Chapter 1

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At first, all Buffy knew of the world was the smell of rain on grass. Rich, pungent… but not heavenly. Something was wrong. Several minutes passed before she could feel the slick wetness against her cheek. Rain, she thought. That can’t be right. It doesn’t rain in heaven. Sensation slowly returned to her body. It crept up her legs and over her torso, a warm, muddy feeling so heavy that she gasped for air as it hit her chest and face. This is… being alive. But…

Blinking in the stinging light of a streetlamp, she realized that she was lying facedown in the grass. Over her head loomed the gray arch of a gravestone. Maybe if I lay still, I’ll go back to heaven. Or, I’ll wake up and this will all have been a dream. She pressed her body down hard against the grass and rolled her cheek over the wet blades, as if trying to sink back into the grave beneath. That’s stupid. There are no dreams in heaven.

Groaning, she rolled onto her back and looked up into the night sky. Tears slipped out of the corners of her eyes unnoticed. "No," she whispered in a rough voice. Coughing to clear her throat, she tried again. "This… this is wrong. A mistake, someone made a mistake. I’ll just stay lying here ‘till they let me come back." She closed her eyes and covered them with her hands. Mommy, she thought, her inner words half-yearning and half-pleading. This has to be a mistake.

Buffy felt the fight before she heard it. Slayer senses, though long out of practice, sent icy prickles down her skin. All her doubts were dispelled by the awakening of her awareness. She must be alive, because there were vampires nearby, at least a dozen of them. She could feel their aggression, their hunger. But if I move, this will be real. I’ll… I’ll be real. A scream broke through the fog inside her mind, followed by a raucous laugh. Later, Buffy, she told herself. Act now, think later. She jumped to her feet, cursing at the way her muscles pulled and ached. "Dead or alive, I guess I’m still the Slayer," she said, searching the shadows for the vampires. "Lucky, lucky me."

Thirty feet away, near the back wall of a concrete mausoleum, two groups of vampires were huddled over what appeared to be two bodies. The larger group, apparently playing with their prey, moved around the corner, out of her view. Buffy advanced towards the smaller group first, picking up a stick on the way. She quickly killed the three vampires before they even knew she was behind them. I may’ve been dead, but I’m not out of practice. That’s gotta be a plus. Vamp dust sprinkled over the bleeding body of their victim: a teenage girl, barely older than Dawn, and obviously dead. Feeling disassociated from the reality of her situation, Buffy looked down at the corpse. She passed her hand over the air above the girl’s slack face in a silent gesture of apology. You’ll like it, where you’re going. I did.

Slinking along the wall, Buffy paused at the edge of the corner. She peered around the bend. Ten of them, one of me, she thought, tightening her grip on her stick. Pretty bad, but it’s been worse. The vampires talked loudly and out of turn, shouting to be heard over each other’s voices. She struggled to discern meaning from the ruckus, but could only make out fragments of what they were saying. Their victim was hidden from site, but Buffy could tell from the way the vampires directed their taunting words downwards that he or she sat on the ground in the center of their gang.

She stepped away from the wall and, without warning, staked the closest vampire and the one standing beside him before the others could react. A third vamp charged her, growling. She shoved the stick into his chest, then turned to give the same treatment to another. And another. They fell on her, a rush of arms and foreheads and growls. Focusing most of her energy on staying upright, she tried to take them one at a time. The dust from their bodies coated her hands, making them slip on the stick. Three more, she thought, kicking a vampire in the chest and staking the one next to him. Two.

The last vampire backed away from her, his hands held in the air. "Please, please don’t," he whined, his eyes wide. "I won’t do nothing, just don’t hurt me."

Buffy grabbed his shaking body by the throat in a quick, snake-like movement. "It won’t hurt a bit," she said flatly, punching the stick into his chest and backing away to avoid the cloud of dust that rose where the vampire had been standing.

"Hey Slayer! You missed one," called a familiar voice from behind her.

She spun around, her stick held in front of her body. "Spike," she said, dropping her shoulders. "It’s only you." Closing her eyes, she sighed. Reality came flooding back to her. She had to be alive. There were no vampires in heaven, not even neutered ones. Being upset about it wouldn’t change anything, but… I don’t want to be here. It’s… it’s *wrong* here. Keeping her eyes closed, she dropped her stick to the ground. "What happened? Why am I back?"

"You went somewhere?" Spike cocked his head, studying her. "You look worse than I do, Slayer. What, someone drop an organ on you, too?"

"What are you talking about?" She opened her eyes and looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time. The same bleached hair, the same cocky eyes, the same… wheelchair? "What happened to you?" she said, moving towards him. "Was it Glory? Where’s Dawn, is she safe?"

Spike snorted and wheeled backwards a few paces, away from Buffy. "What happened? That’s cold, Slayer, really cold. Now, me, I’d remember if I put my mortal enemy into a wheelchair. In fact, I’d revel in the moment, you being said enemy and all. But apparently, it meant much less to you."

"I… I did this? But…" Buffy wavered, suddenly lightheaded. "No. That was years ago, Spike. Before… everything. I don’t know what your game is, but quit messing around. Something’s happened, something bad. I mean, look at me! I’m here!"

"So? It’s a cemetery. You’re the Slayer. Where else would you be."

"So!" She took deep breaths, but it was impossible to steady her erratic pulse. "Spike," she said, trying again. "Just please stop this. Tell me where Dawn is. I need to know."

"Don? Who is he, your new snogging partner?" Spike moved another few feet away. "Wouldn’t want to be him when Angelus finds out you’ve moved on to warmer pastures. Or is he a vampire, too? You know what they say, pet. Once you’ve gotten a taste of cold comfort, there’s no going back."

Shaking her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts, Buffy said, "Angelus? What… what happened? Angel, did he… the curse, is it…?"

"If you haven’t noticed already that your honey’s all evil again, then you must be totally off your rocker." Narrowing his eyes, he stilled his hands on top of the wheels. "Is that it? You’ve gone round the bend? Hit your head or something? Drusilla makes more sense than you are, Slayer, even when she’s chatting with her dolls." With a scowl, he spat, "or with her ‘daddy’."

"Her… her daddy? Dru and Angel are… together?" Strange and disturbing thoughts began to race through her mind. "Together as in, really together?"

"Hello! Yes! Why do you think I’m out here, talking to you of all people? Don’t you think I’d rather be splitting some nice, ripe toddler with Drusilla? But no… you had to go shack up with Peaches and turn him back to our side. And look what you’ve caused! All I did was let Dru in on a harmless little secret of Angelus’s- a secret by the name of Shameless Undead Lapdancer, but still, harmless enough- and what does he do? He’s sent my own minions after me, he has! You should know, you just dusted them! I can’t show my face anywhere near the factory, which means I can’t even be in town since Sunnyhell is such a sodding tiny place!"

"Umm…" Buffy stood near the side of the mausoleum, rubbing her eyes with both hands. Upon opening them, she found the world spinning. She sagged against the wall, slamming her eyes shut. "Spike…stop talking…"

"And it’s not like I can hunt like this," he said. "Dru had to feed me like I was some sort of weakling! Then she just sends me out to starve to death, and doesn’t care a wit about it. All she cares about is having her ‘daddy’ back. She’d stake me herself if I went back to the factory! And if she missed, well, then dear old daddy would have me in an ashtray before I got one wheel in the door."

"Spike," Buffy said again, sliding down the wall to the ground. She knelt in the dirt, weak and dizzy, her head bowed. "Please, shut up a minute, will you?"
 

Spike looked at her, considering. "You better run along now, love. I might not be up to killing you, but Angelus and Dru are out and about, looking for me. They’d be delighted to find you all out-of-sorts."

"Dru… and Angelus. Together," Buffy said, resting her forehead against the cold, stone wall. Her head began to clear as she realized what was happening. It was too insane to be true, but there was no other explanation. "You have no idea who Dawn is. And you’re not chipped, I’m guessing, since you’re talking about eating toddlers."

"Bully for you, you’ve figured it out. What, you really did get a knock on the head?" He smirked down at her. "This couldn’t have happened a few months ago, now could it. No, I finally catch the Slayer at a disadvantage, and I can’t do a bloody thing about it." Pounding his hands on the arms of his wheelchair, he growled. "Thanks to you."

"And you’re in a wheelchair… which means, either I’m in a mental ward somewhere, or this is 1998." She jumped to her feet, suddenly wary. Bracing herself with one hand against the wall, she said, "I know I’m not crazy, so… umm, if this is 1998, then why are you talking to me? Shouldn’t you be running or… well, wheeling away?"

"Not much point to that. You’d catch up before I got ten feet away. These wheels weren’t meant to roll on grass. Might as well talk to you- got nothing to lose now, do I?"

"And Angelus?" She clenched her jaw to kill the fear that rose in her throat. This is so my life. To go from being in heaven straight to reliving the worst year of my life… but this can’t be right. Think! "If all this is true and he really is trying to kill you, he must be close by."

"He’s around here somewhere. Unless he and Drusilla decided to go back to the lair and have a bit of a tumble after dinner." Spike scowled, grinding his teeth. "That’s always a possibility, these days." Leering at Buffy, he added, "Shouldn’t you be staking me about now?"

She looked at him. His body was thin, sickly thin, and curved against the back of the wheelchair in a slouch that told her he’d been in the chair for some time. A curl, damp from the rain, fell over his forehead. If she was in the past, then this wasn’t her Spike. This Spike wanted to kill her, not make love to her. This Spike was a true monster, one who hadn’t earned the small bits of redemption her Spike had gained by helping her to protect Dawn. All the same, she was grateful that he’d been the one to find her. Buffy could think of a dozen people who’d give her more comfort but, in this situation, Spike was just who she needed.

He watched her with sharp eyes, waiting. She met his gaze steadily, then trailed her eyes down to study his lifeless legs. When she didn’t say anything, he rolled a step closer to her. "Well?" An edge sharpened the word, making it sound almost eager.

She raised a single eyebrow, appraising him. Spike wants me to kill him. The only time I’ve known him to be that depressed was when he was first chipped. Incapacitated. Just like he is now… God, could this really be true? What’s more difficult to believe in, resurrection or time travel?

Reaching down, she picked up her stick and shoved it under the waistband of her pants. I’ve gotta figure out what’s going on. If I’m alive again, well… than anything’s possible. "Don’t be stupid," she said, shrugging off his gaze and scanning the shadows for signs of movement. "I don’t kill helpless creatures. Not even you. As I’ll tell you again in a few years."

Spike jerked as though slapped. "Hey! Let’s see you get within arms reach and call me helpless! I won’t be in this chair forever, you know."

"Oh, I know. Believe me, I know. Better than you do, apparently. What month is it?" She grabbed the rain-soaked handles of his wheelchair, avoiding the large bag that hung from the back, and pushed him out of the cemetery. The sidewalk was slick with water, but familiar. She was only a few blocks from home.

"Uh… January. What the hell do you think you’re doing?" He twisted in his chair, trying to smack her hands off the handles. "Either put a stake in me or leave me be!"

"January. That means if all this is true, you’ll have another 4 months of wheeling around while Angelus plays doctor with Drusilla."

Spike slumped back into his chair. "How do you know that? You’re a bleeding psychic now? Just dial 1-900-PsychoSlayer?"

Ignoring him, she quickened her pace, turning the corner onto Revello Drive. "I need information. I can’t ask my friends for help because, apparently, I’m three years in the past. I’ve seen enough science fiction movies to know that if anyone finds out I’m here, it could screw up the timeline. Anyone who matters, that is."

"You did hit your head. Or is it drugs? Just how stoned does a person have to be to think they’re a time traveler?"

"Just… shut up." From down the block, she could see the glow of lights shining through the windows of her house. Her mother was home, maybe. Mommy. Her mind danced with a crazy mixture of hope and fear. To see her mother again… in real life, not in heaven. To have back all she’d lost… Swallowing hard, Buffy tore her attention back to the facts. "You don’t have anything better to do, and trust me, you’re much less evil than you think you are. And I hardly think that you not being around will screw up my timeline. So, you are going to help me."

Glaring, Spike said, "Or what?"

She paused on the sidewalk in front of her house. "Well you could go back to Angelus. Watch him steal your girlfriend. Let him stake you. Or, you could see how easy humans are to kill when you can’t use your legs. Starvation doesn’t sound like much fun to me. A better plan might be to help me. I need to figure out what to do. You have information that might be useful, since I’ll need to avoid Angel… umm… Angelus. And I’ll need someone to keep people from discovering me. In return… well, you need to eat."

Letting loose a bitter chuckle, Spike shook his head. "What is this? I scratch your back, you scratch my… mine?" His words dripped with innuendo.

"There will be no scratching of any kind! You do what you can to help me and I’ll feed you. That’s it, that’s the whole deal. If you even hint at more…" With a blink, she remembered suddenly a past he hadn’t yet lived through.

‘What’s wrong,’ he had asked, looking down at her. She’d been sitting on the steps of her back porch, crying with fear for her mother. Though she had noticed he held a shotgun in his hands, she couldn’t bring herself to fight him, especially when his eyes radiated concern and worry. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she’d said, misery hanging from each word. Though she’d sensed his internal struggle, she had done nothing to make it easier for him. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he’d asked, wanting to act. Wanting to help her. She’d been unable to answer, but the pressure of his hand when it touched her back in a comforting pat reached her deep inside.

Looking down at the wheelchair, she lectured herself silently. Stop thinking about that. He was chipped then. This… this is a different creature. I can’t expect him to be happy about helping me. Not yet. "That’s the deal," she repeated in a firm voice. "Take it or leave it. Leave it and you’ll die. Doesn’t seem like much of a choice to me."

He cocked his head to the side, confused by the conflicting emotions that he’d watched pass over her face. "For the record, I’m not happy to be helping you, Slayer. This is unnatural, you realize that? Like birds and cats taking tea together or something. But a man does need to eat."

"You don’t see me jumping with joy either," she said, looking up at her house. "But we’re both out of options." She saw a light on in the living room window. Leaving Spike on the sidewalk, she walked up the path and onto the porch. She looked inside, then, gasping, ducked back into the shadows. Oh God, that was…

"Idiot," she whispered to herself as she rushed back towards Spike. Grabbing the handles of the wheelchair, she said, "I should’ve known."

"What? You look as pale as I am. And I can smell your pulse racing." He leaned his head back towards her and baited her with a malicious smile. "Like melted chocolate. Delicious."

"Change of plan," she said, pushing him hurriedly down the street. She tried to ignore the sick feeling of fear that unwound inside of her stomach. "We need a place to stay. Somewhere no one will find us."

"There’s a place," Spike said in a bland, indifferent tone. "It’s not far. I’d planned on hiding out there anyways. You could come, I suppose." He tipped his head farther back to meet her eyes, but she avoided him. "But I thought you wanted to go home."

"It seems that I’m already there," she said, fighting down nausea. She glanced back over her shoulder as if she could still see inside the window, still see herself lying asleep on the couch.

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Sunnydale

2001

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"Osiris! Let her cross over!"

Willow knelt over Buffy’s grave, suspended in red light. Her eyes glowed black and sightless, but she could still hear. Forcing herself to focus on her magic, she trusted that Tara, Xander, and Anya would protect her from whatever was causing the motorcycle noises and the screams.

"Release her!" Willow shouted, still deeply into the spell. She ignored the voice of the Buffybot. It stood behind her, shouting over the din of the engines. If this worked, they wouldn’t need the Bot. Buffy could come home.

"Osiris!" she screamed, commanding the god to listen. "Let her go!"

As if from far away, she heard the sound of something breaking. A burning pain rose inside her chest, tearing at her lungs. "No!" The red light dissipated, dropping Willow to the ground. "No," she panted, half-conscious. She used the last of her strength to drag herself towards the broken bits of the magical urn.

Clutching the pieces of ceramic to her chest, she saw Xander and Anya rushing towards her, hand in hand. She watched them dodge a demon on a motorcycle. You’re too late, she thought as they approached. The urn… we failed Buffy. I failed. Then, suddenly, they both vanished. Nothing remained where they had once been standing.

"Tara!" Willow said, shouting above the racket of the motorcycle engines. "Did you… did you just see that? Xander… Anya… they disappeared!"

Tara peeked out from her hiding place behind a bush. She ran over to Willow and dragged her to safety. "What are you talking about, Will? Are you okay? Those demons just came out of nowhere! So much for an evening walk in the woods, huh?"

"What?" Willow laid her head in Tara’s lap, dizzy and nauseated. "A walk? No… the spell… something went wrong. Xander…"

"Honey, shh," Tara said, stroking Willow’s hair soothingly. "Those demons must’ve really freaked you out. You’re all confused. Xander’s been dead for years, remember? I’ve never even met him."

Willow’s eyes rolled back in her head. She fell away from Tara and laid on her back in the dirt. With the last of her consciousness, she thought, What happened? What did I do wrong?

Chapter 2

Summary: "There's always consequences." Spike is proven right when Willow's spell brings Buffy back, years from where she's supposed to be. He'd be bragging that one up, if Spike of season 2 knew what the hell Buffy was talking about.

Rating: R for now. Maybe more later.

Disclaimer: The usual. BTVS is not mine.

Distribution: If you want it, email me..

Feedback: Oh yes please. Dragolyn@hotmail.com

Author’s Note: Due to the fact that for some reason, I can’t post italics on ff.net, thoughts are put into brackets like <these>.

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Buffy pushed Spike through the familiar cemetery. Wet grass clung to the wheels of the chair in clumps, making it bounce. She ignored the bumps that jiggled the vampire and strode down the row as quickly as she could. Tombstones, backlit by moonlight, cast shadows on the dark grass, lining the path towards their destination. "You might’ve just said we were coming here. I didn’t need directions."

"You’ve been to this crypt before?" Spike folded his hands over his chest, trying not to wince. The pain in his back screamed with each bounce, but he’d rather go sunbathing than tell the Slayer to be gentle. "No getting around you, is there, Slayer? I’d have found a better hide-out if I’d known you knew about this place."

Biting off a wry grin, she shoved open the crypt door and pushed Spike inside. She shut the door firmly behind them and coughed as clouds of dust filled the air. The upper level looked remarkably the same as it had the last time she’d been there, three years in the future. The same old refrigerator hummed in the corner. The dusty armchair squatted in front of a television which, while it wasn’t the same as the one Spike would own in the future, bore familiar cracks and dings. "I didn’t know about it when you stayed here. Um… now, that is. I don’t know about it yet. It’ll be a few more years before you’ll chain me up in the basement."

"I’m going to do that?" Spike wheeled his chair further into the crypt, towards the sarcophagus. "That’s odd."

"Why odd? You’re a vampire. Odd for you would be…" <Falling in love with the Slayer. Risking your life for a teenage girl. Undergoing torture instead of giving into your nature>. She carefully schooled her features into a blank mask, revealing nothing of her thoughts. "Puppies would be odd for you. Flowers. Poetry."

"No, chaining you up isn’t something I’d do, not under normal circumstances at least. I don’t usually play with my food before supper. That’s more Drusilla’s gig." He transferred himself from the wheelchair to the sarcophagus in one, fluid movement. With a look at Buffy that dared her to comment, he clicked his tongue and patted his lap. "As for the rest…" He looked expectantly towards to hole that lead to the basement.

From the below the floor, Buffy heard a scrambling noise. "Not a puppy," she said flatly. "No way William the Bloody’s keeping a puppy down there. You’re not the type… and I’ll never believe that they’d give a service dog to a member of the undead, broken back or not."

A small smile twisted Spike’s lips as he watched a ginger colored tabby poke its head out of the hole, and run across the crypt towards him. The cat jumped into his lap and, purring, rubbed its nose against the bottom of Spike’s chin. "Like I’d ever keep something as shameful as a dog. Way too docile and obedient for my tastes, not to mention snackable. Now, Platelet here… he’s my kind of beast. Goes where he wants, eats who he wants…"

All the color drained from Buffy’s face. <Platelet> "What did you call him?"

"What, you thought I’d call him Fluffy? Like humans don’t name their pets after foods all the time."

A violent tremble ran through Buffy’s body. <Dawn. How could it have taken me so long to think about her? To worry about her?> She backed away from Spike, her eyes wide and inwardly focused. The memory of her sister’s face was all she could see. <The way she looked at me before I jumped from the tower… before I died…> Sinking to the ground, she leaned her back against the door and drew her knees up against her chest. <And now… now she’s all alone. No mom, no sister…>

"Prissy little thing, aren’t you? Never thought something so tiny as a cat’s name would get to you."

She rested her head back against the hard wood and closed her eyes, ignoring Spike’s taunting words. She had to think, had to figure out what to do next, but it seemed that all she could do was feel. <And what is it I’m feeling so much of? Not too unhappy about being gone from the days of Glory, that’s for sure. Guilt though, lots of guilt here, because shouldn’t I want to get back there? Isn’t that the thing to do? But… it was hard there. And then, then there was heaven, with the serenity and the peace and the whole not-a-Slayer deal. It’s not like I can just go die again, though. Just run out and get myself killed. I mean, I’ve been brought back for a reason. This couldn’t have all been a mistake. Could it have been?> She dropped her head down onto her knees. <Of course it could have been. Hello, Buffy! This is your life! When has anything ever gone as planned?>

"Earth to Slayer. I’m getting hungry here. Make with the blood already, won’t you? Or are you planning on pansying out on our deal?" Spike’s words seemed to have a will of their own. He’d intended them to be harsh, wanting to wake the Slayer up out of whatever dreamland she’d fallen into. Instead, they came out with a soft, almost gentle, tone. Groaning, he pushed the cat off onto the floor. "Slayer," he said, snapping his fingers. "Come on out of it, pet. Whatever’s wrong, it can’t be as bad as all that. S’not like the world’s ending, now. Is it?"

"I’m here because I stopped the world from ending," Buffy murmured, her face buried in her hands. "Didn’t take much. Just my life. Not like it was much of a life by that point anyways."

Spike fell quiet for a moment. He cocked his head to the side, thinking. "No joke then? You really are from the future?"

Without raising her head, Buffy nodded. "Would I be in here with you if I wasn’t?"

"Don’t suppose so. And you were dead?"

Her hands smelled like grass and sweat. They were stained with mud and keeping them on her face would probably make her break out into acne. She didn’t care. "I was in heaven," she said, her voice barely audible. "It was… heaven. Perfect."

The fingers of Spike’s right hand twitched. He glared down at them, telling them not to disobey. No way was he reaching out towards her. The chit was badly in need of comfort, but he had none to offer. All he had was what she’d seen of him: a crypt, a cat, and whatever it was she thought she needed from him. Whatever she wanted from him in exchange for feeding him. Certainly not comfort. But still, there was something there… something tingling inside of him that made him ask, "Want me to call the cat something else?" He shot his eyes away from her the moment the words passed over his lips, embarrassed.

She looked up at him, surprised. "No. It’s… sort of sweet, really. You… the future you, that is, called my little sister that. Platelet. She… well, she loved it."

"Sister?" He quirked an eyebrow. "Since when do you have a sister? I thought I’d found all your weaknesses. And why would I give her a pet name?"

"Dawn… well, it’s complicated. Let’s just leave it at, she doesn’t show up for a few years. And when she does, she’s fifteen years old. She kinda got a crush on you. Fifteen year olds are like that."

Spike’s jaw dropped. "The Slayer’s little sis, with a crush on an evil vampire! At least Angel had a soul. Not that it turned out so well with the two of you or anything, but still…" His eyes widened. "Don’t tell me that in this future of yours, I’ve got a soul. If I’ve turned into the same sort of wanker Angelus did…"

Despite herself, Buffy laughed, a deep chuckle that shook the door behind her slightly. "That last thing I would accuse you of, Spike, would be having a soul. In *any* future. But, there were a few improvements made to your personality. You…well, you lost your bite."

"Come again?"

Buffy rose to her feet. She walked over to him, taking her time. <No matter how upset I am, this is one of those moments a girl just *has* to enjoy>. "How did you put it? Oh, yes. And I quote, ‘Spikey had a little trip to the vet, and now he doesn’t chase the other puppies’. Or something to that effect, anyways." She hoisted herself up on the end of the sarcophagus and gave him a smile. "I never paid taxes, really, but if I had, I’d be saying something about how glad I was that the government finally put the money to a good use when they stuck that chip in your head."

"Chip. This is the thing that’ll take away my… my bite?" He looked down at his lap as he spoke, making his last word sound an awful lot like ‘manhood’. "I don’t believe this. It… this has to be your fault, somehow. All your fault! How… how does it happen?"
 

"Couldn’t really tell you. One minute, we’re fighting to the death- a fight which I won, of course. Then, a few weeks later, you’re chained up in Giles’ bathtub, and we’re talking about how…" she paused, suppressing a giggle, "how flaccid you’d become."

"Glad it gave you such a laugh," he growled, sending her a black glare. "I suppose you were all sitting around, poking fun at the poor vampire who couldn’t." His words dripped with anger, but there was something else hidden in the line of his jaw. A tremble. Fear?

Careful not to show any trace of empathy in her expression, Buffy said, "For a while. I mean, you had spent years trying to kill us all. You were way deserving of what we dished out. But then… you really came around."

"Got my bite back, then?"

"No. But you were tough."

Looking at her from the corner of his eyes, Spike bit down hard on his lip. "Tough? How tough could I be, with no bite?"
 

"Tough enough to survive a torture session with a hell god," Buffy said, slipping him the tiniest of smiles. "Not to mention battling it out with a few dozen of her minions, and getting tossed off an enormous tower with a knife in your back. You… you did well for yourself, chip or no chip."

Visibly relaxing, Spike looked at Buffy. "Thanks." Shaking his head in an attempt to throw off the emotions of the moment, he coughed loudly. "How ‘bout that blood now?"

Buffy rolled up her sleeve. She considered the veins of her wrist carefully, chiding herself for being nervous. <You’d think a girl who wants to go back to heaven wouldn’t be nervous about this, but no…> "You take too much and I’ll knock your head off, helpless creature or not." With a sigh, she held her wrist out to him.

"Would I do that?" he asked, taking her hand in his. As casual as his words sounded, his eyes held hers in a questioning stare. Would he? Would the Spike she’d known do such a thing? Chipped Spike? <The Spike who is in love with me?>

"Yes, of course," she said, the lie coming out in a rush.

Comforted, he smirked and threw on his game face. He brought her wrist to his mouth and bit her without mercy.

She gasped at the pain, then wondered at herself for being surprised. <Why wouldn’t this hurt? Fangs plus blood drinking equals… ouch.> Forcing herself to keep her seat beside him, she closed her eyes, her free hand fisting open and closed. She threw her head back and took deep breaths. Her throat convulsed slightly as tiny moans worked their way up. Her lips pressed together in a tight attempt to silence herself. <Hope he’s not very hungry. I can’t take much more of this.>

He drank hard at first, his mouth barely moving on her skin. She could feel each pull from her vein deeply, as though a long thread had been strung from her wrist to the core of her body. The sensation was rhythmic, and within the rhythm came an ease from the pain. Then, gradually, the nature of his bite began to change. The rhythm slowed. Whereas before Buffy could feel only a general pressure from his mouth, she now knew exactly where his lips were on her skin. They brushed the sensitive hollow of her inner wrist, light and wet. She did not open her eyes. His lips moved across the wound he’d made, and then it was his tongue she felt, lapping at her cut with long, leisurely movements.

Coming back to her senses, she jerked her arm away from his hands. From his mouth. She struggled to slow her breathing. Meeting his eyes with a glare, she held her bleeding wrist tightly against her abdomen.

"Would I do that?" Spike repeated in a low voice, meeting her eyes. He licked his lower lip clean, ingesting the last traces of her blood.

Unable to look away, she could only whisper, "Yes."

**********

Sunnydale

2001

**********

"Umm, Will? You read that one already," Tara said, entering the living room of the Summer’s house, a steaming mug of tea in one hand. She looked over the stacks of books and tried to catch Willow’s eyes. "Stop, honey. Have some tea. You’ve been at this all night."

"You don’t understand," Willow muttered, flipping through the pages of the large text with frantic fingers. "But then, you wouldn’t, would you? I’ve screwed this up so completely that there’s no way you could even know just how badly I’ve…"

Moving around the table, Tara placed her fingertips over Willow’s lips, silencing her. She wrapped Willow’s hand around the mug. "You’re exhausted. If you won’t go to bed, at least rest a minute. Drink this." She took the book from in front of Willow and set it firmly to the side. "Please, sweetie."

Taking the tea, Willow sighed. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. "You don’t understand," she repeated in a whisper. "Whatever I did, it changed everything. And there’s no one to ask for help. You’re the only person who’s still here, and everything you think is true… everything you remember… it’s all wrong. Because of me."

Tara knelt beside Willow. She stroked her lover’s hair with gentle, soothing motions. "I wish you would have let me take you to the hospital. Whatever happened to you tonight… whatever’s upset you… we should get help."

"If Giles was here, maybe, but no… he’s dead. No one can help, no one else is unaffected by whatever I did to the spell! There is no help. Not for what’s happened. You don’t even know…" Willow opened her eyes and grabbed Tara’s hands. "Tell me."

"We’re not going through this again," Tara said. "It can’t be good for you. Last time, you got so upset."

"Tara," Willow said, leaning towards her. She squeezed Tara’s hands tightly and refused to let her pull away. "I need to hear it again. Tell me."

Her eyes full of hurt shock, Tara nodded. "W-when we f-first met, you t-told me about what happened. How… how Buffy and Xander went to rescue Giles from Angelus and Drusilla. Angelus was trying to awaken… umm… some demon, one that would suck the world into hell." She paused, looking up at Willow. "You told me that you waited at the hospital for them to come back, but they… they never came. The only one who survived that night was Buffy. And then…"

"Then?" Willow’s voice, hard as ice, made Tara flinch. "Tell me again, Tara. I need you to say it."

"Willow, Buffy k-killed herself. Two years ago… I already told you this. You and I, we found her body." Her eyes filled with tears and she looked away. "Don’t make me say it again."

Dropping Tara’s hands, Willow pulled her chair closer to the table. She reached for the text Tara had taken from her. "It’s not real. None of it. *I* did this, somehow. And I’m going to undo it." Opening the book, she didn’t spare Tara a glance. "I just have to figure out what it was I did."

Tara rose to her feet and stood over Willow for a minute, watching the fervency with which she skimmed the pages. Retreating slowly from the room, she entered the kitchen and quietly picked up the telephone. With shaking fingers, she started to dial the number for the hospital, then paused. "Oh, God," she whispered, looking at her fingers. At a casual glance, they appeared flesh colored, but when she focused on them, she could see the blue tint they bore beneath the skin. The tint that said her energy was fragmented, as it only became when she was under the effects of a powerful spell.

"Willow?" Tara said, her voice subdued with fear. She walked back into the dining room and picked up one of the texts from the stack on the table. "You… ummm.. you haven’t look in this one yet, have you?"

With a small smile, Willow shook her head. "Not that one. Try this," she said, sliding a manual across the table. "Look under Osiris, for anything about a resurrection spell. Or, about flubbing a resurrection spell. And if it involves the whole of reality shifting? Well, that’s our chapter."

Tara nodded, opening the book. "Will?" she asked, trying not to look too hard at the blueness underneath her skin. "It doesn’t make sense. Why would a botched resurrection spell change reality so drastically? I can’t think of any precedent for this sort of thing."

Raising an eyebrow, Willow kept reading as she spoke. "Can you think of any precedence for a major spell being interrupted by demons on motorcycles? Me neither. Keep reading. Whatever we did, it’s in here somewhere." Turning the page, she grimaced. "I hope."

Chapter 3

Summary: "There's always consequences." Spike is proven right when Willow's spell brings Buffy back, years from where she's supposed to be. He'd be bragging that one up, if Spike of season 2 knew what the hell Buffy was talking about.

Rating: R for now. Maybe more later.

Disclaimer: The usual. BTVS is not mine.

Distribution: If you want it, email me..

Feedback: Oh yes please. Dragolyn@hotmail.com

Author’s Note: Due to the fact that for some reason, I can’t post italics on ff.net, thoughts are put into brackets like <these>.

Thanks go, as always, to my betas, Wendy and Shannon.

*********

Sunnydale

2001

*********

"Where’s that one book… the one with the skeleton key on the cover?" Willow asked, going through the piles of books stacked in rows on the Summers’ dining room table. "You know? That one?"

"I checked it already. There’s nothing there. We’re not getting anywhere," Tara said, closing her book with a sigh. They’d been researching nonstop for more than a day, and still hadn’t found the answer. Exhaustion was a small word for what she was feeling- semiconscious might’ve been closer. Willow looked even more tired; all of Tara’s attempts at getting her lover to rest had failed. Knowing the mess their world had become made sleep an impossibility. "Let’s go through the spell again, step by step. There must be something we’ve overlooked."

Dropping into the chair next to Tara’s, Willow sent an evil look at the book sitting on the table in front of her. "There’s nothing left to go over. I’ve told you everything. There was the preparation, with the fawn and all, but I did fine with that. And the words, the actual words of the spell… they were good, too. The circle was strong, I was dealing with the tests, the visualization went just fine… everything was running smoothly ‘till the urn broke. It had to be the urn."

"N-no. I don’t think so." Tara picked up Willow’s hands and held them close to her heart. "Yeah, it wasn’t a great thing, when it broke. But after reading all these books, I think the urn was maybe a smaller deal than you thought when you were preparing the spell. It doesn’t bring back the dead. It’s more like… more like the glue that makes the spell work. You did the preparation, the incant, and then the visualization… where were you with the visualizing?"

Screwing up her face, Willow shook her head. "I can’t remember, exactly. Yeah, that’s bad, I know. I should be able to. But it was a lot, you know? W-with the snake and the pain and all… through all that, I had to picture Buffy’s birth, her first birthday, and every year after that. I had to see her grow up."
 

"I still don’t get that part. Why did you have to do that?"

"It was suppose to be like a guide for Osiris, so that he’d know who I was talking about and… and, I guess, *when* in her life to bring her back to. Gods can take our whole lives and open them, like a book, to any page that they want. If Osiris was in a bad mood, he could’ve returned Buffy when she was, like, eighty!" Willow shrugged with a tired smile. "I dunno. Sound hokey. I didn’t think it mattered all that much, just another test or something. I liked it better than the snake."

Tara brought Willow’s hand to her lips. Her eyes took on a distracted glaze. Dropping an absentminded kiss on Willow’s knuckles, she said, "That was where the urn came it. It acted like glue, to make whatever year you saw Buffy in… to make it stick. You were supposed to picture Buffy being alive after she jumped off the tower, and then smash the urn. Right?"

"That’s how it was supposed to go." Willow took her hand back and ran her fingertip down the spine of the book. "But those motorcycle demons… well, they took care of the whole smashing thing."

"If it’d gone right, then the urn would have ‘stuck’ Buffy back to life at the same time as her death, without any overlap." Tara shot upright in her seat, realization darkening her eyes. "What if the spell did work? What if Buffy is alive, somewhere? Or, I mean, some*when*?"

Willow’s jaw dropped. "Somewhen? When?" She paled, and grabbed Tara’s arm with both hands. "Oh no… Oh God. This is… this is bad. If you’re right… if Buffy is alive, in another year of her life… It makes sense. Her being there, it could’ve changed the past enough to cause such a different future."

"When, Will? What were you think about when the urn broke?"

Shuddering, Willow tightened her hands on Tara’s arm. She closed her eyes. "That last thing I remember was thinking of 1998. The year Angel turned into Angelus."

*********

Sunnydale

1998

*********

The dead girl’s white shoes, colored brown with mud, hung over the end of the bed. She’d put up a chase, a good chase, Angelus thought, drinking deeply from her neck. Good enough to have sparked Drusilla’s interest for all of two seconds. He’d chosen her as their evening meal specifically to give Dru a game, a distraction from her sulky mood, but it hadn’t lasted longer than it’d taken for the girl to scream and turn tail. Dru had simply shrugged and returned to the crypt, to lie in bed and babble nonsense to herself. She’d ignored Angelus when he came in with the girl’s body slung over his shoulder. He’d dumped the body on the bed and arranged her as if she was asleep, to try and tempt Drusilla to eat. She refused to even look at him, so he’d eaten without her.

The girl’s hair, brown and pretty against the backdrop of red blankets, tickled his nose. He withdrew his fangs from her neck with a groan. Looking over the body to where Drusilla rested against the pillows, he said, "She’s tasty. Eat, Dru."

Dru stared at the ceiling with dreamy eyes, twirling a strand of her hair around one index finger in a spiral. "Tasty is as tasty does," she murmured, "and that girl was naughty, naughty, naughty."

"Drusilla, you’re trying my patience," Angelus said, his jaw tightening with annoyance. He shoved the girl’s body to the floor with a careless sweep of his arm and moved up to seize Dru’s shoulders. "You’re a wreck. You’ve been moping around ever since Spike left. I’m sick of playing babysitter. Spike’s gone! He’s never coming back. Get over it, would you?"

Covering her eyes with the heels of her hands, Dru let out a low, keening moan. She rolled away from Angelus. "Won’t stop. Bad daddy, who said ‘give up’ on his children."

Angelus rolled his eyes with barely stifled aggravation. "I didn’t give up. We looked for Spike, remember? Someone slayed all our minions."

"Not my Spike, though. He didn’t do that. Broken boy can’t fight." Turning back towards him, she danced her fingers over his chest. Her nails pinched him, teasing the hairs that peppered below the notch of his collarbone. "Can’t fight… can’t hunt… can only starve and cry all alone and miss his princess…"

"But someone fought, someone helped him. The wheelchair tracks in the grass led out the cemetery gates, and there were footprints walking beside them. Footprints, Dru. Spike’s fine, wherever he is. He’s found someone to help him. Can’t you leave it at that?"

"Spike found a friend." She grinned suddenly and, closing her eyes, nuzzled her face into his shoulder like a cat. "I saw them, you know. Behind my eyes, I did. Dancing together. With their fists out and flying, they were."

"None of that matters unless you saw where he’s hiding," Angelus said in a distracted tone. He stared into the dark shadows of the room, his mouth twitching slightly as he thought. Spike had never been more than a bother to him and, more often than not, Angelus regretted giving Dru permission to turn the boy. Rash as he was, he’d lead them into near-misses time after time. Crippled, he was little more than a burden, a mouth to feed, a body to wash… though he did have his uses. Only after spending the past few days as Drusilla’s sole caretaker had Angelus realized how valuable Spike actually was. Anyone had worth who could keep Dru from grating on his nerves as she had since Spike had left. But still, it was better for them all that Spike had gone. One less annoyance. "Did you see where he’s at, Dru?"

"Oh yes. My Spike’s with the dead. He’s in their home, with their bare, beautiful bones."

"In a crypt. Great. Dru, do you have any idea how many crypts there are in Sunnydale? Just forget about him." Angelus squeezed her neck, massaging her with beguiling force. "You don’t need anything more than what you have here. And you definitely don’t need roller boy. You have me now. Someone who won’t hold you back. He never did anything else, you know. All that crap about love… so human, so weak."

"He’s with the dead," she sighed, nipping at his neck. Her breath, inexplicably hot, stung his skin. "Two corpses in a crypt. With the dead, and with your soul."

Curiosity sparked in his eyes. "Not my soul. It went… wherever souls go when Slayers are foolish enough to screw them out of you."

"Your soul," she repeated. She ran her tongue over his Adam’s apple, then pulled him towards the edge of the bed. "Or your death, either one. Like the flip of a coin. Your soul or your death… your death or your soul… but only your soul, if we go right now to find them."

"Could you be any more crazy?" He pushed her off of him, scowling. "I don’t want to hear that word from you again. ‘Soul’. I mean it, Dru. There’s a stake with your name on it in the nightstand if you keep this up. I’ve had it up to here with your blathering."

Rising to her knees, she tugged at his shirt. "Only your soul if we go now," she said again, her voice rising with urgency.

Shaking his head, Angelus rose from the bed. He stretched his arms over his head. With a quick change of heart, he decided that recovering Spike, if he was indeed still alive, would be more than worth the effort. "Well then, Dru. I guess this works out fine. Let’s go find our boy, shall we? He can baby-sit you for a while- I’m done with it."

. 

*******

Buffy inhaled a sharp breath as she traced the knife over the mostly-healed cut on her wrist, reopening it. Blood welled up immediately, flowing in heavy ribbons to fill the mug she held in her good hand. "Breakfast," she called over her shoulder to Spike in a gruff monotone.

He smirked without looking away from the television. Rubbing a hand over his belly, he said, "Bring it over, would you pet? It’s too early in the night to break out my wheels."

"Lazy and a couch potato. Gee, Spike, what a fascinating life you lead." Wincing, she wrapped a length of cloth around her wrist as a makeshift bandage. She walked over and switched off the television set with a snap. Holding the mug of blood out to him, she shook her head as he reached for it. "Ah-ah. First things first, and the first thing is figuring out a plan. I can’t just stay in this crypt for the rest of my life, you know. Now that I have a life. But if I leave, someone could see me and blow the future all to pot."

"It’s only been one night. Dramatic, aren’t you? No one’s talking about the rest of your life. Besides, s’not so bad in here, pet. There’s plenty of food in the fridge, and decent shows on the telly." He gestured towards the black screen. "Plus, I’m getting sort of used to having my own personal tap of fresh Slayer blood. Hand it over, would you? I won’t welsh on our deal. You don’t have to starve me to be sure of that."

With the barest of blinks, she passed him the mug and watched as he drank. "You’re not all…" she waved a hand over her forehead, baring her teeth. "I thought that’s what happened when you drank blood."

"What, you never saw me eat like this in that future of yours?"

"Well, yeah, but you had a chip then. You’re a totally different… un-person, now." She screwed up her face, considering. "Or, then. Or… you get what I mean."

"This chip really did a number on me, eh?"

"We’ve been through this." Her face burned as she remembered the feel of his lips on her skin. She touched the cloth that bound her wrist. <I’m *so* not going there again. Okay, so vampire bites aren’t the worst things ever. And Spike’s bite was… again, *not* going there! First of all… eww. Biting and blood and… well, been there, got the scars, not going back. Second… it’s Spike. And not chipped, I’m-in-love-with-you Spike, but old, evil Spike. Bad brain. Very bad. He’s a monster.>

A whisper in the back of her mind brought back a memory so poignant, she could only close her eyes. <Spike, invited back into my house, looking awed and touched and… loving. "I know that I’m a monster, but you treat me like a man. And that’s…"> "That’s what?" she whispered aloud.

"That’s what… what?" Spike asked, frowning at her. He held the empty mug out for her to take. "You all right?"

<That was a different Spike. A different life.> She snatched the mug away from him. "Nothing. Uhm, yeah, fine. I’m fine. Look, we need a plan. This is bad, but it’s been worse."

"Worse? You’re an undead Slayer trapped in the past. How can it get worse than that?"
 

"Much worse. Like, apocalypse-times-six worse than this." Turning the mug between her damp palms, she shrugged. "But I always had Giles before. And the gang. Maybe that makes this the worst-ever experience. I could handle this fine, if I could go to them. But I can’t. I can’t mess with their lives like that. Who knows what damage my being here, now, could cause them?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you should be a bit more worried about how all this will mess up your own life."

"I was dead. There’s not a whole lot to mess up. I’m more worried about shifting my friend’s timelines then I am my own. They’re still alive, after all." She leaned against the television, thinking of Dawn. Where was she at that moment? What form had the Key been in before it’d been turned into her sister? "For the most part, that is."

"Well, if you’re not worried for yourself, you might spare a bit of worry for me. What about my future? Did you think of that? You being here, keeping me alive…" He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "It’s not suppose to happen like this."

She rolled her eyes, looking down into the mug at the residue of blood that stained the bottom. "Am I supposed to apologize for keeping you alive? For feeding you with my own body? Some gratitude that is."

He jerked forward suddenly, grabbing her arm. The mug fell to the floor, but she didn’t care. His burning eyes held her still. "What about my future, Buffy?" he asked in a chilled voice, spacing the words evenly.

She broke away from both his hands and his gaze, stumbling backwards to escape him. <Idiot!> she berated herself. <He’s paralyzed, not helpless. And he’s also right. I should’ve thought… it didn’t even occur to me to think that I might mess things up for him. But… hey! What am I doing, worrying about making his future miserable? His future *is* miserable!>.

"Your future…" A flash of amusement crossed her face. "You know, you might want to thank me for changing that. Really, I did you a favor. Right now, you’ve an evil freak, too broken to even take care of yourself. But hey, guess what? In three years, that description will sound like a major positive. Believe me, you’re better off how you are now. At least you still have your self-respect. In a few years, you’ll be a lovesick, pathetic excuse for a vampire… trailing on my coattails, telling me you…" She stopped herself, too late. Crap. She wasn’t going to tell him about the whole ‘In Love With The Slayer’ thing.

He looked at her, pale and shaken. "I don’t believe you. First off, if I was *that* pathetic, I sure as bloody hell wouldn’t have stuck around Sunnyhell. Angelus and Drusilla would have a grand old time of watching me turn into a poofter- there’s no way I’d let them see me like that."

"You did leave, for a while, you and Drusilla. Right after I…" she bolstered herself, giving him an angry shake of her head. "Right after *we* took out Angelus."

"We?"

"You came to me with a truce. If I gave you and Dru a ‘get out of town free’ card, you’d help me take out Angelus. And that’s what happened. You helped me, I sent Angel to hell, and you skipped town. But then, you came back. And you got chipped, and needed help, so we made another truce. We kept you alive while the commando guys were looking for you, and you gave us information and stuff."

He looked down, believing her against his will. "But that second part… no way that’s the truth. If I really was following you around all starry eyed and mooney, you’d waste no time shoving a stake through my chest." He weighed her with a critical squint. "Or is that what happened? Did you stake me, in this future of yours? That’s it, isn’t it! I couldn’t fight back, being chipped and all, and you dusted me. That’s why you’re saying I’m better off having my future tampered with- because you know I don’t have one!"
 

"Paranoid much? Would I be sitting here with you if I didn’t know that you’re not as big of a monster as you claim to be?" She sighed, disgusted with both Spike and herself. <He’s still *him*. No one but Spike could annoy me this much. He knows just how to get under my skin, and I know... I know him.> Giving the foot of his armchair a kick, she said, "Give it up already, Mr. "Big Bad". I know your dirty little secret." She put her hands over her eyes, curving them into circles to represent eyeglasses, and stuck her tongue out at him. "William. The bloody awful poet."

He leaned towards her, his eyes fierce. "How..."
 

"How did I know? You told me."

"I would *never* have told you anything about that. Never." His words were cold and lashing.

The force of his reply took her by surprise. She dropped her hands to her sides, startled. Hurt turned into white-hot anger, which sent sparks of pain through her body. <Oh God>, she thought, pressing her hands hard against her eyes. All the fear and anger she’d pushing down inside herself since losing the rapture of heaven came spiraling up her throat. She cried out, a long, furious scream that echoed off the walls of the crypt.

"Slayer?" Spike asked, nervously unfolding his hands in a gesture of self-protection.

With another yell, she spun around and kicked the television set off its table. Whirling back to Spike, she punched him squarely in the jaw, so blind in her fury that she barely noticed him fly out of his seat and land on the floor several feet away. She beat her fists against the chair, smashing it, not hearing the sounds of cracking wood and tearing upholstery. Licking her lips, she tasted her own tears. Deep sobs racked her body. Giving in to them, she collapsed onto the wreckage of the armchair and let herself cry.

"I hate this," she choked, watching him crawl towards his wheelchair on his elbows. "Everything about this… being alive again, being alive at all! I hate this." <And I hate crying in front of Spike> she thought, scrubbing at her face with her bleeding hands. <But I can’t seem to stop>.

Spike dragged his body over to the wheelchair, settling into it heavily. He scrutinized her, forthright and comfortable with his curiosity. "You don’t want to be alive? Not too strange, for a Slayer."

"Oh, I know. This is the part where you tell me I have a death wish, right? Cut the wise, old vampire act, will you? I hate your kind. Every one of you." She rose to her knees, giving way to her anger. <Vent. Venting is good.> "Do you know what’s going to happen in just a few weeks? The me who was sleeping on my mom’s couch last night is going to kill her first lover. I’m going to slam a sword through him and push him into hell. And why? It’s a trade- Angel or the world. And I chose Angel. She’ll choose Angel. She has to, or the world will be sucked into hell. If they see that I’m here, who knows what will happen?"
 

"It’s not Angelus the wanker you’re crying for, pet. You’re pissed as can be, but not at him. That was years ago for you."

"I know that!" She bit back a sob. "Don’t you get it? It’s just another… another thing! I thought I was done with all those… things. All those Slayer things. I just wanted to live my life. But I couldn’t. There was always something for me to protect, for me to loose… and always, always!, for the greater good. Which I was never a part of, you know? No one ever said, ‘here Buffy, let me make your life easier because you’re part of something greater’. I gave up my life, and then poof! Here I am, back in the worst year of my life, and why? Some mistake, I guess. Some kind of cosmic joke. Somewhere, someone is saying ‘let’s see how much pain Buffy can take before she goes completely mental’. And this…" she picked up a piece of broken chair and threw it at Spike. "This qualifies! If I’m not totally insane, then… then…" Spent, she slumped her shoulders and covered her face with both hands. "I don’t know."
 

He stared down at her, his face a battleground of conflicting emotions. "I’m…" he started, then broke off to clear his throat. With a nod of annoyance, he wheeled his chair towards the refrigerator. "I’m not sure what you want from me," he muttered over his shoulder as he opened the fridge and removed a bottle of water. Setting it in his lap, he moved back towards Buffy and handed it to her. "Why are you telling me all this?"

She took the water and drank, buying herself time to answer. "I wasn’t telling it to *you*," she replied finally, humiliatingly aware of being under his scrutiny. Trying to ease both her embarrassment and his, she said, "I was just… just venting. I guess you won’t believe me, but this isn’t the first time you’ve been around for something like this… been around for me. So, really, it’s not as weird as you think."

He didn’t speak, only watched her with bewilderment.

Tiredness settled into pockets under her eyes. She rubbed at them with the back of one hand. Sharp pain made her realize that she’d not only re-opened the cut on her wrist, but she’d gotten blood all over her face in her outburst. <I’m a mess. Outside… inside… I’m a mess>.

Without needing to be asked, Spike reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He handed it to her silently and settled back in his wheelchair.

"Now that’s weird," she said, wetting the cloth and scrubbing her face with it. Blood darkened the charcoal fabric into blackness. "You, all quiet."

Cocking his head slightly to one side, he drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair, deep in thought. He studied her face with his enigmatic gaze for a long beat. The lingering silence that passed laid heavily in the air between them. Finally he sighed, as if coming to a decision.

"What?" Buffy asked, folding her arms in a wary gesture.

"I’ll help you," he said, his words tense and clipped.

"Huh? Yeah, I know. The deal…"

"No, I’m telling you, I’ll help you. And not for the blood. If we can get out of this crypt, out of this sodding town, to someplace where no one will recognize you, then I’ll find a butcher. You don’t have to keep opening your veins up all the time."

Buffy shook her head. "Bad plan. Let’s just stick to the deal. I trust you when you need something from me."
 

"Deal’s off. This is…" He stopped, the words feeling funny on his lips. "Wrong. Now, I’m not saying I don’t want to kill you. You- Slayer, me- vampire, and all that jazz. But this is not the ending that you should have." Wrinkling his nose, he continued, "Not after a fall from some bloody tower… not after Angelus decides to release a demon to end the world. That poofter’s never had any class. You’re a damn good Slayer, and I have the broken back to prove it. You deserve a fair fight. A real… dance."

"A dance," she echoed dully, looking away. His words ate into her with the dark logic they held. Despite the fact that she knew this Spike was the one who wanted to kill her, despite the fact that he’d just said as much, she also knew that he was no different from the Spike who’d protected her and the people she loved from death a hundred different times. "A dance."

"Yes, a dance. You don’t think we’re dancing?"

Feeling her lips quirk up at the edges, Buffy shook her head. "No, I know. That’s all we’ve ever done. I know this part."

"I’ve told you this before?"

She nodded. "In… oh, about two years or so, I think."

"And you trusted me then?"
 

"Yes," she said immediately, then caught herself and added a hesitation. "Usually."

He nudged his chair an inch closer to her. "Did a tiny piece of metal in my brain really change me that much?"

<Look away, Buffy. Just look away from those eyes.> "I…" she snapped her head sharply towards the door. "Listen. Did you hear that?"

"What? I didn’t hear…"

"Be quiet," she snapped, standing and hurrying towards the door. Familiar prickles raced up and down her spine. "There’s someone… two someones. Two vampire someones."

Spike stiffened. "Hide," he said, pointing towards the opening to the basement. "It’s Angelus and Dru." He grabbed the wheels of his chair and sped to face the door.

She dove down into the hole and clung to the ladder, peeking out like a nervous gopher. <Be careful>, she wanted to say, but bit her lip to keep the words back. The crypt fell still for a beat, then two, until the sound of the door creaking open broke the silence.

The next thing Buffy heard was Spike’s voice, full and cheerful and dripping with bravado. "Angelus… Dru… it’s about time. I’ve been waiting for you."

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