nodded.  “I was bound to grant her the wish, regardless of what D’Hoffryn might have wanted, so the way I figured it, instead of destroying it, I just…broke it.  Once it wasn’t intact anymore, Sira disappeared back to wherever it is he comes from and Percy turned back into being the schmuck Bettina had fallen in love with in the first place.”  She grimaced.  “Not one of my better resolutions, I’ll have to admit.”

“I don’t get it.”  Confusion colored Xander’s face.  “How do you know what’s going on with Willow now has anything to do with this?”

“Because the day after she disappeared, my old friend Halfrek stopped by to tell me to stay away from it all.  That it was going to be bad.”

“And you just listened to her?  Without telling us?  Without telling me?”

The pain in his voice sliced at her conscience, and Anya suddenly found her nails highly intriguing, burying her attention into picking at them instead of meeting the gaze of her boyfriend.  “I brought donuts,” she said defensively.  “Plus, as soon as I figured out what it might all be about, I made Halfrek spill.  I’ve probably pissed off a very powerful vengeance demon to do this for you, by the way.  You can just bet I’m not on her Christmas card list any more.”

“Why would she try and warn you away?”  Giles was just as confused as Xander at this point.  “More importantly, if you broke it, why were you so frightened to tell us about it?”

“Did you not read about what Sira does?  He sucks the life out of you, Giles.  Little by little.  And while that’s kind of fun to watch if you’re a demon, being human when he’s wandering around does not exactly make me want to be inviting him over for tea and crumpets, because, hello!  I’d be the crumpet!”

“But you broke this staff thing,” Xander argued.  “You said yourself that’s the only way to summon him.”

“You keep saying you broke it,” the Watcher commented.  He wasn’t about to let this go.  “You didn’t destroy it.  It’s still out there somewhere, right?”  When she nodded, he added, “And you’re afraid someone’s put it back together again.”

Again, she nodded.  “Of course, that means they have to find it first.  What’s-her-name disappeared with the stick part of the staff before I could stop her.  I tried for D’Hoffryn’s sake, but the girl had some serious magical skills, and did I mention angry as hell?  You do not want to cross a hopped up mambo, let me tell you.  But I did get to hide the skull.”

Tara’s eyes went wide.  “D-d-did you say…skull?”

“It sat on top of the shaft.  A child’s skull.  The shaft was really quite pretty, with these serpents that wound around it and diamonds set in their eyes.  When I broke it, I basically separated it into two pieces.  I figured D’Hoffryn could just put it back together later.  But when What’s-her-name vanished with half of it, he and I decided it would be better if we hid what we had until he could put the thing back together again.”

“And you never found her?”

“Nope.  Like I said, she had some powerful skills, a lot stronger than we realized until it was too late.  We never did figure out where she went.”

The group was silent for a moment, each lost in his or her thoughts.  Anya just watched the others, mouth grim.  She had been expecting to feel better about spilling the details of what she knew; wasn’t that the whole point of having a conscience?  Know you’re doing the right thing, do it, and then everything is good again.  Except she didn’t feel good.  She felt like crap.  And her stomach was starting to cramp from denying herself any of the donuts.

“I still don’t see where Willow fits in to any of this,” Giles finally murmured.  The ends of his spectacles tapped distractedly against his knee.  “I just wish I could get Buffy on the phone.  She really needs to know these new details.”

Taking a deep breath, Anya steeled herself for what she was about to say.  “Maybe it’s time we thought about joining Buffy and Spike in New Orleans,” she said, and then shook her head.  “I can’t believe I just said that.”

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

Lifting her hands over her head in surrender was probably the last thing he’d expected her to do.

Spike’s eyebrows shot up as high as her arms as he stared at Buffy in disbelief.  “Are you bloody kidding me, Slayer?” he demanded, not caring about the men waiting at either end of the hall.  “You’re not actually giving in to these wankers?  They’re human, for fuck’s sake!  I’ve seen you---.”

“Human!  Exactly!  The kind of things you can’t hurt and I don’t kill, remember?” she hissed back.  “Not only that, but humans with guns.  And crossbows.  Who are effectively blocking off the only two ways out of here.  One of which is full of UV badness.”

Spike pressed his lips together.  “So, that’s it?  That’s all that it takes to thwart the almighty Chosen One?” he asked, irritated.  He folded his arms across his chest in a deliberate show of non-compliance, ignoring the sound of another gun being cocked even as Buffy glanced at it nervously.  “A couple of gits in uniforms, some automatic weapons, and you roll over and show your belly?  If I’d known that, I’d’ve gone all fancy dress and guns when I first rolled into Sunnyhell.  Would’ve saved myself three years of torture, that’s for sure.”

The unbidden image of Spike as one of the Village People popped into Buffy’s head, and her lips quirked as she fought to bite back the giggles that rose in her throat.  If he starts singing YMCA, she thought, I’m going to lose it for sure, although it sure would make one hell of a distraction. 

She turned her body just enough so that they couldn’t hear her next words.  “I’m not interested in watching them dust you,” she whispered.  “If we can get to someplace where I know you’re not going to go up in flames---.”

“We just have to get past ‘em,” Spike replied, his voice just as low.  “You think a club owned and run by vampires isn’t goin’ to have underground tunnels?”

To be fair, she hadn’t really thought about that and immediately frowned as her brain started to tick over.  “Do you know how to get to them?” she asked.

“Closest one is in Iris’ quarters.”  The corner of his mouth lifted.  Now this was more like it.  This was the Buffy he knew.

She contemplated it for a moment, and then shook her head, scattering his hope like dust.  “Too risky.  Willow needs me now.  I can’t be wasting time playing sewer rat when I don’t know this city.”

“But I do,” Spike replied.  She was doing it again, dismissing his capabilities with a casual comment, only this time, a hell of a lot more hung in the balance.  Bugger if he was just going to stand by and take it, though.  The muscles in his cheek twitched as he bit down hard on his tongue, trying to maintain his cool.  “Stop bein’ such a stubborn bint and open your eyes on this one.  You get us past the old bill here, and I can get us out.  All you have to do is trust me, Buffy.”

His eyes blazed as she looked up at him.  He made it sound like she thought it was some kind of four-letter word or something, an impossible feat that not even a Slayer could overcome.  When her mouth opened to argue with him, however, Buffy stopped, her words to him from earlier floating back to her inner ear.  Just people I can trust, she’d told him.  But he hadn’t believed her.  If he had, he wouldn’t be asking her for it now.

So why was she hesitating?  Because he’s right in his disbelief, the little voice inside her head whispered.  If there was a way out, she should be grabbing it with both hands.  It shouldn’t matter that she wasn’t going to be the one leading the way; she’d let both Giles and Willow lead before so it wasn’t like it was anything new to her.

Except this was Spike.  Letting him lead meant letting down that last barrier between them.  No more denying that she needed him.  No more denying that he was anything more than a body, even if it was a very hot body.  It would be a leap of faith, a huge, gigantic jump for her to say, “Sure, Spike, here’s my life and everything I love.  I trust you not to screw it up.”

Could she do it?

Slowly, with a deliberation that made it appear to the waiting police that she was still complying, Buffy lowered one hand to wrap her fingers around Spike’s wrist, tugging it upwards.  “Do what they say,” she said loudly enough so that they could hear.  Before the flicker of hurt could deepen in the blue depths, she added in a voice only audible to the vampire, “I swear, if you screw up getting us out of here, I’ll stake you myself.”

A careful search of her eyes brought a ghost of a smile to Spike’s lips.  She was doing it.  The doubts that he’d seen in the grey-green were gone, replaced by a grim determination and a pleading to not mess this up.  His shoulders squared.  “Right,” he said, his voice overly fake to her ears as he lifted his arms up.  “Have to be all law-abidin’ and such.  I’m smart enough to know when I’m done for, I’d wager.”

She waited until the cop who had spoken was right behind her, reaching for her hands to slap them into cuffs.  At the officer’s order, Spike had positioned himself against the wall, spread-eagled with his back to the Slayer, but a half-turn of his head showed him what was happening out of the corner of his eye.

With the cop’s hand tight around her wrist, Buffy twisted her body, her leg lifting into a carefully aimed kick that landed on his abdomen, sending the man flying backwards into the pair who still blocked the way to Iris’ quarters.

As he caught the first flicker of her movement, Spike reacted with lightning speed by ducking to the ground, grabbing the blanket and casting it towards the lot in the outer doorway.  The dark wool blinded them for a moment, lending him just enough time to go sailing in the opposite direction, and he dove over the jumble of bodies Buffy had created with her single assault.

“C’mon!” he yelled back over his shoulder.

She vaulted past the downed officers before they could rise to their feet and ran with Spike to Iris’ door, following him in and slamming the door behind her.  He was right there beside her when she turned, hands pulling at the heavy couch to barricade the entrance, and she joined in hauling it the last few feet, the sound of footsteps growing louder on the other side of the heavy wood.

“Havin’ fun yet, pet?” he asked with a grin, the twinkle in his eye unmistakeable.

“It’ll be more fun once we’re in the tunnels,” she shot back, and then shook her head, unable to hold back her own smile.  “And I really can’t believe I just thought of stinky rat-infested sewers as fun.”

Nothing more was said between them as Spike pulled aside the liquor cabinet, exposing the large hole in the floor that led down to the underbelly of New Orleans.  She watched him disappear, a small splash announcing his safe descent, and hurriedly dropped herself through the hole after him.

There would be time for words later.

Now was the time to run.

More than once, the impulse to stop moving her feet and demand that Spike tell her exactly where they were going threatened to overwhelm Buffy, rising in her muscles with an insidious lethargy that she wanted more than anything to acquiesce to.  She didn’t.  Instead, she matched every step, every hesitation, following the vampire as he wound his way through the tunnels, the splashing of their feet in the ankle-deep water the only sounds echoing throughout the cylindrical chambers.  It was only when he came to a halt before a ladder leading upwards, looking back over his shoulder with a predatory tilt of his head, that she stopped

“We’ve lost ‘em,” he commented.

She noticed then the relative quiet of the tunnel and grinned.  “And it only took ruining my new sandals with gutter spludge to do it,” she quipped.  She looked down, flexing her toes within her shoes, watching the water ripple as the digits moved.  “Nothing like raw sewage squishing between your toes to give a girl that fresh out of the gutter feeling.”

“If you’re quick about it, you can clean up while I grab our things,” Spike said.

“Too bad your so-called friends turned out to be double-crossing bastards,” she said as she reached for a ladder rung.  “I was kind of getting attached to that cottage.”

His hand on her shoulder prevented her from climbing, and Buffy turned to see him frowning at her.  “We wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d left Iris alone, or if you’d bothered to take a minute to ring me first,” he said.  His eyes were dark, and the tight grip he had on her muscle screamed out his frustrated anger louder than any words he might offer.  She shrugged him off.

“I did try to call,” she said, her voice bouncing back hollowly from the cement walls of the tunnel.  “I got a busy signal.  Which reminds me, what did Giles have to say?  Did you tell him what we found out from Pablo?”

It was Spike’s turn to look uncomfortable, and he took a step away from her, long fingers reaching up to run through his hair.  “It wasn’t the Watcher on the phone,” he said.  “And I didn’t get a chance to ring him before I was gettin’ hauled out to save your ass.”

She knew he was trying to distract her by switching the conversation back to her and Midnight, but seeing it only made her more determined to find out the truth.  Letting go of the rung, Buffy turned to face him, arms folded across her chest.  “What did you do, Spike?” she demanded, her tone clipped.

“Thought you trusted me now,” he shot back.  “Or was that little show back at Midnight just because you thought handcuffs might chafe your delicate little Slayer wrists?” 

What had happened here? Buffy thought as she watched the muscles twitch in his cheek.  The vampire was furious and somehow, she suspected that if he’d been chipless, he would’ve been venting that anger with his fists on her face.  All she’d done was ask him who he’d been on the phone with, which shouldn’t have been a big deal unless…

“You called some of your friends,” she said in disbelief.  “After I specifically asked you not to.”

“No, you ordered me not to,” Spike spat.  “And as much as I’m likin’ whatever the hell this is that’s developing between me and you, I am not your own personal Jeeves to order about as you see fit.”

“I didn’t order you!”

His eyebrow shot up.  “Funny way of askin’ then, ‘specially when you consider askin’ usually takes the form of a question instead of a bald-faced statement designed to make me feel like some kind of fledgeling.” 

“Stop making this about grammar one-oh-one---.”

“You’re right.  It’s not.  It’s about respect.  And the relative lack you give me.”

“I don’t respect you?” she queried in disbelief.  “What would give you that idea?”

“Do you not listen to yourself when you talk to people, Slayer?  You practically slapped my hand about wanting to help in finding Red!”

“I told you I trusted you!”

“Only after immediately discounting any contribution I could make while I sat about and twiddled my thumbs, waiting for you to come back.”

She stared at him, perplexed.  “Since when do you listen to me anyway?” she said.

Under his breath, Spike growled, and closed the gap between them, hands on her shoulders to yank her roughly against him.  His mouth slammed down onto hers, tongue forceful as he demanded a response, searching and seeking in a vehement lather as he poured all his frustration and desire into the caress.

She responded instantly, soft body molding to his hard one, moaning in the back of her throat as she matched his fervor with her own.  Each delicious swipe drove her closer, her fingers clutching at his hips as she instinctively ground herself against him.

Her breathing was coming in harsh rasps by the time he pulled away, and she closed her eyes as she felt him lean his forehead into hers.

“Been listenin’ since I bloody well realized I could fall in love with you, pet,” he said.  “And for a lot longer before that.”

His words froze her muscles, staying her reaction to pull away and search his face for duplicity.  Inside the wall of her ribcage, Buffy’s heart pounded, driving her blood through her veins in alternating hot and cold blasts.  Not from the fight, either.  From…oh god, had he really said it?

“You…love me?” she said, except it came out more of a croak, her voice hoarse in disbelief.  She pulled away then, desperate to see his eyes.

He mistook her withdrawal for something else.  “Didn’t say that,” Spike said, taking his own step backwards as the heat from her body suddenly seemed to dwarf the tunnel. He was backpeddling, fervently wishing he could it all back.  “Said I could, is all.  Big difference there.”

“But…you’ve thought about it?”  She hadn’t, not really, except…maybe she had.  Maybe going over and over everything that had been happening between them, watching his every little move especially when he didn’t realize she was, dwelling on analyzing each word that passed through those incredible lips of his, maybe it all was just her subconscious way of working through what conscious Buffy would probably argue was total insanity.  Because she didn’t love Spike.  She couldn’t love Spike.  That was crazy.

So was trusting him with her life.  But she’d done that.  And she was trusting Willow’s life in his hands, as well.

Maybe not so crazy.

“Have you?”  The anger was gone now, replaced with a wariness that coiled his body as if to spring.  His fingers itched to reach out to her, but Spike quelled the urge, stuffing his hands deep inside his pockets as he watched her through his lashes, smelling the rush of adrenaline seeping from her skin like an aphrodisiac to his system.

“Have I what?”

It was somewhere between a guffaw and a snort.  “Thought about it,” he said, and dared to lift his head then.  “Thought about…where this us thing is goin’.”

“Thinking’s never been my strong suit,” Buffy said slowly.  How to talk her way out of this one?  She wasn’t ready for this topic of conversation yet, but then, would she ever be ready?  “Willow’s always been the one behind the brainpower.  Me, I’m fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants girl.  Follow my nose wherever it leads.”

“And what’s your nose tellin’ you now?”  Spike’s feet moved him closer, stepping without even his awareness, and his eyes glittered in the dim light of the tunnel. 

“It’s telling me…that I really, really, really want to take a shower before we find a new place to stay, because smelling like the Sunnydale dump?  Not the most romantic way to be having this conversation.”  She risked stretching out a hand to poke him in the chest, hoping her joke wouldn’t set off another tirade.

It made him chuckle instead.  All right, so she was avoiding the conversation but she had a point.  Scrambling through the sewers wasn’t exactly how he’d envisaged hashing this out, either.  Spike took another step, grabbing her finger in his fist and lifting her wrist to his mouth, inhaling deeply before letting his tongue dart to lick at the pulse throbbing there.

“Funny,” he murmured.  “All I seem to be able to smell is you.”

All her attention was focused on the square inch of skin on the inside of her wrist that seemed now to house all of her nerves, and for a long moment, forgot what it was exactly they had been talking about.  When reason returned, she smiled and pulled herself away.  “That’s because I’m the only one between the two of us with the non-creepy olfactory powers,” she said lightly.  She turned, tilting her head to look up at the ascending ladder.  “Where exactly is this going to let us out?”

She didn’t even notice that he didn’t look up, his gaze fixated instead by the slender line of her neck as it stretched.  He was telling the truth.  All he really could smell was her, and it was eating him up that he couldn’t just prop her up on the rungs and take her right there.  Though part of him wished he’d just kept his mouth shut, there was another, not so quiet, part of him that was whooping with joy that it was out there.  Hard to avoid what was hanging there right in front of your face; even the insight-challenged Slayer wouldn’t be able to not address it sooner or later.

His cock strained within his jeans, and he shifted his weight to alleviate the stress.  They’d get their stuff, find a nice hotel somewhere, and spend the afternoon shagging before they went and found Red tonight.  Yeah, that was a good plan.  He could back a plan like that.

“I’m going to say, in the alley behind the house,” he said in response to her question, finally glancing upward.  “Provided I didn’t get us turned around in these tunnels.”

“I’m not even going to consider that that happened,” Buffy replied.  “You stay here.  If it’s the house, I’ll grab a blanket so you don’t get all toasty.  If it’s not, well, I don’t know what, but we’ll think about that later.  OK?”

Before he could say anything, Buffy grabbed on to the rungs and pulled herself up the ladder.  He stood back as she heaved the manhole cover aside, allowing the sunshine to stream down inside the dank tunnel, carefully avoiding any unnecessary burns.  She was only gone for a moment, her blonde head quickly poking down inside the hole as she thrust a blanket he recognized from his car toward him.

“Keep quiet,” she said in a low voice.  “We’ve got company.”

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

He was in the kitchen when Buffy slid open the doors from the lanai, humming under his breath as he rummaged around in the refrigerator.  Though she was silent as she slipped inside, their surprise entrance was spoiled by Spike’s furious stomping as he darted past her, the blanket firmly alight over his shoulders as he whipped it to the tiled floor.

Pablo’s head popped over the refrigerator door, pink eyes wider than she had ever seen them as he stood, frozen, staring at the blonds in the living room.

Buffy rolled her eyes.  “So much for stealthy.”

Her voice jerked the demon from immobility, and he came scurrying into the room to greet them.  “Spike!  What the hell happened to you back there?  I was waiting, and then I heard the sirens, and then---.”  His words became a gurgle as Spike grabbed hold of his throat and slammed him into the wall, pinning him there very much like he had the previous night.  “Spike,” he croaked, limbs flailing as he struggled to free himself.  “Man, what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?  What’s wrong?”  Flecks of amber danced in the vampire’s eyes.  “Let’s just say I get a little brassed off when I get stabbed in the back.  That’s what’s wrong.”

His free hand shot out, his fist slamming into Pablo’s gut, forcing out what little air the demon already had.  “I swear!  I didn’t---.”  Another punch silenced him, forcing him to gulp for air as his scales began to shade to a pale pink that matched his eyes.

“Spike.” 

Her calm voice made him pause before he could hit him again, and the vampire turned to see a resolute Buffy staring back at him. “I’m kind of in the middle of something here, luv,” he said.

“Don’t kill him.”

“Yeah, Spike, don’t kill me,” Pablo croaked desperately, trying to nod his head but failing miserably against the vise of the vampire’s hand.  “Listen to your girlfriend.  She’s a smart one.  She’s with you, isn’t she?”

Spike ignored his captive’s pleas to gape at Buffy in disbelief.  “Are you kidding me?  I’m goin’ to shred this guy into tiny little pieces and feed them to those sewer rats we got so chummy with over the past half hour.  Wanker sold us out to Iris.”

“No, not the rats!” Pablo pleaded.  “C’mon!  I told you what happened after Kimmy dragged me to go see that Ben movie!”

Buffy rolled her eyes.  “I just meant, don’t kill him yet.”  She turned her expectant gaze to the pinned demon.  “Not until I get a shot at him.”

Spike grinned, his teeth catching the tip of his tongue in glee.  “Well, now that’s more like it,” he said, and tossed the demon toward her.

She caught him with ease, and shifted her weight to throw him to her other side, watching in dismay as he fell into the baby grand.  “So much for an encore performance of last night,” she said, striding forward to slam the lid down on his legs where they lay tangled in the wires.

Pablo howled in pain.  “Get your girlfriend off me, Spike,” he whined.

The vampire shook his head.  “No can do, mate.  She’s got you bang to rights on this one.  You pissed her off, you pissed me off, and all because you had to throw a spanner into the works with Iris.”  He shook his head in mock dismay.  “You should know better than to try to fuck with me.  I’m a helluva lot more dangerous than that bitch, and you know it.”

“But, you and me, we go back, old friend, old buddy, old pal.  Remember the good ol’ days?  Remember you and me and Dru and Kimmy and the whole debutante ball extravaganza---?”

“God, doesn’t he ever shut up?” Buffy complained.  She wasn’t even fazed by Pablo’s struggles as he fought to right himself.  “He makes Xander look like Marcel Marceau.”

Spike looked thoughtful, his head tilted as he gazed at their hostage.  “S’long as he’s talkin’, luv, I’m thinkin’ we might be able to get him to say something useful for a change.”

“Useful!”  Pablo latched on to the word.  “I can be useful!  Tell me what you want.  Anything.  Just name it.”

“Tell us about this thing Iris has going on tonight then,” Buffy said.

He immediately stopped his struggles.  “I’m not that useful,” he said, only to yelp as she shoved the lid down even harder against him.

“You’re tryin’ to tell us the Hedda Hopper of the New Orleans set doesn’t know about one of the city’s biggest player’s getting her groove on with this Stella bird?”  Spike snorted.  “You’re a lousy liar, mate.”

“I’m telling you, I know nothing!”

A thoughtful look softened Buffy’s features.  “Some of those sewer rats were pretty big, weren’t they?” she commented to her partner.  “I’d bet they might be able to get him to talk.  Well, before they ate out his tongue, that is.”

Pablo screeched in fright, setting off a cacophony from the hammers inside the piano as he tried to shrink away from the Slayer’s hands.

“Now,” Buffy said casually as she watched him writhe, “let’s stop channelling Sergeant Schultz, and try this again.”  She lifted the lid of the piano slightly, only to push it back down with a greater force.  “What do you know about what Iris is up to tonight?”

“All I know is that it’s out of town,” Pablo wheezed between pants.  His scales had shaded to a washed-out red, a combination of fear, pain, and his brief oxygen deprivation taking its toll on his body.  His eyes darted from Buffy to the lounging form of Spike behind her, watching as the vampire pulled his cigarettes from his coat pocket and lit one up. 

She sighed.  “I think Old El Paso here needs some encouragement,” Buffy said.  “You watch him.  I’m going to go rat-catching.”

She didn’t even get turned around before he was shrieking, “At a swamp!  It’s at a swamp!  Out of town like I said!  Iris told me she was closing Midnight for the night because she wanted to be there personally to watch the festivities.”

“Speaking of tall, blonde, and bitchy,” Buffy said.  “What did she say to you?  Why did she send the cops after us?”

He looked at her as if it was the stupidest question in the world.  “You broke into her club.”

She rolled her eyes.  “I know that.  But why drag Spike into it?  Obviously, she used you to get him down there.  Why go to all the fuss?”

“Been curious to hear the answer to this one myself,” Spike said, and sauntered forward to stand at Buffy’s side.

Pablo shook his head.  “I don’t know.”

The two blonds looked at each other.  “Now, why don’t I believe him?” Spike asked.  Without breaking his gaze from the Slayer, he lifted his hand with the cigarette and placed the burning tip against the scaled demon’s forehead, holding it there as it sizzled, the stench of singed scales permeating the cooled air.

“Ow!  Ow!  Ow!  I’ll tell you!  Ow!  Get it off!”  He glared up at the vampire as he casually stuck the filter back into his mouth, puffing at it with a strong suck before exhaling the smoke directly into Pablo’s face.

“So, I’m going to ask again,” she said nonchalantly.  “Why go to all the fuss?”

The battle between his pain and his fear warred across his features, and his lips pulled back into a snarl.  “If you have to know,” he growled, “she said you two would mess everything up.  She wanted to make sure you were locked up nice and tight and out of the way while whatever’s happening out at the swamp played out.”  He glared at them.  “I’ve told you everything I know.  Can I go now?”

She ignored his plea and turned to Spike.  “I don’t suppose you’re an expert on outlying swamps, too,” she said.

He shrugged.  “Can think of two off-hand.”  His eyes flickered to Pablo.  “Where’s Iris pulling her little party?” 

The demon’s mumbled response prompted another shove of the piano lid and he repeated his reply, barking it in a louder, sharper cry.  “Sira Sommeil, Sira Sommeil.  Are you happy now?”

Buffy looked at her partner expectantly, and smiled when he nodded.  “Yep,” she chirped.  “Much better.”

Pablo’s gaze settled on Spike.  “I guess you outdid yourself this time,” he commented.  “She’s as crazy a bitch as Dru ever was.”

“Hey!”  Indignation sharpened her voice, and her fist shot out automatically, slamming into his unsuspecting face, driving it back against the piano to shatter the frame he was leaning against.  Pablo’s eyes rolled back into his head, his lids fluttering closed, and all his muscles went lax at once.

She waited for a long moment, staring at the unconscious demon.  “Oops,” Buffy finally said.  “Guess that means show and tell is officially over.”  She looked at Spike.  “Do you know what we need to know to get to this whatchamacallit tonight?”

He nodded.  “We need to get out of here before we get any more surprise visitors,” he said.  “No tellin’ how long it’s goin’ to take Iris to figure out we’re not in jail and send her guys after us.  You go grab a quick shower.  I’ll keep an eye on Pablo here and make sure he doesn’t come around and try and sneak away.”

Buffy pivoted on her heel and was halfway across the room before she stopped.  “Just for reference, you’re not planning on killing him, are you?” she queried.  “Not that I’m against it, but he’s not really a menace to us anymore, is he?”

He contemplated the decision for a moment and then shook his head.  “I think it’s better we let him live,” Spike replied.  “He can let the other demons in town we mean business and not to try and fuck with us again.”

She had crossed back to him before he realized it, taking his face between her hands and pulling him down for a hard kiss.  He was startled, but quickly eased into it, letting his hands slide around back to pull her against him.

“We make a pretty good tag team,” Buffy breathed when she finally pulled away.          

His face nuzzled into her neck, inhaling her scent.  “That, we do,” Spike murmured.

The cool line of his cheekbone stroked her jaw as he seemed to burrow into her flesh, and Buffy felt the familiar rise of goosebumps prickle her bare arms, her mouth watering for another of those kisses that seemed to make her forget where she was, what her purpose was.  It took her a moment to realize that the feeling that was swelling within her chest was awe, a stunned wonder at what had just happened with the vampire.

He’d deliberately chosen not to kill Pablo.  His argument about letting him live as an example was a weak one; even she knew that.  And yet, he’d not balked, or questioned her indirect decision.  The ramifications of what that meant spread further than she knew he realized, and she felt one of the weights of worry that had been troubling her dissipate.

Her mouth lifted to his ear.  “Just for the record,” Buffy murmured, her breath warm, tickling the fine whorls.   “I have thought about it.”

She didn’t stay for his reaction, but broke from his embrace to sprint for the bathroom.  It was hard enough admitting the words.  She wasn’t sure she had the fortitude to face the consequences of what it might mean for him to hear them.

He was left with his skin tingling, the heat of her body still warming his.  Slowly, the smile spread across Spike’s face, and he sat down on the still-intact piano bench, leaning against the keys as he listened to the shower start up.  Maybe not so insight-challenged, he thought happily.  Just needs the proper persuasion to face up to it.  Whoever would’ve thought that that persuasion might be me…?

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

He had the phone to his ear when she walked back into the cottage.

“Still no answer?” Buffy asked, casting a quick glance at Pablo’s unconscious form in the piano.

Spike shook his head, replacing the receiver back on its base.  “I tried Harris’ place, too, but same thing.  Ring ring, and then the bloody answering machine.  Someone needs to tell the boy to change his message.  Alf stopped bein’ funny five minutes before it ever hit the airwaves.”

She didn’t even hear the gibe at Xander as she frowned at the vampire’s words.  “Where do you think they could be?  Unless we missed some weather report telling the world that hell has officially frozen over, there’s no way Giles abandoned researching this.”

“Rupert still has to eat, luv.  He probably just ran to the shops or something.  We’ll try again when we get to the hotel.”

She didn’t like it, but in light of their current time crunch, Buffy knew she didn’t have much choice in the matter.  They couldn’t afford to be sticking around the cottage longer than necessary, and though she really wanted to know why neither Giles nor Xander was home, she couldn’t afford to dwell on it when they could just continue their efforts once they got somewhere Iris couldn’t find them right away. 

A pang of guilt about not having the phone numbers of her best friends’ significant others memorized stabbed in Buffy’s gut, but then again, she’d never really considered the possibility that Giles might not be home.  It seemed like all he did was Watcher-related, although there had been that time when the gang had said they’d caught him singing in public.  Not that she thought that was what he was doing now, but…She shook her head.  Rambling was going to get her nowhere.  They’d just try again when they got someplace safe.  And she’d call information and get Anya and Tara’s numbers, too, just in case.

A soft plink came from the piano, and Buffy broke from her reverie to see Spike shifting Pablo’s body, his hands burrowing into the demon’s clothing.  “What are you doing?” she asked.

“What’s it look like I’m doin’?” he replied, and promptly extracted a large wallet.  “The way I figure it, he owes us this.”

“You can’t take his wallet, Spike!”

“I’m not.”  He grinned, the wad of bills that had caused the billfold to bulge disappearing into his duster pocket.  “I’m takin’ his cash.”

With three strong steps, Buffy was at his side, pulling the money from his coat.  “I’m not lettin’ you do this,” she said and tried to grab at the wallet, only to sigh in exasperation when he held it over his head, out of her immediate reach.  “We’re not stealing from him.  That would be wrong.”

Spike’s eyebrow shot up in surprise.  “You’ve got no problem torturing a zemmiphobic Luravian demon with the sewers but you won’t nick a few bob off him?  Has anyone ever told you your priorities are seriously out of whack here, Slayer?”

“Hey!  My priorities are perfectly in whack, thank you very much.  And what’s being afraid of the Marx Brothers got anything to do with anything?”

He stared at her blankly for a long moment while the latter part of her statement sank in, then rolled his eyes even as the smile came dancing to his lips.  “I said zemmiphobic, not zeppophobic, you silly chit.  Rats.  His thing about rats, remember?  Which only goes to prove what I said about your soddin’ schools over here---.”

Buffy held up a hand.  “Don’t.  Start,” she warned.  “Or you’ll force me to start addressing you as Giles Jr.  Or maybe just Junior.”  She grinned.  “Somehow I don’t think you want me to get used to calling you names that imply something little.”

He snorted.  “You just give me a chance, pet.  I’ll show you what’s not---.”

She surprised him by jumping up, snatching the billfold from his grasp and landing back on her feet before he could finish the sentence.  Tucking the money back into the worn leather, she tossed it back into the piano.  “Oh, look,” she said brightly.  “Issue over.”

“Slayer---.”

“I’ve decided I want a Holiday Inn or a Marriott or something like that this time,” Buffy said as she grabbed his hand and began pulling him toward the front door.  “Maybe even a suite.  I think we deserve a suite, don’t you?”

“Can’t bloody afford a suite now,” Spike grumbled, but his amusement belied the gruffness of his tone.  Not that he exactly got what her problem was in taking Pablo’s money---after all, the wanker had sold them out and then had the balls to come back to their place to rummage through their fridge---but the sight of her righteous indignation coupled with the warmth of her hand in his was enough to make it a non-issue for him.  Besides, they were on their way to fresh beds---or just one if he could help it---with hours to squander before they had to get out to Sira Sommeil.  The last thing he currently wanted was for her to get pissed at him for something as trivial as a few bucks.  Not with what he had planned.

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

He waited a full five minutes after the door closed before even daring to open an eye.  His forehead hurt from the cigarette burn, and his jaw was a little sore from the Slayer’s punch, but all in all, Pablo had to admit that he’d gotten off a little easy from their torture session.  Of course, Iris might have different ideas about that once she realized Spike and Buffy knew where she was going to be that night, but it didn’t stop him from being relieved he didn’t have to worry about the rat dreams returning.  Kimmy got a little annoyed when he started slapping her in his sleep, thinking she was one of the rodents out to chew him alive.

Slowly extracting himself from the rubble that was the piano, Pablo saw his wallet fall to the floor, some of the bills escaping to flutter against the smooth surface.  He shook his head.  Spike’s going soft, he thought.  Slayer-whipped and he doesn’t even know it.  At least they hadn’t started making out in front of him again.  He didn’t think he could’ve faked his unconsciousness if he’d had to listen to them macking on each other.  One kiss from them and his gagging noises would’ve been sure to give him away.  He was just going to have to thank the hellgods for small favors.

Pablo grimaced as one of the piano legs finished crumbling, sending the instrument crashing to the floor on its other side.  Spike’s just lucky I’ve got insurance, he thought irritably, nudging the debris with his foot.  Here’s hoping Iris teaches him a real lesson when he crashes her little swamp party.

It was the thought of Iris that made his blood run colder, and his eyes slid to the telephone.  She was going to kill him when she found out Pablo was the reason Spike and his girlfriend were able to poke their noses into her business tonight.  No, first she’d probably have him flayed and left in the rodent cage at the zoo, then she’d kill him.  Of course, death would be welcome at that point, he couldn’t help but believe, but it didn’t stop the thought of it from making his scales crawl.

Gotta be a way to fix this, his head rushed, and stood there in silence, staring at the phone.  Trying to stop Spike and Buffy on his own was pointless; they’d already proven they could take him in a fight if it came down to being only him.  He would just have to find someone else to stop them.  Or, even better, Iris could stop them herself.  She was going to be pissed enough when she found out they escaped the police; she would probably be grateful for the opportunity to teach them a lesson, once and for all.

His hands were shaking slightly as he punched in the number on the telephone, and he found himself wishing that Iris wouldn’t be there.  He wasn’t sure he had the nerve to talk to her directly and if she answered---.

“What do you want?”

He took a deep breath.  Good.  A lackey.  This could be OK.  “It’s Pablo.  I need to talk to Iris.  It’s urgent.”

“She’s not here.”

Even better.  “It’s imperative I get a message to her before sundown.  If I tell it to you, can you see that she gets it?”

He heard some faint rustling of paper.  “Yeah.  Go ahead.”

“Spike found out about Sira Sommeil tonight.  He’s planning on showing up there with that Slayer girlfriend of his.”

The sound of scribbling.  “Iris isn’t going to like this.”

“That’s why I’m calling.  This way, you guys can stop him.  You’ll…make sure Iris knows I was the one who warned you, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

The receiver went dead in his hand and slowly Pablo set it back down.  There.  He’d done pretty much all he could.  Iris would know about Spike, she’d be so happy about getting the heads-up she wouldn’t hurt Pablo too badly about letting the secret slip in the first place, and life in the Big Easy could return to normal. 

Still…probably wouldn’t hurt to get out of town for a day or two. 

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

From his vantage point in the doorway, Xander watched as his girlfriend tried sitting on the top of her suitcase in an effort to close it, the pale line of a shirt sleeve caught in the lid poking its way out of the side.  He sighed.  “We should only be there for a couple days, Anya.  There’s no reason to pack your entire summer wardrobe.”

“Do you have any idea how hot it is in New Orleans this time of year?” she said, leaning forward to try and force the clasp together.  “It makes the Hellmouth feel like the Arctic Circle.”

His mouth was open to suggest that she just go without clothes if it was that hot when the realization that she probably would stopped his tongue, flashes of Giles and his potentially screaming reaction flitting across his mind.  Instead, he said, “With as much time as you’re taking, I’d almost say you didn’t want to go.”

Anya’s head jerked up.  “I’m the one who suggested it, if you care to remember,” she snapped.  “But if you’re implying that perhaps I’m reluctant to have to face pain and torture and the inevitable sucking of life from my body, then yes, maybe my need to overpack has slowed my pace just a little.”  She stood up and began yanking clothes from the suitcase, tossing them onto the floor before slamming the lid shut again.  Its closing click was loud in the small bedroom.  “There?  Happy now?”

“Ahn, look…”  He stepped forward, turning her around to look at him, his hands on her shoulders.  “I said I was sorry about the way I reacted.  It’s just…Willow’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember.  Do you know how much I hate the fact that I’ve been stuck here while Spike of all people gets to go with Buffy and do the rescuing?  That should’ve been me.  And it would’ve been if we’d known what this was all about from the start.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, I didn’t know for sure that this was what it was about until this morning?”  She pulled herself away, her arms folded across her chest as she struggled to restrain her temper.  There had been a lot of yelling already on the way over from Giles’, and frankly, she was tired of it.  She just wanted to get on with the making up. 

“I don’t want to fight about this anymore---.”

“Then stop bringing it up and carry my bag out to the car.”  She brushed past him, expecting his warm grasp to stop her, and felt her heart constrict when she made it all the way to the door without his moving.  Slowly, Anya turned to look back at him.

“You know…”  His eyes were soft, but his mouth unsmiling.  “I dated Cordelia.  I’ve been at the brunt end of the Mistress of Manipulation.  Don’t do this, Anya.  This isn’t about you.  This isn’t about me.  This is about doing what’s right.”

“But…I did the right thing.  I told you all I knew as soon as I had confirmation.”

“I just hope it was soon enough.”

“It’s going to have to be, Xander.  And you want to talk about manipulation?  How long are you planning on making me feel guilty about this?   Because maybe if I can put a note on my schedule about how long I can expect to be raked over the coals about something that wasn’t completely my fault, it just might make it easier for me to deal with.”

“I’m not---.”

“Yes, you are.”  Anya took a step closer to him, her body stiff but her eyes pleading.  “Why are your little Scooby rules so different for me?” she asked.  “Please explain it to me, because I just don’t get it.  Willow can screw up royally and then get instantly forgiven, but I have one lapse in judgment and I’m the leper of the century?”

“It’s more complicated than that---.”

“No, it’s not.  I mean, it’s hard enough having to live with the fact that no matter what I do, Buffy and Willow will always be more important to you than me, but---.”

“What?”  His gaze was incredulous.  “Ahn…why would you say such a stupid thing?”

Her returning look was just as bewildered.  “Because it’s true.”

Xander moved then, reaching out to brush back the hair from her face.  “I can’t believe you feel like that,” he said.  “Don’t you know how important you are to me?”

“No, I don’t.”  She could feel tears start to well behind her eyes, and straightened her shoulders, not ready to let them fall just yet.  “All I’m asking for is a little understanding, and so far, the only one who’s been halfway human about my little faux pas is Tara.  Don’t you think if she can be big about this, you and Giles can too?”

His gaze hardened, his hand falling back to his side.  “It’s not the same thing.  She hasn’t known Willow for as long as we have.”

“That doesn’t mean she cares about her any less.”  Anya shook her head.  “Newsflash, Xander.  How strong your feelings are for someone isn’t necessarily directly proportional to the amount of time you’ve been in their life.  Take it from the ex-vengeance demon who saw a millennia worth of relationships, even if they weren’t all happy-go-lucky.”  She dropped her eyes, her muscles suddenly weary.  “Can you please get my bag?” she asked.  “Giles is going to get pissy if we miss our flight and he has to rebook everything.  The last thing I need right now is another strike against me.”

He watched her turn and disappear out the doorway, his body still not capable of following.  Good thing Willow’s not here to witness my tremendous foot-in-mouth disease, he thought.  She had a rough enough time telling us about Tara in the first place.  I can’t believe I said that about me and Giles.

But he had, and what scared him most was that part of him actually meant it.  It was wrong, and it wasn’t fair to Tara, but it didn’t stop the feelings of ownership that he had about his oldest friend, the over-developed sense of responsibility he had for her welfare.  Logically, he knew Anya was right, but emotionally, that was a whole ‘nother kettle of fish.  Salmon swimming upstream against the current of reason.

And if he didn’t get them under control soon, he was going to lose Anya as a result.

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

He was stretched out on top of one of the double beds when she dumped the last load from the car inside the door, hands behind his head, ankles crossed as he watched her collapse into the chair by the window.

“Next time we stay someplace requiring luggage,” Buffy grumbled, pushing back the damp strands of hair from her forehead, “I vote for post-sunset check-in time.  You’re getting off way too easy on this whole moving in and out thing.”

“I unloaded at the cottage when we hit town,” Spike replied with a smirk.  He watched as she picked up the brochure that sat in the middle of the table at her side, using it to fan her face.  A single rivulet of sweat ran down the side of her neck, detouring slightly along the contour of her collarbone, hesitating as if aware it had an audience, before continuing its lethargic slide down her chest.  His gaze followed it down, his demon within growling in need, and felt his skin pulse as it disappeared between her breasts.

“’Sides,” he continued, his voice huskier.  “I think I prefer the hot and bothered version of Buffy.  Kind of…primal.”  His tongue ran along the edge of his teeth.  “Sexy.”

She wrinkled her nose.  “Ewww.  Kind of stinky, you mean,” she replied, oblivious to his scrutiny.  “So much for showering before we left.  I swear I can still smell sewer rat in my hair.”

Spike growled.  Surprisingly enough, the possibility of bathroom sex hadn’t occurred to him.  “Shower sounds good,” he drawled.  He hadn’t had one back at the cottage; maybe he could use this as an excuse to get his hands on her instead.  His head was flooded with sudden images of lathering her up, rinsing her down, her golden body arching back against him...

“Maybe after I unpack,” she was saying, and he frowned as she rose from her seat and tossed her bag onto the other bed, unzipping its top and pulling her things out.

“What’s the rush, pet?” he quizzed, sitting up and reaching for his cigarettes where he’d tossed them on the nightstand.  “We can’t go anywhere until sunset anyway.  We’ve got hours to waste here.”

“Spike, you can’t smoke in here.”

His hand stopped midway.  “And why’s that?”  When Buffy pointed to the sign attached to the wall, he grimaced.  “You couldn’t have asked for a smoking room?”

“You can smoke outside.”

“And go poof in the process.  No thanks.”

“Here.”  She reached into her bag and tossed something at him.  “You want something in your mouth, use this.”

He held up the brightly wrapped candy.  “A lollipop?  I’m not some bleedin’ Munchkin, luv.”  In spite of his grumbling, though, he pulled the cellophane off and shoved the sweet in his mouth, rolling it around his tongue as he watched her pull more items from her duffel.

“I still have to get a hold of Giles,” Buffy said.  “And if that means sitting on that phone hitting redial until the sun goes down, then I’m going to do it.”

“Don’t have to.”  His smug tone took her off-guard, and she hesitated in transferring her clothes to the drawers.  “Already called Rupes and left him a message about where we’re at.  Complete with room number.  We just have to wait for him to call us back.  So, all sorted.”

“Oh.”  Her eyes settled on his, searching the blue depths.  So much had happened over the past twenty-four hours.  It didn’t really seem possible that just this time yesterday she had been wandering around the French Quarter, trying to find that butcher for Spike.  Then last night at Midnight, the kisses, the dancing, seeing him in his element.  And the piano…

Her skin flushed at the memory.  Should’ve been just a little rougher with Pablo, Buffy thought.  He’s the reason we didn’t go any further. 

And it was the further she was contemplating now.  Today had been kind of rough, with the misunderstandings and arguments, but their teaming up on their would-be betrayer had forced the camaraderie to return to their relationship, putting them back on the same side.

And how weird is it to think of me and Spike on the same side? she wondered.  Except it wasn’t weird, not after everything.  Certainly not after what she’d practically admitted to him before her shower.  Love Spike?  It could happen, she knew that now.  Maybe that was what Riley had meant by everything, about his belief in her failure to commit to their relationship.  Maybe he had seen something there that she hadn’t.

She was still unpacking as she mused, although more as an autonomic response than anything else, watching the vampire on the bed as if trying to figure out what to say next to him.  He had rolled onto his side as she moved, head propped up in his left hand, hooded gaze glued to every motion she made, while his right hand kept hold of the lollipop in his mouth, cheeks sucked in as he worked at the hard nub of candy.  Every once in a while, his lips would part, and Buffy would see his teeth firmly trapping the stick in place, the sounds of his sucking reminding her of his tongue doing all those naughty tricks to her on the piano bench.          

Her fingers tingled as if from unseen electrical shock, the slightest of tremors compelling her to hasten, stuffing her clothes into the drawers with an uncharacteristic disinterest.  When they pulled out the necklace she’d received in the market, though, she had barely turned away when Spike’s voice cut through her fugue.

“What’s that?” he asked.

It wasn’t a casual inquiry.  The tone of his voice had sharpened, his body tensing as he stared at the leather bag dangling from the string, and she looked over to see the sweet forgotten in his grip.

Buffy frowned.  “It’s a gris gris,” she said.

Spike rolled his eyes.  “I know what it is.  The question is, why the hell do you have one?”

“I got it from the woman who gave me directions to the butcher.  Didn’t I tell you about that?”

“Not about this part,” he growled, and bolted to his feet, tossing the candy to the side before snatching the charm from her grasp to look at it more closely.  “Why’d she do it?  Did you ask her for one?”

“No.  She just gave it to me.  She said something about ‘even those who are chosen need protecting.’  Or something like that.”

At the word “chosen,” Spike’s head shot up, eyes blazing into hers.  “Jesus, Buffy, are you telling the whole bloody city who you are?  It’s no wonder Iris sussed us out!”

“I didn’t!” she shot back.  Her temper was rising now, his own edginess serrating her mood to elevate it to his level.  All thoughts of romantic intimacy vanished in his mood shift, and she squared off with him, head thrown back. “She just knew!  She knew a lot of stuff.”  She poked him in the chest.  “She even knew about you, you big jerk.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.  All the way down to the black clothes.  She even supported my theory that you really need to inject some color into your wardrobe---.”

His hands gripped her upper arms, forcing her to look up at him, the leather strap wound through his fingers as he did so.  “Stop kidding around here, pet,” he said, his voice dangerous.  “Complete strangers don’t stop tourists in the street and give them some ol’ gris gris they just happen to have lyin’ about.  Especially ones as potent as this.  Now.  Tell me what she said.”

Her own eyes were flashing in tune to his anger.  “She really did talk about your clothes,” she protested.  “She said you needed to wrap yourself in red if you wanted to stay safe from the serpent.”

“The serpent?  What serpent?”

She shook her head.  “I didn’t stick around long enough to ask.  She gave me the gris gris and I took off.  After all her talk about me being covered in you, I was more than just a little wigged.”

If he could’ve paled, he would’ve.  Buffy saw the slight widening of his eyes at her words, felt his fingers loosen their hold on her arms.  His gaze shifted away from hers, focusing somewhere off to her right, as if suddenly he wasn’t even in the hotel room anymore.

“… I can still see her floating all around you, laughing.  Why?  Why won’t you push her away?”

“Floating,” he muttered, his eyes lost in memory.

Buffy stiffened.  “Yeah,” she said.  “And laughing.  That’s what she said.”  Puzzlement shaded her aspect.  “How’d you know that?”

“...You can’t blame the ghoul, Spike.  You’re all covered in her.  I look at you…all I see is the Slayer.”

He hadn’t had a clue as to what Dru had been talking about.  It didn’t make any more sense than any of her other babble, and he’d just chalked it up as an excuse to explain her behavior with the chaos demon.  Now, though, he wasn’t so sure. 

For every charlatan in New Orleans, there was someone with just as much real power, and the type of gris gris that Buffy had received from this anonymous woman was clear proof that she definitely belonged in the latter category.  Seers were real; he’d spent enough time with Dru to learn that.  Was it possible that someone had seen the same thing with the Slayer as his ex had with him?

Suddenly, his head started to pound from the confusion of his thoughts, and Spike stepped away, hand going up to grasp the back of his neck as he looked anywhere but at her.  He couldn’t think straight with her standing so close, and right now, it seemed imperative that he suss this out.

“Spike?”  Her voice was soft, her own bewilderment driving her forward to follow him.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” he said, but his tone was hollow.  “Just…”  He shook his head.  “Nothin’.”  A quick flick of his wrist landed the gris gris in the middle of the bed.  Didn’t want to be touching it.  Had to think.  Him and Buffy.  What did all the hocus pocus mean?

Stepping to the bed, Buffy picked up the leather bag, turning it over and over in her fingers as if it could divulge Spike’s secrets, tell her why his mood had changed so.  “Do you want me to get rid of it?” she queried hesitantly.  “Would that make…whatever is wrong better?”

“No, no, not necessary,” he said.  Spotting his toiletries waiting to be put away was all the inspiration he needed to further the distance between them.  “Y’know,” he said, grabbing the black bag, “If you’re not too fussed about goin’ second, I think I’m goin’ to have a wash up.  Think that sewer smell’s finally starting to get to me.”

He was through the door, closing it behind him, before Buffy could react.  What the hell just happened here? she wondered, staring at the door that now separated them.  He’d been flirting with her only minutes ago---of that, she was certain---but this mood shift, this sense of distraction, had come out of the blue, shattering that.

Well, not completely out of the blue.  It had come with the extraction of the gris gris and the words the woman had spoken to her.

What was it Spike wasn’t telling her…?

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

In an effort to keep his head as clear as possible, he hadn't even bothered with the hot water.

Ice streamed in fluid sheets down his back as Spike leaned against the wall, his hands braced against the white tile, bleached head bent against the onslaught as if in supplication. His eyes were closed, and though the spattering of the water echoed hollowly within the confines of the hotel bathroom, he was deaf to it, lost in the voices of yesteryear as they clamored in shrieks and whispers inside his skull.

His own words combined with Dru's, every threat he'd ever made about Buffy, every declaration of enmity and distrust, but it was her voice that cut through, reminding him over and over again how she had seen it first, how the image of Buffy had always been there between them.

It wasn't the idea of him and Buffy that was wracking his emotions with splinters driven into their underbelly. He had already accepted that something incredible was developing between the pair of them. What gnawed at his gut was the notion that all of this was beyond his control, that his current incarnation as reluctant Scooby was somehow unavoidable, leaving Spike to twist in the gallows of a cruel fate determined to make his existence a mockery by stealing his freedom of choice.

Choice. The word left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, and he shook his head as his hand dropped to slowly turn off the water. He had no choice, in anything it would seem. Not in going to Sunnydale in the first place; that had been necessary to save Dru. He'd needed Angel, and so arriving in the Hellmouth had been inevitable. No choice in when he left, either. Angelus and his whole Acathla obsession, the wheelchair…he'd left with Dru as soon as he absolutely could.
 

And now it was looking like the choice to go back to Sunnydale hadn't been his, either. That someone, somewhere, with a twisted sense of humor, had decided that he and the Slayer were a good idea, and driven him back.

So where did that leave him? Without even thinking, Spike punched at the wall, watching as a tile cracked and crumbled in white flakes against his skin. Slayer's goin' to insist we pay for that, he thought irrationally as he stared at the damage. And look…another choice I'm not goin' to have another say in the matter. Bugger.

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

She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the bathroom door, listening to the water on the other side, and felt the confusion begin to curdle inside her stomach. This hot and cold thing Spike seemed to be cultivating was getting old, really fast, and she was getting just a little tired of being jerked around. She was trying to make this work, to not be the Bitchy Buffy that seemed to set him off, but every time she thought that she was getting somewhere, he'd do an about-face and change the rules on her. Didn't he want this? Half the time, he certainly acted like it.

Or was it just a game to him? Was he doing all this just to mess with her head? Because if that was his plan, it sure as hell was working.

He'd seemed so serious about it, though. Insisting on the chat before anything really physical had happened. Forcing her to rest when she would've been just as happy with sex until sunrise. Tending to her wounds. Making her feel like….

What did he make her feel like?

The answer was swift.

That she could have it all. That she could be the Slayer, and a woman, and a friend, all with the same person.

And now that person was hiding from her again.

It was only then that she realized the shower had stopped, and unconsciously straightened, waiting expectantly for him to emerge. When minutes passed and nothing happened, she frowned, rising from her seat to press her ear against the door. The silence was almost deafening. Could he have fallen? she wondered, and then heard the dull thud of something hitting the wall.

The door was open, her body inside, before she could think. "Spike?" she called out, her voice shaded in concern. "Are you OK?" She'd only taken a single step when she stopped, the blurred outline of his body through the translucent shower curtain confirming for her that he was still there.

The sound of her voice jerked him upright, and though she saw his head turn toward her, gazing at her through the vinyl, he didn't move the curtain aside to clear the view. "Knocking really is a lost art for you, isn't it, Slayer," Spike said, annoyed.

"I thought you were taking a shower?" she asked. "Showers usually require water."

When she took a step toward the bath, her hand outstretched to move aside the curtain, his body stiffened. "What're you doin'?" he barked. "Are you in that much of a hurry that I can't have a few moments peace?"

Buffy hesitated. "I…I just…" She backed up, feeling the porcelain of the toilet cold against the back of her legs, and sat down on its edge. "I want to know what's wrong."

"I told you. Nothin'."

"And you're lying to me."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am---." He cut himself off, suddenly all too aware of the similarity between this argument and the one he'd had with her in his dream. That had been about avoiding a topic of conversation he hadn't wanted to address as well.

"It's just a stupid, superstitious charm, Spike," she said quietly. "It doesn't mean anything---."

"What if I told you Dru said the same thing to me about you?" He was back in his bowed position, eyes downcast, the timbre of his voice rough. "That a year ago, I was in Brazil with ghostly Buffy's floating about me and laughing. You wouldn't be spooked?"

"Wha…" OK, not what she was expecting him to say. "That's not possible."

"Possible, probable, been there, done that, lost my bloody heart in the process." He sighed, and the ache of vulnerability in his shoulders tugged at her, even through the curtain. "Thought it was bad before, gettin' muzzled, leashed into bein' the mutt in your little Scooby gang. Guess I was wrong about not bein' your lapdog. I've been one all along. Just didn't know it. The rest of the fuckin' world knew it, but me, I was too busy bein' all self-important and speechifying to realize I was bein' played for a sap."

There was no denying the defeatist tone of his words, and a shock of disbelief shot through Buffy's system. This didn't even sound like the cocky, swaggering Spike she knew. What the hell was going through his head? "OK, first of all, enough with the puppy analogies," she said. "You're not a lapdog, Spike. You never have been."

His snort of derision was accompanied by a shake of his head. "That's all I've ever been, pet. Fought it, of course. Fought against Angelus. Fought against the Slayers. None of it made a damn bit of difference 'cause apparently I've been your bitch all along."

"I thought you were love's bitch," she joked, but it fell flat on deaf ears.

"So, yeah, it's not nothin'," Spike continued as if she'd never spoken. "It's me feelin' just a tad bit like a puppet on a string here." She almost didn't catch the next, his voice dropped so low. "Just wanted to be my own man."

The words sliced into her, and abruptly, Buffy rose to her feet. "Turn on the water," she said, kicking off her sandals as her hands fell to the hem of her top.

His head turned. "Why's that?"

"Because having this conversation with you on that side of the plastic is just a little too Laura Palmer for me, so I'm coming in."

There was a moment of hesitation inside the bath. She didn't let it stop her, pulling her top over her head in a clean jerk, only to immediately drop her hands to her shorts, but before she had the button at the waistband undone, Spike had leaned forward, playing with the taps, and the sounds of the water striking the tiles once again filled the space, the first hints of steam beginning to sizzle from behind the curtain.

Once she was naked, Buffy pulled the far edge of the vinyl aside, stepping gingerly into the tub, noting the alabaster curve of Spike's buttocks as she closed it off behind her. Her fingers itched to touch him, but the sight of the wrecked tile, the plaster dust settled along the rim of the bath, caught her eye, turning her head automatically to his hands and the blood that dripped from his left.

"If I'd known you were going to be wrecking the place," she said, taking his injured hand in hers, "I would've insisted we stay at one of those no-tell motels instead."

He didn't respond, just leaned back against the wall and watched her as she held the bloodied appendage under the waterstream, rinsing away the scarlet to run in pink rivers down the drain. Even in his current state of mind, it was hard not to notice the golden contours of her flesh, her nipples hardened into tiny buds, and felt his cock begin to twitch. Fuck, just what I need, he thought. Like I don't have enough messin' with my head right now.

"Willow's normally the one who goes all Tony Robbins," Buffy was saying. "And as for insight, well, that's usually your department." She paused. His body was tense, wound as if she were about to start a fight, and she noticed with a quirk of her eyebrow the growing hardness between his legs. Well, at least I know what's wrong isn't about me, she thought, but shoved it aside, hoping that what she was going to say next wasn't going to further piss him off. "But I think you're really, really wrong about what all this is about," she finished.

His bark of laughter rang between the tiled walls. "Like you know so much about it, luv," Spike said.

"I know more than you think," she replied. "Just…hear me out here. You don't have to agree with me---hell, you never seem to agree with me, so I don't see how this is going to be any different---but…just hear what I have to say, all right?"

She had surprised Spike by climbing in behind him. Fuck, she'd surprised him by coming into the bloody bathroom. He'd seen how she'd been with Soldier Boy---well, as much as his stomach would allow. All quips and love talk, but nothing of any substance. Every time he'd heard anything of consequence get brought up, usually by Finn, Buffy had skittered away, hiding behind the mantle of her jokes or using her slaying as an excuse to avoid the issue.

Yet, she'd sought Spike out when he'd tried to run, refused to let him lie about it, and now there she was, all soft and succulent flesh, within his reach if he only let himself touch…

"I'm listening," he said, his voice husky as he fought to quell his rising desire.

"Did I tell you why Riley left me?" she asked softly.

The question took him off-guard. "Something about…you not committing to the relationship," he replied, his words slow and selective.

"That was part of it. The biggest part. He thought…he said I didn't see him. I couldn't see him. Because…he wasn't you." Without letting go of his injured hand, she raised her other one, her fingertips stroking like feathers over the topography of his chest, and felt him shiver beneath her touch. "Everything kept coming back to you, and I didn't know why. And it made me furious because I was like, this is Spike. Mortal enemy. The bane of my existence."

"I'm waiting for this to start havin' a point, pet."

"And I'm getting there, keep your pants on."

Spike chuckled. "Too late for that."

She smiled. "When that woman was talking about seeing you around me, it made me think for the first time that maybe Riley was right. Because everything between us was so…different. And yet…not. And I liked it."

He knew she was waiting for some type of response, but he didn't know what to say. She still had yet to offer a different slant on the coordination of Dru's and the stranger's words, and while the tidbits she was offering ignited the hope within him so that he was beginning to think that maybe it didn't matter, Spike held his tongue, concentrating instead on the pleasure her touch was spreading throughout his system.

"Don't ask me why because I don't know," Buffy continued, "but we work. You and me. We shouldn't, you know. The amount of baggage we're bringing into this makes Romeo and Juliet look like a walk in the park. Maybe it's the yin and yang of it all. Or maybe it's that the strength and power you have inside you feels… like home. I don't know. I do know that there's no way you're not in control of your life like you think, Spike. Look at all the choices you've made---."

There was that word again, and he grimaced as soon as she said it, head slamming back to strike against the tile as if that would clear it from his memory. "Apparently, I've never had a choice. Not in you. Not in Sunnydale. And certainly not since your government boys stuck this chip in my head," he said, but when his dark gaze looked down at hers, there was no malice in it. It was resignation. And that frightened Buffy more than the anger.

"You've had every choice," she argued, and yanked him toward her so that he was standing directly in front of her. "There were a hundred and one ways for you to get around not being able to kill us. Believe me, I know. Giles and I sat down and tried figuring them all out just in case you decided to actually do it." Her voice softened. "But you didn't. Even when you tried…with Adam, it didn't work. You could've left Sunnydale. But you didn't. They were all choices." She paused, scrambling for something specific to use as an example.

"Pablo," she finally said. "There's another one. You could've killed him. You didn't. You chose not to. You were the one who decided to do the right thing there, Spike. Not me. Not some creepy shop lady. Not some psycho ex-girlfriend." The fingers that had been stroking his chest pulled away, and she poked at his sternum. "You."

She had a point. As he stared down at her, all of a sudden, his doubts seemed frivolous. Just words. That's all they were. Just ephemera to disappear with the morning dawn. It didn't matter how or why he found himself in his current position, standing before the beautiful angel who seemed determined to command his heart, to see past the façade he'd erected. It only mattered that he was there.

"Does it really matter what Dru said?" Buffy said. "Or what that woman told me? I mean, yeah, in the world of the freaky and the deaky, it definitely rates an honorable mention, but…what matters is what we do with it, right? We choose. Like I'm choosing…to be here with you."

Reaching up, she brushed her lips over his in the faintest of kisses, and felt him shudder at the contact. "Nothing for you to be spooked over, Spike," she breathed against his mouth.

His lips quirked. "Sometimes, you bloody amaze me, Summers," he said, eyes searching the contours of her face.

"So…are we good now? Is everything…better?"

"Everything's right as rain." And it was. She wanted this---them---to work. She kept proving that to him over and over again. She was hitting the occasional pothole; hell, just that morning, she'd slammed right into the Grand Canyon of potholes with that dismissal of his help, but it didn't keep her from plugging along. And then the admission earlier, about the possibility of this being more than just the fling either had suspected it might be in the beginning…

Maybe the coincidence of the same words just meant they were meant to be, should they decide to take the chance. That certainly seemed to be how the Slayer was taking them.

Yeah. Right as rain.

Buffy smiled. "You know," she said, lifting her arms so that her wrists rested on his shoulders, her fingers playing with his wet curls at the back of his neck, "I think that's the first time I've averted an apocalypse without having to beat something up. Or die first. I think I'm kind of proud of myself."

She was sliding against him then, wetting her skin with the expanse of his, feeling his arousal brushing against her pelvis. Though the water was warm before she got in, the heat of that was nothing compared to the fire that raged beneath her skin. He could smell her growing desire even through the sweat and antiseptic, and Spike's fingers dug into her hips, urging her closer. When the moan escaped her lips, he leaned down to catch it with his mouth, swallowing it down as she offered her tongue, allowed his entrance.

Her muscles sang from the pressure of his touch against her, responding with an ardent hunger that begged for release. Her hand dropped, sliding between them, and she felt the growl within his chest reverberate through her skin as her fingers wrapped around the length of his cock.

"I think our would-be interrupter is currently stuck in a piano somewhere," Buffy said against his cheek, her hand pumping at his arousal in rhythm to her words. "What do you think of finishing those lessons?" Tiny teeth nipped at his neck. "I can be a very good student."

"Thought you'd never ask," Spike replied. The blue of his irises had been devoured by black, his lids half-drooping as he bent in for another kiss.

A nibble really, she thought, as his teeth caught her bottom lip and tugged, sucking at the full flesh as his arm snaked around her waist. Her feet left the bottom of the bath, and Buffy instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips, pressing her dripping pussy against his erection, feeling it glide between her swollen outer lips as she slid in minuscule sweeps up and down his length. Each time the tip brushed against her clit, she gasped, the breath catching in her lungs to sear her chest with tiny flaming darts, and her nails dug into the smooth skin of his back, anchoring herself to him, fearful that letting go would…

"…not goin' to drop you," Spike murmured, and tightened his grip, lapping at the salt of her skin as the steam drew the water from her flesh. "Never lettin' you go."

The quivering within her threatened to overpower Buffy's control and she pulled just enough away to look into his eyes. Need, and desire, and something she couldn't quite put her finger on, looked back at her, and for a moment, the only rational thought she seemed to be able to command was that she'd never wanted anything more before in her life.

Her hips had stilled, his cock nestled between their bodies. "Should we start with the scales then?" she asked breathlessly. A hint of confusion worried his brow. "You know, the basics," she added with a small smile.

She didn't wait for a response. Without losing the suction that the water was creating between their torsos, Buffy angled her hips just enough so that his erection was poised at her entrance, and with one swift movement, lowered herself back down again, burying him inside her.

They both gasped, he from the tight muscles now pulling him home, she from the fullness that now permeated her flesh. Neither moved, each unwilling to break the spell the single motion had woven around them, and instead Spike's right hand swept over the swell of her lower lip. "You didn't have to, pet," he said softly.

"No," she agreed. "I chose to." With a lethargic grace, Buffy slid up the length of his cock, her eyes never leaving his. "Up the scale," she said, then lowered herself back into her original position, feeling her clit hit the tight curls around his cock. "And back down again."

He couldn't help but smile as she repeated the actions, each stroke a deliberate caress. "My kind of music," he drawled as his hips began to join with hers.
She pretended to pout. "Not music. Scales. Music comes later. That's what you said."

"This is music, too," he whispered against her cheek. "Just simpler." His hand dropped between them, catching her clit with the ball of his thumb. "What comes later is the whole bloody concerto."

There were no more words as their lips met, their bodies arching in rhythm that failed to surprise either of them. Each had known how this was going to be. It had begun with their fights, instincts responding to instincts, blow matching for blow. It made sense to both of them that it would continue in their sex, need being drawn to need, cadence rivaling cadence. All doubt about the rightness of it was driven from their minds; any question about choices was squelched in the face of their desire.

All either of them could think about was how alive it made both of them feel.

With each drive upward, Buffy felt a spasm ricochet throughout her body as the tip of his cock grazed across that tenderest of spots, quickening her pace as she tried to recreate it with every thrust. Spike felt her orgasm come first, the unconscious tensing of her inner walls around his cock, the tremulous grasp of her thighs around his hips tightening, and spurred it onward by dropping his mouth to the top of her breast, sliding down to catch her nipple in his teeth as her body arched away from him.

Slick, and hot, and pulsing with life, she crashed over the precipice of her orgasm, coming with a force that was coupled in fire, nails raking at his arms as she ground herself against him.

Her heart went wild then, her pulse drumming into his cock as he slammed himself into her, and Spike came with a roar that beat against their eardrums, yanking her upward to press her against him, driving his mouth to hers to try and stave away the shudders that threatened to buckle his knees.

More, more, more, he heard a little voice chanting inside his head, and he tightened his grip around her waist, holding her closer, suddenly frightened that she would disappear like any one of the dream Buffy's he'd known prior to coming to New Orleans, desperate to hold onto the magic of it---of her---for as long as possible.

When she broke from the kiss, she rubbed her cheek along his, a tiny sigh of contentment tickling across his ear. "Gotta love those scales," she said with a small laugh.

"You know what they say," Spike replied, and pulled back so that she could see the wicked glint in his eye, the smirk twisting his lips. "Practice makes perfect."

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

"You're going with me?" Stella stared at the blonde vampire in surprise, careful not to move and jar the cracked ribs that still sang in pain from her arrival.

Iris rolled her eyes. "Have you not been paying any attention to what I've been telling you?" she said. She was lounging on the couch in her sitting room at Midnight, the black singer seated in a chair opposite. "Spike and his little Slayer found out about Sira Sommeil. You need me for protection if you want your little vodou shindig to go off without a hitch."

She didn't like it, but in her weakened state, Stella knew that she didn't really have much choice in the matter. Iris was too powerful, with too much knowledge about her powers for her to spring any kind of trick on her. Though she might not like the idea, perhaps the vampire had a point. Her presence could prevent these other two she kept talking about from interfering, allowing the awakening to occur without fault. Once it was over, it wouldn't make a difference what Iris wanted from the bargain.

Willow would be too powerful for her to stop.

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

Lounging against the doorjamb, the smoke from his cigarette curling in wispy flumes to go drifting out into the dusky sky, Spike watched as Buffy carefully tucked her stake into the waistband of her leather pants, her sinewy body already glistening from a slight sheen of sweat as the New Orleans night permeated the cooler air of the hotel room.  They had been mostly silent for the better part of the last hour, waking from their nap curled in each other’s arms, setting to the task of preparing for what lie ahead with that grim determination of hers he’d always admired, sneaking glances at the other out of the corner of their eyes when they thought the other wasn’t looking.  Nothing had been said about what had happened in the shower.  It was as if she had spent her weekly quota of intuition, and now lacked the words for normal conversation.

He didn’t mind.  The fact that she’d done what she had, come to him and sought within her limited means to help him---and did so tremendously, in spite of her relative lack of expertise---was all Spike needed to cling to, letting their bodies sing in the ensuing revelry, relishing the delicate notes that were beginning to bind them together, even after they adjourned to the bed. 

She was game for another go, climbing on top of him, her hair hanging in wet strands around her shoulders as her hands skated over his chest, and while Spike’s body had been more than willing, his heart was surprisingly not, his need to just hold her overwhelming his desire.  Still, he had been unable to say no to the kisses she had rained across his jaw, lips joining hers to tangle in languid grace, tugging her to the side to lay next to him.  The combined heat of her body and the shower turned his muscles into molasses, and he soon tore himself away her mouth, curling her luscious form into the crook of his arm, spending the next ten minutes letting his fingers memorize her face, feathering over her brows, following the route of the tiny bend in her nose, savoring the never-restive muscles that hid beneath her skin.

Each stroke had audibly slowed her heartbeat, until Buffy’s eyes fluttered closed, a tiny sigh escaping her lips.  “This is nice,” she’d murmured.

His kiss across her lids had been tickled by the ends of her lashes.  “Would you be fussed if we slept for a bit?” he’d asked, hesitant to make the request, as if by doing so it would destroy the delicate understanding that had settled between the two.  “Not that I’m not interested in more, it’s just…”  His eyes were dark, gazing at her as she lifted her head, her pointed chin boring into the muscle of his chest.  “…I want a bit to enjoy where we’ve been.”  A tender brush lifted a damp tendril from her cheek.  “Got all the time in the world for the other, but Red needs us to be able to storm the so-called castle, not crumble to our knees because our bloody legs don’t work anymore.”

She’d slapped at him playfully.  “What happened to vampire constitutions?” she said.  “Don’t tell me you fold after just two times around?”

“Wasn’t talking about me.  Was talking about you.”

She’d giggled, an angelic sound that made his own lips quirk, and burrowed back into him, eyes drifting back shut to settle into a slumber that had quickly overtaken him as well.  It had only been his sense of encroaching sunset that had wakened them, still tangled together, and they had set about preparing for their evening’s attack.

Buffy stopped in her preparations and surveyed the room.  “You’ve got the crossbow in the car, right?”

Spike exhaled, directing the smoke outside.  “Crossbow, a shitload of stakes, a mess of knives.  Trust me.  We’re fully stocked and loaded to go.”

“OK then.  Let’s do this.”

His hand lifted as she began to march toward him.  “You’re forgettin’ something.”

“And just ten seconds ago you said we were ready.”

Spike gestured abstractly toward the nightstand.  “I want you to wear it.”  He was referring to the gris gris that she’d placed there before going into the bathroom, and her eyes followed his to look at it sitting in wait.

“No offense, but I’m trying to cultivate a death to all things evil look here.  You’d think that if that shop lady knew enough to expect me, she’d at least give me something that would coordinate with most of my outfits.”

He didn’t even smile at her small joke.  “Humor me,” he said.  His eyes were serious as she turned back to look at him.  “That charm’s the real deal.  Now, I’m not even goin’ to begin to try and understand how or why that vodou bird had it ready for you, but the fact remains, she did.  And it’s an asset, whether you realize it or not.  Take it.”

The doubt still lingered behind her aspect, and Buffy frowned.  “Can it hurt me?” she asked.

He shook his head.  “No.  That’s the thing.  That’s potent stuff there, designed for protecting and all.  You wear it, it’ll protect you from something, but without bein’ able to talk to this bird, I can’t tell you exactly from what.”  He shrugged.  “It’s not like you have anything to lose by takin’ it along.  And if it works, then all the better, right?”

When he saw her shrug, moving without hesitation to reach with a slim hand to pick up the leather strap, a piece that had been floating in oblivion inside Spike seemed to settle into place, as if rooted there by the simple acceptance of his request, seeping and spreading to burn his flesh from the inside out.  She trusted him.  One simple question on her part, and she had done an about-face on her decision to take him at his word.  Had it really been only that morning she had been questioning his desires to seek out additional help?  How was it possible for her to have come around so quickly?

He knew the answer to that even as he thought the query.  He had dropped the act.  In the face of his own insecurity, Spike had opened the door for her to see inside the dead space that should have housed his soul, and she hadn’t been frightened by what she’d seen.  In fact, she had pulled him from it, and demanded he see past the dark, acknowledge the truth for what it was, force him to accept his own strengths even if he didn’t see them as such.  He didn’t know why.  Even sleeping with her in his arms had done nothing to staunch the flow of questions that bled from his mind.

But it didn’t matter.  She trusted him now.  He wasn’t going to abuse that.

“Ready to kick Iris’ ass?” he asked as she walked to the doorway.

Her grin was wide.  “As soon as we get Willow to safety, that skanky ho’s butt is mine,” she retorted.  She held up a warning finger in tease.  “Remember.  Hands off.  I’ve got a score to settle with her.”

Spike grinned as she brushed past him and headed to the car, watching the casual sway of her hips as he contemplated the night’s potential.  Oh yeah, he thought.  Go in, kill some nasties, get Red out, and then come home and work off some of that extra energy the Slayer was sure to have pent up.  In her current state, he didn’t doubt she would do whatever she set her mind to, and he’d be there to follow her, every step of the way.  What could possibly go wrong?

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

So far, she wasn’t impressed.  Watching the tableau play out before her made Iris’ lip curl in disdain, and it was all she could not to whirl on her proverbial high heel and get out of the bog that was ruining her favorite boots.  Still, the potential for it to work was still there, and until she was certain that failure was inevitable, the vampire was going to see it through, even if the entire debacle reeked of amateurishness.  It wasn’t as if she had anything else to do that night.

Stella had balked at the coterie of vampires Iris had insisted escort them to Sira Sommeil, even though she was more than aware of the various teams that been placed around the perimeter of the swamp in an attempt to keep Spike and the Slayer from interrupting.  Though they were still present, they were hanging back amidst the overgrown trees, lost in the murky shadows as they watched the spectacle unfold.  The singer was convinced they would prove disruptive to the magics she was going to have to invoke, and though Iris didn’t agree, she acquiesced on this one point, fearful that her persistent intervention might actually curtail the proceedings.

And so there they were, the three so determined to bring Sira back into the world, or rather, the two, with the third waiting in the wings to be called.  Iris’ gaze settled on the redhead stretched out on the blanket on the ground, nostrils flaring as the fresh scent of the brand upon her wrist drifted from her prone position.

She had been unconscious when they had arrived, the young man just finishing whatever preparations had been necessary for the ritual.  She was younger than the other two, deceptively fragile, but the power rolled off her in waves, and it was that taste that prompted Iris to wait this out, to see for herself whether the pair would be able to raise the memories from her soul.  They needed the knowledge of the other in order to summon Sira; it would be fascinating to see how it would manifest itself in the thin redhead’s frame.

Iris’ lips twitched as she watched Stella light the fire for the sacrifice, the knife she held in her hands capturing the stray beams of moonlight that filtered through the branches to mingle with the scarlet licks of the flames.  The night was the greatest of equalizers, casting each of them in an orange pallor that united them within their task.  The tang of the latent impulses buried within the mire of both the land and the souls at hand made the vampire’s mouth water, her demon within emerging of its own volition to witness the calling of the djab.

It hungered for what was to come.

The power.  The destruction.  The death.

And as the words tumbled from Stella’s lips, rolling cadences beckoning to the devil she worshiped, Iris believed for the first time that it would truly happen…

…and smiled.

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

They had to abandon the Desoto earlier than she wanted, but eyeing the miasma of the New Orleans outskirts, Buffy knew there was no way the car was going to make it inside.  So they were left trudging through the thick underbrush, the weight of weapons on their backs, the flashlights they’d brought along doing little but illuminate just the few feet directly in front of them. 

Neither spoke, but the night was far from silent.  Distant splashing from creatures she didn’t even want to consider was interspersed with the occasional croak from a frog, the near constant buzzing of various insects in the air underlying all of it to hum along their skin.

She let Spike take the lead, allowing his predatory nature and his knowledge of the area to guide them toward their final destination.  Though he was grateful for her unquestioning acknowledgment of his abilities, the vamp wasn’t exactly thrilled by the circumstances in which it happened.  Walking through the mud was a bitch, he thought with a grimace.  His step was weighted by the cumbersome nature of his boots, making his normal lithesome grace an awkward gait where he had to consciously extract his foot from the mire before setting it back down again, feeling it sink for that fraction before having to lift again.  It was perhaps the only detraction of their excursion, though; he was still floating high on the revelations from the hotel room to really be fussed about a little sludge.

They both should’ve been paying more attention.

The first assault came through the air, a volley of arrows whistling from the dark to send Buffy diving forward even as the first went soaring over her head.  Spike threw himself sideways, but the wrench of his feet within the morass slowed his dodge, and he hissed in pain as one of the arrows embedded itself in his thigh.  He landed with an audible squish, face screwing up in pain as he automatically reached down to yank the shaft from his flesh, his eyes glittering in gold as they searched the darkness for their attackers.

“They were ready for interruptions,” Buffy commented from somewhere to his right.

“They were ready for us,” Spike growled, the arrow snapping between his fingers.  He was suddenly certain that leaving Pablo to live was probably his stupidest decision ever.  It was the only reason to explain such weaponry.  Someone wanted to protect Sira Sommeil from a vampire’s approach.  From him.  If he wasn’t so pissed about getting hit in the first place, Spike just might’ve bristled in pride that Iris feared him enough to try and keep him away.

“How far away are we?” she asked.

“We’re on the edges now,” he replied.  Out of the corner of her eye, Buffy saw him nod ahead of them, his bleached head glowing in the moonlight.  “The center’s through those trees, about two hundred yards.  Then there’s a few more hundred yards on the other side.  Stella and her crew could be anywhere in there.”

“Well, since all the sharp pointy things are coming from that direction, I’m thinking that’s what they’re trying to keep us from.”  The smell of blood drifted to her nose, and she watched as he lifted himself to a crouching position.  His black clothing was doing well to hide most of his form from whoever was attacking them, but his hair was a beacon in the inky night, catching what little light there was to diffract and scatter, illuminating their position for anyone to see.

“Spike,” she hissed.  “Cover your head or something.  You might as well be Rudolph in the middle of a snowstorm for as much good you’re doing at blending in.”

With a quick yank, he pulled his jacket over his head, but the weight of the mud clinging to its hem made it awkward, causing him to flap like a wounded bird as he hurried to her side.

The second barrage followed only seconds later, and instinctively, Spike threw himself over Buffy, covering the pair of them with his duster while pressing them into the mud.  He was relieved that none of them found their targets this time, and when he felt the Slayer’s muscles tense beneath him, he knew automatically that she was going to make a run for it.

Even in daylight, it would’ve been difficult to follow them as they sped across the mire, two dark blurs amidst the trees battling against the ground that fought to slow them down, stopping only when they reached the nearest copse.  She wasn’t even panting as she pressed herself into the bark, reaching out with her Slayer senses as her hand curled around her stake.

“That way,” she whispered, directing Spike toward the break amidst the demons.  Better to get through them than waste time by killing them, she’d decided, and felt her feet fly over the surface in a blur.

Spike was the first to go down when they resorted to a ground assault, four of the sentries attacking from different directions to tangle in a flurry of snarls and fangs.  Buffy was left facing off with two, and though the question as to why they considered Spike the greater threat flickered across her mind, she didn’t dwell on it, focusing instead on the dispatching of her assailants.

A roundhouse kick sent the first flying into a nearby tree, and she couldn’t help her small smile when a chance encounter with a well-placed branch turned him into a smattering of dust.  Save the earth, she thought.  Because she’ll sure as hell save you in a pinch.

The second was a little more wily, but with two powerful punches, the Slayer had him down on the ground, her stake plunging into its chest.  She had turned to help Spike before the dust could settle, though, a predator’s gaze assessing the four---no, make that two, she thought with a strange sense of pride---that were attacking the chipped vampire. 

The smaller of the two had grabbed the hem of Spike’s coat, using it to keep him off-balance while his bigger partner tried to get close enough to use the nasty-looking dagger in his hand.  It was that annoying gnat that Buffy chose to concentrate on. 

Using what leverage she could gain on the slippery ground, the Slayer vaulted herself forward, gauging a pivot she could see poised within Spike’s body so that she connected with Shorty just as the trio landed to the ground under a towering cypress tree.  A quick jerk freed him from the leather, and the pair fell with a sticky spludge into the mire.

Buffy grimaced.  “Do all of you smell this bad down here, rodent breath?” she said, fending off his bared fangs with a quick punch.  “Or is it something in the local blood supply that gets under your skin?”  Her feet came up to plant themselves in his chest, propelling him off of her and against a nearby tree, dazing him just enough for her to leap up and finish him off.

There would be more to come, she thought turning to see Spike dance away from the remaining vamp.  Better to get this over with and get in there before it gets worse.

The knife had connected more than once with the blond’s body; she could see that once he was free from the fray.  Blood dripped from a cut high on his brow, leaving scarlet trails down the side of his face, while another stab at his already wounded leg was forcing him to favor his right foot as he moved around.  A wild grin still creased his face, though, and Buffy could see that Spike was enjoying himself immensely in spite of his obvious pain.

A vicious kick to his attacker’s midsection left Spike the only one of the pair standing, and with a quick glance of glee at the Slayer, he pounced, scooping a broken branch from the ground to drive it into the vampire’s chest.  He didn’t even wait for him to disintegrate.  He just jumped to his feet and strode over to Buffy, scooping her roughly against the smooth lines of his hard body as his mouth descended to hers in a fevered kiss.

For the moments their tongues battled, the adrenaline driving their bodies closer, hands clawing at the clothes that shielded them from immediate gratification, Buffy drowned in the succulent taste of Spike’s mouth, the ache of ice refusing to melt beneath her touch kindling the desire for more.  She couldn’t get close enough, each layer between them determined to shred what little resolve she had, and it wasn’t until she felt the sticky drip of his blood on her hand that she tore herself away from the caress.

“We better hurry,” she said, her breath ragged.

His dark gaze swept over her and it didn’t matter that she still wore all her clothes; Buffy felt with every indolent inch that he was drinking in the taste of her bare skin.  “Oh, there won’t be any hurryin’ if I have a say in the matter,” he drawled, deliberately misinterpreting her meaning.  “It’ll be slow, and scorching, and you’re goin’ to be screaming by the time I’m done with you, pet.”

Her mouth opened to respond, but the words froze in her throat as a shrill screech pierced the swamp air.  Buffy whirled to look behind her.  “Willow.”

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

She’d been wrong, so deliciously wrong, and her skin crawled in syncopation with a thousand millipedes as Iris watched the redhead writhe from her position on the ground.  The young man---Freddie, she’d heard Stella call him---knelt beside the young Willow, one hand pressed to her forehead, the other clawed into her stomach, but even with the strength of the djab that now possessed him, he was finding it difficult to contain her thrashing, her soft flesh tearing and scraping along the ground, the blanket long since bunched to a tattered rag that lay crumpled under her legs.

Summoning the djab that inhabited Sira Sommeil had been straightforward, and it had arrived with little fanfare, driving Freddie to his feet in an awkward dance as Stella offered the sacrifice up to him.  Iris had felt her own mouth water as the young man bit into the still beating heart of the goat that had been sacrificed, the blood running down his chin, staining the t-shirt that clung to his thin frame.   She didn’t know the particulars of this particular djab, not his name nor his special skills, but that was hardly unusual.  There were many around New Orleans, and without the proper mambo to call them, they could lie dormant for decades.

Still, living in the very swamp where the demon Sira had been driven so long ago, it made sense that those who had called him the last time would seek out the means to do it again, searching for the power that had been denied them in their previous incarnation. 

Iris had learned of their search for the third soul when the singer had summoned this djab a few months previous, and followed her quest from afar as the information they’d gleaned from the spirit’s ramblings led them to California.  They needed the other to learn the location of the staff, an artifact the vampire had every intention of taking control of once it was discovered; her only wish was that Spike and his Slayer girlfriend had not gotten involved in the first place.  That was a kink for which she had not prepared.  Still, the warning from Pablo had been fortuitous, and hopefully, Iris had placed enough of her guards to ward them away until the knowledge about the staff was brought forth.

A shrill scream erupted from the redhead’s throat as her back arched impossibly away from the ground.  It held there, frozen, the night ringing from the pain in her voice, and Freddie fell back, energy spent as whatever had been housed within him vanished as cleanly as it came. 

Unconsciously, Iris took a step closer, the anticipation scraping her flesh raw as her eyes glittered in the darkness.  Before she could near further, though, the erratic pulse of the redhead stopped, the body collapsed, and there it remained in limbo for a full thirty seconds as the pair just stared down at her.

“What happened?” Freddie breathed.

“I don’t know,” Stella replied.

“She can’t be dead…can she?” he asked.

Anger roiled in Iris’ throat, frustration that the entire exercise had been a waste, that these dilettantes had ruined the best chance at waking Sira from his swampy repose, when the sudden thumping of Willow’s heart joined in with the tattoo of the others in the clearing.  She saw her gulp for air, her eyes shooting open to stare up into the sky, and heard the others gasp in surprise, rocking back and away from the young woman as she bolted upright.

Freddie was the first to react.  “Willow?” he asked tentatively.

There was a pause, and Iris saw the slow tilt of the witch’s head, as if she were listening to some far-off tune.  Her smile when it came was deliciously malevolent, teeth gleaming otherworldly white in the moonlight, and the vampire felt an odd kinship with her as she looked up to gaze in hunger at the stars in the night sky. 

“Willow’s gone,” she heard the young woman say as she rose in a single liquid motion to her feet, a dance of sensual grace and fire contained within her petite musculature.

There was no mistaking the sudden acceleration of Stella’s pulse as she and Freddie also stood.  A cautious hand reached out, came to rest on the redhead’s shoulder.  “Sandrine…?” she queried, her voice almost too faint for even Iris to hear.

The one who had been called forth by the djab, who now lived within the body of a former Willow Rosenberg, turned her seductive smile upon the others beside her.  “It is so good to be home,” she drawled…