Willow was shocked. Truly shocked. How had she not known this?

“Engaged? Really? That’s - that’s wonderful.”

She had no idea what to say. She hugged Xander, kissed him on the cheek, and gave his new - or at least, newly revealed - fiancée a hug as well. Apparently they had been secretly engaged for quite some time, and had just been waiting for the right moment to share their news.

Like there could ever be a right moment for this news…

Anya was showing Dawn her ring for the fourth or fifth time while Xander looked on proudly. Buffy was sitting quietly, what else was new?, on the sofa, near Giles. Tara was in the kitchen preparing some snack food, and Willow felt like she was in the midst of a dream. Or, more accurately, a nightmare. She wondered idly if Spike would come in her bedroom window and comfort her.

Xander and Anya. Engaged.

Oh, this news just tops off a whole week full of wonderfulness, Willow thought sarcastically. One peachy keen event after another…

The endless research over the summer had been time consuming and stressful and Willow had been so sure that Buffy’s resurrection would bring an end to that; that with her return, things would be back as they should be. Instead, it seemed that the stress of wondering if she was about to do the right thing had been replaced by worry and stress over whether she had, and over Buffy’s well-being.

The horrors of hell had obviously traumatized her friend, and Willow felt a horrible guilt that it had taken her too long to get all the necessary ingredients together, to find all the pieces, to gain the knowledge needed to save her. If only she’d been faster, maybe Buffy wouldn’t be in so much pain now. As it was, she’d rushed some things more than she should have. Haunted by memories of Angel, she’d done everything she could to get Buffy back quickly.

Sadly, it didn’t seem to have been quickly enough.

No, Willow told herself firmly, resolve face making an appearance. Buffy was going to be fine. Fine. She didn’t understand what her friend was going through, but she was going to recover. She was.

She’d tried so hard to get Buffy to open up a little, to share her pain with her or with a doctor she’d recommended, but her attempts only seemed to make Buffy withdraw further. She was shutting herself off from all of them. She didn’t talk to anyone but Dawn, refused to patrol with anyone but Spike, and most of the hours she spent in the house were spent in isolation in her bedroom.

Her resolve face wavered. Willow had no idea how to help her, and she hated the feeling of helplessness.

Buffy’s return had not brought things back to how they should be - to how they were before her death. Willow tried to tell herself that even though she’d believed that Buffy’s resurrection would return her world to the way it had been, she hadn’t believed the change would occur overnight, or that it would miraculously erase all the grief and changes that had taken place over the summer. But somewhere inside, maybe she had believed that.

It’s only been a month. Only a month. Not long at all, she tried to tell herself. But Buffy remained so withdrawn, so…

Willow had tried to will away the selfish thought a hundred times. But god, it still hurt so much.

Unfortunately it seemed that half the other relationships in her life were only increasing her stress levels.

Just before Giles had returned, she and Xander had tried to talk to Spike during one of his endless work-outs in the training room of the Magic Box. She’d only thought that maybe if they could try to recreate a more familiar environment for Buffy, it might be of some help to her. But the meeting had quickly turned into a complete disaster.

Even though Spike had annoyed her by doing his own thing during fights and patrols over the summer, disrupting the battle plans she’d arrived at with painful and excruciating slowness, he’d never been argumentative. In fact, even once he’d started speaking to them at all after his weeks of silence, he’d remained almost spookily quiet. He’d rarely talked, hadn’t argued, and he’d never, ever, snarked at them as he had so regularly in the past. He had been all cold and threatening after that whole incident with the bot, but other than that - pretty unscary and kinda tame for Spike. So she’d been surprised at his very vocal, oh, so not reticent, reaction to her and Xander.

He’d gone over all protective of Buffy and acted almost like he was a better judge of what was good for her than they were. He had actually met their eyes as he grated out that Buffy was having all kinds of problems, and that they were, to paraphrase, ‘out of their sodding little Scoobie minds if they thought he was gonna back off one bloody bit if there was anything at all he could do to help his Slayer.’

Hearing Spike refer to Buffy as ‘my Slayer’ had, of course, set Xander off, and he’d made some pretty darn firm comments about how Spike was delusional if he thought Buffy would ever be his, and he hoped to hell Spike wasn’t planning to start stalking her again. And while they were on the subject of the Summers girls, it might be an idea if Spike detached himself from Dawn a little too. She was a kid, and shouldn’t be hanging out with a vampire.

Spike’s voice had changed dramatically. The angry grating tone was gone, and instead he sounded coldly dangerous.

While Xander mouthed his usual sarcastic jibes and threats at Spike, Willow, resentful that he seemed to be suggesting that he had some idea what was going on in Buffy’s head, when she herself had no clue, had done something she had to admit was a little reckless.

She’d tried to go into Spike’s mind. She didn’t plan to do anything horrible, just give him the tiniest mental suggestion to back off, the merest nudge really…

She’d been there before, sliding in easily during the final battle with Glory, and during a few fights since then, and she was shocked at the resistance she met on this attempt. Spike had very forcibly pushed her out, verbally telling her to ‘stay the bleeding hell out of his head’. He ‘already had the chip messin’ with him, and he didn’t need a witch trying to worm her way in all the time, too.’

He’d sounded so angry. He’d looked angry, too. The glints of yellow in his eyes had had Xander, who, of course, didn’t know what she’d attempted, side stepping nervously, and swinging his head in surprise toward his old friend, his own eyes asking for an explanation.

The whole confrontation had been a mistake, and Willow actually felt a sort of weary regret about it now. He’d sounded so fiercely protective of both Buffy and Dawn… Maybe he was actually helping Buffy, she didn’t know. How could she? Buffy never said boo to her. They did patrol together. Buffy had never liked Spike, the words hated him with a passion came to mind, so Willow couldn’t imagine that her friend was actually sharing anything with him, no matter what Spike implied. But Buffy wasn’t hiding in her room from him either, which placed him a rung above her on the closeness to the Buffster ladder right now.

At this point, Willow was so desperate to see some sign of her old friend that she’d be willing to try almost anything. Even Spike? She asked herself, and had to answer ‘Maybe.’ She couldn’t seem to make up her mind.

Argue. Whisper. Engage in never-ending debates.

And the niggling annoyance of having Spike around faded into complete unimportance once Giles returned from England.

She’d been anticipating their meeting since the night they’d brought Buffy back; anticipating his thanks and congratulations, anticipating how impressed he would be, how he might even be in awe of her strength and power, her success. She’d envisioned them sitting down and talking about how they would work together in the future, a true Watcherish partnership. Once Buffy was back to normal, there were so many amazing things they might be able to accomplish, and Willow wanted to talk to Giles about all the possibilities.

But his reaction hadn’t been anything at all like her imaginings, and the memory of their meeting in his office was burned into her mind.

It had been one of the worse moments of her life. She’d always respected Giles, and his attack had just made her grow more and more defensive and angry as the confrontation went on…

He’d gone on.

He’d wanted to know why Buffy had had to live through the horror of waking in her coffin. She’d tried to explain that they’d thought that the interruption of the spell by the demon bikers and the cracking of the Urn of Osiris, had caused the spell to fail.

He wanted to see all her research materials; the books, the spells, the notes she’d taken and details of how she’d arrived at each and every revision she’d made. He also wanted to know where she’d gotten the books, and the sources of every item and ingredient used.

The encounter had left her feeling so ill and shaken that she couldn’t easily define her feelings. Anger? Disappointment? Fear? Rage? Or e)All of the above?

She felt like she’d spent hours after their meeting screaming inside. But to those around her, it looked like she was gathering and organizing her notes on the resurrection; preparing them for Giles as he’d asked. She smiled vaguely at Tara and Dawn when they’d asked if she was okay, offering them meaningless assurances, while she continued to make obsessively neat piles of paper and notebooks on the late Joyce Summers’ bed.

Yet, as horrible as that had been, and it ranked right up there in the most devastating moments in the life of Willow Rosenberg, for sheer badness it could not compare to the growing tension between her and Tara.

She couldn’t lose Tara. She. Could. Not. Lose. Tara.

You’re wrong, wrong, wrong.

You’re wrong, wrong, wrong.

You’re wrong, wrong, wrong.

She couldn’t lose Tara.

She was so tired lately. For weeks now, and for the first time in her life, she seemed to be consistently having a lot of trouble sleeping. Even the sleep she did get didn’t leave her feeling rested. Sometimes, she felt like she just didn’t have the energy to argue things out with Tara in a reasonable manner because she seemed to be arguing with herself half the night, which she hated.

Argue. Whisper. Engage in never-ending debates.

Stop! Stop it!

She couldn’t lose Tara. And somehow she had to find a way - the right words, the right actions, and the plain, old-fashioned energy, to make Tara believe she could still be what the other woman needed; that she would always be what Tara needed. She loved her so much, couldn’t imagine living without her, and she felt desperate to make things right with her. If Tara left…

How could she ever survive that?

Buffy hiding in her room most of the time, and the fear that she’d been too late, too slow to bring her back, that her slowness had left some permanent scars on her friend’s soul; Spike, a lingering annoyance; Giles giving her a ‘severe dressing down’, his hostility and lack of trust and respect; Tara telling her over and over that almost everything she did was wrong, and her terrible, overwhelming fear that she might lose the wonder of her love.

And now…Xander, her best friend since forever, engaged to that horrible, money hungry, whatever she was.

Willow watched as Tara brought some of the food she’d been preparing into the living room. She watched Dawn help her get more, watched Buffy seemingly force herself to stand on the fringes of the group as beers and sodas were distributed in preparation for a toast. Willow smiled and accepted a glass of beer from Xander, raising it into the air along with the others as Giles offered words of congratulations.

The surreal, nightmarish quality of the evening hadn’t faded.

It was all getting to be too much. Everyone had seemed to be so cooperative most of the summer, listening to her, taking her advice, helping her to protect them from pain, and now, suddenly, it all seemed to be slipping away. She felt like she was losing control of everything, of everyone, maybe even herself, all at once, and...

And some of them were making such foolish decisions… Wrong decisions.

There was going to be pain again. Willow forced her face not to crumble. People were going to be hurt. She knew it. The panicky feeling that seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside her lately flared up, and she forced it back, forced her smile to remain in place. They had to let her protect them, take care of them. If they didn’t, she just didn’t think she could take it. Not again - to stand by and watch people she cared about get hurt, physically, emotionally.

Last time Buffy had died…

If only the gang had helped her then to build up her powers, maybe they could have defeated Glory without losing Buffy. And that could have changed everything, could have kept things from getting so out of hand. Even Buffy had acknowledged that she was the only one who’d been able to hurt Glory. She’d been Buffy’s best shot…

She could be the best shot for everyone. She was their best shot.

Even if they didn’t understand, didn’t see it - they needed her. They did.

Couldn’t they see that? She didn’t understand why they couldn’t see that.

~*~

“Do you have time for a game of chess?” Giles asked.

Spike glanced at the clock, and shrugged. “Might,” he said agreeably. “The Slayer’s meeting me here for patrol. No set time, though.”

Giles seated himself on his side of the board. “‘No set time’ has long been one of her specialties,” he informed Spike. “If you haven’t yet learned that, you will.”

Spike sat as well, lighting the usual fag.

“Cigarette?” The vampire held the open pack out to Giles.

“Dear Lord, no,” Giles shuddered, glaring lightly in response to Spike’s smirk. He was completely disgusted with himself for the number of cigarettes he’d smoked his first night back, before and during his talk with the vampire. He was quite sure they’d been largely responsible for the strength of the hangover he’d felt upon awakening later that day. After all, it wasn’t like he’d consumed an overabundance of alcohol.

Spike dropped the cigarettes onto the table, and quickly launched his opening salvo.

Giles brow went up. “You had that move planned,” he observed.

“Yeah,” Spike admitted. “Sitting on our Slayer’s roof all night gives me lots of time to contemplate our games, suss out the best ways to kick your arse.”

Giles almost told him that he sometimes lay awake doing the same thing, but he restrained himself. “Her workouts are improving,” Giles said instead, carefully surveying the board. “Buffy’s.”

Spike quirked a brow at the unnecessary clarification. “Yeah,” he agreed. “She’s doing better on patrol, too.”

Perhaps because Buffy had frequently managed to avoid training in the past, Giles had been pleasantly surprised by the intensity with which she was working out, the sheer effort she was putting in during the sessions. And she was improving. Still, he could see that her moves remained somewhat mechanical, lacking spirit and fire and, most importantly, instinct. He could also see that she was frustrated by the ongoing problems. The frustration, though, only seemed to spur her into training harder.

Spike was proving to be a good sparring partner for her. Certainly, Giles thought with some annoyance, better than he himself had ever been. The man does have vampiric strength, Giles excused himself. It only stood to reason… Although Spike never struck Buffy, Giles had been a bit taken aback by his ability to toss her about the way he did during their more intense workouts without the chip firing. Spike casually dismissed his questions on the subject, assuring him that the chip worked on intent, and since he had no intention of hurting his Slayer…

The vampire seemed to have a knack for knowing just how to get the best out of her. He would snark at her, ridicule what he felt was less than her best efforts, but seemed to stop just short of making her genuinely angry or, even, well, hurting her feelings. And when her frustration with herself flared too high, he seemed to know just what to say to soothe her and get her back on track.

Giles had had about a week to observe her now, and he was happy to admit to himself that he could agree with what Spike had told him his first night back. It was Buffy. The genuine article. He felt sure of that.

She was often confused, which upset him because he could see how much it upset her, how frustrating she found it. And she was disturbingly withdrawn. But it was her, his beloved girl, and with time, he felt quite certain she would make a complete recovery.

Once he really felt that, really believed it, the relief was wonderful.

Of course, concerns remained.

The spell…

He hadn’t seen any details yet. Willow had given him a few excuses, but had mostly used avoidance as a means of not giving him the information he’d asked for. He’d seen her exactly once since their confrontation, and that had been at the impromptu engagement party for Xander and Anya. He’d hardly felt that to be an appropriate setting for renewing his demands. However, Dawn had mentioned that Willow had spent hours sorting her notes, so he assumed she had some plans to actually deliver them. He tried not to worry about them, about the spell, about possible consequences. Spending time with Buffy had eased the almost sickening fears he’d initially felt, but he knew he wouldn’t feel complete ease until he’d been over Willow’s notes with a fine toothed comb.

To his great relief, Buffy seemed to grow easier in his presence with each day that passed. And she seemed to be relaxed and at ease with her sister and Spike. In fact, Giles was quite touched by the closeness the sisters displayed. He observed her, this somewhat softer, gentler Buffy, the one that emerged when the two girls were together. Is this the woman she would have become if she hadn’t been called? he wondered, somewhat surprised at the thought. By her own admission, she’d been a rather shallow teen before her calling. Cordeliaesque, as she’d described herself. Giles shuddered. But shallow teens did not necessarily grow into shallow adults, thank God. He’d joked with Spike about trying to make sure that she retained some of the politeness she seemed to have acquired, but in truth, he rather liked it - liked her - this version of Buffy, and he hoped that as her memories became more accessible, and her instincts returned, she would always retain some of this nature. Perhaps it could be somehow integrated with the old, he smiled to himself.

Unfortunately, a warm, gentle, woman was probably not the best choice for a Slayer. To be the Slayer, Buffy must regain her edge. She must be able to draw on the unique instincts, the talents and skills she’d been granted when she was chosen. Like Spike, he believed those things were still buried somewhere inside her.

And that, hopefully quite soon, she would be able to draw on them again. Preferably before they were in dire need of them, of her. Which, of course, could be at any moment.

Was it selfish of him to hope that when her Slayerness reasserted itself, he would still sometimes see the beautiful warmth in her face that he saw now when she smiled into her sister’s eyes?

Buffy’s behavior with the others, though, was a completely different story. As soon as they entered whatever room she was in, he could see her withdrawing, closing in on herself, physically, mentally, emotionally. She would physically move away from them, often drawing closer to Dawn or Spike. Dawn seemed oblivious to this behavior, but Spike, whether conscious of it or not, would move closer to her as well, often inserting himself somewhere in the space between Buffy and the others. It was a rather odd move - one didn’t quite get the impression he was about to physically defend her from attack - but the first time he’d observed it, ‘guardian’ was the word that came to Giles’ mind. He’d seen Spike perform a somewhat similar move with Dawn on occasion.

“Good,” Giles nodded. “How about Dawn?”

“Dawn doesn’t patrol,” Spike said dryly.

Giles’ mouth curved. “I’m surprised you’ve been able to restrain her,” he commented in a similar vein. “She was quite insistent all summer that as soon as she turned fifteen - the age Buffy was when she was called - she expected to be ‘in’ on the ‘slaying’.”

“What can I say? Bribery works well with the bit. Promise her ice cream or something else high on her list, and slaying doesn’t look quite so attractive.”

“How is her training progressing?” Giles clarified his original question with more seriousness. “I never stay to watch.”

Spike glanced toward the door that led into the shop, and lowered his voice slightly. “The girl doesn’t have a lot in the way of coordination,” he admitted. “Bit of a shock, that was. You’d think she’d’ve inherited some physical talent from her sis. You know, made out of our Slayer’s blood, an’ all.” The blond continued to study the board. “Appreciate it if you kept that to yourself. Dawn’s pretty self conscious about it.” He finally moved a pawn. “She’s got a lot of enthusiasm, though,” he added with some satisfaction.

Giles eyed Spike with amusement. He’d just been thinking of it, and he should be well used to it by now, but the vampire’s protectiveness of the girl continued to strike him as quite interesting from time to time.

He waited until they were well into the game before he spoke again.

“Do you want to know what I discovered in England?” he asked, keeping his voice casual, and watched Spike’s shoulders tense up a little.

“Not really,” Spike jibed. “But ’m sure you’ll tell me anyway.”

“Quite right, I shall,” Giles agreed. “Or I would, at any rate, if I had anything to tell.”

Spike looked up. “So, I’m not all prophesized about, huh? Not written up in myths and legends?” He snorted. “Could-a told you that. That’s Angelus’ gig. He’s the Prophecy Boy, according to Dru. Big save the world type.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Giles observed. “Seems to me you’ve worked on the save the world team once or twice yourself.”

Spike’s brows went up, and he quickly ducked his head back to the chessboard. He wasn’t quick enough, though. Giles caught the brief flash of surprise, and, perhaps, just perhaps, the tiniest hint of pleasure, in the blond’s blue eyes.

“I didn’t find much,” Giles was forced to admit. “Or, well, anything, to be honest. I did talk to a few of my old contacts - people outside the Council. One of them was quite certain she’d come across those words before. Of course she couldn’t remember where, or in what context. She’s, um, rather elderly,” Giles explained. “But I’ve no intension of giving up. I’m convinced there’s something to this…

“I think I told you when this first came up Watcher, and again when you told me it was one of your reasons for going to England. I’m not interested.” Spike’s voice was cool, detached.

“There could be a whole new set of possibilities now, with Buffy’s return.”

“I don’t want her to know.” The tone had changed completely. Spike’s voice was hard now, and Giles’ head came up, his eyes narrowing. “It was just some soddin’ dream. Didn’t mean a thing.”

Spike lit another cigarette, and coolly exhaled a cloud of blue smoke into the room. Giles studied him silently.

Spike’s lack of curiosity about his trip the night he’d returned had led Giles to speculate that perhaps Spike really didn’t have any interest in the words Buffy had spoken to him in a vision. But this reaction altered that perception. It was quite clear to him now that those words were important to Spike, and that their meaning was something the vampire was intensely curious about. With his usual coolness, he’d pretended otherwise when the two of them had discussed it previously. In many things, that tended to be Spike’s way. The more important, the more personally important, the subject, the more he was likely to listen but not contribute, to shrug, and seemingly dismiss…

With Spike, one sometimes needed to approach a subject from several different directions in order to ascertain his true feelings.

If he truly thought those words meaningless and unimportant, he wouldn’t care if Buffy knew. He might even enjoy having her wonder about the fact that virtually the same words had been spoken to each of them in dreams well more than a year apart. But he did think they had some meaning. And because he thought that, he didn’t want her to know anything about the situation.

He didn’t want Buffy wondering about dreams and possible mystical connections.

If she was ever going to feel anything for him in return, Spike didn’t want those feelings mixed up with anything mystical or mythical; no prophecies, no legends, no words spoken in dreams.

“But -” he tried.

“No, Rupert. I don’t want any more garbage clutterin’ up our Slayer’s head. She’s got enough to deal with right now - trying to pull herself back together. Don’t want her lookin’ at me as anything but what I am, either.”

“I see,” Giles murmured, certain now that his contemplations were spot on. “And what is that, exactly?”

“Just a vampire in love with his Slayer.” The words emerged in the same hard tone, but before the last ‘R’ had died away, Spike had frozen. Giles registered the look of absolute horror on the vampire’s face - the shocked disbelief, that, even though the Watcher already knew of his feelings, he had actually uttered those words out loud, and to him.

With an effort, Giles succeeded in hiding both his concern and his smile at the almost comical look on Spike’s face. “Quite so,” he agreed calmly. “Nothing unusual in that.” Not when it’s my Slayer, at any rate, he added to himself with some exasperation.

Spike didn’t respond.

~*~

It was time to take some steps, to fix some things, to try to bring one or two things under control.

Buffy was obviously being plagued by terrible pain. If she could erase those memories of hell, Buffy could get past that, and start adjusting to being back in the world. That would ease so many things. Giles would be less worried about the spell and it’s possible consequences, and could just enjoy having Buffy back with them, which would make him less insistent on studying every minute, picky little detail of her resurrection. Buffy’s full recovery would also ease her own worries about her friend’s well being, her own guilt about taking too much time to rescue her, and would probably make it possible for her to sleep better. More sleep would give her more time to relax with Tara and work out their problems.

And if she could sort of start over with Tara… If she could arrange for them to have, in a way, a clean slate to work with, she knew they could get back to where they were last spring and continue to build from there. They’d both been so happy then, before Glory, and the brain sucking, and Buffy’s death. God, she wanted that again. The warmth and happiness, the comfort and excitement of their love. She knew Tara still loved her. Even through all their arguments, she’d never doubted that. They just needed some peace, some time, to rediscover that…

Willow felt a wave of relief just contemplating the changes. She knew it would be for the best. Best for everyone. It would take so much stress and pain away from the people she cared about. Everything would be so much easier. For them, and for her.

And she would feel more in control again. This horrible tension, this unsettled feeling would be gone, and then, maybe she could sleep again, and stop arguing with herself all night.

She’d done everything necessary. Gathered the ingredients, combined them. Altered them just a little to fit her needs.

She struck a match and chanted the needed words.

~*~

“How’d the chat with Red go?” Spike asked, anxious to get the subject thoroughly changed.

Wanker! he thought disparagingly of himself. Just a vampire in love with his Slayer. His words echoed in his head. Again. Stupid, sodding…

“Unpleasant and unsettling,” Giles replied. “I found her attitude extremely disturbing, I must say.”

“Trouble, do you think?” he repeated the Watcher’s words from the other night back to him.

“I’m - concerned,” Giles said carefully. “There seems to be a - a lack of awareness - on her part, of the seriousness of her actions, of the inherent risks involved.

“And I feel a certain responsibility. She reminded me that we’ve been quite liberal in our use of magic in the fight against demons, and she didn’t understand why I argued the wisdom of using it to save Buffy. We have used magic a lot, I will admit. And I was - perhaps I was remiss in my responsibilities to guide Willow properly.”

“Wasn’t really your job, was it?” Spike dismissed.

Giles leveled him with a hard stare. “Yes, I rather think it was,” he insisted. “She was using magic to aid Buffy. She was new to it, a novice. I have a - certain amount of experience - with the dangers of summoning dark forces. I should have been more forceful in instilling in her a respect for the powers she was accessing.”

Giles removed his glasses, and cleaned them diligently as he continued.

“I had hoped to work with her on her magical studies more closely this past summer, but we never seemed able to coordinate our schedules. If I had been more resolute…”

“You couldn’t coordinate your schedules,” Spike said with some sarcasm, “Because she was spending all her time researching the resurrection. And lying to you about it, at least by omission.”

Giles paused in his lens polishing and gazed at the vampire. He seemed to come to some decision.

“I should be grateful if you would agree to remain - aware, shall we say? - of Willow’s actions as they relate to Buffy and to Dawn. With Buffy being not quite herself…”

“Yet,” Spike injected.

“Yet,” Giles agreed.

“Did you need to ask?” Spike asked rather flippantly.

Giles met his eyes steadily. “No. I didn’t need to ask. I only did so so that you would know I trusted you with their well-being.”

Spike stared.

“Do you have a problem with that?” Giles asked after the silence had stretched out for quite some time. His tone hardened. “If you’d rather not be burdened with the responsibility…”

“You know I’d die for them,” Spike said softly, with stark honesty. Had he been shocked into saying that? he wondered. There was an odd, unfamiliar heaviness in his chest, and he unconsciously pressed his hand there briefly. “It’s just - trust…”

“Builds, doesn’t it?” Giles asked, his own voice quiet now.

“I - I don’t know,” Spike replied. “I’ve never trusted anyone before. I’m not sure how it works.”

It was Giles’ turn to stare. “No one?”

“Dawn,” Spike amended after a moment. “I trust Dawn.”

“I - I shall continue to work with Willow.” Giles seemed to be having a little trouble finding words. He pinched the bridge of his nose before replacing his glasses. “To get the details of the spell, and to try to understand what’s happening in her head.” He paused, and he seemed more collected as he met Spike’s eyes. “I hope you’ll trust me to handle any direct contact with her.”

Spike shifted uncomfortably under Giles steady regard. Trust was - hard. He didn’t really care to acknowledge that his hesitancy was quite likely rooted in the fact that, aside from his human family, every person he’d ever placed any trust in had betrayed him.

The sodding Scoobies had made an issue in the past about him being untrustworthy. He wondered if they’d ever considered that there wasn’t a one of them he trusted either. They seemed to assume that being human made their word more binding, their actions less suspect. He didn’t buy it. And, despite their growing - friendship - actually stating trust in the Watcher was bloody unnatural.

Did he trust the Watcher? Could he?

Spike straightened, his demeanor changing. “Like I said, ‘ve never been big on trust,” he said coolly. “Not big in the demon community…” Spike lit a cigarette. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

No promises.

He knew it was better for the Watcher to handle any direct contact with Willow. The two had a long relationship, and there had always seemed to be a lot of respect between them. That respect might be stretched almost to the breaking point right now, but Spike knew that humans tended to forgive one another more readily than did demons. At least, for the most part.

And it only made sense Giles would be able to get more information out of the bint than he would. Red sure as hell wouldn’t be confiding in him.

He still didn’t like the edginess he sometimes felt around Willow, though, or the fact that the redhead made his Slayer ‘twitchy’. He knew he wouldn’t be able to ignore Willow completely - he was too wary of her. But Giles hadn’t asked him to back off. Instead he’d asked him to let him handle any contact with her, while asking Spike to keep an eye on her actions ‘as they relate to Buffy and to Dawn’.

Smart bloke.

“You don’t suppose she’s gone over all demony, do you?” Spike asked, trying to lighten the mood. “I mean, we’ve already established that the bint hasn’t developed an aversion to sunlight, but some demon types can be a lot harder to detect. I could take a jab at her, see if that furthers the research.”

Giles rolled his eyes, accepting the change in the tone of their talk. “Thank you for the offer, Spike,” he said sarcastically. “I shall keep it in mind.”

“What?” Spike asked with mock indignation. “Everyone got over it when I hit Tara.” He puffed up. “Put the lady’s mind at rest, too, didn’t I?”

“Yes, well, you seem to be experiencing some personal hostility toward Willow right now, and I’m afraid that in this particular case, you’d enjoy it far too much.”

“Enjoyed it in that case, too,” the vampire muttered under his breath. He could have done without the accompanying blinding pain and the lingering headache, but still…

They heard the bell over the door jingle several times, heard familiar voices coming from the direction of the shop.

“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” Spike announced without enthusiasm. He often felt there were far too many people about.

Spike and Giles walked out to the shop to meet the others.

Dawn shelved another book. Anya handed Giles an invoice with a questioning arch of her brow. Buffy withdrew a little from the group and stood silently to one side. Xander and Willow laughed together while Tara looked on, and Spike gazed at his Slayer, his eyes gleaming.

And then, almost in unison, they all collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

~*~

~*~

~*~

Buffy’s memory came crashing back. Her memories.

Everything that had been elusive, everything that had been fuzzy…

All back.

~*~

When the bartender asked her what kind of beer she wanted, Buffy frowned. She hated that question. ‘Beer beer’ always led to the bartender looking at her like she was an a brainless twit, as Giles would say. And the response ‘the kind Xander gets for me’ brought out an even more ‘What can I expect? She’s blonde’ expression.

She’d resented that stupid expression for years. Of course, she had to admit that some of the lame explanations she’d come up with from time to time for the bizarre situations she found herself in probably justified it.

Stupid situations.

“Whatever’s on tap,” she came up with, and felt rather proud of herself for thinking of the phrase. Unfortunately, when he set the glass in front of her, she realized she had no money with her, and tried to send it back. Looking at her frazzled face, the guy finally took pity on her.

“This one’s on me,” he offered, and she nodded in gratitude, relieved when he walked away.

She hadn’t yet touched it, though.

She’d literally been shaking when she’d pushed Spike away and run off. The memories and life details that she’d been struggling so hard to access for the last month had been stabbing into her brain with such ferocity that she felt like her head was going to explode, and even now - an hour or so later - all the emotions a clear memory had conjured up were moving through her so strongly and with such overwhelming force that she was feeling almost terrifyingly nauseous.

So she’d ordered a beer.

Smart move, Buffy.

Maybe that much resented ‘you’re so blonde’ expression was deserved even when there weren’t demon remains that needed to be explained away.

She felt him approaching, and she realized somewhere in her whirling thoughts that she’d sensed him some time ago. Had he been watching her from across the room?

He stopped at her side, close, but not touching.

“Point of fact, Slayer?” His voice was low, and calm. Calming. “You want to dull something with alcohol, you have to actually drink it. Hypnotizing yourself in the golden glow doesn’t have a proven success rate.”

She turned her head, trying to control the nausea, and looked into his eyes.

Concerned. Worried.

She jerked her eyes away, looking back into her glass. Oh, god, could she deal with this right now? With him? Could she?

Her fears intensified, and the nausea churned more forcefully. The bartender who’d taken pity on her and given her the free beer would probably be extremely annoyed if she hurled all over the bar… She swallowed once, twice, a third time, and turned back to Spike.

He was gone.

Panic ignited inside her, flaring so high it momentarily, at least, burned away the fear and the swirling stomach as she stared at the place he’d just been. Her eyes darted into the crowd, seeking him, and before she even caught a glimpse of black leather, she was up and moving.

~*~

Something caught at his duster, and he whirled impatiently. Man or man-made, whatever was hindering his progress was going to be introduced to a whole new vocabulary. He knew words that could blister…

Her hands were tugging at him, moving him out of the general flow of traffic. Here, under the stairs. He could hear the broken, mumbled words escaping her, “Don’t leave. I need… I need to talk to you, tell you… Something happened and I don’t want you to think…”

She leaned back against a post, and, with a hand fisted into his t-shirt, pulled him a little closer. Spike grabbed her wrist, and yanked her hand out of his shirt and held it up and to the side, away from his body. They stared at each other. Her eyes revealed a need to him, and he tried to interpret it. Contact? Comfort? Maybe both, and more...He wasn’t sure.

“I’m not ever gonna bleedin’ leave you, Slayer,” he said angrily. “You know that. Or you damned well should.”

He was angry with her. Angry. God, how many times had he been angry with her over the years? Too many to count. He’d been angry with her most of the time he’d known her. But not since she’d come back. Not really. Okay, maybe that first night they’d patrolled, but that had been fear more than anger. And the other night when he’d gone over all barmy for a minute and wondered if she’d put some sort of de-lusting spell on him… Of course she hadn’t. It never would have occurred to her in the state she was in.

But other than that…

After he’d jumped off her roof the other night, it hadn’t taken long for him to know that Buffy hadn’t had a thing to do with his unsettling lack of lust. By the time he’d reached the Magic Box, he’d known that the absence of physical desire hadn’t had anything to do with any sodding spell at all. He’d just been too deeply in shock, too bloody amazed by her presence back in the world to feel much of anything beyond that. His brain had gone on hold, and, once it started functioning again, it had just taken some parts of his body longer to catch up than others.

Well, his dangly bits had caught up good and proper now, hadn’t they? he thought with a mixture of anger at her affect on him and a hefty dose of thoroughly masculine relief. All the equipment was fully functional. Didn’t even seem to matter much if his Slayer was nearby, damn her. All he had to do was think of her, something that hadn’t been much of a problem for him for years, and all the important bits were throbbing.

Bloody good thing, too.

He stared into her face now, into those huge eyes that were gazing back at him steadily, and tried to read her. What the hell was going on in that fuzzy and, oh, so intriguing, brain of hers? Something odd had happened when Joan and R.J. had remembered Buffy and Spike. He’d known it, could see it in her eyes.

A terrible fear, a horror of some sort…

But when he’d tried to reach out to her, to be there for her, which seemed to be his bleedin’ new specialty, she’d shoved him away and run off. Of course, he’d followed her. He wasn’t about to leave her out on her own, running scared from something, was he? He’d stationed himself on the balcony of the Bronze and watched her; the awkward beer procurement, the failure to touch the drink, the uncomfortable posture. Even from a distance, he could sense the tension in her, could almost scent her fear. He’d waited, watched, tried to give her time to calm herself.

Patience had long been a problem for him.

And when she’d jerked her head away from him at the bar, rejecting him a second time…

Yeah, angry summed it up pretty well…

Angry.

Angry.

Angr-

Spike buried a hand in her hair, leaned down and kissed her. Nothing tentative, nothing soft and searching. He damn well let her know he was aching for her. Their eyes were open, locked together, searching. Then, as the kiss deepened, both pairs of eyes drifted closed.

She pulled him closer yet, and briefly he felt an almost desperate urgency in her, and in himself, and then it dissipated, along with his growling anger, and gentled, and everything dissolved into an amazing flood of warmth. He’d experienced this with her a few times since she’d come back, bursts of warmth running through him sometimes when he’d held her, warmth that seemed to soothe him, comfort him. But it felt even stronger this time, more intense…

Stronger. Buffy.

Dear god - the heat, the warmth - saturating him from the inside out, drenching him… If he could figure out how to bring this incredible feeling about at will…

It still felt strange, unnatural, magical maybe. But even the first time it had happened it hadn’t made him edgy or angry, which is how he usually reacted if he suspected something not quite natural was happening to him or around him. That was certainly how he’d reacted when Dru had been playing mind games with him. But this, this…He just wanted more…

He groaned at the exquisite sensation. “Do you feel that?” he muttered against her cheek.

It flared, burned higher, made them both moan and groan.

“Warm.” Oh, yeah, she felt it. “Warm, good. More… Spike, make it…. Oh god.”

And then, the warmth seemed to settle, become a part of him, of them, and it seemed natural, real, not in any way unusual. Just - right.

So bloody right.

He didn’t understand it at all, but it all felt right. This, tonight. And more. Her. Him. Everything since she’d come back.

“Because this - with you - is wrong. I know it! I’m not a complete idiot!” His own words came back to him, along with a mental image of Buffy and Dru chained in the depths of his crypt.

It didn’t feel wrong anymore. None of it felt wrong.

The heat had melted his anger away, but the passion remained. God, he ached to keep holding her, not only in comfort as he’d done so often since her return, but in passion. To lose himself in her body. He was rock hard, throbbing for her, needing her - so much. One of his hands left her hair and stroked down her back, pulling her closer. She pressed against him willingly, her mouth opening further to his, and he knew… He knew… There was no need to rush, to hurry, to push. She was gonna be his, gonna share herself with him, her body, herself, all of her… He knew it.

And then there was just her - her mouth, her body, her hands.

He could go on kissing her for days, savoring her taste, the feel of her body close to him. Close, like this - kissing him back, responding to him with the heat and desire he’d always wanted from her. Matching his own. Keep kissing her. Oh, feel her mouth opening under his, taste her, drag his mouth across her cheek, down the side of her neck and around to the hollow at the base of her throat. Explore the tender spot behind her ear, press his lips to her pulse, alive, she’s alive, then back, always back, to her mouth. Drawn to it as though it was the source of life.

Perhaps, for him, it was.

These were long, deep, open mouthed kisses that went on and on, one melting into the next in seamless pleasure. Kisses he’d dreamt of, fantasized about for years. Pull back, let her breathe, and oh god, oh god, breathe her in. Taste her, smell her. Slow and sweet and hot. It was going to his head. And goin’ to hers too. He knew it. He could feel her need in the touch of her hands. Hear it in the sounds she was making in her throat. Growing, like his.

Warmth continued to swim and swirl through his body. It swelled in his chest, spread rapidly to his groin, racing through his veins. She feels so good. The kiss a few days ago had been bloody wonderful, warm and tender. But this... Not since Red’s spell had he really been able to hold her, feel her body moving against his, soft and strong. The strength and power that was so much a part of her sang to him, and he could feel himself sinking deeper, always deeper. He was drowning in her, just like he’d told her once. Drowning. She intoxicated him, made his world spin.

And then, oh god, her mouth. Her sweet mouth. Growing hotter, needier. Buffy. Push her back, there, under the stairs. Deeper. Into the shadows. Another pillar, back her up. Oh yeah, oh yeah, some leverage. Press up against her. Feel her heat, her body. Her. Feel her.

And, oh god, she’s been so bloody confused, and dealing with a lot of ….

And she feels so fucking good.

Feels so good, just, just make her feel good, so good. Give her everything, all the pleasure, give her...

Make her explode. Oh god, make her, gonna make her…

He nudged her harder against the post, leaned into her a little, putting just enough weight on her to make her catch her breath, crave a little more. Just enough to make her arch her back, seeking contact against breasts that had begun to ache to be touched, caressed, sucked. Oh god, he wanted, he wanted to, oh god, the things he wanted to do. To her.

Not everything. Not now, no. Just give her, pleasure her, make her gasp and groan and need and, oh god, gonna give her...

Turn her, shield her body. Use the coat to cloak her. No one could see. Touch her. No. Don’t lose control, just give her, give her, make her, gonna make her...

The sounds in her throat had intensified, little mewling cries, gasps of helpless pleasure that were calling to him, telling him where to put his hands, his mouth. Telling him what unintelligible syllables of desire to whisper against her ear, where to touch his lips, his tongue and, oh yeah, when and where she wanted to feel his teeth.

Slide in.

There.

She froze. The wild kissing came to a screeching halt.

Her shocked eyes flew open. Locked on his. Neither one of them moved for several heartbeats. He took a breath. If she was gonna stake him, then so be it.

Spike bent his head back to her and his mouth brushed the curve of her ear. “Go ahead, love.” His voice was rough with passion, the low tones making her shiver against him. His words came out on a barely audible huff of air, “Ride me.”

She gasped and, to his surprise, color flew into her face.

His thigh was wedged firmly between hers, pressed up tightly against her. The hard muscles of his leg, combined with the rough fabric of his jeans and that of her own pants were sure to provide more than enough friction. All she had to do was -

His mouth was directly over her ear now. “Ride me.”

And he moved his leg against her.

Buffy didn’t seem to know where to look. Her eyes darted up, then down, then closed as she inhaled sharply, and let out a long breath. And then she moved against him.

“Oh, fuck, yesss.” The hiss of pleasure was his, and he rewarded every movement of her body against his thigh with his own counter move, increasing her pleasure. In only minutes, oh, too fast, too fast, she was clutching at him, at the collar of his coat, at his neck, his hair, tugging at him as the mounting need gripped her. He’d been encouraging her to move at her own pace, but the clutching hands were driving him wild, and his hands went to her hips, gripping them tightly as he began to guide her movements, setting a faster tempo.

“Let go, let go. Let yourself -” His mouth was touching her neck, whispering into the sensitive hollow just under her ear, his husky tone urging her on. “I can feel you, your heat against my leg, so hot, smell you... Come, Buffy. Come for me, come for me, come for me, come...”

Her nails dug into his neck and for a moment he thought she might actually bite him as she released an almost-muffled-to-silence cry against his throat. She was convulsing, long and hard, and he was holding her, holding her against him as she came, and oh, god, life couldn’t get any better than this...

~*~

A few notes on the writing process for those who enjoy them (honest, people say they do!), and a couple of personal notes as well…

I am so glad to have this chapter done. Argh! I have discovered that scenes that in any way run fairly close to actual televised scenes are a bugger for me to write.

The Giles/Willow talk was really hard for me to feel happy with. Personally, I found the confrontation between the two of them in Flooded to be so good - so very, very, well written (and ‘You rank, arrogant amateur!’ was far too wonderful a line to leave out of this story) - that I found it almost impossible to write what was essentially the same scene, knowing I couldn’t hope to improve on it in any way. Originally, I was going to use the Flooded scene as aired in a sort of flashback form, but because so many reviewers have been anticipating the ‘showdown’ between Giles and Willow, I felt that would be a huge cheat to not at least attempt to re-write the scene, making some small parts of it my own. And, oh yeah, believe me, I know there are still a lot of similarities! (Insert mental image of major eye rolling by Mary here.)

The Tabula Rasa scene in the store, though brief, was also tough. It was another scene I wasn’t going to write. I had planned to skip from Willow casting the spell straight to Buffy at the bar of the Bronze - but I put the scene in for a couple of (admittedly silly) reasons: 1) I really, really wanted Buffy to say, “People! Strangers to me!” (from the bot saying “People! Friends of mine!” in Intervention) for no other reason than, um, it’s my story, and I really, really, wanted her to say it, damn it!; and 2) I wanted Buffy and Spike to be able to say “Ready, Randy?” “Ready, Joan.”, which is, quite honestly, one of my favorite Buffy/Spike moments from the entire series. As the story progressed, I realized that ‘Randy’ really didn’t fit into my story, and I that I didn’t want to waste time (the story is long enough, believe me!), creating a reason in the ‘Journeys’ world for Spike to be in the Randy clothes. So I either had to simple it up or eliminate it. Hence Joan and ‘R.J.’ And, even though I didn’t use them, I thank NautiBitz, who, I’m pretty sure, isn’t even reading ‘Journeys’, for the several suggestions she offered on alternate ways I could ‘Randy’ Spike up. (NautiBitz always knows the very best ways to randy Spike up!! *Snort* - couldn’t resist that one!).

The scene between Buffy and Spike in the Bronze was so different in my head from the aired version that it didn’t cause nearly the trouble that the other two mentioned did. All it had to contain was Buffy at the bar, Spike approaching her, Spike turning away, Buffy following. The kissing scene at the end of Tabula Rasa was another one of those perfect Buffy/Spike moments the series gave us that I very much wanted to exist in my world, too. This was my way to work it in - and to, um, take it juuust a little further - so far as we know. Hey! We never saw them stop kissing at the end of TR. They could have totally been doing this just like I wrote it! ROTFL.

This chapter is the last one, IMO, that really steals hefty chunks from the show. There are one or two other ‘things’ - characters or events - that I’ve nicked, but I feel the circumstances surrounding them, and the way they’re used in ‘Journeys’ are so different, so much a part of ‘my’ story (at least, they feel that way to me), that they didn’t give me the same writing problems as the more heavily borrowed scenes/events have done.

For the most part, ‘Awakenings’ continues to cause me more problems than all the other parts of ‘Journeys’ combined. Some days, it just irks me to no end, but, thankfully, I no longer feel like stomping up and down on it. I’m still dying to finish it, though, and put it behind me, and to devote myself to the remaining parts of the story. And, geez, the series continues to grow daily. It’s bloody long.

Updates have been a little slow (but I’m damned well going to point out that the latest chapters are waaay longer than earlier chapters were!). This is due to the ongoing ‘Awakening’ problems, the amount of re-writing that needed to be done when I made the major plot change in this part of the story, and, to be honest, some lack of time due to the fact that it’s gymnastics season. I follow club, high school and college gymnastics by actually attending meets, and I’ve been spending a lot of evenings in gyms and a lot of weekends out of town. It cuts down on the writing time - and on the time available to answer e-mail. For that last, especially, I apologize.

In the rush to post Chapter 5 before going out of town (for 3 days for a gymnastics meet), I neglected to mention the phrase ‘Don’t fash yourself’, which I had originally read in a fic by Dark Rhiannon (Rhi). When I couldn’t find any information on the phrase on British slang websites, I contacted Steenlou (Lou), who has been kind enough to answer a few British slang questions for me, but the phrase wasn’t one that seemed very familiar to her, though she thought it might have originated in Scotland. (I’ve since found another source that confirms this.) So I went straight to the source and asked Rhi, who told me it was a Victorian phrase and to go ahead and knock myself out using it if I wanted. I do. The phrase just sounds so Spike to me, and I couldn’t resist. I’ll make every effort not to go overboard with it. The whole exchange concerning the word ‘fash’ happened months ago, and I’m a little ‘fuzzy’ (*g*) on the exact details, so I hope I’m not misrepresenting what Lou or Rhi actually said. My thanks to both of them, for their help, and for their continuing feedback on this story, and my credit to Rhi for the Spikey phrase itself.

Writing ‘Journeys’ has completely taken over my life. (Well, other than that gymnastics thing, and, okay, yeah, my kids.) It’s become an enormous challenge, a frustration and a joy. Working out the details of the increasingly involved plot consumes me at times, and I’m finding the writing process personally fascinating. Quite simply, I’m loving it! Certainly, ‘Journeys’ is the most ambitious thing I’ve ever attempted, and really, the first writing I’ve done in 25 years, which I imagine I’ve mentioned before. (Ahem. Repeating oneself - a sign of old age.) My kids still think I’m mostly insane, but they can see it’s an insanity I’m enjoying, so they’re trying to pretend it’s normal for their mom to be writing Buffy/Spike fan fiction… even if it contains that, you know, totally um-mom thing… (((Pssst - S.E.X. Shhh!)))

An additional note on a rather difficult subject, and I address it because I’ve received several pieces of feedback that sort of dance around the subject, and don’t seem to know quite how to approach it. I thought my bringing it up here might make it easier for people. Yes, I am a widow, and yes, I do think that my own experiences and those my four children went through when we lost their father in October of 2000 contributed huge honking amounts to the experiences of Spike, Giles and Dawn as they mourned Buffy. And no, I do not find it painful to have my late husband mentioned. I talk about him all the time. I was with him nearly all my life, and I have wonderful memories. If I found it impossible to talk about it, the fact that I’m a widow wouldn’t be mentioned in my profiles at First Rabid’s site or at FF.net. Almost universally, these notes are from people who have also lost someone. They mention that my descriptions of the pain Spike is experiencing is, in some instances, so close to what they felt during a loss, that they were shocked by the feeling of recognition. I don’t know if that recognition is helping them or causing them some pain - they don’t really say, and maybe it’s a mixture of both. I do know, though, that if seeing feelings similar to their own in Spike or one of the other characters, has helped one person, just one, to feel less isolated or alone while mourning someone they loved; if it has helped them to know that others have gone through something similar; I feel incredibly happy that I didn’t hold back, and that I wove some of my own sense of loss into Spike. Knowing that I may have touched someone in this very personal way is incredibly moving to me.

I was going to end Chapter 6 just before the scene at the bar, and put the kissing scene into Chapter 7, but after the world events of this last week, I thought some Buffy/Spike lovin’ was in order. If it took your mind off that dreaded word - war - for even a few seconds, I’m glad. For those of you who have friends and loved ones currently in harm’s way, my thoughts and prayers are with you. Because of the much younger (than me) fan base of Buffy, I’m sure many readers have classmates and acquaintances - people their own age - overseas as well, or are concerned about the possibilities of a draft. My youngest son is nineteen and not in college. I understand that concern about a draft, which I internally describe as terror. Whatever your feelings about the current actions being taken, let us all hope for a rapid end to hostilities, and, once they end, for a lasting peace.

The feedback from everyone reading continues to make my days wonderful. Thank you so much!

Shamelessness Alert!: ‘Journeys’ and my other fic, ‘Lost In You’, have been nominated (thank you to whoever did the nominating!) at the Spuffy Awards in several categories. If you’d like to vote for the story, you can do so here: http://www.flesh-for-fantasy.com/SpuffyAwards/Home.html

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