A/N Stuck in the mud on WPtH Yuck

I have an idea to turn this thoughtful ficlet (that I came up with when I was too hot cuddling my husband. Well as hot as a british summer night gets :) into a proper B/S story. What you think?

Thanks to April for doing her grammar thing, i tried out some semi colons on my own and she say's I got them right so i'm very proud of myself.

Hope you enjoy

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She rolls away from him, sleepily disentangling herself from his arms to lie in dreaming isolation across an impassable ocean of linen. He doesn't pull her back into his embrace or flow with her in the perfect synchronicity of sleeping lovers, just sighs and rolls onto his back to contemplate the shadowed ceiling and listen to the faint, muffled sound of her breathing.

He used to try to hold her, keep her safely cocooned in his arms, pull her close against his broad chest and share the air she breathed. She would hold still for a few moments, just long enough so as not to be hurtful, then slip across the bed, spreading her heated skin against the cool cotton of their sheets and mumbling that it was too hot. Even now, in these cool Californian winter nights she shrugs off his embrace, shying away from the sticky contact of his warm body, to throw one leg wantonly out from under the covers and let the cold night air caress her skin. Only then is she able to sleep.

By day their relationship is perfection itself. They walk together in the sun; she smiles up at him, that devastatingly radiant smile that is her signature and her gift. She holds his hand, stands on her tiptoes to brush her lips against his. She slips her deceptively frail arms around his waist and lays her head on his chest when they dance. But by night she is a stranger to him. She hunts alone; it's new. He used walk beside her, but now he hasn't the strength. Despite his size, despite that he works out every day, despite that he has two centuries of fighting experience, he is fragile. In her dark and violent world he is weak and breakable and so she shields him from her world, and hunts alone.

She slips into their bed when her hunt is finished and kisses him with a grave and studied gentleness. Often they make love, but it lacks the playful affection of their afternoon communions. There is a guarded melancholy to her, a latent sadness that pervades her nights. At night, she is a stranger to him.

Sleep eludes him, as it always does when she distances herself from him. He wonders if perhaps it is at night that she thinks of another, of one whose chilled embrace would cool her fiery skin. If perhaps the night air's chill is to her a ghostly reminiscence of that icy lover’s touch. He feels his brow crease with the thought. No. If she dreams of cold dead skin it is his own, it is a dream of a different time when love was new and she was innocence itself, of a long forgotten world where demons she faced where not her own.

He sighs and runs a large hand across his face, feeling the now familiar warmth of his own breath. It is strange how in two hundred years of death he never quite got used to the redundancy of breathing, but in less than a year of life he has completely forgotten how it felt to not need air.

Perhaps that is the cause of her withdrawal; maybe it is at night that she feels most strongly that they are different. He is certainly aware of her unnaturalness. She is too strong; he knows that she must temper the power of her tiny body in order to make love with him. She is too fast; just yesterday she caught a glass that he had clumsily knocked from the kitchen table, with a preternatural speed that had been at best disconcerting. He feels his understanding of her shadowy world slip away from him day by day. He remembers that there was a time when he had understood, when her nature had been a lustrous reflection of his own, but he feels that kinship diminish with every caress of warm sunlight on his skin.

It is not that he loves her any less; he loves her perhaps more now than he ever has. But he is also aware that, for all that love, they are not a pair. They are too different and his skin is too warm for her to bear.

She mumbles something in her sleep, so softly his dull human ears cannot be sure of what he hears, but he imagines it is a name - a name that neither of them will utter in the daylight. She never speaks his name, perhaps because she never thinks of him. She certainly never loved him; he is past now and far from her thoughts. He hopes this is the reason, but suspects it is not. He has his own reasons for avoiding the other’s name. He hates to lie to her, and any mention of him would be a lie: a good lie, if there can be such a thing, but a lie nonetheless. There is guilt, too, a feeling that his silence is a betrayal of the other. It is not, of course; he swore when they parted that he would keep his secret, yet he knows his motives for keeping that promise are not noble and so he avoids his name just as she does.

He rolls away from her, pulling the cover over his shoulder so that it lifts from the bed, allowing cool air to flow between them. She murmurs again and this time he is sure it is a name. Perhaps it is time to break his oath and his silence, to tell her what she has always had a right to know. Perhaps tomorrow, when they wake together in the sunlight, he will tell her. Perhaps.

 

Chapter 2:

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Even in winter the Californian sunshine is bright and warm. She remembers that in Italy the December sun had been pale and cold, like him. No. She mustn't think of him. She tries never to think of him; he is past, long since lost to her and so she doesn't allow her self to think of him. At least not in the daylight.

She reaches out to slip her hand into the large warm one of the man beside her. Her man, and now truly a man. It had been prophesied: the Sanshu, vampire with a soul, champion for good, pivotal role in apocalypse, big reward, yada yada yada. So he is human now, a living breathing human, with a pulse and body heat. He feels her tense and looks down questioningly at her. She gives him a tight smile and grits her teeth against the sudden sensation of burning in her hand. She feels perspiration gather between their coupled palms and fights the urge to tug her hand away and let the winter air cool and dry her skin.

"Ooh, look," she covers clumsily, pulling her hand from his and pointing towards the familiar coffee shop window. "Winter warmer." She grins at him and steps backwards towards the cafe. "Two for one on hot chocolaty goodness. This offer cannot be ignored."

She has marshmallows in her hot chocolate; she has found lately that she enjoys the sweetness of them. It is a sinful treat and at twenty-four even a slayer should be more careful about the excess of calories, but she doesn’t care. There is something comforting about the childish indulgence; it reminds her of her mother, and, of course, of him. Not that she allows herself to think of him. Still, she enjoys the mindless familiarity of enjoying the over-sweetened drink, just as he had.

"Buffy?" His voice startles her from her forbidden reminiscence. He knows her well enough to recognise the guilty nervousness in her eyes.

He looks so vulnerable as he touches her hand, his dark eyes asking questions she will never answer. It is better for him not to know; she even doubts that he truly wants to know. He looks younger; it's strange. In the last year, he has aged for the first time in two centuries and yet he looks younger. She likes to think it is because he is new; his body and soul have been reborn, new and innocent and untarnished. It is strange to think of him as light, but he is - he is a child of the sunlight now, bright and sanguine. She knows that she is not.

A glance at her watch tells her it is gone three and she smiles at the thought. The sun only has a few more hours of lordship left, before it relinquishes its throne to the silver night watchman of the sky. She smiles at her own clumsily poetic thoughts; he would have been proud.

She has come to enjoy winter. She likes that the days are short and the nights are long. The night is her time, after all, just as it was his. It is at night that she indulges her memories of him. She hunts alone. She doesn’t have to, she has a thousand sisters now with whom to share the night. But she prefers to hunt alone; she'd rather have his memory to watch her back anyway.

"Buffy?" His voice disrupts the lazy circling of her mind, and she shakes herself. This is why she must keep the other in the night: because, if she lets him, he will invade her days. He will reach out into the sunlight and pull her back to him, surround her with the ethereal coolness of her memory until the present loses meaning and all there is is that lost forbidden time with him. This is why she tries so hard not to think of him. Because she knows that if she does, he will consume her and she will have nothing left to give to the wonderful, warm human being in front of her.

She smiles sadly at her companion. It is not that she doesn’t love him. She loves him now perhaps more than she ever has, but she senses that she is losing him. That she who first drew him to the light is now losing him to that same brightness. She does not enjoy the irony that it is she now who is too dark for him. But she understands that it is true.

She has resolved that she will not fight his leaving; she is ready, perhaps even a little impatient, for the day when the divergence of their natures takes him too far away from her and he has no choice left but to step fully into the light. She will not try to keep him with her, will not try to bind him to her darkness, nor will she try to follow him. There is no place for her out there in his bright new world of vivid hope and vibrant life. She is, after all, a creature of night, of dark and righteous violence.

There is no resentment left in her, no bitterness. The night is no longer the insidious accomplice of an unwelcome calling. It is her refuge, her comfort; it is her time. Her dogged mind once again returns to him. Despite her best efforts, it gets harder each day to keep him locked away in the night. She hears his voice in her mind. He knew her so well; she understands only now that no one else has ever known her as well he did.

"Buffy." He is so concerned, so loving, she feels tears fill her eyes. Perhaps she is a fool to let him go so easily. Shouldn’t she fight for a love like this? Perhaps. Perhaps she would if she did not feel so ready to spend her days alone and share her nights with just the ghost of love. It is strange, she thinks, that the other’s phantom caresses, conjured by her mind to ride on chill night air and cool cotton sheets, are more real to her now than her living lover’s warm and open arms.

"Are you okay?" He is right to be concerned. She is so very far away from him right now, so deeply lost. Does he know where she is? With whom? If he does, he never speaks of it, never mentions the other’s name, and she is grateful for it. Perhaps one day she will tell him everything. Perhaps, when he is ready to leave her, she will tell him that it is okay, that he can go now, that she will not be alone in the night. But for now, she will preserve their charade and lie to him.

"I'm fine, Angel," she assures him with a regretful smile. She hates to lie to him, but it is a good lie, if there can be such a thing. "Just thinking about mom, that's all."


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Chapter 3:

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He believes that Carlotta is an angel - a dark angel of night, but an angel nonetheless. He runs his pale fingers through her thick, silky hair, enjoying the contrast of his ashen skin against the ebony tresses. If he is right, and he always is, it is gone three. They have been asleep for hours, exhausted from the night’s long hunt and the passionate lovemaking that followed. Lovemaking. He ponders the word. He had believed he’d made love before. He had certainly poured waterfalls of love into the act. But Carlotta taught him, with all the guileless wisdom of youth, that he had not. He understands now that first you must be loved. He had never made love until she took him to her bed.

He considers waking her. She wouldn’t mind; she is always hungry for him. She loves him far more than he deserves. He feels it in every gentle brush of her full lips, every caress of her warm fingers or desperate rake of nails across his back. He has never been loved like this before. Her love is truly unconditional; she asks only that he be himself, and desires only his happiness. She shifts against him in her sleep, murmuring his name in a soft breath. She is dreaming of him again; she tells him that she always dreams of him.

The day is hot and sticky and a thin layer of sweat shimmers over her mocha skin. He likes it, just as he likes the burning warmth of her body as she presses against him. She is so alive, his Lotta, so vibrant and human. He can hear the air whispering in her lungs, hear her powerful blood rushing through her veins. He likes that she is so alive. She says she likes the cool stillness of him; she drapes her flushed body over his, maximising the contact of her skin on his. She says she likes that his skin cools hers even as it warms beneath her touch. But then Lotta likes everything about him, and that is still a little baffling.

It is not that she is besotted with him. He would hate it if that were the case, would hate if she were blinded by infatuation to his many flaws. She is not. She sees him more clearly than any other woman has; she knows his failings, his weaknesses, his faults, and yet she loves him. Despite that he is not perfect, maybe even because of it, she loves him. He used to tell her she should leave him, that she could do better, that he could never deserve her love. But she would laugh and tell him that love, like forgiveness, is not won on merit; it is a gift, and must be freely given. She is wise beyond her nineteen years.

She rolls onto her back, exposing her full breasts with their large dusky nipples. She is undeniably beautiful. He looks down her firm curvaceous body. He hates to compare her to the Buffy, but the contrast is so blinding that he finds he often does.

They are polar opposites in colouring: where Buffy was all honey and gold, Lotta has coffee-coloured skin and loose black curls. Both girls are slender and toned, an advantage of their twin callings he supposes, but Lotta carries a soft layer of fat over her frame that softens her hips and belly, making her appear full and ripe. Buffy was always too thin, but then that’s Californian girls for you: gotta be a size 4. It’s possible that Buffy has put on weight - don't they say that girls do that when they're content, when they've settled down?

He curses himself for thinking of her, but she is never far from his thoughts. Carlotta tells him often that he should contact her. She has offered more than once to return with him to California. He knows she worries for him, worries that he is not content, that her shadow follows them. Even here in their jungle retreat, Buffy is present.

He has told her all about the first slayer he loved. She is, after all, his friend and confidant. There are no lies or secrets between them. She knows every sordid detail of his egregious past. She knows his fears, his regrets, and most frighteningly of all, his hopes. She alone knows what sacrifice he made for Buffy, the true nature of his final gift to her. She doesn’t judge him for what he was, or for what he has now become.

Lotta has decided that she does not like Angel, whom she says was less worthy of that hallowed reward than he would have been. She calls him a coward for making his oath of silence. He finds himself defending his onetime mentor, repeating that even Angel did not know about his sacrifice, that it is out of loyalty that he holds his tongue. “Pah,” she spat the first time he said it. “What nonsense you talk.”

She turns on her side again and he finds himself looking into huge deep brown eyes, with their long, dark lashes and sparkling devotion. "Morning, luv," he greets her, affectionately pushing her tousled hair away from her face. She glances at her watch and gives him an amused smile. "Boa tarde, amado?"

And here she is, smiling sleepily at him, his own personal angel of salvation. His Carlotta, the girl who got him over Buffy. And he is over Buffy. Oh, he thinks of her, of course. There is not a day or night that goes by that she doesn’t pass through his mind. But this beautiful girl has gathered up the pieces of his shattered heart and in less than a year made it whole again, made it possible for him to love for the first time without fear.

It isn’t that he doesn’t still love Buffy; he loves her now perhaps more than he ever has. But Lotta has fixed his heart so well that he can love her without desire or expectation, love her as unconditionally as his angel loves him. It’s true that he gave Buffy up willingly, that he made a hard and selfless sacrifice so that she could have the happiness she deserves, but before Lotta it was a bitter gesture made in pain, hopelessness and fear. Now he looks back on what he did so that she could live her dreams with no regret, no aching sense of loss, of what might have been. He is happy here in the jungle with his dark and beautiful angel. He needs nothing more.

"I was thinking," he tells the bright-eyed girl at his side. "What say we head out early, get this bloody Turgora killed quick smart, and then head into town?" He rolls them over so she is lying beneath him, her radiant smile telling him she likes the idea. Still, he enjoys the unnecessary labour of cajoling her. He trails kisses over her neck. "Hmmm? A little dancing, a little Cachaca?" Propping himself up on his elbows, he grins down at her. "Fancy it, pet?"

"Umm." She mumbles her approval as his cool hands move over her hot skin, sending messages of tingling pleasure and erotic promise to her rapidly waking brain. He peppers her shoulder with soft, chaste kisses, and her heart aches with love for him even as her body heats with passion. It is in these moments that she knows he loves her.

"Um-hm," she agrees, her accented voice deep and husky with sleep and desire. "Early," she says with a coquettish look as he raises his eyes to hers, "but not yet."


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Chapter 4:

She loves to watch him move. She often finds herself captivated by him. She should be more careful; more than once her distraction has left her vulnerable to attack. But something about the swirl of leather, the flash of pale skin and hair as he fights, always manages to steal her attention.

He is beautiful to her, not just as a man, although what woman could deny that his body and face are more appealing than most? She loves his eyes, so startlingly blue, so different from the warm brown eyes of her people. She loves his swagger, his predatory grace, his “big bad” attitude. She smiles to herself. Big bad? She is almost as tall as he is. If she wears heels, they stand eye to eye.

But his beauty goes deeper than the long dead body he wears or the sexy facade. He is to her the closest thing to perfect she will ever know. Despite what he is, despite what he lacks, he is to her the very definition of love.

He was so very broken when they first met, so hurt and angry, so bitter and hopeless. She had known the moment she saw him, propping up the bar in a sleazy club in Fortaleza, that he was in pain. She had known what he was - how could she not? It was, after all, her nature to know, and yet she had still ached with a desire to steal the weary sadness from his eyes, to take it into herself just to spare him.

They have been side by side ever since. Ever since she stood before him in that smoke filled room and wordlessly held out her hand to him, at once thrilled and terrified that he would take it. They had danced together in silence, both too grateful for the other’s acceptance to question it. They had not made love that first night, even though she had taken him to her Spartan rooms and lain down with him on her unmade bed.

She remembers how natural it had seemed, when he raised an arm in invitation, to lay her head upon his chest and let sleep take her. That was nearly a year and a thousand miles ago, but since that night she has not slept anywhere else. When they woke that first morning, she had made strong fresh coffee and they had talked of life and love and loss until the sun set again and he had joined her on her nightly hunt. She has not hunted alone since.

She looks down at the dead Turgora and smiles as she catches the end of a petulant complaint: "…a spectator sport. It's your bloody calling, girl, not mine." But that is a lie; it is his calling to dance in the darkness. If it were not then he would not look so beautiful as he fights.

She grins unrepentantly at him; despite his griping, she knows he is happy to share the burden of her duty. "Take me dancing," she demands, knowing he will oblige her in anything. He grins and holds out his arm for her. "Yes Anjo."

They make a striking couple and she is has come to enjoy the attention they receive when they venture out of their tiny village on the jungles edge and ride his stolen motor bike to town. In this land of dark skin and ebony hair, he is - to say the least - eye catching, and she knows her Hispanic beauty complements his sculpted paleness perfectly.

As he promised her, they drink Cachaca and do the samba until the sun threatens the eastern horizon, then they make their way to a cheap hotel and fall drunk and laughing into each other's arms. There is nothing in this world she likes better than feeling him inside her, feeling his love for her, his trust and gratitude as he moves with her on the worn sheets of a rented bed. It is in these moments that she likes to pretend that he is truly hers, but she is no fool, and she knows that he is not. Oh, he loves her - she never doubts it; she is, after all, “the girl who got him over Buffy,” and for that alone he will love her for eternity. But he is not hers, not really, and despite the painful ache she feels, she is already steeling herself for the time when she will lose him.

She is resolved to let him go easily, with a kiss and a promise of friendship. She won’t fight his leaving when he finally discovers whatever it is that is missing in his life here with her. She will even help him find it, because she loves him. Loves him truly selflessly, and if she must one day let him go so that he can be complete, then she will let him go. When he pledges his love for her against the warm skin of her neck, she almost cries at the bittersweet sound. "I love you, too," she breathes, knowing his demon ears will have no trouble hearing the sincerity of the whispered words.

He moves suddenly off her, leaning over the side of the bed to retrieve something from the pocket of his hastily discarded jeans. He dangles a silver chain before her eyes, its butterfly wing jewel glinting in the low dawn light. She laughs in delighted surprise. It is the same necklace she’d admired on a wealthy-looking puta at the bar last night. She hadn’t mentioned it, but he must have noticed - he always notices, her thoughtful pickpocket. She does not care that the gift is stolen. He is what he is and she has no desire to change him.

She sits up and turns her back to him, lifting her hair to accept his offering and when the cool metal lands against the hot flesh of her throat, she is reminded of his blessed coolness and swears silently that she will never take it off.

It is a perfect moment, but it is short lived because someone is here. Someone has found them and her lover's body is tense with recognition. The man studies them both, him in his low slung jeans and bare chest, her in his long black t-shirt. He is a handsome man, at least for his age, with grey-flecked hair and pale eyes. When he speaks, his tone is familiar yet far from friendly, and she steps to Spike's shoulder, ready to put herself between her love and this uninvited threat. "Hello, Spike."

Chapter 5:

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It was one thing to be told that Spike had been resurrected, but quite another to see the vampire with his own eyes. He watches him as he shifts in his seat, carefully cushioning his young lover’s head against his shoulder, and tries to decide whether or not he is glad that the rumours of the vampire's demise seem to have been exaggerated.

It had not been difficult to convince the pair to return with him to California. Spike had resisted at first. "Ah-ah, no bloody way," the vampire had insisted adamantly. He'd been agitated, almost seeming afraid.

"Spike." It had been the girl, Carlotta, who had first tried to persuade him, her hand placed gently on her lover’s arm. "It is time."

He'd turned, pleading then, gripping her shoulders and begging her. "Please, pet, we don’t wanna go digging up the past. We're all right here, you and me; we don’t need this."

"I think we do, amando." She had given him a sweet smile and touched his face. "Besides, do you not wish to see the nibblet again?" The familiar nickname had sounded strange in Carlotta's heavy accent, but Spike's face had softened with affection and longing and he had smiled sadly.

"God, yes," he'd breathed, closing his eyes for a moment before shaking his head and looking down. "But I can't, pet. It's too much; please don’t ask me to. Please, let’s just stay here."

She had seemed a little disappointed but had pulled him close as she acquiesced. "As you wish, my love."

He'd pulled back with a relieved sigh and a boyish smile. "Thank you."

The scene had been touching and he had felt guilty regret to be the bearer of such awful news. "I'm afraid you may wish to reconsider that decision. I have some very disturbing news that will affect you both."

He is bought back to the present by a quiet question from the vampire. "She's stunning, ain't she?" His voice is soft and he doesn’t take his eyes off the girl in his arms, but Giles senses that the question is not rhetorical, that Spike is seeking some kind of reassurance.

"Yes, she is quite beautiful and appears very strong." Now that the vampire looks at him, he finds himself surprised by the fear in his blue eyes and feels compelled to offer some comfort. "We will get to the bottom of this, Spike. Nothing will happen to her."

"Bloody right." His voice is full of the desperate determination that is born of the fact that failure is inconceivable. "I won't let anything happen to her." He strokes her cheek and Giles is again struck by the tenderness of the gesture, just as he had been back at the hotel.

He'd touched her that way as Giles spoke, trying to get the pair’s attention. "It is imperative that Carlotta return with me," he'd told them. "There have been unforeseen complications with the, er, with the slayers created during Willow's spell."

That had done it. Spike's head had shot up, eyes fixing on the watcher. "What complications?" he'd asked, his voice hard.

"It seems that power granted to the potentials during that spell is affecting the girls. Some er, you might say side effects." Spike's frown and Carlotta's worried look had been enough to force him to give in to the impulse to remove his glasses. He'd run his handkerchief over the lenses, stalling for time, putting off the inevitable moment when they would have to know.

"What side effects?" The question had been asked in a low voice, but the demand and the soft growl that laced it were unmistakable.

He'd looked up and spoken to the vampire, unable to bring himself to meet the girl’s warm brown eyes. "It's killing them."

"So." Spike laces his fingers through sleeping slayer's hair, keeping his eyes down as he asks, "Buffy know about all this?"

"Yes, yes of course. She and Faith have both been informed and should be making their way to our training facility in southern California. She'll be there by the time we arrive." The in-flight alcohol that burns his throat is more than welcome. It has been, after all, a very long day.

"Think she'll be pissed off with me?" Spike's question is so ridiculous that a bark of dry laughter escapes him and he indulges himself in a caustic retort.

"That you failed to tell her you were alive? That you allowed her to continue to grieve for you when news of your revival could have stopped her pain?" He raises an eyebrow and is rewarded with a sheepish look from the vampire. "That you lied to her and coerced her boyfriend into lying to her? Knowing Buffy, I think it is fair to assume she will be a little put out, yes."

He nods, accepting the watcher’s answer, then flashes him a wry grin. "Best keep Lotta away when Buffy kicks my ass or things could turn ugly."

"She is protective of you?" He glances again at the sleeping girl, glad that Spike's new consort seems so far unaffected by the malaise that has incapacitated so many of the new slayers.

Spike’s chuckle is wry and affectionate. "Could say that. Couple of months back, a gang of humans jumped me while I was a little bit the worse for wear - you know what Cachaca can be like – anyway, these gits were having a rare old time of it kicking yours truly unconscious until my angel turned up and broke every one of their legs." He laughs at the memory. "Didn’t matter to her that they were human: something threatens me, she breaks it." He touches her face again, and Giles is reminded of the tender protectiveness he showed Dawn while Buffy was in the ground. When he looks back up, there are tears in his eyes. "Goes both ways. Nothing touches my girl."


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Chapter 6:

He is alive. She closes her eyes again and rolls the thought over in her mind. He is alive, has been alive all this time, and no one thought to tell her. Angel has already felt the lash of her tongue and when she sees Andrew she's going to throttle the little nerd. He is alive, and no one thought to tell her. He didn’t tell her.

Angel has told her as best he can the reasoning behind the decision, but Spike's rather dubious reasoning, retold through Angel's grudging respect for him, is difficult to follow and she finds herself, yet again, angry with her lover. It is not as if Angel were ever concerned with Spike's wishes. If he did not tell her it is because he has his own motivations, but then that much is obvious. She sent him away hours ago, telling him that she needed time to think. His hangdog look and pleading, repentant eyes had been making her just about angry enough to do physical harm, and his reasoning that all had turned out for the best had played on her already jangling nerves. So she had sent him away and sat alone with her circling thoughts. He is alive, and no one thought to tell her.

There are other things for her to consider—slayers are sick; some are even dead or dying. Yet she finds her mind returns always to that one single thought: he is alive.

And he is coming here. He is on a plane, flying over Mexico, due to land in LA in less than two hours. Giles is bringing him here, with a slayer. He had told her there were stories of a rogue slayer operating out of the Brazilian rain forest with her vampire consort. A vampire described as having bleach blonde hair and a black leather trench coat. Only then had Andrew and Angel spilled their closely guarded secret.

He is coming here, he and his slayer. She doesn’t know if, when she sees him, she will kiss him or punch him, whether joy at his return will outweigh anger at his betrayal. She tries to understand his motivation, if not his reasoning, and on this point Angel was clear: he did it for her, because he wanted her to be happy. So perhaps she will not beat him too badly, but that is yet to be seen. Perhaps it will depend on this slayer of his.

A slayer. Her replacement, she thinks bitterly; another slayer in his bed. She is certain she will despise the girl. She pictures the rogue as a Hispanic Faith with dubious morals and overt sexuality. She knows she is jealous, that she is letting envy make her bitter and distrustful. But she never claimed to be perfect and perhaps jealousy is a fault of hers.

Spike is not hers, she reminds herself, has not been hers for many years, and he has every right to find what happiness he can. But still she feels the bitter twist of jealousy that he could find that happiness with someone else, someone who isn’t her.

Angel's words come back to her, "He didn't want to make things harder for you. He figured you'd earned your happiness, that you'd earned this." He'd clutched her small hand in his two large warm ones and given her a loving smile. She had fought the impulse to pull her hand away but had not been able to return the smile, and the look of hurt on his face had left her feeling uncomfortably guilty.

She plays the scene of their reunion over in her mind. Perhaps he will smile at her, that tentative half smile that he always gives her when he is unsure of himself. She might smile back, and he will relax and flash her that dazzling, genuine. smile that she has so rarely seen.

Or maybe he will come here penitent and contrite apologising for lying to her and she, enraged, will land a solid punch on his nose before throwing herself into the welcome of his cool embrace.

She works the scene over and over. She is director of her imagination, tweaking and perfecting each scene on the stage of her mind until each one is in its own way perfect and even she cannot decide which she prefers. She creates scenarios that are angry and violent, or sweet and tearful; she imagines meetings that are resigned and regretfully sad, others that are, despite herself, passionate.

She takes a deep breath and stands. It is time to join the others downstairs and await their arrival. He is alive, and he will be here soon.



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Chapter 7:

.......................

It is good to see everyone together; it has been so very long since they spent any serious time together, spread thin as they are across the globe, chasing down slayers. At her side, Kennedy sips water incessantly and she finds she must fight down the rising panic that threatens to overtake her. Dehydration is only the first stage, a very early symptom, and Kennedy is strong. They have plenty of time.

She distracts herself by letting her eyes wander around the room studying old friends and, she amends when she sees Faith leaning casually against the door frame, enemies. Faith looks good, with Principal Wood at her side. She has put on weight, but she carries it well and some of the defensive tension is gone from her body.

Xander is here, too, and her heart aches a little for him, for the sadness that even two years later still haunts his one eye, despite his efforts to hide it behind flippant comments and corny jokes, although these days even those are fewer than they once were, and there is a bitterness to him that she doubts time will ever completely erase.

Dawn is also here, taking a year out before university. She is dedicating herself to helping Giles with the running of the new council and the study of demon languages. She is quite the lady now, elegant and composed, with an unassuming confidence born of surviving Sunnydale. She hands Kennedy a third glass of water and gives the quiet slayer a small smile, which her girlfriend returns with an appreciative one of her own. Kennedy is so different now, matured and humbled by two years of active service and the attendant spectre of death at her shoulder. She is quiet and pensive, and reserves judgement where once she was first to condemn and disparage the efforts of others; she has grown into a better person, a person she can love without reservation.

Dawn glances nervously across the room and Willow follows her gaze to the slayer. Strange how in a world full of slayers, only Buffy is called “the” slayer. She is nervous, pacing the room like a caged tiger, glancing repeatedly at her watch. Willow understands her tension. Giles will be here any moment, and, moreover, so will Spike. She finds herself smiling at the thought and shakes her head; trust Spike not to stay dead.

Angel watches his girlfriend's agitation intently. He wears a deep frown that Willow has not seen from him since he arrived in Rome over a year ago, human and smiling in the bright sunshine. She had been visiting Buffy when he arrived and had considered herself privileged to witness the touching reunion of the star-crossed soulmates. They have been a picture perfect couple ever since, and she hopes for both their sakes that Spike's return will not disrupt their equilibrium.

The sound of an engine and the slamming of car doors announces the arrival of Giles and his party, and the room tenses palpably with expectation. A glance at her best friend shows her to be frozen in place, retreated into the corner and staring in terrified expectation at the door. Angel is at her side offering support, but Willow doubts that she is even aware of his presence, so focused is she on the impassive wood.

The door opens to reveal an extremely tired-looking Giles, dark eyed and rumpled from travel. He acknowledges the welcoming committee with a polite nod and steps aside to allow the other to trail in behind him.

Spike looks the same—of course he looks the same: hello, vampire—but somehow she is still surprised. She had expected him to have changed as they have all changed, to be different, to be older. For a moment he looks surprised by the gathering of familiar faces in the foyer of the old hotel that acts as the slayer training facility for North America, but he covers quickly, scanning the room with an amused smirk.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, "if it isn’t the old gang, all turned out to welcome little old me."

For a moment silence reigns, as if no one can quite think of a response to that. It is Dawn who reacts first. She is a woman now, but confronted with the reality of her surrogate big brother and one-time teen crush, she regresses and lets out a shrill, excited squeal as she launches herself across the room and into his arms. He gathers her up and pulls her in close, and Willow is struck by the blissful expression of adoration on his face as he closes his eyes and breathes in the young woman's familiar scent.

After a few moments they pull apart slightly, and he tucks a strand of her now shoulder length hair behind her ear. "Missed you, nibblet," he tells her in a low, sincere voice that Willow can only just catch. Tears spring up in Dawn's blue eyes and she bites her lip and tries to smile; a nod of her head is all she can manage to tell him she returns the sentiment, before she buries herself once again in his embrace.

"Hello, Spike." Willow adds her own greeting. "Good to see you're not so much with the dead anymore."

"What's with that, blondie?" Faith asks, her voice friendly and teasing. "Shoulda come clean on that. Figure we all owe you a drink. Kinda a thank you for saving all our asses."

"Well, if you’re buying, pet..." He flashes her a cheeky grin before turning to the redhead. "Hey, Red."

Dawn steps away from him and places her hands on her hips to regard him with haughty reproach. "Be grateful I'm just glad you're alive, 'cos otherwise I'd be so pissed that you never told us."

"I'm sorry, bit." His apology is sincere, his eyes conveying the depth of his regret. "I had my reasons."

"I know," she answers with gentle understanding, and Willow is once again struck by how much she has matured in the last two years.

Free from Dawn's embrace, Spike is finally able to turn to the girl who has consumed his senses since he stepped into the room. She has retreated further into the corner, watching him with rabbity eyes. They stare at each other for the longest time and Willow has all but given up on either of them being able to form a greeting when Buffy finally speaks. "Spike?" His name is a breathy question on her lips and the already impossibly heavy atmosphere thickens around them. Spike's face is a picture of stunned terror, eyes wide and wary, lips slightly parted as if he wishes to speak but words will not form.

He takes a step back, ready to bolt, and the onlookers hold their collective breath in anticipation. But suddenly there is a girl at his side, dark and voluptuous, with long, slender limbs and waves of dark, cascading curls. She has large and rich brown eyes and full-bowed lips and Willow knows she does not have to be gay to recognise that this girl is beautiful. Her hand comes to rest in the dip of Spike's lower back in a gesture that has everything to do with support and nothing whatsoever to do with possession, and Willow decides instantly that she likes this girl.

The vampire straightens, drawing strength from the contact and manages a glimmer of a smile. "Hello, Buffy."

For a moment it looks as if Buffy will speak again, then her hand flies to cover her mouth in a futile attempt to contain the loud, broken sob that erupts from her. Then she is gone, fleeing the scene with Angel in hot pursuit and Dawn's voice ringing out through the hall: "Buffy!"


............................
 

Chapter 8:

.................................

"Just give me a minute, Angel. I'll be right down." She struggles to keep her voice even; she can't talk to anyone right now, least of all him. The cold water she splashes on her tear-streaked face does little to remedy the redness of her eyes, and she frowns accusingly at her pale, blotchy reflection. Typical that she's doing a fair impression of a bloated, washed-up corpse just when Spike turns up with Miss South America 2005.

Another soft knock on the door and her temper snaps. It's unusual and it surprises her. She and Angel so rarely argue, so rarely even snap at one another. "For God's sake, Angel, I said I'd be down in a minute," she barks, voice frustrated and angry. Why won't he let it go? It's not like him to push.

"No problem, pet. You take your time." She jumps in surprise and is wrenching open the door before she even has time think about her actions.

He stumbles, grasping the doorframe to keep from falling on her, and she can't help but smirk at his inelegant floundering. What kind of moron leans against a door he just knocked on? His grin is a little embarrassed as he finds his balance. "'Lo, pet. Can we talk?"

She considers his request for a moment. She'd hoped to put off the inevitable conversation for a little longer, but she knows she'll have to face him soon, so she steps back and waves him inside. He flashes the small lopsided smile that she pictured so many times in her mind’s eye as she anticipated their reunion. And it is so very vulnerable, so hopeful and so very much his own that she is compelled to return it.

They study each other for a long moment. He looks the same; it's comforting. To know that despite the lies and the separation, despite the pages of painful history they have written between them, he remains the one constant in the unpredictable course of her life. He breaks the silence with and awkward apology. "I guess 'sorry' isn't gonna cut it then?" he asks sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, glancing up at her through his lashes.

"Not really," she agrees, crossing her arms and fixing him with a accusing look that demands explanations she has no intention of accepting.

"You wanna kick my ass?" He is only half joking, but he makes the suggestion with a boyish hopefulness that makes her smile despite herself.

"If I did, you'd deserve it. You know that, right?" Her unladylike snort makes him grin, but it is gone in a moment and his eyes are soft and sincere again.

"I know," he begins tentatively. "But you get it, right? You get why I did it?" He is so vulnerable at this moment, so apprehensive, that all she can do is nod, because his eyes tell her what Angel's confused explanation could not. That his betrayal was an act of love. He begs forgiveness and understanding with his eyes and she finds she is incapable of withholding either from him now.

"I get it," she assures him, and the relief on his face is worth the slight dishonesty. "I don't like it, but I get it." And perhaps she is starting to.

He breathes a sigh of relief and seems to decide an attempt to lighten the mood is in order. "So, trouble in paradise?" he asks with a devilish smirk. "You and the big poof scrapping like cats and dogs?"

She rolls her eyes and smiles - happy to be slipping into the easy familiarity of their banter - and gives the expected response. "Hardly," she tells him with a haughty toss of her head. "Paradise is trouble free and perfect, as always."

He softens again and she feels herself thrown by his pendulous moods. "I'm glad," he tells her, and his eyes sparkle with gentle affection. "I always was, in theory like, but I gotta admit it's a surprise to see it works in practice." He gives her another wicked grin. "You've still got the worst taste in men, slayer, but I'm happy that you’re happy."

She feels her smile begin to fade and fights to hold it in place, keeping her tone light and friendly as she replies. "And you?" she eyes him speculatively. "You happy? Your slayer's a very pretty girl."

"Yeah." His expression is distant and affectionate as he thinks of the other woman.

Jealousy rises, sour and unwelcome, its cold fingers twisting in her gut and she feels her smile turn brittle and hopes her eyes do not betray the bitter turn of her thoughts.

"Carlotta's an angel. Don't know where I'd be without her."

"Well, then, I'm happy." Her face is beginning to hurt from the effort of smiling, but she tilts her head and holds fast to the façade. "That you’re happy."

His laughter is bright and genuine and the sound washes over her like a warm relaxing wave. "Well, isn’t this nice?" he drawls sarcastically, humour dancing in his eyes.

She laughs, too, at the ridiculousness that they should be having this conversation. "Yeah, go us with the mature well-wishing."

He grins back, and for a moment there is no tension between them. It is as if years have not passed, as if all those hurts had not been conceived and borne.

"You ready to come down, then?” he asks with a tilt of his head. “Watcher’s about to give us the skinny on this slayer disease." Worry clouds his expression and she feels for him.

"Right. Go on. I'll be right there."



...................................

 

Chapter 9:

..........

"You okay?" Her voice startles her pensive friend and she gives the edgy slayer an apologetic smile as she steps more fully into the room.

"Fine, yeah, just catching up with Spike. You know, making with the talking, no big, just talking is all." Buffy is edgy, the rambling and poor sentence structure a giveaway. Willow sits beside the slayer and silently invites her to share.

"I'm fine, Will. It's just kinda intense seeing him again, that's all."

The broad grin plastered on her friend’s face doesn’t fool her for a second and she raises and eyebrow and waits. She has long since realised that Buffy can withstand almost any amount of questioning; her defenses are impenetrable to the most persistent and perspicacious of probing. But faced with a knowing expression and an expectant silence, the slayer will break within minutes.

"Stop that," Buffy huffs irritably, but she can sense that the slayer is weakening, so she holds her tongue and waits for the inevitable cave in.

"It's nothing, really. He' s alive and that's a good thing. I mean, sure, I'm still kinda pissed that no one told me, and Angel is still totally in the dog house, but it's good and I'm glad to see him." There is more to come and she has become proficient enough in reading the slayer’s mood to know exactly when to prompt and when to wait, when to push and when to back off.

"But?" An invitation.

"No, it's great. I mean, he was being nice—really nice—even about Angel. Which is actually kinda disturbing. He's happy for me and I'm happy for him. Everybody's happy." She is breaking and all Willow can do is let her shatter and be there afterwards to help her reassemble herself. Tears spill over in Buffy's pained green eyes as she looks imploringly at her friend, eyes filled with questions she knows Willow doesn't have the answers to and yet she is compelled to ask anyway. "So if he's happy and I'm happy, why does it just hurt so much?"

"Oh, Buffy." It has been such a very long time since she last saw her friend so forlorn, since she last felt so helpless in the face of Buffy's pain.

"I don’t understand." Buffy's confusion is almost pitiful. "I have everything I ever wanted. I have Angel—human, for Christ’s sake." Tears are flowing freely now, pouring unchecked down her pretty face. "But it hurts so much. I see him again and I just ache."

All she can do is place a comforting hand on her friend’s back as Buffy scrubs at her face with rough, jerky movements and gives a brittle, embarrassed laugh. "God, I'm sorry. Look at me being stupid and self absorbed again, when you have Kennedy to worry about."

"Kennedy'll be fine," she dismisses abruptly. She cannot for a single moment lose faith in the conviction that her girlfriend will be okay. Thankfully, Buffy seems to realise that she is not ready to talk about it and makes a clumsy attempt to lighten the mood.

"So, do I look okay?" She gestures at her blotchy, tear-stained face with a rueful smile.

"Oh, lovely." Willow gives her a wry grin. "But perhaps just a little cold water. Why are you bothered anyway?"

"I'm not." At her knowing raised eyebrow, the slayer rolls her eyes and looks away. "Okay, okay. Just don't want to look a complete wreck in front of Sluttetta."

She can't help but laugh at the juvenile name calling. "Its Carlotta, as you well know." Her friend’s disgruntled huff prompts her to tease. "She is very beautiful, isn’t she?"

"Huh." Buffy makes a disparaging noise as they exit the room. "Can you say obvious? She's probably a real bitch, too. She looked bossy to me; did she look bossy to you?"

Buffy looks hopeful, wide-eyed and childlike, but she just shakes her head and smiles indulgently. "Actually, when she said hello she seemed really nice."

"Hmm." A good-natured grumble. "Fine, take her side, but don't expect me to like her."

........


Chapter 10:

.......................................

She is watching him. Oh, she tries to hide it, pretends that she is listening to her watcher as he calls the meeting to order and makes the necessary introductions, but her gaze flickers always back to him. When Giles introduces the Hispanic beauty sitting comfortably between his spread legs, she has an excuse to openly study the couple and her eyes trail over the girl appraisingly. Does she think of this woman as a rival? No, he is being foolish. He is being irrationally insecure. Buffy has no reason to contend with Carlotta.

He chastises himself for such folly. He has, after all, no call to be worried. Buffy is, and always has been, undeniably his girl. Her brief liaison with Spike was nothing more than an unhappy fling, a tainted comfort in a desperate time. His Buffy, his bright, beautiful, shining Buffy did not love the vampire. Spike himself had told him as much when they had forged their strange and tentative friendship in LA. Yet there is something about seeing Spike that disturbs him. He sees in the other’s graceful feline movements and easy confidence, in the predatory intensity of his gaze, something that he himself has lost. Something that has been exchanged for a beating heart and endless summer days spent lying beside her on hot Californian beaches. Something dark and compelling and, even he must admit, attractive.

He drags his attention back to the watcher. This is important. Slayers are dying; a nameless, creeping malaise is affecting almost all the girls. An incurable illness that spans around three months and, as Giles describes, five distinct stages.

Stage one: Dehydration and a reddening of the eyes and gums. Stage two: Headaches and an itching red rash across the arms and torso. Stage three: Loss of appetite, light-headedness and fainting. Stage four: Blistering of the skin, severe pain and vomiting. Stage five: Coma.

No one talks about what comes next, not with Kennedy and Carlotta in the room. They have lost four girls and nine are in a critical condition. Hundreds more are exhibiting symptoms of the later stages of what they are calling the “disease” for want of a more accurate description. And all slayers, barring what they have categorised as “the immunes,” and it seems Carlotta, are showing the early warning signs of “infection.”

The immunes—a handful of slayers immune to the ravages of this disease. Girls fitting a distinct age profile. It does not take a genius to come to the conclusion they have reached: that these girls are the true slayers, the potentials that would have been called had Willow not cheated destiny through the power of the scythe. Well, it seems destiny isn't taking it lying down.

Carlotta does not fit the profile. She is too old, was seventeen when Willow performed the changing spell, too old already at that time to replace Buffy or Faith. Try as they might to fit her into the pattern of the immunes’ age profile, she remains a square peg, refusing to slot into that particular round hole.

"So, say Carlotta isn't immune." Buffy is taking charge. She is at this moment truly the slayer and he feels the distance between them stretch until he fears that their bond will break. He knows that it will not, for she always manages to come back to him with perfect elasticity. "Then perhaps there's another reason why she's not displaying symptoms. I don't know something that's holding off the disease."

"Oh, like diet or climate." Willow's usual enthusiasm for research has been sharpened to almost hysterical levels by her girlfriend’s condition.

"Yes, quite," Giles agrees. "If we could identify what is preventing Carlotta from exhibiting symptoms, we could perhaps begin to better understand the nature of the disease. Although I must admit feeling quite out of my depth in this medical milieu."

"But it's not medical, is it?" Kennedy's voice is calm and assured. People listen now when she speaks; she only speaks when she has something to say. He didn't know her as a potential in Sunnydale, but he has been told she was little more than a brat. Now she is a slayer and her words carry weight. "It's mystical."

A glance at Buffy shows that she is looking at him again, watching him run his hands up Carlotta's bare arms and place a comforting kiss on her shoulder. Understanding blossoms on her face and he recognises the instant that realisation hits, a moment of intuitive perception that she would claim was the instinct of her calling but that he believes is of Buffy herself.

"It's the blood," she whispers, little more than a breath, a contemplative murmur that barely disturbs the air. And yet the room stills, waiting for her to continue. She glances around urgently, making eye contact with the key players: Willow, Xander, Spike, Faith and eventually Giles. "It's the blood," she repeats more firmly.

A moment’s pause and she continues, excited by her discovery, emphatic in the certainty that she is right. "It's something to do with the blood. I don't know, like there's too much power in it and their bodies can't handle it. It's the blood, Giles, I know it is."

And even after all these years, he questions her certainty, learning and logic still regnant over instinct in his scholarly mind. "An interesting theory, but why do you believe it's the blood?"

"Oh, I know this." Dawn raises her hand like an excited child. "Because it's always the blood." She looks at the vampire as she speaks, clearly pleased with herself, and he smirks affectionately at her.

"Be that as it may." Giles’s voice is stern as he attempts to maintain order. "It's hardly proof. And it does not explain why Carlotta appears unaffected. Perha—"

"No, it does." He should know better by now than to question her when she is this certain. "It explains it exactly." She holds her watcher’s gaze before turning to the vampire. "It's because she's anaemic. Isn't she, Spike?"

Spike’s jaw twitches and he meets her eyes determinedly. Something passes between them, some secret communication that he is not privy to, and she gives a barely perceptible nod.

"Really, Buffy, how can you possibly know that?" Giles’s exasperated voice is cut off when Carlotta stands, head held proudly as she answers the question with a defiant flick of her hair. The dark waves fall back off her shoulder as she tilts her head and exposes the still-pink bite marks that mar the slender column of her throat.

………………….

"Spike, you sick fuck." Xander's disgusted voice shatters the stunned silence of the room; the Brazilian slayer’s eyes narrow and her body tenses as if ready to attack. Buffy fears for a moment that she will have to intercept the young slayer, when Spike appears at her back, one hand wrapping around her hip in gentle restraint, the other skimming over the mocha skin of her bare arm. The girl relaxes visibly and her own hand reaches up to cup his face over her shoulder.

"Finally got yourself a little slayer chew toy, eh?" His face is contorted in a loatheful sneer and she can barely recognise her friend at all. "So this was your sick little wet dream all that time you were macking on Buffy, making out like you loved her." He spits the word “loved” out as if it where rotten flesh in his mouth.

"Xander." She tries to intervene. Spike’s expression is for the moment passive and he has yet to respond, but she knows him well enough to know there is only so much he will take for harmony’s sake; moreover, the slayer in his arms is bristling with barely-contained rage. He whispers something in her ear and she relaxes a little, but she fears it is only a brief respite; she needs to calm Xander down and quickly. "Xander, that's enough."

The young man's malicious gaze lands on her now and disgust drips from his eyes. He snorts and she feels his contempt burning through her skin. "And even now you defend him, still thinking that this worthless piece of shit is actually worth something." It’s an accusation. He is bitter and hateful and betrayed, and she cannot understand it. Why now? Why suddenly now does his latent hatred of the vampire boil over into vicious malignity? It is more than a few fading bite marks on a stranger's neck, but she cannot tell and right now she doesn't care. That after all this time and everything that has happened, he can still speak this way to and about Spike angers her to the point of violence.

"I said that's enough, Xander." Her voice is pure threat before it breaks to emotional disbelieve. "God, what is wrong with you?"

He gives her one last accusing look before turning his eyes, seething with hatred, to regard Spike with disdain. "You're not worth it." And he is gone, stalking towards the door.

"Xander!" she calls angrily after him, but he ignores her and her voice collides only with the slamming door.

"Let him be, Slayer." Spike's voice is full of compassionate understanding and his eyes full of pity as he watches the now closed door. "The boy's just angry is all."

"Angry!" She doesn't understand, and she turns her frustrated anger on the vampire. "What right does he have to be angry with you now?"

A sad smile touches his lips and he pulls the girl in his arms close. Immediately she recognises the symbolism of the embrace. He is anchoring himself, grasping tightly to the life that this girl represents. "I'm alive, ain't I?"

She doesn't understand. Xander knows what Spike did for them, what he sacrificed. Knows it is not the vampire's fault that he has been resurrected. Why even after all that happened in the hellmouth… In the hellmouth. She screws her eyes closed as she completes the vampire's sentence: "And she's not."

He is looking at her when her eyes slide reluctantly open and she feels so close to him; across the painful atmosphere of the silent meeting room, despite the beautiful young slayer cradled against his chest and Angel's large hand stroking her shoulder in a gesture of comfort and support, she feels close to him.

In this moment of painful understanding and the bitter realisation that her best friend is still so utterly broken, the only comfort she can find is in the blueness of his eyes. And so she stares, she loses herself in the familiar solace of him and stares into his cobalt eyes until the ache in her chest dims and she can manage a tight smile and a tiny nod. Then it is back to business.


................................

 

Chapter 11:

................................

He watches Carlotta and Dawn doing a fair impression of a house on fire and smiles broadly at the pair. He's been hoping they'd get on; Dawn is one of the few people left that he counts as family. He once counted Angel in that exclusive and unfortunate club, but in the three days he has spent at the slayer training centre his grandsire has been distant to the point of rudeness. Spike had sought him out two nights ago and had invited him to share a drink. He'd hoped they could catch up, that Angel would be able to tell him about Buffy.

Angel had turned him down without explanation and walked away. Ungrateful bastard. Not that Angel even knew how much he owed Spike—the sacrifice he’d made in that dingy LA basement room on the eve of a suicidal face-off with the Wolf, Ram and Hart. But it still hurts, more than he wants to admit. He had thought that during that year in LA they’d managed to hastily reconstruct the rickety bridges between them. They had been, after all, two creatures unique in the world. He had believed he had finally won the long-craved respect of his grandsire.

But it seems here those times meant nothing. Here, instinct holds sway, and Angel's infant humanity recognises Spike for what he is: threat, predator, enemy, and even two centuries of knowledge cannot temper the intensity of his mistrust.

The girls laugh as Dawn manages a new personal best of five keepy-ups. Carlotta looks stunning in her bright yellow Brazilian footy shirt, stone washed jeans and bare feet as she rolls the football under her foot and flicks it into the air with practiced grace. Showboating for Dawn's benefit, she bounces the leather sphere off her forehead and knees before catching it on the back of her neck, David Beckham style.

Dawn laughs and claps and Carlotta grins proudly. He had forgotten that they are roughly the same age; that despite her timeless wisdom and luscious curves Lotta is still so very much a child.

"Showing off again, girl?" he drawls, and Carlotta flicks the Vs in his direction with a grin. He taught her that. He likes the two-fingered salute much better than what the Americans call “the bird.” Bloody daft name if you ask him anyway.

She kicks the ball in his direction and he controls it easily. They have played this game often in the cramped space of their rooms in the modest jungle lodge, a simple competition—who can keep the ball in the air for longest—but made more interesting by the others lewd attempts at distraction.

A few beats and he headers the ball to Dawn, who catches it gracelessly and drops it onto her knee, her face a study of concentration as she begins to bounce the ball.

"Soccer?" Her voice startles him. He hadn't even sensed her approach, so wrapped up had he been in watching his girls at play.

Distracted, Dawn loses control of the ball and frowns accusingly at her sister. "It's football," she corrects irritably. "They were playing this long before American football was invented."

Buffy turns amused, incredulous eyes on him. "What are you doing to my sister?" He bites his lip and gives her his best penitent school boy look, complete with innocent blink, and her mouth quirks as she attempts to hold a stern expression.

"I was about to sneak out for patrol. Giles is distracted with his books. and I think I can get past him and Angel without the usual lectures," she tells them, and his ears prick. After three days stuck in the hotel without a decent spot of violence, patrol sounds fantastic. "You two wanna tag along? Bit of unsanctioned patrolling?"

He turns to see twin looks of disappointment on Dawn’s and Carlotta's faces. Dawn sticks out her lower lips and Lotta blinks her big brown eyes at him and pouts, "Dawn has rented ‘My Best Friend’s Wedding’ and she was going to straighten my hair."

"Sounds like a thrilling evening, pet. Wish I could stay and play, but I better watch the slayer’s back. Wouldn't want any nasties taking a bite outta her," he says as he backs away from the awful prospect of girly night in. It is one of his most closely-guarded secrets that Dawn has more than once trapped him into letting her paint his nails.

Buffy, vindictive little minx that she is, grins at him with malicious playfulness as she steps away. "Oh no, Spike, I couldn't drag you away. Why don't you stay? Your nails need doing anyway." She waves him away casually. "It's no big, I usually patrol alone anyway. Vamp activity’s way down these days. You stay; have fun."

"No no, slayer. Can't be too careful, not with all these slayers out of action. I better come along. Sorry, girls, you'll have to manage without me tonight." The three of them are wearing matching expressions of amused mockery, but merciful angels that they are, they let it go.

Dawn, may God bless her, takes pity on him. "Oh wow, you have got to see the weapons room in this place!" She runs towards him excitedly and grabs his hand. "You two wait here," she tells the suddenly uneasy-looking slayers. "We'll be back in a minute."

Carlotta gives him a panicked look at the prospect of being alone with Buffy, and the blonde looks no more comfortable with the suggestion, but Dawn is tugging on his hand and he can see no way out. Besides, they'll have to talk sooner or later. "Will you be okay? Do you want me to stay?" he asks clumsily in her native tongue.

She seems to relax a little at his concern and gives him a mock exasperated look. "It's fine," she insists. "Just go." And as an afterthought as he leaves, she shouts after him: "and stop butchering my language!"

……………………….

She can do this. She can have a civilised conversation with Spike's girlfriend for a few minutes. She just has to break the ice, say something to end the awkward silence. "So, Spike's Spanish not too hot, then?"

Carlotta gives her an amused look, perfect eyebrow arched, full sensuous lips quirking upwards. Why the hell couldn't Spike have turned up with a plain girl, or an airhead like Harmony, or even a loony like Dru? Oh no, Spike has to hook up with little Miss Perfect of Perfectville. Not only is the girl younger and prettier than she is, she's also taller, cleverer - lots of knowledge helpful in the long hours of research that have filled their days since Spike and Carlotta's arrival - and has a dry sense humour that has endeared her to everyone. Well, everyone except Buffy. There had been a point yesterday when she would have cheerfully strangled Carlotta with her own perfect hair.

She'd been ecstatic when she'd been passing Spike and Carlotta's room - which is completely reasonable as it's on the way from parts of the building to other parts of the building - and had heard the couple arguing loudly. She'd taken great pleasure in stopping for a moment to listen to Spike's exasperated, "Bloody hell, girl, what is it you want from me?" followed by the very satisfying sound of loud, agitated Spanish and breaking glass. Of course, she'd been less pleased when on her way back from other parts of the building an hour later she'd heard the unmistakable sounds of making up.

"I believe Spike's Spanish is excellent." The answer is accompanied by a small laugh that she can only interpret as condescending. "But in Brazil we speak Portuguese."

"Oh." Could she be any stupider? Hello, I'm Buffy and I'll be your moron for the evening.

The silence is long and heavy, and she is seriously considering doing a cut and run when Carlotta speaks. "I have not yet had an opportunity to tell you what an honour it is to meet you."

"Huh?" Oh, very eloquent, Buffy. Which one of you has English as a first language again?

"I have heard so much about you, many tales of your great victories." The girl's smile is softer now, and she detects a slight nervousness in it. It had not occurred to her at all that perhaps Carlotta, too, felt a sense of inferiority in her presence. As if telepathic, Carlotta continues. "I must admit to being a little, er, how would you say, intimidated in meeting you."

"Huh?" No, this won't do. Come on, Buffy, make a sentence. You can do it. "Intimidated? Of me?" Okay, not great but it's something.

Another small laugh, but not condescending. Obviously she misread that one. "Of course. You are Buffy Summers, perhaps the greatest slayer of all time, and of course the love of Spike's life."

"What? No!" Awkward, very awkward. This is not the way this conversation should be going. "No, not really. I mean, sure, he had a thing for me, or we—we had a thing, but nothing like that. More of a crush, really. Yeah, he just had a crush. All gone now."

Carlotta frowns slightly but her eyes are patient. "Buffy." She holds out a hand and shakes her head slowly. "Before I am Spike's lover, I am his friend and his confidante. He has kept no part of his life secret from me, and when he speaks of you…"

"He speaks of me?" She closes her eyes and shakes her head, annoyed at herself. "I mean, he talks about me?"

"He talks of little else." The answer is instant and unreserved, and she knows it is the truth. Spike has told Carlotta about her, about their relationship, such as it was. She wonders if he has told her everything, and is suddenly ashamed. Does this girl know about the way she treated him? The abuse, the pain she caused him. Has Spike told her what he did to her on the cold tiles of her bathroom floor?

Carlotta seems to sense her distress and lays a hand on her arm. "It was, I think, a difficult time for both of you." Isn't that just the understatement of the year? Her eyes close involuntarily against the painful memories, and Carlotta takes pity on her and changes the subject.

"Of course, he also spoke a great deal of the nibblet. I am sorry, of Dawn." She smiles affectionately, and Buffy must acknowledge that the two are quickly becoming great friends. "There are no two people more important to him in the world; it is why I encouraged him to return."

"You encouraged him…"

"All set then, pet?" Spike's voice cuts off her question and she manages to pull her attention to the vampire just in time to catch the sword he sends spinning towards her.

She shares a look with Carlotta and manages to offer a small smile before following her vampire—no, she must remember he is no longer hers; he is Carlotta's—out into the night.

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