The Keeper of Truth

Chapter 4

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. Warning- this chapter has graphic violence.

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>.

*****

Spike faced the door and watched the vampires enter. "Angelus… Dru… it’s about time. I’ve been waiting for you."

"Knew we’d come, did you?" Angelus closed the door behind him with a soft movement. His faced glowed with an ominous calm. "It wasn’t my idea to find you, but then, you probably guessed that too."

Dru swept forward. She meandered around the crypt, exploring with faint curiosity, then turned back to examine Spike with her eyes. "Poor boy. Not much of a home for one of us… ugly and dirty and full of secrets."

"Yeah, well, it suits me well enough." Spike crossed his arms over his chest, then realized it looked like a defensive move and uncrossed them. He pretended not to notice how natural it seemed for Drusilla to move back to Angelus and tuck herself against his side. "So, Dru wanted to drop by? That’s… nice. You’ve visited, seen the new digs, now you can push off."

"You know that’s not why we’re here." Angelus took a step forward. "Where is it?"

Spike’s mouth went dry. All he could think of to say was, "What?"

"You heard me, boy. I know you have something that belongs to me. Where is it? And for that matter, what is it?"

Recovering, Spike snorted and put on a smirk. "Someone’s told you a big one, Peaches. I don’t have anything that belongs to you."

"Dru never lies to me, do you?" He wrapped one, long arm around Drusilla, and curled his hand around her waist. His eyes, predatorial and challenging, never left Spike’s. "With me, yes, but never to me."

"And you say I’m the one who’s taken what’s yours," Spike muttered, pretending not to notice the way Angelus’s fingers fondled the curve of Dru’s hip. "You’ve bloody well taken queen and castle away from me. And you come here, why? Because of a vision? We all know how reliable those visions are."

Dru nuzzled Angelus’s shoulder with parted lips. "Visions are visions, silly boy. Not lies."

"I know your visions aren’t lies, Dru," Spike said, holding onto his calm. "But they’re not exactly crystal clear, now are they? Remember, that time in Prague, you thought your visions told you to play with that nurse before you ate her? And what did that get you? The wrong end of an angry mob, if memory serves."

The slow smile that spread across Angelus’s face sent the hairs on the back of Spike’s neck into wary prickles. He refused the inner urge to wheel his chair a few paces backward, but gave in when Angelus moved his hand up Dru’s side to caress her upper ribs, his fingers brushing the undersides of Dru’s breasts. Spike wheeled his chair toward the sarcophagus, where he picked up Buffy’s abandoned bottle of water and took a long drink before turning back to face his sire.

<Cue ominous, horror movie music here> Spike thought, absorbing the waves of cruel mischief that radiated from Angelus’s expression. Angelus stood in the middle of the crypt, staring at Spike. The smile on his face widened, and he began to chuckle. His wide shoulders shook with laughter, making the items in the pockets of his long, black coat clink. He caressed the pockets with open palms, his eyes never leaving Spike’s.

Spike, careful to keep his eyes from darting towards the hole where Buffy hid, allowed himself to smile back. He hoped the smile didn’t look as nervous as it felt. "You just gonna stand there laughing at me all night?"

Angelus took a step towards him, the mirth fading from his face. It lingered around his eyes, making them glow. "No, no. I have much bigger plans for our night. It only just now came to me, the idea. You and I and Dru, we’re gonna have ourselves a nice time together. Get reacquainted."

"Ummm… yeah, sure." Spike inched his hands behind his back, searching for the stake he usually kept there, but found it missing. <Figures. The one time I really need protection, and I come up empty-handed.> "Mind telling me what we need togetherness time for? Hate to break it to you, but we’re past the bonding stage of this relationship."

"We’re past more than that. I thought I’d never have to deal with you again, but then came Dru’s vision." Angelus’s lips twitched. "She’s a handy little tool, isn’t she? It’s been such a strain, adjusting to being the Master of this town again, but with Dru at my side, comforting me… let’s just say, she’s great at relieving certain… strains."

Spike gritted his teeth. "That all you came for, then? To tell me that?"

"Of course not. That’s only the icing on the cake. You get to see me with your girl, and I… well, I get to reclaim whatever it is you’ve taken that’s mine. My soul, Dru called it, but we all know that must be a metaphor. I’ll take what’s mine, and until you give it to me, Dru and I’ll have a bit of fun with you." He stretched his arms over his head leisurely. "What do you say, Dru? You up for a game?"

Dru gazed at Spike with shuttered eyes. "A bit of one, yes. A bitty bit of one. With the knives, you think?" she asked, patting Angelus’s pocket.

"Eventually. We’ll start out slow and work our way up," Angelus said, moving Dru’s hand away from his pocket. He rolled up his shirtsleeves. "Unless Spike has something he wants to give us?"

Spike gulped reflexively, cursing the heavy deadness of his legs. He clenched his fists, denying to himself that he did so to stop them from shaking. "Whoever it is, I don’t know… whatever it is, I don’t have it."

"Whoever?"

Spike closed his eyes, then slowly reopened them and gave Angelus a straight look. "I have nothing of yours, you big sodding poofter. Nothing. Get out."

"Oh, I don’t think so." Angelus fell into game face and grinned, showing his teeth. "I think we might stay a while, Dru and I." He grabbed Drusilla by the back of her neck, bending her backwards at an awkward angle to expose the pale column of her throat. Leering at Spike, he nipped the skin over Dru’s jugular, making her moan. "We’ll make ourselves right at home."

***

Buffy gripped the sides of the ladder, her hands sliding on the wood, slippery with sweat. She leaned her forehead against the uppermost rung, restraining herself from taking a peek at what was happening in the crypt above. <Listen>, she told herself, closing her eyes. <Angelus could’ve sensed my presence. He could know I’m here. I have to be prepared, be ready to run.> A quick glance to the left told her that the entrance to the tunnels was indeed open in 1998. <That’s as safe as I’ll get, right about now. Or, rather, as safe as the timeline will get. I’ll run if Angelus makes a move towards me. But for now… I’ve gotta stay here. I might not be able to help Spike, but I can’t leave him here alone. He never ran away when I needed him, not once.> She cast her attention back to the vampires upstairs.

She heard Spike’s voice again. His mask of neutrality had slipped, letting some of the bitterness he felt towards Angelus show. "Nice to see the two of you are still snogging it up. Really, that’s… nice." Buffy frowned. <Cut down the sarcasm, you idiot> she thought. <Angelus’ll make you pay for it>. Spike continued, "I don’t have whatever it is you’re looking for. If you’re just sticking around to throw your togetherness in my face, you’ve done a great job. Really, I’m properly jealous and annoyed. So, you’ve succeeded in your fun. Off with you now. Find someone else to pester. I’m gotten my quota for the day."

"You never shut up, do you Spike? Always liked the sound of your own voice." Angelus sounded happy, even playful, which sent a chill down Buffy’s spine. She listened to the heaviness of his footsteps, moving in a circle around what she assumed was Spike’s wheelchair.

"Beats the sound of you shagging my girlfriend," Spike muttered.

<Idiot!> Buffy’s hands tightened on the ladder.

A pause filled the crypt, silent and long. With a gulp, Buffy backed down the ladder a rung. Then a noise ended the pause: the crack of a hand against a face. Spike made no sound. Holding her position, Buffy took a deep breath and waited.

"You never shut up," Angelus repeated. She heard him punch Spike again, and again, but was comforted by the fact that the blows weren’t hard enough to topple Spike from his wheelchair. "Remember, boy. Remember who your betters are." Another crack came, and then another. "Look at how pathetic you are! In your little chair, with your little legs all weak and useless…"

There was a snapping noise, sudden and grotesque. Spike screamed, but was cut off by another blow to his face. "Who is it!" Angelus shouted, another snap chasing his words. Buffy cringed as a loud crash came overhead. The sound of metal beating against concrete made her cover her ears. She knew that Angelus was smashing Spike’s wheelchair against the walls of the crypt. <Spike’s not in it, though. He can’t be.>

She heard a moan. It seemed to float down into the hole to her ears. <No, he’s not in the chair. But he’s not okay, either.> She climbed up one rung, but forced herself to stay hidden.

Angelus’ voice came again, labored this time. <Why do vampires pant?> she thought, then shook herself. <Stupid thought. Stupid nerves that make stupid thoughts. Spike’s getting beaten all to hell up there, and I’m sitting here wondering about vampire physiology. Can we say, nuts?> Another, quieter, voice in the far reaches of her mind whispered <Can we say, helpless?>.

She didn’t hear the words Angelus said, but refocused in time to hear the response that came, not from Spike, but from Drusilla.

***

"Enough, now," Dru said, standing over Spike’s broken body. Her arms hung woodenly at her sides. "The game’s no fun when he’s asleep."

"Then I’ll wake him." Angelus lifted Spike by the upper arms and shoved him against the crypt door. He pinned Spike there with one hand around his neck. The wood shook under the force of the impact. "Wakey wakey, my stupid boy."

Spike groaned. He lifted his head off of his chest, just high enough to look Angelus in the eyes. "Sod off," he slurred, his eyes rolling.

"I’m hungry, my Angel," Dru said. She moved to Angelus’s side and rubbed the back of her hand up his arm. "Let’s leave. He’s broken up into bits, and won’t tell us a thing."

"You heard the girl, Peaches," Spike said, coughing. Blood flew out of his mouth, spattering Angelus’s face with red flecks. Dru moved away, dodging both the blood and the betrayal in Spike’s eyes. "You’ve had your fun with the helpless vamp. I’m all put in my place and such. Go on now."

Angelus backhanded Spike across the cheek, ignoring the blood that sprayed towards him. "Dru," he said, his voice sharp. He glared at her with yellow eyes. "You are not the boss. You don’t make the rules. I do. I’ll tell you when I’m done here." Looking back at Spike, he tightened his grip around his neck. "And I’m not nearly done with you yet. What a weakling you turned out to be. No stamina. You remind me of a girl I know… Buffy couldn’t take it either. No staying power."

Anger flooded Spike’s battered face. He spat bloodied saliva at Angelus’s face, not caring about the consequences. "The Slayer’s gonna heave a sword though your center, you arrogant git. She’s going to send you off to hell, you mark my words. You’re nothing next to her, and she’ll prove it to you."

"You’re a fool," Angelus growled into Spike’s face. He closed his fist around Spike’s throat, punching his torso with his free hand, again and again. "I’ll make you eat those words one by one."

"Angel," Dru purred, coming up behind him. She ran her hands over his back, caressing his shoulders. "Let’s go home, love. I’ve a new game for us to play." Her hands dropped lower, rubbing his chest, his nipples. She nibbled along the edge of his ear, whispering to him, teasing him with her lips.

Angelus went still, his head cocked towards Dru’s face. He looked at Spike, then at Dru. His eyes dropped to the creamy skin of her neck. "One more game, Dru, then I’ll take you up on that offer. Just let me cover this one detail before we leave." Turning his attention back to Spike, he lifted the vampire higher against the door. "You used to care about nothing more than Dru, except perhaps, for your own ego. Now you’ve found something worth turning into a martyr for. It disgusts me. You disgust me. I should put a stake through your heart, you know? I really should. But instead, I’ll leave you with the punishment a martyr would expect."

Spike blinked, blinded by the blood that covered his face. "W-what?"

Reaching into his coat pocket with his free hand, Angelus pulled out a dagger, leaving its twin inside. "Nice, aren’t they? Very strong, too. Magic can work such wonders on a well-made blade."

Through the haze of red wetness, Spike saw a glint of silver metal. He began to struggle against Angelus’s grip, scratching at the hand around his throat. "No," he said, his voice low. "No. I’ll…" <No, I won’t tell him jack>, Spike thought, desperation rolling around sickly in his stomach. He pictured Buffy, safe on the level below, listening to them. <Don’t say her name… don’t even look in her direction. She’s safe. Keep her that way.> Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he stopped struggling.

Angelus brought the dagger to Spike’s face, turning it over in his palm a few times for emphasis. Using only the tip, he cut a line down Spike’s cheekbone, a narrow slice that welled immediately with blood. "You’ll… what? Did I finally figure out what it takes to make little Spikey talk?"

Biting his lips, Spike dropped his head in defeat. <Enjoy hell, you wanker. I’ll enjoy thinking of you, imagining you roasting on a spit for all of eternity. Don’t forget who helped send you there.>

Angelus nodded. "Martyrdom it is then. Come here, Dru. Raise his arms up. That’s right," he said, as she obeyed, "bare his wrists. Higher. There. Steady now."

Spike closed his eyes.

***

<It’s been too long> Buffy thought, sitting cross-legged on the floor beneath the ladder. She stroked Platelet’s orange fur with both hands, trying to calm herself. The cat curled himself more tightly into her lap, by far the happiest creature in the crypt. Buffy barely noticed the cat, she was so inwardly focused.

A scream filled the crypt, long and gut-wrenching. Buffy leapt to her feet, spilling Platelet to the ground. She was on the ladder before she realized she’d even stood. Forcing herself to stop, she clung to the uppermost rung, her head tucked just beneath the opening. <This is so not good> she thought as Spike screamed again. This time she heard a slamming noise beneath his voice, a loud thump. <Bad, bad, bad> she babbled in her mind, biting her lips to keep herself from calling out to him. She dropped her head against the rung, rolling her forehead back and forth over the wood. <Whatever’s happening up there, I’ll fix it. I’ll fix him, when I’m not so totally, utterly, terribly helpless. It’ll all be okay, when I can fix him.>

She heard Angelus say something, followed by the sound of the crypt door opening and slamming shut. A second slam chased the first, as if the door had been shut twice. <But it only opened once. What *was* that?>.

The silence that came next was so thick with fear, Buffy shuddered. The ladder shook under her weight with a heavy sound. <More of the ‘not good’>, she thought, climbing down to the basement floor. <If they find me, everything Spike’s going through up there is for nothing>. She took her seat back under the ladder, holding her knees to her chest for comfort. <It’s not for nothing>, she thought, willing her silent words up to his ears. <It’s for everything. And I won’t forget it. I’ll make it up to you, when I’m not so damn powerless>.

****

Drusilla ran her fingers down Spike’s arms, tracing the trails of blood that flowed from beneath the knives that pinned his wrists to the door. "He crucified you, my Spike," she murmured, knowing he could not hear her. His eyes, swollen and oozing, stayed sealing in an unblinking oblivion. "Sleep now, yes, that’s a good boy."

She danced her fingertips through Spike’s hair, her eyes wide with thought. "He’s been a good daddy, my Angel has, to me at least. You… you needed a bit of a spanking. But I didn’t know, not till I saw the stars around your eyes… not till then, did I know… the path you’re on." Moving her face in close, she opened her mouth and licked at the blood on his lips, tasting him. "Your path is a strange one, but not so new. Remember the old stories? The ones with the evil sinners who got three chances to prove their heart’s worth to the virtuous, least they be damned forever?" She traced the outline of his mouth with the tip of her tongue, her eyes closed. "I wonder, my Spike… was this your first test?" She took a final taste of his lips, savored it a moment, then stepped back, away from him.

Opening the pocket of her cloak, she withdrew the bag of blood she’d brought to give him. She set it on the sarcophagus and paused there, touching the stone with the flat of her palm. A ghost of a smile flickered across her face at what she sensed there. "Angelus didn’t feel it," she said, stroking her fingers over the shallow grooves that crisscrossed the stone. "He didn’t feel *her*, but I do. My Spike’s new friend."

She walked back to Spike and kissed his mouth, her lips hard. "Take care of my boy," she called towards the hole to the basement. Opening the door with careful gentleness, she left.

Buffy’s head rose out from the hole. She looked at Spike, her face awash with horror. "I… I will," she said in an astonished whisper. Her body felt frozen; she couldn’t move. , she thought, taking in the way Spike’s body hung from the two daggers in his wrists. <Like freaking Jesus!>

Suddenly, Spike stirred. He rolled his head back against the door, moaning. "B…Buffy," he croaked, his mouth open wide.

She scurried up the ladder, startled into movement by his pain. "I’m here," she said in a soothing voice as she reached his side. Her hands fluttered over him, not touching him for fear of causing further pain. "God," she whispered, looking at his legs. "He broke them both."

Spike’s breaths came in short pants. "Get me down."

Buffy studied the daggers that held him, trying to decide the most painless way to free him. "There’s just no good way to do this," she muttered, grabbing a handle in each hand. "I guess both at once would be best." She pulled backwards, yanking hard enough to loosen them out of both the door and Spike’s wrists.

She caught Spike before he could slump to the ground, pinning his body between hers and the door. Wrapping him in her arms, she lifted him, trying to ignore the small noises of pain he made. He sounded like a small child, she thought, cradling him against her a moment longer than necessary. She took comfort in the weight of him, solid and alive against her. "Here," she said, lying him on the sarcophagus. She handed him the bag of blood. "Drusilla left you some blood."

"I was pretty sure they’d spilled it all," Spike said. Dropping the blood to the side, he held up his bleeding wrists. "Must’ve got a dozen pints just from these."

"He didn’t feed from you, did he?" Buffy asked, taking off her cardigan. She ripped a length of cloth from it and took his hand in hers. "Let me help."

"No, he didn’t feed," Spike said, watching as she bound his wrists. "Why do you care?"

She shrugged, not knowing the answer. "It just… it just seems important. Like, insult to injury or something."

"He must’ve been satisfied with just the injury part," Spike said, looking down his body to his legs. "I can’t feel them, but I’m guessing they’re broken."

"You screamed," she said, tying off his wrist bandage and moving to his legs. "When he broke them. I heard you."

"Yeah, well… habit, I guess."

"No," Buffy said. She ripped another piece of cloth from her shirt and, finding her water bottle at the base of the sarcophagus, wetted it. Spike’s face was an open wound. Dabbing the cloth at his forehead, she smiled. "It was smart, screaming then. You thought it might satisfy his demon without actually causing you pain. Really smart."

"Loads of good it did me, too." He squinted as Buffy finished washing the blood from his eyes. "You can see just how eager he was to stop with my legs."

Blinking rapidly as she examined the bruising on his throat, Buffy nodded. "You’re a total mess," she said, her voice small and choked. "Look at these bruises… he held you up by your neck, didn’t he?" Without waiting for him to respond, she continued, "I’ve seen him do that to someone before. Not… not fun."

"Pet," Spike said, then stopped, coughing. The word was meant to bring comfort to Buffy, but he saw it only made the shadows beneath her eyes and mouth deepen. "Quit with the Florence Nightingale act, yeah? I’ll heal." Ignoring his own request, he lifted his arms as Buffy went to remove his shirt.

She didn’t even try to maneuver it over his head, but ripped it down the center with one, hard jerk. "Sorry," she said, noticing him flinch at the movement. "Oh…"

Black, blue and yellow marks covered Spike from collarbone to waist. Buffy touched the skin beneath his ribs, wincing in unison with him. "God, look at you," she said, shaken. She stopped playing doctor and rested her hand above his heart, wishing it would beat, wishing for reassurance. "You’re… you’re a mess."

"Yeah, you said that already," Spike said. He started to raise an eyebrow, then stopped, hurting. "Bet you’ve never seen so much damage on a vamp."

"Only once," she said, her eyes clouding. "Remember that hell god I told you about? You looked a bit like this when she got through with you."

"You forgot to mention that part." Spike swallowed hard, trying to wash the blood from his teeth. "I thought you said I was tough, with that god."

"You were," she said simply. Her lips tingled in remembrance of that day. Looking down at Spike as he rested on the same tomb he’d been lying on when she’d posed as the Bot, she almost believed it was still that day, that nothing separated now from then, and that he was that same Spike who had protected Dawn with his life. "Very tough," she whispered, licking her lips. "Why did you do it?"

"Why did I…"

"Why did you hold out against all that? You could’ve told Angelus I was down there. He wouldn’t have hurt you, if you’d given me up."

Her eyes suspend his, and he could not look away. Trying for nonchalance, he suppressed a shrug. "A whim or something."

"Liar." Her eyes burned with memories so strong, it almost amazed her that he couldn’t see them flashing behind her pupils. <"Buffy, the other, not so pleasant Buffy… anything happened to Dawn, it’d destroy her. I couldn’t live, her being in that much pain. I’d let Glory kill me first. Nearly bloody did.">

Forgetting the pain, he raised an eyebrow. "What’s your problem, Slayer? I protected your bloody timeline, didn’t I? What’s it matter why?"

Her look scalded him. <It matters> she thought, knowing he could read it in her eyes. <You know it matters>.

"I helped you," he said, the words slow and thick. "Today, at least. But you know he’ll be back. He’s gone to shag my girl and to let me heal up enough to take another round of ‘kick the Spike’. Next time, he’ll probably end it with a stake through my heart."

"Sound about right, for Angelus," she said, rewetting the cloth and washing his chest with soft strokes. <‘Right’ and ‘Angelus’ should never be put in the same sentence>, she thought, <especially after what he’s done today.>

"I helped you," he repeated, closing his eyes at the feel of her fingers on his skin. "But I only bought you today. Tomorrow, it’ll start all over again. You should leave town. Get away from everyone who knows you. That’s the only way to be safe."

"I can’t leave. No money, remember?"

"I have money," he said quickly, before she could object, "and it’s yours. Got no real need for cash myself, and a vested interest in getting you as far away from Sunnyhell as possible."

"Why do you care? I mean, suddenly you’re all big-hearted and generous and… I don’t get it." Her fingers pressed into his sternum, probing him. "Why, Spike?"

He couldn’t answer. For a long moment, all he could do was gaze back at her, matching the confusion of emotions whirling in her eyes with his own. "It just…" he stopped, wetting his lips with his tongue. "It’s just what I have to do. It feels like the thing… the thing to do. Can you just leave off with that?"

Bowing her head, she accepted his answer. "Drink," she said, handing him the bag of blood. "You need your strength. We leave tonight."

He took the bag from her and vamped out, preparing to bite into it. Her hand on his thigh made him pause. "Slayer?" he asked, wishing he sounded confused, wishing he couldn’t read the softness of her face with such uncanny ease. "Your hand is… umm…"

"I’ll move it," she said, her voice husky. She raised it to his face along with her other hand, cupping his cheeks between them. The warmth of her breath dampened his lips. "What you did today… for whyever you did it… for me… whatever. What you did today was real. It was heroic. And I’ll never forget it." Her lips brushed his in a light, sweeping stroke, once, twice. Pulling back, she graced him with a small, genuine smile. "Now drink your blood so we can get out of this town. I’m so ready to say goodbye to the Hellmouth."

He watched the swing of her hips as she walked away, the bag of blood trembling in his hands. "Slayer," he said in a panicky whisper, reminding himself of the chasm that lay between them. A flushing heat filled his chest, one he hadn’t felt since his human years. He started to vamp out again, then realized he’d never fallen back into his human face. Realizing that Buffy had kissed him despite fangs and forehead bumps, the trembling of his hands intensified. He shook his head, trying to focus on feeding, trying not to think about her. And failing. Clenching his hands into fists to deny their weakness, he whispered again, desperately, "Slayer."

***

Chapter 5

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>. Also, I do not know Latin. Forgive me for the errors.

**********

1998

The train rumbled to life beneath Buffy’s feet, throwing her off balance. She reeled against the wall of the tiny hallway, her arms tightening reflexively around Spike, who was cradled in her arms like a child. A very large, loud, obnoxious child, she thought, one who reeks of cheap liquor. The sound of his drunken laughter grated on her nerves. Pulling herself off the wall, she gritted her teeth and continued down the hall towards the private compartment they’d reserved from a pay phone.

"I’m really missing your wheelchair right about now. Good thing people in Sunnydale all live in a state of perma-denial. Normal people might ask us how someone my size can lug around a guy your size. Plus, there’s the whole beaten-up, not breathing part." She grunted and fell against the wall as the train rocked again, nearly dropping Spike. Clasping him closer to her chest, she sighed with relief at the sight of their destination.

"Ooh, Slayer, that’s right," Spike said, still chuckling. "Put your hot, little hands right about there. No, no, go just a tad lower."

Buffy’s hands twitched beneath his thighs. "I move them and you hit the ground," she hissed into his ear, fumbling for the door handle. "Don’t tempt me. You’re drunk and disgusting. I wouldn’t put my hands on your ass in the best of times, much less when you smell like a distillery."

Tucking his head against her shoulder so that they’d fit through the narrow doorway together, Spike stuck out his tongue, tasting the skin where her shoulder met her neck. "Sweet," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I knew you would taste sweet."

"What! Oh, ew. You’re so out of your mind. I never thought you’d be such a lightweight. Big, smart idea, getting you drunk to dull the pain… if I’d known it would turn you into a such a…a… hey, watch the hands! Keep them to yourself, or loose them." She opened the door and kicked it shut behind them. "Home sweet home," she said, surveying the tiny room quickly. "Hey, hands, remember!" Without warning, she dumped him on the couch.

"Ahhh," he moaned, closing his eyes and curling onto his side defensively. He pulled his legs up with his hands, moaning again at the sound of his broken bones shifting. "Mind the bruises, pet. And the cuts. And the broken bones. The bloody rattling of the train is bad enough on my body without you throwing me all about. I’m sloshed, yeah, but not well enough for that."

"You think the rattle’s bad? Wait a few hours till the sun comes up. You’re going to be stuck in this compartment, on that couch. No where for you to go, especially without a wheelchair." She moved to the small window and shut the blinds. "And I’ll be stuck in here with you. I can’t exactly move around without a care, not yet anyways. This train is jammed full of people from Sunnydale and Los Angeles. What are the odds that none of them have heard of the Slayer?"

"Better than the odds I would’ve given on this whole situation last week. Who’d have thought you and I’d be trapped in here together for god-knows-how-long, with nothing for entertainment but each other." He brought his hands up to pillow his cheek, wincing as the wounds on his wrists complained. "A couch, a table, a window, and I’m guessing behind ‘door number two’ there’s a toilet. No telly. No books. Not even a deck of cards."

"There’s a radio," Buffy said, pulling it from underneath the table. "That’ll do for entertainment, for a few hours at least. When we cross the border, all we’ll get on this is Spanish."

"You don’t hablo the español?" Smirking hurt, but he did it anyways. "Well, at least one of us will be entertained."

She sent him a black look, then opened the door to the bathroom. With a sigh of relief, she said, "There’s a shower. Yay us. Or, yay me, anyways. You’re not gonna be on your feet anytime soon. Too bad, too, since you’re the stinky one."

Spike’s face clouded over. He closed his eyes again and said nothing, only took a deep breath, and then another. And then stopped breathing all together.

"Breathe," Buffy said, watching him. "It’s creepy when you don’t."

"Breathing hurts, you bloody fool." He didn’t open his eyes, but Buffy could see the glare lurking beneath the lids as clearly as if he had. "Everything hurts."

She hovered over him, uncertainty making her movements jerky. A thin, blue blanket hung over the arm of the couch. Reaching for it, she covered him, ignoring his wheezy curse.

"Quit your fussing," he growled, but tried to pull the blanket up higher. The movement made him gasp in pain.

Perching on the table, Buffy tucked the blanket around his shoulders. "Better?" she asked, her voice quiet and carefully free of pity. <No pity here, nope, no way. A pity free zone. Just because you got all these injuries to protect me, that in no way makes me want to nurse you. Nope.> Her lips twitched, and she covered her mouth with one hand. <What an idiot. He needs help. You think he’d just accept it, but no… Nothing can ever be simple.> "Want an aspirin or something? I saw a kit of stuff like that in the bathroom."

"Vampires aren’t real big on aspirin, Slayer. A bottle of tequila, maybe, since we’re headed south of the border and all. But nothing so sissy as an aspirin."

"We got you all liquored up before we left town. That was supposed to last you a while."

"Yeah, well, tell that to the pain in my back." He pushed his cheek into the orange couch cushion. The friction opened the gash on his cheekbone, and he licked at the thin line of blood. "And in the rest of me too."

Buffy settled back against the wall, drawing her legs to her chest. The denim covering her knees felt rough beneath her chin, and she turned her head, enjoying the texture. "We’ll be in Mexico soon. After a few days, most of the Sunnydale passengers should be gone. I’ll get out at a stop and get you some tequila. Until then, aspirin is your only poison. Satisfied?"

The answer- no- was so obvious, he didn’t even bother with it. He blinked at her once, with eyes so bloodshot Buffy didn’t know how he could stand the feeling of his eyelids scraping over them. When he closed them, hiding their misery from her sight, she was relieved.

She hugged her legs more tightly and laid her head on them, wishing she hadn’t noticed that Spike looked even worse after being lugged across town and onto the train than he’d looked ten hours earlier, after his bout with Angelus. The bruises had risen to a ripe fullness on the skin of his face, along with a translucent sheen that spoke volumes about the aches he must be feeling above his waist. Below the waist he, of course, felt nothing. Buffy was glad for his paralysis. She’d done her best to force the bones of his calves back into alignment back at the crypt, but she couldn’t see if her efforts had been successful through the huge amount of swelling that had bloomed since then. She wasn’t about to mess with them again. <The sound of his screams will stay with me forever>, she thought, squeezing her own legs more tightly.

"Are you just going to sit there," he asked, moving nothing but his lips.

"Not unless I want the pattern on this table permanently engraved on the seat of my jeans." She shifted, uncomfortable. "I think that couch pulls out into a bed. You up for moving?"

"Not as such." He squinted at her. "You’re going to make me?"

Swallowing a pang of sympathy, she nodded. "If that’s the only padded seat, you’re not getting all of it."

He nodded and closed his eyes, waiting with reluctance for her to lift him.

"Help me," she said, grabbing him under the arms. She pulled him over her shoulder, fireman-style. "Put your arms up."

He ignored her, but she didn’t mind. The look on his face told her that he was barely keeping it together. Setting him gently on the floor, she unfolded the couch and made up the bed as fast as she could.

"There," she said, settling him onto the crisp, white sheet. She waited for him to pull himself into a ball again, but this time he stayed still. Her hands trembled on the top sheet as she pulled it over his legs, then moved up to hover over his face, over the worst of the bruising that circled his left eye. "We should change your bandages. They’re getting kinda ripe," she said, her voice low and apologetic. "I guess we’ll have to cut your jeans off. They’re not gonna fit anyways if that swelling keeps up." Without waiting for his answer, she went into the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit.

When she returned, kit and scissors in hand, he hadn’t moved. Had she not known better, she would’ve assumed he was truly dead. "Spike," she said, kneeling on the bed beside him. "Can you… umm… twitch or something? Just so I know you’re not gonna bite me if I touch you?" The sleeve of his shirt brushed her knees, though she hadn’t seen him move. "Umm… fine. Okay. Let’s get on with this."

Pulling back the sheet, she undid the button of his jeans, her eyes glued to his face in search of a reaction. When she found none, she continued, unzipping his fly and opening the scissors. "You really don’t want to startle me right now. Wouldn’t want me to slip," she said, putting the lower blade under the denim. Heat from his body warmed the metal, confusing her until she remembered he’d fed before they left the crypt. The scissors were too weak to cleanly cut the thick material, but she didn’t want to rip the pants away without at least a tear started. He was in enough pain without her jerking his legs around again.

The black denim gave way to bright white briefs. Suppressing a giggle at his mundane choice of underwear, she spread open his jeans the rest of the way. What she saw beneath them made her bite her lips. "I’m not gonna tell you it looks pretty under here," she said to him, though she doubted he was conscious enough to listen. "Let’s just say… the rotting look does not suit you."

"I *am * a corpse, you know," he muttered, surprising her. "More blood’s all I need to heal."

"We’ll take care of that after I clean you up a bit." She unwrapped the bandages, wrinkling her nose. "Ripe is such a weak word when it comes to describing this stench."

"I get it, okay? Rotting, smelly, bad Spike. Enough with the running commentary."

"Fine," she said, opening the first aid kit and removing a ball of gauze and a bottle of disinfectant. "On with Nurse Buffy."

He turned his head away from her, clenching his jaw as the disinfectant hit his skin. A low growl rumbled out of him, followed by words spoken so hard, Buffy couldn’t understand them.

"Are you talking to me?" she asked, gingerly patting the wound on his right calf where the bone had pierced his skin.

"I said, why are you doing this?"

"Running away? You know why."

"No," he said, his words gritty, "not running away. Taking care of me. I know, I know, you have a timeline to protect, and I know all your little secrets. Makes me a big danger, right enough. So, why nurse me back to un-health? Be easier just to stake me. That *is* what you do, remember? Slayer?"

She didn’t answer for a moment, only continued to disinfect his leg. The damp gauze felt cold against her fingers, a welcome feeling as it distracted her from the slimy wetness of the fluid seeping from his wound. Her thoughts swirled together; she couldn’t pick them apart enough to answer. Finally, she said, "No."

"No?"

"No." Moving to his left leg, she pulled out a fresh piece of gauze. "Before Angelus and Dru crashed our little crypt party, you asked me a question. You asked me if a tiny piece of metal imbedded in your brain made that much of a difference in who you are. Who you will be." Wetting the gauze, she stared down at his leg, unable to look him in the eyes. "No. That’s my answer. You’re still you, only less… tested. I just… I just never knew it, until…" Trailing her finger alongside the gash with feather-light pressure, she darted a glance at his face. "Until this."

Something flickered over the line of his brows, but he said nothing. She took a deep breath, knowing he must think she’d gone insane. Pushing the heel of her hand into her forehead, she took another breath, and wondered if he might be right. <Take a little death, add a smidge of time travel, and voila! One nutty Slayer>. Her knee jerked, tipping the bottle of disinfectant over and startling her back to her work. "How’re your wrists?" she asked, keeping her face closed of all emotion.

"They’ll keep." He hissed as she palpitated the muscle of his calf. "Hey. You better know what you’re about down there."

"You can feel this?" she asked, tickling the skin of his ankle with her fingertips. "Hey. Yeah. You could feel all this, the sting of the medicine and everything. I didn’t even think… why didn’t you say something?"

"It comes and goes," he said. "I try to move, and there’s just nothing. Angelus breaks my legs and… nothing. Not much, anyhow. But sometimes, along the skin especially, I get… umm… prickles."

"It’s coming back already. The feeling in your legs." She capped the disinfectant and put it back in the first aid kit.

"You tell me. You’re the all-knowing future girl, after all."

Shrugging, she moved up his side to his chest and began to open the buttons of his shirt. "It’s not like we were best pals. All I know is that sometime before May, you’ll be up and running." The shirt opened to reveal the too-pale skin of his chest. Bluish bruises flourished over his ribs and down towards his hips. She started to touch one, then paused. "I’m just gonna…"

"Yeah," he said, rolling his head back to stare at the ceiling.

Beneath her hands, his skin felt smooth and solid. She stroked them over his pectoral muscles and down his sides, trying to feel the bones underneath. "Your ribs have healed already, I think. I don’t feel any bumps."

"Look lower," he muttered, the corner of his mouth turning up.

She gave him a poke, then winced as he recoiled. "Umm… sorry. Well, okay. You can button your shirt yourself. I’ll… umm… oh, wait. Let me get some water and soap and stuff. If I’m gonna be stuck in here with you, I’m going to have to do stink-control."

"You’re not gonna give me a sponge bath. I might be a pathetic ponce just now, but I’m not getting wiped down like a child in nappies." He struggled to raise his shoulders up and glared at her, his eyes bright with pain. "You might think about a good wash yourself. I might stink of whisky, but you’re the one who rolled out of a grave not too long ago."

"Fine. But if you’re not up and in that shower by tomorrow, I’m dumping water on you, like it or not." She pulled the sheet over him, covering him to his chin. As she folded down the edge of the sheet, her hand brushed his jaw. The stubble scratched at her, and she jerked away. His eyes were on her when she looked up, silent laughter locked inside them. "You got to ask me a question. Now, it’s my turn. I want a straight answer from you. Why are you doing this?"

"That’s so unoriginal, pet."

"Just answer me." Her eyes held his, unwavering and solemn.

He shrugged, ignoring the pain. "Staying in Sunnyhell rather lost all appeal when Angelus decided to make me his punching bag. Not like Dru cared overmuch, you realize. And…"

"And what?"

"Like I said before, it just feels like the thing to do. Going with you… it feels right, don’t ask me why. I don’t get this. How I feel… all funny inside, warm. I feel more alive… I’m even breathing more often. Must be your influence. Living with a human is rubbing off on me or something. Helping you… skipping town with you… I’m doing it because it feels right, but I don’t understand it."

She gave him a hint of a smile. "I think I do, maybe. We’ve skipped town together before… or, before for me. You know what I mean."

"Why, because I was in love with you in the future? This warmth, the breathing… you think that’s… love?"

The word came off his lips soured, which stung her. She inhaled sharply, trying to loosen the sudden tightness in her chest. "No," she said, "of course not. But it’s something. You don’t hate me. And I don’t hate you. It’s… something

He rolled his eyes. "So that chip really did send me on the fast track to poofterdom."

"If that’s what you want to call it, but it wasn’t the chip that did it. I might’ve never realized that if I hadn’t seen Angelus beat the tar out of you. You did a lot… I mean, you will do… or would’ve done a lot for us."

"You’re not a bit worried that taking ole Spike out of the other Slayer’s future will screw things up, are you?"

Without a thought, she shook her head. "No way. You helped, but you weren’t exactly vital. There was the whole truce, where we took down Angelus, but if it hadn’t been you helping me, it would’ve been someone else. Xander, probably."

"Tell me more about future me. I want to hear all about my downward spiral into softness and sissyhood."

"Would a sissy grab the blade of a sword in both of his hands to keep it from slamming through my skull? I don’t think so. You risked yourself to take off with us, me and the gang, to save Dawn’s life. It was more than I ever expected of you. You really pulled through."

"’S that why you lugged me with you? Because we’d gone together before?"

She looked down at her hands, fiddling with the edge of the sheet. "You’re the only person in the whole world who knows I exist. I didn’t want to be alone. And I couldn’t just leave you there."

Raising an eyebrow, he said, "Are you saying… we’re friends?"

Her arms jerked back, away from him. With wide eyes, she shook her head. "No. We’re not friends. More… I don’t know. More… something. But not friends."

"Even after doing all those goody-goody deeds, catching the sword and whatnot, Glory torture, you still couldn’t think of me as someone worthy of friendship?" Dropping his head back on the pillow, he shut his eyes. "Not like I care, mind you. Just that… what does it take with you? You’re here with *this* me, being all Florence Nightingale-ish, when you say you never treated the other me so good."

"I didn’t think you were worthy of anything back then. Friendship… not something I’d even have considered. You were just… always there. Helping. I could count on you. And then I die and get all lost in the past, and here you are, helping me again. I… ummm," she flushed, amazed at herself. "I was wrong. I mean, obviously."

"The Slayer admits she was wrong? Well, that might mean more to me if I had any memory of what it is you’ve done to me. As it stands, I’ll just enjoy the fact that I’m on a train and not in a pile of dust somewhere." He licked his lips, wetting them. "You do realize I’ll have to eat."

"There are butchers in Mexico. You’ll survive."

"Not exactly what I meant, pet. Just because your other Spike was leashed doesn’t mean I have to be such a whelp."

"So, you’re going to start killing people, once your legs heal?" She squeezed the sheet between her hands, annoyed with herself for the trepidation that hung on her words. "You know that won’t work with me, Spike. I can’t let you do that."

"May, you said? I get my legs back then?"

"Around then, yeah." She looked down at the bulges under the sheet where the bandages on his legs were. "Maybe sooner, I guess."

"I could leave you, when I’m better." He watched her, giving nothing away with his gaze. "You’d fight me, wouldn’t you?"

"Of course I would," she whispered. "Slayer… big protector person, remember? I can’t let you hurt people. You know that. If you leave to do that, once your legs are working… well, I won’t let you."

He turned on his side towards her, rolling his legs with him. "Seems we’ve got some issues to work out, if we’re keeping this partnership together. Either I live like a human, or we fight to the death. That’s it?"

<Don’t leave me alone>, she wanted to say, wanted to beg. <Pathetic much? There will be no begging. Pull it together>. "Live like a man, or die like a vamp. It’s your choice. But either way…" <Don’t leave me alone>. Her hands shook on the sheet. She dropped her grip and folded them together. "Either way… it’s up to you."

He closed his eyes tiredly, accepting her terms. "Right then. We’ll fight, or we’ll stay together. But we’re not friends. Fine. I get you."

"Right," she said. She leaned forwards, pulling the sheet up to cover his shoulders. "That’s it. We’re not friends. You’ve just… always… gotten me. And I think I’m starting to get you, too."

He chuckled, a sound heavy with weariness that fell between them like a wall. "Which me?" he asked her in a rumbling undertone. "Chiphead?"

Laying down beside him, she followed the line of his throat with her eyes. <Just let yourself go, already>. "Both. Either. Doesn’t matter. The chip didn’t make a difference. It was a wake-up call, that’s all." With a hesitant hand, she reached towards him and brushed her thumb over his bruised cheekbone. "You were always… you."

Their eyes locked together over Buffy’s hand, both stunned by the emotion between them. Spike shook his head, one sharp movement that came to him from instinct rather than desire. Her hand fell back, hanging in the space between them. With a tight smile, Buffy let it drop. She jumped off the bed and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a firm click.

He watched her leave, his eyes narrowed. Shifting restlessly, trying to relieve the throbbing of his back, he kept his gaze on the door behind which, he could hear Buffy breathing in deep, desperate gulps. All of his pain and confusion welded together inside of him, swelling up into a single upsurge of devouring yearning. Cursing himself for his foolish patheticness, he tore his eyes away from the door. He grabbed a pillow and pressed it over his face, over his ears, trying with no success to block out her sounds. "Bugger," he whispered, pushing his hands into the ache of longing in his chest as if he could tear it out. "Bugger me."

**********

Sunnydale, 2001

"Good thing I saved all these," Willow said. She snuggled deeper into the couch, pulling one of Giles’ journals higher on her lap. The vanilla-colored pages were covered with tiny words inscribed in black ink. With the tip of her index finger, she traced the date Giles had written in the upper corner of the last page. "Lots of info here, but it seems kinda off that I’d have them. I thought they were suppose to go to the Council if Giles died? Big Slayer/Watcher secrets and all?"

Tara leaned back against the couch cushions, looking over the mounds of leather-bound journals that layered the coffee table. The center of each cover bore the initials R.G. burned in italics. They were all in impeccable condition, though their owner had died nearly three years earlier. "They were your babies," Tara said, curling her legs up beneath her and facing Willow. "You kept them under lock and key in a fireproof safe. All the years you’d spent with Xander and Gile, with Buffy, before she… changed… all those years are documented in these books. I think you’d have sold your fillings before you’d part with them."

Licking her tongue over her molars, Willow sighed. "I was right to keep them. The Council wouldn’t have used them right. They never did have any respect for Giles. ‘Cause, you know, he loved Buffy. Like, really loved her. And love is a big evil to those guys. Or that’s how they acted, at least." Flipping through the pages of the journal open in her lap, she found what she was looking for. She rapped her knuckles against the page. "See, like here. He writes about Jenny, how she lied to us all. Giles loved Jenny, but in here, all he writes about is how he’s mad at her for hurting Buffy. Nothing about how she hurt him." Closing the book, she rubbed the pad of her thumb over the initials on the cover. "He cared more for Buffy than he did for himself. He would’ve given up his life for her, without even thinking twice."

"He did," Tara said. She took the journal from Willow and opened it to the last page. "This night, he did. I guess he wrote this just before the vampires captured him. Sometime between writing this and the next night, he was murdered."

"That’s just… no. That didn’t happen, not really." Tears choking her, Willow swallowed hard and took a deep breath. "No. That’s all a part of the stupidity that is me. I screwed it up." She gazed at Tara with wet, bruised eyes. "How did it happen that night? In your reality, I mean?"

"I don’t really know too much. Buffy… she was more than broken. There was no way for her to talk about what took place."

"She never said what happened? Not a word?"

Tara dropped her gaze, avoiding Willow’s eyes. "When she’d have nightmares, sometimes she’d cry out about it being her fault. Like… at night. Every night. She was broken, Will. I never knew her as anything else. By the time I met you, she’d… well, she was not the Buffy you knew."

"I have to fix this, Tara. All this… it’s beyond bad. Bad we’ve dealt with before. This is something new. Worse." She covered her face with trembling hands, her words soaked with misery. "I might as well have killed them myself."

Rising to her knees, Tara moved to Willow’s side and stroked her hair. With one hand, she hooked Willow’s chin and gently pushed her head up. Their eyes met, and held, both tired, both afraid. Tara smoothed the tears from Willow’s cheeks. She brushed a kiss over her lips, then said, "We’ll fix it, honey. You and I. All these books… they’ll tell us how to make things right again." Kissing her again, she caressed Willow’s cheek, then tucked a lock of loose hair behind her ear. "You’re no killer," she said, her voice a serious whisper.

The words breathed across Willow’s face, reassuring and sweet. She gazed into Tara’s eyes, searching for any hint of blame, but finding only determined compassion and love. Sniffling, she nodded. "Okay. Pulling myself together here. We’ve got a lot to do, and me being all Sobby Sally isn’t going to fix the timeline."

"That’s my girl," Tara said, relief lightening her face. "Where do we start?"

"I’m thinking we could combine a general reversal spell with elements from the original spell, sort of a magic hodge-podge." She stood and went to Buffy’s weapons chest, which now held various magical components. Pulling out several items, she continued, "We have all we need, I think. Are you ready?"

Standing, Tara moved the coffee table to one side. She folded back the carpet to reveal a circle of black paint on the floorboards. "We’re ready," she said, kneeling and blessing the circle with a quick motion of her hands.

"Let’s go it then," Willow said, sitting across from Tara. She crumbled the leaves of a spicy smelling plant, making a star-shaped pattern in the center of the circle. "Per meus famen, divello factum." Removing the cork, she upended a glass vial and sprinkled the red powder from inside over the star. Energy, like a blue wind, began to swirl over the circle. Concentrating, neither Willow nor Tara noticed the yellow light that glowed from their skins. "Refero Buffy. Abrogo veneficus." The wind moved faster, blowing the leaves out of their star-shape and sucking them up inside itself. Throwing her arms into the arm, Willow finished, "Refero Buffy!" before slumping backwards onto her back.

"Willow!" Tara shouted, jumping up and breaking the circle. The blue wind fell away, scattering bits of leaves over the living room. She started towards Willow, but was stopped by the movement of the ground. It quaked beneath them with a rolling roar. The walls shuddered from the force, shedding pictures and mirrors to fly to the floor.

Rolling onto her side, Willow crawled into the doorway. Tara followed her. They huddled together, watching wide-eyed as the earthquake continued, breaking the window. Glass rained over the couch. Outside, a woman began to scream.

"Did it work?" Willow asked, dazed. She reeled dizzily to one side. "The spell? Did it work?"

Drawing Willow against her side with one steadying arm, Tara looking at the wreckage. The woman on the street was still screaming, and as she listened, other screams arose. In the distance, an ambulance blared its siren. Hugging Willow closer, Tara felt her heart sink. "I’m thinking no."

**********

1998

Spike jerked awake to a crashing sound coming from the bathroom. He listened for a beat, then called out to her. "Slayer? You miss the pot?" When there was no answer, he propped himself up on his elbows. "Buffy? You alright in there?"

She didn’t answer. He cocked his head, listening for the sound of her breathing, the sound he’d fallen asleep to. There was no noise coming from the bathroom at all. A sick feeling rose in his stomach, but he swallowed it down with annoyance. "Buffy, answer me," he said, an edge growing under his words. "I can’t come to you, pet. Answer me!"

Suddenly, the door to the train compartment was flung open. Spike jerked back on the bed, stunned at the site of a not-quit-human standing before him, panting. The man whipped his head back and forth, searching the compartment with exaggerated movements that would’ve been comical under any other circumstances. "I smelled it," the man said, raising his face and glaring at Spike.

"Umm… smelled what, mate?" Taking in the man’s appearance, Spike felt the bed behind him, hoping for some kind of weapon to magically appear. Creatures with faces textured like dried prunes and red eyes were not to be trusted offhandedly. "You’ve got the wrong compartment. But while you’re here, you might do me a favor and…"

The creature stepped forward, growling. "Where is she? I smelled the mystical energy, vampire. If you’ve hurt the Slayer…"

Pointing towards the bathroom, Spike said, "In there." He leaned forward, waiting to see in the door. When the creature hesitated, Spike rolled his eyes and flipped back the bed sheet to reveal the bandages on his legs. "Hurry along now and check on her, will you? As you can see, I’m not really able to."

"I don’t care about you," the creature said, shaking his finger at Spike as if scolding a naughty child. "It’s the Slayer I’m here for. Who cares about vampires?" With a final glare, he pulled open the door to reveal Buffy lying sprawled on her back on the floor. Blue and yellow energy crackled over her body, sparking the air with tiny flames.

Looking back at Spike with a beaming smile, the creature nodded. "Just as I smelled. She’s spell-shocked."

Chapter 6

***********

1998

Looking back at Spike with a beaming smile, the creature nodded. "Just as I smelled. She’s spell-shocked."

Spike gaped at the creature, incredulous. "Spell-shocked? No one’s been casting any spells in here. She must’ve fallen and hit her head or something. Quit your grinning and help her!"

"She’s not hurt," the creature said, stroking an enormous, withered hand over Buffy’s hair. "Were she hurt, I would sense it straightaway. There’s nothing natural wrong with her. Can’t you feel the magic? She’s been stunned by a spell gone wrong. It’ll take a while for her to come back from this. Smell that energy crackling?" He raised his face towards the ceiling, inhaling deeply through two oval nostrils that lay flush against the bones of his skull. "Powerful, it is. So potent, it was a challenge to smell the scent of Slayer beneath it. And not cast from this dimension, definitely not. Trans-dimensional magic never goes well."

"Get her on the bed," Spike snarled. He glared at the creature, vamping out for effect. "Now."

Ignoring Spike, the creature continued to pet Buffy’s hair. "Lovely. So lovely. The Slayer is truly a wonder, is she not? I’d heard as much about her line, but this is the first Slayer I’ve met. Her hair… so gold… it’s softer than anything else I’ve felt. Even my Annabella’s hair, and wasn’t she a wonder herself." His hand faltered, and he fell back slightly. "My Annabella was such a wonder," he repeated in a whisper, his red eyes glowing.

"Fine. Your Annabella was a swell bird. Great. Now bring the Slayer up here, before I…" His hands clenched into fists. Helpless. He was nothing but a helpless lump, too weak to even see if Buffy was breathing. Baring his fangs at the creature, he threw a pillow at him. "Before I yell at you real loud, you nit. Get her up here!"

With great care, the creature lifted Buffy up and cradled her against his enormous chest. He stood only about five feet off the ground, but was built like a thickly-muscled square. His legs were so burly that he waddled as he walked, but Spike didn’t care what the creature looked like. All that mattered was that there was someone who could help Buffy, when he could not. < It should be me there, helping her>, he thought, running his tongue over his fangs before relaxing his face into human features.

Laying her on the bed next to Spike, the creature smoothed Buffy’s hair back from her face. He hovered over her, anxious to help. "I’ll get a cup of water for her. The Slayer would like that, I think. A cool rag for her forehead, that would be nice. Another pillow, those there are no good. And maybe some soup. Annabella liked soup. Does she like soup?"

"Slow down there, Martha Stewart." Spike placed a possessive hand on Buffy’s forehead. He looked down at her, noticing the blue stains on her eyelids. Bruises grew there, as though she’d been punched in the eyes by invisible fists. "Not so fast. Answers first. Who are you?"

"The name’s Hugh," the creature said, punching a fist against his chest in punctuation. "Hugh Lowery."

"Okay, that’s… helpful. How ‘bout telling me *what* you are? A faery, sure, I can see that, but what sort?"

"You can’t tell by the look of me? I know, I know, I’m big for a Brownie… and then, there’s the red Phooka eyes- got those from my grand-dad, but my blood’s only a bit mixed, really."

"And you came from… where?"

"Britain, originally. I looked after mistresses and their households for centuries there, happily." A sad smile flickered over his face. "Then, I met my Annabella. She was something special, she was. Never been so taken with a human before I met her. I broke all the traditional rules, just to know her, to have her see me. When she left Britain to join her cousin in Mexico, I followed her. I cared for her home here for decades, until…"

"Until she died. That’s the way of it, mate, when you love the mortals." Running a hand through his hair, Spike sighed. <Smart thing to do would be to send him on his merry way. Foolish to trust strangers offhand, but… not much choice here… we need help. Help with legs that work.>"Right, then. You’re a Brownie, so you help people. No threat there. Go on, help her."

Hugh nodded complacently. "Water, water will help. Wouldn’t do for the Slayer to wake up with a dry mouth." He tucked the sheet around Buffy’s still form, then rushed into the bathroom. Returning with a mug of water, he wetted one finger and let the water dribble off it onto Buffy’s lips.

"That’s rather disgusting, you know," Spike said, watching Hugh feed Buffy more of the water. "Germs and whatnot. She’s the sort who’d care about things like that."

"I gave water to my Annabella in this manner," Hugh explained. He rubbed his thumb under Buffy’s lower lip, keeping her face dry. "She’d choke trying to drink the regular way. I could never let my mistress choke."

"Your mistress?"

"I’m a Brownie. Caring for humans is what we do. The Slayer is now mine to tend."

Raising an eyebrow, Spike said, "You sure about that? She’s not the sort to need much help. Can’t say she’d thank you for the attention."

Hugh shrugged his enormous shoulders, smiling humbly. "After a week of my care, she’ll thank me well enough. And as you’ve noticed, she’s in no condition to argue."

Looking down at Buffy’s slack fact, Spike had to agree. He rested his hands over his stomach, which gurgled with hunger. "How long you think she’ll be like this?"

"A week? Two? It’s not an easy thing to judge, you understand. T’would depend on the spell cast, on the witch casting it, even on what the Slayer ate for breakfast."

"Eggs and toast," Spike muttered, pressing his hands into his belly. <Hunger pains. Like I needed any more>. "Jam, too. Some kind of berry. Don’t remember what."

"So, you are lovers, then? I don’t normally care for vampires, but as the Slayer’s now my mistress, I’ll have to make an exception for her lover."

Spike burst out with a single, nervous chuckle. "Lovers! She’s the *Slayer*, you dunce!"

"And you’re a vampire. One who knows what she eats for breakfast. One who grows very nervous when another man touches her. One who shakes like a scared child when he sees the Slayer unconscious on the floor." Hugh stood, shaking his head and making tsking noises at Spike. "You must be a rare beastie, for sure."

"Hey. None of that ‘shaking like a child’ stuff, you get me?" Making a chomping motion towards Hugh’s neck, Spike glared at him. "And you’re not exactly a man, now are you. No more than I am."

"Much less than you are. You were once a man; I’ll never have that pleasure. Now, enough of the chatter. I must tend to my mistress. You… is there anything you need? I see you’ve an incapability there. Your legs, they pain you?"

"Incapa…" Spike broke off, shaking his head. "You are a real wanker, you know that? I’m not incapable of jack. Just don’t happen to be up for a jaunt around the block at the moment."

Waving his hand, the Brownie shrugged. "Testy, aren’t you? Never fear. I’ve no notion of coddling you like a nursling. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll see you have it."

"Anything?"

"Just about. Food? Drink? I expect those are one and the same for a fellow with tastes like yourself. Perhaps something for the pain? I see you’re hurting. I can help you with that. It’s not a bit of a trouble."

Spike shook his head. "The trouble comes when this train reaches its last stop. Not so long now, and we’ll all be tossed off, one unconscious Slayer and one paralyzed vampire. You sure you’re up for that sort of challenge?"

With a happy grin, Hugh laughed. "As I said, I’m a Brownie, vampire. It’s what we do. There’s a solution to every problem, and a problem to every solution. I solve the problems, care for my mistress, and…" He tossed Spike a wink. "And I’ll care for you too, vampire or no. Her smell is all over you. You are hers. Therefore, you are mine to tend as well."

Falling back against the pillows, Spike closed his eyes. He kept one hand on Buffy’s hair, hoping she felt less pain than he did. "Do your job then, mate. The train’ll come to its final stop before the day’s out. I’d say we’re in need of some looking after."

**********

2001

"Wider, hon," Tara said, gesturing with a brimming dustpan to the black, garbage bag Willow held open in her hands. "I don’t want to get this glass on your hands."

"Too late," Willow said, looking down at the scratches that ran up to her elbows. She gaped the bag open, allowing Tara to dump the remains of the window inside. "Our earthquake sorta threw knives of it at me. Almost like it knew I was to blame."

Tara picked up the broom and took it around the back of the couch to sweep the floor. She looked at Willow, tucking her hair behind her ear with one hand. "The spell fizzled, Will. It wasn’t your fault."

"It was too my fault. If I hadn’t messed things up so totally in the first place…" She pressed her lips together to silence herself, fighting off utter misery. Leaving the garbage bag slumped on the floor, she leaned against the wall and watched the muscles of Tara’s back move as she swept. "But yeah, the whole fizzle thing wasn’t me. As least, I don’t think it was."

"What happened? One minute, things seemed okay. The magic was so powerful… but then, next thing I knew, you fell over."

Sighing, Willow shook her head. "I’m not completely sure what that was. I felt it all happen, but… it’s kinda confused in my head. As soon as I asked for Buffy to come back, to return to how things were, I got this huge… surge."

Tara straightened up and faced Willow, both hands wrapped around the end of the broomstick. "Surge," she said, her brows arching. "Like, an energy surge?"

"Maybe. I… I don’t think energy is it, exactly. The spell reached Buffy, I know it did. I could sense her there. But…" She folded her arms over her chest, hugging herself. "The magic sort of tugged at Buffy, psychically, like a… like a lasso or something. It tried to snare her, to bring her back to where she’s supposed to be." <Dead>, a cold voice whispered in the back of her mind, making her shudder. <She’s supposed to be dead> "It failed, big time. Something about Buffy broke the connection. When I fell back, it was like… like Buffy had sent the magic whipping back at me."

"Oh honey," Tara said, dropping the broom and reaching out to Willow with both hands. She took hold of Willow’s wrists and pulled her down onto the couch, sitting close to her. "That… that’s not good."

Willow leaned her head on Tara’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of her shampoo for comfort. "It’s like there’s something keeping her there."

"Something? Like, a spell? An entrapment spell, maybe?" Tara hugged Willow closer. "That’s good, if it’s a spell. It means we can fix it." She turned her face away, hiding the nervous tic above her eye. "Probably," she said in a shrinking voice. "Maybe."

"No, it wasn’t a spell, not that I could sense at least. I don’t think it was magical at all. Something more mundane. Something… internal, emotional. Inside of Buffy."

Straightening, Tara held Willow by the shoulders. "She wasn’t throwing off your spell on purpose, Will. You know that. Even if Buffy was adept enough at magic to do such a thing, she’d never… never…"

"No, she had no idea I was even casting the spell. But there’s something about where she is that’s keeping her there. Something she doesn’t want to leave."

"You think that’s really it?"

Willow nodded. "Yeah. I felt it. Buffy’s psychic ‘stubborn face’. She’s not the type to let go of something she wants without a fight. And it’s not like she knows she’s ruining the timeline by hanging onto it."

"What do you think it is?"

"It could be anything, knowing Buffy. Or anyone. Whatever it is, it could be the key to fixing this whole mess. Buffy needs to be told that she’s got to let whatever it is go, so we can make things right again. The timeline is more important than whatever she’s got going there. She’ll understand that… we just have to tell her."

Tara slipped a lock of Willow’s hair behind her ear with soft fingers. "You’re just gonna call her up with your magic phone line to time dimension 1998?"

"If I thought I could reach her magically, I would. But she doesn’t want to hear me. Obviously."

Tara gently pushed Willow back, reclining her into the couch cushions. She lifted Willow’s feet and placed them on her lap. "I have an idea for that. The time travel problem. The reversal spell would work, if we could get to the focus of the spell- to Buffy, in the past. So, we’d have to get you into the past to do the spell."

Willow pointed her toes into Tara’s hands, and closed her eyes as Tara began to massage them. "Me? Into the past? Talk about the Big Scary."

"It sounds bad, I know. The whole idea of it… it just sounds wrong. A huge potential for more bad stuff to happen. And then there’s the whole danger-to-you part. A-and, I don’t even know how we’d go about it. Time travel… not an easy thing." Tara squeezed her fingertips into the arches of Willow’s feet, drawing comfort from the solid feel of her muscles and bones. "I hate it, Will. Just the thought of it makes me all quivery. We’re talking about strong magic, way too strong for me to mess with. But whatever wrong that could be caused from sending you back… could it really be that worse from what’s already happened?"

Her eyes still closed, Willow shook her head. "It doesn’t matter. I’ll be careful, but it doesn’t matter. The timeline is already so totally broken, and it’s all my fault. No matter how dangerous it is, I have to do whatever I can to fix it.

They sat a moment in silence, both overwhelmed with a mixture of fear and reluctant hope. Tara gazed at Willow’s face, taking in the dark sweep of her lashes over her cheekbones. With her eyes closed, Willow looked less like the powerful witch she was, and more like the mundane college student Tara sometimes wished she could be. She ran her hands up Willow’s ankles, massaging the taut muscles of her calves. "Will?" she said in a husky whisper. "You’ll be okay?"

Willow opened her eyes. Giving Tara a small but determined smile, she nodded. "I’ll make it right again. I will. But first, we have to figure out what went wrong. If we could figure out what she did that changed everything, it might help us learn what she’s holding onto so tightly. We should find out as much as we can about what happened to Buffy. I guess maybe we could check the Internet, do a search to see if we can find her in the past. She would’ve laid low, knowing Buffy."

"Poor Buffy. She must’ve been so confused. To come back to life and find yourself in the past… with no one to go to for help… how awful."

"Or maybe not laid low. Maybe she did go to someone for help. Giles, or someone. That could’ve been what screwed up the timeline. Maybe knowing that she was there threw everyone off their game enough that they lost to Angelus." Willow turned her face into the pillow, rubbing her cheek against its softness. "That could’ve been it."

Tara frowned. "Yeah, maybe. It would explain why Buffy- the Buffy I knew- thought that what happened that night was all her fault. And why she’d never tell us what happened. But…" She bit her lips, pensive. "I don’t know. It could’ve been that, but it could’ve also been a million other things. Let’s go over that night again- the way it should’ve happened. There must be something different from my memories to yours. Tell me again, where everyone was that night? What were they doing?"

Taking a deep breath, Willow crossed her arms over her chest. "I was in the hospital, doing the spell to restore Angel’s soul. Oz and Cordy were with me. Giles had been kidnapped by the vampires the night before. Xander went to find Buffy, to tell her we were going to try the spell. He wanted to help her too, I think. We all did. But there just wasn’t much we could do, aside from the spell. And that came too late."

"What was Buffy doing before she went to rescue Giles?"

"She had to go home to get her weapons." Willow’s lips twitched. "She called me from there- that’s how we found out about where Giles was. She told Xander to meet her at the mansion. And… oh!"

"Oh?"

"She said she had help. And she did. This was so weird… her help was Spike. And don’t think we didn’t hear about it when Xander found that out- that Buffy had chosen Spike to help her fight Angelus instead of him. That was the start of their stupid little competition. Of course, Spike was a better help, being a vampire and all, plus the whole element of surprise with him being able to walk and not telling Angelus he’d recovered. He protected Giles- if you can call letting him get tortured, just not to death, protection."

"Spike?" Tara raised an eyebrow. "Wasn’t he that vamp who left town after Angelus stole his girlfriend and Buffy dropped an organ on him?"

"What? No, Spike didn’t leave town then, he had to help Buffy beat Angelus first… oh."

"Again with the Oh." Tara moved Willow’s feet aside and stood up. "That’s it then, isn’t it. That’s what changed. In my reality, Spike left town months before the whole Acathla thing. And in yours…"

Willow sat up slowly, shock paling her face. "Apparently, he saved the day. Even though we didn’t know it then. Wow. And in the other reality, something happened that made him leave town. Something that my Buffy caused. Because of that, everything changed. Giles died. Xander died, so Anya was never summoned by Cordelia for vengeance. Dawn was never created because… because…"

"Buffy wasn’t exactly what you could call stable after loosing Xander, Giles, and Angel. I can’t imagine anyone trusting her with the Key to hell."

"And all this because Spike wasn’t there." She covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Wacky. Just wacky, that Spike could be that important when none of us knew it. We always treated him like he was… nothing. Worse than nothing, even when he was helping us and saving Dawn. And then there was the torture… Glory… god, even Xander felt bad for him that day. But we still treated him like he was… like he was a normal vampire."

"Don’t feel bad. Normal or not, he was still a vampire. You wouldn’t expect the whole happiness of the town to be balanced on a demon, no matter how nice he acted."

Willow met Tara’s eyes, her gaze earnest. "But he made such a difference. How did it all go, in your reality?"

"You already know most of it. Xander and Giles died. Buffy staked Angelus before he could open Acathla. She nearly died herself. You told me that you found her in the hospital a few days later, with major injuries. Head wound, broken bones, the whole works."

"Then what?" Willow asked, clenching her jaw to brace herself for the answer.

"We met about… oh, about a year and a half later." Tara squeezed Willow’s hands. "You were so depressed, honey. The first time I saw you, all I could do was wonder how I could help you."

"Depressed?"

"Buffy never really recovered from the Acathla thing… from loosing everyone. She stopped slaying all together… Sunnydale was-" She looked by instinct towards the darkened space where the window used to be- "*is* a pretty scary place. Lots of demons. Anyways, you moved in here, and you and Joyce took care of Buffy. Then, just a few months ago, Joyce died. And after that, Buffy was just… unreachable. I’ll never forget how red her blood was when she cut herself…" Tara dropped her head, her voice cracking. A tear fell on Willow’s hand.

"And Buffy died too. All because Spike left town." Willow murmured, pulling Tara to her. She stroked her hair with soothing gentleness. "What could she have done that made him leave?"

Rubbing her eyes, Tara said, "Whatever it was, it must’ve been bad. He never came back."

"She didn’t stake him, though. My Buffy wouldn’t have done that. They were… well, not friends, but they cared about each other." With a small smile, she said, "He loved her. But hey, not for a few years yet, where Buffy is. So when she got back to the past, they probably just fought. He couldn’t be what’s keeping her there. You have to understand… she was always trying to get him to leave town. That’s why it’s so ironic that in the other time dimension, she succeeded."

"Well, I guess it’s more important right now to make sure we can get your back to talk to her, before we worry about what you’ll have to argue against."

Willow sighed. "I have no clue how to get back there. It’s not like I did it on purpose when I sent Buffy…"

"You got her back there by flubbing the spell," Tara said, gentling the words with a duck of her head. "But that won’t work to get you into the past. Do you…" She rubbed her eyes again, obviously conflicted. "Do you know a spell? I hate even asking that. We shouldn’t be messing with magic so powerful. But there’s no real choice."

"Or… hey!" Willow jumped to her feet, startled by the thought that flashed through her mind. "Hey! There’s another way. A kinda dangerous way, but I think… I think it’ll work. I have this friend… or, I did, in the other time dimension. Right now, I guess she’s a scary, veiny, demon-y kind of friend… one who won’t know me… but she should be pretty unhappy when she finds out I’ve screwed with her past."

"Unhappy enough to help you fix it?"

"That depends." She held out her hand to Tara, helping her up. "You feel any vengeance-y type wishes coming on?"

**********

Mexico-Guatemala border

1998

The birds were singing. Not just one or two, but an entire chorus of them, all performing in the lush trees that stretched into a green canopy above him. Any other time, Spike might’ve taken a second to wonder at a place where birds sang at night. Any other time, he might’ve stopped to appreciate the strangeness of the jungle, how different it was from any other place he’d been. Any other time, but as it was, all he could do to keep himself from crying out was ground his eyes shut and curse the insane Brownie who was pushing him on a small, wooden cart through the vegetation.

"Would you quit with the whistling?" Spike growled, gnashing his teeth as the cart jolted. The pain in his back screamed with every bounce that reverberated through the thin wood floor beneath him. He grabbed the edge of the cart, trying to keep from rolling into the unconscious Slayer who lay next to him. "There’s enough pain here to go around without you causing more with your poncy tunes."

"Never fear, vampire. My sweet Annabella’s house is just around this bend. Once we’re inside, I’ll have the place cozy and cool, and the Slayer can rest in comfort." With a glance over the bulk of his shoulder, the Brownie plodded forward. "And you may rest as well."

"Isn’t that just… arg!" Spike bit down hard on his lip as the cart skipping over a dip in the path. "Watch the potholes, will you? As I was saying, that’s just ducky. You sure no one else decided to move into Annabella’s house while you were off on your trip?"

"It was no trip. I was seeing my Annabella’s ashes safely to the north. There’s a lake there, a lovely bit of water. It was her last request of me. That, and to see her home put to good use." Dropping one hand from the cart handles, Hugh took a swipe at his eyes. "It will be empty, surely. Empty, empty, empty, without Annabella."

Spike thumped his head back against the floor of the cart. "Right, mate. Sure. Just remember, the bird here and I are hiding out. No neighbors would drop in here, I’m guessing. Who’d trek through the jungle to visit an empty house?"

"It’ll do well for you and the Slayer." Hugh let go of the cart. It hit the ground with a thud. Panting, he rubbed the sweat from his brow and pointed through the darkness. "It’s there, the house."

Spike vamped out, letting his vision pierce the darkness. "Well, you’ve got an odd sense of the meaning of ‘hide out’," he muttered, taking in the vast mansion. It stood three levels high, with windows dotting the white front in generous number. Skirted by a wide porch all around, the house looked welcoming. "This is your idea of laying low? A bloody mansion?"

"Secluded though, it is. Have no fear, vampire. No one ventures this far into the jungle who doesn’t belong here."

Raising one hand in the air, Spike said, "Hello, you think I belong here?"

"She does," Hugh said, pointing at Buffy. He scooped her up into his arms. "I’ll just get her inside, make her comfortable. Then I’ll return for you."

"Right," he said, then shook his head. <If it’s a trap, the Slayer’ll never even wake up> "Or, maybe not. You’ll be fluttering about for days making her all snug and fit. Take me in first."

Hugh blanched. "But, the Slayer…"

"Is a tough girl. She’ll last out here long enough for you to dump me on a bed somewhere. S’not like I take any tending. Just dump me inside and come back for her."

"You make my job difficult, you realize," Hugh said, lifting Spike over his shoulder in a single movement.

"Yeah… lot of that ‘difficult’ crap going around," Spike said. He groaned, his back on fire. "Let’s move, faery."

Inside, the house stretched darkly around him, vast and cool. Hugh left the front door open and progressed up the wide staircase, ignoring Spike’s soft growls of pain. A hallway passed by Spike’s eyes, then another, blurs of shadow and numerous, closed doors. Finally, Hugh found the room he was searching for. He opened the door and dumped Spike onto the bed. Without word, he turned around and left.

Spike kept his eyes closed for a moment, as if he could suppress the pain by closing himself off to the world. Opening them, he found himself to be lying on a large, canopied bed. It was draped with red, gauzy sheaths, as were the walls of the room. The window was covered with wooden shutters, a fact which Spike noted immediately and was grateful for. Letting his eyes slip shut, he took several deep breaths, listening to the sound of Hugh’s heavy feet walking towards him down the hall.

"The Slayer will be at rest in the bedroom beside yours, vampire," Hugh said, poking his head into the room. "I’ll take her there now."

"Like hell you will," Spike said, trying to sit up. His exhausted body made it halfway before flopping back onto the pillows. Propping himself up on his elbows, he nodded to the bed. "She’ll be staying right here, where I can keep an eye on her."

Hugh stepped back, surprised. "You don’t trust me? I’m a Brownie. I’d never hurt the Slayer. It’s against my nature."

"Again, a lot of that going around. You think it’s in my nature to protect her?" Spike asked, his voice harsh. He flung a hand out, pointing at Buffy. "The Slayer? Not two weeks ago, killing her was all I could think about. Now, look at me. A gimp stuck in a poncey, canopy bed, fighting with you about who’s gonna protect her."

"You love her. Love does change the nature of the creatures who bear it. This I know better than any other truth. For me and my Annabella…"

"Oh, would you quit with the mooning about for bloody Annabelle!" He rolled his eyes, then looked down at his lap, pretending not to notice the hurt on the gentle faery’s face. "Look, just bring her here. Leave her with me, and go about your business. You want to take care of this chit, you gotta spruce the ole hide-out up a bit. Lights, she likes lights, being human and all. And the kitchen’s sure to need a scrub, you having been gone. Never know what little crawlies might’ve taken up residence there."

Blanching, Hugh scuttered forward. With great care, he lowered Buffy onto the bed beside Spike. "I… I’ll bring a basin of warm water, a-and a rag. You… she must be bathed. See those creases of dirt and sweat on her face, from the jungle? She’d never stand for that. Human women do not sleep with dirt on their faces."

"That’s a rule, is it? Well, bring along your basin and whatnot." Pulling the bed sheet over Buffy’s legs, he flashed the faery a sardonic smile. "We’re not going anywhere."