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

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

Chapter 30: To Hear Her Speak

She looked weary, but Giles knew that was just as much a fault of their restless night as it was apprehension regarding their situation. Neither had slept well, the wild postulations of their discussions barraging both with awkward dreams, and though Anne hadn’t voiced what had troubled her enough to venture across the hallway to Rupert’s room for companionship, he recognized the vestiges of horrific visions in the dark shadows below her eyes when he guided her inside.

Now, she sat with him in his cell, her gaze concentrated on her worrying hands in her lap, the breakfast that had appeared from nowhere lying half-eaten on the floor at her feet. “I have been…thinking,” she said quietly. Each word was measured in careful allocation, her voice solemn. When Giles chuckled, a sound he just couldn’t contain, she flushed; both of them were more than aware that they had done nothing but think ever since sitting and discussing the possibility of magic the previous evening. “I can’t fathom what value holding me here could provide anyone. Magical or otherwise, what could someone possibly gain by separating me from my son?”

He had to bite the inside of his cheek not to say what instantly sprang to his lips. Though Giles had no clue as to why, there was no doubt in his mind that Spike was somehow at the center of their situation. Considering he’d been investigating a theft done by vampires prior to his kidnapping, and knowing who her son was going to be, the coincidences were too many to ignore. This wasn’t a shareable hypothesis, however, not when Anne Freston so clearly adored her only child, and so he feigned ignorance of where her question might lead.

“But they took you from your ward as well,” Anne pressed.

Giles nodded. Rather than go into specific details to Anne regarding his circumstances, he’d generalized his relationship with Buffy as a guardianship. It had seemed easier that way.

“So perhaps we’re here to be prevented from protecting them from something,” she concluded.

His mouth was open to disagree with her, but the simple logic of her statement made him stop. So focused on the Spike angle, he’d not seen this alternative, and in light of who Buffy was, this made infinite more sense.

“What could your son be involved with that he’d need protecting from?” Giles asked. “You described him to me as a scholar. He seems more the sort to be interested in his words than anything dangerous.”

“I don’t know,” Anne admitted, with a frown. “This is what troubles me so. It’s difficult enough to believe that magic could hold me prisoner, and yet, the evidence is too clear to ignore.” She sighed, finally looking up at him with such clarity, he couldn’t help but wonder how she could’ve borne such a creature as Spike.

“What about friends? Buffy has several…acquaintances who would wish to isolate her from those who love and help to protect her. Is there someone who might wish the same on William?”

Anne’s flush deepened before she tentatively shook her head. “Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Giles,” she was quick to say. “My William is a wonderful man. So intelligent and so loving. He’s just never…made friends very easily. They don’t understand his gentle spirit as I do. Since his father’s death, I’ve tried to provide him with other role models, making sure he’s had the opportunity to spend time with some of the more prominent of his peers, but not even the likes of David Howard was ever enough to distract William from his woolgathering. That’s why I can’t resolve the paradox of someone wishing to hurt him. That would require his active involvement in…something, but other than his writing, I’m aware of little that attracts him so.”

“Still, there must be something…” His words vanished as what she said sank in. Clearing his throat, Giles frowned, taking a step closer to where she sat on the bed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What was that…name you just mentioned?”

Her eyes slid sideways as she silently replayed her earlier statements. “David Howard?” Anne finally replied, unsure that was the information for which he was looking.

He’d only noted the name in passing as one of the many unexplained details of the crystal collection’s original abandonment. He hadn’t expected to hear the same man mentioned as an acquaintance of Anne’s son. If William Freston knew David Howard---and the possibility that it could be a different man than the one the Council was aware of was just too farfetched, not when everything else seemed to point to the same set of circumstances---then her proposition was even more likely.

It also meant Buffy was probably in serious danger. A situation where his guidance would’ve been of some use. He only hoped that she was doing everything she could to approach whatever threat lay in her path with a modicum of common sense.

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

She felt like she was back in Sunnydale, back before her mom knew she was the Slayer, sneaking out of the house to go patrol or to hook up with part of the gang for something apocalypse-y or to meet Angel for, well, other stuff. Except she wasn’t sneaking out of the house in which she currently wandered, and she wasn’t even totally clear where exactly she was going. She just knew she wanted to find the room William was in and she wanted to do it without Richard or Rose becoming aware of what she was doing.

The shot of adrenaline at such a clandestine maneuver made her fingers itch in anticipation. Biting at her lip, Buffy pressed her ear to the third closed door she’d found, straining to hear any sounds from within. As soon as they’d returned to the house, Richard had promptly separated them, arranging for them to be taken to guest rooms in order to bathe and freshen up. His disapproval of their public displays of affection had silently radiated from his every movement, but if he had anything to say about it, he waited until they were out of earshot. Buffy attributed his prudishness to the killer Victorian/Watcher combo; she probably shouldn’t have expected anything less.

But…she had to find William. Sparring with him out on the lawn, watching his growing confidence bolster his inherent grace, had thrilled her beyond belief. At first, it had been formulaic, with his automatic responses to her instruction, but as the minutes passed, and as he began taking her notes and adapting them for his own style, the training had…shifted.

She loved the fight; there was no way she could deny that when it was just her. Even when Faith had tried twisting it around and Buffy had wasted far too much energy arguing about their purpose, there had always been that lingering hunger for more in her slaying that the blonde had to struggle to keep hidden from the others. It left her pulsing, in a world of vibrant color---even in a dark graveyard, it was astonishing how many gradients of red and brown and green lurked about in shadows and lived under the moonlight---and for those seconds when she’d been atop William in the garden, she was convinced he’d felt it, too.

That was why she was seeking him out now. She just needed a few minutes alone with him outside of the Watcher’s presence.

The fifth door was where she finally heard him. With a smile curving her lips, Buffy listened to the muffled mutterings interspersed with the occasional splash of water. He was talking to himself, probably composing some new verse. She’d learned William had a hard time keeping his mouth shut when he thought no one was around to hear him, almost as if all the words he kept bottled up in the presence of others had to find escape in some way when he was free of them.

“William?” she called out softly, knocking at the same time.

Inside, everything stilled, and for a moment, she wondered if he was going to respond. “Buffy?” he called back. Uncertainty made him hesitant. She could just see the little lines between his eyes as he puzzled out why she would be at his door.

Pushing it open just enough to slip inside, it took Buffy a second for her eyes to adjust to the shift in illumination. Where the hall had been dark and heavy with mahogany---just as much of the Rhodes-Fanshaw home---the bedroom was awash in white and gold, the tall windows flung open to let the remaining afternoon sunshine come streaming in. A canopied bed overpowered the far wall, and the door to the adjoining bath stood open.

“Are you still in the bath?” she said as she stepped to the en suite’s entrance. She stopped in the doorway, grinning when she saw him stretched in the tub, his curls plastered to his head from the shampooing she had obviously interrupted. “I didn’t think you were that dirty,” she teased.

“I’ve only actually been in for a few minutes,” William admitted. His skin was pink from the heat of the water, a sheen of sweat making his shoulders glisten where they rose above the surface. As if to prove his assertion, he held up his hands to show her his smooth fingertips. “I got…distracted.”

She pretended to pout. “If you tell me it was the maid who distracted you, we’re going to have to have a serious discussion about the boundaries of our relationship.”

His smile was shy, his head tilting as he gazed at her. “Surely you realize it’s entirely impossible for me to even consider any other woman after you,” William said softly. “In fact, I was so…invigorated from our lesson that I went straight to the desk and wrote another verse of your poem.”

“Oh!” Buffy brightened, twisting to look back into the bedroom. “Can I see it?”

“Later,” he promised. “The inks are most likely still wet.” His eyes were downcast when she turned to face him again, his fingers drawing lazy circles in the water that sent gentle ripples along the surface. “I was rather hoping you’d allow me the opportunity to read it to you. I had…plans for this evening I would very much like to surprise you with.”

“Plans are good. Non-fighty plans are even better.” Tentatively, she took a small step toward him, letting her gaze flicker over his exposed skin. A bevy of bruising was already starting to mar his otherwise perfect skin, though Buffy was relieved to see that it would be covered by his clothing once he was dressed, and a nasty scrape along his forearm mottled him in red. “How do you feel?”

There was no hesitation in his response.

“Alive.”

“But…” Another step, and the beginning of a frown forming between her brows. “Are you in any pain?”

His chuckle surprised her. “If I weren’t, you would believe that you had failed at your duty, would you not?”

“That doesn’t mean I want you all achy.” She was at the bath’s side then, and crouched to more closely examine his injuries. “You should’ve said something before it got so bad.”

His fingers wrapped around hers when she reached to touch his arm. “It’s not,” William said earnestly, and used his other hand to tip her chin up to look at him. “They hurt, yes, but it’s more than tolerable. It tells me that I’m on the path to help you, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

“You should keep it up after I’ve gone,” she said. “You could get really good. I think you’re a natural.”

When his smile faded, Buffy wondered if maybe she shouldn’t have brought up her departure again, but quickly dismissed the thought. It was an inevitability they both had to face; pretending that it didn’t exist would only make it worse in the long run.

“I must confess,” William mused, “it was not what I expected. In fact, it was almost…”

“Fun?” she finished for him.

His eyes searched hers. “Do you think that makes me a scoundrel? That I enjoyed the combat as much as I did?”

“You could never be a scoundrel,” Buffy replied, and then paused, thinking. “Maybe a rapscallion---.”

She shrieked when he suddenly splashed her with water, the droplets of water darkening her simple white blouse so that her flesh became visible beneath it. “I just got dressed,” she complained through her laughter, but didn’t move from her seat at his side.

“Insult me and pay the consequences,” William said simply.

His feigned innocence made her smile, and some of the tension that had been weighing her down eased. Maybe he was starting to understand the truth of their circumstances. He’d been so down about her not staying, and she hadn’t been so caught up in her excitement about Willow not to notice that he was being all stiff upper lippy about the change in her situation. Buffy had no doubt that, given the choice, he would want her to stay with him, but that just wasn’t possible. She had a life to return to, and as much as it would hurt leaving him behind, taking him with her---even if it was possible---would be too much of a risk to the natural timeline.

It was easier if they could just enjoy what time they had left together. Not that she wouldn’t miss him when she had to go, and not that it wouldn’t half-kill her to leave someone she loved to a life she feared he was going to live, but Buffy would deal with it. Just like she’d dealt with every other loss in her life. Because she was strong enough to bounce back from it this time.

William had taught her that.

He was watching her, the reflection off the water making his eyes seem even bluer, and slowly, Buffy leaned over the edge of the tub to brush a soft kiss across his mouth. When she pulled away, his aspect had darkened, pupils dilated to overwhelm the irises, and his breathing was most definitely swifter.

“I wanted to ravish you when we were outside,” he said softly. He lifted his hand to slide a wet finger along her swollen lower lip. “You looked exquisite while we were dancing.”

Buffy smiled. “Dancing? Is that what you call it?”

“Appropriate, don’t you think? The way you move…like liquid fire.” His touch slid to her jaw, down her neck, tracing the fine lines of her collarbone through the fabric of her blouse. “I touch you, and I burn. I wonder…will you consume me if I linger too long?”

His voice was a hot whisper as it blew across her cheek. Shivers of pleasure undulated through Buffy’s body as his hand suddenly fell between her breasts, taking a moment to cup a soft swell before gliding to her waist. “You’re getting me wet,” she murmured, aware of her top sticking to her skin in the path he left behind.

William looked back up into her face. “And I’ve been aroused since you so cunningly flashed your ankle at me in the garden,” he replied. “So I would expect that makes us even, don’t you?”

“But I’ve already had my bath. They’ll be expecting us.”

He was sitting more upright in the tub, allowing his long arms to reach out and around Buffy as he tugged her closer to the slippery ceramic. A glance down betrayed his rock-hard erection, but her attention quickly reverted to the hard wall of his chest when he pulled her into him.

“You came here for a reason,” William said huskily. “What was it?”

She was mesmerized by the casual flick of his tongue across his lips, only meant to moisten them but disclosing so much more. “I…needed to see you,” she answered.

“Just…see me?” Slowly, he took her hand in his and guided it beneath the surface of the water, a groan escaping his lips when she eagerly wrapped her fingers around his steel length.

“We shouldn’t,” Buffy said, though her hand began to squeeze and slide down his cock, the water acting as her best friend at the moment. “I don’t think Richard approves of our relationship.”

From where they had briefly closed, William’s eyes fluttered open to lock on hers. “Do you care?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not really.”

“Neither do I.” With a sharp jerk, he pulled Buffy into the bath with him, her skirt tangling around her legs while he fought to stretch her out against him. His mouth was on hers just as quickly, hungry and devouring in a repeat of their kiss on the lawn---or a continuation, if either was willing to forget the thirty minutes that had lapsed in between. He hissed when she gripped his forearms to steady herself, but when she tried to pull back to make sure he was all right, William refused to let her go, lapping down her neck as he continued to struggle against her clothing.

“Here,” Buffy panted, and tugged the material up around her waist. The tub was wide enough for her to straddle him, and all too soon, the pair was mimicking their final pose from outside, her thighs around his hips, his erection pushing against her underwear.

“Not…enough…” William whispered against her skin. His hands slid beneath the white cotton to cup the globes of her ass, grinding her heat against his cock so roughly she moaned from the starburst of sensation that erupted inside her head.

Buffy’s blouse was now completely wet, the outline of her erect nipples clear beneath the fabric. The temptation proved too great for him, their proximity too enticing, and William bent his neck to take the nearest puckered bud into his mouth, sucking fiercely against the material so that it scraped across her skin. “Want you,” she whispered.

He released her long enough to give her a long, hard kiss. “Always want you,” he replied, and then went back to the task of suckling at her breasts.

The water was distracting as Buffy fought to slip her underwear off, though maybe not as much as William’s eager mouth, but she finally managed to lose the scrap of material that was keeping him from her. It landed on the wooden floor with a sodden slap, and Buffy giggled in surprise when his coarse hairs scraped against her inner thigh. “Think Richard will buy my excuse about falling into the tub after I was already dressed?” she said

“Stop talking about Richard,” he growled. His fingers tightened to an almost painful grip as he pulled her up again, the tip of his cock nudging between her slick folds. With one smooth motion, William pushed her hips back down, forcing Buffy to take his full length in a single stroke, leaving both of them fleetingly breathless and quivering as they stayed suspended for what seemed like forever.

“Guess I’m not the only who gets a little jealous,” Buffy whispered before leaning in to kiss him again. This time, their tongues tangled in a slow weave, her fingers coiled in his wet hair to keep him close as she began riding him, up and down, using the slickness of the water to its full advantage with every squeeze and pull. Every instance felt like she was floating, her body buoyant beyond the force of the water, and every stroke filled her just a little bit deeper as she fought to make sure she didn’t lose the contact.

“Tell me.” William’s voice was ragged, choking on his need to pound into her but restrained by the gentility that refused him that release.

When she did the impossible and tore herself away from the pleasure binding their bodies to look into his face, there was no mistaking the anxious panic darkening his eyes, so disparate from the force of his flesh and yet so palpable that it made her chest hurt. “Tell you what?” Buffy said softly, not once breaking the rhythm of the in and out of his shaft.

“Tell me you love me.”

She smiled. “Always.” But when she tried to bend back down to kiss him, his sudden iron grip stilled her.

“No,” William rasped. “Say the words.”

He was speeding up their tempo, meeting her with increasingly rougher thrusts, but his eyes were locked on hers, yearning and angry all at the same time. Each slap against her thighs and each slam against her clit wanted to drive rational thought from Buffy’s head, but still, she found the wherewithal to collapse against him, her lips hot on his ear.

“I love you, William,” she whispered.

His response was a muffled cry as his body arched from the water, his cock jerking as he went rigid, the power of his thrusts lifting her with him. It took only seconds for Buffy’s orgasm to follow, and the unintelligible scream that tore from her throat seemed to echo against the walls.

William was grinning up at her by the time she came down from the high, and she squirmed against his still semi-erect cock, trying to get comfortable. “For someone so concerned about appearances,” he said, pushing back a wet tendril that clung to her cheek, “you seem remarkably determined to alert Richard to your presence in my room.”

She smiled as she rested against his chest, heedless of her clothes clinging and floating around her. “Not like it matters anyway,” Buffy said, a single fingertip circling the flat nipple so near her still-hungry mouth. “Watchers are too uptight as it is. A little modern thinking won’t hurt him.”

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

It nauseated her having to resort to such tactics, but as she smiled coldly down at the current Council Head, April quelled the growing sense of alarm in her gut and focused instead on the goal she needed to achieve.

“It’s understandable if you don’t know me,” she said. “I’m afraid my Watcher wasn’t very forthcoming about my presence.”

“Your…Watcher?” Quentin asked.

“Richard Rhodes-Fanshaw? Of course, he’s been dead for over a century, so you may not know who I’m talking about. Do they still make you suits study all the history before you can graduate to your little club?”

Mention of the name seemed to ignite something within the stuffed shirt, and his eyes gleamed in sudden understanding. “April,” he murmured. “Yes. I think I’m beginning to see.”

“Good, because I really don’t want to have repeat myself.” Lifting her foot to place it on the seat between his legs, April tilted her toe downward to exert mild pressure on the older man’s groin. To his credit, his face registered none of the pain she knew he was feeling. “I’m here to make a deal with you, Mr. Travers.”

“I don’t make deals with demons,” came the laconic reply.

She pushed down a bit harder, and this time saw the slight twitch in his facial muscles before he composed himself again. “I don’t think you have a choice in this matter,” she said. “See, you and I have a common goal, and my instincts tell me that we’re going to need each other in order to reach it.”

“And what, pray tell, do you think that goal is?”

“We both want Esme. Well, I want her dead. I’m assuming you’re not disagreeable to that, considering how much difficulty she’s been giving you lately.”

Travers’ eyes flickered to where Nathan was standing at the door before he shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted a trip. If I was able to find her, she would already be in my custody. As it is, we’re having difficulties keeping track of what exactly she’s trying to accomplish.”

She wanted to scream at his incompetency, but held her tongue. If he’d been better at his job, Esme would never have been able to get her free from that damn spell. “What is it these megalomaniacs ever want?” April asked in annoyance. “She wants power. And for that, she needs a Slayer. Hence, getting me out of your clutches. Only I’m not interested in her little game. I just want my ties to her severed.”

Quentin was shaking his head before she’d even finished. “I’m sure you believe what you’re saying,” he said, “but the Council has never had a turned Slayer in its possession before. It’s the board’s policy to---.”

“Kill her, destroy her, get rid of her, whatever euphemism you want to pick, Mr. Travers. I know how it goes. Why do you think Richard lied about me? I’m going to bet it’s also why he couldn’t kill me in the end. Got that little bitch wife of his to play with her magic wand and bind me in that glass for the last hundred years instead.”

The far whisper of approaching voices caught both hers and Nathan’s attention at the same time, jerking their heads to stare at the closed door. “April---,” he started, the worry already leaking into his voice.

“Quiet!” she hissed. Leaping from her perch, she grabbed Quentin by the arm and began dragging him toward the far wall. “Time for us to fly, Mr. Watcher,” she whispered. “So say your abracadabra to get us out of here.”

“I don’t---.”

Her quick wrench snapped his little finger, eliciting the first sound of pain to come from the man. “Don’t play me for a fool,” April said. She let her vampire mask come forth, baring her fangs to him. “My Watcher was head of this place, remember? I knew exactly where to find you, and I know for a fact that you have a back door to your office. So, unless you want Esme to get her clutches on your current Slayer and totally fuck up the world order as we know it, I suggest you get us out of here before your stake-happy gang out there end up being afternoon snacks for me and Nathan.”

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

He’d been right. He hadn’t seen her yet, but even without visual confirmation, Spike knew he’d been bloody right about just where the bint was headed. Every step forward in the tunnels had strengthened the scent he’d picked up a few blocks away, that mingling of Slayer and demon that made it impossible for each to be separated from the other. A turned Slayer could be the only explanation for it.

To tell the truth, Spike was more than a little chuffed at having figured it out on his own. Fuck you, witch, he thought with satisfaction as he pulled out his pack of smokes from his duster pocket. You should’ve known a bitchy vamp Slayer would have a hard-on for Watchers. Get my answers, and my Slayer notch, too, and you and your time travel fantasies can just bugger off.

So he was going to wait for this April bird to finish up her little vengeance spree---and not once did he consider that she might not make it out of the Council headquarters alive; as far as he was concerned, if she had the stones to go in, she probably had the brains to know how to get out again---and when she came back out, they’d have themselves a nice chat about just what the hell was going on.

He was on his third cigarette when he heard the splash of new arrivals in the tunnels. Stuffing his hands deep inside his pockets, Spike continued to lounge against the stone wall, face implacable as he peered into the murk. He saw the male vamp first---lean, a spot older than him, but still take-able in a fight---and then stiffened when the human rounded the bend. A souvenir? Not exactly the brightest thing to do.

She was the one he was waiting for, though.

She wore her power like a second skin, and though the ridges in her brow bespoke what she’d become, there was no mistaking the animal grace Spike had seen on more than one Slayer. She didn’t walk; she glided.

And just the sight of her made blinding anger swell into his throat, taking him completely off-guard.

His hands were already curled into fists in his pockets, every nerve strung whipcord taut, by the time she noticed him. Her first glance didn’t even weaken her step, but the second, the one she cast him as the male vamp came abreast where Spike stood, that one sucked the air right out of the tunnel.

“You…” she breathed, and Spike knew even before she released her grip on the human that she was going to come at him.

At least she didn’t call me William, he thought as they went down in a tangle of fangs and leather.

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

Chapter 31: All Kinds of Blood

She had fingernails like Drusilla.

Long. Meticulously groomed. Sharp as razor blades.

And the bitch wasn’t afraid of using them.

Slamming his elbow backwards, Spike felt the talon grip she had on his side weaken when he connected with her face, and took advantage of the break in her concentration to drop to the floor, lowering his center of gravity.

It worked to unbalance her already precarious hold, and April’s clawed hand was wrenched from Spike’s flesh, leaving behind tatters in his t-shirt and rivulets of blood dripping down his side. She stumbled forward, and would’ve landed on his back if he hadn’t rolled away.

He didn’t get far, though. Just as the distance would’ve been enough for him to stand free of harm’s way, a foot came down to snag the edge of his coat, jerking him backwards to land with a splash on his ass.

“What’s your bloody problem?” Spike growled up at her. His leg swept backward to catch her Achilles tendon, the force driving her rigid muscles to either snap or crumple from their dominion over his leathered hem.

Using the momentum of his kick, April propelled herself to flip sideways, several feet closer to the exit. “Interesting that you’ve joined the other team,” she commented, golden eyes blazing. “After everything you did to try and get rid of me the first time, I would imagine your girlfriend would’ve tried saving you from becoming what you despise so much.”

With his coat now liberated from her bondage, Spike kipped back into a standing position, wiping at the blood trickling into his eye. “Think you’ve got your vamps mixed up,” he said, sucking at the viscous fluid that clung to his thumb. “Don’t think I’d forget takin’ on a crazy bitch like you.”

“Really, William?” She laughed when he visibly started at the use of his name. “You’re underestimating me. Again.”

“The name’s Spike.” It was an automatic retort, filled with far more bluster than he actually felt. The whole day was turning into a soddin’ Twilight Zone episode, and taking on the part of David Gurney was the last thing he wanted. He would swear on Drusilla’s unlife that he’d never seen this April bird before, and yet here she was, obviously recognizing him from somewhere, calling him by the name he hadn’t used as a vampire in decades.

Her eyes glittered with hate as they flickered over him. “I’d say it suits you,” April remarked, “but that would mean caring enough to have an opinion.”

Fangs bared, she launched off the wall again, but this time, Spike was ready, and danced out of her path before she could connect with his skin again. “For someone who doesn’t care, you seem to be an eager beaver ‘bout killin’ me,” he said. He was beginning to think he needed a weapon, that hand-to-hand with a powerful vamp jonesing to mop the floor with him might not be his best option.

As his eyes darted around the dank space, though, April laughed.

“What’s the matter, William?” she taunted. “Still can’t face me without something sharp in your hot little hands? Don’t think I’m stupid enough to fall for the same trick twice. I don’t care how strong you think you are now.”

“Don’t think it. Know it.”

He spotted the broken staff half-jutting from the sludge, but the presence of her companion and human hostage practically on top of it made it completely inaccessible. What he wouldn’t give for a good old-fashioned rapier, Spike thought unexpectedly. A good poke was just what the bitch needed.

He’d have to settle for fists and fangs for the time-being, though.

She didn’t expect the full frontal attack, taking more than one blow before recovering enough to strike back. As the seconds dragged on, and as each vampire landed their hits, Spike began to realize that she wasn’t as good as he’d originally thought. Sure, she was fast---faster than any other vamp he’d fought---and she’d been trained well. But, truth be told, he could see the weaknesses in her style…how she favored the slice instead of the kill…the slight drag on her left side when she pirouetted out of his path…the fact that she seemed to be completely blind to blocking punches to her left side. He’d fought better opponents and won. And when it came to other Slayers, well…

She doesn’t hold a candle to Buffy.

The sudden intrusion of the current Slayer into his head made his last punch go wild.

The distant shouts and splashing of new presences in the tunnels made him flounder.

And the unexpected thrust of the broken staff into his back---shouldn’t’ve taken my eye off the boytoy---made him fall face forward to the ground.

As the wretched agony of the jagged stick he couldn’t quite reach sizzled throughout his torso, Spike saw the male vampire start pulling April away from the approaching sounds. “Leave him!” he barked. “The Watchers will finish him off!”

It was obvious she didn’t want to listen, but as the shouts grew louder, she snarled in frustration and grabbed her human hostage. “Be grateful,” she shot back to Spike. “They’ll probably just dust you. I wouldn’t have been nearly as quick about it.”

Her proclamation echoed against the stone, driving Spike to his hands and knees. Not today, he thought grimly, and threw himself back against the wall to drive the staff further through his abdomen. He screamed in pain, but it served its purpose. With sticky hands, he grabbed the length that was now available to him and yanked it out, noting the dark blood now staining the weapon.

The voices were clearer, and closer, and his head was beginning to swim from the cascade of sensations that were too heightened in his adrenalized state---rich copper curdling in the air, the maddening texture of each droplet tickling down his skin---and all Spike wanted at the moment was just to tear April’s head off and piss down her gaping maw of a neck. Want lost to need, though, especially since the object of his enmity was no longer in the vicinity, and the pounding footsteps were all too close to it.

Lurching toward the unused exit for the Underground, he fell against the door and scrabbled at the chain that kept it closed, his fingers made slippery from too many bodily fluids that had no right not being on the inside of his body instead of the out. It took all his remaining strength to snap the rusted links, and with a grunt of satisfaction, he fell through the small opening.

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

It was a deliberate maneuver on Richard’s part to separate them, of that William was more than certain. As soon as dinner had finished, the Watcher had risen from his seat and informed both of them that he would be accompanying Buffy back to the Freston home, while Rose saw to William’s injuries. Though Buffy had argued the point that they were both adults and Richard was not her father, she had quieted in the face of what she must’ve considered a salient point---that William was unaccustomed to such intensive training and if he didn’t wish to suffer the consequences, it was best to allow an expert such as Rose to tend to him.

He hadn’t even been able to kiss her good-bye, but one glance from Buffy as she followed Richard out to the coach was all he needed to know that she would wait up for him.

William’s fingers fumbled with his buttons, his unease at having a woman who wasn’t his mother or Buffy examine his bare flesh making him clumsy. From where she was preparing some sort of liniment near the fire, Rose chuckled under her breath, and the sound made him flush further in embarrassment.

“I’m fine, really,” he said, even though he continued to disrobe. “The bath was quite…therapeutic.”

Her chuckle was louder. “I’m sure it was,” Rose said. “For both of you. Now. Lie down.”

His movements were jerky as William stretched out on the table that had been set up specifically for this purpose, his braces hanging around his hips as he rested his cheek on his uninjured forearm. The fabric was soft against his abdomen, and it might’ve even been relaxing if it hadn’t been for who he knew was now touching his back. With his head turned away, he couldn’t see Rose while she poked and prodded the bruises he’d gained from his workout with Buffy, and it was just as well. The mortification would’ve just been too great.

“How do you feel?” Rose asked. “Are there any areas that are especially tender?”

He started to shake his head before he caught the awkwardness of such a motion. “My legs are tired,” William said. “But other than that, I’m more than fit to return home.”

“Not so fast, young man. Richard wants me to ensure that you won’t suffer any ill consequences from such a vigorous bout with Buffy.”

“Are you sure he doesn’t wish you to lecture me?”

William knew he sounded like a petulant child, but the protectiveness of the Council Head and his wife was growing thin. He received enough such attention from his mother; he hardly needed to get it from near strangers as well.

“That, too,” Rose conceded. Her fingers were kneading the tight muscles of his back, eliciting an involuntary moan from William’s throat. “Richard fears what will happen when we return Buffy to her real time.”

His sigh was just as much a response to her words as it was to her massage. “Must we talk about this?” he said.

“Does it bother you to do so?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“Because you love her.”

“I loved her before she ever arrived here. I will love her long after she leaves.”

Rose paused, though her fingers never hesitated. “And Buffy’s feelings? How do you think she feels about you?”

“She loves me.” It was quiet, barely a breath. “She told me so.”

“Do you think that changes things?”

How could he answer her when it was the very question he’d been unable to answer for himself?

“She has a duty, William,” Rose continued, still gentle, still massaging the kinks from his flesh. “She won’t shirk that.”

“I know. I would never ask her to.” Liar.

“Slayers are a very unique breed. Their time on this earth is so spare, and so precious, and while I understand you only want the best for Buffy, do you truly believe it’s in hers and the world’s best interest to try and sway her from her calling?”

He sat up at that, anger igniting inside him. “Is that what Richard thinks I’m doing?” he demanded.

Her gaze never wavered. “Isn’t it?”

“No. I…whatever Buffy wishes, I’ll give it. And I know she wishes to return to her own time. So I’ll do everything in my power to make that happen. I’ve promised her that.”

“Promises are only words, William. They have no power.”

“I don’t believe that. Without my words, I’m nothing, so if that’s not power, I don’t think I know what is.”

“And you honestly believe you’re doing what’s necessary to help Buffy leave?”

“Yes.”

“But you want her to stay.”

“Yes.” He answered it before he could think, the crush in which he’d been responding to her interrogation driving away his ability to stall. Rose’s face softened as he shrank in on himself, tears welling in his eyes. “That doesn’t mean I won’t help her,” William reasserted.

Her touch returned, taking the arm he held in his lap and holding it so that the reddened scrape faced upwards. She reached for the pot of cream that sat off to the side, and coating her fingers in it, gently spread it over the broken skin.

“Do you remember what I said about time, William?” Rose asked. “About how it needs balance?”

He couldn’t meet her gaze, shame at his foolish emotions taking the better of him keeping him distant. “You said the universe requires order,” he intoned. “That a serious price must be paid when it came to time travel spells.”

“Yes. Whether she realizes this or not, Buffy knows this. She faces death on a daily basis. She deals with otherworldly events as simply as she gets dressed in the morning. She knows that duty must be paid. And yet…she is willing to risk that. For you.” Rose nodded when his head snapped up, his eyes wide at the implication in her words. “Do you forget I see things, William? Not just the way things will be, but also the way things can be. There’s no doubt that Buffy loves you, but if the pair of you continue on the path you’ve chosen, where you offer to stay by her side in the eyes of the church---.” She held up her hand, cutting him off when his mouth opened to protest. “You wear your intent just as you wear your heart. I would be blind not to know of your objectives.”

“I wasn’t…I wouldn’t…I didn’t think---.”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that if Buffy should choose to stay here, for any reason, it will kill her. And the imbalance such an action would create could be catastrophic.”

Hearing the words “kill” and “Buffy” so close together was like a punch to his midsection, leaving William bereft of both wind and words as he gaped at her in disbelief. Only the soothing balm of the liniment on his arm seemed to keep him oriented to his seat.

Rose’s fingers disappeared long enough to retrieve the bandage she had waiting. “I like you, William,” she said, working to wrap his wound. “And I like Buffy. But there are greater forces at work here than you can possibly imagine. Forces, Buffy isn’t even aware of. All I ask is that you consider the grander scope of your situation before you act. Will you do that for me?”

Mutely, he nodded, though his mind still reeled from her suggestions. There was no doubt in his mind that Buffy was undergoing the same lecture with Richard; he only wished that he could be there to help temper the effects.

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

Her lips were pressed thin as she marched down the street, the growing wind whipping her skirt around her legs. Behind her, Buffy could hear the crunch of the carriage’s wheels as it rolled slowly down the road, keeping pace with her every step, but she betrayed nothing as she kept her eyes forward.

“You’re being unreasonable.” Richard’s voice floated on the breeze, loud enough to make it impossible for her to pretend he wasn’t there. “Get back in this coach, young lady.”

“If that was your attitude with your Slayer, it’s no wonder she’s coming after you now,” Buffy retorted. It was a low blow, and she knew it, but his condescension regarding her relationship with William made her want to lash out in the only way she knew she could. And hitting him when they were still trying to help find Mrs. Freston? Probably not the most productive maneuver on her part.

The sharp crack of a whip split the air, and the horses’ pace quickened to bring the coach door even with Buffy. “You know I’m right,” Richard said at her side. “You’re only angry because I’ve had to remind you.”

“I’m angry because you’re sticking your nose in things that aren’t any of your business.”

“Preserving the safety of---.”

“Mankind, yadda yadda, heard it all before, Richard. Why is it you Council guys can’t just let people be happy when they have a shot at it? It’s bad enough you’ve got such a stranglehold on your own people, but William doesn’t even work for you.”

“But you do.”

“Newsflash. I quit answering to the Council when they gave me that lovely birthday present in the shape of stealing my powers last year. I am not some kind of puppet for them to play with.”

“No, you’re the Slayer. And you may have ignored your ties to the Council, but you’ve admitted you still uphold your duties. That alone should be reason enough to listen to me.”

She stopped abruptly in the path and waited until the carriage had come to a stop several feet ahead. “I’ve listened to you,” Buffy said when Richard disembarked. “And now I’m done listening. I’m cutting you some slack because of the whole April sitch, otherwise you wouldn’t be conscious for this little part of our discussion. And don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for everything in helping William, and sorting out my mess. But William’s an innocent in all this. Leave him. The hell. Alone.”

The unspoken threat hanging in the air between them, Buffy whirled on her heel and resumed the trek toward the Freston home. She’d said her piece, and though part of her understood exactly what the Council Head was trying to do, the intervention only made her mad.

“We fight a war, Miss Summers.” He was still standing on the road behind her, and every step she took made his voice just a fraction farther away. “And you’re right. William is an innocent. But you and I are not. We both know that not all casualties are the result of blooded injuries. It would be a travesty to lose a gentle soul such as his because of your own greed.”

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

“…in the paper again. She reminds me of Cordelia, except you know, without a chest and oodles more money, and why is it they keep calling her ‘Posh’? I mean, ‘Becks’ makes sense, but even I know that the Spice Girls are so over…”

Willow’s voice was bright and clear in the small hotel room as she thumbed through the daily paper she’d picked up at the newsstand across the street, and though Buffy still slept on the bed beside her, the redhead was doing everything in her power to make things as normal as possible. She’d been left on watch duty again while Lydia and Esme went off in search of Spike, but this time, she was glad of the assignment. She’d had enough excitement for the day already.

“It’s a good thing Xander’s not here,” she continued. “I don’t think we’d ever get him away from staring at the page three girls. This one is definitely all silicon. Nipples were not meant to point in that direction.”

Esme hadn’t been happy about the vampire’s disappearance, and even angrier at Lydia for letting him escape. Personally, Willow wasn’t thrilled about it either---not when they needed him to get Buffy back---but she was doing everything she could not to think about the search for him. Her brain needed a vacation from worrying for the time being.

“Why do the British want to rhyme everything? This article keeps referring to ‘Marks and Sparks.’ What’s wrong with just calling it Marks and Spencer’s like it’s supposed to be? Unless…you don’t think Marks and Sparks is like an outlet or something, do you? Do they even have outlets over here?”

Willow’s reading was interrupted by a loud thump in the hall. Stiffening, she rose from her seat, alert for further distraction, the question of whether it was a returning Esme at the forefront of her mind. There was another thud, followed what sounded like something being dragged down the door.

Buffy’s door.

Her skin was electric as she bolted for the entrance, but as soon as she released the latch, it fell against her with a heavy weight, causing her to jump back and out of the way of the object that had been leaning against it.

Not object.

Person.

More correctly, vampire.

Spike’s eyes fluttered open. “’Lo, Red,” he rasped, struggling to sit back up. “Long time…no see.”

The dragging sound she’d heard must’ve been his back, Willow realized as her gaze drank in the smear of dark blood down the door. It matched the small hole that had been sliced through the back of his coat, and she could see the splinters where the weapon had caught on the leather. Someone had tried staking him from behind, and failed obviously, but that didn’t mean Spike still wasn’t suffering from it.

Bending to allow him to throw his arm over her shoulder, she helped him finish rising to his feet. When his duster fell open, she saw the gashes that rent his tee, as well as the dried blood that dripped from the copious injuries, and asked before she could stop herself, “What happened to you?”

He laughed, but it was a wet, sticky sound, as if he had fluid in his lungs. “If it’s not obvious…” They began stumbling down the hall toward his room. “…then I guess I did it wrong.”

She mentally shook her head. She didn’t think in a million years she’d ever understand this death wish Spike seemed to have. She was just going to thank her lucky stars that he’d come back to them for help.

They reached his door, only for Willow to realize she didn’t have a key. “Um…Spike?”

He caught her pointed glance and began patting down his pockets with his free hand. Everywhere he touched, a crimson stain remained behind, but his search remained keyless.

“Bugger this,” he muttered, and before she could stop him, Spike had put his last remaining strength into his grip and snapped the lock.

He collapsed on the bed before she could stop him, arms akimbo as his cheek pressed against the worn duvet. Gingerly, Willow worked to free the leather from his torso, taking care not to aggravate the wounds into bleeding even more.

“I’m going to get you some blood,” she said after she’d hung the coat in the bathroom to drip into the tub. She’d already decided he could stay in the wet jeans and t-shirt until he could take them off himself; stripping Spike wasn’t supposed to be in her job description anyway.

His muffled grunt was the only confirmation she got that he’d heard her.

She was standing in the doorway when curiosity won out.

“Why’d you come back?” Willow asked.

The silence made her think he’d passed out. Just when she was ready to give up and head out for the blood she’d promised, he said, “’Cause you’re a straightshooter, Red, even if that witch you’ve hooked up with isn’t. Like the sound of my odds with you better than anything else right about now.”

“Oh. OK.”

“But…Red?”

She looked back to see a single blue eye glaring at her. “Yeah?”

“Just don’t call me William.”

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

Chapter 32: When I of You Do Write

He’d never thought of his home as large before. But, as William measured the length of his paces through the halls, listening to the slight echo that followed his footsteps, he was reminded of childhood nightmares where he’d run from room to room in search of his missing mother only to wake soaked in sweat, his heart pounding inside his ribcage, and no restitution from his frustrated pursuits. That sense of absurd loneliness that would swell inside---at least, until the morning meal when he’d walk into the dining room and see his mother’s smiling face waiting for him---was threatening to return, only this time, he knew that it would eventually be manifest.

Buffy was not in the house. William had burst through the front doors, wanting to spend a few more precious minutes with her prior to retiring for the night, and been greeted by the vacuum of a building left bereft of her presence. Meg found him on the threshold of the room Buffy had been given, staring inside at the immaculately made bed, at the nightclothes that had been laid out on the duvet, and explained that Buffy had returned from their day out and immediately announced she fancied a bit of a walk. No amount of persuasion would sway her otherwise, and she’d left without the benefit of a carriage or escort over thirty minutes earlier.

William understood the purpose of her flight. Given the opportunity, he would attempt to do the same, to try and outrace the arguments submitted by the Rhodes-Fanshaws, no matter how cogent they might appear. Buffy would not do well to try and sit while fathoming the results of her discussion with Richard; she relied far too heavily on kinesthesia to bring order to her world. She would walk, and she would run, and offered wings, she would likely even fly, to make the baffling credible in her eyes.

And right now, she roamed the streets of his London without him.

He didn’t fear for her safety---well, part of him did, but he more than believed that she would be able to handle whatever might cross her path---but the thought of her wandering empty paths with only the moon for company seemed all too close to the life she’d described in her own time. She would be returning to it far too quickly, and more than anything, William needed to be the one to give her something different. Buffy had to understand that she didn’t have to be alone when he was around.

It took him little time to prepare. Though his body was starting to ache from the strenuous afternoon he’d spent, adrenaline was still fueling his momentum, and he changed into more comfortable clothing with a tight efficiency. He was careful to transfer the contents of his pockets; though Rose’s words had dampened his enthusiasm for his prior plans, he saw no reason not to share at least part of what he’d contrived. The only thing missing was a weapon, for the twilight hour---though pretty---promised darker imaginings than a sewer rat scuttling across his path.

William settled for an ornamental dagger that hung in his mother’s private rooms. It had long ago belonged to his father, but since his death, had been sequestered to more personal viewing, locked away from prying eyes and inquisitive young men. Anne Freston refused to speak of the significance of keeping such an item around the house, an action that was made even more odd by her incessant desire to protect William from anything dangerous or disruptive, but he was grateful for once that her need for it had surpassed any sensibility regarding weaponry in the home. He had no wish to sneak into the kitchen and try to steal a knife from there, and with his staking abilities still untested, it was better to have something with which at least he had some familiarity.

Meg caught him as he descended the staircase, standing at the bottom with her hands tucked behind her back. “Do you need me to have the coach brought ‘round?” she asked.

William shook his head. “I’ll be walking, Meg. You can let them know they can retire for the night.”

“Do you think that’s wise, sir?” She flushed at the impertinence of her question, but held her chin up. “After your attack last night, don’t you want to be a wee more careful?”

He felt his ears get hot at her verbal confirmation in knowing, at least generally, of his injuries the previous evening. “I will be,” he said stiffly.

She had the grace to back down. “Do you wish me to draw you or Miss Summers a bath for when you return?”

More heat flooded his body at the mention of the bath, though this time it was directed in a more netherly direction. “No, no,” William said. “That won’t be necessary.” He turned to the door, but paused, his hand ready to depart but his mind not quite there. “If you could, though,” he continued, his back still to her, “prepare some of my nightly tea. I think Miss Summers would…appreciate it after her long walk.”

“Yes, sir.”

He imagined Meg probably curtseyed upon agreement, but William didn’t see it, stepping out onto the front step without a glance back. Swallowing the sudden rise in his throat, he hastened down the stairs, not dwelling on the action that he’d just taken. It was done. The choice now belonged to Buffy.

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

Why he tried the banks first, William didn’t know, but the glimpse of silvery-gold where the trickling moonlight was catching her hair was all he needed to slacken some of the tension that had wound throughout his body.

She was standing at the edge of the water, staring at the obsidian ripples with the fascination of a child, when he approached. “I’ve been here before,” Buffy said without looking back to acknowledge him. “In my time. Funny how it hasn’t changed all that much.”

“Care for even more irony?” He waited until she tilted her head to see him, and then almost lost his train of thought for the sheer spectacle of her beauty.

“What?” Buffy prompted.

William pointed to the bench in the near distance. “This is where I come and do my writing when I need to escape the house,” he said. “And Esme put the spell on my journal in that very seat.”

The slide of her head to follow his finger made him shiver. “So, this is kind of our spot, huh?” She smiled. “Figures.”

When she began walking for the bench, William fell into step beside her, much like they did in the park of their dreams. Her mood wasn’t exactly what he’d expected. Knowing what Richard was most likely doing, he’d imagined Buffy would be ranting and raving about unnecessary manipulation, and that she was a grown woman capable of making her own decisions, and the like. William had certainly been witness to more than one display of her feelings on the matter during their dream conversations.

Yet, here on the banks, she seemed…meditative, as if she’d been given food for thought instead of vehement lectures. Perhaps his assessment of Richard’s methods had been incorrect. Perhaps the Council Head had approached the matter with reserve and thoughtfulness. Perhaps---.

“You know, Richard really is kind of an asshole,” Buffy commented.

Perhaps not.

“I presume he spoke with you about us.” William chose his words carefully. It was better to tread lightly so that he could best gauge her reaction than to forge blindly onward with the grace of a bull cow.

“I think there was speaking in there,” she replied. “A lot of the shouting kind of got in the way of actually hearing it.”

They were at the bench, and he waited until she was sitting before taking the seat next to her. Shyly, his hand crept to where hers rested between them, and when it met with no resistance, William laced his fingers through hers.

“At least, Rose didn’t yell at me,” he said.

“Oh, a lot of the shouting was mine. When it comes to being overprotective, Richard makes Giles look like my dad in the parenting department.” With a sigh, Buffy leaned back into the bench, tilting her torso so that she was pressed against his arm, her cheek resting on the curve of his shoulder. “Too bad I’m not as smart as you. Maybe then, I wouldn’t have such a headache from trying to keep all the potentials of being stuck back in time straight in my noggin.”

She sounded weary, much like she had during some of their earliest conversations, and a small knot of dissatisfaction began coiling in William’s stomach. “It’s overwhelming for both of us,” he said. “But I think you’re handling it beautifully. I think if I were to find myself in your time instead, I’d be struck dumb for the enormity of it all.”

“This is pretty big with the hugeness, too, you know.” She gestured toward the water, and the dim lights of the houses that could be seen on the opposite shore. “All those people, sitting inside probably doing something like…needlepoint, or candle-making. How do I know I haven’t changed their lives by being here? What if---?”

“You do what you must,” William interrupted. “Just like you always have.”

For some reason, that made her deflate. “My must really sucks sometimes.”

“Stop it.” His voice was harsh, causing her to turn to him with a frown, and William pulled his hand from hers to rise to his feet before her. “Since when do you pay any heed to what the Council of Watchers tells you?” he demanded. “You’ve faced them, and won, on numerous occasions. Why is it you’ve let one man undermine your confidence so?”

“Because he’s right. Because I keep making things worse by being here. I mean, look at you. Look at how---.”

“That’s right. Look at me.” Using both hands, William cupped Buffy’s face as he crouched to eye-level with her. “Tell me what you see.”

She didn’t know what he wanted, dark eyes wide and searching his for some kind of clue. “I see you,” she finally managed.

“And am I the same man you met those few weeks ago?”

“Yes.” At the questioning tilt of his head, Buffy colored, ducking her gaze. “Well, no.”

“Now, do you know why?”

“You want me to say because of me,” she said. “But that’s not true.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not. All the stuff that you keep saying…it was all there before I ever came along. It’s not my fault nobody could see it but me.”

“Exactly.” Leaning in, his lips pressed to hers in a firm kiss, thumbs caressing the hollows of her cheeks even after he’d moved away. “You believed in me, Buffy. In doing so, you helped me start to learn how to believe in myself again. And that’s only grown stronger since you woke up at my side. I don’t know what exactly Richard said to you, but I do know you. And nothing he nor Rose could ever say will make me regret a second that I’ve been fortunate enough to have with you.”

She fell silent in the face of his argument, pulling from his embrace to rise from the bench again. He straightened to watch her stroll back out to the water’s edge, her arms folded across her stomach, and had to fight not to follow her out there and drag her back.

“What if you could have more?”

It could’ve been a mere flutter on the wind for as loudly as she said it, but William heard the words as clearly as if she’d whispered them directly into his ear.

“What?”

His heart had suddenly decided to hammer against his throat, and he could only gape in disbelief when she continued.

“I just want to be happy again. I don’t think that’s such a big deal, do you?”

She was leading in a direction he’d only dared to envision, but for some reason, William was reluctant to follow. “You will be,” he said. “You have friends who care for you, and a mother who loves you---.”

She turned, and her eyes seemed to glow from the reflection of the moon off the water. “You love me.”

How could he deny that? “Yes.”

“Shouldn’t that count for something?”

Oh, god, yes. “Buffy---.”

“Don’t tell me I have a responsibility, that my calling means I have to give up any hope for a real life. I gave it up once. I can do it again.”

“No, you can’t.”

Admitting it aloud felt like a hundred rancorous claws shredding him from the inside out, and William had to blink more than once to clear the sudden blurring behind his spectacles. All of Rose’s words, and all of the events of the past few days, and all of his naïve dreams of what could be came at him in a rush, making him shake even as he held himself straighter.

“Don’t you want me to stay?”

The hurt in her voice endangered his resolve to remain stalwart in her declaration. “More than anything,” William admitted. “But I’ve spent my entire life denying what I want. I’m more than prepared to do it again.”

“No!” She was on him in full force, the strength of her attack propelling both of them to the ground. It ended with her astride him, her face unreadable as she hovered outlined against the moon, her chest visibly lifting and falling from the fire of her emotions. “Don’t you get it? That’s not what I want for you.”

“You can’t stay, Buffy. You know that.” He needed to get it through to her; he had to make her understand, even if it hurt her as much as it was killing him. “You’re not really here, after all.”

She pretended to be insulted. “I’m not? So, who was that in the bathtub with you this afternoon, then? Huh? Felt pretty there to me.”

“And who was it that sliced your hand this morning? I don’t remember seeing the first knife that made you bleed. We both know Rose is right. It would be different if the magic had brought you completely here, but it didn’t. We need to be prepared to deal with those consequences.” He couldn’t resist pushing back the curtain of hair that covered her face. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not.” Hoarse from the sheer emotion that was sapping her strength, Buffy was still fighting his suggestions. “It doesn’t have to be this way, William. I can change things by staying. I can make it better.”

“But you already have.” Grabbing her elbows, he tugged her forward until her weight was pressing him into the earth, and he inhaled the fragrance of the hair that fell across his face when she buried her face in his neck. Until the day he died, he would never forget the way she smelled; it would forever mean happiness to him. “This feeling will pass,” he said, deliberately trying for a lighter tone. For his sake, just as much as hers. “You know you want to go back. You’re just rebelling against Richard’s wishes because you’re obstinate and you don’t know how to bend to Council demands.”

The playful slap at his chest told him he’d at least moderately succeeded. “Doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve a good pop in the nose,” she groused.

William chuckled. “I’ve had that same desire on more than one occasion. Rose has the patience of a saint.”

“What did she say to you?”

He was glad she couldn’t see his face. “Nothing of consequence. She’s just a mother hen. You know that.”

“Yeah.” He could feel her smile against his skin. “She is.”

They rested there in silence for several minutes, the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing lulling Buffy to a half-slumber while the growing warmth of her body enveloped him in peace. He hated having to break the spell, but his decision had been made long before he’d found her at the water, and William didn’t want to lose what may well be his last opportunity.

“Buffy?” he said gently.

“Hmmm?”

Rolling onto his side, he eased her onto the ground so that he could sit up, though the loss of her flesh against his left him cold. “I know…this will seem…awkward, perhaps, in light of my earlier words…” He stopped. This would’ve been much easier if she’d been home when he arrived. Doing it now would make him seem like a hypocrite.

“What is it?” She sat up with him, waiting expectantly. “C’mon. Spit it out.”

Chewing at his lip, William stumbled to his feet, his muscles unexpectedly sore from having been still for so long. He held out his hand to her, and when Buffy took it, he pulled her back to the bench, positioning her on it before sitting again at her side.

“If…things could be different,” he stumbled, and cleared his throat, wondering why his palms were suddenly sweaty. “If…it had been possible for you to stay…as a…permanent part of my life…I would’ve…it would’ve been only natural for me to…”

He was positive she could hear his heart beating. Why did he think he could do this? This sounded so much more eloquent in his head.

“What I mean to say is,” William tried again, “I love you, and…I know I don’t have much to offer, and not that I will because…well, you know…but it would’ve given me great pleasure to…to…” His head fell, the pressure of the moment overwhelming him, even if it wasn’t completely real. “I sound like a fool,” he muttered.

Her hand was warm on his cheek. “No, you don’t,” Buffy murmured. “And just so you know, if you had asked me and it was possible for me to stay, I would’ve said yes.”

Yes. She would’ve said…

William’s head shot up, so quickly that she giggled at the abruptness of it, and before he could stop himself, he was kissing her, and she was kissing him, and they were laughing against each other’s mouth, as if the conversation of only minutes earlier had never occurred.

He was breathless when he broke away, and achingly hard, but he still had something else to do, the real thing, and he was going to get it done, if she would only stop touching him---.

“What’s this?”

Her hand had slipped into his pocket and found the paper he’d so consciously remembered to bring, and William froze as she opened it to scan its contents. She didn’t look up when she was done, but instead returned her gaze to the top of the page, swollen lips mouthing the words he’d written to complete the poem he’d composed during their first joining in the dreams. When she reached the final verse, he recited it aloud as she read.

“But I was lost in a place ‘tween the sun and moon,
Where firm and figment merged this June,
And even beyond that place ‘tween moon and sun,
My love that burns for her is legion.”

She was smiling when he finished, her fingers tracing over the careful script on the paper. “You changed it,” Buffy murmured, and looked up to see him frowning.

“You…remember what the original was?” he asked.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

When she started to hand it back to him, he folded her fingers around the edge and pushed it toward her. “It’s yours,” William said. “I wrote it for you.”

“But why would you change it?”

This was what he wanted her to know; this was what had spurred him to write so furiously after their fencing bout. The shift in tense in those few lines made all the difference to him.

“Because I’m not lost anymore,” William said softly. “No matter what happens, no matter where the next bend in our paths takes us, you’ve shown me that fear doesn’t have to hold me back. That I have it in me to forge onward, even if hindrances may try to prevent me from doing so. This is your true gift, Buffy. You make those who love you stronger.”

Emotion was quickly overpowering both of their self-control, so he tugged her to her feet. “Come,” he said with a voice that betrayed none of the battle that still waged inside him. “Let’s go home. It’s been a very long day.”

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

She had long ago sent Lydia back to the hotel to sleep, the Watcher’s passive-aggressive complaints about her sore feet finally growing thin. Their search for Spike had been fruitless, though the most interesting tidbit of the day had come when they’d tapped into one of Lydia’s resources at the Council. Apparently, Quentin had gone missing and the surveillance in his office revealed that it had been April who had snatched him. Her Slayer-ness that remained after turning had been enough to subvert their early vampire detection alarms to allow her entrance, and the trail of dead bodies she left behind said all too clearly that she was tired of playing games.

The report concluded with their trek through the tunnels she’d used to escape. The trio had eluded capture, leaving behind copious amounts of blood that indicated further troubles in the sewers than the Watchers had given them. None of it had been human, though, so Esme’s hopes that Quentin had been removed from the picture were dashed. She wasn’t happy that April was finding a use for the Council Head that didn’t involve his direct death, especially since he was the one most familiar with Esme’s patterns and history. After all, it had been his specific influence that had first brought her into the coven’s fold, and it had been his lesser authority that had first garnered her attention in the Slayer artifacts. Though she hardly considered him a valid threat, if there was anyone who could subvert her goal, it was Quentin Travers.

He was not her present interest, however. While approaching a likely source for information, Esme had felt a familiar tingle begin burning along her spine, growing in prickling acuteness until her fingers were practically vibrating from the need to use them. Excitement made her temper shorter, so by the time she’d managed to finally dispatch Lydia, the witch was agitated to the point of near-sloppiness when she attempted her first spell since the incident in Wales.

Her teleportation landed her at a deserted Underground station, and though it wasn’t the destination she’d had in mind, the sign on the wall told her she was close. Already, though, she could feel her magical reserves starting to wane. It wouldn’t do to sap all her strength before she was back to normal, but to pass on the opportunity to check on some of her arrangements would be foolhardy.

Her next spell put her directly outside the house, its dark windows like empty eye sockets against the night sky. The magic that encircled it, keeping it in its temporal stasis, still remained intact, a revelation that left Esme shivering in satisfaction. This was her wild card. This was her insurance that Buffy Summers would cooperate once April was taken care of. With Rupert Giles and Anne Freston in her control, there was no way the Slayer would balk at Esme’s request.

She had to make sure, though. Tentatively, Esme cast a gentle seeking spell, probing the parameters of the temporal bridle that contained the house’s inhabitants, searching for weaknesses within the construct that could be exploited by the Slayer should she attempt to rescue her Watcher. Not that she’d ever find the house. Esme had made more than sure it slipped under anyone’s eye should they go seeking it. The temporal displacement helped in that, just as it most likely had saved it from whatever had temporarily stolen Esme’s magic as well.

Content that all was still well with the prison, the witch sagged against a tree in the front garden, her skin clammy with sweat. She was not strong enough to manage more magic any time soon, and probably shouldn’t have undertaken such a strenuous spell as the temporal check but the rush of having her powers back combined with the fear that her plans could unravel had driven her to push her boundaries.

It was time to return to the hotel. Perhaps her strength would be sufficient in the morning to use magic to locate the wayward vampire. Even if she didn’t need him to kill April any longer, he was still necessary to get Buffy Summers back. His purpose wasn’t gone. Not just yet.

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

The charge that surged through her body startled Rose awake, stiffening her muscles while she stared at the ceiling overhead. It wasn’t harsh like the previous experience with the Freston home had been, more like a warm wave washing across her skin, but it was still there, still unmistakable, still the same.

“Richard,” she whispered. She rolled onto her side to see her husband’s back and gently poked him between his shoulder blades. “Richard,” she repeated, this time a little louder. “Wake up.”

He grunted, but didn’t move. “What time is it?” he mumbled.

“I don’t know. Middle of the night some time.”

“Time for sleeping, Rose. Go back to sleep.”

“But it’s happened again.” She was sitting up now, her heavy braid hanging over her shoulder. “The temporal displacement. There’s been another occurrence.”

It worked as she imagined, jerking him from his slumber to roll over and face her. “Are you certain?” Richard demanded. “This isn’t a time for fanciful wishes, my dear.”

“I’m sure. Just as I’m sure that this has actually happened.” Already, she was pushing the duvet back and reaching for her dressing gown. “I just need to find out where. It was faint, so I’m not certain it’s within the city, but it has to be close. I know it.”

He matched her movements on the opposite side of the bed. “I shall have the coach go around to fetch William and Buffy---.”

“No.” She was shaking her head when he glanced up at her. “Leave them be, Richard. At least for tonight. We’ve said what needed to be said. We can’t encroach any further than we have or they’ll be defiant.” Rose smiled. “They’re young, and in love. Do you remember how you were at that age? Push them too far, and they’ll start pushing back. Besides, they will be of no help until we have determined where exactly the displacement occurred. After, we shall get them. Not before.”

She was relieved when he simply nodded in agreement and finished getting dressed. His discussion with Buffy had left him at loose ends, unsure of how to proceed and questioning what was right and what was wrong. It weakened him, just as his obsession with April weakened him, and Rose detested seeing him so. Though she had deliberately been sent back in time to ensure he didn’t follow a certain destructive path, it hadn’t ensured not getting so emotionally involved with him. Falling in love with the Watcher she was meant to watch was all too similar to the many men throughout history who had done the same with their Slayers. It was one of the very things she and her kind had fought against across the millennia, and yet she’d succumbed to the same tragic malady.

She only hoped she had the strength to let him go when the time arose.

Which was probably why her heart was breaking so for poor William.

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

Chapter 33: To Make of Monsters

In spite of the pain in his wrists from the ropes that burned into his flesh, Quentin’s gaze was composed as he stared back at April. “You’re lying,” he said, his voice wintry. “If such things existed, I would know about it.”

She laughed, sprawled along the mattress with the knife dancing in her hands. “But that’s the beauty,” she said. “If you knew, it would make their jobs redundant. Frankly, I think it’s sheer brilliance. A collection of women come together to make sure the men who created Slayer power in the first place play nicely? It’s got a full circle charm to it, I think.”

“But artifacts that only Slayers can wield…” His lips were thin, and though he could see Nathan pacing around on the edges of the dusty room, Quentin ignored him, focusing on the female vampire who was so clearly in charge. “This is my domain. It’s inconceivable that I wouldn’t be aware of their presence, and even more impossible that Esme would.”

Rolling onto her stomach, April reached over the edge of the bed to grab the edge of a small box that rested on the floor, giving it a small shake so that its contents jingled. “I’m just telling the story as I’ve heard it,” she said. “And this should be all the proof that you need that I’m telling the truth.”

He didn’t even look inside to see the crystal shards. He believed that part of her story. “I can accept that Esme’s fascination would compel her to resurrect you---.”

“Free me. Big difference.”

“Free you, then. But she’s been a vital part of the Council’s coven for decades. I recruited her myself. I refuse to believe that she would subvert what we stand for, for her own personal gain.”

“Then why go to such lengths to find her then, Quentin?” Even in spite of her pallor, at that moment, she looked so much like any one of the hundreds of teenaged girls he’d seen during his tenure with the Council, that Travers’ disgust momentarily softened. She had broken his finger, and she had unmercilessly dragged him through the sewers of London to the grimy rooms she and her paramour were using as a hideaway, and she’d bound him with wicked glee to the chair that now imprisoned him, and yet…there was a flash of sentiment within him that summoned images of another Slayer, another time, when the years hadn’t quite steeled Quentin into the man he was presently, where another Slayer’s death just months before her Cruciamentum had dragged him back into the Council’s lap and away from the fieldwork he’d thought was his life.

Just as quickly as it had arrived, the wistfulness vanished, replaced by an emotion with which he was much more familiar. Hate. Cold, meticulous, exacting hate, for a creature that had stripped so much from him, even if it wasn’t this particular demon that had done it.

His silence goaded her into sitting up. “I’ve got a theory, Quentin,” April said casually. “I think you want her back because you know that the possibility I’m speaking the truth about the Slayer artifacts being your witch’s motivation is all too real. That you’ve been worried about her making some sort of power play and you want her back under your bureaucratic thumb so that you can pillage her powers without giving her anything in return. Am I close?”

His nostrils flared, the only sign that she’d struck any kind of nerve. “Don’t be ludicrous.”

“Because that would be your job.”

“I don’t play those type of games.”

“You lie. All of you Watchers play games. It’s in your blood.”

“Was this your entire purpose? To talk me into submission of whatever whim has captured your fancy?”

She was a whirl as she flew from the bed, her hand a claw around his throat. It wasn’t tight enough to cut off his oxygen, but it was certainly enough to make breathing uncomfortable. “We need each other, Watcher,” April spat. “And I will use you to find the witch. I have no problems making your cooperation as bloody as possible, but it would suit my purposes to have you alive and conscious for the duration of our search. Do I make myself clear?”

He was barely able to move against the vise of her grip, but still, Quentin managed a small nod.

“Good.” Releasing him, she allowed her nails to drag over his cheek, leaving four light furrows in their wake. “Now. Let me tell you my plan.”

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

She didn’t know why she lied to Lydia when the Watcher appeared at her door. Maybe it was because of what Spike had said, about Esme not being a straightshooter. He didn’t like the older witch; he’d made that clear from the beginning. He was willing to make the deal with her for the sake of getting Dru back, but any more than that, and his distaste was more than apparent. Which was weird because, you know, he was a vampire and he was supposed to be all about the evil. He and Esme should get on like hotcakes. The fact that he didn’t trust her was all it took to get the seed planted.

That’s why she didn’t say a word to Lydia about Spike’s return when the other woman showed up at Buffy’s door. Willow had described the night’s events as non-eventful, and that had been that. Lydia had gone.

And now Willow was on her way to Spike’s room, with a plan in mind that gave her the jitters, even if it was hers. There was so much going on with all this---Esme’s plans, April’s imminent arrival, Buffy’s lapse into time, Giles’ unexplained disappearance---and Willow didn’t think that it was all that wrong to want a little order in the world. Order was good. Order kept things running, made proofs easier to proof, kept the universe explainable in a way that was wieldy. And darn it all, if she had to be the one to make her little corner just a little more controllable, then she was going to do it.

Even if it gave her the heebie jeebies considering the possibilities of what could go wrong if she miscalculated in any way.

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

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

“Spike!”

All vestiges of his dream scattered as the vampire was shaken from his sleep. He blinked against the gloom of the room before drawing a weary hand across his eyes.

“What’s worth wakin’ a bloke from the first good night’s sleep he’s had in weeks, Red?” he asked. He winced when he rolled onto his side and away from her, the pain in his midsection from his injury still too real not to ignore. “’Less the building’s on fire and I’m about to go up in ash, bugger off.”

“You have to get up,” she whispered, her hand returning to his shoulder. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Tell me what else is new,” Spike muttered, and stayed exactly where he was. The goodwill that had suffused his body at the dream he couldn’t remember was starting to dissipate; all he wanted was to get back to whatever nirvana had left him feeling so good before it was too late.

Her footsteps were muffled against the carpet, and he smelled her presence in front of him again before he even opened his eyes. “I’m serious,” she said. Her breath fanned across his cheek, and when he opened his eyes, Spike saw her luminous eyes glued to him. “You said you trusted me, right? Then you gotta trust that I wouldn’t be here unless I had a really super-duper reason. You’re cranky enough when you’re awake. You really think I want to face you when you’re sleepy and pissed off?”

“Don’t forget hungry.”

She visibly swallowed, but didn’t move. “How are you?” Willow asked. “Are you healing up?”

“Up, down, all around. Still hurts like a bitch, though. Getting stabbed through the gut’s got a tendency to do that.”

“But…other than that, are you getting stronger? To do, you know, physical stuff?”

The corner of his mouth lifted as Spike resumed his position on his back. “Why, Miss Rosenberg,” he said, lifting his arms to thread his fingers behind his head, even though doing so made his stomach burn, “I do believe you’re tryin’ to seduce me.”

“Huh? What? Oh! Ewww!” A horrified Willow slapped at his torso, but when he flinched from the impact on his injury, she immediately dissolved into, “Oh! Sorry!”

He didn’t wait for her to speak again, swinging his legs over the opposite side of the bed and rising to his feet. As she watched, Spike yanked his shirt up to look down at the wound, noting the fresh trickle of blood that was beginning to seep from it.

Willow’s eyes were wide. “Did I do that?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Red.” He shucked the shirt and used it to daub away the flow. “Did it when I rolled over. Just opened it up a bit, but…see? Gone already.”

“Oh, that’s good then. That means you’re better, right? You’re all rested and raring to get back to being grrrr?”

It was the last that made him halt. “You got someone in mind you want me to kill?” Spike asked in surprise. “Thought you said that was a no-no.”

“No, no killing, just…scaring. And…overpowering if we need it. But definitely no killing.”

His eyes narrowed in the dark, knowing she couldn’t properly see his face but more than capable of seeing the anxiety on Willow’s. Something was churning around in that red head of hers, and though he was dying to ask what it was, Spike also knew that she wouldn’t come to him for help in anything unless she really needed it.

“You’re goin’ to spill once whatever it is, is over,” he casually remarked.

“Oh, yes, definitely. I’ll tell you now, on the way. I don’t think we’ve got huge amounts of time.”

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

She couldn’t sleep, worry about what exactly she’d gotten herself into making it impossible for her to relax. She’d tried work to distract her mind, but she couldn’t concentrate. She’d attempted using tai chi, but her nerves were too jumpy to force her muscles to comply. She’d even given peaceful imagery a go, but the pictures that kept coming to her head were anything but tranquil.

It all left Lydia restlessly wandering about the hotel room she was sharing with Esme, waiting for the witch to return.

When the knock came at her door, she leapt toward the sound, the question of why Esme wouldn’t use her key not even registering as a possibility. Her mouth formed a small o, though, when she pulled it open and saw the injured vampire leaning against the jamb.

“’Lo, luv,” Spike said, in a voice roughened with pain. His hand was clutching his midsection, and Lydia gasped when she saw the blood seeping through the t-shirt.

“You’ve been hurt,” she said unnecessarily. “Were you in a brawl?”

He chuckled, and the savage rasp sent a wave of shivers down her spine. “Something like that.” He tipped his head toward the room’s interior. “Don’t s’pose I could trouble you for a minute, could I? Got a spot of trouble here, and something tells me if there’s anyone who knows how to take care of a vamp, it’s you.”

Those blue eyes, so intense and so intelligent, fixed on hers with a power that she’d only dreamt about prior to accepting Esme’s offer at partnership. This was the vampire she’d spent so many years studying, and absorbing, and now he needed her help. When he’d been hurt in whatever scrap his runaway adventures had led him to, William the Bloody had chosen to come to her for aid.

Lydia’s heart was pounding so hard in her chest, she knew he would be able to hear it.

Straightening, she stepped aside, clearing the path into the room. “You may come in, William,” she said stiffly, hoping desperately that feigning a stiff upper lip would distract him from her racing pulse.

He smirked as he stepped over the threshold, stopping directly in front of her to murmur, “Didn’t exactly need the invite, luv, but nice to know I’m welcome where you…sleep.”

She watched the muscles flex beneath his shirt as he strode inside, her eyes slipping unbidden to his hips until Spike glanced back over his shoulder. Snapping her gaze back up to his face, Lydia blushed when he said, “Can’t rightly check me out all the way back there, can you, pet?”

“No, no, of course not,” she stammered. Closing the door, she kept her hands clasped tight in front of her so that he wouldn’t see the trembling, and walked over to the bureau where she kept her supplies. Quickly, she checked his position at the foot of the bed, the hand that still clutched the injury in his abdomen and the slump in his shoulders as the pain weighed him down, before turning toward the mirrored dresser.

Nothing before, and she doubted nothing ever again, would match this moment, Lydia decided as she pulled out the bandages. She finally had William the Bloody right---.

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

She jumped when the door opened and Spike poked his head out. “Coast’s clear, Red,” he said, beckoning her into Lydia’s room.

Scurrying from around the corner she’d been hiding, Willow closed the distance as quickly as possible, lifting a warning finger in Spike’s face when she passed him in the doorway. “She better not be dead,” she said.

Spike snorted. “Bint’s too stupid to kill,” he said, following her into the room.

The first thing Willow noticed was an unconscious Lydia dumped ungraciously to the bed. Her hands were lashed behind her back with the cord from the curtains, and though the rise of her chest indicated that she was still breathing, there was unmistakable bruising around the front of her neck.

“She turned her back on me in front of a bloody mirror,” Spike said with a shrug when Willow turned expectant eyes to him. “Just cut off her oxygen enough for her to pass out. Not my fault she’s the type who goes black and blue just by gettin’ blown on.”

“Your mouth was close enough to blow on her? You weren’t all fangy, were you?”

“Figure of speech, Red.”

“Oh. Fine, then. We don’t have time to argue about this.” After a quick survey of the room, Willow marched for the dresser and began opening drawers, stopping when she pulled open the third and exhaled in relief.

“Hold this,” she said, pulling out the plastic bag she’d stuffed into her pocket and thrusting it at Spike. She began pulling everything out of the drawer and dumping it into the sack, ignoring any sense of order in her haste.

“You sure you’re up to doin’ the mojo?”

Willow nodded. “Esme already wrote out the spells for me to practice. And these are all the ingredients, so we should be all set. Except…”

His hand grabbed hers as she was about to drop in a skein of cotton wool. “You didn’t hold out on me, did you?” Spike gaze was deadly, his eyes violently dark, and she winced from the pressure he was exerting on her wrist. “You said you could do both spells. The one for you and the Slayer, and the one for me and Dru. Don’t think you’re cuttin’ me loose on this little deal, Red. Do that, and---.”

She didn’t wait for the threat she knew was coming. “No, no holding out. I’m all holding in. Or, you know, not holding in. Because that would be so not the straightshooter thing to do, and we can’t have that, now can we? I meant it, Spike. I can do the spells Esme taught me. The except is just…well, I know what the spell to help Buffy is all about, because that’s what got me into all this in the first place with Esme. But the one to help you get Drusilla back? That one’s all hers. All I did was memorize the words and they’re all in Latin, and frankly, my Latin sucks---.”

“Got it.” Releasing his grip, Spike dropped the sack onto the dresser and stepped away from her. “S’pose that should be my cue to go get the Slayer, right? Nothin’ else for me to do ‘round here?”

“No.” She didn’t even know she was holding her breath until he stopped in the doorway.

“Don’t fuck this up,” he said, just barely turning his head enough to throw his words over his shoulder. “Both me and the Slayer are counting on you to come through for us.”

And then he was gone. And Willow was left holding the bag. Literally.

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

He went back to his room to get his coat first.

Well, stomped might be a better word for it.

The euphoria from playing off the Watcher’s starry-eyed crush had been squashed by the sudden fear that Willow just might not be up to giving him the same arrangement the old witch had.

He believed her when she said she could do the spell for Dru. And she’d claimed that Esme had given her the spell prior to his disappearing act, so no chance there that there was any double-dealing.

And if there was, well, after so many years as a scholar in his human life, Spike’s Latin most likely didn’t suck as much as Willow’s did. He’d just give the spell the onceover before going under her magical knife to make sure it was on the up-and-up.

Still didn’t mean he was in a good mood.

After all, he was about to play pack horse for the sleeping Slayer. And in spite of his assurances to Willow, his body still ached from the fight with April. He’d give just about anything to go crawl back into bed and sleep for the next week to recover.

He wasn’t sure why he’d told Willow he could do it. Technically, Spike knew it was possible. He’d pushed himself far harder getting Dru out of Prague, and he didn’t have an angry mob coming after him this time. Just one pissed-off witch whose powers seemed to be on the blink at the moment. But it still didn’t completely gel that he’d give so easily into the redhead’s scheme. Or that he’d accepted her version of his teleportation without any hesitation.

He must be going soft.

Didn’t stop him from going to Buffy’s room to fetch her, though.

She hadn’t moved from the position he’d seen her in earlier, her hair a riotous tangle around her cheeks. Standing at the side of the bed, Spike’s nostrils flared from the pungence of sweat and salt that seeped from her skin, and felt his body characteristically harden in her presence. Whenever she was, she’d been fighting. Too bad he’d missed the show. Watching her fight was the next best thing to being the one fighting her.

After arranging his coat closed in front of him to keep the worst of the blood from her, Spike bent and scooped her up, keeping her wrapped in the duvet as he cradled her against his chest. Her cheek fell against his lapel, causing her slow breath to float upwards along his jaw, and he tensed as the muscles in his cheek twitched.

The demon inside was screaming at him to take the advantage and finish her off for good. Even through the blanket, he could feel every rush in her veins as it raced from one end of her body to the next, and the prospective tang made his mouth water. Slayer blood would help me heal faster. Slayer blood would make this whole buggering trip worth it. Slayer blood---.

His teeth clamped down on his tongue, flooding his mouth with a familiar coppery flow while the momentary pain cut off the enticing thoughts. Going after Slayer blood now would muck it up with Willow, especially since she was so willing and able to help him in return for getting his aid. And Dru was worth it. Getting Dru back was worth any hundred deals he made with the Slayer and her band of not-so-merry men.

Tightening his grip around her, Spike was oblivious to the ache the added muscle brought to his midsection, concentrating on carrying Buffy into the hall and toward the door leading to the cellar and the tunnels. He intercepted Willow on the way, and her indiscreet glance to her best friend’s neck made his temper flare.

“No, I didn’t soddin’ bite her!” he snapped.

“I…I didn’t---.”

“Yes, you bloody well did.” His foot shot out and kicked the waiting door open, knocking it from its hinges and creating a minor din in the process. Ignoring Willow’s whispered warnings, Spike disappeared into the welcome darkness, quickening his step to distance himself from the witch before his ire got the better of him.

Don’t particularly want to bite her anyway.

Want to---.

“Wait up, Spike!”

He was already at the tunnel entrance, so he forced his feet to finally stop, though he didn’t bother with looking back at her as she rushed to join him. “You got a destination in mind, Red?” he asked tightly, avoiding the issue of her confusion. “Don’t fancy carting the Slayer ‘round ad nauseum.”

“I figured we’d go back to Giles’ flat,” she said. “Esme won’t think we’d go back there after everything.”

“Well, unless you’ve started shackin’ up with the Watcher, you’re goin’ to have figure different.”

“What? Why?”

Spike rolled his eyes. Wasn’t she supposed to be the smart one? “’Cause last time I checked, Rupert hadn’t sent me any sort of invite. Bit of a prereq to me carryin’ the Slayer over the threshold.” He began marching through the dank tunnel, not bothering to wait for her to catch up. “Leave it to me, Red. I’ll cozy us up, all safe and sound.”

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

His fingers trailed over her bare back, listening to the regular rhythm of her breathing as she slept against his chest. He could watch her all night, William reasoned. Something about the way Buffy slept was hypnotic to him.

When they’d returned from the park, she’d not even pretended to go to her own room. “If tonight’s our last night together,” she’d said, “the last thing I want is to spend it alone.”

His lips had twitched at her awkward syntax, but William had agreed, leading her to his chambers with their fingers still intertwined. She’d spied the waiting tea immediately, but stayed silent, choosing instead to focus on disrobing both of them. Gentle hands had slid his clothing from his body, and she’d guided him back to the bed where they had curled automatically around each other. The loving that had ensued had been soft and tender, and when it was over, he’d handed her the teacup without saying a word, watching solemnly as she drank it.

His still waited on the nightstand to be consumed.

If he was being honest with himself, he was afraid to go to sleep, for fear of waking in the morning without her in his arms. They would have this last dream to share, but the reality of a lifetime stretching out before him seemed barren, in spite of their final words in the park. William had meant everything he’d said to her---he truly believed that fear would no longer govern the mainstay of his daily activities---but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t grieve for her presence.

A tiny mew muffled against his chest brought him back to the present, and he glanced down to see a small line form between her brows. She was likely looking for him, he realized. If he didn’t show up and she ended up being gone in the morning, it would taint their last day together for her.

With a heavy sigh, William reached for his tea and swallowed it down as quickly as he could. At least they would have these last few hours to share. He needed to make them as memorable as possible.

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

Chapter 34: The Center of My Sinful Earth

The witch was close to running on empty.

“You’re not doin’ any of us any favors, you know,” Spike commented as Willow struggled with the lock on the room. Her hands kept slipping off the ornate doorknob as she tried to wrest the skeleton key through the slot, her creeping exhaustion making her clumsy.

“It’s not me, it’s the key,” she protested.

“Right. And how many walls did you acquaint with your face on the way up here? Face it, Red. You’re beat.”

“I’m not beat.” With a grinding crunch, the lock finally slipped, the door flying free from its released tension. She turned a triumphant smile to the vampire at her side. “See? Told you I could do it.”

“Yeah, you’re a veritable whiz kid,” he said dryly. “You’ve vanquished the big, bad door. Mind if I get our package here inside while you celebrate?”

He didn’t wait for a reply, but instead pushed past, taking care not to jostle Buffy against the doorframe as he stepped inside the room. It was better than he expected. The bed was king-sized, most likely a deliberate choice since the pub he’d brought Willow to catered to the demon set, and swallowed up much of the small room. A looming wardrobe in the corner was the only storage in the place, but right next to the entrance, someone had set up a universal altar, complete with leftover ash from whatever sacrifice had last been made on it.

“Home sweet home,” Spike said as he edged around the edge of the bed. With a surprising gentleness, he set the Slayer down, pushing back the edge of the duvet when it covered her face, before turning back to see Willow hovering in the doorway. “Now what? Don’t tell me it offends your delicate sensibilities. You don’t exactly have the luxury of bein’ so dainty ‘bout where you’re hiding out, you know.”

“I know.” Her nose wrinkled as she caught the scent of whatever had died on the altar, and she made as wide a berth as possible to avoid it. “Hopefully I won’t have to stick around for very long,” she said, pulling open the wardrobe and dropping the sack of magical supplies into its bottom. She shifted the weight of her backpack and winced. “Now, I just need to take a shower.”

“Down the hall and on your left,” he replied automatically. He collapsed into the chair at the bed’s side, his eyes drifting closed as he tried to block out the worst of the ache in his gut. “And don’t forget to turn the light on before you go in. That’ll scare off the worst of the bugs. The ones that bite, that is.”

He heard her gulp and had to fight not to shake his head at her squeamishness. A soft footstep, the turning of the knob, and then…

“Do you need anything?”

Spike cracked an eyelid to see Willow pensively watching him. Her eyes kept darting between him and the Slayer asleep just inches away from his resting arm, but she was very obviously not saying anything about the situation. He reckoned her head was probably going to have to explode soon from trying to suss out just what he might or might not do. He bit back a smile. That might actually be fun to see.

“Need’s a big word,” he said. “How ‘bout let’s try a little spot of the truth. Consider it reckoning for services rendered if you want.”

“Truth? What kind of truth?”

“The kind where I’m not walkin’ in on this shindig completely blind.” His eyes opened fully as he sat up a little straighter. “Just answer me one thing, Red. No lies, no fancy schmancy doubletalk to get ‘round the question. Doesn’t seem like a helluva lot for a bloke to ask.”

She tried to force a grin, but her obvious dread over what might be coming next kept it from fully appearing. “Shoot.”

“Now, I’m not deaf. I heard you gabbling with that Esme about needing me to bring the Slayer back from whenever it is she’s gone and got her herself stuck. That the mojo you’re goin’ to cast on me is s’posed to replace whatever it was that was helping bring her back before. What I wanna know is…what was it? What am I doin’ proxy duty for?”

He’d considered asking her balls out if he was somehow involved in Buffy’s time-traveling games, but that had been short-lived. Spike already suspected he had the answer to that; after all, he’d smelled the proof of it with his own nose, and everyone and their uncle kept trying to pin his human moniker on him. Now, he was curious as to how this whole mess had been started.

He thought she was going to chew her lip off for as much as she was biting it. She really didn’t want to answer his question.

“It was…a journal,” Willow finally managed to say. She was pale---well, paler than usual---and he could hear her heartbeat announcing her anxiety. “The journal of…William Freston.” Two steps into the doorway, she stopped. “For what it’s worth,” she almost whispered, not able to look in his direction, “Buffy really likes your poetry.”

Then…she was gone.

All pretense at sleep fled. A journal, she said. His journal. A journal he’d not seen in over a century. And he knew that Willow wasn’t bullshitting him this time because she knew about the bloody poetry.

It was possible, of course, that Angel had said something about his previous life. Then again, if he’d let on to the Slayer at all about what Spike had been like as a human, or that he still dallied with the poetry after being turned---though not publicly, not after he’d caught Darla rifling through his writings and chortling like a madwoman possessed---Spike doubted that Buffy would’ve ever taken him seriously as an enemy, or that Willow would’ve been nearly as terrified of him either back on the Hellmouth or here in London. That pretty much discounted that theory.

His gaze fell on the sleeping Slayer. Buffy really likes your poetry. “What’s goin’ on, pet?” he asked softly, as if she was in a position to respond. “When are you, and why in bloody hell can’t I remember?”

She didn’t move. Carefully, Spike turned the chair to better face the bed, and leaned forward to push the duvet away from her shoulders, exposing her more to his inspection. All he could smell was her, but how much of that was from carrying her the endless blocks to the demon pub and how much was something else, he didn’t know. “Maybe it’s some alternate dimension thing,” he mused out loud. His hand reached to curl around the slim line of her neck, arcing but not touching. “Heard of those, but I never expected to be part of one.”

His thumb dropped to rest gently on the quiet throb in the hollow of her throat. So familiar…like every other victim he’d claimed over the past century. Like…home.

“That’s gotta be it, right? Only explanation that makes sense. Your cronies know too much for them to be bluffing. And Red’s too bloody sure that I’m the key in bringing you back.”

Slowly, Spike’s hand drew down the center line of her chest, a single finger falling between the curves of her breasts as its mates made faint glides across the innermost swells. She’d stake him if she ever found out he’d touched her like this, and he was more than aware that if Willow chose that minute to walk in, he’d be fresh out of luck in having the spell done for Dru. But, in the infinite space of that single moment, Spike didn’t care. He’d been tantalized by the purity of her body ever since he’d first spied her at the Bronze, all power and death made somehow stronger by that pounding heart.

He just…needed to feel it.

“Still…can’t say it wouldn’t be interesting. You and me. Yeah, yeah, I hate you, you hate me, completely unnatural. But I gotta admit…it gets me hard just thinkin’ of fightin’ at your side. You’re bloody music, you know that?” He chuckled. “I’d call it poetry, but I guess we both know my poetry’s not exactly up to par, now don’t we?”

Buffy really likes your poetry.

When his hand reached her stomach, it stopped, settling lightly on the firm muscles without going further beneath the duvet. His body was screaming at him for rest, but other than shifting to a slightly more comfortable position in the chair, Spike remained watchful of the sleeping Slayer.

“Hypnotic, you are,” he murmured. “Hate you for that. Should be healing up with a bit of kip, and instead, I’m sittin’ here, talkin’ to your bloody body like you can even hear me. Bet you’d hate this. Probably kick my ass good and proper if you were to find out.”

And then the next, even quieter…

“Just…whenever you are, pet…bein’ with that ponce…just…he’s fragile-like, see? Took me meeting Dru to finally grow some stones, but then, you never knew that. Couldn’t. Just…”

He sighed. Even now, he couldn’t say the words. He wasn’t entirely sure what was possessing him to speak with her this way, except that it was…well, safe was the only word that would come to mind.

Funny.

Safe and Slayer were two words Spike would never have dreamed of matching up.

Not before now.

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

She rushed back to the room as quickly as she could, her hair plastered to her head, water still dripping down her back beneath her shirt. Spike’s warning about the shower had been a good one, but at least she was clean now. And clean was one step closer towards a good direction in Willow’s book.

Quietly, she opened their room door and slipped inside. “Didn’t mean to…” she started, and then stopped at the spectacle that was before her.

Spike was still in the chair she’d left him in, except, for some reason, it looked like it was in a different position than when she’d left. Closer, and angled kind of funny towards the bed. He was sound asleep, his head resting on the arm he had propped on the chair’s side, but it was the extension of that arm that sucked all the air from Willow’s lungs.

The blanket covering Buffy had been pushed down her to her waist, and now, Spike’s hand was resting possessively on the Slayer’s stomach, the tips of his fingertips curling ever so slightly, even in his sleep, into her flesh. It was a curiously intimate pose, and left Willow feeling like she’d walked in on something she shouldn’t have. The question of whether she should move it, though, was dismissed quickly as she realized that would most likely mean waking Spike up yet again.

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

So soft, like an angel’s whisper as it floats above the breeze.

So warm, as if that angel had just come down from the sun itself.

And beneath it all…

William’s voice, heady and ardent and so so passionate, whispering the words he’d written just for her, over and over again until it became a tattoo into Buffy’s flesh…

Her back arched away from the grass when his thumb brushed over her clit, but just as quickly as it was there, it vanished, continuing its gentle exploration with a determination that belied its delicacy. As per his request, her eyes stayed shut, but the more he touched, the more Buffy wanted to throw caution to the wind and pull him onto her, to wrap her legs around his slim hips and feel him pumping in and out. She was already squirming against the firm ground, her fingers threaded through the blades of grass in a vain attempt to not reciprocate his palpations, and a slick shine of sweat was skimming across her flesh, but for his sake, she would hold out. It was his last request, William had said. She damn well was going to honor that.

His words stopped, though his fingers didn’t, and Buffy felt the sultry feather of his breath along her neck as his mouth pressed into the hollow below her ear. “I love the way you taste,” he murmured, letting the tip of his tongue tickle the outer curve.

“Are you going to let me taste you?” she asked breathlessly.

“Later,” came the promise. His teeth nipped at the lobe, making her giggle. “Not until I’ve had my fill.”

His hand was nudging at her hip, pushing her to roll onto her side. Buffy complied, but the moment she could feel him pressed into her back, her eyes fluttered open, momentarily disoriented against the dazzling sunlight flooding the park. “What’re you doing?” she said softly, and then gasped when she felt his erection nudge the crack of her bottom, sliding downward to prod at the join of her upper thighs.

“Do you mind…?” William whispered. “I’d like very much to try this.” His left arm slid beneath her shoulders, his hand cupping her breast, while his other wrapped around her waist. “It lets me touch you. You’re so beautiful, Buffy.”

She moaned when his mouth sucked at the curve of her shoulder and lifted her leg to allow his cock to slide between her wet folds. “I’ve…never…” But she couldn’t finish, her lungs suddenly boycotting their purpose at the firm press of his sliding length deep into her.

“So we’ll learn together.” William’s fingers found the hardened bud of her nipple, pinching it lightly as he nipped at her neck. He chuckled when Buffy jumped within his arms, and splayed his fingers across her stomach, his fingertips digging into the soft flesh, to keep her from moving further.

“Stay,” he commanded. The single word sent a surprise thrill through Buffy’s muscles, but when his hips began to slowly retract, his cock unsheathing from her heat, each inch he deserted her made her want to scream in frustration.

“Regardless of what may come,” he whispered, and began the intoxicating slide in and out of her, measuring each length with a gravity that made her gasp, “promise me one thing.”

It took all her self-control to take command of her voice again. “Anything.”

“Don’t forget me.”

She wished she could see his face, because though his voice was low and moderated, the ache in it made her start to think that the poise he’d held since joining her in the dream was only a façade. Is he that afraid to look at me? Is that why he wants to have sex like this?

“You have so many wonderful years ahead of you,” continued William. “You get the opportunity to further your education. Your whole world is opening up, and somewhere, there is someone who will be worthy of sharing it all with you. Oh, how I wish that person could be me, but…” His sigh warmed her cheek, and while it propounded the true state of his mind, his body was still relentless in coaxing as many tremors and moans as it could from Buffy.

“I won’t forget,” she breathed. Her hand reached around to run a gossamery caress across his jaw. “I couldn’t. Physically impossible.”

His arms tightened around her, molding her body to his as if to imprint the memory onto his skin. “I only…have one regret…” he said, his thrusts beginning to quicken, his breath becoming more ragged.

“No, no regrets---.”

“Yes.” The hand on her stomach crept lower, tangling in the coarse hair it met. “But…just the…one…”

His finger pressed against her clit, the force matching that on her nipple, and Buffy exploded, her eyes squeezing shut as a shower of sparks fireballed inside her head. Her inner muscles clamped down on his cock, making him grunt in surprise, and she felt the familiar warming deep inside as he lost control and came.

“Buffy…sweet…love you…Buffy…” William’s arms were desperate around her as his body twitched with the throes of his orgasm, his face buried in her hair. Panting, he pressed his lips to her neck as it subsided, and she had to fight to extricate herself enough from the embrace to swivel around and face him.

“No regrets,” she repeated, and leaned in to kiss him. He tasted of salt and sun-kissed beaches, but whether it was because of the sweat that made their bodies slick or tears he might’ve shed beyond the borders of her observation, Buffy didn’t know.

“It’s not…what you might think.” He seemed determined to look at everything but her eyes, thick lashes hauntingly lowered. “I made you a promise I can’t keep. I fear that you’ll…think ill of me once you’ve returned and realize it.”

“What promise?”

“Where I…never leave you. I have no wish to join the ranks of those who’ve hurt you so, but our circumstances…they seem to dictate otherwise, don’t they?”

She kissed him again, before he could take the breath to continue speaking. All she’d wanted for this dream was just to spend it like they had in the beginning, before she’d woken in his reality and not her own, so that if she did open her eyes to see Willow in her Beaker pajamas, both Buffy and William would have a wonderful memory to mark their last night together. She understood his grief---so much of it was mirrored in her own---but the timeline demanded that this sacrifice be made. She didn’t want him to dwell on the unhappy part of it.

“I want you to promise me something, too,” Buffy said when they separated. Her lips felt swollen from the power of the kiss, and though she was ready to go in for another, she wanted to get this out before they got distracted again. She wasn’t nearly as good at the holding a conversation during the actual sex act as William seemed to be.

“Anything,” he replied, mirroring her response from earlier.

“Don’t forget that you’re a good man.” Pressing her fingers to his mouth when he opened it to argue with her, she added, “I know, I’ve said it before. I’m a broken record on that song, but that’s only because I need you to believe it. Promise me you won’t ever forget that.”

Reaching up, William took her hand from his lips and pressed it to his chest. The steady rhythm of his slowing heart pacified the unrest that had settled somewhere inside her own, and she swallowed down the urge to tell him that she’d changed her mind again, that she was going to stay after all and he was just going to have to live with that.

“I swear to you,” he said solemnly, “with everything that I have, with everything that I am. You’ve made me strong, Buffy. Don’t you see that? I see you, and I think I can do anything. Because you believe I can. So how can I ever forget? That would be like forgetting to breathe.”

She nestled into his chest, taking comfort in the weight of his arm when he curled it around her. This was all she could do, Buffy realized. Though she wouldn’t be around to save William from Drusilla, maybe whatever time he had left would be happy. Maybe he’d be able to find someone to love him as much as she did, who could give him the things she couldn’t.

The irony that it was exactly what he’d said to her during their lovemaking escaped her.

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

From her seat inside the carriage, April watched Richard and Rose hurry from the house, coats clutched tightly around them as they headed for their waiting coach. “It’s a little early for a breakfast rendezvous,” she commented casually. Her eyes flickered to the lightening sky. Though it wasn’t quite dawn yet, the hour was fast approaching. She would have to cease her watch soon if she wanted to make it back to the house before the sun rose.

“And it’s a little late for us,” Nathan murmured. His hand slipped between her thighs, rubbing at her pussy through her skirts as he nipped at her neck. “We should go home and sleep. Or maybe, not sleep.”

Distractedly, April batted away his hand, shifting sideways so that she could continue her watch on the Rhodes-Fanshaws without break. “Where could they be going, do you think?”

Nathan sighed. “It’s probably just Council business, my love. You know how they are.”

“But nobody arrived with a message. Something else has upset him.” She pointed to where he paused at the coach’s door. “See how he pulls at his fingers? That’s a typical Richard worrying signal.” Rapping at the draped window behind her, she twisted toward the door to wait for the driver to come around.

“Yes?” he asked, visibly shaking.

“I want you to follow that carriage,” April instructed, gesturing toward the vehicle now moving away from the house. “But you need to be discreet. They can’t know we’re watching them.”

The driver glanced nervously up at the sky. “But, the dawn,” he said. “Won’t you be wishing to get out of the sun?”

Her hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat. “You’ll leave worrying about the sun to me,” she snarled. “Your job is to follow…that…coach.” Disgusted, she tossed him to the ground, not even taking pleasure in the whimpers that finally escaped him or the haste of his return to the driver’s seat.

“We’re not going back?” Surprise colored Nathan’s voice, but she didn’t even cast him a glance as she settled back into her seat.

“No. Something has unsettled Richard. I want to know what it is.”

“But, April…darling…”

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘he’s not worthy of the risk,’ I’ll toss you into the sunlight myself, Nathan.”

That quieted him, though his dissatisfaction with her emanated from his every pore. As the coach began to lurch down the cobblestones, April rested her hand on Nathan’s knee.

“I’m as weary of this as you are, lover,” she said quietly, though the control it took to restrain herself so made her even more furious. “I promise you. Tonight? I end this.”

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

Insistent knocking jarred him from his slumber, inciting him to call out before he’d fully wakened. “Yes?”

The door opened, revealing an anxious Meg. As soon as her eyes fell on William in his bed, though, her gaze dropped more respectfully to the floor, her hands folded in front of her. “Mr. Rhodes-Fanshaw has called, sir,” she rushed. “He says it’s of the utmost importance you come down as soon as possible.”

Groggy, William nodded automatically. “Yes, yes, I’ll be right there. Just…get him some tea while he waits.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, dropping a quick curtsey before backing like a jackrabbit out of the entrance.

Rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand, William fell back against his pillow, remembering the last few minutes of his dream with Buffy. Bliss suffused his body, almost instantaneously replaced by the realization that he was actually awake. That it was over. That she was…

A small sigh at his side made him jerk, and the mattress shifted beneath him. When he turned his head to see, every inch of the motion achingly slow, relief washed over him.

That she was still here.

The duvet was tucked up under her chin, twisted from where she’d rolled onto her side to face him, and her lashes were dark against her cheek. Gently, William reached out to brush the hair back from her face, his heart pounding inside his chest.

“Buffy, my love,” he whispered. “It’s time to wake up…”

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