DISCLAIMER: Everything but the plot is Joss'.  Too bad.
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  The Scoobies think that Buffy is out looking for Spike, while Buffy has spotted the scar of a vampire bite on a trumpet player at the Rising Sun.

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

If she had to smile for just one more minute, Buffy swore her face was going to fall off.  Not that she wasn’t enjoying herself; on the contrary, considering this whole engagement party was just one big sham of a do, the young woman hadn’t had this much fun in ages.  Nonstop dancing, good food, and even…did she really dare to say it…good company.

Out of the corner of her eye, the Slayer glanced over at the bar, heard Spike’s laughter even from her position near the door.  Until Gino had pulled him aside, the blond vampire hadn’t left her side all night, refusing to let anyone else dance with her, calling it his “right as her bleedin’ fiancé.”  Even Lombardi had been brushed aside, and Buffy had watched as the man had stepped back, the annoyance clear in his eyes but the fear of Spike greater. 

“Maybe you should let me dance with him,” she’d said.  “He’s our boss, after all.  We can’t go messing things up here before we figure out what’s going on.”

She could’ve sworn she’d heard him growl, and looked up to see his gaze locked on her face, blue eyes darkened to almost black.  “No man in his right mind would share you, especially tonight of all nights,” he’d said, then smiled.  “And we’re supposed to be head over heels, remember?  Mustn’t let the locals think you can’t stand dancin’ with me.”  He’d seemed to be waiting for her to say something, anything, but she’d only looked away, the sudden rush of heat in her cheeks visible testimony to the bewildering amalgam of emotions that were bouncing around in her head.  

They’d danced in silence for a moment, until Buffy felt him lean forward, his cheek just barely touching hers as his mouth hovered by her ear.  “Thought of another one, Slayer,” he’d murmured.  “There once was a fella named Fritz…”

And she’d laughed…at his dirty limericks, at his frighteningly accurate impersonation of Giles, at his dry commentary about the other girls in the club.  For a while there, she’d actually forgotten where she was or who she was with, so lost in her own personal whirlwind that all that…extraneous stuff just slipped away.  And here it was, almost three o’clock in the morning, and she was shocked to find herself wishing that the night didn’t have to end.

“…gone ahead and taken all the gifts out to the car,” the man in front of her was saying.

Buffy’s head whirled around, her eyes wide.  “Gifts?” she asked.  “There’s gifts?”

“Well, yeah.  But Lola thought you’d rather open them up at home.  More private there and all.”  His face spread into a leer.  “Plus it’s easier if you get something you want to…use right away.”

She laughed nervously, inching her way backwards, and was relieved when the band started playing again.  “I thought they were done for the night,” she said, grateful for the diversion.

“Last dance,” he explained, and Buffy stiffened as she saw him hold out his hand, getting ready to ask her out onto the floor.

“Well, then I better get Spike,” she chirped.  “He always gets my last dance, you know.”  With a bright smile, she turned, only to find the blond vampire standing directly behind her, his head cocked, a note of questioning in his eyes.  The hair that had been so immaculate when they’d left the apartment now was a tumble of curls, raked through by his lean fingers all night, and Buffy irrationally wondered why he played so much with it when it wasn’t moussed or gelled into place.  Not that she was complaining; for some reason, the tousling made him seem more…human.

Mentally shaking herself, she said in a voice just a little too loud, “Just the person I was looking for.”  She looped her arm through his, pulling him out onto the dance floor, tossing back an almost apologetic smile to the other man. 

The pair slid into each other’s arms, an instinctive mating that melded them together, and the young woman was grateful that the conductor had chosen a slow song to end the evening with.  She was convinced Spike could feel how hard her heart was beating; shoot, he could probably see it, but then that would mean he was looking at her breasts…Stealing a glance upwards to check, Buffy was met by his steady gaze, and she ducked her head back down, turning her cheek to rest it on his chest.  “There’s presents,” she said, desperate for any topic of conversation that didn’t involve Spike or body parts.  “For us.  To unwrap back at the apartment.”  She was floundering, and she knew it.

“Knowin’ this group, that should be…interestin’…” he drawled.  She heard his teeth click together, wondered what exactly he was doing, when he added, “Hope it hasn’t been too tough for you tonight.”

That made her look up.  “Why would you say that?” she said.  “Tonight’s actually been fun.”

“Just thought…it’s just a little too much like Red’s spell…having to…pretend…and such…”  He wasn’t looking at her, concentrating instead on something over her shoulder. 

“It hasn’t been that bad.”  The admission was quiet, unexpected, and Buffy saw the muscle twitch in the vampire’s cheek.  She smiled, trying to lighten his mood.  “Besides, don’t tell me you’re not eating all this up.  Spike the bouncer is god here, and I just know how much you hate that.”

He chuckled, his arm tightening around her almost imperceptibly.  “Yeah, gotta admit, it does feel good to get a little respect again.  Nothin’ like being chained in a bathtub to give a vamp a sense of his true self-worth.”

The mention of vampires brought the memory of what she’d seen earlier back to the forefront.  In the flurry of the party, the young woman hadn’t really had the opportunity to bring it up, and had tucked the observation away for future discussion.  Now, though…Her hazel gaze slipped to the band, alighting on the same spectacled trumpet player.  If there were vampires in this place, she needed to know about it.  After all, she wasn’t the Slayer for nothing.

The song finished, and Spike and Buffy stayed on the floor, applauding the orchestra as they filed into the back room.  “C’mon,” the young woman said, grabbing Spike’s arm and pulling him along behind her as she made to follow the musicians.

The platinum vamp broke free, stopping in the middle of the room.  “Ummm…the car’s goin’to be out front, Buffy.”

Stopping and turning to look at him, the young woman’s hazel gaze was steady.  “Trust me on this one, Spike,” she said evenly.

He hesitated a moment, then shrugged, stuffing his hands into his trousers pockets.  “Lead the way.”

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

He was easy to find, but Buffy hung back, waiting for some of the other musicians to leave before approaching him.  “That was a great solo,” she said brightly, a warm smile on her face as he turned to look at her.

“Thanks.”  Up close, the young woman realized that he really wasn’t that much older than her, mid-twenties maybe, while the glasses gave him the appearance of someone more accustomed to libraries than nightclubs.  Almost a mini-Giles, she thought.

“Listen,” she rushed on.  “I couldn’t help but notice your scar…”  Her fingers fluttered around her neck. 

Behind Buffy, Spike’s eyes narrowed as he tried unsuccessfully to see what the Slayer was referring to.  Instead, he witnessed the young trumpet player turn beet red, immediately shifting his eyes, pulling his shirt and collar tighter around him.

“Oh, that.  It’s nothing.  My dog---.”

“---bit you,” the young woman finished, nodding.  “Yeah, I’ve used the puppy excuse before myself.  Although I never really realized how lame it sounded until just now.”  She took a step closer, tilting her head slightly to expose the curve of her neck even further.  “I kinda get where you’re coming from.”

The color slowly faded from the young man’s face, as his eyes darted from her scar, to her face, back to her scar again.  “That’s not…you can’t…”

“I can’t do anything about the one that did that to you,” Buffy continued.  “But I can do something about any of them hurting other people.  Just tell me where you were attacked.  I’ll take care of the rest.”

His laugh was more of a snort, and he ducked his head.  “You don’t have to worry about that,” he said.  “It wasn’t even in this pl…”  His voice trailed off, not finishing the word, unable to meet her eyes.

She knew how his sentence was going to end, and the realization flared hope in the Slayer’s stomach.  Before she could speak, however, the sound of Spike’s voice came up behind her.

“Well, well, well,” he taunted.  “Looks like we’re not the only ones to go tumblin’ down the rabbit hole.”

“Shut up, Spike,” Buffy ordered, then turned back to the musician.  “Maybe we should go somewhere we can talk.  You know, about music…and vampires…maybe, fine art?  I have a thing about paintings, myself.”

Behind his glasses, his brown eyes searched hers before replying, “I’m Tony, by the way.”

“Buffy, and this is---.”

“Spike.”  Tony grinned.  “Yeah, I got it.”

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

“So how long have you been here?” the young woman asked, her feet dangling as she sat on the dressing room table.

“About two weeks,” Tony replied.  “Two very long and very weird weeks.”

“Hey, at least you’re not a professional escort,” Buffy teased.

“You got me there.”  They laughed, sharing the discomfort of the situation, and Spike’s frown deepened, his mood darkening.

“So is the painting yours?  Did that demon steal it from you or something?”

“No, I just thought it looked cool.  That’s why I touched it in the first place.”  The musician frowned.  “What demon are you talking about?”

Buffy shrugged.  “I got it when this little teddy demon dropped it.  No big.”

“Sounds big to me,” Tony commented.  “How do you come to know so much about these kind of things?  The vampires, and you’ve got that bite…”

“It’s kinda…my job.”

His laugh was almost a bark.  “That’s L.A. for you.  My folks would never believe me in a million years if I told them about some of the stuff I’ve seen.”

“L.A.?”  Buffy’s smile faded, to be replaced by a small frown.  “Is that where you’re from?”

“Well, yeah.  Aren’t you?”

“Sunnydale.”  She looked over at Spike.  “How’d the painting get from L.A. to the Hellmouth?”

“Obviously, your little Ewok buddy stole it,” the vamp replied, his words short and curt.  “Question is, how do we get back to the Hellmouth?”

Buffy swung around to look at Tony expectantly, but the musician only shook his head.  “Can’t help you there,” he said.  “If I knew, I’d’ve done it myself two weeks ago.”

“So we’re back to waitin’ for Rupert,” Spike said, standing and stretching.  “Can we go now?  I’m knackered.  Not that sittin’ around chewin’ the fat with bugle boy isn’t a barrel of monkeys, but it’s goin’ to be dawn soon, and I’d much prefer not to have to see it through a cloud of dust, if you get my meanin’.”

“Oh, yeah, right.”  Hopping from her perch, the young woman looked up at their new confidante.  “How can we get a hold of you?  In case we figure out how to get back home.”

“I’ve actually got a place across the street,” Tony said.  “No phone, though.”  He smiled.  “Us musicians don’t do as well as you escorts.”

Buffy laughed and immediately found her elbow being tightly gripped by Spike’s strong hand.  “Right then,” he said.  “Nice meetin’ you, see you tomorrow.”

“It could be worse,” Tony said to their backs as they headed for the door.  “At least you’re not alone.  My girlfriend’s still on the other side.”

A stunned Slayer stopped and turned to stare with wide hazel eyes at the trumpet player.  “What’re you implying?” she demanded.

“Well, you two.  I mean, you’re…”  He blushed.  “Together…right?”

“Spike is not my boyfriend!”

“But, I’ve been watching you…and…he’s all…and you…”  Putting his hand over his eyes, Tony just shook his head.  “Forget I said anything.  I’m sorry.  I just assumed---.”

“You assumed wrong,” Buffy said, stressing the last word.  “We’re just trying to keep things kosher with everyone here at the club so they won’t suspect anything.”

Behind the young woman, Spike stiffened, his jaw locking.  When the young musician removed his fingers from his face and looked up, his gaze met that of the vampire’s, and he swallowed hard at the other man’s almost imperceptible shake of his blond head.  “Of c-c-course,” Tony stuttered.  “Just an act.  Plus, they think you’re single, they’ll make you go back to your…escorting.  Makes sense you’d want them to think…”

“It’s OK,” the Slayer said, relaxing.  “Just means we’re getting away with it.  Besides, Spike’s so convincing, sometimes even I forget.” She laughed, but stopped almost immediately when she realized she was the only one doing so.

There was an awkward silence as the three just looked at each other, broken only when Buffy turned to open the door.  “It was still a great solo,” she tossed back as she exited the dressing room.

“Thanks…”  Tony’s voice trailed away as he watched the pair leave, crossing to shut the door behind them as soon as their forms disappeared around the corner.  With a heavy sigh, he leaned forward, closing his eyes as his brow rested on the dark wood.  Shit, he thought.  The painting’s back in Sunnydale…

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

Giles was kneeling on the floor in front of his bookcase when the sharp rap at his door echoed through the quiet apartment.  “Come in!” he called.

“I come bearing fresh pastries and sugary delights,” proclaimed Xander, as he pushed the door open with his hip, boxes of donuts balanced in his arms.  “Everything a growing boy needs to maintain that research edge.”

“Put them in the kitchen, please,” the Watcher instructed, not even looking up from the text in his hands.  “I still haven’t managed to remove that jelly stain in the carpet from the last time you were here.”

As the young man loped into the other room, Anya hung back near the doorway.  “So what’s on the agenda today?” she asked brightly.  “Prophecy?  Mass murders?  Baby-eating trolls?”

“Art,” Giles replied and stood, pulling his glasses off to rub at his eyes.  “Before she disappeared, Buffy dropped off a painting she found in the cemetery.”

“So you still haven’t heard from her, huh?” asked Xander from the kitchen.

The Watcher shook his head.  “Although Willow proposed that perhaps she’s out looking for Spike.  Their disappearances seem to have coincided too closely not to have some common linkage.”

Distractedly, Anya wandered further into the apartment, only half paying attention to the conversation between the two men.  As her fingers ran along the edge of the desk, her gaze was captured by the picture that still sat there, and all movement in her body promptly stopped, with the exception of her eyes which only seemed to grow larger and larger.  “Where did you get this?” she asked, her voice barely a squeak.

Giles stepped to her side, looking down at the artwork.  “That’s the painting I was referring to,” he said, his hand reaching out to pick it up.

“Don’t touch it!”  The ex-demon’s arm shot out, grabbing the Watcher’s wrist, stopping him from completing the movement.  “Are you crazy?”

“What is it, Ahn?” queried Xander as he came out from the other room.  “Do you know something about this that maybe you should clue us in on?”

The young woman laughed, rolling her eyes.  “You can’t find Buffy, you can’t find Spike, and you’ve got a H’roven sitting in plain view on the desk.  Oh, I know something, all right.  I know you can say sayonara to your Slayer…”

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

They stood before the young woman, arms folded across their respective chests, gazing down at her as they waited for her to speak.  Scrunching herself down into the cushions on the couch, Anya looked up at them through her lashes, feeling very much like a scolded schoolchild waiting to be punished, and squirmed, disliking the feeling intensely.  “I have no idea how you guys ever managed without me,” she muttered. 

“Please, Anya, focus,” Giles urged.

“Yeah,” agreed Xander.  “You said it’s a H’whatsit?”

“A H’roven.  And that’s the name of the artist, not the name of the picture.”

“And you know this because…?”

Anya sighed.  “Because I recognize his style.  It’s very distinctive.  Plus, it’s got his signature on it.”  She watched as Giles crossed to the desk to examine the painting further.  “In the lower left corner, there’s what looks like a red splodgy thingamajig, kind of star-shaped.  That’s his mark.” 

Pulling off his glasses, the Watcher leaned over to peer at the artwork, and almost without thinking, his outstretched finger raised as it sought to trace the raised oil.

“Don’t!” the young woman cried out, jumping to her feet.  “What did I tell you?  You can’t touch the painting.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”  Giles straightened.  “Because that’s what activates the magic.”

Anya rolled her eyes.  “Are you guys even listening to me?  It’s not magic, it’s a portal.  Touching it opens it up, then sucks you through.”

“So where’s Buffy?” queried Xander from behind her. 

“Technically?  In another dimension.  To us, it looks like she’s in the picture.”  She came around the corner of the desk, edging around the older man to gaze down at the painting, her eyes scanning the rich oil for a moment before pointing, making sure that her finger stayed plenty of distance away from its actual surface.  “There, in the blue dress.  Near the orchestra.”

Giles squinted.  “How can you be so sure?  That could be anyone.”

“Because she’s dancing with Spike.”

“She’s what?!?”  Almost leaping over the desk, Xander pushed his way to the front to stare down at the picture.  “She’s not!  She can’t be.  I mean, she’s…”  Very slowly, he looked up, his brown eyes wide and haunted, his jaw lax.  “…dancing with Spike,” he intoned.

Anya shrugged.  “Obviously, he touched it, too.”  She smiled widely.  “Good news is, Giles gets his shower back.”

“Are you absolutely certain they can’t come back?” the Watcher asked.

“H’roven would be out of business real fast if that was possible,” the young woman said.  “Demons buy his work to get rid of their enemies.  If the portal operated on a two-way system, that would kind of defeat the purpose.”

“So can’t we just get another painting to this dimension and bring the Buffster back through it?” asked Xander.  “Spike can stay there, of course.”

“There won’t be another one.  Each picture is a one-off.  You have to specially commission H’roven to do one for you.  He’s very expensive.”

She watched as Giles began pacing around the room, the earpiece of his glasses between his teeth, heavy lines between his brows.  “There must be a way,” he muttered.  “Perhaps if we destroyed the picture, it would neutralize the forces that sucked Buffy through.”

Anya threw her hands up in exasperation.  “How many times do I have to say this?” she moaned.  “It’s.  Not.  A.  Spell.  You get rid of the picture, you get rid of the portal, and you get rid of any chance you might have to get her back.”

“So you’re saying there is a chance?”

“Well, there’s always a chance, but I don’t know what it is.  H’roven might…”  She stopped as she felt both men turn their eyes to her.  “Oh, no,” she protested.  “The Anya information booth is officially closed.  There will be no tour service today.”  As she attempted to sweep past her boyfriend to head for the door, Xander grabbed her arm, forcing her to turn and face them.  “I mean it,” she argued, wrenching herself from his grasp.  “I’m not helping with this one anymore.  You can’t make me.”

“What’s got you so spooked?” the young man asked.  “Is this H’roven guy that bad?”

“In a word, yes.  And he hates me.  And he hates mortals.  And I’m mortal now, which means he doubly hates me.  I refuse to go anywhere near him.”

“But if there’s even the slightest chance we can retrieve Buffy,” Giles said, treading softly as he spoke, “we owe it to her to do everything in our power to do so.”

“Please, Ahn.  If you won’t do it for Buffy…do it for me.”

A long moment passed as the ex-vengeance demon just looked at the two men, her face resolute.  “You have no idea what you’re asking,” she finally said.  “It’ll be bad.  And you…”  She squared off with Xander.  “…You are going to owe me in such a huge way.  Starting with large quantities of multiple orgasms.”

“Wonderful,” the Watcher interjected, hurrying forward to cut off this particular thread of the conversation.  “So let’s go see this H’roven fellow.”

Anya stared at him in amazement.  “And how exactly do you expect to do that right now?” she demanded.  “I’m not a demon anymore; I can’t just teleport us to wherever we need to go.  There’s procedures to follow, steps that have to be taken.  You’re looking at tomorrow at the very earliest.  And that’s only if I can actually find my Amulet of Trana.  Understand?”  She didn’t bother waiting for an answer, instead marching straight for the door.  “C’mon, Xander.  I’ll need a break in about an hour.  You can start repaying me then.”

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

The silence hung between them like a drawn curtain, cloaking each of the pair in his and her thoughts, shielding them from the war of emotions battling it out in their heads.  Neither would look at the other; Buffy’s eyes were closed as she leaned her head against the window, while Spike stared out into the passing night, his fingers playing distractedly with his pack of cigarettes, his face immobile.  In the front seat, even the chauffeur noticed the difference from the previous evening, and spent the entire trip to their apartment wondering what had happened at the party.

She was tired, but that didn’t stop her brain from working, surging into overdrive as she tried to assimilate everything from the past few hours.  Tony seemed not to be too bothered about being here, blending in so well that she would never have picked him out if it wasn’t for his scar.  And the fact that he’d been here for two weeks didn’t bode well for Spike and Buffy’s immediate return, either.  How much longer would they have to keep up this pretence? she wondered.  It had only been a day and a half, and already she was starting to forget about what life had been like in Sunnydale.  That couldn’t be good.

It’s all this painting’s fault, she grumped.  Everything about it is too realistic; it must be doing some magical thing to my head, making me think things that I shouldn’t.  Kinda like Willow’s spell.  Liar, the little voice whispered.  It’s nothing like that.  Buffy hesitated, then acquiesced to the voice’s insistence, allowing it permission to voice its opinions. 

There had been no doubt, remember?  Just a mindless euphoria, that certainty of your feelings, that Spike was The One.  And what have you now? it asked.  Questions, questions, and more questions.  Ambiguous actions from a certain chipped vampire.  A body whose responses you refuse to acknowledge.  This is as different from Willow’s “will it so” spell as night is to day.

But it’s all an act, Buffy argued.  Spike said so himself when we were dancing.  We’re just pretending, right?

And who did he say was doing the pretending? the voice quizzed.

Her mind searched for a response, trying to remember exactly how the blond vampire had phrased it, but came up with a blank, the sense that maybe she’d misinterpreted his words veiling down her spine.  It had certainly seemed easy for him, slipping so effortlessly into the role of the doting fiancé, possessive of her time, attentive to her needs; was it even possible that all that sprang from something…real?

And you…?  The little voice was whispering faster now, bombarding her with questions too quickly for her to oppose.  Why react so strongly to a mere suggestion that something might be going on between you?  Perhaps it’s a case of hello-pot-you’re-black-too.  Why don’t you listen to your body for a change?  You do when you fight; why not when you…

And that’s where she stopped it, cutting the voice off before it could say the word.  OK, so maybe she was attracted to Spike; it’s not like she was blind and couldn’t see how hot he was.  And he’d certainly been laying on the charm since they’d come through…the joking…the dancing…the camaraderie they’d shared knowing they were in this particular boat together…how could she not be reacting to it?

She felt the car ease to a stop, and opened her lids for the first time since sliding into its back seat.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Spike slip his cigarettes into his coat pocket, long fingers gleaming in the moonlight.  Before she could say anything, he disappeared, opening his door and hopping out into the street.  Buffy sighed.  He’d been acting strangely ever since she’d confronted Tony, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.  In fact, truth be told, she was actually kind of missing the Spike from the party…

The handle moved under her fingers, and she raised surprised hazel eyes up to see the blond vampire holding open her door, his left hand proffered in aid of her alighting.  His face was inscrutable, his blue gaze black in the streetlamps’ dim illumination, and the Slayer found herself holding her breath as she slid from the seat.  Once on the pavement, she froze, allowing her hand to remain in his, waiting for him to be the first to break the contact.

“Go on upstairs,” Spike said, his voice low, his touch gliding down her arm to cup her elbow.  “We’ll bring up the gifts.”  With a gentle nudge, he guided her toward the front door.

She desperately wanted to look back, to give him one last glance before entering the building, but Buffy bit back the instinct, concentrating instead on steadying the pulse that had decided to all of a sudden pound out of control, placing one foot in front of the other without giving anything away.  Wordlessly, she disappeared inside the foyer.

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

Spike watched as the Slayer walked away from him, her blonde head low, feeling her heartbeat echo through his skin.  He’d thought he had it all figured out; the car ride had certainly given him more than enough time to consider everything, replay it all again in his head.  He’d been convinced that she was just using him to get out of this place, taking advantage of every tool at her disposal---he was just a vampire, after all, something for a Slayer to play with, right before she disposed of it---but now, he was back to not knowing again, her reactions to him puzzling, giving him a bigger headache than the bleedin’ chip ever did.

“She’s probably just tired,” the chauffeur offered beside him, before slipping around to the trunk of the car and opening it.  “Everything’ll be cherry once you both get a good night’s sleep.”

Spike stood back, taking the bags as they were passed to him, his gaze stealing to the upper windows of the apartment building.  “You married?” he asked the other man.

“Yep.  Over twenty years now.”

“Ever wonder what in hell you’ve gotten yourself into?”

“Every single day.”

The two men shared a smile, and the blond vampire found himself relaxing for the first time since leaving the club.  “I just don’t get what’s goin’ through her head sometimes,” he found himself saying.  “She acts one way, she says somethin’ completely different, and all the time I’m thinkin’, this would be a doddle if everything else would just disappear.”

“You’re not saying anything men haven’t been saying about dames since time began,” the chauffeur replied, easing the trunk closed without dropping any of the parcels in his arms.  “But I don’t think you need to be worrying about Miss Summers.  You two are in it for the long haul.”

Spike snorted.  “I think Buffy would have a few choice words to say about that.”

“Probably,” the older man agreed, a vision of her animated face during one of the many fights he’d witnessed flashing across his mind’s eye.  “But doesn’t make it any less true.”

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

She heard the door of the apartment open, followed by the low murmur of the men’s voices as they brought in the presents.  The sound of Spike’s laughter warmed her stomach, and she almost winced as the thrum returned to her heartrate.  What had the little voice said about listening to her body…?

When the front door clicked shut, Buffy turned the knob of her bedroom and slipped out into the main room, hanging back as she watched him start emptying the bags onto the coffee table, his jacket-free back to her, the muscles evident even under his shirt.  “You know what I just realized?” she said.  “Not only haven’t I killed anything since we got here, but you haven’t had any blood either.  I think tomorrow I’ll go out and look for a butcher for you.  Can’t have you wasting away to nothing before we get back to Sunnydale.  Giles will give me hell for being mean to helpless vampires.”  The last was meant to be a joke, but the smile faded from her lips as Spike glanced back at her over his shoulder, blue eyes enigmatic.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.  “I can last a few more days before I need to feed again.”

She took a few tentative steps closer.  “We have to be prepared for the possibility that we might be here longer than we thought,” Buffy said.  “If Tony’s been here two weeks already…”  She let the sentence trail away, allowing the vampire to finish it for her.

“Thanks.”  He straightened, turning to drink in her thin form.  Although her hair was still up, Buffy had already slipped out of the ball gown and into a long satin robe, belt cinched tightly around her waist, the pale pink accenting the slight blush in her cheeks.  Seeing her like this---so fresh, so very much there---just drummed home the realization that had finally occurred to him in the stairwell.  Somewhere, somehow…all of this had stopped being a game to him…and had become all too much real…

“Right.  I’ll just be callin’ it a night then.”  Shoving his hands into his pockets, Spike was halfway across the lounge, heading toward the second bedroom, when her voice stopped him.

“Where are you going?”

The blond vampire frowned as he glanced back at her.  “You’re not really expectin’ me to sleep in the bloody bathroom, are you?”

“No!”  Buffy flushed in embarrassment.  “Never mind.  I guess…I just wasn’t thinking.”  She bit her lip as he began to turn away, before blurting, “Tonight was fun, don’t you think?”

This time he turned completely around, crossing his arms over his chest.  “What is it you’re tryin’ so awkwardly to say, Slayer?”

What was she trying to say?  She couldn’t answer that, standing there like a fish gasping for air as her mouth opened and closed, then opened again.  Her hands worried the belt of her robe, rolling it around her index finger, unwinding it again, all the while feeling as if her heart was going to jump from her chest, it was beating so hard. 

Very slowly, Spike’s arms lowered, and he cocked his head as he took several languorous steps toward Buffy, closing the distance between them with excruciating grace.  “Tonight was fun,” he agreed, his voice a rumble over the young woman’s skin.  “But I can think of something that could make it even better.”

“What?” she breathed, eyes riveted to his approaching form, the excitement dripping down her thighs.

He stopped before her, inches away, and although their bodies didn’t touch, Buffy could’ve sworn she felt his hands sliding over her flesh, covering her in ice that burned, overwhelming her senses as her lips parted, hazel eyes fixed on that full bottom lip as his head slowly lowered.

It was a slow duet, an aching tangle of tongues as each explored the other, savoring the experience as if it was their first time.  No other parts of their bodies met but neither noticed, so lost in the tactile crush of their kiss that the rest of the world seemed to melt away, enveloping them in a midnight void that sucked at their very cores.  He swallowed her breath, consuming her heat, and Buffy felt the burn in her pelvis, craving more, but desperate not to break the contact.

When she heard the groan, the young woman thought at first it had come from her own throat, then realized that it had actually rumbled from Spike’s.  Knowing she was the cause, that he was hungering for her just as powerfully as she was for him, quickened her pulse, raising gooseflesh along her arms until she thought it was impossible not to be holding him. 

As her body leaned in closer, the blond vampire eased his lips back, ending the kiss but hovering just millimetres from her mouth.  His blue eyes flickered open.  “Go to sleep, Slayer,” he murmured.  “We’ll…talk in the morning.”

“You expect me to sleep?” Buffy gasped.  “How is that possible now?”

He chuckled.  “Don’t expect I’ll get much rest either.”  He straightened, his cold lips brushing against her forehead, and his hands came up to settle on her shoulders, gently pushing her away and toward her room.  “But I’m not goin’ to just hand you your excuse on a silver platter,” he said.  He didn’t wait for her to move; instead, Spike backed up the few feet to his own room, his unwavering gaze never leaving her face.  “Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he murmured, before disappearing into the darkened space behind him…

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

It was only a dream.  How did he know?  Well, for starters, he certainly hadn’t done any sittin’ around in the bleedin’ sun for a while---OK, there had been that bit last autumn with the Gem, but before that it had been over a century---but the kicker of it was standing there in the daylight, staring him in the face, a cigarette dangling from his fanged mouth.

Spike was talking to himself.

“What in the fuckin’ name of all that is evil and unholy do you think you’re doin’?” the vamped Spike sniped.

“What’re you talkin’ about?”

Vamped Spike grimaced.  “I’m talkin’ about the Slayer, and stop bein’ such a prat.  You know right well what I’m brassed off about.”

“You’re brassed off?”  He snorted.  “That’s a lark, seein’ as how you’re not even real---.”

The punch sent him reeling to the ground, the force of it a thumping ache reverberating through his jaw, and Spike tasted the coppery tang of his own blood as the inside of his cheek split.  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his other self, dancing around on the balls of his feet, the cigarette now crushed beneath his boot.  “C’mon,” his vamped self taunted.  “Don’t be such a nancy boy.  Get up and fight me like a real demon.  Or are you Slayer-whipped now?”

Without regard to how his chip might react, Spike lunged at the intruder in his dream, tackling him at mid-abdomen, sending both of them crashing in a tangle of black leather against the brick wall of the building.  As his fists barrelled into the other vamp’s face, the fleeting thought that he was doing this with no blinding repercussions flashed across his mind’s eye.

Vamped Spike chuckled as he broke free from the clinch, standing back from his counterpart and spitting out a stream of scarlet blood onto the sidewalk.  “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he said.  “Feels right.”

“Feels like you fuckin’ hit me,” Spike snarled.

“Well, yeah.  Someone’s gotta knock some sense into you.  Moonin’ over the Slayer like some lovesick puppy.  You’re supposed to want to kill her, not shag her.”  His lips twisted into a smirk.  “No, OK, I can see the fuckin’ her bit, but still doesn’t explain why you’ve gone all soft on her.  Might as well call you marshmallow man.”

“I haven’t gone soft!”

Vamp Spike’s eyebrow lifted.  “Really?  Whaddaya call it then?  ‘Cause from this side of the fence, I’d say you were ‘bout two feathers short of bein’ a pillow.”

“Case you haven’t noticed, me and the Slayer are in a bit of a muddle at the moment.  We’re just passing the time ‘til Rupes gets us back to Sunnyhell.  Not my bloomin’ fault everyone thinks we’re engaged.”

“Uh huh, yeah, that’s it.”  The other Spike pulled out his pack of cigarettes from his duster pocket.  “I mean really, dancing lessons?  You the Arthur Murray of the demon set now?”

“She didn’t know what the hell she was doin’,” he replied through gritted teeth.  “Got appearances to keep up.  Can’t have the locals sussing out Buffy isn’t---.”

“And when did you start thinkin’ of her as Buffy?” Vamp Spike shot back.  “Wasn’t that long ago it was Slayer this, or Slayer that, even the occasional ‘bitch’ thrown in every once in a while.  You can’t go buggerin’ it all up by goin’ with her name now.  You start with that shit, and you might as well hand her your balls on a bloody platter.”

The growl erupted from his throat, and Spike launched himself at the other, his fury carved in vampiric ridges over his forehead.  The momentum continued through into his fists, raining punches down over his counterpart’s face, his shoulders, beating him until the features began to bleed together, distorting into his human visage, before melting away into nothingness…

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

His eyes shot open, and Spike found himself staring up at the ceiling, the black satin sheets cool against his back, entangled amid his bare legs.  A dream, that’s all it was, just a bloody dream.  So much for waking up to images of a naked Slayer, he thought ruefully. 

Although it was already beginning to fade, the residual baggage left by the dream still ate at the vampire’s gut, churning and grinding as it filled him with doubt, dredging up the sense of insecurity that had plagued him ever since Dru had left.  What was it she had said down in South America?  About seeing the Slayer around him?  And here he was, fooling himself into thinking that maybe there was something there, when their respective roles were more than obvious.  Vampire.  Slayer.  Enemies.

Except…he didn’t really believe that, hadn’t been able to believe that ever since Red’s spell had been reversed.  Oh sure, he’d blustered on about the flavor of Buffy on his lips, feigning disgust, but that’s all it was…just talk.  Put on a show for the humans, let them think that he hadn’t been rocked by thinking he and the Slayer were in love, that those feelings didn’t actually linger like an aftertaste in his mouth, more so than the memories of her kisses…or her hands…

The events of the past two days had only brought all that into sharper focus.  Ever since they’d come into the painting, Buffy had been treating him differently---hell, everyone was treating him differently---and for the first time since his encounter with the government guys, Spike was feeling like a man again, getting the respect he well deserved, being free to enjoy himself as he saw fit…within the confines of the bloody chip, of course.  He didn’t care that it was all an illusion; all he cared about was how empowered he felt after such a long period of impotence.  It was about bleedin’ time.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Spike spotted the clock on the nightstand for the first time, and grimaced.  Four-thirty.  Fuck.  He’d slept the entire day away.  No time now for anything more than a brief encounter with Buffy, even if she was up for more, and considering his own present state of mind, he wasn’t one-hundred percent convinced he was himself.  Plus, in spite of his protestations the previous night to the contrary, he was hungry.  He sincerely hoped that she’d gone out like she’d said she was going to.

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

Although he was still buckling up his belt as he opened the door, Spike stopped in its entrance, eyes alighting on the form of the young woman curled up on the floor, surrounded by brightly colored packages of every shape and size.  Dressed in simple slacks and a sweater, she had her hair pulled back into a low ponytail, her make-up light and simple.  The familiar tug in his groin was joined with the blond vampire’s initial reaction…this was the Slayer he knew.    

The metallic click of his buckle alerted her to his presence, and Buffy looked up, a small smile curling her lips.  “Well, if it isn’t Rip Van Winkle,” she said lightly.  “I’d say you must’ve slept like the dead, except you’re already dead so that would be kind of redundant.”

“You’re little miss perky today,” he commented.  “Guess you didn’t have as much trouble sleeping as you thought you would.”

“It’s absolutely gorgeous outside,” she said, avoiding a direct response to his reference to her earlier assessment.  “Did you know there is this fabulous string of shops right around the corner?  I got some great things.  Oh, and I found a butcher who’ll deliver, so no more embarrassing trips for me searching for blood.”  As he glanced over at the kitchen, she added, “It’s in the fridge.  I would’ve heated it up for you, but…”

Spike’s gaze narrowed slightly as he looked back at Buffy.  “But what?”

She blushed.  “I wasn’t sure how to do it,” she confessed.  “There’s no microwave.”

The vampire shook his head.  “That’s what the bleedin’ stove is for, Slayer.”  He was halfway to the kitchen when he stopped, looking back at her with a frown.  “Not that it matters, but how did you happen to pay for everything?”

Stretching to the couch at her side, Buffy grabbed a billfold and waggled it in front of her.  “Found the checkbook,” she replied.  “Do you have any idea how much money we have?”

His only response was a roll of his azure eyes as he sauntered into the adjoining room.

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

He stayed in the kitchen as he gulped down the mug of blood, the hot liquid streaming down his throat.  No, it wasn’t human, but after two days of nothing, it was still an intoxicating elixir, and he was enjoying every second of it.  The only thing was, Spike couldn’t restrain the demon from emerging as he drank, and for some reason, he didn’t really fancy having Buffy watching him in that state.  He didn’t think he could stomach the revulsion right now.

“Are you coming back in here or not?” the young woman called out, as if on cue.  “I want to open these presents.”

The sudden sense of domesticity wasn’t lost on the blond vampire, and he felt the first gnaw of fear in his stomach.  He wanted to talk about what had happened; she seemed bound and determined to keep busy with other things.  Still…a happy Slayer meant no stake for him, so maybe it was better to play things her way…for right now…

“Don’t we have to be at the club in an hour?” Spike asked from the doorway.

“Hour and a half,” she corrected, glancing at the clock.  “Lombardi called to say when the car would pick us up.  C’mon, we could’ve been done by now if you hadn’t been such a lazybones today.”

“Didn’t have to wait for me, y’know.  You could’ve just opened them on your own.”

Buffy rolled her eyes.  “Well, duh, they’re addressed to both of us.  Except for one which says it’s just for me.”  She peered around at the packages.  “Now where’d I put that one?”

Spike settled himself on the couch, lounging back with his hands cupped behind his head, a faint smile on his face as he watched the Slayer act like a child at Christmas.  The dream seemed like an eternity away, and Sunnydale even further; if he didn’t know better, the blond vampire would’ve almost said that he felt…content.

“I take it you didn’t have much problem sleeping.”  Her words were measured, careful, and it was obvious she was doing her best to keep her hazel eyes away from him.  Great, he thought, here it comes.

“Wasn’t the sleepin’, luv,” he said.  “It was the dreamin’.”  He nudged one of the bigger boxes toward her with his foot.  “Just start openin’ them.  You’ll find the one that’s yours soon enough.”

“You said…we were going to talk.” 

“I did.  Isn’t that what we’re doin’?”

Buffy ran a fingernail under the edge of the wrapping paper, ripping the tape.  “That’s not what I meant.  Stop making this so difficult.”

“Sorry, luv, didn’t know I was puttin’ a cramp in your style.”  It came out sounding more flip than he intended, but it was already too late.  The light flared in the young woman’s hazel eyes, and her hands tore at the gift, savaging the paper. 

“If you want to just go back to me beating you up, I can do that.  With extreme pleasure,” she bit back as she lifted the lid from the box, exposing an old-fashioned blender.

“Nothin’ would make you happier, I’m sure.”  His nostrils flared as he sat up, leaned forward to force her to look at him.  “Just another round of Kick the Spike to you, that’s all this is.  Can’t even think about sayin’ what’s really goin’ on in that pretty little head of yours ‘cause communicatin’, well, that’s really not something your Watcher’s been very good at teachin’ you, now is it?”

“You want to see how well I communicate?”  Buffy grabbed at another present.  “I can be the queen of communicators.  Just you see.”

“Yeah, you’re the queen of somethin’, all right,” he grumbled, his eyes flickering down to the slim book she now held in her hands, noticing the name of the poet on the spine before the Slayer tossed it aside.  “Should’ve known this morning was all an act.  When am I ever goin’ to learn?”

“An act?”  She turned wide hazel eyes to gape at him, seeing him for the first time since he’d come back from the kitchen.  “Why would I pretend to enjoy kissing you?  What could I possibly gain from that?  If anyone’s acting here, it’s you.”  Another gift found its way into her hands.  “You’re just so terrified I’m going to stake you, you’re doing everything you can to keep me distracted.  Good, but not quite Oscar-material, I think.”

“Tell me how in that warped Slayer head of yours kissin’ my mortal enemy is non-suicidal on my part.  I may not’ve been thinkin’ with my brain, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean I don’t have one.”  He settled back, pushing another present closer to her, arms folded across his chest.

There was a moment of silence as Buffy worked on the package, peeling back the paper to reveal a set of silver candlesticks.  Her fingers traced the delicate filigree on one of the bases, and Spike could feel her heartrate start to accelerate. 

“So…you weren’t pretending?”  Her voice was barely above a whisper, husky as it caught in her throat.

“Isn’t that what I’ve been sittin’ here tellin’ you?”  He paused.  “Wait.”  He frowned as what she had said sunk in, the realization of what she was admitting untying the knot that had grown in his stomach.

Buffy’s laughter was short and sharp.  “Well, we’re a pair,” she said wryly.  “Why do I get the feeling that this would all be that much easier if we just hated each other right now?”

Spike didn’t have anything to say that, instead relaxing and watching as she unwrapped another box.  A faint flush colored her cheeks, and more than once, he caught her glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, but neither one of them spoke, not until she had opened the gift.

“What’s this?” she queried, a tiny line between her brows.  Spike leaned over, watching as Buffy pulled out one, two, three, and then a fourth, brightly colored patch of silk.  “Why would anyone give us a box of scarves?”

Chuckling under his breath, the blond vamp tugged on the end of the nearest scarf, sliding it slowly between her fingers, running it casually over her wrist.  “’Cause they’ve got great taste,” he murmured, his voice a satin rumble.  “Don’t tell me you don’t know what to do with these.  Didn’t Angel like to…play?”

It took her a moment, and then Buffy’s hazel eyes widened in shock, her jaw slowly dropping.  “How do you---?”  She cut herself off.  “Never mind.  Stupid question.”

Spike laughed, and took the present from her hands.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll just shut them away with all the other toys in my room.  You don’t have to bruise your delicate sensibilities by lookin’ at them.”

Shaking her head, the young woman began to reach for another gift.  “I don’t know why I’m surprised, considering where I work---.”  Her face lit up.  “Oh!  That’s the one that’s for me!”

The vamp beat her to the punch, snatching the small box before she could reach it.  “So who’s thinkin’ givin’ you a gift of your own is a good idea?” he teased, pulling out the card. 

“There’s no other name on it,” she said, twisting her body around so that she was between his legs, on her knees, reaching for the gift as he held it over his head beyond her grasp.  “It just says ‘To Buffy’ which means it’s mine to open, not yours.”  She lunged for the box, laughing as his legs locked around her waist, staying her motion and throwing her against his chest.  Her hazel eyes glittered as she looked down into his.  “You so didn’t want to do that.”

Before he could react, Buffy threw herself sideways onto the settee, knocking both of them off-balance, causing Spike to fumble with the present, sending it flying onto the floor and out of both of their reaches.  The vampire landed on top of the young woman, muscled arms holding himself up over her, chest heaving unnecessarily from the sudden exertion.  A crooked smile began to curl his lips.  “Play games like that, and I’ll begin thinkin’ you can handle those scarves after all,” he said.

Buffy squirmed against the hardness of his hip, feeling the moisture begin to seep into her own pants.  “Never said I couldn’t,” she taunted, and was about to throw him off her when a soft scritching from the floor caught both of their attentions.

Their heads swivelled, gazes fixing on the small box that had landed upside down in their tussle.  A moment passed, and, as they watched, the wrapped package moved almost infinitesimally along the carpet.  The breath caught in the Slayer’s throat.  “Please tell me that didn’t…”

Spike didn’t need to reply; the gift did it for them.  Another quarter-inch and both of them were up, off the couch, circling the box with their eyes locked onto it.  The vampire sniffed, but noticed nothing significant in the air, only the scent of Buffy and her excitement.  It distracted him for a moment, but when he saw the young woman step forward, closing in on whatever it was on the floor, he snapped back.

“Stop!”  She halted at the sound of his voice, looking at him quizzically.  “Gifts that crawl around on their own cannot be good,” the blond vamp continued.  “And since that one’s meant for you, I’m thinkin’, you and distance is probably a crackin’ idea.”

Buffy watched as Spike lifted his boot and brought it down on the box, flattening it with an audible crunch.  She grimaced as he stepped back, revealing a mess of cardboard, skinny and broken insect-like legs, and wrapping paper.  “Is it dead?” she asked.

The vampire nudged it with his foot before crouching down to inspect it closer.  “Considerin’ I’ve smashed the hell out of it, I’m goin’ to say yes,” he replied. 

“What was it?”

His blue eyes were almost black as he looked up at her.  “You really want to know?”

“Something tells me you’re not going to say it was some kind of pet spider some real sicko at the club thought I might enjoy.”

Picking at the remains, Spike pulled out something long and curled , ending with a needle-like point.  “That,” he said, “is a scorpion tail.” 

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

She didn’t care what Giles had said; it had been two days since she’d last seen Buffy, and Willow was officially worried.  She had tried taking her mind off it the previous evening with a long study session at the library, but that had only ended with her falling asleep in one of the chairs behind the stacks, having nightmares about vampires chasing her through the books.  The redhead had been awakened this morning by a very irritated librarian, and after profuse apologies, had dashed back to the dorm, scrambling to change her clothes and grab her books before slipping out to her first class. 

She hadn’t actually had a chance to talk to the Watcher since their conversation the other day, but Willow had a sneaking suspicion that the blinking light on her answering machine was there because of him.  She hadn’t had the time to check it this morning, but seeing as how Buffy was still eligible for milk carton status, she wasn’t going to waste even more time by going back to her room; better to just head out to Giles’ and get the scoop firsthand.

Her knock at the door went unanswered, and she stood there, looking around her, wondering what she should do.  It wasn’t like him not to be in; Giles didn’t have anything that seemed to take up his time other than Buffy and research.  Maybe something was wrong and by standing here debating about what she should do, she was killing him because he was lying inside, on the floor, bleeding to death…

OK, over-react much? she admonished herself, but bit her lip.  It couldn’t hurt to try the door.  If he was out, it would be locked and she’d know everything was…

It turned under her grasp, and Willow froze, her mind racing.  Was it considered breaking and entering if the door was unlocked?  What if you knew the person?  Maybe he was seriously hurt after all.  Oh god, she thought, please let everything be OK…

“Giles?” she called out as she poked her head inside the apartment.  She immediately heard the distant sound of running water and audibly sighed in relief.  Shower.  That was of the good.  Time to relax.

Dropping her bag by the door, Willow stepped inside, surveying the many books that were strewn around the room.  Wow, someone had a monster research party, she thought, then pouted.  How come nobody called me? Oh yeah.  I was at the library.

As she passed the desk, her gaze was caught by the painting that rested there, and she stopped, looking down at it wistfully.  Buffy had been right; it was certainly pretty.  Lifelike even.  Bending over, Willow’s eyes scanned the tiny figures, drinking in their gowns, envying the bright smiles on their faces, only to be stopped by the oddly familiar form of a woman in a blue dress.  If I didn’t know better, she thought, I’d think that was…

And then she spotted the platinum head of the figure’s partner, her mouth making a tiny “o” as she sucked in her breath.  Oh sweet goddess, it isn’t, it can’t be.  But it certainly looked like it, and the more she stared, the more convinced she got that the couple dancing near the orchestra were Spike and Buffy.  Without even thinking, her hand lifted, shock taking over, fingertips gently touching the raised oil of her friend’s dress…

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

Her legs were like ice, encased in a silky mesh that clung to her skin like spider webs, only matched by the goosebumps that had suddenly erupted along her chest.  Willow glanced down and her green eyes widened at the sight of her exposed cleavage, thrust upwards and outwards by the satin sheath of her corseted bodice, only a tiny bit of lace edging the seam allowing her any sense of modesty.  Around her neck hung a large box on a strap, filled with row upon row of cigarette packs, and a casual peek at her feet showed her the tottery heels that completed her ensemble. 

Only then did the young witch notice the orchestra behind her, the brass instruments catching the light from overhead and sending shiny glints off into the heavens, each musician playing as if his life depended on it.  There weren’t that many people dancing, but Willow saw that the men outnumbered the women in the room almost three to one; those females that were there were already on the dance floor.

For a second, the redhead pouted.  How come I don’t get to be wearing one of the fancy evening dresses? she thought.  I could look pretty, and I’d be a lot warmer.  And then it hit her.  This is what happened to Buffy and Spike, they got sucked into the painting, followed almost immediately by…

...Oh sweet goddess…I’m in the painting.

So lost was she in her newfound knowledge, the young woman didn’t even notice the hand that slinked out from a nearby table, inching toward her, thumb and index finger at the ready…

“Ow!”  The cigarettes went flying through the air as Willow jumped at the sudden contact, the cheek of her buttock smarting from the man’s pinch.  As she scrambled for her balance, her ankle turned, pitching her sideways over the edge of the bandstand and into the lap of a spectacled trumpet player.  The music screeched to a halt, and the redhead felt the eyes of everyone in the room turn to see what had caused the disturbance, settling on her struggling form as her hose-clad legs kicked uselessly at the air.

A tuxedoed man from the doorway bolted over, and Willow held her breath as he got larger and larger as he approached.  Wide-eyed, she stared up into his black gaze as he reached over, scooped her up into his burly arms, and tenderly deposited her into a nearby chair. 

“You OK, Willow?” he asked, his deep voice incongruously soft as his eyes flickered over her form.  “What happened?”

The redhead pointed a shaking finger toward the offending man.  “He…pinched me,” she explained, her voice wavering, then jerked her head back to look at the black-eyed man again.  “Wait.  You know me?”

But he was already gone, his tuxedo jacket straining across his back as he leaned over, picked up the now-pale pincher up by his lapels.  “You’re looking for some chin music, right, pal?” he menaced.  “’Cause I gotta think that’s the only reason you’re even thinking of letting your mitts touch Miss Rosenberg.” 

The pincher whimpered as the bouncer gave him a rough shake.  “C’mon,” he whined.  “Have you seen her ass?  And she was practically begging for it---.”  The sudden punch to his gut forced the air from his lungs, and he gave up struggling as his beefy captor began dragging him toward the club’s front door.

“She’s not like the other girls,” the dark bouncer growled.  “Willow don’t skate around.”

The young woman watched as the man who’d pinched her was tossed out onto the street, his outraged cry filtering back into the club as the doors slowly swung shut.  Behind her, the music started to play again, and gradually the couples returned to the dance floor, already forgetting the minor disturbance, concentrating only on their partners.

The bouncer reappeared in the entrance, jaw set, but when his black eyes came to rest on the redhead still sitting where he’d perched her, his face softened and he walked over, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets.  “I shoulda seen it coming,” he said as he stood before her.  “You shouldn’t have to put up with mugs like that, not a nice doll like you.”

“Ummmm…thanks.”  As Willow rose to her feet, she winced as a sudden pain shot through her ankle, and would’ve sank back down if he hadn’t caught her.

“You hurt?”

“My ankle.  It’s a little…”  Her words faded as, all of a sudden, the young witch found herself scooped up again into his heavily muscled arms, a tiny doll in the grasp of an overgrown child, and held her breath as he began marching for a door behind the orchestra.  “My…box…” she said, pointing haphazardly at the cigarettes that still littered the floor.

“I’ll get ‘em,” he said.  “You need to take a breather, make sure you haven’t done any serious damage to that...”  His eyes flickered over the curve of her leg, and Willow could’ve sworn he was blushing as he quickly looked away.

“That’s really nice of you,” she said with a smile, and couldn’t help it widening when his color deepened.  Now that she could see him up close, she wasn’t nearly as frightened.  Sure, he was large---OK, gigantic was probably more accurate---but there was something almost child-like in those dark eyes, and he was definitely leaning toward cute, in a big, boxer-like way.  No more reason to be scared of him, than it would be to be scared of Xander…except for the fact that he was nearly twice her friend’s size…

As he pushed open the door with his shoulder, Willow was jolted as they came to an abrupt stop, a scrawny young man with a clipboard blocking their path.  “Gino!” he scolded.  “Why aren’t you at the door?”

“There was a problem, Sammy,” the bouncer explained.  “I was just---.”

“Miss Rosenberg.”  For the first time, the manager noticed just who was being toted, and his mouth set in a grim line.  “What’s happened now?”

“It wasn’t her fault this time,” Gino rushed.  “Some mug grabbed her ass---.”

But Sammy wasn’t listening.  “You know I’ve got to tell Mr. Lombardi, don’t you, Miss Rosenberg?  And this, your first night back.  What’s he going to say?”

“I’m guessing it’s not going to be ‘glad to see you,’” Willow said with a weak smile. 

“You can bet your ass it’s not!”  The voice boomed from the open door in the hallway, and all three turned their heads to see the older man fuming in the frame, smoke billowing around his head as he ripped the cigarette from between his lips to speak.  “Get in here.  Both of you.”

Sammy watched as Gino and Willow disappeared into the office, his rat-like face wrinkling into a frown.  “But there’s nobody watching the door,” he protested.

“Where’s Spike?”

“Not in yet.”

Lombardi rolled his eyes.  “That means Buffy’s not here yet either, right?”  He didn’t even wait for an answer.  “I swear those two are going to be the death of me,” he muttered before slamming the door shut behind him.

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

Willow shrank into the chair, arms folded across her chest in an attempt to hide her cleavage.  She’d actually crossed her legs at one point, but when the tiny skirt rode up, exposing more of her thigh and potentially even more higher than that, she knew from the scarlet tinge in Gino’s cheeks that too much was showing and hastily set both her feet back onto the floor. 

Her head was in overload, trying to take all this new information on board without looking like she didn’t know what the hell was going on.  Obviously, the painting had been charmed in some way, and now she was stuck inside it.  I wonder if that’s what Giles had called to tell me about, she wondered.  Maybe I should’ve listened to my messages after all.

What frightened her even more was that she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Buffy or Spike since her arrival.  They’d been in the picture when she’d touched it, so that had to mean they were still here, right?  If something had happened to them, surely they would’ve disappeared from the artwork, and she would never have seen them, and therefore never have touched them, and then she wouldn’t be here…She blinked, trying to clear her head of the muddle her thoughts were creating, then bit her lip as the older man, the one she assumed was Lombardi, sat on the corner of his desk in front of her.

“Lemme guess,” he started.  “It wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t!”

Lombardi shot Gino an angry glare.  “No one’s asking you.”  He turned back to Willow.  “You wanna tell me what happened, or do we call this three strikes and you’re out?”  Behind her, the redhead heard the bouncer breathe in to speak, only to be silenced by the older man’s finger, pointing at him in warning.  “I said, stay out of it, Gino.”

“Someone…pinched me,” the redhead stumbled.  “That’s why I dropped my box…which is why I fell…and when I tried to stand back, my ankle hurt…which is why Gino was carrying me back here.”  She bit her lip as she looked up at him with wide green eyes.

He looked down at her for a full minute, blue eyes narrowed, jaw locked, before grimacing.  “How do you expect me to stay mad at you when you pull that innocent face on me, Red?” he said, breaking his gaze to stub out his cigarette behind him.  “If you’d’a lied this time, you’d be out on your ear right now, you know that, don’t you?”

Willow nodded vigorously.  “Oh, yes, sir.”

“And you,” Lombardi said, turning to Gino, “your job does not include keeping an eye on the cigarette girl.  Now, if she was on the roster, that would be a whole different ball of wax, but she’s not, so keep your paws to yourself, capisce?”

“Yes, Mr. Lombardi.”

“How do you expect me to trust you to put you on the roster if you keep pulling shit like this, Red?” the boss continued.  “I know you want it, and you’re certainly just as much of a looker as any of the other girls, but if you can’t even sell the decks…”  He let his voice trail off, shaking his head.

Willow’s head raced.  Roster?  Other girls?  Then it clicked.  The other women she’d seen…they were paid to dance with the men; that must be the roster Lombardi was referring to.  She felt her heart quicken.  Dancing was better than selling cigarettes, plus…more clothes…

“I can do it,” she said eagerly, straightening in her seat and smiling as wide as she could.  “Let me give the roster a go tonight, Mr. Lombardi.  I’ll prove to you I’m just as good as the other girls, better even.  I can show you now if you want…”  Thank god for those dance lessons for Jason Green’s bar mitzvah, she thought. 

Lombardi chuckled.  “Well, you’ve got moxie, no doubt about that, but I don’t think I need a private demonstration.”  He pursed his lips as he just studied the young woman, then finally nodded.  “OK, you got one shot.”  A knock at the door pulled his attention.  “What?” he barked.

Sammy poked his head in.  “The car just pulled up with Spike.  You want me to---?”

“Get him in here,” Lombardi growled, interrupting the young manager. 

Willow’s eyes widened.  Did he just say Spike? she thought.  Maybe that means Buffy’s not too far behind…

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

“I’m going to ask around tonight, see what I can find out,” Buffy said, pulling her coat closer around her as they entered the rear entrance of the club.  “Maybe there’s someone who doesn’t like me, although I can’t imagine why.  I haven’t been around here long enough to piss anyone off.”

“Probably some bird who’s jealous I picked you instead of her,” Spike commented, grinning back at her wickedly.

The young woman kicked at him good-naturedly, as much as the long skirt of her gown would allow.  “Big-headed much?”

The pair were stopped short when the young man with the clipboard materialized before them.  “Mr. Lombardi wants you in his office, Spike,” he said, his eyes darting back to where Buffy stood.

The blond vampire sighed.  “Wonder what the hell I’ve done now,” he muttered and started to saunter after the young man, when the Slayer’s voice stopped him.

“Hey!  Since when don’t I get a good-bye kiss?”

He tilted his head as he looked back at her over his shoulder, blue eyes darkening as he tried to suss out her intentions.  After their little adventure with the presents, she’d disappeared to get ready for the evening, only emerging when he’d threatened bodily harm if she didn’t get down to the car.  For the entire ride, they’d only discussed what had happened with the scorpion, what it could mean, who might have sent it; not once had there been any mention of the more personal portion of their earlier conversation.

Still…her attitude was changed towards him, more relaxed, more like she’d been the previous evening at the party, more…intimate.  The wall that usually surrounded Buffy was still there, but somehow it seemed lower, more like she was standing right up to it, leaning over, and less like she was thirty yards back and ordering workers to add more bricks to make it taller.  But this…

Her hazel eyes gleamed, a soft smile curling her lips, and Spike wondered for a moment if this was all just part of the act for Sammy’s benefit.  Hang on, he thought.  Hadn’t they both established that they hadn’t been pretending, that they’d both enjoyed the kiss, that they’d both enjoy…more?  Who cares, he decided.  She was offering; only a fool would say no…

Sammy watched as the blond bouncer closed the distance between him and Buffy, his head tilted in that way only Spike could pull off, his tongue running over his teeth.  The young manager’s gaze was riveted on the young woman as he saw her breath quicken, her chest begin to rise and fall even faster, her smile of anticipation making his own mouth water, and he felt the familiar rise of jealousy in his throat as their lips met, teasing at first, his teeth nipping at her bottom lip before skating over their surface.  Buffy’s hands lifted to Spike’s neck, pulling him closer, forcing him to intensify their kiss, her body leaning forward to press against his.  Only then could Sammy look away.  Somehow, he always felt like a peeping tom when he watched them like this.

Buffy was the first to break away from the kiss, her breathing ragged, her eyes dark, two high spots of color on her cheeks.  “You’d…better go,” she murmured.

He pushed a loose strand of hair off her forehead, and grimaced.  “You know, it’s probably a good thing I have to stand for my job,” he commented.  “Don’t think sittin’ would be too comfortable right about now.”

She laughed and shoved him away.  “I’ll see you later.”

Turning on his heel, Spike followed the young man with the clipboard to Lombardi’s office, a noticeable lightness to his step.  Yep, she’d most definitely be seein’ him later…

“You two get around to unwrapping your gifts yet?” Sammy asked as they approached the door.

The mention of the presents brought Spike back into the moment, and his eyes narrowed as he watched the little man’s back.  “Yeah,” he drawled.  “Which one was yours again?”  Not that he really expected him to admit to sending a deadly scorpion, but hey, didn’t hurt to ask.

“The book of poetry,” the manager said with a blush.  “I know she likes it…”  He quietened as he knocked, waited for the perfunctory “What?”, and pushed it open, standing back to allow Spike free entrance.

The sight of Gino standing just inside the room, arms folded across his burly chest, didn’t surprise the blond vampire in the slightest.  It was the red-haired, green-eyed, scantily clad woman who swivelled to see who was in the doorway that did.

Seeing Willow in the boss’ office sent Spike’s stomach into a downward spiral, and it was all he could do to keep a stoic face.  Her presence could only mean one thing; Rupert had found a way to get them back, and he needed the witch on the inside to sort things out from this end…and that pretty soon, he and Buffy would be back in Sunnydale and things would be exactly like they were before.  For some reason, that was the last thing the vamp wanted right now, but he also didn’t want to give the Slayer any more reason to hate him when this was all over.

Holding up his hand, Spike said, “Hang on,” and stepped back into the hall, spying the young woman about to enter the dressing room.  “Buffy!” he called.   When her gaze jerked up, he nodded his head in the direction of the office.  “Better get in here.”

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

Buffy’s eyes widened when she saw her best friend sitting in the small room.  “Willow!” she exclaimed, rushing forward to sweep her into a huge hug.  “You’re here!”

“Well, where else did you expect her to be?” Lombardi commented.  “Vacations got to end sometime.”

“How are you?  Are you OK?” asked a concerned redhead as the pair broke apart.

“Just fine,” the Slayer assured her.  “You know…considering.”  Her hazel eyes rolled discreetly, and she gave her friend a small smile.

“Yeah, it’s a little…weird, isn’t it?”  Willow brightened.  “Oh!  But guess what?  I get to be on the roster!”

That stopped Buffy.  “What?”

“We’ve just been talking about it,” the young witch continued.  “Just for tonight, though.  I have to prove myself.”

The Slayer swept past her to square off with Lombardi.  “Take her off,” she ordered.

“She’s the one who asked for it, Summers.”

“She’s not…ready.”

Willow grabbed her friend’s arm, turning her around.  “No, Buffy, really, I want to do this.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Trust me, Will,” Buffy said, speaking very deliberately.  “You don’t.”

The redhead’s smile faded.  “I…don’t?”

“A strong and emphatic no.”

“Are you two about done?” Lombardi sighed. 

“Yes,” the Slayer said, turning back to face him.  “It’s decided.  She doesn’t go on the roster.”

“Fine.  Then get out on the floor.  You both got jobs to do.”

“Is your foot OK, Willow?”  It was the first time Gino had spoken since the boss’ reproval, and everyone in the room turned to look at him as he stepped forward to face the young woman.

She tested it, rotating her ankle before smiling up at the dark bouncer.  “Much better,” she said.  “Nothing broken or bruised except for the old ego.”

“C’mon,” Buffy said, looping her arm through her friend’s and pulling her out the door.

Spike turned to follow, only to be stopped by Lombardi’s voice.  “No, you stay.  Gino, get back on the door.”

The blond vampire watched as his partner turned, hesitated, then took a deep breath and pivoted back to stare at the boss.  “You know,” he said.  “You shouldn’t call her Red.  She’s got a name, you know.  Willow.”

Lombardi shook his head.  “As long as she’s my employee, I’ll call her whatever I want.  Now get your lovestruck ass outta my office.”

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

Buffy pulled Willow aside as soon as they were clear of the others, eyes darting surreptitiously at Sammy hanging around the hall.  “Please tell me Giles figured out how to get us back,” she begged, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I wish I could,” the redhead replied.  “But I can’t.  Sorry.  I’m just as stuck as you are.”

The Slayer physically deflated.  “Well, I guess that just means we play make-believe for a little bit longer,” she said.  Her gaze travelled over Willow’s clothes.  “What are you supposed to be?”

“I’m the cigarette girl---.”  Her mouth clicked audibly shut as the door opened and Gino came out, hands thrust deep into his pockets.  He glanced down at her, blushed, and rushed off, with both girls looking after him with a frown.  “And I think the bouncer likes me,” she added.

“Yeah, one of the things about coming through is that the painting seems to make up this whole history for you,” Buffy said.

The sound of a crash on the other side of the office door was followed by a long stream of English curses, catching both of their attentions.  “Is Spike in trouble?” Willow asked.

“Probably.”

“What does he do here?”

“He’s a bouncer, like Gino.”

The redhead turned back to Buffy, a frown worrying her brow.  “What about the chip?” she queried.

The Slayer shrugged.  “Hasn’t come up yet.”  Behind them, Sammy cleared his throat, and Buffy rolled her eyes.  “We better get to work,” she said.  “We can talk later.”  She turned, then stopped, biting her lip.  “Oh, and if anyone says anything about me and Spike, just…kind of…go with the flow.  Don’t argue with what you might hear.  I’ll explain everything after---.”  The manager cleared his throat again, and the young blonde’s head shot around.  “I heard you the first time!”  Sammy visibly cowered, and Buffy sighed.  “Later,” she promised to Willow, before sweeping out into the main room.

Willow hung by the door, watching as the young manager went scurrying past.  It all seemed so…real; it was boggling the amount of detail the magic entailed in creating this world.  For the first time since coming through, the young witch began to wonder who exactly would ever want a painting like that…

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

Her long nail ran along the boy’s bare chest, dragging a line of crimson in its wake, and she sighed as she reached his navel, circling it in a lazy way before etching a path down his hairless thigh.

“C’mon, Melinda, stop playing with your food.”  The other woman’s voice was thick from the blood that clung to her lips, but the annoyance still shone through.

“I’m not hungry,” Melinda pouted, and rolled over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling of the cavern.  “Somebody just go ahead and stake me.”

“Stop being the drama queen and just get over it, will you?  The painting’s gone, Tony’s gone, and your little demon friend isn’t coming back with good news, if he bothers to come back at all after the scare tactics you pulled on him.”

“I know.”  She felt her fangs retract, her game face sliding away, and turned blue eyes to peer over at her friend.  “I just can’t believe he ran away, not after everything we’ve been through.  And it pisses me off.”

“So stop moaning and do something about it,” her friend advised.  “Although why you’d bother for a human, I’ll never know.”

“He was different.  Special.  And I love him.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Melinda sighed and sat up.  Even if her friend didn’t understand, she did have a good point.  It was time to stop wishing for everyone else to sort out her problems and tackle them herself…

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

Something about a hot shower always made him feel like a new man. Maybe it was the sloughing away of the day’s detritus as he scrubbed at his skin, or perhaps it was the sensations of steaming water searing into his skull, clearing it of extraneous miscellany and leaving behind only those thoughts that would provide use to his daily existence. Either way, when Giles emerged from the heat of the bath, stepping into the marked cool of his bedroom with wrinkled and wet feet, he felt for the first time since learning the truth about the painting that things would most definitely work out for the best.

He almost felt like whistling as he quickly dressed. He’d heard Willow’s call while he’d been in the shower, which meant that she’d listened to his message and brought the ingredients Anya had asked for. Now, all they would have to do would be to wait for Xander to bring over the ex-vengeance demon, and the four of them could set about to going and seeing this H’roven artist. The Watcher had done some follow-up research after learning of the painter’s existence, but had unearthed very little outside of what information Anya had already provided. Why she was so frightened of this particular demon, Giles had no idea, but it certainly must be based on something. He’d just have to ask her again when she arrived.

“I hope the magic shop didn’t overcharge you again, Willow,” the older man said as he came down the stairs, then stopped as he surveyed the empty room. “Willow?” he called out, but was answered only by silence. Strange. He could’ve sworn he’d heard her while in the shower. Taking the few steps to peer into the kitchen, he turned, facing the unoccupied lounge, his blue eyes narrowed as doubt began to creep in. Perhaps he’d been hearing things. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’d imagined he’d heard voices in the flat that turned out to be nothing.

The knock at the door broke him from his reverie, and Giles strode over to answer it, his brow still furrowed. Only then did he notice the bag by the entrance. Bending over to pick it up, his left hand turned the knob on the door, allowing whoever was on the other side to come in, his gaze concentrating on the abandoned duffle in his grasp.

“Um, a little help here?”

Giles looked up to see a struggling Xander with an armful of bags, teeth gritted in deliberation as he did his best to balance them without toppling over. “Oh,” the Watcher murmured, the bag forgotten as he set it aside, reaching forward to remove the uppermost sacks from the young man’s pile. Standing back, he peered into the nearest as Xander stumbled forward, dropping them into a hurried pile on the floor before exhaling loudly.

“Where’s Anya?” Giles asked.

“Bringing in the rest of the things,” the younger man explained. “She only let me carry the stuff she wasn’t worried about.”

The Watcher frowned. “There’s more? What could she possibly need so many things for?”

Xander shook his head. “Don’t ask me. I’m only the delivery boy.” As he straightened, he spotted the duffle the older man had just discarded. “Did Will have any problems getting the other ingredients?”

“I don’t know,” Giles murmured as he pulled out a very large jar of a viscous blue liquid. “She’s not here.”

“But…that’s her bag.”

The two men looked at each other for a moment, the question unspoken between them. Xander was the first to move, almost running to where the painting still sat on the desk, leaning over to stare into it intently before his brown eyes widened.

“Holy sweet hotsy totsy mama,” he breathed.

The Watcher was behind him in a shot, his heart pounding as the very real possibility of the witch’s disappearance loomed before him in the shape of…

Behind his glasses, his blue gaze narrowed as he absorbed the tiny outfit…the box around her neck…the unfamiliar length of the redhead’s hose-clad legs as she bent over a table at the edge of the picture. “Oh my,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“What’s oh my?” queried Anya from the doorway. “Oh my is not good.”

The two men stood back as she rushed up to the desk, shifting the bag to her other arm in order to get a better look at the painting. It only took her a moment before she sighed, “Oh my.”

“She must have…while I was in…and now she’s…” Giles seemed incapable of finishing any of his sentences, each trailing off into its own world before turning around to slap the other two in the face with their observations.

“Didn’t you tell her not to touch it?” Anya demanded.

“If you must know, I didn’t actually speak to her,” the Watcher retorted. “But I was very clear in my message, I’m sure.”

“So now we have two reasons to go see this H’whatsit guy,” Xander said, and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get the show on the road.”

“Road schmoad,” Anya said, collapsing onto the couch and folding her arms across her chest. “I needed Willow. Without her, you can just say goodbye to this whole harebrained idea.”

“What’re you talking about?” Her boyfriend circled around, sitting on the edge of the coffee table to look at her expectantly. “I’ll just go pick up the stuff from the shop and we’ll be back in business.”

She rolled her eyes. “I need Willow’s magic skills, you ninny. I’ve still got to make the protection amulets, and it takes two to complete the spell to contact H’roven.”

“Well, I can help with those,” Giles offered. “I’ve done my share of magic in my day, you know.”

“And leave only Xander on weapons?” Anya argued. “I don’t think so. I’m not doing this unless I feel one-hundred percent safe that I’m not going to get skewered like a shish kebab.” She glanced over at the young man. “Sorry, hon.”

“But this is it, Ahn. We’re the cavalry.”

She brightened. “Oh! What about that guy that Buffy and Willow keep talking about? What’s his name? Riley? He’s big. He could probably handle a sword or crossbow or something.”

“And we tell him…what? Buffy’s been sucked into some demon painting and we need to go find the guy who did it because he lives in some weird other hell dimension? Oh, and by the way, do you mind holding this stake and crossbow, ‘cause things could get a little ugly when Anya does her mojo.” Xander shook his head. “He won’t understand. There’s no way we could drag him into this now.”

“Then that’s it. Say good-bye to Buffy and Willow, ‘cause I’m going to burn that painting before anyone else gets sucked through.” She started to rise, only to be pushed back into her seat when Giles marched around and grabbed her shoulder.

“You are doing no such thing!” he ordered, his blue eyes flaring. “I am not going to let you whine your way out of this, Anya. You will do the spell, I will help you, and Xander will be more than fine on weapons. His experience working with Buffy for the last three years hasn’t been for nothing, you know.” He straightened. “And the sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll be back, so I suggest you get up and get down to the magic shop for those amulet ingredients before I---.”

“Fine, I’m going,” Anya interrupted, her thin face wrinkled into a scowl. She stood, pressing herself back into the edge of the couch cushions as she inched her away around the Watcher, heading for the front door. “But I just want you to know, when you get turned into Giles-on-a-stick, I’m going to be the first person to say I told you so.”

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

Hugging the wall, her eyes darted around the darkness, scanning for the young manager’s presence before venturing further into the hallway. Sammy had been very clear about when her break was supposed to be, and though Willow knew that she should’ve waited another ten minutes before coming into the back, her toes were begging her to ignore the rules for once and just get off her feet before they exploded from the pain.

It was only after she slipped inside the dressing room, closing the door silently behind her, did the redhead let out the breath she’d been holding. For some reason, that Sammy gave her the wiggins, running around with his little clipboard, always seeming to be in the middle of everything. She’d almost tripped over him twice this evening already---not that she needed any more help stumbling around in these impossibly high heels and may God smote down the idiot who ever invented them---and been scolded as a result. Somehow, she didn’t think painting Willow rated very high on the young man’s like list.

The sound of crying caused her to turn, gazing over the empty room, before stepping forward, trying to locate the source. Only one other door existed along the walls, and biting her lip, the young witch reached out to open it.

The huddled form of a sobbing blonde greeted Willow as she stood in the entrance. At the sound of the new arrival, she looked up, the make-up in black streaks down her too-full cheeks. “Go away,” she said through her tears.

The redhead stepped forward, crouching down to the other woman’s level. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly.

“Oh, like you care,” the blonde spat. “She’s your friend. She’s happy, you’re happy, and who the fuck cares what anyone else is feeling.”

Willow’s mind whirled. This being thrust into the middle of all these situations harkened back to her dreams about showing up for a play and not even knowing she was in it. What had they called that? An actor’s nightmare? Well, this was definitely hers. “You want to talk about it?” she offered, not having the slightest clue what the other was referring to but hating to see anyone suffer like this. “Sometimes it helps if you can get it out of your system.”

“He just used me,” the blonde murmured, her dark eyes averted as she rocked gently on the floor of the closet. “All along. I was just a piece of meat to him. Chewed me up and spit me out.”

“Who? Who are you talking about?”

She ignored the question. “You should’ve seen him last night. He was all over her, holding her, dancing with her, laughing at her stupid little jokes. I even went up and asked him for a dance, you know, for old-time sake, and he just brushed me off. Said last night was for her.” She looked up at Willow, her eyes brimming with tears. “Why do men do that?” she begged. “They tell you that they love you, and then someone else comes along, and bam! It’s like you never existed.”

The lump in her throat was almost instantaneous as the all-too-recent memory of a naked Veruca curled up against Oz---her Oz!---flashed across her mind’s eye, and she swallowed hard in an attempt to rid herself of it, as if that act could erase the picture that had haunted her over the past few weeks. “Sometimes…it’s not something…they can control,” the redhead finally managed, knowing as it came out that it was a weak argument, that even she didn’t really believe it.

The other woman laughed, a harsh, wet sound that threatened to gurgle over the pair of them. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Control is not exactly Spike’s strong suit.”

The mention of the vampire’s name brought Willow back to the present. Spike? She’d had a thing going with Spike? Not the real Spike, she argued back to herself. He’s only been here two days, it was the pre-painting Spike. But who was this other woman she was talking about…? And then it dawned on her, remembering the blonde’s first words when she’d stepped into the closet. “You’re her friend.” Buffy? No! It couldn’t be…

“He can’t just get away with this,” the other woman was saying, struggling against her skirt to rise to her feet. “He has to learn. You can’t just trifle with someone’s emotions like that. You can’t cause them so much pain; it’s just not right.” A stunned Willow could only watch as she reached for a long coat, her hand disappearing into a side pocket before extracting a tiny gun, cradling it in her palm before turning back to face the redhead. “I think it’s about time he felt his own pain.”

As the young witch jumped to her feet, the same ankle that had turned earlier decided to do a repeat performance, and she grimaced in pain as she struggled to stay vertical. “Hang on there,” she said. “You don’t want to do this.”

The blonde shook her head. “Of course you don’t understand,” she said. “You were so quick to move out when he moved in with Buffy, to give them ‘space,’ you said, ‘cause they needed quality alone time. You’ve been on their side all along.”
“I’m not on anyone’s side!” Willow protested. “I’m totally sideless!”

“I wish I could believe that. I like you. I’m really sorry.”

Maybe it was because she was distracted by the pain in her foot. Maybe it was because people in this painting world were blessed with super-human speed and strength. Or maybe it was just because she didn’t really believe the blonde would actually do it. Either way, Willow was totally taken surprise by the force of the other woman’s blow, sending her reeling into a black oblivion even before her body slumped to the closet floor…

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

He’d seen her wincing as she’d slunk her way to the door behind the orchestra, and he just knew that her ankle was bothering her more than she’d let on earlier. Why hadn’t she just spoken up to Lombardi? He would’ve let her go home for the night; after all, she’d come back from her vacation early and technically wasn’t even supposed to be working until tomorrow. Women, Gino thought, mentally shaking his head. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never understand them.

He’d been surprised to see her walk in earlier, her wide smile lighting up the back hallway like a beacon, calling out a casual hello to the dark bouncer before disappearing into the dressing room with the other girls. Ever since she’d starting working at the Rising Sun, Gino had found himself thinking of no other girl but her, watching her when he wasn’t supposed to, getting into trouble more than once to help cover up some of her mistakes. Willow was one of the few dames in the joint who actually talked to him like he was a person, not just a piece of meat necessary to guard their precious little selves, and he’d responded to her overtures of friendship like a hungry puppy. She was, without a doubt, the smartest girl he’d ever met, but at the same time, she didn’t treat him like an imbecile, not like some of the others. When he didn’t get something, she was patient enough to explain it for him, and that, more than anything else, cemented how he felt about her. As someone who was used to thinking with his fists, knowing someone thought that what was between his ears wasn’t just a waste of space was worth more than all the tea in China.

His eyes darted to the door again, and he couldn’t help the frown that came to his brow. She wasn’t back yet. Hopefully, that didn’t mean she’d run into the young manager; for some reason, Sammy had been gunning for Willow ever since she started. The last thing she needed right now was another run-in with the little twerp.

Without moving his body, Gino tilted his head ever so slightly toward Spike. “Call of nature,” he said, his lips barely moving. “Be back in a sec.”

“I’ll be right here,” the blond replied, his own gaze locked on the dance floor.

The dark bouncer could barely contain the smile as his eyes followed his partner’s path, ending on the twirling form of an effervescent Buffy as she moved in time with the music, carefully maintaining the distance between her and the elderly gentleman who held her in his arms. He didn’t care how many times the Englishman argued to the contrary; the thing that somehow connected him and his fiancée was bigger than anything Gino had ever seen before. It was almost as if Spike was afraid that if he wasn’t watching her, she’d somehow disappear. He shook his head as he ambled for the door behind the orchestra. If only he could get Willow to feel the same thing…

So lost in his own daydream, he didn’t even see the rushing blonde emerge from the back until the two had collided. “Oh! Sorry ‘bout that, Pauline.” His apology was automatic, and Gino was already back into his own thoughts and images of a certain redhead before he could notice the woman’s tear-stained face…

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

She forced her smile wider as the bottom of his foot connected yet again with her toe, squashing it under his weight before stepping away and sweeping her closer to the orchestra. Keep the customer happy, Buffy, she reminded herself. It’s only a dance, and you can grow another toe tomorrow. Just remember that it could always be worse.

Too bad not everyone dances like Spike, she thought ruefully, the memories of their day of lessons flooding over her body, coursing over her skin like a velvet cloak, hardening her nipples as the recollection of his body pressed against hers drifted her away from her current partner and into naughty thoughts of icy tongues and strong hands. To be honest, she didn’t know what in hell was going on between the two of them, but one thing was for certain; there would be no more denying the physical attraction that bound them, seeming to leap between them like electricity every time he looked at her…she looked at him…

She couldn’t help her hazel eyes wandering to where he stood now in the doorway, back straight, the crisp lines of his tuxedo broadening his muscular frame. The clothes were different, but the costume remained the same…the shield of ebony the blond vampire’s marker for his claim to all things big and bad. Buffy had seen the fear in those cerulean depths when she’d been talking to Willow in Lombardi’s office, knew that he wasn’t looking forward to returning to Sunnydale and the half-existence he seemed to have there. For a moment, she felt a pang of guilt, then shoved it aside. We’re not even back yet, she admonished herself. Who knows what things will be like when we return?

The young woman wasn’t surprised when she saw him watching her in kind, saw the corner of his lips raise ever so slightly as he met her gaze, and felt the now-familiar tug on the cord that seemed to bind her heart and her sex, a gentle reminder to the former’s existence…a sudden flash of moisture to the latter’s…

It was the sudden glint of the light overhead as it caught the metal in the girl’s hand that jerked Buffy’s attention away from the blond vampire, snapping her head to see the gowned woman raise her arm…aim it at the doorway…

“Spike!”

The Slayer’s voice cut through the music, immediately snatching the vampire’s notice, his body automatically stepping forward as if nearing her was necessary to respond. He didn’t see the other woman off to his side, only cocked his head in query as Buffy tore herself away from her dance partner, breaking into a cold run, damning her long skirts as they tangled around her legs.

Only Superman is faster than a speeding bullet.

The discharge of the gun pierced the air, sending the occupants scurrying for cover as many of the young women screamed in fear. The Slayer vaulted herself through the air, tackling the shooter about the shoulders, sending both of them sprawling into the orchestra, taking down several music stands and chairs at the same time. A tuba managed to somehow bounce against Buffy’s back, but she was oblivious to the cold metal as she wrenched the small pistol from the woman’s hand, tossing it aside and out of her reach, before sitting up and straddling her.

“What’re you---?” she began, stopping only when she felt the hand come down on her shoulder. She looked up to see Tony’s spectacled face frowning down at her.

“You better…see Spike,” he said, his voice low, his eyes darting over to the doorway.

As she scrambled to her feet, Buffy ordered, “Don’t let her go anywhere,” before hopping over the bandstand and rushing over to the club’s entrance. Just a few feet away, however, she stopped, her heart in her throat, as she saw the blond bouncer’s slumped form against the jamb, the blood smearing the wall where he’d slid down it. He was still conscious, but the pain he was experiencing was obvious from the grimace on his face, and the Slayer felt an uncharacteristic flash of fear that something could seriously be wrong with him. Right, she scolded herself. He’s a vampire, remember? Unless it was a wooden bullet, he’ll be perfectly fine.

As she knelt beside him, Spike’s blue gaze drifted to her face. “Well, I’d say it’s been a crackin’ day for both of us,” he commented dryly, wincing slightly as she pulled at the sleeve of his jacket, ripping it from the shoulder seam and exposing the crimson stain on his white shirt.

Buffy exhaled loudly as she tore away the remaining fabric and saw the scarlet trail left by the bullet where it had grazed his arm. “You’re just lucky she’s a lousy shot,” she replied, then glanced up at the stain running down the wall. “You know, you bleed an awful lot for a vampire.”

He was about to respond when she saw his eyes dart to over her shoulder, his lips thin as they pressed together. Turning around, Buffy saw the lumbering form of Lombardi shove his way through the throng.

“What the hell happened here?” he thundered, then stopped, paling slightly as he saw the blood staining both his bouncer and Buffy’s clothes.

“Go ask Annie Oakley over there,” the Slayer responded, nodding toward the approaching forms of Tony and Pauline.

“And where’s Gino?” Lombardi demanded. “That boy always disappears when he’s most needed.” He took a step closer to the pair on the floor, the lines between his watery blue eyes softening. “How is it?”

“Just a flesh wound,” Buffy said. “It looks worse than it actually is.”

The boss sighed. “Well, someone better get him over to the hospital, get a doc to patch him up. I can’t afford to have him out of commission too long.”

Spike tensed under the young woman’s hand, and she squeezed his arm slightly in reassurance. No matter what, she had to make sure he didn’t get seen by a doctor; somehow, she didn’t think she was going to be able to explain away the blond vampire’s lack of a pulse or his somewhat below-average body temperature. “You sure you want to do that?” she asked the older man. “They’re going to want to call the cops, ‘cause you know, gun wound. And then they’ll come around here asking questions…” She bit her lip, hoping it was enough to convince him not to follow through on the idea. When she saw the doubt begin to creep into his face, she plunged onward. “Let me take Spike home. All he needs is a good dressing and some TLC. I can take care of that.”

There were a couple snickers among the crowd as she said the last, but she ignored them, concentrating on Lombardi. “All right,” he finally said. “Get him---.” He cut himself off as the bulky form of his other bouncer emerged from the back of the club, the unconscious Willow in his arms. “And what the hell is this?” he demanded, the fire back in his voice.

“I found her in the dressing room,” Gino explained. “Someone’s cold-cocked her a good one. I…can’t get her to wake up.”

As Lombardi shot Pauline a dirty look, she immediately averted her gaze, ducking her head to hide the shameful flush that colored her cheeks. “This kind of shit is not rolling my dice,” the boss muttered before turning to the crowd. “Lola!” he shouted. Buffy watched as a very tall, very thin strawberry blonde broke free from the throng. “Go with Gino to the hospital,” the boss instructed. “Get her taken care of.”

Jumping to her feet, the Slayer grabbed Lombardi’s arm, pulling him around to look at her. “Let me go, too.”

He frowned. “You gotta take Spike, remember? Or does the phrase TLC not ring a bell in that pretty little head of yours? Besides, Lola’s her roommate. She can give the hospital all the information they need about Red. You’ll just get in the way.” The older man turned and grabbed Pauline’s arm, wrenching her free from Tony’s grasp. “And you,” he menaced. “I’m going to take care of you personally.”

Buffy could only watch as Lombardi led the other woman away, the crowd thinning…stepping back. As Gino stepped forward to leave, her hand reached out and grabbed his coat sleeve, looking up into his black eyes as she said, “Call me and let me know how she’s doing, OK?”

The dark bouncer nodded, his face somber, and exited the club with Lola trailing after him.

Buffy sighed, crouching again at Spike’s side. “OK, just for the record, I’m really starting to get annoyed with this place,” she said as she hefted him to his feet, allowing him to lean against her in a semblance of need, even though she knew he was probably fine to walk by himself. She turned, only to be met by Tony’s worried features.

“Is he going to be OK?” the trumpet player asked.

The Slayer nodded. “I think his ego is more hurt than he is,” she commented. “Big Bad Bouncer knocked over by an itty bitty---.”

“Hey!” Spike interrupted. “I’m standing right here.”

“I can’t believe…” Tony murmured, then cut himself off, clearing his throat, leaning forward so that his words couldn’t be overheard by any of the others. “You’ve got to be careful,” he warned. “This place…anything can happen…”

“I think we’re beginning to see that. Although watching one of our presents go crawling off on its own accord was kind of funny, in a warped and twisted kind of way.” She shrugged at the musician’s confused frown. “Someone sent me a scorpion as an engagement gift. Probably Miss Psycho who took a shot at Spike.”

“Wow,” Tony breathed. “I can’t believe how fast it’s started for you two…”

“How fast what’s started?” Buffy asked, tilting her head questioningly.

Before he could reply, the conductor came up behind Tony, clapping his hand down on his shoulder. “Back in the pit,” he said. “We still gotta play.”

As the two musicians walked back to the bandstand, Spike snorted in derision. “Knew I didn’t like the wanker,” he muttered. “Bastard knows something and isn’t sharin’.”

Although she didn’t voice it, the young woman couldn’t help but agree with the blond vampire’s assessment. The thoughts collided with each other in her head, struggling for dominance as she carefully led Spike out to the waiting car. Amidst the jumble, however, one kept jumping out, forcing itself to the forefront with a chilling vengeance.

Anyone with more information than she had could not be taken lightly…