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

At her request---and wasn’t this weekend supposed to be about her waiting on him and not the other way around?---Spike helped Buffy over to the bed, where she kept turning the stuffed pig over and over in her hands.  Now that she’d told him it was hers, all he could smell was the scent of her on it, a hungry tickle in the back of his throat that made his senses tingle.  He’d been aware of it earlier, but had attributed it to the coppery blood that still hung in the air, too distracted with his raging emotions to properly discern the other odors that clung to the pink fake fur.

It wasn’t just the pig, now that they were being smart about their situation.  Well, smart was probably generous.  More aware of things not quite right was more accurate, he reasoned.  Not that there was anything overtly obvious about the place, but with the suggestion that someone meant for them to be bunking in proper, Spike could smell the lingering effects of eau de Slayer coming at him from every corner.  There, there, and there, almost as if he was swimming in it, with Buffy coating every inch of him, hard and soft at the same time and…

Fuck.  Stupid shower didn’t do anything but rejuvenate his sensory control.  Bitch made it perfectly clear how she felt about the incident on the couch, whether she wanted to believe her body or not, and damn if he was going to let himself fall into that particular trap of playing what if.

Even if the air did smell like fired honey, bubbling away to simmer beneath his skin.

While Buffy was lost in her examination of the toy, Spike’s head tilted, his gaze sweeping the perimeter of the room before falling upon the heavy oak dresser.  The scents were stronger there, more concentrated, and he strode to it, the question lingering in the back of his mind.  Only a moment of eeny meeny miney moe with the small drawers that comprised the top row was required before he pulled out the one in the center. 

His body blocked it from her view, and not for the first time, Spike was glad about his lack of reflection in the mirror that hung over it.  A cornucopia of colorful lace and satin greeted him from the drawer’s depths, and his nostrils flared as the scent proliferated, eyes flashing as they danced over the panties and bras that were strewn haphazardly inside, as if someone had just upended them into it from a basket or another drawer.  Immediately, his fingers lit upon a red silky number, barely there and carrying a perfume that made his skin creep in a yen hinting for more, and stuffed it into his jeans pocket before she could see.  Didn’t know really why.  Just seemed like the right thing to do.  Especially after waking up with his fingers dancing over a lace-covered nipple.

“What’ve you found now?” Buffy asked from behind him.

Picking up a black thong, Spike hooked it on his index finger and began twirling it as he turned to look at her.  “Fancy these must be your unmentionables,” he said with a smirk.  “I’ll bet Soldier Boy never got a gander of this little number.  Something tells me he wouldn’t have been so quick to hotfoot it outta your bed if you’d given him a little peepshow wearing this and nothing else.”  He glanced from the thong, to Buffy on the bed, and then back to the underwear in contemplative appraisal.  “Well, maybe some heels.  Gotta do something to make those little stick legs of yours look longer.”

Her furious blush was accompanied by a vicious throw of the pig at his head, a blow he easily ducked with a chuckle.  “Put it back,” she ordered, waiting for him to comply before pointing at the other drawers.  “Are they all my things?”

It took only sliding a couple open to confirm they were.  Tops, sweaters, trousers, shoes…they practically spilled from the dresser and wardrobe when he opened them, each adding to the consternation of the Slayer until she finally held up a hand for him to stop.  “How is this possible?” she demanded.  “There’s more of my stuff here than I took home for the holidays.  It’s like someone picked up my dorm room and shook it out through a Buffy filter.”   She was shaking as she inched her way to the edge of the bed, her legs swinging around the edge of the mattress, and Spike could smell the heat rising from her skin yet again.

“We’ll have to suss it out later,” he said, kicking the black boots he’d just shown her back into the wardrobe.  “Right now, you need to get some sleep before you’re back on your quest for fire again.”

“I’m fine,” she grumbled irritably, and slapped at his hand when he tried to help her stand up.

“You’re a wreck,” he countered.  “About to become salvage material if you don’t put your feet up.”

“And you care about that exactly why, Spike?”

“’Cause it looks like we’re both in for the long haul on this one.”

“Really?  I don’t see any of your clothes conveniently laying around, or your Watcher suddenly AWOL.”  She passed a trembling hand over her perspiring face, exhaustion creeping back into her voice in spite of only having risen.  “I hate this.  I hate feeling like someone thinks they can just play God with my life and tell me what to do.  I hate being so much out of control.”

For a moment, his concern for the frustration she was venting overwhelmed him and Spike had to cross his arms across his chest, shoving his hands into his armpits, in order not to make a prat of himself by pulling her into a comforting caress.  “It’s only for a few more hours,” he said, deliberately softening his tone.  “Just ‘til sunset and we can head for the road.”

“Oh, please,” she said roughly.  “Like you aren’t loving every second of this.” 

“What?  You think the nightingale gig is my cup of tea, Slayer?  You’re cracked if you think I get my jollies waiting on you like you’re the Queen of soddin’ Sheba.”

Her brows lifted, her eyes too bright from the fever.  “Because remembering how you took care of nutcase Drusilla for a century is purely a product of my fever-addled brain, is that it?”

Now he had to keep his hands tucked away to fight the urge not to punch her, to hell with what the chip might say.  “Totally different and you know it.  Me and Dru---.”

“---endless love, blah blah, give it a rest, Spike.  Do you have any idea how old listening to you moan about losing Drusilla, Queen of the Cuckoo’s Nest, gets?”

His eyes were cold.  “About as old as listening to you wake up wishin’ you had old Angel as a cuddle toy,” he bit out, and whirled on his heel to march for the door.  “Suggest you give that mouth of yours a rest, Slayer, if you don’t want to be hiking it back to the road on your own.”

“Where are you going now?”

Hesitating in the frame, he allowed himself one glance back at her now-flushed face.  “Sortin’ my kit.  A fridge full of blood bags tells me I wasn’t left out of this little equation, even if I wished to hell right now that I was.”

His ill-temper chafed around the edges as he stormed from the room. Bitchy Buffy was back, though he was beginning to suspect it might have something to do with her lingering fever.  It didn’t have to be so hard for either of them; she had proven the previous night that they could at least fake the goodwill needed not to kill each other.  And all she had to do was hold out until nightfall.  Once he got her back to the Hellmouth, he was out of her hair for good, though he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of telling her that just yet.  Let her stew in her own juices for awhile, he thought irritably as he headed for the loft.  Maybe the fever will burn the bitchy part of her away.

Spike had no doubts where he was going to find his clothes.  The loft was the only room, or space rather, in the cabin that he hadn’t yet ventured into.  Too busy with the Slayer, and too at odds with his own warring emotions to do the recon bit any justice, but that was about to change.  Buffy wasn’t the only one who loathed being waved around like a marionette.  Once the sun was down enough to venture out, he’d wrap her in every piece of clothing she owned and head out for the road.  A place like this couldn’t be that far from civilization.

Under his feet, the floorboards creaked as he stepped into the loft.  It was just as spartanly furnished as the rest of the cabin---a single bed cosseted under the slightly raking roof with a rag rug at its side, a nightstand, an oak dresser minus a mirror.  On the top of the dresser sat a leatherbound book, and Spike frowned as he reached to pick it up.  It fell open to a ribbon-marked page, but he didn’t need to look at the elegant handwriting to recognize it.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and closed it back up again, turning it over in his hands to examine the spine.  His fingers caressed the worn spots on the tooled leather, but though the prints matched his exactly, he gained no satisfaction from the knowledge.  It was his, the journal he’d left behind in Brazil when he’d buggered off after Dru’s chaos demon fling, the one remnant of his days as William that he’d consciously kept over the past century.  Nobody knew about it---nobody still living, that is; it was his one secret that he’d defiantly kept in the face of living with Angelus and Darla.  Not even Drusilla had known about it.  He might’ve told her about it in the beginning if she’d asked, but after seeing the possessive nature of Angelus’ family, he’d deliberately held it back, reluctant to let go of the one part of him that nobody could touch.

And now here it was.  Staring back at him just as innocently as that damn pig had looked at Buffy.

Tentatively, he let it fall open again, eyes scanning the fine script as he re-read some of his rantings about Dru.  He frowned when the Slayer’s name leapt out at him, the memory of how strong his anger toward her had been returning to his awareness.  Details of how he’d planned on killing her, how he was going to get the Gem and teach the little bitch a lesson she needed to learn once and for all, were spelled out as clear as day, and he cast a worried glance back at the ladder.  Wouldn’t do for her to see this now; things were strained enough between them as it was.  The last thing he needed was definitive proof for her to stake him good and proper, regardless of his chip status.

Stashing it beneath the corner of the mattress, Spike returned to the dresser and began opening the drawers.  The t-shirts were meticulously folded, and the three or four pairs of jeans carefully laid out.  He snorted.  Someone took a helluva lot more time in putting his gear away, that was for sure.  No way had it been this neat down in South America.  He’d pretty much trashed the place he’d been sharing with Dru before taking off for Sunnydale; if anything, his clothes should’ve been creased or torn from the way he’d left things.

Still…clean clothes were clean clothes, he thought as he began undoing his belt buckle.  And considering the state of his current garb, he wasn’t going to waste any more time thinking about it.

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

All his comparisons to a weakened kitten were starting to make sense to her, and Buffy had to fight the hysterical urge to begin meowing into the empty room.  The fever was back; no way could she begin to deny that when not even the heavy quilt weighing her down could stop the shivering.  Having the familiar scent of Mr. Gordo against her cheek helped with the psychological part of being sick, but the questions his presence raised weren’t doing anything to aid in the emotional.

Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to try and recreate a sense of home for her, bringing her things from the dorm and populating the cozy cabin bedroom with enough memorabilia to make it seem real.  Too real.  Like someone intended her to stay.  Was that what the accident had been about?  But who could have that kind of power?

Maybe it was a spell.  Magic that was twisting the way her head was working, making her see things that weren’t really there.  Maybe she was actually at home in her own bed at that very moment, and the sounds she was hearing from the other parts of the cabin were just Mom making breakfast.  Pancakes.  Oh, pancakes sounded good.

As if it could hear her train of thought, Buffy’s stomach rumbled, and she remembered the hunger that had driven her to the refrigerator in the first place.  She hadn’t eaten since leaving Sunnydale the night before, but finding the blood had distracted her from her purpose.  No reason she couldn’t go get some of the fruit she’d seen there now, she reasoned, and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

The draft along the floor swirled around her ankles, and Buffy’s eyes automatically searched the floor for her slippers only to come up empty.  Stupid host, she thought irritably.  Remember my black lace thong and can’t seem to pack my slippers?  Talk about a whacked sense of priorities.

She hobbled across the room, her calf stiff from disuse, but not nearly as painful as it had been earlier.  The outer room was empty, and for a moment, she wondered where Spike was but quickly dismissed the thought.  Don’t need him, especially when he’s being all grouchy and mean. 

The memory of just who had started with the spite in the first place was squashed back to a dark corner of her brain.  One where she didn’t have to think about it or acknowledge that it existed.

Her head was in the refrigerator when she heard him speak up. 

“Which part of ‘you should rest to kick that fever’ was so hard to understand?” he said with an annoyed drawl.

With an orange in her hand, Buffy straightened to look over the door of the refrigerator, and saw Spike leaning against the rail of the loft, watching her from the shadows.  He’d been in the process of changing his clothes but hadn’t gotten to his shirt yet, and now his chest and head gleamed in pale splendor against the coal gloom behind him.  His face was half-hidden, all angles and eclipses that made it impossible from that distance to see what he was truly thinking, and Buffy unconsciously frowned at the not knowing.

“I was hungry.”

“You could’ve asked me to get you something.”

Her eyebrows shot up.  “What happened to not liking the Queen of Sheba routine?”

He shrugged.  “Like the bitchy Buffy routine less,” he commented.  As she watched, he stepped to the ladder, descending and sauntering across the living room before she could catch her breath to reply.

They were silent as he reached past her to grab a blood bag, tossing it onto the counter before taking the orange from her hands.  “You don’t have a monopoly on hating this, you know,” he said as he began to peel it.  “You can whinge and moan about not havin’ control ‘til your little Slayer boots are last month’s hot ticket, but until you’ve had a piece of plastic shoved into your brain tellin’ you what you can and cannot do, don’t think for a second I don’t understand exactly what you’re feeling right now.”

A flick of his wrist had the rind in the sink, and he turned darkened eyes back to Buffy, holding the fruit out for her to take.  Her hand closed over the orange, but her gaze was consumed by the barely controlled anger reflected back at her, his jaw tight.  There had been no mockery in his tone, just a resigned gravity quite unlike his usual attitude toward her.  Briefly, she wondered if she’d pushed him too far, and then realized with a start of surprise that the niggle at the back of her head was guilt.

“I never said you didn’t,” she said faintly.

“You never say a lot of things,” he replied.  “Doesn’t mean they’re not true.”

“So…what?  You expect me to be glad I’m stuck here with you?  News flash, Spike.  We don’t like each other.”

“Yeah…”  Quiet, hard, and for some inexplicable reason, sounding the exact opposite of what the word meant.  “’Cept we’re all we’ve got.”

She stared as he turned his back on her, grabbing a saucepan and ripping the top of the blood bag off with his teeth.  Each sinewy stretch made the muscles undulate beneath the alabaster skin, screaming silently at her consciousness until it was impossible to ignore any longer.  He was right, and as much as it made her feel like her insides had been scraped raw, she had to be ready to start putting some trust in Spike if she wanted to get back to her real life intact.  After all, he’d gotten her this far without asking for much in return; she could be a big Slayer and buck it up until they got home again.

Pushing the refrigerator door closed, Buffy leaned back against it and watched as he stirred the blood in the pan.  “What do you need from me, Spike?” she asked quietly.  It was as close to an apology she could manage, and they both knew it.  She just hoped it was enough.

He took a long time to answer.  “Nothin’ you shouldn’t already be doin’ for yourself, Slayer.  You need to kick this bug right quick if you want to be up to par for trekking through the snow tonight.  That means resting.”

She nodded.  “Got it.”

“And whether you like it or not, I do occasionally know whereof I speak,” he continued, his tempo increasing as he began to warm up to it.  “So if I tell you to get your ass in gear, it’d be nice if you actually did it.”

“O-kay,” she said, though she was a little more hesitant with this agreement.

“Maybe try bein’ a spot nicer while you’re at it.”  Now he was grinning, and though her first instinct had been one of annoyance, Buffy could tell that he was only kidding and began to relax.  “Would’ve thought your mum would’ve taught you not to speak ill of the dead.”

In spite of herself, she snorted at his small joke.  “I suppose you think that includes giving you your coat back, because you know, that ain’t happening.”

“Like havin’ me so close to your skin, eh Slayer?”  He smirked as he lifted his mug to his lips, and the knots in her stomach loosened further.  Even fevered, she could do banter.  It was nice to be in familiar territory again.

“I don’t suppose you discovered anything new when you found your stuff,” she said, changing the subject.  She began sucking on one of the orange sections, the juice dribbling down her chin.

There was a moment of hesitation, and then he was reaching out, his thumb catching a stray droplet of stickiness about to escape her chin.  “Only that whoever set us up raided my stash in South America,” he said, and then licked the sweet syrup from the pad of his thumb.

Her skin was tingling where he’d touched her, but she shook it off, forcing herself to concentrate on his words.  “How do you know that?”

“Because what few bits I had in Sunnydale were stuffed in Rupert’s boot.  I highly doubt they took everything to the cleaners to get ‘em pressed and cleaned before depositing them here.”  His aspect was thoughtful.  “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I’m beginning to wish we had your Watcher around to suss all this out.  Rupert would probably already have a theory.”

“He’d probably have two,” Buffy offered, and smiled when he grinned back at her.  “And one of them would probably be in one of those old languages that nobody speaks any more.  Like Latin.  Or Greek.”

His mouth opened, and for a moment, she thought something derogatory was going to come out of it---he just had that snarky look to him---but Spike surprised her by closing it again and simply nodding his head.  “Right.  But, in the meantime, we’ll just have to muddle our way through with our fists and fangs---.”

“Hey!  Still human here!”

“Debatable, Slayer.  But, like I said, we’ll just do what we do best.  We’re both more the physical type anyway, right?”

“Right,” she repeated.  After all, it wouldn’t be the first time they’d had to work together.  If she could do it once, she could do it again.

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

Giles’ eyes were wide as he gaped at the man opposite him.  “Find her?” he parroted.  “Do you mean Buffy?  Is she hurt?  What’s happened?”  Reflex drove him to stand, but the moment his muscles straightened, a stab of pain shot through his midsection, driving him back onto the bed, his hand clutching his stomach.  Through his shirt, he could feel bandages wound around his abdomen, and grimaced against the pain as he rode it out.

“You should really get some more rest, it seems,” the older man said.  “I’m afraid we were rather overzealous in our belief that you would be sufficiently recovered from your ordeal to begin work today.”

“Work on what?” Giles rasped through his discomfort. At least two of his ribs were cracked, of that he was certain, and more probably bruised.  Why he wasn’t in a hospital, he had no idea.  “You still haven’t told me who you are, what I’m doing here, or for that matter, what’s happened to Buffy, and until you do, I’m afraid you’ll most likely find me a little short-tempered.”

“Ah, now this would be the infamous Ripper Giles I’ve read so much about.”  He stuck his hand out, almost gleeful in his admiration.  “Silas Geen.  And our young friend over there is Paul McCallister.”

“Geen.”  He frowned, ignoring the extended hand.  “I know that name.”

For a moment, the bluster faded.  “Oh, you might not, it’s quite a common---.”

“Tanzania.  Nineteen…eighty-six?”  Giles’ scrutiny turned chilly at the other man’s silence.  “You killed your Slayer.”

Silas visibly blanched at the venom in his tone, taking a step back toward the door.  “In retrospect,” he stammered, “I do believe we were too hasty.  My apologies if---.”

“What have you done with Buffy?”  As best he could, he squared his shoulders and tried to look menacing, even if the agony that ripped through his upper body made him feel like vomiting.  But if Buffy was in some kind of danger, he couldn’t just stand idly by.  Or sit, for that matter.  And with someone like Silas Geen involved… “If you try and tell me that the Council has decided to step in again---.”

“Things aren’t what they seem,” Silas rushed.  He was at the lone exit now, his hand on the knob.  “You should…lie down.  Allow your head to clear.  You took a rather nasty blow, I’m afraid, and it was presumptuous of us to assume you’d be ready so quickly.”  He nodded.  “I bid you good day.”  And with that, he disappeared through the door.

Giles watched as the other man sidestepped his way join his partner.  “I suppose you’re a Watcher, too,” he said bitterly.

“Oh, no,” Paul replied.  His voice was soft and cultured, and a nervous smile ghosted on his lips.  “Trained for, yes, but I was…removed from the Academy before completion.  Silas is correct, Mr. Giles.  Things are not what they appear to be.  We mean you no harm.”

“And Buffy?  Do you mean her no harm either?”

Paul shook his head.  “I’m not aware of our situation directly involving your Slayer,” he said.  “She wasn’t…with you…was she?”

It was genuine confusion that shone in the dark depths of the young man’s eyes, and for a moment, Giles faltered.  “Yes,” he answered carefully.  “She was.  In the car.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.  “But you were meant to come alone,” he insisted.  “Why would you…she should be guarding the Hellmouth, not accompanying her Watcher for a ski weekend.”

The accusatory innuendo made Giles bristle.  “Yes, well, circumstances change.  Her presence was required.  Are you telling me you have no idea where she is?”

“None.  As I’m sure Silas doesn’t either---.”

“Because a man who murders his charge is someone to be trusted,” Giles said, the disbelief in his tone echoing around the heavy walls.  “I’m not prepared to cooperate with Council chicanery, not after what they---.”

“We aren’t with the Council,” Paul interrupted.  “You must believe me.  The Council has no idea of our arrangements, which is exactly as it should be.”

The young man’s earnestness was appealing, in spite of Giles’ better judgment, and he regarded the man with a steady gaze.  “So, this has nothing to do with Buffy,” he finally said.

“No.”

“Your interest lies solely with me.”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me, Mr. McCallister, what is so damn important that you would go to such lengths to guarantee my presence?”

“Redemption, Mr. Giles.”  His voice gained a sudden potency as a gleam appeared in his eye.  “This is about making amends.”

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

Only the hush of a whispery wind skimmed across the settled snow, capturing its fine crust and swirling it in a silken powder over the wooden porch rails.  Like faint glitter, the landscape sparkled in response to the dancing firelight that emanated from the cabin’s windows, and Buffy pulled her coat tighter around her, a small smile on her face as her gaze followed the snow into the midnight horizon, losing the vista through the thick of the trees.

She was cold, and was going to get colder still when they finally ventured out, but now, it wasn’t the result of the fever.  That was mostly gone, according to Spike’s estimation. 

“You’re not going to kiss me again, are you?” she’d asked warily when he’d approached the couch after her nap.

He’d smirked.  “Hardly a kiss, Slayer.  You wouldn’t have been able to speak quite so fast afterward if it had been.”

“In your dreams, Spike.”

“Think you’d be surprised what goes on in this head of mine.  Makin’ that kind of a suggestion is only askin’ for trouble.”

“Because having you as a roommate isn’t already trouble.”

“And here I thought we’d reached an understanding.”  His tongue had clicked in mock reproval.  “My unbeating heart is breaking, Slayer.”  His fingers had settled on her forehead then, cool and firm, and he’d held them there for a long minute just watching her.

“Well?” she’d finally prompted.

“Well what?” he’d asked, not moving his hand.

“Do I have a fever or not?”

“Is that what I’m s’posed to be doin’ here?”

She’d batted him away and struggled to sit up.  “Never mind.  I’m feeling better.”

Strong hands slid under her arms and helped her finish the movement.  “Gone enough for government work,” he’d said.

“Are you sure?”

“As I’ll ever be.”  He’d leered, his eyes falling to where the coat gaped open and the soft swell of her breast was exposed in the neckline of her blouse.  “’Course, if you’d like to be absolutely sure and try it again, we could always go the oral route.  Sure I could think of an appendage or two you could wrap those lips around---.”

She’d rolled her eyes.  “Gee, predictable much, Spike?” she’d said.

Now, she waited, standing in front of the window while he bustled around behind her, the dying embers in the fireplace doing little to keep her warm.  Her leg was feeling better, wrapped tightly in fresh bandages, and she was wearing two layers of clothing to help protect her from the frigid air outside.  Outside of her broken wrist and the various bruises and scrapes adorning her body, she was feeling much stronger, and with Spike’s claim that the road couldn’t be too far away considering the amenity of the cabin, Buffy was confident she could make the trek without having to rely too much upon the vampire.

At least it wasn’t snowing anymore.  On the other side of the glass, the world hung in icy stillness, blanketed in white for as far as she could see.  The heavy weight of snow made the trees even more skeletal, lacy and dense and blocking out the moonlight that peeked through the branches.

“What’s got you so beguiled?”

She hadn’t heard him approach, and now Spike’s voice was almost at her ear, his body only a spare inch from hers as he joined her at the window.  “Snow pretty,” Buffy murmured, and lifted a finger to trace invisible patterns on the window as she sighed.

“Think you’ve just got an eye for the shiny things,” he chuckled.  “First, the fire, now this…”  His hand came up to the pane, fingers splayed in a crystalline outline against the glass.  “You’re not changin’ your mind, are you?”

“About leaving?  Not on your life.  Just…”  Another sigh.  “It’s too bad I never got that ski weekend with Giles.  There’s something to be said for winter wonderlands.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.  “They’re cold.”

Smiling, Buffy ducked under the arm that blocked her path and limped to the front doorway.  “Did you remember Mr. Gordo?” she asked as she picked up the duffel they’d brought from the car.

It was out of her hands before she could sling it over her shoulder.  “Take this one,” Spike instructed, thrusting the other bag he’d packed at her.  At her confused look, he clarified, “It’s lighter and got your precious pig in it.  Don’t want to put too much stress on that leg of yours.  You’ll be givin’ it enough of a workout as it is.”

“I guess.”  She frowned, as a sudden thought struck her.  “How come clothes are so heavy?”

“They’re not.  Weapons are.”  With a swirl of black leather around his legs, Spike pulled open the door, and nodded toward the outside.  “Let’s mush, Slayer.  The sooner we’re rid of this place, the sooner we’re back in the lap of the Hellmouth.”

His boots crunched across the porch, the ebony stark against the snow, the familiar swagger in his stride oddly comforting as Buffy followed after him.  She’d relinquished control of the coat so that he would have some protection from the elements outside---though without the storm brewing, she wasn’t sure he exactly needed it---and now it fluttered around his legs far more elegantly than she imagined it had on her.  Probably because of the height thing, she reluctantly admitted.  Even if Spike’s not that much taller than me.

Of course, she’d been more concerned about using the coat for warmth as opposed to fashion when she’d been wearing it, she further reasoned, her feet automatically stepping into the deep impressions Spike left for her to trail.  And if she was being completely honest, it had been as much of a comfort thing as anything else.  Without the familiar surrounding her, barring Mr. Gordo’s presence, it was reassuring to have the recognizable scent of leather and stale cigarette smoke and Spike clinging to her skin.  She’d never admit that to him; that was a boon he would taunt and take advantage of until she closed his mouth permanently and no way was she just going to offer that up on any colored platter.  And it weirded her out to no end to think that Spike’s presence could be in any way solacing, but…there it was.  She was weird girl Buffy, hanger out with the undead.

His path through the trees was circuitous at best, stopping every once in awhile to scan the surroundings, occasionally sniffing at the air as if he could smell the way back to the road.  Once, Buffy mimicked him, wondering just what it was he thought he could detect, and immediately felt everything in her nose crystallize from the cold.  Vigorous rubbing at it to make it go away was followed by a violent sneeze, prompting Spike to stop in his tracks and look back at her in concern.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Fine,” she squeaked, and shooed him away.  “Just go.”

After that, any sound that came from her direction made his gait hesitate, and more than once, the glance he shot her over his shoulder made her shiver more than the cold.  It was almost as unnerving as the silence was, the solemn quietude that saturated the forest and made each of their steps through the crusty snow echo inside her ears.

“Was it this dead when we came through the first time?” Buffy asked.

“Dunno,” came the response.  “Was too busy tryin’ to get you to someplace warm to pay much mind.”  He stopped then, jerking back as if he’d run into someone, and she collided with the bag that hung from his shoulder with a muffled oomph.

“A little warning next time on turning yourself into a roadblock would be appreciated, Spike,” she said with a grimace, rubbing at where her cheek had grazed across the rough fabric.  “Is this another scratch-your-head-and-sniff stops?”

He swiveled an annoyed gaze back at her.  “No, this is one of those something’s blocking me from going any further kind of stops.”

With a frown, Buffy looked past his shoulder at the trees scattered ahead of them, their wraith-like branches stretching into the night sky, the snow unbroken around their roots.  “OK,” she said slowly.  “Not seeing the problem here.”

“Seein’ isn’t always believin’,” Spike muttered.  Grabbing her good wrist, he gently tugged her forward, holding her hand so that it was palm out and reaching toward the forest before him.

The shock jumped from nowhere, sizzling her skin so that she jerked free from his grasp.  “What is it?” she asked before tentatively stretching a fingertip out again.  “Please tell me it’s not magic.”

He waited until she was shocked again, and rolled his eyes as she repeated the yank backwards.  “All right, Pavlov,” he drawled, “it’s not magic.  ‘Cept we both know it is.”

“But why?”  Frustration made her voice rise, and she shifted the weight of her pack as she faced him.

“Why’re you askin’ me?” Spike countered.

“Because you’re here and Giles isn’t.”

“And that makes me the expert then?”

“Not really, no.  But I’m not the one who’s so big on the mojo.  I hit things.  That’s my job.  I’m not supposed to be Nancy Drew.  I’m supposed to be Supergirl.”

Her agitation quivered through the air, her cadences as ragged as her breath.  All she wanted was to get home; was that so much to ask?  She had half a mind to scream out at whatever magical thing---witch, warlock, overambitious college student---that she was mad as hell and wasn’t going to take it anymore, but had the sneaking suspicion that whoever it was wouldn’t care.

Pushing Spike aside, Buffy began marching parallel to the obstacle barring their course, every few feet reaching up to test the barrier, every few feet getting the same resulting zap to her fingertips.  Only when she’d distanced herself in yards did the vampire speak up.

“Care to share where you’re going, pet?”

Her face was grim as she continued walking.  “I refuse to believe this goes all the way around the cabin.  There’s got to be a break in it somewhere.”

“Not that I’m disagreeing with you…”  The tamping of the snow marked his rushed footsteps as he hastened to catch up with her.  “…but you think you’re up to that?”

Buffy whirled in her spot and faced him.  “Do I have a choice?  Unless you’ve suddenly learned how to sprout wings and fly us out of here, Spike, walking is the only way we’re going to get back to civilization and find out what happened to Giles.”

“And again, I’m not disagreeing with you.”  His eyes were black pools as they skimmed over her features, and before she could react, he was leaning in, his head ducking as his cheek grazed over hers.  A slight tilt and his lips were sliding across her temple, not in a caress but firm and testing, and just as quickly, it was gone, leaving Buffy breathless and gaping and wondering why in hell she didn’t just hit him the next time he did that.

“Your temperature’s startin’ to go up again,” Spike said.  “I’ll wager you don’t get thirty yards before thinkin’ the trees are the pretty in-thing now.”

“I’m fine,” Buffy snapped.

“You’re not.  You’re dragging your bad leg again, and you’re turnin’ into a liability, Slayer.”

“So…what?  You want me to just give up?”

“No, I want you to go back to the cabin and let me do the checking.  Something tells me that you get much more of the electric fence treatment, and it won’t make a difference how sick you are.”

“I told you---.”

Spike held up a warning finger.  “Is this the part of our agreement where you tell me to bugger off instead of listenin’ to what I have to say?” he demanded.  “’Cause that bit of show and tell back at the cabin looked awfully convincing to me.  For some godforsaken reason, I was of the mind to believe you this time.”

Her mouth opened to speak, but Buffy froze, the words choking in her throat.  With his face so close to hers, there was no mistaking the hurt anger in his eyes, but it was the question of why he’d be hurt by that in the first place that cautioned her so.  What did he care if she was stubborn about this?  She knew her own body pretty damn well, and if she thought she could make the walk, then…

Except she’d also thought the fire in the hearth was pretty enough to touch, once upon a time.  What if Spike was right and she was only going to make things worse?

“Why?” she asked, finally finding her voice.

His eyes narrowed.  “Why what?”

“Why are you offering?  Is this a one-upmanship thing?  Can’t kill me so you’ll get the blue ribbon for getting us out of here?”

A gleam appeared in the depths, his brow smoothing.  “That is not a road you want to walk, pet.”

“You’re just bound and determined to keep me off my feet, aren’t you, Spike?”  She regretted it as soon as it came out of her mouth, the innuendo obvious even to her, and prayed to God that the vamp wouldn’t take her up on it.

Obviously, God was on a coffee break.

Blue eyes raked over her body, slowing over her hips before falling to her boots half-buried in the snow.  “Could carry you back, I s’pose,” he mused, almost nonchalantly though the huskiness of his voice betrayed more than she thought he wanted.  “’Specially since it’s startin’ to seem you’re a bit partial to bein’ in my arms---.”

“Ha!” Buffy snorted.  “If I remember correctly, I was the one who kicked you off the couch this morning.”

His gaze returned then, and though he hadn’t moved any closer to her, his intent seemed only inches away.  “And if I remember correctly,” he said, “you were also the one who insisted I get on it.”

“Delirious, remember?”  She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat, but kept her chin strong.

“And here I thought you just had good taste.”  He paused, cocking his head.  “Oh, wait.  You dated Angel and the Joyless Wonder.  Well, that knocks that theory out of the water.  Let’s just go back to wantin’ me, shall we?”

“Let’s not.”

“Can’t really blame you, I s’pose.  Been told I’m quite the manly specimen on more than one occasion.”

Rolling her eyes, Buffy turned in her tracks and began trudging in the direction from which they’d come, her steps heavy as her muscles began to scream in protest.

“Where are you off to this time?”

“The cabin.  At least if I let you check the magic boogaloo on your own, you’ll either fry yourself to dust, or I’ll get a few minutes where I don’t have to see your face or hear your voice.  Either way, I win.”

Spike’s chuckle floated along the frigid air.  “You just keep tellin’ yourself that, ducks,” he said.

As she walked away, she couldn’t resist the one last glimpse back at him over her shoulder.  Hip cocked, thumb hooked through his belt loop, he looked just as smug as he sounded, and Buffy frowned, the confusion crowding into her skull to join the plethora of uncertainties already there.  The epitome of concern one moment, Don Juan on crack the next.  If Spike had decided that his job was to drive her crazy until they got back to Sunnydale, he was succeeding marvelously.  Not that that was anything new, but this new methodology led to a whole different world, one where she was second-guessing herself around every corner and asking questions about him she had no right to be asking.

This was all her mom’s fault.  If she’d just not said anything about being nice to Spike, and not let Aunt Darlene come over for the weekend, none of this would’ve happened in the first place.

Yeah.  She’d blame Mom for now.  That was easier than thinking about the alternative.

Stupid vampire.

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

His smile vanished as soon as she disappeared through the trees, and Spike automatically straightened to start following after her, maintaining his distance so that the Slayer wouldn’t sense his presence and start in on the distrust again.  He’d told her the truth; she was favoring her uninjured leg and every step she took only exacerbated the other.  And the fever was rising again, whether from too much exertion too soon or something else.  What she needed was a good day or two with nothing but rest to get herself healed up for good.  Only thing was, Buffy was too stubborn to truly listen to him until it was too late.  So he just had to make sure she made it back to the cabin without her knowing he was there.

Things had been surprisingly better after she’d awoken earlier.  Familiar bantering---albeit taken up a notch considering their circumstances and wasn’t that a kick and a half when she didn’t even seem perturbed by some of his more lewd suggestions---and then not even an argument when he’d set to fixing her something to eat.

“You’re not serious, are you?” she’d asked him, the light in her eyes surprised disbelief instead of anger.

“Would I offer if I wasn’t?”

“Yes.”

He’d grinned.  “Fair enough.  But this is about gettin’ your strength up and anything that means I don’t have to cart you around is good, in my book.  So what do you want?”

“Is there soup?”

“Probably.”

“Then soup.  But if you try and gross me out by putting blood or something else in it, you’ll be wearing it as a fashion accessory, OK?”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Slayer.”

She’d curled back into the corner of the couch, and he could feel her eyes boring into his back as he began searching the cupboards for something resembling soup.  When it came, without the delusion of fever to prompt it this time, it took all his willpower not to stop what he was doing and look back at her in astonished pleasure.

“Thanks, Spike.”

Encountering the magical barricade hadn’t even come as that much of a surprise.  Someone had gone to a lot of bother to make sure they were taken care of at the cabin; to just let them walk away from it seemed stupid, even to Spike.  But he’d test the boundaries, like he’d promised her though he was sure it would be impenetrable all the way around.

A crashing off to his left halted his step, his eyes glittering in gold as his head whirled to see a pair of dark forms go barreling toward Buffy.

Or maybe not.

She was already battling them when Spike leapt into the fray, launching himself toward the nearest attacker to pull him away from the Slayer and falling into the unbroken snow with a muffled growl.  The demon’s tusked face lunged toward his shoulder, intent on gnashing through sinew to separate the limb from the rest of the vampire’s body, and Spike automatically twisted in the opposite direction, rolling the pair of them through the snow until he was on top.

He didn’t recognize the species.  Curling tusks around a triple stack of teeth, and a thick, scaled hide he could already tell he’d never be able to sink his fangs through.  Its upper body was heavily muscled though its legs were lean, and when it fell for Spike’s fakeout, its jaw meeting his fist, he knew that it was more brawn than brains.  That usually made for an easier fight.

Buffy was still on her feet, throwing punches with her good arm while using the obstacles of the trees to keep the demon off-guard.  She was avoiding any kicking, but when she was rushed, she vaulted through the air, grabbing a low-hanging branch and using it to propel her away from the attack.  Her landing had her injured leg taking the weight of her fall, and Spike saw the unmistakable wince as she rolled out of the way, leaping back to her feet with a graceful flip.  Well, graceful for being in a foot of snow.

The demon beneath him bucked, throwing him off, and the vampire crashed into the trunk of a tree, his head smashing against the bark.  “Spike!” he heard Buffy yell.  “Weapons!”

Weapons, right.  In the duffel.  The one he’d dropped as soon as he’d seen the threat approaching the Slayer.  Bollocks.

Shaking away the worst of the impact, Spike wrenched around to weave through the forest, eyes sweeping the white for the dark lump of the bag, the demon on his heels as he ran.  There, in a copse of pine.  Scooping it up in one deft motion before twisting and heading back, his speed gained him an advantage as he distanced himself from his attacker.  One of the daggers was out and in his hand before he was within ten feet of Buffy, and he shouted to grab her attention before tossing it through the air.

She grinned as she turned back to face the demon.  “Look,” she said brightly as she held up the knife.  “I can have sharp, deadly things, too.”  With a sweep of her arm, the blade whistled through the still air, slicing through the demon’s near nonexistent neck and almost decapitating it.

The remaining demon regarded the two blonds with wary red eyes as they turned to face it.  “Where is she?” it lisped through its multitude of teeth.

Buffy waved the ichor-stained dagger in front of its face.  “Hello?  Right here.  What, are you guys blind as well as ugly?”

“Where is she?” it repeated, prompting a sigh from the Slayer.

“I’m going to take that as a yes, then,” she said.  The throw of her weapon was almost casual, arcing through the winter air in silvery glints before embedding itself in the middle of the demon’s forehead.

They both watched as it tumbled into the snow, and Spike grinned as he looked back at the Slayer.  “Was hopin’ I’d get to see…” he started, only to stop as his gaze took in her flushed face, the trembling of her hands that made the air vibrate around her.  Without adrenaline to fuel her, her body was shutting itself down, preparing to fight the enemy within now that the external one was gone.  She needed rest, and this time, he wasn’t wasting any more time by arguing with her.

“C’mon,” he said, picking up the second duffel bag and letting it dangle from his hand as he leaned into her side, his arm snaking around her waist, forcing hers to cling to his shoulders.  “Off to bed with you.”

Though she leaned against him as they started to walk toward the cabin, her weight was a feather for him to carry, and she surprised him by not squabbling about his aid.  “Where’d they come from, Spike?” she asked instead.

“Don’t know,” he replied.  “But soon as we get you settled, I’ll come back and finish scouting that fence, see if there’s a break they might’ve used to get in.”

“Take a weapon,” she murmured.  “You won’t have me…to save…your skin this time.”

“Right, Slayer,” he chuckled, and together, they trudged through the snow.

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

She was almost asleep by the time she climbed the stairs to the cabin, leaning against the wall as she waited for Spike to open the door and then blindly stumbling toward the couch.  At least I didn’t have to be carried this time, she thought with a note of satisfaction as she collapsed into the cushions, torn between curling into a ball to preserve her body heat and stretching to alleviate some of the tension and pain wound in her muscles.  Stretching won, and Buffy’s cheek rested on the sofa’s arm as her eyelids began to droop.

She’d just take a little nap while Spike found the hole in the fence, she reasoned.  Around her, she could hear him bustling as he set about relighting the fire in the fireplace, his boots scraping reassuringly across the wooden floor.  The thought that he wouldn’t let her down floated somewhere around the edges of her consciousness, too ephemeral for her to grab onto and wrangle with even if the desire to do so had actually been there.

Her eyes were closed when she felt the weight curl around her shoulders, the down of the comforter from the bed offering her relief from the cold.  She didn’t question it, not even when the weight increased and not even when the tickle of leather brushed against her jaw, its scent filling her nostrils and deepening her breath.  The last sensation she was aware of as she drifted into sleep was the whisper of cool fingers across her forehead.

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

At some point in her sleep, she’d rolled over.  So, when Buffy’s lids lifted, almost immediately alert as only a full night’s rest could do, the first thing she was aware of was her cheek pressed to the cushion, the weight of the blankets bearing down on her back, and the unmistakable scent of leather clinging like motes to the air.  Her body ached, but with the good ache that came from disuse and not from pain, and she stretched beneath the covers, her muscles singing with the burn of waking.

The glow from the hearth shimmered across the floorboards, the flames still strong in spite of the settled nature of the embers.  For a moment, the satisfaction it suffused through Buffy’s body made her smile, until she realized that it was all completely the doing of a certain bleached someone.  The tending of the fire, the assurance of security…she’d never awoken in spite of the apparent care he’d taken to seeing to the room’s warmth.  What exactly did that mean?

The glimmers from the fireplace weren’t the only illumination in the room.  On the wall opposite her, vivid sunlight outlined the heavy drapes, peeking through the divided middle to sliver across the floor.  Her eyes followed it, then continued the path when it stopped short of the recumbent vampire lying parallel to the couch, widening as she drank in his partially clad form.

He’d fallen asleep on his stomach, tousled curls resting on his left forearm, his other hand weighing down the open pages of a book at his side as if he’d only meant to take a brief break from reading, to steal a moment and rest his eyes from the tiny print squinting back at him.  His torso was bare, the black wad tossed casually aside obviously his shirt, but it wasn’t the hewn sculpture of his back that captured Buffy’s attention.  It was the scarlet-imbrued score along his shoulder blade, the blood dried and clinging to the ragged edges of the wound, that made her heart hitch into her throat.

Pushing the blankets off, she freed her arm from the bulky encumbrance, reaching out with hesitant fingers to ghost over Spike’s injury.  It wasn’t the only one marking him.  Now that she was looking, she could see the fading bruises shadowing his side, the torn skin on the knuckles that rested on the book.  Was I really that out of it last night? she wondered.  How did I not see any of this then?

Though her head was relatively clear now, free of the remnants of the fever, Buffy decided that it must’ve been that which had prevented her from discerning Spike’s state the previous night.  Not that she would’ve been worried about him then, anyway.  The nice thing about having the vamp as back-up was that he was one person she knew could handle his own in a fight.   But that didn’t mean she couldn’t still be concerned about his injuries.  He’d certainly gone above and beyond in looking after hers.

Of course, he’d also said something about waking her when he found the hole in the fence.  Here it was with the day clearly well on its way on the other side of the cabin walls, and she was only just getting up. 

Devil’s advocate reared its horned head.  Maybe he tried and you didn’t budge. 

A possibility.  It had certainly known to happen when she’d been sick before.

Except she didn’t really see Spike as the kind to just give up if she didn’t wake right away.  In fact, she suspected he was the sort who’d go to drastic means just to get it to occur.

Well, she was up now.  And if Spike could play doctor with her, the least she could do was return the favor.

As she began to push herself up onto her elbows, Buffy saw the tangle of black leather with the blankets heaped at the other end of the couch, and pulled it back to bring it to her face.  She inhaled deeply, its familiar aroma slackening the last of the tension constricting her body.  That’s it, she thought as she looked down at the worn lapels, caressing the softened leather with almost a lover’s touch.  Mom’s getting a last minute request for Santa.  Buffy wants a new coat for Christmas.

For now, she settled for sliding her arms back into its sleeves before turning her attention back to Spike. 

The first aid kit was tossed casually to the side, as if he couldn’t be bothered with fussing with it too much, and Buffy’s gaze turned to follow her reach for it, even as her right hand extended to set upon his shoulder.

His strike was lightning-fast, strong fingers gripping her wrist and knocking her off-balance as he rolled away from the couch.  She was pulled along with him, stopping only when he was on his back, her body stretched out on top of his.

“Well, well, well,” he said softly, his eyes still dark with sleep, his voice rough from disuse.  “Thought we might get attacked again, but didn’t figure it would be comin’ from you, Slayer.”

She was convinced she could feel every hard muscle in his body.  The leather duster fell around her to drape over the pair, but though it hid his semi-bare body from view, it didn’t prevent his lithe strength from burning through her clothing.  A flush crept over Buffy’s cheeks as memories of what it had felt like to be pressed into him---unyielding, powerful, somehow gentle, those hands splayed in the small of her back as he pulled her closer---flooded her veins, and she swallowed in an attempt to regain her equilibrium.

“I’d hardly call it attacking you, Spike,” she said, and wondered if that sounded as unconvincing to him as it did to her.

His grip loosened around her wrist without letting go, his thumb starting to slowly circle over the pulse it found there.  “So…is it that you were…playing, with my person then?” he drawled.

“I was…”  God, how could he make everything sound so dirty?  It had to be the accent.  “I saw your cut,” she tried again.  “I was just going to clean it out.”

Briefly, his gaze darted to the first aid kit, but he didn’t bother to release her from his hold.  “Awfully humanitarian of you.  But not necessary.  It’s just a scratch.  It’ll mend.”

“So why aren’t you letting me go then?”

Dark eyes returned to hers, darker still than they’d been before, and a shiver went down Buffy’s spine.  “It’s not like I can stop you from gettin’ yourself up on your own, pet.  Maybe the better question would be…why aren’t you the one who’s moving here?”

I am, she wanted to say, because it certainly felt like her skin had taken on a life of its own, moving and throbbing as if it wanted to race away without the rest of her.  But he was making too valid a point, one whose implications made her brain automatically shut itself off, and she slowly slid away, separating her body from his, her thigh brushing across the hardness of his hips---it’s the denim!  It’s only hard because of the denim!---as she inched herself back to sit against the couch.

He followed her movement with a roll of his pelvis, propping his head up on his fist as he scanned over her upright form.  “And here I was hopin’ you’d be your usual stubborn self and do the exact opposite of what I said,” he teased.  “Remind me of that next time this comes up again.”

Distance made it easier to think, and Buffy lifted her chin.  “There’s hardly going to be a next time,” she said, and began shifting her weight to stand up.

His hand around her ankle stopped her.  “If you think I’m goin’ to let you get up and about after finally gettin’ some decent kip, think again.”

“You don’t really expect me to be a lump all day, do you?”  She kicked free from his hold, but didn’t rise.

He shrugged.  “Not like you have anything better to do.”

“Really?  What about getting out of here?  Or have we forgotten about that little part of last night’s walk in the woods?”

“We’re not goin’ anywhere, Slayer.”  Spike sat up, the smallest of winces furrowing his brow as he straightened his shoulder.  “After you passed out, I went out like I told you I would.  There aren’t any breaks in whatever magic is fencing us in.”

“But…there has to be.  Those demons---.”

“It’s a one-way system,” he interrupted.  “Saw it with my own eyes when another of those things came crashing at me through a section I’d just tested.”  He held up the hand he’d been sleeping on, and Buffy saw the jagged burns that still adorned his fingertips. 

“Is that how you got hurt?” she asked, gesturing toward his back.

Spike nodded.  “Just scrapped a bit before I threw it back onto the fence.  It got a little toasted after that.”  He smirked.  “Guess that makes me the eggman, I s’pose.”

“Huh?”  Maybe he’d gotten hit on the head, too, because now he was spouting nonsense.

“The eggman,” he repeated.  “Because he was the walrus.”  He paused, waiting for her to get it.  “You know,” he went on, demonstrating with his hands, “‘cause of the…tusks…”  Spike’s voice trailed off as he continued to be met by her blank stare, and he shook his head in disgust.  “Never mind,” he said, and then muttered, “Bloody ignorant children.”

She held up a hand when he started to rise.  “You should still let me clean it out,” Buffy said.  “It looks nasty.”

“And like I said, it’s just a scratch.  I’ve had worse before, mostly from you.”

“Humor the sick Slayer, Spike.  We can’t afford to have both of us under par.”

Crouched before her, his lips pursed as his eyes slid over her, and in spite of her rumpled appearance and way too much clothing, Buffy couldn’t avoid the direct sensation of being naked under his scrutiny.  “Don’t seem so sick any more to me,” he said when his eyes returned to hers. 

“Oh?” she said perkily, deliberately ignoring his innuendo.  “Well, I guess that means I can get up th---.”

His hands were on hers before she could finish the sentence, forcing her to still as she rooted to her seat.  “Still recovering, though,” he said.  “Which means staying in bed ‘til we’re sure that fever’s buggered off for good.  Not like we don’t have time for it.”

It was only then that his earlier words sunk in.  Not going anywhere, he’d said.  Could he be lying?  With a wound like the one he currently sported, she doubted it.  And why would Spike want to drag out his imprisonment with her if he didn’t have to?

“You’re sure there’s no way through the barrier?” she asked, all pretenses dropping.

“Swear on the honor of the last boy scout I ate,” Spike replied.  “Did two laps just to be sure.”  He nodded toward the door, and she noticed for the first time the stack of firewood piled in front of it.  “I wasn’t sure how many more of our horny devils were still lurking about, so I blocked up the entrance in case I dropped off.  Which I did, apparently.”

“Doesn’t that keep us from getting out, too?”

“And where exactly would we be goin’?”  His head tilted.  “It’s near high noon, pet, so I’m tucked in for the day.  And you…”  His eyes fell to her wrist before sliding to her leg where it poked out from beneath the coat.  “How’s it feel?”

“Sore,” Buffy said.  “Doing that last flip last night kinda hurt.  But it’s better than it was,” she hastened to add when it looked like he was going to come closer.  “You don’t need to be my crutch any more.  I’m more than capable of getting around on my own.”

“Think you might fancy a bath then?”

Her brows shot up as sudden images of a wet Spike filled her head, her hands sliding across his bare chest as his proceeded to run a rough washcloth over her breasts, all hot water and slippery soap and ooo, maybe baby oil…

“Huh?” she said.  I’ve got to still be sick.  Considering naked Spike can only be the product of a delusional mind.

“A bath,” he repeated.  “There’s a nice one in there, and seein’ as how you’ve been in the same clothes for the past couple days, not to mention wrapped up in the duvet and bleedin’ like a stuck pig, it stands to reason you might want to wash up while you’ve got the time.”  He stood, standing back as he regarded her.  “Can’t say this old nose wouldn’t appreciate it, either.”

Blushing at his frank appraisal, Buffy tugged the leather jacket from her shoulders.  Just when she thought she was getting to the point where she’d think Spike wasn’t so bad, he reverted to form and said something truly rude.  Thank god.  She wasn’t ready to be going down the road where she and Spike actually got along.

“It might be something to consider for yourself,” she bit back.  “Not that I’ve got a problem with your arm falling off because you didn’t take care of that cut, but I really don’t want to have to listen to your complaining when it does.”

“That sounds remarkably like an invite to join you, luv.”

It took a second for what he was saying to sink in.  “No!” Buffy blurted, and the coat fell to the floor as she rushed to stand.  The fleeting notion that Spike could read her mind---even when it was inexplicably daydreaming---made her skitter around the edge of the couch, putting as much distance as she could between them and backing toward the bathroom.  “Please,” she added, deliberately affecting a note of disdain.  “Don’t flatter yourself, Spike.”

“Don’t need to.  Got a nose that tells me otherwise.”

His chuckle followed her into the other room, even after she slammed the door behind her. 

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

He was awake long before the timid knock came to his door, his restlessness a product of both his discomfort from his bruised ribs and having to sleep in his restrictive clothing.  “Come in,” Giles called out, and sat up on the bed, his eyes trained warily on the door.

The slipping of the lock echoed into the room, and the door slowly creaked open to reveal Paul in its opening, a food-laden tray in his hands.  “Are you hungry?” the young man asked.  His tread was hesitant as it crossed the threshold, and he nudged the door shut behind him with his elbow.

“I believe the more accurate description of my current state would be increasingly brassed off,” he replied tightly.  In contrast to his words, though, his stomach audibly rumbled as the scent of the bacon filtered to his nose, and he rolled his eyes at his body’s betrayal.  “How long am I to be held a prisoner?”

Setting the tray down on the table, Paul jerked back when Giles rose and crossed to him, in spite of the stiff caution that held the elder Watcher’s upper body upright.  “You’re not a prisoner, Mr. Giles.  You’re a guest---.”

“Who’s held against his will, under lock and key.  Please don’t patronize me, Mr. McCallister.  I’ve been playing with the big boys for longer than you’ve been out of nappies.”  Surreptitiously, his fingers rested on the edge of the table, using it to steady himself without making his weakness too apparent.  His torso still hurt like mad, but at least he was mobile now.  And if worse came to worse, he’d still be able to take a swing at the younger man if it came down to it.

“Pardon me for saying so, sir, but the lockdown was entirely your own doing.”  Paul held himself rigidly, though his cheeks were bright with color.  “You were rather…agitated yesterday.  It was felt that you would flee, given the opportunity.”

“Bloody well right I’d flee,” Giles muttered.  This close, the food was making his mouth water, and he picked up one of the scones resting at the side of the teapot, grateful that he’d at least get a good meal before whatever was scheduled to happen next.  After the assurance the day previously that his current circumstances had nothing to do with Buffy, he had lost his temper and railed at the young Watcher wannabe, prompting Paul to go scuttling off to wherever they kept themselves when they weren’t watching over their hostage.  The lock of the door had soon followed, and Giles had drifted between sleep and his confused thoughts for the next eighteen hours, waiting for some clarification to his situation to arrive.

And it came bearing clotted cream and strawberry jam.  At least clarification was civilized.

“Explanations will be arriving in due order,” Paul continued.  “Silas has made arrangements for us to meet with Maria after tea.  She’s really the one who can best answer your questions.”

Giles’ chewing slowed as he digested this latest tidbit.  Maria.  That was a new name.  “And who exactly is she?” he queried.

“The reason you’re here,” he said.  “It was her deduction that concluded we needed your skills in order to make this entire endeavour succeed.”  He gestured to the walls around them.  “This is her home.  She thought we would all be more comfortable here than in more sterile surroundings.”

“And where is here?”  He felt foolish, asking such inane questions, but it felt as if Paul was being deliberately obtuse, prompting the requirement for this absurd interrogation.

“Still in California, if that’s what you’re wondering.  Quite close to your accident, actually.  We lacked the resources to transport very far away from there.”

His careful choice of words was only clouding the issue rather than clarifying, and Giles’ mind automatically began ruminating on the possibilities.  “Tell me,” he said, pouring some milk into the cup before picking up the teapot, “did it not occur to you to simply ask for my assistance in whatever this is?  If it’s as important as you suggest, and locality is an extraneous consideration, surely approaching me in Sunnydale would have been infinitely simpler than whatever means you’ve taken to procure my presence here.”

“Silas was of the mind you would refuse, and with time against us, none of us were prepared to take that risk.”

“So instead, you anger me further by endangering Buffy and holding me against my will.  Splendid logic.  The Council lost a keen asset when they let you slip away.”  The sarcasm in his tone was lost the instant the tea hit his tongue, and he almost groaned out loud at the pleasure of the hot liquid coursing down his throat.  Real tea, Harrods by the taste of it.  What was that he’d thought about this place being civilized?

“Unavoidable, Mr. Giles, and your Slayer’s involvement…unfortunate.”  He began backing away toward the door.  “I’ll return at teatime.  We’ll be dining with Maria and Silas before settling to answer any and all your questions.  There are clothes in the wardrobe should you wish to change, and if you find yourself requiring anything prior, the alarm at the side of the bed will summon one of the staff to tend to your needs.”

Being left to his own devices with a steaming breakfast before him, Giles crumpled into the stuffed chair, his countenance introspective as he sipped at his tea.  It was just a matter of waiting a few more hours.  Whatever plans his captors had required his presence and most likely his cooperation.  That was an advantage he was more than prepared to exercise for as long as possible.

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

Spike’s fingers flicked the water dripping from them at the pan, watching as the hot oil made it spit and dance across the surface.  Ready, he reasoned, and picked up the bowl and spoon to begin ladling the smooth circles onto the griddle.  From the other room, the distant sound of Buffy bathing was a relaxing charm to his muscles, liquefying his motions to flow with an ease that had been mostly absent since his return to Sunnydale, but it escaped his notice as his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Part of him was annoyed with himself for falling asleep on the watch.  Running into the third demon while testing the barricade last night had made him suspicious that others might by hanging about, and the cabin wasn’t exactly the most safe of environments if any sort of direct attack should take place.  Using the wood he’d hauled in for the fire seemed like his choice for blocking the door, and once he’d tended to the injury in his shoulder, setting to continue reading the book he’d nicked from the shelf before had seemed like the surest way to stay awake.

He hadn’t counted on the warmth of the fireplace or the soft rhythm of Buffy’s breathing to lull him into slumber.  But he bloody well couldn’t argue with the pleasure at fully waking up with her on top of him.  Now that could be a position he could get used to.

It had been instinct when he’d grabbed her, but what instinct it could be that would keep him from hurting her and activating the chip, Spike had no idea.  It was almost as if part of him was doing his thinking for him, formulating his moves without his orders to get the Slayer into that particular position, and he had a sneaking suspicion he knew which part it was.  Not that he normally had a problem going along with it, but doing so often led to situations he later regretted, the most recent being Harmony, of course.

But Buffy was hardly Harmony.

She had a brain, for one thing.

And a tongue that excelled at wicked, wicked words.

Probably excelled at other things, too.  Wasn’t that what Slayer muscles were supposed to be about?

Ah…Slayer muscles…all dynamic, and tight, and ready to hurt at the smallest provocation, and…

And this train of thought was leading him to exactly the opposite place he wanted to be.

Spike shook his head.  At least she seemed to be stronger this morning.  She moved with the familiar grace of health, and the only scents he could smell on her weren’t of the fevered variety.  He’d been lying when he’d snarked about being turned off by her lack of recent bathing; if anything, the combination of her spent blood and her hungry pores was more alluring than nauseous, and though he had to constantly fight with his demon about doing something about it, Spike was learning that he rather liked having her around.  And, if his nose was telling him the truth, Buffy was liking it, too.  Even through her layers of clothing, the faint musk of her arousal when he’d suggested the bath had been apparent.  Too bad she’d turned him down.

As he watched the battered circles begin to bubble, Spike picked up the burning cigarette he’d set on the edge of the counter and took a long drag.  He had half a mind to go in there anyway, take a look at the Slayer’s goodies and see just how far he could push her before she’d snap.  Maybe pull out the knickers he was keeping in his front pocket to see how she’d react.  He grinned.  It would be a diversion at least.  Without a telly or even a radio for entertainment, he was being forced to rely upon the written word and his own creativity to keep himself distracted.  A good fight with Buffy could be enough to keep him going for a day or two while they tried to find a way out of the place.

Bugger.  He frowned when he saw the ash from his cigarette sprinkled across the belated breakfast he’d been making.  Think the Slayer’s goin’ to notice that.

Briefly, he debated just leaving it.  Could make that a game, he thought.  See how long it takes her to notice something’s off.  And then see how long it takes her to make you as much ash, his other self reminded.   Pursing his lips around the cigarette’s end to keep it in place while he moved, Spike used a nearby towel to pick up the edge of the griddle, turning to drop the offender into the rubbish.

“Hello.”

It took a lot to startle Spike.  One huge advantage of vampire senses was the relative inability for things to sneak up on him.  So when he turned to see the dark-haired beauty standing in front of the refrigerator, the surprise that rattled his veins was almost enough for him to drop the pan.

“Bloody hell!” he exploded, his cigarette falling to the floor.  “Who the hell are you?”

Her dark eyes dropped to his hands, a delicate brow arching.  “You’re making Buffy breakfast?” she queried, ignoring his question.  “Please tell me she’s not in bed.”

“She’s in the bath,” was his automatic response.  But as soon as the words tumbled from his mouth, Spike stopped, frowning.  “Wait.  What do you know about Buffy?”

“We go back a long way.  As do you and I, Spike.”

His blood chilled at the sound of his name on her tongue, and Spike’s gaze narrowed as he more closely scrutinized the visitor.  Dark hair, darker eyes, a delicate European beauty.  Now that he thought about it, she looked familiar, but how exactly he knew her, he wasn’t entirely sure.

A dart of his eyes told him one thing he hadn’t been expecting.  All the windows remained shut, and the wood he’d piled in front of the door was exactly as he’d left it.  Not only had she snuck in under his radar, but she’d done it without going through a single entrance. 

“Lemme guess,” he said, leaning to pick up his cigarette, tossing it into the sink before finishing the scraping of the pan into the trash.  “You’ve got something to do with our little leaving problem here.”

“Partially,” she said.  “I’m just one of many who are interested in the pair of you.  Well, I was more interested in Buffy, but I was outvoted on the subject of you.”

“Then shouldn’t you be gabbing at her instead of standin’ around, makin’ me muck up brekky here?”

The look she shot in the direction of the the closed door of the bathroom was telling.  “Trust me, I really wish I could.  But unfortunately, if Buffy were to know of my presence, something tells me things might get a little…uncomfortable for a while.  She’s not exactly known for thinking first, acting later.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle.  “No, that she’s not.”

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

She hated having to get out of the tub, but the cooling water was pruning her skin beyond recognition and Buffy had the sinking feeling that if she spent any more time loitering in the bath, Spike wouldn’t hesitate to come poking his nose in to see what was keeping her.  And one of them being half-naked was already one too many, as far as she was concerned.  Even if it was better that it was him.

As she pulled the plug, a whiff of something familiar made her hesitate, her head swivelling to stare at the closed door.  Pancakes.  That was the unmistakable smell of pancakes.  Spike knows how to cook pancakes?  Or maybe he doesn’t.  That would explain the swearing I heard earlier.

There was no doubt in her mind that these would most definitely be evil.

Still, evil or not, they smelled delicious, the aroma making her stomach growl in response, and Buffy quickened her pace, ignoring the twinges in her wrist and leg as she slipped her pants on.  A swift flick of the comb through her hair and she felt almost like a new person standing in front of the mirror.

We’ll see who’s smelly now, she thought with satisfaction as she pulled open the door to step into the outer room.

She took only a single hobble before halting in her tracks, surprise mingling with alarm as she spotted Spike lounging against the counter, casually dunking a rolled pancake into a mug of blood.  He wasn’t the cause of her concern, though.  No, the source of her concern stood by the fridge, her skirt flowing around her long legs, looking very much like she’d never even died.

Except Buffy knew better.

Because Jenny Calendar was long buried, which made this…

“Get away from him, you bitch,” Buffy said tightly, her body readying for a fight though she knew with her head that she couldn’t touch it.

Jenny sighed, looking from the Slayer back to Spike.  “Told you she wouldn’t be happy to see me.”

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

It was the possessive tone of her voice that made Spike pause, his eyes glittering as they turned to see Buffy standing outside the bathroom.  Her damp hair was pushed away from her face, her jaw set as she stared down the dark-haired woman, and she looked every inch the warrior she was, ready to battle their unexpected guest though he suspected that it would be a fruitless endeavour.

“I said, get away from him,” Buffy repeated.  She moved as she spoke, a deliberate pace that situated her directly between him and the woman, and this time, there was no mistaking the suggestion that their guest was somehow threatening someone for whom the Slayer held concern.

Against his will, the corner of his mouth lifted.  Suddenly, this just got much more interesting.

“I know---,” the woman started, only to be cut off when the Slayer took an angry step.

“Don’t!” she hissed.  At her sides, Buffy’s hands were balled into fists, and the smile on Spike’s face waned as he saw the tremor in the wrist she’d broken.  “And what is it with you and the Christmas theme?  It’s a peace and goodwill toward men allergy, isn’t it?”  Her eyes flitted to where he leaned against the counter.  “Not that Spike’s a man---.”

“Hey!” he said, forgetting his momentary worry in the face of the personal slight to his gender.  “Beg to differ, pet.”  His thumb hooked through his jeans loop as his fingers splayed suggestively over his crotch.  “Got a few body parts here that toss that claim out of the soddin’ water.”

She ignored him.  “I would’ve thought you learned your lesson last year,” Buffy continued.  “You couldn’t get to Angel and you know what?  Spike’s a helluva lot more pigheaded than Angel is, so if you think you can try your tricks on him, you just might find yourself on the short end of that stick.  A stick I wish desperately I could beat your head in with.”

The woman held her ground.  “I know that this looks bad, but I’m not who you think I am.”

“Oh?”  Without warning, Buffy’s hand shot out and waved in the space before her, passing through the woman as if she wasn’t there, and in that instant, Spike’s suspicions were confirmed.  Ghost.  Or something of that variety.  It was the reason he’d sensed absolutely nothing with the being’s presence.

“Looking pretty large with the body lackage there,” the Slayer went on.  “So sorry if I don’t really believe you on the who you are front.”

“I’m non-corporeal because I’m dead,” their guest replied.  “Not because I’m the First.”

Spike frowned.  “The first what?” he asked.

“Evil,” the two women said simultaneously.

“Oh.”  Well, that explained a lot then.  Only something incredibly evil could concoct the kind of plan that would leave him locked up with only the Slayer for company for days on end.  He was beginning to really like this woman.

“But I’m not,” the brunette argued.  “I really am---.”

“You’re not Miss Calendar,” Buffy said tightly.

“Rupert’s bird!” Spike exploded, wagging his finger at the brunette.  “That’s who you are.  I knew you looked familiar.  You’re the one Ang---.”  He stopped in mid-word, lips puckered to finish the name as the connection of what he was about to say fired inside his brain.  His eyes jumped from Jenny’s cool ones, to Buffy’s furious ones, before he settled into a more noncommittal mask.  “Right,” he drawled.  “That’s probably why you’re not so keen on me and mine, then.  Gotcha.”

The declaration that Jenny didn’t like Spike prompted Buffy’s brows to shoot up in surprise.  “So the big evil’s got a problem with the killer of two slayers?” she said, folding her arms under her breasts.  “Setting your standards kind of high, don’t you think?”

Jenny sighed.  “Look, can we just start over?  You can’t hit me, I’m not leaving until I’ve given you the heads up, and it’s not like you can just take a stroll on down to the local hangout in order to get away from me, not with the barrier that’s around this place.”

Spike saw understanding dawn in the Slayer’s gaze, and picked up another pancake from the stack at his side.  He’d already heard part of the spiel, but he had a funny feeling that Buffy wasn’t going to be quite as easy a sell.  Not that he’d actually heard the pitch yet, but someone who ruffled her feathers this much couldn’t be all good, right?

“You’re the reason we’re here,” Buffy said.  “You caused the accident.”

“No.”  Jenny was shaking her head.  “We found out about the accident too late.  By the time I showed up to try and intervene, Rupert was already gone.”

“OK, there is just so much wrong in those sentences, I don’t even know where to begin.  Who’s ‘we’?  And what’s this about intervening?  Are you saying you could’ve prevented the accident?  And if you know Giles was gone…”  Her voice firmed, brooking no more games.  “…where is he?”

The silence that followed riveted Spike to the staredown happening between the two women, both assessing the other, neither willing to back away.  Finally, Jenny dropped her eyes, taking a deep breath before lifting her head back up to look at Buffy.

“We.  Those of us trying to do what’s right, to fix what’s gone wrong by enlisting your aid to protect her.  Prevented the accident?  No. We didn’t know it was going to occur until it was too late.  We just needed to get you two to safety.  And Rupert…”  She swallowed, her eyes bright.  “We don’t know where he is.  We weren’t the ones who took him.”

He saw the Slayer pale slightly at the disavowal of the Watcher’s predicament, the tremor in her hand increasing although he suspected it wasn’t so much from her injury as something else.  Just as quickly as it appeared, though, it vanished, and Buffy lifted her chin as if nothing untoward had been said.

“So you’re the reason Spike pulled me out of the wreck?” she asked, calm and collected and every inch back in charge.

“I wish I could take the credit for that,” Jenny said.  “But he decided to save you on his own.  All I had to do was coax him toward the cabin, which, surprisingly enough, was not that difficult.”

The confused query behind Buffy’s eyes was all Spike needed to turn his attention to his drink, soaking another pancake with blood and then letting it disintegrate on his tongue.  Bugger.  It would’ve been nicer for her to believe that he’d been manipulated somehow in saving her.  Now she was going to be all twenty questions on what exactly he’d been thinking.

He glanced up quickly through his lashes.

Fuck.  Now the gypsy bint was looking at him, too.

“You were the last person I thought would help to protect her,” she was saying.  “Your supporters were quite adamant, though.  ‘Spike will surprise you,’ they said.  ‘Don’t count him out of the game just yet.’”

“I’m not in your bloody game,” Spike growled, discomfort tightening his grip around the mug.  “I only saved the Slayer because I knew Rupes would have my hide if I didn’t.”  A partial lie, but who cared.  Sure, the Watcher would most likely enact whatever sort of vile vengeance he wanted if Spike let something happen to the Slayer when he could’ve prevented it, but the other…well, that was really none of their business.  He was his own vamp, damn it, and evil or not, this first Jenny or whatnot was starting to grate on his nerves. 

“I’m not talking about Buffy,” she said.  “Surprisingly enough, and don’t you ever dare tell Rupert I said this, the world doesn’t always revolve around the Slayer.”

“This her you keep talking about…” Buffy said, and thank god her attention was diverted away from him again.  “Is this the same her those demons who showed up last night were asking about?  I assumed they were talking about me, but now I’m not so sure.”

It was the first time Jenny looked genuinely shocked.  “You were attacked?” she asked. 

“You mean your all-powerful, all-knowing selves didn’t know that already?  Yeah, we were attacked.  Three of them.  Looked like walruses, except, you know, demony.”

Jenny’s shoulders sagged.  “Damn it,” she muttered.  “That means Maria already knows about you two.”

“Getting really tired of the cryptic here, which, funny thing, is actually convincing me more and more that you’re Miss Calendar.”  A small, determined step forward.  “Just cut the crap, whoever the hell you are.  I want to know what’s going on.”

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

The afternoon sun was on the far side of the cabin, leaving the front porch sheltered and safe for Spike as he paced along its length.  A trail of ash was left in his wake, and the half dozen or so discarded cigarette butts marked better time than the length of the shadows cast by the nearby trees.  He’d fled the inquisition as soon as he’d could, purposefully banishing himself to the seclusion of the great outdoors before his frustration with the situation caused him to do something that could only end at the pointy end of one the Slayer’s stakes, and now, too many hours and half a pack later, he was beginning to debate going back inside.

He was just another pawn in another game that he’d never asked to bloody join in the first place.  This mucking about with his life shit had gotten old about two seconds before those damn G.I. Joes had zapped him on campus, turning him into a pathetic git begging for scraps at the Slayer’s table, and Spike was ready to fight this latest development with every non-existent breath in his undead body.  Fuck her and whatever wind she rode in on.  He wasn’t so far gone to start taking orders from a soddin’ ghost now.

Buffy was another matter, however.  Her and her kind were the reasons he was in this mess to start with.  Tagging along as the perky yet dangerous babysitter.  Nattering on about her ski bunny dreams and probably distracting Rupert from his driving just enough to get in the accident in the first place.  This was all her fault.  If she wasn’t so tied in to every bleedin’ heart out to do a shred of good, this never would’ve happened.  He could be feet up in front of a fireplace, a warm cup of blood in his hands, making her miserable by taunting her to death because she was stuck with him until they returned to Sunnyhell.

The distinction that he was almost in exactly that situation currently never even entered his mind.

His face contorted into a grimace as he flung his spent cigarette out into the snow, hearing the faint sizzle as it landed in the snow, and reached into his pocket for his pack.  Five left.  Great.  In his haste to bugger out of there, he’d forgotten he was going to have to ration these, because something told him that not even the calendar girl would consider magicking in a fresh supply of smokes, not when she didn’t want him there in the first place.

Behind him, the door opened, and he smelled the scent of Buffy’s skin as she appeared in the doorway.  “You can stop hiding,” she said.  “The big bad ghostie is all gone now.”

“Hardly hidin’ when all you have to do is look out the soddin’ window to find me,” he replied without even bothering to turn.  “Get what you were lookin’ for?”

“Oh, I was looking for this massive headache and sense of impending doom?  Gee, I didn’t realize.”

Her sardonic tone was enough for him to toss her a glance over his shoulder.  Leaning against the jamb for support, Buffy had his coat wrapped around her thin form, arms tight against her stomach as her breath clouded before her face.  “You should get back inside,” Spike warned.  “You’ll catch your death out here.  Again.”

“Are you coming in?”

“Hadn’t planned on it.”

“Then I’m not budging.  As much as this entire situation sucks, someone’s decided to invite you to the party, too, so at least you should hear the guest list.”  The click of the door closing was followed by Buffy’s offbeat tread across the porch, and she stopped at his side, her hands stuffed deep inside her pockets as she leaned against the railing.  “OK, so I budged a little.”

She sounded like she was teasing, and he looked down at her, meeting her upturned eyes with a confused frown.  “So what’s so important that I have to get lumped into the mix?” he asked.

Buffy shrugged, all nonchalance and weary grace.  “Oh, no big.  Just the end of the world as we know it.”

“Then how come I’m not feelin’ so fine here?” he joked, but his heart wasn’t in it.

They stood in silence for several minutes, she facing out, he leaning against the post, the quiet broken only by the scraping of Buffy’s boot against the wood as she randomly kicked off clumps of snow to land and create mini-craters on the unbroken surface below them.  When she finally spoke, her voice was low, conspiratorial, and it left a warm flush down Spike’s spine.

“You’re not the only who’s angry, you know.  Being a puppet on a string has never rated high on the Buffy meter of fun.”

“Yeah, well, the difference is, Slayer, this savior gig is your bloody life.  Me, I should be walkin’ down the streets of hell with a pretty girl stuck in my teeth instead of shacking it up here with you.  So, if I seem a little brassed off ‘cause Rupert’s ex has decided to screw my nuts to the wall, well, that’s because I am.”

Buffy sighed.  “I’m not even sure it is Miss Calendar, if that makes you feel any better.  I mean, it might be.  She didn’t talk like the First did the last time I saw it.  With the First, it was all about how it was beyond sin, beyond death, beyond blah.”  She stuck her tongue out on the last, and Spike fought the smile that threatened to curve his lips at the sight.  He’d never say it out loud, but she could look impossibly adorable when she screwed up her face that way.

“Sounds like every other evil thing I’ve encountered,” he said.  “Think I might’ve even used those words myself once or twice.”

“Yeah, well, if it is the First, then it’s trying a whole new tactic in getting under my skin, because sin and death didn’t come up once.”  She paused, thinking.  “Well, death came up once, but not either of ours so the jury’s still out on whether she’s evil or not.”

“Do we have any sort of verdict, then?  What all this playing house is s’posed to be about?”

“Yep.  It’s supposed to be about playing house.”  At his raised brow, she went on.  “She…they…want us to protect someone from these demons who are looking for her.  A she someone.  And if we don’t, if whoever’s after her wins, it’s end of the world time.”  His pointed look around at the quiet surrounding them made her smile.  “Apparently, she’s on her way.  She’s supposed to be here in a day or two.”

“What, they couldn’t magic her in with the pig and wardrobes?”

“I asked the same thing.  Jenny said magic doesn’t work on her.  It’s got something to do with the whole why we need to guard her reasoning but she was pretty vague with the specifics.  Oh, but I did get a name.  Holly.”

It took a moment for what she was saying to sink in.  “Are they completely off their box?” Spike said.  Resuming his pacing, his body was thick with his returned frustration.  “I’m evil, remember?  I don’t protect innocent little misses from big bads trying to end the world.  I’m supposed to deliver them bound and trussed on a blood-soaked platter!  Has someone out there forgotten that fact?”

Buffy didn’t seem perturbed by his outburst.  “Because someone somewhere has a sick sense of humor, obviously.”  She sighed, and stepped forward to block his path, her hand coming out to his arm to keep herself steady.  “I’m about as thrilled about this as you are, Spike.  According to Jenny, we’re stuck here until New Year’s Day---.”

“What?!?”

She nodded.  “The barrier they put in place is made to dissolve at that point, because the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve is the deadline for whatever bad mojo these people want to do with Holly.  So, we’ve got two choices.  We do nothing and wait it out until the magic goes poof so that we can walk away.  Or we do as they ask and help guard this Holly person.”

“Funny, I didn’t hear much askin’.”

“Neither did I.”

Her displeasure at the situation was actually calming him, their shared resentment dissipating his earlier anger.  “What’re you goin’ to do?” he asked.

“You mean, what’re wegoing to do, Spike.  Because like it or not, there are three sides here.”  She began ticking them off on her fingers.  “Jenny and her band of merry ghosts.  The demons who are after Holly.  And us.”  Buffy paused.  “It’s not like it’s the first time we’ve had to team up to stop an apocalypse, you know.  And we didn’t exactly screw that one up, now did we?”

All too suddenly, Spike was aware of the weight of her hand on his arm, the warmth it added to his bare skin in spite of the bite to the air, and the urge to touch her made his other hand twitch in its eagerness to do so.  She wasn’t even aware of it, he could tell.  Though her breathing seemed slightly accelerated, that was easily explained by her growing fatigue; this was the most active she’d been since the accident, the trek through the woods the previous night notwithstanding.

He wanted to tell her she was wrong.  He wanted to scream it out and tell her to go to hell, except that would have to wait, wouldn’t it, considering they were both stuck behind the bars of this particular cage.  And like it or not, she had a point.  He’d do worse than side with the Slayer on this one.  She had an annoying tendency to win.

“Don’t s’pose she made any mention of gettin’ paid for this particular job?” he said, the query his unspoken agreement to her previous statements.

“Uh…noooo…”

“Right then.  There’s our answer.”  He grinned.  “They want us to work for them, they should bloody well pay us.”

She pulled away at that, rolling her eyes.  “What about, we do it because it’s the right thing to do?  If it’s the right thing to do,” she was quick to clarify.

Spike grimaced, dismissing her words with a wave of his hand, though the tone of his voice was teasing.  “Load of rubbish.  The way I see it, we have a service that’s in demand---.

“And the way I see it---.”  Buffy cut herself off and sighed, but there was only an amused resignation in her tone.  “We’re going to kill each other before Christmas.  You know that, right?” 

He smirked.  “Yeah, but it’ll be fun while it lasts,” he commented.  “’Sides, something tells me you might not mind a little anarchy every now and again, Summers.  You haven’t lasted this long by always playin’ by the rules.”

“Hardly.”  She was halfway across the threshold before she glanced back at him over her shoulder, a hint of a smile ghosting her lips.  “Well…maybe a little.”

He waited until she had gone back into the cabin before chuckling.  Not that he was any less upset about being dragged into this mess, but somehow, it didn’t seem quite so bad knowing that Buffy was just as ready to go down kicking as he was.

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

She greeted him before he’d even properly entered the dining room.  “Mr. Giles,” she said, her thin hand extended, a warm smile on her face.  “I’m so glad we finally meet.”

His eyes narrowed in scrutiny even as he matched her movement.  Older than him by probably a decade, she was also nearly a foot shorter, lithe and graceful, her gray hair cut stylishly short.  Dark eyes sparkled as she looked up at him, and her palm was warm and strong.  “Maria, I presume,” Giles said.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Paul and Silas take their places at the table. 

“How are you feeling?” Maria asked after they’d broken apart.  “Silas informed me that your injuries didn’t require a hospital, but if he was wrong…”

“Are you saying you would actually let me leave should I say yes?”  His voice was cold, but her friendliness was disarming him.  She was most certainly not what he expected, a tiny Mother Hubbard when he’d anticipated a Viking, perhaps with horns.  “I rather thought locking me in my room was to prevent my departure, or is that part of your welcoming package, as well as the breakfast in bed?”

She smiled.  “No, you don’t need a hospital,” she said, ignoring his question.  “I can see that your mind is as sharp as ever.”  His latter words seemed to belatedly register, and she hesitated before turning to the table.  “Didn’t you like the cream tea?” she asked.  “Huh.  I suspected you’d appreciate a small taste of home.  Silas and Paul certainly do.”

“Breakfast was…lovely, but that’s hardly the point.”  Giles’ feet remained rooted as she turned then, striding to take her seat at the head of the table.  “I demand to know what exactly I’m doing here.  What your purpose is in requiring my presence.”

There was a flicker of something in her dark gaze as Maria reached for a steaming bowl of buttered carrots.  “You can always make the demand while you’re eating,” she said.  “It’s a lovely dinner tonight.  It would be a shame to waste it.” 

For a moment, Giles watched as the semblance of supper was enacted before him, the dishes being passed around and left waiting at the empty setting.  The rich smell of peppered steak made his nose prickle, and he consciously swallowed against the watering of his mouth as Silas drowned his mashed potatoes in thick gravy.  “Casual dining with my captors is not something I normally deign to do.”

Maria shrugged, a fluid lift of her shoulders.  “Your loss, Mr. Giles.  Foolish, if you ask me.  Silas told you you’d get your answers, didn’t he?  So, really, being stubborn and not eating is almost childish, I think.”

He refused to be baited.  “Tell me why I’m here.”

“To help me find my daughter,” came the quick response.

“Your daughter?”  He frowned, taking a step closer.  “That sounds like a police matter, not one that requires a trio of Watchers.”

“The police don’t care about the world of Slayers,” she said tightly.  “You three do.”

His blood chilled at her bandying of the title, and Giles’ nostrils flared as he kept his temper in check.  “You said this had nothing to do with Buffy,” he accused the two men.

“And it doesn’t, not directly,” Maria said.  She waited until she had his attention again before continuing.  “It’s about all the Slayers, and all the potential slayers, so I suppose in that way, yes, you could say that this is about Buffy Summers, too.”  She waved toward the empty chair.  “Do sit down, Mr. Giles.  There is so much for us to discuss, and I’m sure by the time you’ve heard the whole story, you’ll understand just why it’s so important we find Holly as soon as possible.”