Chapter One - Go West Young Man

It had looked rather innocuous—but then didn’t all time-altering, life-buggering talismans? A coin. Gold, roughly hewn, and etched with a symbol; an intricate knot. Spike had recognized it as Chinese, most likely Ming or Oing Dynasty. It had arrived in a shipment of fertility statues ordered from an antiquities dealer in Beijing. Oddly enough, all the statues turned out to be of pigs. Who knew that in China the pig was a symbol of virility? But that didn’t explain the coin found in the bottom of the shipping crate. It appeared to have been wrapped hastily in some stained linens and shoved in among the other items.

No one wanted to look a gift horse--or pig, as the case may be--in the mouth, but before adding the coin to the Magic Box’s inventory they all thought it best to figure out what it was and where it had come from. The dealer was called—over much protest from Anya who was sure they were going to have to end up paying for it—and Willow was doing research on the knot symbol.

That was about the time all Hell began to break loose.

Who would have thought plans for a simple night out at the movies could go so wrong? Spike wandered into the Magic Box just as the discussion began to heat up. The Scoobies were all gathered around the table in the rear of the store, Willow on her computer; and the rest lounging about pretending to peruse various dusty ancient texts. Xander was demanding no chick-flicks and pushing for Meet the Parents. The look of horror on Willow’s face nixed that idea immediately. Then, she suggested something sci-fi. Dawn was adamant about it being PG-13, figuring that would at least put Charlie’s Angels in the running. Buffy didn’t seem to care at all, as usual.

The vampire tromped over and jumped up to sit on the glass counter, his duster fanning out around him. He watched the foursome for a while, his feet swinging and hitting the front of the counter just loud enough to be a disturbance, wondering how long it would take for them to notice him. As a thought occurred, his eyes shifted slowly to the right. Nonchalantly, he leaned back and reached over to try something he’d seen the vengeance demon do dozens of times before. As the drawer to the cash register slid open, the vampire smirked, then glanced back to make sure the entertainment debate was still raging. Nimble fingers freed several bills of various denominations before the drawer was stealthily shut. Spike quickly pocketed the money and moved to pull his cigarettes from the pocket of his duster. His lighter flared briefly, and he inhaled deeply—the nicotine immediately infusing his tissues with the nice little buzz he so enjoyed.

Vampiric hearing being what it is, it didn’t take long for their continued bickering to crawl up Spike’s last nerve and take a knife to it. His shrill, two fingered whistle finally drew their attention.

“Do a bloke a favor, eh? Take it down a decibel or two?” He jumped from the counter, and sauntered over to the table.

Xander tossed a scow in his direction but continued. “I’m just saying that if I have to sit through another When Harry Met Sally wannabe, my brain is going to turn to mush.”

“To late to mind that,” the vampire grinned impishly, pulling a chair out from beside Willow and sprawling into it, legs extended, cigarette hanging from between his lips.

Willow grabbed the cigarette and extinguished it into a half-empty plastic soda bottle before Spike could object.

“Hey,” Dawn grabbed at the now fizzing Mountain Dew. “I wasn’t finished with that yet!”

Willow ignored her whining. “No smoking,” the Witch said, never looking up from the computer. “Doesn’t look like there’s anything showing that we can all agree on. Guess that does it for tonight’s plans.”

At the group grumbling that ensued, Spike shook his head in disgust. “You gits ever hear of videos? This new fangled thing, lets you watch movies at home. Heard it’s quite the rage.”

Buffy looked up from her cuticles, noticing Spike for what appeared to be the first time. “He’s right—”

The vampire’s sharp intake of breath cut off her words. “Did I hear that right? Be still my poundin’ heart—oh, wait,” he smirked over at the Slayer, who sat directly across from him. “Nevermind.”

Narrowing her eyes him, Buffy glowered. “Shut up, Spike.”

“Play me a new tune, Slayer,” he snarked back.

Buffy pointedly ignored the vampire, turning to look at Willow. “Why don’t we just rent a video? I’m sure Mom wouldn’t mind if we used the living room. Sodas, popcorn, and other salty goodness supplied on the house.”

Willow glanced up at her friend. “I don’t know, Buffy. Maybe it’s for the best. I really need to get some research done on this.” Her fingers left the keyboard of her iBook to pick up the coin.

Dawn dropped her head to Willow’s shoulder, peering over like a puppy looking for a scratch behind the ear. “It can’t wait one night?”

Xander joined Team Cajole. “Yeah, come on Wils. A night of cinematic action and adventure, surrounded by your nearest and dearest. Bondage. Of the friendly, non-sexual variety. Innocent. Innocent, friendly bondage.”

With a sigh, the redhead placed the coin back on the table and then closed the lid of her laptop. “Fine. You win. I give. Research tomorrow, for tonight we bond. But—” she leveled a finger at Xander. “No action and adventure. We see enough of that in good old Sunnydale.”

“How 'bout a Western?” Spike was flicking his Zippo lighter open and closed and didn’t look up as he spoke.

“A Western?” Dawn scrunched her forehead. “You mean like City Slickers?”

“No, Bit,” Spike dropped the lighter back into the pocket of his duster and reached over to pluck the coin from the table, his fingers working over its rough surface. “I mean a real Western. With gunslingers and cowboys and—” He stopped, watching as Buffy leaned over and whispered something into Willow’s ear and the women burst out laughing. “You got somethin’ you want to share with the class, Slayer?”

“Nothing, Spike,” she snorted in a rather unladylike fashion. “I was just wondering what you knew about Westerns. The only thing I’ve ever seen you watch was that stupid soap.”

“Not stupid. In fact, award winnin’, but beside that fact, I happen to be a fan of Westerns.” He glared over at Buffy, tossing the coin back and forth from hand to hand. “Of history in general, actually, and the American Old West in particular.”

“Oh, please,” she snorted, standing up to gather her purse and coat from the chair back. “What do you know about the Old West?”

“More than you, I venture to say,” Spike stepped toward her. He fisted the coin, then pointed his index finger at the Slayer, poking her sharply in the shoulder to make his point. “Nothing you couldn’ get from any history book, Slayer. But then, don’t expect you to understand that. Would require you readin’.”

Buffy slapped his finger aside, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “I read! Stupid vampire.” she mumbled, moving to walk around him. “You love it so much, why don’t you go live there? Get the hell away from me. How about Texas or, or … Oklahoma? That Old West enough for you?”

As she pushed past him, he caught her lightly by the arm, treading carefully lest he make his chip fire, and turned her towards him. “That would be the thing, Slayer. Nothin’ more I’d love than to be rid of this town. And back in the Old West, when things were a hell of a lot more simple. Yeah, I’d love that. Could show you a thing or two if we lived back then. Put you in your place good 'n solid. Back when men were men and women . . . weren’t. Wish we was back there this very instant, then I’d—”

And suddenly there was no more. No more floor to stand upon. No more Magic Box. No more light. Just darkness so deep it felt like being smothered in velvet. Spike could still feel his fingers wrapped around Buffy’s arm, but he couldn’t see her or any of the others. There was just a feeling of twirling and spinning and then, in an instant, lightening pain that streaked from where his fingertips touched her skin, up his arm, radiating throughout his body. Pain that made the chip seem like a tickle.

There was a sharp crack, like the sound of a bull whip, and Spike was once again on solid ground. Only outside. He had to be outside. It was raining. Hard. Beating down on him, plastering his hair to his head, and sluicing down his face.

He opened his eyes to find Buffy still standing before him, his hand clutching her arm, and her eyes wide as saucers as they stared up into his.

She reached out a tentative finger and ran it along the sleeve of his duster. It was coarse and rough. Gone was the butter soft, well worn leather. In its place was stiff denim, covered with some oily substance that made the rain bead on it, rather than soak in. It was still worn, old, and beaten, but now looked to have been hastily patched and darned in areas around the cuffs and hem.

“Your coat…”

“Your dress…”

They spoke simultaneously.

Buffy looked down, her eyebrows rising to disappear into her limp, water-logged bangs as she took in her own altered appearance. Her fashionable, and more than a tad bit expensive, leather pants had been replaced by a gown, sewn from some rough, homespun cotton.

Her hand fell from the vampire’s sleeve to pluck at the faded fabric of the dress. What in the hell was going on?

Before she could voice the question, Spike stumbled into her, almost knocking her to the mud-soaked ground. He grabbed her shoulders, pulling her to him, trying to keep them both on their feet. A shrill whinny and twin plumes of steamed air drew her attention to the large horse that stood behind Spike, as the creature butted his head into the vampire’s shoulder.

“Slayer,” The vampire spoke slowly. “I don’t think we’re in Sunnydale anymore.”

Chapter Two – Seldom is Heard a Discouraging Word

"What did you do?" Her words tore through the air and rose above the clap of thunder. Both were quickly followed by the flash of distant lightening.

"Me? What did I do?" Spike didn't resist as Buffy pulled herself from his grasp, struggling with the sodden weight of her long skirt.

"Yes, you. What. Did. You. Do?" She repeated, pushing the soggy strands of hair from her face. "Where are we?"

Spike's mouth snapped shut, his lips forming a tight, angry line. He breathed heavily through his nose, trying to contain his anger. When he felt that he could speak without bashing her upside the head, his voice was a snarl. "How the hell would I know where we are? Was on the same bloody teacup ride as you, wasn't I?"

Buffy shoved him hard in the chest, pushing him back into the horse who snorted in annoyance. "Tell me what you did, Spike, or so help me—"

"You two better get back to the wagons before you're washed away." The soft, gravely voice cut through the darkness, and both the vampire and slayer turned toward it.

They both stared at the man, jaws gaping. He was tall. Very tall. He towered over Spike. His shoulders were broad and they tapered down to a narrow waist. The man was dressed similar to Spike, in dark jeans and a long duster, a cowboy hat pulled down low over his forehead. The rain was still coming down hard, pooling in the crown of the hat and trickling down like a small waterfall over the brim.

“Come on, you two.” The man pulled his hat off, running a large hand through his dark, hair. “We’re getting the wagons moving at the crack of dawn and I’m going to need you ready and able to do a day’s work behind the reigns.” He slung an arm across Spike’s shoulders and looked down into the vampire’s incredulous face.

Spike chanced a look over at Buffy and found her now peering at him, looking like a drowned rat, her hair plastered to her skull, the soaked cotton of her dress clinging to her skin. It was obvious that neither one of them knew quite what to make of this turn of events. The man seemed to know them—thought they belonged here. Where ever here was.

Buffy opened her mouth to speak, and Spike narrowed his eyes her, silently pleading the slayer to follow his lead. “Right, wasn’t good of us to slip away. Sorry 'bout that.” Spike slid out from under the burly man’s arm and moved to stand next to Buffy, who was now looking at him like he’d grown two heads.

Unfortunately Spike was all too familiar with that look. They slayer didn’t know what was going on, and skating on the knife edge of her temper, she was going to blunder them both trouble by working her jaw before putting her brain in gear. It was clear that someone or something had sent them on a little spin through time and space. Better they find out exactly where and, more importantly, when they were before letting everyone in on the game.

Spike caught Buffy’s hand in his before she could speak, pulling her close to him. “Bu—She’s soaked through. Best get her back. We’ll be right along.”

The large man nodded and turned to leave. “Don’t straggle now, Wil.”

“Wil? Who—“ Buffy began.

Spike’s hand over her mouth cut off her retort. He wrapped an arm about her shoulders, bringing her flush to his chest and looked down into her flashing green eyes.

Buffy struggled against the vampire. She tried to say something, but it was muffled under Spike’s calloused palm. Finally, glaring up at him, her eyebrows drawn together in an angry line over her eyes, she stood still.

Spike wasn’t sure how he managed to keep hold of her, what with the slippery clothes and ankle deep mud they were standing in. He didn’t waste time worrying about it, however. The vampire wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Looking an angry slayer in the eye was bad enough.

Buffy grumbled again against his hand again and Spike could feel her muscles tensing for another tussle.

“Shush, now, Slayer. Be a good girl.”

His choice of words earned him a swift kick to the shins and another flurry and twisting of limbs as Buffy tried to break free of his iron grip. As her body brushed against his, he became aware of the thinness of her cotton dress and the pressure of her breasts smashed against his chest. His duster was open, flapping in the gusts of wind that carried the rain around them, and the soaked fabric of their shirts clung together.

A tingle started somewhere in the base of Spike’s spine and snaked its way up to his neck and shoulders. He could feel Buffy’s warm breath on his hand, but also the softness of her lips, the smooth curve of her cheek. He was overcome with the completely insane urge to pull his hand free and replace it with his lips. Where the thought had come from, he didn’t know. The sensation was as much of a mystery as what happened to them. It was also just as real. He knew lust when he felt it, and the sudden sensation that seemed to seep into his pores dumfounded him.

Looking down into her eyes, Spike realized Buffy had stopped struggling. “Promise to keep your mouth shut, and I’ll take my hand away,” he said, his voice husky. He’d aimed for gruff, hoping his words wouldn’t betray his body’s traitorous reaction.

Buffy’s eyes rounded, and she slowly nodded. Spike relaxed his fingers and cautiously removed his hand from over Buffy’s mouth. It hovered there, waiting to descend again if she failed to keep the bargain. She remained quiet, though, and he dropped his hand to her shoulder.

“Didn’ want Roy Rogers to figure out we don’t belong here. Thought it best if we worked this little mystery out ourselves, first, before confidin’ in any of the natives.” He still had her pulled tight to his chest, his arm wrapped about her back, the fingers of his hand curled against the curve of her waist. He told himself he should let go of her now. His body refused to cooperate. It was too busy appreciating hers.

“May I speak?” Buffy’s voice was a low, but there was a backbone of steel behind the words.

He nodded. “Keep it down. Don’t know how far we are from those wagons.”

“Right. Now, get your hands off me.” She hissed quietly.

Spike released his hold on her, sliding his arm away from her waist, dropping his hand from where it had been clutching her bicep. Buffy pulled away from him instantly, her wet bodice peeling away from his shirt with a slurping sound. Spike’s eyes flashed to her chest and found the thin material molded to her skin, clinging to the curves of her breasts. Her nipples showed clearly through the fabric and he watched as they tightened into hard peaks. His mouth grew dry and despite the rain still falling on his face, his tongue darted out, tracing the contour of his bottom lip.

Buffy followed Spike’s gaze and quickly whirled away from him, her arms coming up to cross over her breasts. After a long moment of silence she looked back at the vampire over her shoulder. “Where are we? What’s happened to us?” Her voice trembled a bit and he wasn’t sure if she was cold or scared. Probably a bit of both. He knew he was.

“Far as I can figure, we got ourselves transported.” His eyes caressed the long line of her back when she turned from him again. She looked so tiny. Buffy had always been petite – a tiny bundle of fists and foul temper – but now she just looked small and scared and he had another insane urge—to go to the slayer and comfort her. Take her in his arms and tell her that everything would be fine. That they’d find their way out of this place. Must have been some residual hocus pocus, some left over magic throwing his natural instincts for a loop. Had to have been. This was the slayer after all. She didn’t want his protection. Didn’t need it. Fact was, he was the one that would be needing protection if she got it into her hard little head that he was the cause of their current predicament.

She turned back to face him, her arms still sheltering her from his view. “Where?” She glanced to her right, then her left. “Nothing looks familiar – and these clothes—” She looked down at her dress then back to him. “We’re not just in a different place. We’re in a different time.” It wasn’t a question, but the tone seemed to beg for him to disagree with her. Prove her wrong.

“Most likely. Haven’t seen duds like these, well, not ever. At least not in person. Maybe in some old photographs. Maybe. That dress you’re wearing is hand sewn, seen enough to tell you that.” He pulled the lapels of his coat open further and looked down at his own clothes. “This isn’ my duster, not my boots either. Whatever sent us here, fixed us up to fit in, that’s for sure.”

“Well, I don’t want to fit in. I want to go home. We’ve got to find out what happened… what did this to us, and find a way back.”

“First thing we need to find is a way back to, are those wagons that fella mentioned. Don’t want a search party out lookin’ for us and havin’ to explain something we haven’ even got a clue about.” Spike turned, looking in the direction where the other man had walked off. “Best get somewhere dry, where we can sit and work this through. Not gonna find the answer out here in the dark.” The rain had finally broken and a hazy moon was beginning to show through the fast moving night clouds.

“Right,” Buffy gave a heavy sigh.

“There now, Slayer, we’ll find our way outta this.”

She shrugged, then shivered. “There’s bound to be more people back at these wagons. What do we say to them? What do we do?”

He tilted his head, watching the wind ruffle the wet strands of her hair. “We act like we belong.” He looked up and caught her eye. “‘Cause, to them, we do. Seems they know us well enough. Jus’ got to keep our mouths shut and our ears open until we suss things out.”

With a quick movement, Spike shrugged out of his duster and tossed the garment to Buffy. She caught the canvas just before it landed at her feet and hugged stiff material to her chest. Before she could say anything, Spike turned and walked towards the trail the tall man had used.

His shoulders relaxed a bit when he felt Buffy step up beside him. Watching out of the corner of his eye, he saw her slip the coat around her, holding the hem up to keep it from dragging on the ground.

He eased the smile that had begun to form to a more neutral expression. “Let’s just stick close for now, eh? ’Til we know what’s what. At least it seems that to be natural for us to be together. One thing workin’ in our favor.”

“Yeah,” Buffy huffed. “Just about the only thing. And with my luck you’ll turn out to be my brother or something.”

Spike glanced over at her. “Could always be worse.”

“I doubt it, Spike.” Buffy looked up at the stars that were now starting to break through the clearing night sky. “I think I can safely say it can’t get worse than this.”

To Be Continued

Chapter Four – Don't Squat With Your Spurs On

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Spike gaped at Buffy, open mouthed, blue eyes blinking slowly, unable to grasp the meaning of her words as they worked their way through his brain.

Heart. Beating. His. Why?

He jerked from the Buffy’s touch, falling back and scrambling away, putting distance between himself and the words that were starting to make terrifying sense. The heartbeat that until that very second he’d be unaware of, took to a gallop, until that sound pounding in his ears was all he could hear; all he could feel.

“Spike?” Buffy leaned forward, reaching one hand out to him. It was a simple gesture of concern, but it seemed to do nothing but galvanize Spike’s anxiety.

“No,” he croaked, backing further from her until the wooden boards of the wagon stopped him. He drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms about them, compressing himself into as small as space as he could. His eyes darted about the small confines of the wagon, as if searching for an avenue of escape.

Buffy watched him with growing concern. “Spike, it’s okay.” She wasn’t sure that it was, but it sounded good. Right now, he was scaring her, and she just wanted the wise-cracking, cocky vampire she knew back.

“It’s not bloody okay.” Spike’s wild eyes finally focused back on her, the intensity fairly radiating out of them. “What the fuck is happening to me?”

“I think,” she paused, wetting her lips and moving a hair closer to the trembling vampire. “I think you’re human.”

“Am not!” He gripped his knees tighter and glared at her. “Take that back!”

“What?” Buffy stammered, unable to keep up with the vampire — or ex-vampire’s — mood swings.

“Take it back. Now.” His eyes narrowed at her, and he released one hand to point an accusatory finger at her. “What did you do to me? Ah, Christ, this … this can’t be happening.”

Buffy’s mouth dropped open. Then it snapped shut and she glowered back at him. “I didn’t do anything to you, you stupid vampire. . . . man . . . whatever!.”

His eyes glowed a brilliant blue, even in the dim light, as he focused his fear and anger on the young blonde sitting near him. “Was it the witch? I bet she’s behind all this. Bet you put her up to it—”

“I didn’t put anyone up to anything, Spike.” Buffy took a deep breath. She tried to even her tone, realizing that further annoying the already unstable ex-vampire was not going to get them anywhere. “Look, it must have something to do with this time warp.” She looked around the wagon, then back at Spike. “What time period did say this was?”

She watched him as his muscles relaxed a bit and saw that he was trying to focus on her question. He shook his head, as if to clear it, then mumbled, “Time?”

“Yes,” Buffy nodded. “You said you could tell about what year this was by how that man – how they were all dressed. And this wagon. You called it a Skipper or Scraper or something. Spike, listen. Focus. I think what’s happened to you has something to do with where we are exactly in time.”

Spike’s hands, which were pressed to his chest, moving along with the breaths that his body were forcing upon him now, relaxed a bit. He glanced around the wagon as Buffy just had, his breathing evening out, becoming deeper. Buffy didn’t urge him further by word or movement and simply watched as he appeared to finally be processing what had happened and focusing on what she’d asked him.

After several interminably long moments, a brief flicker of understanding seemed to cross his features. Then, he took a deep breath through his nose and closed his eyes, his chin sinking to his chest.

“What?” Buffy prompted, holding her own breath in anticipation of his reaction.

“It hasn’t happened yet.” He spoke so softly she almost didn’t hear him.

“What hasn’t happened yet?” When he didn’t answer her, she moved closer, tentatively laying a hand on his shoulder. “Spike? What hasn’t happened?”

He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers for a second before dropping to the floor. “Me. I haven’t happened yet. Bollocks!” He swore softly and pulled away from her, standing to move to the other side of the wagon.

Buffy looked up him, standing in the corner, his back to her. “I don’t understand.”

“The real me, Buffy.” He turned then, the lines of his face painted in shadows. “I haven’t … My best guess is it’s about late 1850’s, which would make it a good 20 years before … before I met Drusilla.”

His meaning finally clear to her, Buffy’s eyes widened and she looked away. She could feel Spike’s gaze upon her as she rose from the floor of the wagon. “So this, here, where we are now, is before she made you into a—”

“Monster,” Spike finished for her, his voice barely more than a whisper in the darkness.

He was still watching her. She couldn’t feel him with her Slayer senses anymore, like she used to, all tingles and soft electric-like pulses up her spine and through her limbs, but she knew his eyes were on her none the less.

“Oh,” was her only response as she tried to process the situation. As much shock as Spike had to be going through at the moment, what with the heart-beating, lungs-breathing issues, Buffy was wandering through her own confusion. She was shocked to look up and find him, once again, standing beside her.

“This might bring up another issue, Buffy.” His voice was gravely, his eyes intense upon her.

His use of her given name caused her to tuck her chin, gathering herself into a defensive posture. “What are you talking about?”

“How are you feelin’?”

She took a step back from him, tilting her head. “I feel fine. What to you mean?”

“I mean, if this little time travel adventures been playing games with me, it might be playin’ with you as well.”

“Ah, I don’t follow you,” she responded.

“Hit me.”

“Excuse me?” She blinked.

“You heard me. Hit me,” Spike growled.

“Spike—”

“Yeah, jus’ like I thought.” He reached down to grab Buffy by the shoulders, dragging her towards him.

“Hey,” she squawked, struggling ineffectually to free herself from his hold.

“Looks like we’re in the same boat, Slay—Buffy.” He caught her fists as they pummeled his chest and hauled her flush against him. Twisting her arms behind her back he effectively pinned her to him.

“What is wrong with you? Let me go,” she huffed, still fighting against him. Ready, at any moment to find the leverage she needed to toss him across the wagon. The moment never materialized.

Spike nearly fell over when Buffy’s frantic struggles suddenly ceased. She quieted against him, her cheek resting against his chest, her breathing harsh and labored. Still wary of her, however, Spike didn’t release the grip about her wrists, waiting for anger to spur her on to another bout.

It never came.

As her breathing slowed, Buffy trembled against him. “You’re hurting me.” Her words were a warm whisper against his throat.

Spike instantly let go of her wrists, but kept his arms around her, as if knowing she’d need the support both physically and emotionally. Bugger this being human! It was already making him soft in the head.

“Sorry, Pet, I couldn’t think of any other way.” He raised an eyebrow when she didn’t immediately move out of the circle of his arms. “Knew you wouldn’t believe it without bein’ shown. You’re jus’ as human as me, from the look of things. This mess of magic has bollocksed us both up it would seem.”

“I’m weak,” Buffy mumbled, her words muffled in the flannel of his shirt.

“Weak?” He smiled, his cheek shifting against the softness of her hair. “I wouldn’t say that. And neither would the bruises you jus’ gave me.”

Buffy relaxed against him, the tension easing from her muscles as whatever fight she had left in her drained away as his words soothed her.

Spike’s senses were overloaded. The warmth of Buffy’s body next to his, the sweet smell of her enveloped him, causing his head to spin. Had she always smelled of jasmine? Had her hair always been this soft? He closed his eyes and tried to will his body not to respond to her; but it was a battle he knew he’d never win. Even now, faced with the knowledge that they were both lost in time, and human to boot, he couldn’t seem to pull away from the magnetic draw she seemed to have over him.

Buffy tried to resist the urge to burrow further into the protection of Spike’s arms. Evil nemesis be damned; she was just plain worn out and his arms felt strong and safe. It briefly occurred to her that finding comfort in his embrace should cause her great concern. But it didn’t, and she just couldn’t find the strength to worry about that now. Exhaustion blanketed her until she felt the very weight of her bones within her skin pulling at her, dragging her down. The futility of trying to figure out the mystery that shrouded her was draining. And now, finding out that the one thing she could always count on–her abilities as a slayer–was gone, she felt like it was the last straw. They were in this together, didn’t that make it okay for her to lean on him, take strength from him? V Spike felt Buffy relax against him, felt the weight of her body grow heavier in his arms. She was knocked off her feet, he knew that for certain. As much as he wanted to stand there and hold her, as much as her body in his arms caused him to think of how they would fit together, how her skin would feel under his hands, he knew she needed rest. Hell, they both did. And now, without the distress of the daylight and sunshine to worry about, he knew he could put off his evening exploration and catch a bit of shut-eye himself. He couldn't begin to understand what was happening between him and the Slayer. The feelings that he was beginning to experience—were they part of this time travel spell? Certainly they had to be. How could it be anything else? The mysteries kept growing and they would both need their wits about them to figure their way of this mess. “Think we both need to catch some sleep, Buffy. Can’t do anythin’ tonight and maybe the mornin’ will shed some light on our situation, yeah?” Reluctantly Spike loosened his hold on Buffy and stepped back.

“Yes,” she whispered moving away from him. “Sleep sounds good. I don’t ever remember feeling this tired before.”

Bereft of her body to hold and not knowing what else to do with his hands, he shoved them into the pockets of his jeans. “Human now, Pet. Same with me. I think it’s gonna take some getting used to.”

She turned to face him, a worried frown on her face. “I don’t want to get used to it, Spike. I want to go home.”

“We will, Slayer.” He tried to sound confident but was undermined by a yawn he couldn’t quite stifle. “You and me, we’ll take the bull by the horns tomorrow and figure out what’s what.” He looked around cramped space, then back at Buffy. “You take the mattress, Luv; I’ll do okay over here.” He gestured to the few feet of space that lay between the feather tick and the supply barrels.

Too tired to even worry about her clothes, Buffy dropped to her knees onto the canvas covered mattress. Lying on her side, an arm curled under her head as her pillow, she watched as Spike made him self comfortable on the floor of the wagon. The single gas lamp flickered in the darkness as he struggled to pull off his cowboy boots and then spread his black duster onto the floor. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging out of the garment and wadding it up to use as a pillow.

The sleek lines and etched muscles of his chest and arms drew her eyes down and her lids grew heavy with something other than sleep as she watched him unbuckle his belt and draw it slowly through the loops of his jeans. Her heart skipped a beat as his hand rested on the button fly and she quickly rolled over to face the side of the wagon.

Suddenly sleep was the last thing on her mind.

Chapter Five – Buffalo Girls Won’t You Come Out Tonight

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Spike tossed and turned for a while, the hard wood beneath his duster obviously affording him little comfort. Buffy listened as his breathing began to even out, and before too long she heard the soft snores that heralded his slumber.

Slowly, she rolled over onto her other side, keeping alert to any sign that her movements might have awakened the sleeping vampire.

Ex-vampire.

It was hard for her to think of Spike as anything but the deadly foe she had come to know and loath. Granted these last weeks and months since their victory over Adam had shown him to be useful—but he would never be a trusted ally. He worked for money, blood, and cigarettes—not to save the world, or make it a better place. Not out of the goodness of his heart, but to fill his own pockets, his own needs.

But now that heart was beating.

Spike was human now, and that fact threw a cosmic monkey wrench into Buffy’s orderly view of her fellow time traveler. Spike equals the evil undead. Did a beating heart and active respiratory system really change anything? If either of them wanted to get out of this mystery and back to Sunnydale in one piece, Buffy knew they were going to have to work together. She’d just have to hope that this new found humanity made him just a little bit less of a peroxided pain in her ass.

The object of her musing mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, and Buffy glanced quickly at this face to see if he’d awoken. He was, thankfully, still asleep, stretched on his stomach, his cheek resting on the rumpled flannel shirt that was now his pillow. One of his arms was stretched out towards her; his fingertips nearly touching the feather tick.

There was no black fingernail polish. No heavy rings graced his fingers. Just pale skin, stretched taut over bone and muscle. Buffy’s eyes wandered along the muscles of his forearms, up to the cut of his bicep. He had strong arms for man as slender as he was.

To be fair, she had to admit Spike was in excellent shape. It was probably the only thing that had kept him dust resistant in their battles against each other. Her gazed moved from his arms, across his shoulders, to the smooth, long muscles of his back as they tapered gently to an elegantly slender waist. The hollow of the small of his back dipped into shadow as it disappeared into the loosened waist-band of his jeans.

This is not good. Lying here contemplating Spike’s jeans and … well, what’s beneath them. She heaved a sigh and rolled onto her back, looking up into the pitch darkness of the wagon cover. Within two minutes she’d figured out that she was just keyed up. Lots of nervous energy and no where to expend it. It had been over week since she’d had a good slay; and longer than that since she’d had quality time with her boyfriend. His job hunt was not going well, and their relationship wasn’t fairing much better. So, here she was, all hyped up and no one to kill … or fuck.

Buffy’s eyes drifted over to Spike’s sleeping form once more. Nibbling at her bottom lip she wondered, not for the first time, where Riley was when she could really use him?

Realizing that no good would come from her current train of thought, Buffy decided to derail it. She slipped silently from the coarse mattress and tiptoed to the entrance of the wagon. Peering cautiously out into the moonlit night, she was greeted with the sight of dying campfires and the sound of the snores of some of her slumbering fellow wagon train passengers. Everyone seemed tucked in for the night, and it didn’t appear that they had anyone walking guard around the perimeter of the campsite.

Gingerly, Buffy hopped from the wagon, landing on the balls of her feet and crouching low. She slowly stood and began creeping around the side of the wagon. She stumbled once before pulling her long skirts up and out of her way, then turned towards the perimeter of the campsite and once again glanced around her.

No time like the present for a little reconnaissance work.

It was the quietness that woke him. Even sleeping in his crypt, there was the constant drone of noise that told you that you lived in a city. The purr of car engines, an occasional too-loud radio and heated conversations. There was always, in the background, ambient noise of some sort or another.

Here there was silence.

Spike had fallen asleep quickly and woke to a deep in the gut, something just wasn’t right feeling. Peering through the murky darkness of the wagon to the feather tick, he found the cause of his concern.

Buffy was gone.

It didn’t take Buffy long to skirt the perimeter of the encampment. She wasn’t sure about the normal size of a wagon train, but this one seemed small. It consisted of a dozen or so wagons and the oxen that pulled them, along with several cows and assorted other livestock. Most of the other travelers appeared to sleep within their wagons, as she and Spike had been doing, but a few slumbered outside on bunk rolls placed close to the fires that had now died down to softly glowing embers.

Buffy was about to turn back towards her wagon when she heard a muffled sound the small copse of trees off to the right of the encampment. Glancing up, she saw that the moon now hung low in the purple streaked sky. Daybreak was fast approaching, and she had a feeling that wagon train travel warranted rising with the sun. Her step quickened as she moved towards the noise that had drawn her attention.

It didn’t take her long to find the source. Although to be truthful, the source actually found her; his voice startling her.

“You won’t find answers out here.”

She approached the man cautiously. He was old, sitting upon the ground, leaning against an even older oak tree.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy offered, “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just heard—”

“You have not disturbed me. I was just gathering myself for the day, which is about to begin its journey.” His voice was deep and warm and when he looked up at her it was with worn, grey eyes. “You are on a journey as well.”

Buffy nodded. “Yes, my … my husband in I are traveling—”

“He is not as he was. This man of yours.”

“Wait, he’s not my—” Buffy’s eyes widened. “What?”

“He used to take life and blood; now he will give them.” The man nodded to himself, satisfied he’d made himself clear. Rising to his feet he approached Buffy. “I dreamed of you both last night. A fierce warrior with a true heart.”

“Who are you?” Buffy whispered, looking up into his eyes.

He smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening. “I am many people. I am Shamala. I am shaman. I am a guide.”

“Like a spirit guide?” Buffy asked, her eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“No, little one,” the older man laughed, “A train guide. Although in our own way, we are all spirit guides.”

“I’m actually not feeling the spirit guide thing right now,” Buffy allowed herself to smile at the old man. For the first time since beginning this adventure, she felt, somehow, safe. The smile fled her face just as quickly when she saw the countenance of the old man change—his eyes closing, his brow wrinkling.

“She who slays is used to forging her own way, not searching out the hidden paths of fate.” He suddenly reached out to grasp her hand. “There are many changes to be dealt with, many -choices will have to be made. Eneeapah.”

His words and touch shocked her, and Buffy recoiled from him, stumbling in her haste and falling to her knees before him. Her breath came harsh and heavy as she felt the worn, calloused flesh of his fingers brush against her temple, moving through her hair. She looked up at him through the tangle of her hair and stilled.

“The dream was dark, but not so dark that you and your man cannot find your way. But first you must—”

A flash of movement caught the corner of her eye and she turned her head slightly to watch as a lithe figure leapt out of the darkness, a pale fist flashing out to meet the dark skinned jaw of the old man. The sickening, sharp thud of bone on bone sounded and the old man went down in a heap in front of her.

Before she could even figure out exactly what had just happened a pair of strong hands were hauling her to her feet and she was pulled against an equally strong chest. Protective arms wrapped around her, one hand splayed against the small of her back, the other around her neck, gently pushing her head onto the aforementioned chest.

“Are you okay? He didn’t hurt you, did he? Christ, Buffy, talk to me.”

She felt the growling vibrations beneath her cheek as Spike tried to catch his breath. “Let me go, you idiot,” she mumbled against the flannel of his shirt.

Spike pulled back enough to look down into her face, or at least as much of her face as he could see through the tousled hair. “What?”

Buffy pulled the rest of the way out of his arms and took a few steps back from him. Pushing her hair from her face, she quickly knelt beside the fallen man and checked his pulse.

“He’s out cold,” she muttered, then turned burning green eyes to Spike. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“Can’t believe I did what?” Spike howled incredulously. “Saved your sweet little arse is what I did.”

“It didn’t need to be saved . . . I didn’t need to be saved!” Buffy stood and approached him, stopping when she was toe to toe, nose to nose with the fuming ex-vampire.

“You know, you are one stone, cold bitch. No matter what the time period. Bloody Hell! I woke up and you weren’t in the wagon. I come lookin’ for you and find you with this guy and he’s got you on your knees, his hands all over you.”

“His hands were not all over me,” Buffy huffed. “He was—”

“He was what?” Spike growled, jamming his fists into the pockets of his jacket. It seemed a safe place for them at the moment.

Buffy hesitated, frowning. She turned from Spike and walked over and looked down at the old man. “I’m not sure what he was doing. But,” she added quickly as Spike’s mouth opened to speak. “He wasn’t hurting me. I think he was channeling something or reading my aura. He’s a shaman.”

“Fuck.” Spike dropped back another step and gaped at the man on the ground. “He’s not a bloody Chumash, is he?”

“I don’t think so.” They both glanced down to the crotch of Spike’s jeans, then quickly back up at each other. “He’s employed by whoever organized this wagon train. He’s a guide. He’s also some sort of medicine man. A shaman. Spike, it was weird. He knew things.”

“What do you mean he knew things?” His irritation had fought back into first place. “What did he know?”

“Us. Me. Who I am. Who you are. More importantly what you are … or used to be.”

“Slow down, Slayer—”

“See, right there, he called me the Slayer. Well, ‘She Who Slays,’ but close enough. Spike, he knows that we’re not who everyone thinks we are. He said he had a dream about us.”

“A dream?” Spike narrowed his eyes, his brow furrowing. “What else does he know? What else did he say?”

“I think he knows more, but there was this sudden unconsciousness that happened when your fist impacted with his jaw.”

Spike grimaced sheepishly and dug the toe of his boot into the ground. “Cut me a bit o’ a break, Buffy. My eyesight isn’t what it once was, at least not at night and to me, it looked like he was manhandlin’ you.”

“If that were the case—and I want to stress here, it wasn’t—but if it was, I can take care of myself, Spike.”

“Not like you used to … Slayer.” He arched an eyebrow at her. He watched as she frowned, but didn’t disagree with him. “But I promise to try an’ suss out the situation a bit further next time, before dashin’ in to save the day.”

Buffy took a deep breath and forced herself to remember that they were both working their way through a complicated maze. It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful that he was willing to throw himself into danger to protect her. It was more than odd and, she guessed, something she’d have to find a way to get used to. She reminded herself again, things were not what they once where, and they were going to have to work together to get themselves home.

“Well,” she offered hesitantly. “As dashing goes, it was petty impressive. Just, yeah, next time make sure I’m actually in danger.”

“Will do.” Spike gave her a curt nod, then looked over at the aging shaman as he began to moan and move around a bit. “Now what?”

Buffy followed his line of vision. “Well, it’s almost morning. I say we give the doctor a call.”

To Be Continued