Chapter Ten

“...So then he yells, ‘Get thee gone, witch!’ and throws this massive flaming torch at me,” Willow said. “It caught my skirt and set it on fire.”

Tara’s eyes were huge. “What did you do?”

“Jumped in the river,” Willow said. “I ducked under and swam away. Xander said they thought I’d disappeared. Obviously hadn’t heard of underwater swimming.”

“Were you all right?”

“I was fine. Messed up my skirt, but then clothes are a lot easier to replace than skin. It did burn me a little, though,” Willow said.

“Where?”

“On my calf. Look,” she sat down on a low wall and lifted up her skirt, pulling down her stocking to show Tara the faded scar.

“Poor thing,” Tara stroked the skin, soft but slightly bumpy under the surface where the tissues had been damaged. Willow shivered. “Are you cold?”

“No,” Willow said, truthfully, because she was suddenly hot. “It, uh, it tickles. Itches.”

“I could get some salve for that, if you want,” Tara offered. “Anya keeps some, I think. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

Willow gave her a warm smile. “Thanks.” She pulled her stocking back up and fastened the garter. “I, er...”

Tara’s eyes ducked down, then back up again. “I suppose Xander usually does that for you.”

“Does what?”

“Salve and things. For your burn. And - you know, other things.”

Willow laughed nervously. “He does, and he always makes some joke about it.”

“Why? It’s not funny.”

“No, he just... He always says something like, ‘It’s just like we’re married or something.’”

“Why aren’t you?” Tara asked suddenly.

Taken aback, Willow blinked a bit. “I, uh... Well, you know, it’s Xander.”

Tara frowned anxiously.

“Plus, I can’t marry him.”

“Why not?”

“I’m... Jewish, and he’s not.”

“Oh,” Tara looked down again. “What’s it like?”

“What?”

“Being... Jewish.”

“It’s not something I really think about much. What’s it like not being Jewish?”

Tara looked up, caught Willow’s eye, and smiled shyly. “I... I never really thought about it like that.”

Willow wasn’t really sure how it happened. One minute they were sitting there talking about Judaism, and the next she was thinking how lush Tara’s lips looked. And when she tried to tell herself she was purely admiring them, in an aesthetic sort of way, she knew she was lying.

“A-are you all right?” Tara asked, looking at her strangely.

“I’m fine,” Willow said quickly.

“You’re all pale.”

“I, uh...”

Tara touched her forehead, her cheeks. “You’re burning up.” She leaned closer. “You’re-”

And then Willow kissed her.

Dawn was already dressed and heading for the stables when she met her father going in the same direction.

“I thought you had a late night last night.”

He barely looked at her, just strode on by. “I thought you were supposed to have been asleep.”

“My room overlooks the terrace,” Dawn said, arching her eyebrows, and Spike had the grace to blush. “Buffy still asleep?”

“She is.”

“I like her,” Dawn said thoughtfully.

“Me too,” Spike said, but he didn’t sound too happy about it. He found his horse and saddled it himself, ignoring the stablehands who swarmed about, trying to impress his daughter in her smart blue velvet. “You really brought a riding costume with you on a flying visit?”

“I didn’t know how long I’d be here,” Dawn said, smiling prettily at a boy who was taking a deliberately long time to fasten a buckle on the saddle. Spike glared at him and did it himself.

“Why are you here?”

“I wanted to tell you something.”

“So tell me.” Spike swung up onto his horse, and Dawn did the same before she spoke.

“I’m getting married.”

“The hell you are.” Spike kicked his horse out into the yard. Dawn followed, staring. She’d been gearing up to say this for weeks. She’d expected something a little more than that.

“No, I really am.”

“No, you’re really not.”

Exasperated, she said, “Why not?”

“You don’t have my permission.”

“I wasn’t asking for it.”

“I’ll lock you in.”

“I’ll escape,” Dawn said matter-of-factly as she rode after him out of the yard and down a mud track. “I’m getting married.”

“You’re too young.”

“No, I’m not! Sixteen is a perfectly acceptable age to be married!”

“No, it’s not,” Spike said, and kicked his mare into a gallop. As if he didn’t have enough to cope with, there was this. Most of the time he hardly remembered he had a daughter, and when he did it was to think of some tiny creature with massive blue eyes who looked up at him with a mixture of awe and fear.

How long had it been since she looked at him like that? Come to think of it, had she ever? He couldn’t remember Dawn being afraid of anything. She was as stubborn as a mule and she never did what she was told. And as for being tiny, she had done an awful lot of growing up since he’d seen her last.

An awful lot.

And she was far too young to be getting married. Next thing he knew, she’d be having babies and then he’d be a grandfather. Him, a grandfather! He was a ruthless bloody highwayman, for God’s sake. He could just about get away with having an illegitimate daughter, because that was a rakish thing to do, but not a grandchild. Never.

“Look,” Dawn had slewed her horse in front of him, making him stop suddenly - thank God his horse was so well trained - “I could have just run off and got married and you’d never have even known about it. Never have even met him. I’m offering you the chance to do that.”

“If I meet him, I’ll beat the shit out of him,” Spike said, trying to get past, but she stayed in his way.

“Why? He’s a good man.”

Because he’s taking you away, Spike wanted to say. And if he does that, I’ll have nothing. No Buffy, no Dawn. Nothing.

“You’re too young.”

“No,” Dawn went for patience, “I’m not.”

“You-”

“I’m as old as you were when you joined the army.”

He glared at her, and she folded her arms.

“You’re still a child,” he said.

“I am not! I’ve been running your house for years! God knows, someone has to.”

Spike tried to think of something to say to that, and failed.

“Look,” Dawn said. “Come and meet him. You’ll like him. He’s clever and funny, and he has his own house and a respectable income.”

“What does he do?” Spike asked suspiciously.

“He’s a lawyer.”

“I don’t trust lawyers.”

“You’d trust him. He could be very useful. Think about it, Spike.”

“Why don’t you ever call me ‘father’?” he asked irritably.

“Why don’t you ever act like one?”

“I am now.”

“No, now you’re acting like a stubborn kid.”

“So that’s where you get it from.”

They glared at each other.

“You can’t stop me,” Dawn said.

“Watch me.”

“Why does it bother you so much?”

“Because,” Spike’s horse sidestepped restlessly, and he knew how it felt. “Because you’re too young, and I don’t want to see you ruin your life the way I ruined mine.”

“By having me? Well, I’m sorry, but no one asked me if I wanted to be born and ruin your life for you.”

“That’s not what I meant-”

“So what did you mean?”

Spike ground his teeth. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Dawn cocked her head. “Why not?”

Because I love you. “Because you’re all I’ve got,” Spike said, although he said it quietly.

Dawn looked at him for a long moment, and when he made to pull his horse away, she reached out and grabbed its bridle.

“What about Buffy?”

“What about her?”

“You have her too.”

At that Spike made his horse move away, “No, I don’t,” he said, and kicked the mare into a gallop before Dawn could think of anything to say to that.

She rode back to Angel’s house, slid off the horse and hardly noticed the stableboys this time, walked back up to the house in thoughtful silence. Inside, activity swarmed all over the place, and she found Buffy talking to Angel in the drawing room.

“Have you seen Spike?” Buffy asked, as soon as she saw Dawn.

Dawn smiled at Buffy’s use of his nickname. “He’s out riding.”

“Will he be back soon?”

“I don’t know.” Judging by the look on his face as he’d galloped away, Dawn wouldn’t bet on it.

Buffy’s face fell, and when Giles put his head round the door and said they were nearly ready to go, it fell even further.

“He probably forgot you’re leaving,” Angel said.

“Or he just doesn’t care.”

“No, he does,” Dawn said, and they both looked surprised at the force in her voice.

“So why didn’t he stay to say goodbye?”

“He - he’s just preoccupied,” Dawn said lamely. “Stay a while, and-”

“Why?” Buffy said, looking unhappy. “To say goodbye to a highwayman who lies to me?”

“When did he lie?” Angel asked.

“He wasn’t big on telling me he had a daughter.”

“He never tells anyone,” Dawn said. “I’m the best kept secret in the Colonies.”

Buffy sighed, looking tired. She was tired: she’d slept fitfully, knowing she had to leave and trying to think of what to say to Spike in the morning. To Will. Funny how his name had changed in her mind. How he had changed. Now she trusted him, now she cared about how he felt. Now she didn’t want to leave him.

But she had to. No one had a better chance to reform than her, and she was damn well going to take it. Giles was a kind and respectable man, and it looked like Xander and Willow might be staying around for a while, and she liked Anya, and if she got bored she could always come and visit Angel and Darla. She had an open invitation.

But she’d sure as hell miss Spike.

Xander came to the door to tell her they were ready, and she dredged up a smile from somewhere to give to Angel. He kissed her - going for her mouth but getting her cheek - and hugged her, and she said, “Thank you. For everything.”

“Any time, darlin’.”

Buffy turned to Dawn, who gave her a shy smile and said, “He really does like you, you know.”

“He likes his horse, too,” Buffy said. “It was nice to meet you, Miss-”

“Dawn,” Dawn said firmly.

“Dawn,” Buffy smiled warmly. “I hope you and your father get on better.”

“Do you think I’m too young to be married?”

“Yes,” Xander said.

“Hell, no,” Angel said.

Buffy glared at them both. “I think you’ll know when you’re ready.”

“I’m pretty sure I am now.”

“Then no, you’re not too young. Did Spike say you were?”

Dawn rolled her eyes and nodded.

“Between you and me, he’s not too bright.”

Dawn grinned. “I like you,” she said, and hugged Buffy, who hugged her back in surprise.

Buffy said goodbye to Darla, and to Cordelia and Doyle - definitely something going on there, she thought - and then she and Giles and Xander and Anya got on their horses, saddlebags fully packed, and rode off. Away from Sunnydale House. Away from Angel and his ill-gotten gains, his jokes and his Irish leers. Away from Cordelia’s knowing sense. Away from Dawn’s bright, oddly old eyes. Away from Spike, his hard delicious body, his cool, hot eyes, his manic cheekbones, his luscious mouth, his heat and his power and his lust.

Buffy’s body throbbed and her heart lurched and she almost turned back, sure she could hear him crying her name, just the way he did when he made love to her, but she knew she was dreaming, and she had to forget him.

She rode on, her mind full of him.

Spike reined his horse in, watching the party far below in the valley, riding away out of his life. He knew where they were going, of course, he could even get down there and intercept them in no time, it was what he did for God’s sake - but he also knew Buffy had left without waiting to say goodbye. He ached for her, felt her absence like the loss of a limb, but he didn’t go after her. He didn’t need her in his life.

He was pretty sure he didn’t need her.

Nearly pretty sure.

Oh, hell.

Dawn was reading a book in the library when her father stalked in, looking mad as all hell, riding crop still in hand, and she eyed it warily. He’d never struck her before, but they way he was looking now she wasn’t entirely sure she trusted him.

“Come on,” he said, and grabbed her to her feet.

“We’re going somewhere?”

“Got a son-in-law to meet,” Spike said, and Dawn beamed at him so widely he nearly cracked a smile. But then he thought, Buffy, and his heart lurched. “Come on.”

Dawn gathered her things and put her riding costume back on and said goodbye to Darla, who looked at her as if she was a child, and Angel, who looked at her like she was a piece of meat, and followed her father out to the stableyard.

“I have my carriage,” she said, and Spike said, “I hate those things.”

“Okay, we’ll ride,” she said, seeing her horse all ready for her. Something told her that to annoy her father right now would not be a good move.

Her luggage was packed away in the carriage, ready to follow them with Doyle and his pistol escorting it, and they set off. Spike’s horse was fast, and he rode hard, and Dawn was breathless trying to keep up. That’s a lot of frustration he’s pounding out there, she thought, as he suddenly reined in on the edge of a small wood and said, “You want to learn the family trade?”

She looked at him in confusion.

“Coach coming this way,” Spike said. “Rich pickings.”

“I’m not sure-”

“Then get over there and stay out of my way,” he said abruptly, and Dawn did as she was told, frightened but curious. Spike pulled something out of his pocket and tied it around his face - a black scarf covering his face below his eyes. He pulled his hat down, so his face could hardly be seen at all, got out his pistol, and when the coach rattled round the corner, aimed and shot one of the wheels to bits.

The coach staggered and lurched to a halt, and the driver looked up in terror to see Spike.

“Get down,” Spike said. “Now, before I shoot you in the head.”

Dawn had never seen him look so ruthless. The driver did as he was told, and Spike, swinging off his horse, whacked the man hard over the head with the butt of his pistol. Dawn winced. Ouch.

The door of the coach had opened and a rather fat, pompous-looking man in an elaborate wig got out and started blustering, “Just what’s going on here-?”

He saw Spike reloading his gun, and, far from looking afraid, just blustered a little bit more.

“Now look here,” he said, and Spike waved his gun.

“Shut up.”

The pompous man got out his own pistol, ornate and ugly, and brandished it bravely. “I’ll not give in to your kind,” he said, and Spike aimed and calmly shot him.

Dawn let out a small scream and covered her mouth with her hand. She heard more screams, from inside the coach, as the fat man fell to the ground with blood all over him.

“Shut up,” Spike said loudly, “or I’ll shoot the bloody lot of you. Damn sight easier than keeping you all alive. Get out and keep your mouths shut, or I’ll rip you each a new one.”

A trembling and silent group of people got out of the coach, and Dawn watched her father take watches, jewellery and money from each of them. He stepped over the fallen man carelessly to get to the last passenger, a pretty young woman not too much older than Dawn. She was shaking so hard Dawn could see the movement from her hiding place in the trees.

“You,” Spike said, gesturing with his gun. “With me. The rest of you stay where you are. I’ve got someone watching this coach and you’ll all be dead in seconds if you try anything.”

He grabbed the young woman by the arm and yanked her into the trees. She stumbled after him, sobbing, and as they got closer Dawn could hear her crying, “Please don’t hurt me. Take whatever you want. Please...”

“Shut up,” Spike said, and shoved her the last few feet to Dawn. “Take your cloak off. Quicker than that, I don’t have all day.”

The girl looked at Dawn, who bit her lip and looked uncomfortably at her father. “Um, should I-”

“Be quiet,” Spike said. To the girl he added, “Unfasten your dress.”

By now openly sobbing, shaking so hard she could hardly move, the girl took ages to unhook each bit of her bodice.

“Spike,” Dawn said, “this is-”

He stepped forward and roughly lifted the girl’s chin. “How old are you?”

“S-sixteen.”

“You a virgin?”

Tears cascaded down her cheeks. “Y-yes.”

Spike glanced at Dawn, who looked furious. “Betrothed?”

She shook her head and started to mumble a prayer.

“Good. Too young. What do you have in there?” he finished unfastening her bodice as she trembled there before him.

“Spike,” Dawn stepped forward and took his arm, but he shook her off and to her astonishment, withdrew a velvet pouch from the girl’s corset. He shook it, and it jingled with coins and jewellery.

“Thanks,” he said, and tucked the pouch into his pocket. “Get dressed. You’re giving me ideas.” He strode off back to the coach.

Dawn helped the distraught girl fasten her clothing and offered her a weak smile before leading her back to the coach, where everyone was back on board, including the fat man Spike had shot and the unconscious driver. He shut the door, blocked it with a piece of wood, and said to his daughter, “We’re off.”

“Oh, no we’re not,” she said, and when he looked back she was standing with hands on hips, looking like she’d kill him with her bare hands.

“That’s how I do it,” he said.

“I hate you.”

“I pay for all your pretty things.”

“I don’t want them.”

Spike glared at her. He was in a bloody awful mood. What he really wanted was to kick the shit out of something, but he knew Dawn would shoot him with his own pistol if he did. So he’d robbed the first coach that came along, wanting - needing - the lift that came with it, and instead just feeling more depressed. Time was, he’d have had that pretty little girl up against a tree with her skirts over her head, taking her for everything she had - jewels, money, virtue - but then Dawn was there, and he suddenly wanted her respect.

Not to mention that the only woman he wanted to touch at all was riding back home with her godfather, having forgotten him completely.

“You killed that man,” Dawn accused.

“I did not. I shot his arm. He’ll be fine.”

“He could bleed to death.”

“I tied a tourniquet. Dawn-”

She was already turned away from him, flouncing back to her horse. Great. Two women in as many hours. What was wrong with him?

That’s what you get going for longevity, Spike, he realised miserably. You’re not cut out for anything permanent.

“Dawn,” he yelled, but she was already on her horse. “Don’t you dare ride away without me!”

“I’ll do what I damn well like,” she yelled back, kicking her horse away.

Spike stepped back as she nearly rode him down and hollered after her, “Fine, but if you get attacked don’t expect me to bloody rescue you.” He pulled the bar off the coach door, muttering, “These bloody roads are full of bandits.”

The frightened passengers stared out at him in confusion.

“What are you looking at?” Spike snarled, and got on his horse to go after his daughter.

Chapter Eleven

“Elizabeth?” Giles said as they approached his house. She’d been quiet all the way, silent, thoughtful, looking sad. “Buffy?”

She looked up and offered a rather unconvincing smile.

“Are you alright?”

“I - I’m just tired,” she said, and faked a yawn. “Long journey. I think I might just go to sleep for a while when we get in.”

He nodded, not convinced, and made to open the door of his house.

It was locked.

Frowning, he knocked. “Miss McClay? Tara?”

No reply. Confused, Giles fished for his keys. He’d always told Tara to lock the door if she left the house, so she must have just popped out for something. Presumably Willow had gone too. It was strange to come home to an empty house.

Inside, he found the fireplaces empty - usually she prepared them in the afternoon, to keep the house warm as the sun set. There was a pile of vegetables in the kitchen, but none of them had been cooked. Her shoes and cloak were gone, as were Willow’s.

“It’s not like her to leave things this late,” Anya said, frowning.

“She probably just went to get something for supper,” Xander said.

“I’ll go and look,” Buffy offered, needing to be alone for a while. She could walk around the village for a while. No doubt Willow and Tara were just getting some meat or milk or something.

“You want company?” Xander offered, but looked quite relieved when she said no. None of them had missed the total absorption he and Anya had in each other. All the way back from Angel’s they’d ridden very close together and talked and giggled for hours. Now Anya was sitting down prettily and sighing that her feet ached from all that riding. Buffy was about to say that surely her legs would ache more, when Xander offered to rub Anya’s feet.

Buffy had no doubt he’d be moving up as soon as they were alone.

She left Giles to his study, Xander and Anya to their unsubtle courtship, and walked out into the cool air of the late afternoon. To go into town meant a left turn, but Buffy turned right, away from the village centre, and wandered along the empty road, between close buildings, smaller and shabbier as she walked on.

Should she have stayed? Should she have thought about Spike - his name was William, she reminded herself, but ever since she’d heard ‘Spike’, it had stuck. He wasn’t much of a William anyway - and defied what he’d said about their relationship having no future?

So he’d been burned before. So what? It wasn’t as if she was asking for a marriage proposal and lots of fat babies. She didn’t really want babies. Not right now, anyway. She needed to know who she was, first.

But all her memories, pretty much every one she had, were tied up with Spike. Spike trying to rob Willow and Xander. Spike tied to a kitchen chair, glaring at her. Spike rushing towards her in the middle of the night, desperate for her touch. His mouth, his eyes, his body - oh God, his body...

His voice saying there was no one like her. “I wanted you even when you were throwing rocks at me.” Telling her he could never refuse her anything. Well, he’d changed his mind pretty sharpish on that one.

Let him go, she told herself firmly. Let him sod off and be a lonesome highwayman. She could highwayman him into the ground. One day, she thought, one day I’ll get that... that... that prat and I’ll rob him blind. Everything he has.

Even his clothes.

Mmm.

She shook his head. “Don’t need him,” she said aloud. “Never did. Don’t need anyone.”

“Perdita?” came a voice from very low down, and she stopped, confused. She looked around. She was by a small, dark alley. No one in it. Puzzled, she walked a step or two further, then the voice came again. It was familiar. And besides, who still called her Perdita?

“Willow?”

“Down here,” Willow said, and Buffy caught the movement of her pale hand behind the bars of a cellar window. She ran down the alley and crouched at the window, looking in to see Willow in a tiny, dark filthy cell. She was alone.

“What are you doing in there?” Buffy looked at the building. “Isn’t this the town hall?”

Willow nodded, her face dirty and streaked with tears. “Oh Perdita, am I glad to see you! Oh - wait, the schoolteacher is looking for you-”

“He found me,” Buffy interrupted. “What’s going on? Why are you in a cell?”

Willow looked wretched. “They’re going to burn us,” she said.

“What? Who? Us?”

“Me and Tara. They say we’re witches.”

“Why?”

“We, uh, well, it doesn’t matter. We’re not,” Willow added, more firmly.

“I believe you.”

“They’re going to burn us tonight. When it gets dark.” Her voice caught on a sob. “I tried to get them to reason but they said we needed to be made an example of. They wouldn’t even wait for Mr Giles to get back.”

“Well, he’s back now,” Buffy said, and stood up, her mind whirring. “Wait there.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Willow asked plaintively, but Buffy was already gone.

Spike rode hard after Dawn, but she was smaller and lighter and her horse was more rested than his. She was always too far ahead of him. And he’d no idea where they were going. He’d started them out on the road home, but now she was doubling back... south, was it? It was getting late, the sun was falling in the sky. Falling to his right, which meant they were going south.

Maybe to her lawyer.

Maybe she was just trying to shake him off.

Bloody women!

He came to a crossroads laced with hoof patterns. There was no time to check them all for her tracks. Riding up to a peddlar selling trinkets, Spike demanded of him, “Did you see a young woman ride through here? Blue velvet, dark hair, chestnut horse?”

The peddlar looked at him calculatingly. “Maybe,” he said slowly.

Damn stupid bloody man, looking for money. Spike had no time for that. He couldn’t let Dawn just tear around on her own. What if something happened?

He got out his gun and aimed it at the man’s greasy head. “I am William the Bloody,” he said, “and I shoot people like you for fun. Tell me where she went or I’ll blow your bloody head off and use your entrails for a breadcrumb trail.”

The peddlar pointed. “That way. Five minutes ago.”

Spike holstered the gun. “Isn’t giving fun?”

“...so the townspeople threw them both in jail and they’re going to burn them tonight,” Buffy finished breathlessly. She’d already told Giles, who’d rushed off to the town hall to try and talk some sense into the captain of the militia, and now she was telling Xander and Anya.

“How awful,” Anya said. “Although it is getting rather cold, so at least they’ll be warm.”

Buffy stared at her for a second or two, then snapped her attention back to Xander. “We have to do something.”

“Agreed. Maybe we could make a distraction and sneak in and get them out.”

Anya shook her head. “The town hall is a warren: it’s a very old building and they’ve basically just added layers and layers to it as they needed. You need a map just to find the captain’s office.”

“Do you have a map?”

“I was speaking metaphorically. You’d never get in.”

“Then maybe we could break open the cell window...” Xander said.

“Steel bars,” Buffy said. “Set in stone.”

“Get a horse to pull them out.”

“The alley’s tiny.”

“Well, you think of something, then!”

“Maybe Mr Giles will-” Buffy broke off when she heard the front door slam. Giles stomped in, carrying all hell about him, and let off an impressive string of curse words.

“I take it the captain wouldn’t be moved,” Buffy said into the sudden silence.

“He says they must be destroyed as an example to the ungodly,” Giles seethed.

“Ungodly? Look, maybe Will’s not that devout, but she doesn’t eat pork or anything-” Xander began.

“It’s her Judaism that’s part of the problem,” Giles said. “Apparently they were overheard talking about it, and Willow was heard to say something about being burned before...”

“Yeah,” Xander looked uneasy. “Once or twice.”

“What?” Anya stared at him.

“Well, she does tend to unsettle people. She doesn’t do it on purpose, but what with the hair and the lack of churchiness-”

“The hair?” Buffy said.

“Red hair is a sign of witchcraft,” Anya explained, and when she got several sharp looks, added, “or so say uninformed, ignorant, idiotic, sheeplike peasants.”

“We have to do something,” Buffy said.

“They’re already building the fire,” Giles said in despair.

Buffy thought quickly, but the thought that immediately came to mind was that she needed help. “Right,” she said. “Giles, you go back to the town hall and carry on arguing. Maybe you can get them to see sense. Xander, Anya, you try and sabotage the fire. Pour water on it or something. Delay it as much as you can. Hide the wood. Anything.”

“And you?” Xander asked, reaching for his coat.

“I’m going to get help.”

“From whom?” Giles said.

Buffy closed her eyes. She didn’t really want to, but she knew she had to ask him. “Angel,” she said. “He’ll help me.”

Spike rode into a ramshackle little village and was about to rampage straight through when he realised that there was two roads out of the place. Who’d have thought so many people came and went?

“Bollocks,” he said, and slowed down. “Have you seen-?”

But he stopped abruptly when another horse came cannoning through the village. A bigger horse, not really used to being ridden, a farm horse probably, but it wasn’t the animal that caught his attention. It was the rider, a small figure in men’s clothes, long loose hair streaming out behind her.

Buffy.

Spike stopped and stared for a few seconds, awestruck. By God, she was beautiful. Flushed and strong and - about to ride into him.

He swung his horse away just in time, and she slowed and cantered back in a circle.

“Spike? What are you doing here?”

“Chasing Dawn.”

“You know, I thought I saw her going the other way.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. She’d been going to see Buffy. Silly bint. “What are you doing?”

“Going for help. I-” every cell in her body screamed for her to stay and talk with him - and then do a lot more - but she knew she had to keep going. Every second she lingered was a second that could kill Willow and Tara. She’d wasted enough time changing her clothes, but they were so much better to ride in.

“Help?” Instantly he was alert. “Are you in trouble?”

“No, Willow is.”

He frowned. “Red? What’s she got herself into?”

“The townspeople think she’s a witch. They want to burn her. Also Giles said something about Sapphism that I didn’t really get, but-”

She broke off when she say Spike’s luscious mouth twitch.

“Are you laughing?”

She looked so angry, so beautiful, that he did laugh. “Sapphism,” he said. “It’s... You might call it...”

“Yes?”

Her eyes were glittering. He wanted to shag her right there, on top of her horse, in the middle of the village. “It’s physical love between women.”

Buffy’s face twisted. “That’s disgusting! How dare they accuse her of-”

Spike put his hand over her mouth before she got carried away. “Why don’t we go and find out if it’s true?” Please God, let it be true.

“It’s not,” Buffy said. “That’s revolting and unnatural.”

“Which is probably why they’re going to burn her,” Spike said. “When?”

“Tonight?” Buffy looked anxiously at the darkening sky. “They could be starting right now. God, I shouldn’t have left, I should be back there-”

“Then we’ll go back there.”

“What about Dawn?”

Spike looked torn. He thought of his daughter, riding hell bent for leather to someone she’d met a grand total of once, and suddenly realised she’d be all right. She’d been all right for sixteen years so far. She’d manage without him for one more night. He could go and find her in the morning.

Buffy needed his help.

They rode back to Giles’s village, and reined in just outside the square. It was dark in the shadows, but outside their little alley the streets were filled with flames from all the torches being carried by what looked like most of the villagers.

Willow and Tara were being tied back to back against a fat post set in the ground, bundles of wood thrown at their feet. A man in uniform was reading out charges against them.

“Just for the record, love,” Spike whispered as he checked his pistol, “it’s not revolting and unnatural.”

“What?” Buffy was only half listening as she stared at the bailiff with the charge sheet. Most of what he was saying was preposterous.

“If they’re in love, why not, you know, have fun with each other?”

She tore her eyes away and looked at him. “’Have fun’? They’re two women, it’s-”

“Not actually any different than a man and a woman. Why is it you’re happy to shag around with me, who you hardly know, but you think two women pleasuring each other is wrong?”

Buffy didn’t have an answer to that.

“Anyway, you can’t be too disgusted, or you wouldn’t be thinking of saving them.”

Buffy frowned at him. “Why are you here?”

“Uh, to help you.”

“You hardly know them at all.”

Neither do you, Spike wanted to say, but the fact that you want to help them makes me want to, too.

“It was a slow night,” he said, and handed her his gun. “You know how to use this?”

Buffy stared at the pistol. She didn’t remember ever really using one, but she knew definitely that she’d done it before.

“I think I do.”

“Of course. You’re the Slayer.”

Buffy looked at him and realised that she was hearing pride in his voice.

“Okay,” she said. “Here’s what we need to do.”

“You have a plan?”

“We ride in there and cut them free and get them the hell out,” Buffy said.

“Good plan.”

“I’ll get Tara, you get Willow.”

“Willow’s smaller. You take her.”

Buffy glared at him. “I can manage Tara.”

He saw the glint in her eyes, and grinned. And later, he thought, you’re going to shag me rotten. “All right. You get the blonde, I’ll get the redhead. We’ll meet back at-” she’d been about to say Giles’s, but that was a stupid idea, so she said, “the crossroads back the way we came. Right?”

“And then what?”

“I’ll figure that out later,” Buffy said. “Ready?”

They were suddenly aware it had gone very quiet. The bailiff had stopped reading.

There was an almighty crackle. They’d lit the fire.

“Ready,” Spike said, and spurred his horse to an immediate gallop.

Buffy followed, quite suddenly afraid, and cantered out into the square. She glanced at the pyre and wished she’d come up with a better plan: the girls were tied in the middle of a stack of wood about fifteen foot deep. The flames hadn’t reached them yet, but they were spreading quickly.

Right then there was another commotion, for Xander had just ridden out of the shadows on the other side of the square, carrying a yoke over his shoulders, filled with water which he threw at the girls. Buffy knew it probably wouldn’t make much difference, but they might burn slower.

“It’s been too well guarded,” he yelled to Buffy. “I couldn’t - wait, is that William the Bloody?”

Heads turned to where Spike was just drawing a sword in preparation for charging the pyre. He rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“Cheers,” he muttered. Someone screamed. The men on horses who had been ringing the crowd all drew their swords.

“Catch him!” cried the captain.

What happened next was unclear to Buffy. She was halfway across the square on her way to rescuing Willow, so she figured she might as well carry on riding. She fired her pistol at the ropes tying the girls to the pole, and had it reloaded by the time the smoke cleared. She was impressed with herself: she hadn’t even thought about what to do with the shot and powder. She’d just reloaded it.

And there were Willow and Tara, scrambling free. Buffy spared a wild glance to where she’d last seen Spike, far away on the other side of the crowd, a charge of militiamen converging on him, and then she looked back at Willow and Tara.

“Jump!”

She caught Willow and hauled her up onto the horse’s back, but then she realised there was just not enough room for them all. Tara was looking anxiously at the flames which were starting to lick at her skirts, and Buffy jumped down from the horse, which rushed into the shadows, away from the loud flames, Willow hanging on for dear life.

When Tara thudded to the ground, her skirt on fire, Buffy stamped it out and grabbed Tara and hauled her away. The militia had started to realise there was something else going on and were coming over to see why there was no one screaming in agony at the flaming stake.

“Buffy!” someone yelled, an oddly familiar voice, and she saw Dawn on a horse in a side alley, along with Giles and Anya. Xander was riding over to them and he scooped Tara up without breaking his stride.

“Go,” Buffy told him. “Get out of here.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine. Xander, go! To Angel’s. He’ll take care of you. All of you.”

“You can-”

“That’s six people and three horses. You can’t carry me and besides,” she looked over at the heavy scrum of men surrounding Spike, “I need to get him out of here. We’ll catch you up, I promise.”

Xander nodded unhappily, but he got the others on the horses and led them out of the square. A couple of the militiamen on their horses started after the party, but Buffy twirled her sword in a way she’d never have expected she could manage, and cut two of them down, getting the second on the backstroke from the first.

He fell into the fire and rolled away with a scream, and Buffy watched the fire spread across the square with him. The third man reached for his gun and Buffy grabbed the bridle of one of the free horses and swung herself up onto his back, the shot echoing where she’d just been, making the horse dart away.

There were too many for her to cope with. Shots were ringing out from Spike’s corner of the square, but she couldn’t see clearly past the flames to know what was happening. Her horse, badly trained and skittish with fear, shied away from the tall flames of the massive pyre, and Buffy clung to the reins. The man with the gun was taking out his sword and coming for her, and Buffy glanced around for some escape. A couple of alleys, down which he’d no doubt chase her. A low roof.

The roof.

She dug her heels into the horse’s sides and charged him straight at the militiaman, who looked startled, especially when Buffy punched him in the face and grabbed his gun. She rode on past him as he fell and grabbed the low roof as she cantered past it. The thatch was slippery but her grip held and she hauled herself up to the top, unseen by the crowd below. Most of the villagers had retreated at the sight of the spreading fire, and from up here she could see that there weren’t as many men attacking Spike as she’d feared. A couple more had ridden off after Xander and the others, and she hoped to God at least one of the party was armed.

Well, Dawn would be. And even if she wasn’t, she’d just need to glare at the militiamen and they’d drop dead, Buffy was pretty sure of it.

She crept along the top of the roof for a better vantage point. Several buildings were on fire now: the fallen man had knocked some of the badly-built pyre into a wooden-framed house and it was spreading all over, from thatch to thatch, along fences and through houses. People were screaming. Some of the horsemen retreated.

There were four left, and Spike was in the centre. Buffy thought fast. She loaded both her guns, took off her hat and pulled her shirt off. Spare shot and powder ready, she whistled, and when that didn’t work, fired a shot into the sky.

All five men looked up at this shot from such an unexpected direction, and then they saw a beautiful woman on the roof, naked to the waist, hair whipping in the breeze from the flames, outlined in the moonlight.

They all stopped and stared at her.

Then one fell back on his horse as Buffy’s gun shot him straight in the head.

Spike recovered first - he’d seen it before and was slightly more capable of thought processes in the vicinity of naked Buffy - and shot one of the men while swinging his sword around and slashing another. He daren’t look up at Buffy in case she distracted him, but if he had, he’d have seen her reloading her to shoot at the fourth man. She did, but not before he’d already shot at Spike.

She watched him fall, blood spreading over his shirt, and for the first time since she’d taken her shirt off, she felt cold. All over. She wasn’t aware of how she got to the ground, but suddenly she was running over to him, there were more people rushing into the unburnt side of the square, more men on horses, with guns, militia from the nest town probably, and Buffy knew she had to get Spike out of there. Through the flames, or through the militia.

She took a breath and grabbed his body and slung it up onto the nearest horse, swinging up behind him and digging her heels in. Thankfully this was a better trained horse, and although it balked when she turned it towards the fire, it ran on and they escaped through a narrow alley of flames, heading out of town in an unknown direction, out over fields, through woods, far from any normal roads, across country, the horse racing as fast as Buffy could make it.

Spike’s body lolled back against her own, his shirt red with blood, and she wasn’t even aware there were tears streaming down her face until she glanced behind, realised they hadn’t been followed for the last ten miles, and slowed the horse down in a deep wood.

She slid from the saddle and pulled Spike down with her, wiping her eyes. She was dirty and ashy and bleeding and she didn’t care, because he was hurt worse. A lot worse.

She hauled him into her lap and tried to make sense of where he’d been shot. He had a pulse but it wasn’t terribly strong, and there was so much blood that in the darkness, she couldn’t see where it was all coming from.

“Spike,” she sniffed. “Don’t you dare bloody die on me. I’ll kill you if you do.”

He stirred in her arms, and she yelled at him for a bit but he didn’t wake up.

Buffy knew she had to move fast.

She got him back on the horse and rode through the wood until she found a path. Then she followed the path until she found a village. Then she pulled Spike’s (thankfully unharmed) greatcoat over him, and shoved her hat low on her face and led the horse into the yard of the local inn. Spike lolled, but she held him up and gave a grin to the stableboy.

“Master’s had a skinful,” she said in what she hoped sounded like a boy’s voice. “You got a room he can sleep it off in?”

The boy took them up to a small room, and in return for a penny, brought her a needle and thread, a kettle, and some whisky. Buffy lit the fire and put a lamp by the bed, and started tearing up the bedsheet to make some bandages, which she sterilised in the kettle. She boiled the needle and thread, slapped Spike to see if he was still unconscious, and then poured some whisky into the bulletwound, which was on his shoulder.

Then she started to sew.

It took her hours - or at least, it felt like it. She’d stopped crying now, more confident in her task, exhaustion taking over from emotion. It had been a long day: last night she’d been having glorious sex with Spike and now she was mopping up blood from what could very nearly have been a mortal wound. There was a cut on his head - a long gash made by a sword, and it needed stitching. Wincing, Buffy took the scissors that had come with the sewing kit and started to cut away his hair, apologizing silently to him.

Her eyes were closing by the time she’d finished digging out the bullet - there had been no exit wound, which was good news for his leather coat but not so good for his muscles - and sewing him up and cleaning the blood off them both. She rinsed out both their clothes and hung them by the banked fire, then she looked back at him lying there on the bed, bare chest rising and falling, right shoulder completely obscured by bandages, and he still looked beautiful to her.

She blew out the lamp and fell onto the bed, curled up by his good side and finally, finally closed her eyes and let sleep take her.

Chapter Twelve

“Where did you say they were going?” Giles asked Xander, who was sitting by the fire with Anya looking on adoringly, drinking Angel’s Irish whisky.

“I don’t know,” Xander said. “She said they’d catch up.”

“Maybe they’re dead,” Anya said, and when Giles, Xander and Angel glared at her, gave an ‘all right, whatever’ face and muttered, “Or maybe they both escaped entirely unscathed.”

Giles slumped in his chair. “She’s right. They could both be badly hurt. Or worse.”

“I’ll go,” Angel said.

“Go where? Last I saw, the whole village was burning down,” Xander said, and Giles winced.

“My store!” Anya cried.

“Uh, I think your store was on the other side of the village,” Xander said quickly.

She looked heartbroken. “What if it’s burnt? All those goods, and all my money!”

“Not to mention our home and everything in it,” Giles added drily.

“I’m sure your money’s fine,” Xander said.

“Will you come and comfort me?” Anya said.

“Well, of course-”

“And then we’ll have lots of sex?”

Xander started to turn red.

“Being that I’m all emotionally vulnerable. You may take advantage of me,” she offered, giving him a brave smile.

Xander leapt to his feet. “Lady needs comforting,” he said, and dragged Anya from the room as Giles covered his eyes.

“I didn’t need to see that. Angel,” he looked up at the younger man, “do you think you could find them?”

“I think I can try,” Angel said, draining his whisky.

“May I ask what they are to you?”

Angel grinned. “Family,” he said. “Of a sort. Young Will’s like the brother I never wanted.”

“And Buffy, she’s like a sister to you?”

Angel opened his mouth, then he shut it again.

“Right,” Giles said, wishing he’d never asked. “Where do you think they might be?”

They were, at that moment, both unconscious in a locked room at an unknown inn many miles away. Buffy was so tired that sleep fell on her like a heavy blanket and she stayed curled up to Spike until long after the sky got light.

He woke first, blood throbbing in his head and his shoulder, confused as to where he was and what he was doing there. For a minute or two his memory failed him as he looked down at Buffy, half-naked at his side, and the bandage she’d used to bind his arm to his chest. Then he remembered: the girls, the fire, the men with guns. He’d been doing okay until Buffy pulled her little stunt. Which had got rid of three of them, he had to admit. And then there’d been the fourth. Bastard.

He looked at Buffy, her eyes pink with smoke - or had she been crying? There were smudges of blood and dirt on her face, her hair was smoky and there was a cut on her arm that she’d very carelessly bandaged. She looked small and frail and so precious his heart turned over.

She’d saved his life.

He’d been ever so vaguely aware of her getting him out of there, and then a while after she’d cried his name and probed his shoulder and pain had overtaken him and he’d passed out completely. Just as well. He didn’t want to really have had to watch her sewing him up.

He touched his head, which hurt, and was horrified to feel that she’d cut all his hair off. Never mind the long cut along his scalp, what had happened to his hair? That was practically his trademark!

Wildly, he cast around for his coat and was relieved to see it draped over a chest at the foot of the bed. His movements woke Buffy, who frowned and curled closer, not wanting to wake up.

Then something startled her, and her eyes flew open.

“Morning,” Spike said.

She looked up at him, slight fear giving way to exhausted relief. “You’re awake.”

“And starting to wish I wasn’t.”

She frowned again. “How do you feel?”

“You cut my hair.”

He sounded quite accusatory. Buffy sat up and glared at him. “Next time I’ll let you bleed to death, then.” Spike’s eyes hovered on her chest, and she remembered she’d taken her shirt off. Blushing, she pulled the scratchy blanket up over herself, and Spike reached out with his free hand to touch her shoulder.

“You really did all this?”

“The fixing up, yes. The getting horribly wounded part you managed all by yourself.”

“Actually, I seem to remember I was trying to help you out.”

Buffy said nothing. She reached over to the fireguard and picked up her shirt, which was just about dry, and pulled it on.

“Buffy?”

She looked distant.

“Thank you,” Spike said, and at that she looked up. “I - you... well, you saved my life, didn’t you? And I’m quite attached to it. My life, I mean. So thanks.”

She gave him a small smile.

“Are you all right? There’s that cut on your arm, and you’re-”

“I’m all right.”

He frowned. “No, you’re not.” He tried to sit up, but it hurt far too much, and Buffy quickly pressed him down.

“You should stay still. You’ve been hurt pretty badly.” She reached in the pocket of his greatcoat and withdrew a small pellet. “I had to dig this out of you.”

He looked at the little lead ball, misshapen from its trip through his muscle and bone.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said absently, and got off the bed.

“Hey - Buffy! Where are you going?”

“For some water. To wash. I-” she looked distressed, and Spike reached out to her. She took his hand, and when he pulled her closer she let him.

“What is it, love?”

She closed her eyes, and a tear leaked out.

“I remember.”

“Yeah, me too. Let’s not take on any more militia for a while, eh?”

“No, not that,” she said. “Well, yes, that, but I mean I... I remember everything else, too.”

He frowned for a second and pulled her back down against him. “Everything?”

“Before the storm. My mother, and Giles, and Riley and Faith and everyone...”

She sobbed against his chest, and although he was burning with curiosity, Spike let her. When she’d calmed down, she lifted her head and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Cry all you want,” he said. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“It’s just all so sudden. All these memories just slamming back in my head. And you know why?”

He shook his head, and she touched the bandage on his shoulder.

“You. I thought I might lose you. And I remembered feeling exactly the same three months ago.”

Spike brought his hand up to her dirty hair and stroked it. “Tell me?”

Buffy took in a few breaths, uneven after her tears, and said, “I don’t know where to start.”

“Tell me your name.”

“Buffy - Elizabeth Ann Summers. My parents were Henry and Joyce. My father died when I was small.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“No, but there was a girl I grew up with. Her parents died when she was young and she lived with us.”

“Faith?” Spike guessed.

“Faith. She was... she was unbelievable. So brave, and completely insane. Always climbing trees and swimming across the river. Sneaking out to the tavern and turning up the next morning in the stables with some boy from the town.”

“Sounds-” he’d been about to say ‘like my kind of girl’, but she wasn’t, not really, because she wasn’t like Buffy. And Buffy was- “like fun.”

“Well, she was. Usually. And other times she scared me. But then I...”

“What?” Spike asked softly.

“I met Angel. He wasn’t like anyone I’d ever known. He tried to rob me several times but I always beat him. A couple of times I, uh, knocked him out. Once I was terrified I’d killed him, but he was just playing dead so I’d take him home and put him in my bed.”

Spike wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to hear this.

“And Faith got a little jealous. Especially when Angel started training me up as his partner.”

What kind of partner? Spike wondered, but he was pretty sure he already knew.

“And then after a while... Well, I didn’t really need Angel any more. And Faith wanted to learn, so I teamed up with her. I didn’t want her going out alone. She was a little too headstrong. She never planned anything.”

“Sounds familiar.”

Buffy bashed his good shoulder. “And then I met Riley,” she said, making her voice deliberately misty, although she’d never really felt like that about Riley. At the time she’d convinced herself she loved him, but she knew she didn’t. Not really. She’d loved Angel, but Riley was just...

Well, she’d always felt like she should love him. He was so handsome and sure and strong. Polite, kind, clever, and there were occasional flashes of dry humour that surprised the hell out of her. But most of the time he was just... well, a little bit... boring.

But Angel had left - for many reasons, but Buffy knew it would never have worked between them - and there was Riley with his broad shoulders and square jaw and lieutenant’s uniform and his marriage proposal, and Buffy had been depressed and he was kind and dependable, so she said yes.

And then went out and robbed coach after coach just to cheer herself up.

Realising she’d gone silent, Buffy went on, “He never knew about the Slayer thing. He was in the militia.”

“Oh. Them,” Spike said, darkly enough to make her laugh.

“He was a good man,” Buffy said, “but I...”

“Sounds dull,” Spike said, and she laughed again, because that was exactly what Riley had been.

“But he was nice, and there really wasn’t any reason for me to say no to him, so when he asked me to marry him, I said yes. And I was going to give up the Slayer thing, because really it was a stupid risk, but... But if I did that then everything would just be so goddamn boring and... And Faith said she wasn’t going to stop. And she started scaring me. Spike - you said you’d heard of the Slayer...?”

“All America’s heard of you, love,” he said, and he said it with pride.

“Well, there were two of us. Only no one ever knew that. They only ever saw one at a time. And when it was me, I tried not to hurt people. I just took their jewels and stuff. And only from people who could afford it.”

“My little Robyn Hood,” Spike murmured.

“But Faith... she got violent. That’s when we started getting called Slayer. Because Faith killed some people. Not many, and I really think she was sorry, but...”

“Doesn’t take much to make a reputation, pet.”

She was quiet for a bit, and when she spoke again, she sounded distant. “Faith was always hard to control. I tried to stop her doing dangerous stuff but she just told me I was being a coward. And I don’t want to sound stupid, but-”

“You’re the bravest person I know,” Spike said quietly, and when Buffy looked up at him, he smiled at her and brought his hand around to caress her face. “I mean that.”

She sniffed, touched, and kissed his palm. “Just as well you never met Faith. Although she was less brave than... sometimes a bit stupid. She got reckless and the governor decided the Slayer had to be caught. So he sent the militia out to set a trap. And Faith... fell right into it.”

She was silent again, and Spike waited for her to continue. He had a feeling he knew where this was going. Why else was she talking about Faith in the past tense?

“I still don’t know exactly what happened - she swore she didn’t kill him but someone did. I can still see him. I felt so guilty because I hadn’t made him happy enough and then he’d died and it was partly my fault.”

“Riley died?”

She sniffed. “In the ambush. Faith was hurt but she got away and came back to us. We had to hide her in the servant’s cabins, because the rest of the men - the ones she hadn’t slaughtered - they followed her. Came after the Slayer. They locked us in - house arrest. Faith died, but we couldn’t even tell anyone because if they knew how she’d been hurt, they’d have known where she was.”

“Did it matter, after she was dead?”

“Yes,” Buffy said, “it mattered.”

Silence, then Spike asked, “How did you get away?”

“Riley’s funeral. Remember? I was his grieving fiancée,” she said bitterly. “My mother - she knew about the Slayer thing, in the end. She sort of had to. We hid spare clothes under our cloaks - bucket skirts are a great invention - and money, and we just got on a pair of horses and rode. We got on the first ship we came to. The Redoubtable.”

Her head was still on his chest, and he felt the wetness of her tears against his skin. He held her as she cried, cried for her friend and her fiancée and her mother, all that grief so suddenly, so cripplingly remembered. And he nearly cried too, because he couldn’t bear to see her so hurt.

And when her tears had subsided again he hauled her up his body so her face was nearer his, and he kissed her, desperate with reassurance. He was never going to leave her the way they had.

He was never going to leave her again.

“Spike,” she stroked his hair, felt the short curls that had sprung up when his hair got wet from her washing of it. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

It was hard to hug him without hurting him, but Buffy tried her best. And then she kissed him to make up for the lousy hug. Spike’s fingers tousled in her hair and he didn’t seem to care that it was coated with smoke and ash and blood. He didn’t seem to care what a state she was in. She’d felt desperation like that before, from Angel when he left her. She’d loved him so much then, and hated him for leaving her, but now...

Now it was hard to remember what she’d seen in him.

She kissed Spike, unable to leave his delicious mouth alone, wanting to be gentle because he was hurt, needing to be close to him because he was so important and she’d nearly lost him. Riding away from him had been bad enough, but now...

He could have been gone forever. And maybe she could live not being with him, knowing he was alive somewhere else and one day she might be able to touch him again, but to know he was gone forever and there was no way she’d ever even see him once more... That thought terrified her so much her bones trembled and she kissed Spike so hard he pulled back in shock. His lip was bleeding and Buffy realised in horror that she’d almost bitten right through it.

“Oh God, I’m sorry...”

He licked his lip. “I’ve been hurt worse.”

“I - we shouldn’t-” she started to climb off him, but Spike wrapped his good arm about her shoulders and pulled her firmly back down to him.

“And why the hell not?”

“You’re hurt. You’ve lost a lot of blood and you’re weak, and I don’t want to-” he kissed her again, “hurt you,” and again, “any more than,” and once more, “the hell with it,” she spread her fingers in his hair and snogged him fiercely.

“It’s good for what ails me,” Spike said when he let her go and Buffy, breathless, figured it couldn’t really do him any harm.

Surely.

If it did, she’d stop.

She was fairly sure she could stop.

Right?

She dropped her had and started licking his exposed nipple. The other was covered by his arm, which she’d bandaged to his chest to restrict his shoulder, but one of them was free and she made Spike moan by flicking it with her teeth.

His hand slid up under her shirt, he found her breast and started stroking her nipple in return. Buffy arched and sucked on him, and he pulled her head up and yanked her shirt off, grabbing her around the shoulders and pulling her forward so he could lick her breasts.

“We should probably go slowly,” Buffy said, trying not to pant. “No point in - oh! - going over the, uh, the, uh...”

His hand was kneading her other breast, and she lost her place in the conversation. His mouth was so hot, wet and dark and right, and Buffy thought there was a metaphor in that. He’d take her in his hot, wet, dark mouth and then she’d take him in her tight, hot, red...

She had to stop thinking like that, or it’d all be over embarassingly soon.

She pulled away from him and climbed off the bed, and Spike looked confused until he realised she was pushing off her breeches and shoving away the blanket over his legs. She took off the rest of his clothes - she’d not wanted him to get cold, so she’d kept him half dressed - and stood for a while, looking at him.

“I’m stronger than I look,” he said, trying to sit up again and failing somewhat.

Buffy grinned. “I know. We’ll just go niiiiice and,” she crawled back up his body to straddle him, “slowly,” and leaned forward so her breasts were almost brushing his chest. Spike groaned and pulled her down for another kiss, digging his fingers into her spine, making her arch against him. She trailed kisses down his neck, gentle butterfly kisses all over his sore, aching shoulder, then down to his stomach, his muscles clenching in anticipation.

She kissed his thighs first, licking him until he groaned, “Buffy, please don’t torture me like that. I’m a hurt man.”

She laughed, a low throaty laugh that made him harder, and then she was laughing around him, her lips and tongue doing exquisite things to him, and he let out a sigh of relief and pleasure. Her hair tickled his thighs and his stomach, her hands rested on his hips, kneading the lean covering of muscle. This, Spike thought, was surely what heaven was like. Minus the fucked shoulder, of course. A beautiful woman giving him delirious pleasure. Did it get any better than this?

And then it occurred to him that it could get better. He reached down and lifted Buffy’s head, and she looked up at him with hot, dark eyes and a damp red mouth, and he had to concentrate hard on not giving her a faceful - of pointless, dead sperm, useless, sterile - before he caught his breath and said, “I have an idea.”

“Do tell.”

It was one of the things Dru had come up with. He didn’t think of her often, but when he did it was usually connected with sex. That girl had known astonishing things about pleasing a man. And getting her own pleasure, too. But somehow it had always seemed... sort of dirty. Great while he was actually shagging her, but then rather sordid afterwards.

He banished her from his mind and looked up at Buffy, who was regarding him expectantly. He beckoned her closer and she crawled up him, then he told her to turn around and she smiled, evidently figuring it out for herself. Smart girl.

She knelt over his face and he breathed her in. The hot scent of hopeless arousal. With his free hand he reached up and fingered the hot red folds above him, and Buffy let out a little moan.

Then she dipped her head and took him back into her mouth.

Spike allowed himself a second or two to bask, then he licked into her, making her shudder. He slid his tongue up inside her, swirled it around, and she returned the favour, making spirals with her own, exquisitely talented tongue.

Spike brought his fingers into play. Buffy did the same, cupping his balls and stroking them softly. He stroked her harder, knowing it wouldn’t be long before she cracked him. Although maybe, maybe she’d let him inside first. And he could feel her tightening around him, that delicious tightness he adored so much. He hardened his tongue and pushed it up inside her again, and she moaned, her voice vibrating right through him.

Please don’t do that again, he thought desperately, pinching her clitoris to try and get her there before him, but it backfired and she moaned again and Spike, unable to help himself, spurted into her mouth, coming hard and copious against her lips and her tongue.

Buffy swallowed once or twice, then she sat up, a little shakily, and rolled off Spike, who’d been in danger of inflicting harm on her while he was coming so hard.

She knelt by his head and looked down at him. His eyes were closed and he was breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

She stroked his short hair. It rather suited him. “What for?”

“I wanted to... It was over too soon.”

Buffy laughed. “I thought that was rather flattering.”

His eyes opened. “Yes, but you didn’t...”

“Plenty of opportunity for that.” She smiled. “Now, you know what?”

He looked wary. That was a very bright smile. “Er, what?”

“You’re still all smoky and sweaty. And I just didn’t get around to cleaning you up properly last night. So...”

She got off the bed and padded over to the fire, set it going again, and hooked the kettle above the low flames. Spike watched, mystified.

“Time for a sponge-bath,” Buffy said, a wicked glint in her eye.

If he’d been asked to rate his top ten erotic fantasies, Spike would probably never have picked a sponge bath. But due to the fact that his nurse was naked and lush and kept kissing him all the time, and spent a lot of time washing carefully between his legs, this particular fantasy was fast rising. Rather like something else.

And then Buffy looked at herself and exclaimed, “Gosh, look how dirty I am! You know, maybe I should wash myself...”

“I’ll help,” Spike heard himself offering hoarsely, and she grinned, and said, “But how? I don’t want you straining yourself.”

“Sit here,” Spike patted his stomach, and she did, bringing over the bucket so he could dip the cloth in and run it gently over her face and neck, her shoulders and her arms. Her breasts, the nipples already hard and pink. Her tight, flat stomach, which still fascinated him. A woman with muscles. Who’d have thought that would be sexy?

Then down over her thighs, and she knelt up so he could wash her legs properly, right down to her toes, saving the best for last.

He dropped the cloth in the bucket and dipped his fingers in instead. Then he slipped then between her legs, finding her already slick and glistening, wet against him. She closed her eyes as he stroked her, his fingers hard and rough but their movement gentle, a caress against her sensitive flesh.

She rocked against him, and Spike wished dearly he could use his other hand to touch her. To feel those beautiful breasts, heavy with desire, to run his fingers down her long smooth back, to stroke the backs of her knees. Lord, how he wanted to touch her.

He slid two fingers up inside her, and watched her mouth open, her lips parting on a silent gasp. Red mouth, swollen and shiny. He wanted to touch that, too.

He pressed his thumb against her clitoris and moved it in little circles. A second gasp - more of a moan this time. She was so wet his whole hand was slippery, three fingers stabbing into her now, making her writhe against him, her body bucking, pressing down into the pleasure he was giving her. She had one hand on his chest, steadying herself, the other on his wrist, keeping him there. As if he’d stop.

Her breath came faster, she bit her lip and her head rolled back, her hair so long it tickled him.

It tickled him in a very sensitive place indeed.

Spike watched her face and decided to push it. He curled his hand and slid his fourth finger into her. Buffy let out a hiss of breath and pushed herself down onto his hand, and he was hardly moving at all as she rocked on him, eyes closed, concentrating hard, biting her lip so hard she nearly drew blood of her own, and then she came, wet and wordless, gasping, almost silent, flooding his palm. He curled his fingers inside her and she flinched with pleasure.

When she opened her eyes he was still watching her, and when he spoke his voice was thick with lust.

“You look so beautiful when you do that.”

She smiled, too heavy with pleasure to be embarrassed. After all, he still had most of his fingers inside her.

He withdrew them slowly, gently, and then licked each one as Buffy watched. And then he pulled her down to him and kissed her, and she tasted herself on him and felt herself get impossibly wetter at the thought. She was tasting herself, no one else, he wasn’t ever going to taste of anyone else. Just him and her, and their mixed pleasure.

She sighed and wriggled comfortably against him, and Spike’s face sharpened. She realised with a smile that he was hard again, had been for some time, and it was probably getting uncomfortable.

Well, she could help him with that.

But even as she moved to take him inside her, he stopped her, and said, “Turn around.”

“We did this,” Buffy told him.

“No, we didn’t,” he said. “Trust me. We haven’t done this.”

Intrigued, hoping it wasn’t going to be too exhausting, Buffy did as she was told, and when she was facing the foot of the bed, lowered herself to take Spike inside her.

She exhaled as she felt him filling her. So it had been a day and a half since she’d felt it. An hour and a half was too long.

She moved around a bit, making herself comfortable, getting him all the way in, wishing she could see his face and wondering why he’d positioned her like this. Sure, she had a nice back, but did he really want to look at it that much while he was inside her? Unless he didn’t want to look at her face at all. In a sleep-deprived jealous panic, it took Buffy about half a second to convince herself that he was pretending she was someone else. Who? Drusilla? Surely-

His hand on her hip tugged her away from her morbid fantasy. “Hey. You still with me?”

“Why are we doing it like this?” Buffy said, and felt him laugh, his body rocking deliciously.

“Lean back.”

“What?”

“Lean back. Try to stay to the left. That’s it, pet.”

Her back was much more slender than his, so she managed to lie back against his chest without touching his injured shoulder, and turn her head to kiss him. This was better. Closer. Nicer.

His hand trailed down to stroke her breasts, and he started moving his hips slowly. Hardly at all. Buffy found it hard to move without losing her balance, but she found she didn’t really need to. Spike was moving at such a delicious angle inside her, pulsing hot and hard against her sweet spot, that she was soon slick with sweat and gasping again.

He slipped his hand down to stroke her clitoris, her sensitive folds, her inner thighs, caressing the place where they were joined, all the while kissing her sweetly as he pulsed inside her.

They came together, and it was almost leisurely up into that point. Then Buffy clamped down on him, and he closed his eyes and said, “Yes,” and angled his hips to thrust hard into her, stroking her as he did, and Buffy slipped her own hand down there and held her fingers against the base of his shaft as he slid in and out, and he groaned in her ear and moved harder, the bed creaking and groaning as they slid and bounced, Buffy very nearly falling off but holding on tight with her legs and her hand, which dug into his neck.

They came together with a mutual cry, and Buffy turned her head and pressed her lips to Spike’s.

He tasted her sweet mouth, felt her move on him so she could turn over and curl up against him and kiss him properly, holding him tight, and if she hadn’t been kissing him so hard he’d have told her, “I love you.”

But he had no space to breathe, let alone speak, and by the time she came up for air, he’d come to his senses.

He couldn’t tell her that. What, was he insane? It was just an impulse.

An impulse he’d never felt before.

Still, that didn’t mean it was true.

Did it?

Buffy curled against him, nuzzling into his neck. She was warm and soft under his arm, she smelled good and felt even better and, although he couldn’t see a whole lot of her, he knew just how great she looked.

But he wasn’t in love with her. That would just be crazy. Right?

Right.

Oh, bollocks.

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