Chapter 8:
“You are truly hopeless, you know that?” Buffy crawled across the feather tick mattress gingerly on her hands and knees, the voluminous cotton nightgown she’d found in a one of the small trunks, covering her from neck to toes.

“Was being a good Samaritan, Slayer.”

Buffy gave a very unladylike snort and flopped down onto her stomach. “You were flirting, Spike.”

It was Spike’s turn to snort and he did so in an indignant fashion. “Was not! The girl needed help. She’s lost her husband, travelin’ alone, what was I supposed to do?”

“Oh, please,” Buffy rolled her eyes at him. “You nearly tripped over your own feet trying to get to her. Besides, she couldn’t, like, fix it herself?”

“A broken wagon wheel?” Spike asked incredulously.

“Hey, I learned how to fix a flat in Driver’s Ed.”

“Too bad they didn’t teach you how to drive,” Spike mumbled, dropping down to sit cross-legged near the side of the mattress. No nightgown had been found for him, only a few extra pare of jeans and some thread-bear work shirts. Normally this wouldn’t have concerned him in the least, as he slept in the buff, but with the closed, shared quarters, it was out of the question. But living in his clothes night and day would get old soon enough. He figured once the lights were out he’d skim out of his jeans to sleep—what Buffy didn’t know, couldn’t hurt her … or him.

“What was that?” Buffy lifted her head from where she had nestled it in the crook of her crossed arms.

“Never mind, Slayer. It was a bloody wagon wheel needed replacin’. Not some Firestone comes off with a lug wrench. Just did what any other red-blooded man would do.”

“You’re not—”

“Am now, so don’t get your knickers in a twist. What’s it to you anyway? No skin off your perky little nose.” Even with her cheek back resting on her arm, he could see her lower lip beginning to pout. “Got back here in time to unhitch the wagon, didn’ I?”

“Well, yes,” Buffy sulked. Then her head shot up again, and she glared at him. “But I had to feed the horses.” At his raised brow, the infamous lower lip reappeared. “I almost lost a finger,” she whined.

“Lemme see,” Spike slipped into a grin, leaning forward to grab the hand now curled under her chin.

His hands felt warm and strong around her own and although she knew she should, she didn’t pull free of his grasp and actually sat up, facing him, so he could get a better look at her hands.

“Yup,” Spike nodded, thoroughly investigating her fingers. “They do look a bit like carrots; can’t say as I blame the beasts.”

“Oh,” Buffy huffed, trying to pull her fingers free of his grip.

He’d have none of it however, holding her hand firmly within both of his. “Looks like when we get home you’re gonna have to make an appointment for a manicure.”

“Yeah,” Buffy stopped tugging at her hand and watched as his fingers worked over delicate bones with a gentle massage that felt surprisingly soothing. “Frontier life, I’m finding, pretty much sucks.”

Spike chuckled, but didn’t look up from his ministrations. He turned her hand in his, pressing and releasing his thumbs in the soft meat of her palm, feeling as the tension begin to seep from her muscles.

It had been a long day—the first of, possibly, many like it before they found their way home. While neither he nor the Slayer were slouches with regards to physical fitness, they were still far more fragile than they once were. Add to that the rigors of wagon train travel, and Spike realized that it wasn’t going to be easy to make it through this adventure in one piece. And they only had each other to rely on. Considering that two days ago they could barely stand to be in the same room for more than five minutes, he figured they done pretty damn well – but he’d be kidding himself if he thought it was going to get easier.

“Take it you didn’t get a chance to talk with Shay?” His fingers absently wandered, pushing up the loose fabric of the sleeve of her nightgown to stroke the tanned flesh of her forearms.

“No,” Buffy breathed deeply, trying not to think too much about why his hands felt so good, so soothing, when in the past they’d seemed only threatening, something to cause pain. Her eyes went from the fingers plying her flesh to the top of his head. He seemed so intent on his task, still not looking up at her. “Did you?”

The blue of his eyes, as they shifted up to meet hers, at first startled her. Even in the dim light of the oil lamp, their intensity shone vividly. Maybe it was the contrast to his skin, which was already slightly darker. Even in this he seemed to be doing better at adapting than she; tanning gracefully, the slight squint lines around his eyes framing the ocean blue to perfection. It simply wasn’t fair.

But even after only one day, Buffy did have to concede that this exact ability—to fit in—had made all the difference. There was no way in hell she could have faked her way through everything that had been thrown at her in this world; yet Spike had stepped up to the plate and made it look, if not easy, at least doable. More importantly, all the while, never once making her feel inadequate because of her lack of expertise.

It was more than a little overwhelming, seeing Spike in such a different light. Hell, seeing him in any light at all! But there it was. This adventure, or whatever it was to be called, had turned the tables on both of them. Thrown them for a loop and knocked them off their feet. That they were both still standing—albeit somewhat wobbly and a bit unsteadily—was a testament to both their wills. They’d both said, at the onset, that they’d have to work together—she just never imagined it possible. Now, with the darkness gathering behind their first day, she was beginning to think that just maybe they’d make it through this. The fact that Spike had something to do with that optimism was what surprised her the most.

“Did I. . . what?”

The sound of his voice, deeper and more gravely than she remembered it being, drew her from the depths of his eyes. She refocused, thinking it safer, on his mouth.

Bad choice.

His tongue peaked out and ran along his bottom lip, moistening it, before curling up to rest, provocatively behind his teeth.

She took a deep breath, her mouth opening to speak, yet she couldn’t seem to find the words beyond the image of his lips and his eyes and feel of his fingers on her arms. Finally, she raised her eyes back to his and managed to mumble a barely coherent and more than slightly lame, “What what?”

Spike’s raised brow seemed to pull Buffy out of her fog and she shook her head. “Sorry,” she smiled slightly. “I’m more out of it than I thought. Shay. Did you get a chance to talk with him yourself?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Got the feelin’ there isn’t a hell of a lot of socializing that gets done. But we at least know his morning routine. I’m gonna get up early and see if I can catch him. That don’t work, Katie said she’d let him know we were lookin’ speak with him.”

“Katie?” The left corner of Buffy’s mouth quirked down into a frown. “Oh, right, ‘Miss My Wagon Wheel Broke Can Some Big Strong Cowboy Come Help Me Fix It' Katie. What does she have to do with Shay?”

Spike narrowed his eyes, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “If I didn’t know any better, Slayer, I’d say you were jealous.”

Buffy’s mouth fell open and she stared at him for a second in abject horror. “Jealous,” she sputtered. “I am most certainly not jealous of some little wild west ho-bag.”

Spike’s smile deepened, his fingers now slipping under the nightgown to press into her biceps. “Shouldn’t be. There’s not a thing for you to be jealous over.”

“Right.” Buffy nodded curtly, then narrowed her eyes at him. “Not that I’d be jealous even if you were acting like some moony-eyed, love-stuck, cowpoke. Which, by the way, you totally are. And you didn’t answer my question: what does she have to do with Shay?”

He bit his bottom lip in an attempt to stifle his smile. “Seems he’s takin’ her under his wing, so to speak. Like I said, she’s a young widow, trying to make this trip all on her lonesome. She needs help from time to time, so people pitch in. Wouldn’t hurt you to try to be a bit more understandin'.”

“Oh, I think you’re being understanding enough for both of us.” She glared at him again, but leaned into the caress of his fingers as they moved back to her elbows. “NOT that I’m jealous, of course. It’s just that, well, we are supposed to be newlyweds. How does it look with you running after her all hot and bothered? Besides, when did you grow a conscience?”

The words were out before she could draw them back in. They hadn’t spoken of exactly what his new found humanity entailed, finding other more immediately issues to address. The one-sided fight with Shay had shown them the chip was, at the least, not functioning, if not totally absent, and neither was surprised at that turn of events. From all signs he looked like he had regressed back to what he’d been before being turned, which meant no chip. But did that include his getting his soul back? It had crossed her mind, but she hadn’t wanted to face that particular issue yet, much less take part in a discussion about it with the ex-vampire in question.

Spike’s eyes darkened as he watched the flood of emotion across Buffy’s face. His smile faltered, his chin jutting forward a bit. “Grew it along with the heartbeat, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Buffy murmured. “I’m sorry—”

“Nothin’ to be sorry about.” Spike pursed his lips and drew his hands down Buffy’s arms, taking hold of both of her hands in his. “Not like both of us weren’t wonderin’.”

“So, you’re sure?” she asked hesitantly, not wanting to push, yet not wanting to back away.

He blew out a breath, looking from where their hands were joined, up into her worried eyes. “Pretty sure. Been tryin’ not to think on it too much, seems we’ve got enough problems to deal with without takin’ time to contemplate my navel.”

She frowned, blinking at him. “I hope you don’t think I’d consider you worrying about your soul to be self-indulgent.”

“Not sure what it would be … but right now, I know we just don’t have the time. Soul or no soul, we have to find our way out of this mess,” he stated, unable to keep the weariness from his voice.

“I know, Spike, but—”

“No 'buts' about it, Slayer. We can talk about this more after we find out what happened to us, and more importantly, how to get us back home.”

“I guess,” she started, then finished with a yawn she wasn’t able to fight back.

“See there? Already been up too late, with an early mornin’ and another hard day ahead of us. Lie back down,” Spike said, his hands moving overtop of her nightgown to her shoulders, urging her to stretch back out onto her stomach.

“What?” Buffy tensed, but followed his gentle prodding.

“You’re tied in knots, Buffy, just gonna help you relax a bit, so you can sleep.” His voice soothed over her and against her better instincts she allowed herself to be swept along with it.

At the touch of his fingers along her shoulders Buffy’s muscles and nerves sang with relief. She really hadn’t realized how very exhausted, achy, and scared she was until he started kneading her tired flesh. They were both, it seemed, standing at the precipice of something big. Large and looming, their future was anything but stable and neither knew what the next day would bring; what peril they might have to face to find their way home. Or even if they’d be able to get home, back to their own time. Strangely, however, as her eyes drifted closed and her mind started weaving dreams, it occurred to Buffy that, at this moment, she felt safe. It was that feeling, of being tended to and cared for that let her drift off, gathering the strength she’d need for what lay ahead.

To Be Continued
 

Chapter 9:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Spike could feel Buffy fall asleep, her body relaxed under his hands, her breathing evened out, becoming deeper. He was glad to see her getting the rest. It had been an incredibly taxing day for both of them. Life in this era was physically challenging, but also, for them, mentally draining. Adding the burden of constantly have to keep up the guise of a young frontier couple to the grueling labor, blistering heat, and dust clogging one’s ears, eyes, and nose, was the straw that just might break their backs.

Watching her today, fighting the pain and fatigue from sitting the on wagon for hour after hour, he could do nothing but admire her spirit and fortitude. It shook him to the core, these feelings that were tracing through his system. Still, working with her, instead of against her—
on a deep, deep level—didn’t seem right to him. But it was quickly becoming more than that. There was something about her that seemed to draw him in. Even when he wanted to stay angry, growling and cranky, she’d say something, do something, and he couldn’t help himself, he found himself moved by her. He’d find himself smiling despite his better nature.

He’d actually been concerned for her today. Worrying about her as the sun reached its zenith and he could see the signs of heat exhaustion beginning to take their toll on her newly human stamina. It had only been a few days ago when something like that would have caused him to chuckle with glee. Now, it just made him feel antsy. Nervous. Like something was crawling under his skin and he just couldn’t figure out how to get the feeling to stop.

Was it the soul?

Did he even have his soul now? He’d told Buffy he had, but in reality, he wasn’t sure. There was something stirring, deep down inside him. Something that was bringing up feelings and memories he had long since consigned to the wasteland of his past. Something that was making him think about things in a different way. But then again, it could just be disorientation from the time shift.

It wasn’t as if he was being haunted. He wasn’t drowning in guilt, knee deep in the misery of the memory of every soul he’d hastened off to heaven, or to hell. When he’d taken the time to think about Angel’s predicament—which, granted, wasn’t often—he usually envisioned his grandsire enduring grinding and unending torment in payment for every evil deed. Surely that’s what would be happening to him, now, if he’d gotten his soul back.

It was obviously a mystery that wasn’t going to be solved overnight. It wasn’t like there was some measurement that one could take to determine the presence of a soul. It seemed not to matter if his soul had been returned, along with his humanity, or if it was simply the that they were thrown together in a life or death situation – in either case, Spike was finding himself attracted to Buffy.

No doubt about it, he’d always found the chit to be absolutely enticing. Long strands of tawny hair, flying fists, snarky comebacks, all combined to make her, in his eyes, an irresistible parry to his thrust. He’d often, even with Dru lying beside him, fantasized about fucking the Slayer just before striking the death blow. She was a tasty morsel, no matter how you looked at it. But while that languid lust was still there, making his cock hard beneath the soft denim of his jeans, it was no longer mingled with blood lust. At least not the kind of blood lust that ended with Buffy drained dry and dropping limply to the ground at his feet. He still longed to taste her, even in this human guise, but now that craving was tempered with the need to see her safe, to hold her close, and to protect her.

Once again he was destined to be love’s bitch. Only this time he was falling for the Queen Bitch.

Bloody pathetic wanker!

He shuddered at the thought of losing his heart to this girl, pulling his hands away from the warmth of her shoulders for fear he would wake her.

It just wasn’t right. She was his natural enemy – both of them prey and predator to each other.
Besides, if she found out she’d chew him up and spit him out. If she even had an inkling that he was beginning to have feelings for her that weren’t intimately related to revulsion and hatred, she’d hand him his liver on a platter. He’d not only end up being tormented for his weakness, he knew, deep in his heart, that if this one every truly got her hands on his heart, she’d own it, lock, stock, and barrel . . . forever. He’d be her bloody lapdog, happy for any crumb she tossed him.

No way was he going to let that happen … soul or no soul. He didn’t have much dignity left, but what little he had he was holding on to with his fingernails. No bloody way was he possibly gaining a soul, only to lose his heart in the deal.

He stared down at the sleeping Slayer, trying with every bit of evil he could muster, could remember, to stir up and maintain his anger. He scowled, his eyes narrowing, as he tried to recall every time she’d gotten in the way of his carefully laid plans, every time she’d managed to pull victory over him out of the hands of defeat, every time she kicked his ass from here to Sunnydale.

He was just managing to work up a good head of steam when Buffy sighed in her sleep, rolling from her stomach on to her side and tucking her tiny fist under her chin. She hadn’t fastened all the buttons of her prim white night gown, and the neckline fell open enough for him to see the soft swell of her right breast as it pressed into the mattress.

Spike’s mouth fell open, his eyes widening as he took in the sight. She was, he thought, like a sweet, golden kitten; all that was missing was the purr – and the claws. Just then, Buffy emitted a soft snore and rolled onto her back, one arm flung across the mattress towards him, her small fingers curled into the palm of her hand as it rested against his knee.

He looked down at her hand.

The hand that he’d been holding, only a short time ago.

The hand that now, it would seem, held his heart.

And in that moment, in his heart, that was now beating double-time in his chest, and in his soul, where ever it may reside, he knew . . . he was screwed.

To Be Continued
 

Chapter Ten – Cowboys Dance With The Farmers' Daughters


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She moved towards him, her skirts swaying with the movement of her hips. But he knew it was more than that. His sisters used to practice that walk. Shoulders back, chin high, toes pointed in, so that their gowns would sway seductively as they entered the ballroom. This woman had practiced too; he could tell.

She was beautiful, and she knew it. This he could also tell. She held herself with a confidence that could only come from knowing, no matter who was in the room, no matter how many other women there were vying for attention, all eyes would be on her.

Right now, his eyes were on her. He couldn’t help it, really. He was a man, after all. Even more so, now with his heart pumping, his flesh warm. She smiled as she saw him approach, the small, dainty tip of her tongue slipping out to wet her lips. In that brief moment, he felt his cock harden beneath the stiff denim of his jeans. Vampire or human, some things never change.

“William.” She looked as if she was about to reach out a hand to him, but then thought better of it. Instead she clasped her hands together in front of her. “It’s so kind of you to pay a visit this morning.”

Spike tipped his hat, tugging the brim of the black Stetson lower over his brow. “Just wanted to make sure your wagon was set to rights before we needed to take off.”

Katie Monroe pursed her lips and looked to be appraising him. He wondered exactly what she would calculate his worth to be.

“Well, that was mighty kind of you.” Her eyes sparkled and her gaze met and matched his, as if daring Spike to look away.

Her soft, syrupy southern drawl seemed to envelop him and he felt even more of his newly pumping blood head south of the border. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his duster, pulling the coat closed over the evidence of his arousal.

From the first fluttering of her eyelashes, the first touch of her hand on his sleeve as she’d stood beside him while he fixed her wagon’s wheel, Spike had known that this woman’s charms had been finely honed. He’d no doubt that she’d used them – and her beauty – to get what she wanted many times before.

And from the look she was giving him, she apparently wanted him.

“As I told you yesterday, I don’t have much, but please let me offer you something for your services.” The shawl she had wrapped around her shoulders, dropped lower, hanging from the crooks of her elbows and gently hugging the curve of her ass.

And a fine ass it was, Spike thought, an eyebrow quirking. He suspected that her idea of payment had nothing to do with money; she was letting him get a bit of a look at just what she had to offer.

“A cup o’ coffee would be nice.” He kept his smile friendly, but nothing more. He was, for all intents and purposes, a married man. At least the Widow Monroe thought so. He wasn’t sure exactly what game she was playing, but for right now he wanted to keep his cards close to the vest. Besides, no use giving Buffy a bigger stick to beat him over the head with.

Katie’s smile faded slightly, her eyes narrowing just a bit. She wasn’t the type of woman who was used to being turned down, and it seemed she wasn’t quite sure what to make of this blond, English, cowpoke. “Of course. I have some on the fire; let me get you a cup.”

Spike watched as she bent to retrieve the dented tin pot from the ashes of her campfire. She was wearing a dingy white blouse tucked loosely into the waistband of her dark brown skirt. The collar of the blouse lay open, the top buttons undone, and at this angle he was afforded a tantalizing glimpse of the long line of her throat and décolletage.

There was a hint of cleavage. Nothing one would consider too risqué, just an edge of lace, a flash of camisole, following the lush curve of a breast. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, not a mark, not a freckle to be seen. When she straightened, turning to pour the hot liquid into a tin mug, Spike’s gaze moved to her hands. They too were smooth, flawless. Her nails were neat and filed into a delicate oval. These were not the hands of a farmer’s wife. She didn’t have the skin of a woman used to hard labor.

“Sugar?”

Katie’s voice startled him and he realized he’d been caught daydreaming. He averted his eyes, as any gentleman would, and took the cup of coffee, cradling it in the palms of his hands. “Sorry,” he offered, hoping he sounded properly aghast that he’d been caught sneaking a peek. “We didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

He regarded her raised eyebrows and slightly shocked expression. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean . . . what I meant was, I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. Buf—Elizabeth got plenty.” As Katie’s eyebrows continued to rise, he rushed on. “Sleep, I mean. She got plenty of sleep.”

Silence fell as Spike considered just how deep a hole he’d just dug for himself.

After what seemed like hours, a smile quirked at the corners of Katie’s mouth. “I’m sure Elizabeth got plenty . . . of sleep.”

Spike winced, turning to the large white horse that stood harnessed in front of the widow’s wagon. “Let me check the traces for you.” He could feel the heat radiating from his face and he grimaced. It had been more than a century since he’d had to worry about blushing. Funny how it only took a second to go from the Big Bad to the awkward gawky teenager he’d once been.

A hand plucked the sleeve of his duster, pulling him from the jaws of his past and memories as hideous as any he’d created in his years as a vampire.

“Thank you, William.” Katie had poured herself some coffee and was looking at him through the steam rising from the cup. “Shay always gets them ready for me. He said he’d be back to double-check them before we started off. He’ll appreciate you saving him the work.”

Spike nodded, busying himself with checking the harness trappings, his fingers moving smoothly over the worn leather and buckles. He’d hoped to catch the medicine man and was happy he’d have the chance to finally talk with him. “He’s a fine man. Takes care of you, does he?”

“Yes. I don’t know what I’d do without him. There’s no way I could have made this trip if he hadn’t arranged for someone to drive for me.”

Spike stoked his fingers along the great beast’s coat, making sure there were no mats under the heavy harness collar. “Met him yesterday. The Taylor’s oldest boy, yeah?”

Katie nodded, taking another sip of her coffee. “Even so, it will be nice to reach Plattsville.”

Spike, who was now down on one knee, inspecting the girth, looked over at her. “What’s a Plattsville?”

“No place special,” Katie sighed. “But it’s where I’m headed. Just a little mining town. Maybe not so little since they hit gold a few months back.”

Spike continued what he was doing, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Didn’t figure you for bein’ a miner.”

“No,” she chuckled. “We . . . my husband and I, we bought a business there.”

Spike stood, dusting off his pants legs. “What type of business?”

Katie tilted her head and peered at him. “You’re just full of questions. I’ve never seen a cowboy quite as talkative as you.”

“Sorry,” Spike turned to finger the horse’s bridle. “You’re right, none o’ my busin—“

“No.” The red-head walked over to him. “I was just teasing. The business is sort of a . . . hotel. Lots of people traveling in and out of little Plattsville these days. I just hope I can handle it on my own.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll do jus’ fine. You seem very . . . competent.” Spike smiled at her, before giving the horse a scratch behind its ear.

The young woman tossed her head back and laughed. “Competent?” She reached out to run a finger along Spike’s sleeve. “William, I think that’s the sweetest thing any man has ever said to me!”

~~@@~~

It was one of those crisp, cool mornings that made you just want to take a deep breath and hold it in your lungs. The sky was so clear and sharp, Buffy felt like she could reach out and grab hold of the brilliant blue and roll it in her hands.

Her mind wandered to thoughts of other brilliantly blue things – like Spike’s eyes. She expelled a quick breath and tried to push away the insistent images that kept popping into her mind. Ever since their talk last night, she felt shaken—almost light-headed with the feelings that were beginning to bubble up at the thought of the vampire.

Ex-vampire, she thought, shaking her head. She had to keep reminding herself of that little fact. The talk last night, concerning his soul, had helped to make the issue a bit more real for her. Until that subject had been broached, it had been easy for her to slip him into the ready made, neatly labeled box she’d always kept him in. Vampire. Evil. Okay, to be honest, he had amazingly hot abs and biceps to swoon over—but that was just hormones talking. She’d made the mistake once of losing her heart to a member of Club Undead, she wasn’t going to tread down that road again.

Besides, Angel had his soul when she’d fallen for him and Spike was . . . well, she wasn’t quite sure exactly what Spike was, but he definitely wasn’t boyfriend material --- soul or no soul. And at this moment the jury was still out on that question. He’d said he thought his soul had been restored along with his humanity. But he certainly didn’t seem any different. He certainly didn’t seem to have that same brooding essence of dread that Angel had always carried with him when he was souled. Other than being slightly more interested in her welfare – which could also be because he figured he needed her to get out of this mess — he appeared to be the same old Spike.

Okay, maybe he was a little different. A tiny bit more introverted. Not quite as mouthy or belligerent as she’d known him to be before the leap into their own version of Wagon Train. But it certainly wasn’t enough to constitute his being all soul-having. Wouldn’t he be wracked with guilt? Why wasn’t he wracked with guilt? Filled with remorse? Brooding and pouting? Granted, she didn’t have a lot of experience with souled vampires, but she probably had as much as anyone. And, frankly, Spike just wasn’t fitting that mold.

Frowning, she paused from stoking the fire she’d built to prepare breakfast. She wanted Spike back in his nice little box. Immediately, if not sooner. Right now, he seemed more like a recalcitrant child, refusing to bend to her vision of him.

A high-pitched, feminine giggle caught her attention and she turned to see Spike on the other side of the circle of wagons, adjusting the bridle of a large black draft horse, while smiling down in the face of a young woman. A very pretty young woman.

Buffy narrowed her eyes, moving casually to the other side of the fire so she could get a better view, without appearing too obvious. It would seem this was the infamous Katie. She’d seen her from afar the day before – and what with trying to wipe the sweat and dirt from her eyes, hadn’t gotten that good a look at her.

The girl was very attractive, she’d grant her that. Buffy gnawed on her lower lip, peering a bit closer. Katie was fairly tall, nearly as tall as Spike, with long curly red hair that fell to her waist. It was tied back by a bit of gold ribbon into a soft ponytail, with tendrils of curls framing her oval face. Yes, she was pretty.

If you liked that kind of tall, willowy, Grecian statue kind of look.

Apparently, Spike did.

As Katie moved closer to Spike, Buffy dropped the stick she was using to poke at the fire and placed all her attention on the couple. She didn’t care if anyone observed her eavesdropping; something just wasn’t right with this picture.

Buffy continued to watch as the woman reached out to run a slender finger along Spike’s sleeve, down to the cuff of his duster, barely touching his hand, then back up to his elbow.

That floozy is flirting with my husband! Err, my Spike.

What ever Spike was, he was hers, not some bottled-dyed – because that color just didn’t exist in nature – red-headed, ho-bag's.

So, he wasn’t really her husband. Nobody knew that except Buffy. This cheap piece of wagon-trash was openly flirting with Spike, believing that he was someone else’s spouse. What would people think? Why was he smiling at her like that? Why was he leaning in towards her? What was wrong with him? Couldn’t he see what a wench-cookie she was?

That bastard!

Buffy sucked in a breath, holding it tight in her chest. She watched as Katie continued to smile at Spike, her eyes-lids fluttering in a beguiling way – and Spike seemed unable, or unwilling, to look away. This woman was nearly drowning the poor oaf in soft smiles, charming giggles, and sweet blushes.

That bitch.

In the few short days she’d spent in this era, Buffy had learned that women did not act this way. Well, not ‘decent’ women. Whether it was fair or not, that’s the way it was. Married women stayed close to their families and pretty much followed their husbands’ leads. And single women – well, single women were the exception to the rule. As far as she knew Katie was the only single woman traveling in the wagon train, short of some elderly grandmothers with some of the other families. But she had a feeling that the current societal rules were more than likely even stricter for single woman.

The object of her perusal let out another giggle and Buffy’s spine stiffened, a muscle in her cheek tensed, and the breath she’d been holding hissed out between her teeth. Picking up her skirts, she strode toward the unsuspecting twosome. She might be currently lacking in the Slayer strength area, but that wasn’t going to keep her from kicking some skanky-bitch prairie ass.

As she approached the duo, Buffy donned a broad, albeit a tad scary, smile. Wrapping her arms around Spike’s waist she rose on tiptoe and pressed her lips to the side of his throat, nuzzling her nose into the crook of his shoulder. When Spike turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow in surprise, she took the opportunity and pressed her lips firmly to his, her arms coming up to snake around his neck.

Spike emitted a low groan from somewhere deep within in his chest, his hands fluttering about her sides as if he wasn’t quite sure where or even if he should touch her. His eyes slowly drifted shut as Buffy deepened the kiss, her body pressing intimately to his. At last, his hands came to rest on her hips, his fingers curled into the soft fabric and flesh.

Feeling Spike’s hands settle upon her, his long, slender fingers pulling her close, crushing her breasts against his chest, Buffy wondered briefly if she’d really thought this plan through enough. Those concerns quickly disappeared, however, when his arms moved low around her waist and he pulled her more tightly against him. So tightly, in fact, that she had no problem whatsoever in determining, even through a petticoat and her voluminous skirt, that Spike dressed to the left was, indeed, very happy to see her.

Buffy felt Spike’s hold on her relax a bit, his hips shifting slightly so that his now formidable erection was no longer pressing against her. She didn’t know why he was pulling away, only that she didn’t want him to. In an automatic response, she pressed herself back to him, her fingers tangling in the curls at his nape, stoking sensuously along the sunburned skin of his neck.

Off to the side there was a gentle cough and clearing of a throat.

Slowly, as if the sound had just penetrated through a protective layer of thick cotton, Buffy and Spike broke their kiss. Buffy, her lips pink and slightly swollen from the pressure of his own lips, simply looked up at him, blinking.

Spike swallowed, and the movement drew Buffy’s eyes to his Adam’s apple. Rational thought flooded through her mind and she remembered the reason she was in his arms. The reason her lips were still warm and tingling from his kiss. She pulled her arms from around his neck, her hands coming to rest lightly on his chest. Turning slightly in his arms, which still held her loosely, she looked over at Katie.

Their eyes locked and held for a long moment. Then a smile, the likes of Spike had never seen before, blossomed on Buffy’s face, but only on her face. Her eyes remained focused on the red-headed woman, as if they were stone, cold green daggers and Katie was the bullseye.

Slowly, her eyes swept up to capture Spike’s. “So, Sweetie, are you going to introduce me to your new friend?”

To Be Continued

Chapter Eleven – They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When his brain cleared and Spike was finally able to process something other than the feel of Buffy’s body pressed to his, he looked down and focused on her eyes. They were turbulent, swirling with emotions that Spike had little hope of deciphering. Yet, with nothing more than a slight dilating of pupils and fluttering of dark lashes, they were able to gather up what was left of his rational mind and swallow him whole.

What was it about this woman that seemed to have such a hold on him? He’d like to think it was nothing more than fallout from the time displacement, but he knew better. She’d gotten to him, deep in his gut, long before they were swept here. Drusilla had seen it, and even through his adamant denial, Spike had known, deep down, that something drew him to her. Something more than just bloodlust; more than just the thrill of adding another dead slayer to his resume.

Pulling back a bit, Spike’s hands traveled from their resting place on Buffy’s hips, to grip her upper arms. His first impulse was to push her away, to distance himself from her and the emotions she was stirring in him. However, her smug smile dared him to prove to her once and for all that he was not under her control. Not here. Not now. Damned if he was going to allow his heart to once again turn him into some sniveling mongrel, waiting to be pushed and pulled and taunted at the whim of some woman.

Besides, she was, once again, stomping into the middle of his best laid plans. He’d wanted to talk to Shay alone. He wasn’t sure of it, but it seemed like the old shaman had been avoiding them. Not that he blamed the man, since the first and only time they’d met ended with the introduction of Spike’s fist to the shaman’s jaw. Better to do this man to man and keep the Slayer and her often erupting temper out of it. He certainly didn’t want to talk to the man while Buffy and Katie were mud wrestling in the background. He wasn’t sure what Buffy’s problem with her was, but it would have to wait to be sorted out until after he had his talk with the elusive medicine man.

Spike pulled Buffy flush against him, his own eyes widening at the feel of her breasts pressed to his chest. His voice emerged gruff, almost a growl. “Well, of course, I’ll introduce you . . . Darling.” His eyes moved from hers to look at the young woman with whom he’d been talking with before Buffy had interrupted. “Mrs. Monroe, I’d like to introduce you to my . . . wife, Elizabeth. Elizabeth,” he turned his eyes down to Buffy once again, his eyebrow quirking. “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Munroe . . . Katie.”

As he murmured her name, Spike’s left hand let loose its grip on Buffy’s bicep, his fingers tracing along her arm, down to her hand, where he threaded them through hers. He let his other hand drop free, and he turned her toward the young woman that she seemed so eager to meet, but he kept a tight hold of her one hand, just in case. He wasn’t sure what was running through the Slayer’s brain right now, but he didn’t want to take any chances. She’d already drawn enough unwanted attention.

Buffy continued to exhibit a smile that made a current of nervous energy dash down the length of Spike’s spine. “So nice to meet you, Mrs. Monroe.”

At the calm tone of Buffy’s voice, Spike let loose the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and he released the grip on her hand.

Katie smiled, reaching up to twine a strand of her long red hair around her finger. “Please, call me Katie.”

“Katie,” Buffy said with a slight nod of her head, her smile never wavering.

The redhead appraised Buffy, from the top of her head to the tip of her toes, before looking her square in the eye. “I was just thanking William for his help yesterday evening. I’m not sure what I would have done without him.”

“Yes.” Buffy drew the word out slowly, pulling her hand free of Spike’s and crossing her arms under her breasts. Her bright, fake smile faded. “Mr. Helpful, that’s my . . . husband.”

Katie smirked, her eyes narrowing. “I hope it wasn’t too much of an imposition.”

Buffy’s jaw clenched. “You—”

“It wasn’t an imposition at all,” Spike inserted, stepping in between the two women. “It was my pleasure. What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t come to the assistance of a lady in distress?”

He shot Buffy a warning look from the corner of his eye as she let out a loud snort.

Katie glanced at Buffy, then back to Spike. As her eyes met his she fluttered her lashes coquettishly. “Why, William, you flatter me.”

“Oh, please—” Buffy began.

Spike whirl about and face the Slayer. “Elizabeth, don’t you need to get back to the wagon?”

Buffy’s mouth fell open.

“I’m sure something there needs tending.” Spike continued. His back to Katie, he spoke slowly, his eyes urging her to listen to the message hidden between his words.

Buffy’s eyes darted from Spike to Katie. Her jaw worked for a second, opening and closing, then she sputtered, “Tending?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Spike nodded, approaching Buffy. “Now run along and I’ll be there shortly. I have somethin' to discuss with Mrs. Monroe.”

“Well, I have somethin' to discuss with you,” Buffy huffed, her face now white with rage.

Spike took a step closer, leaning in to her. He could feel the heat of her anger radiating off her face, as he brushed his lips against her cheek. “Buffy, jus’ get back to the wagon, I’ll explain later.” He waited for a moment, then even softer murmured, “Trust me, I have a plan.” After a moment, when her fierce gaze didn’t alter, he added, “Please?”

He felt Buffy’s anger begin to dissipate, her narrowed eyes softening, just a bit. He let out a sigh of relief, smiled, and chucked her under the chin. “Run along now,” he said, in a louder voice. “We may have a few more hours this mornin’ to ready ourselves ‘cause of the Turner’s axle needin’ fixed, but Mr. Masterson and Shay will expect us to be ready to go when they call out.”

“Yes, William,” Buffy said, tightly. Before Spike could draw away from her, however, she hauled him to her by the collar of his shirt, whispering in his ear. “You have a lot of explaining to do, Mr. Helpful. And if you ever talk to me again like I’m a brain dead mule, I will cut off your balls with a rusty knife and serve them to sweet, little Katie over there on a platter. Capice?” In an effort that Spike was sure was only for the benefit of their audience, she pecked a chaste kiss on his cheek before pulling back from him.

They stood nose to nose for a long moment, before Spike sighed and turned on his heel, stalking back towards Katie. “I’ll see you back at the wagon,” he said dismissively over his shoulder.

As he neared the redhead he heard the swish of Buffy’s skirts as she turned, tromping off to make her way back across the camp to their wagon. He hadn’t a clue as to what had gotten into the Slayer and why she was acting like she’d sat on a hornet’s nest.

Just when he thought he was figuring the Slayer out, she went and tore all his assumptions to shreds. He thought she’d finally begun to trust him. Thought they’d forged a truce; a mutual understanding that they were in this situation together and had to work as allies if they had any hope of finding there way home. Obviously, to her, he was still just the monster she had to keep an eye on. Heart beat or no, soul or no, to the Slayer he would always be one stake short of the dusting he so richly deserved. His jaw muscle tightened and he stretched the muscles in his neck to help ease the tension.

Whatever the Slayer’s problem was, however, was going to have to wait. He needed to talk with Shay – time was wasting and they needed to begin to figure their way out of this situation. If yesterday was any indication, this trip was not something that either of them was going to be able to get through without serious risk to life and limb. They might have been able to handle it before, if whatever had happened to them had left them as they were – a slayer and a vampire. But as humans, not versed in the ways of this time, not hardened to the life that now faced them, it was only a matter of time before one of them got hurt—or worse. If Shay couldn’t give them a clue as to what had happened to them, then Spike knew he had start looking for ways of getting them off this wagon train and into a safer environment.

He’d been up most of last night; unable to sleep as he worried not only about his changing relationship with Buffy, but also the responsibility that came hand-in-hand with those changes. Like it or not, and for whatever reason, he had feelings of affection for the Slayer – even now, as angry he as was. But in this situation, when he felt the rush to protect her, his humanity weighed him down like an anchor. His biggest fear now was not being there for her—not being able to take care of her—when she most needed him.

Spike knew, if he confided in her, told her any of this, Buffy would give him nothing but a swift punch in the nose for his troubles. She could take care of herself, she’d declare, after belting him another one, no doubt. But Spike knew his weaknesses now, and he just as surely knew Buffy’s.
He may not have been a gentleman for many years, but now his every instinct drove him to protect her. Old, noble habits, were, indeed, hard to break.

“You’re a million miles away.” Katie’s dulcet tones drew him from his thoughts and he realized he’d been staring off to hills beyond her wagon.

“Beg your pardon,” he smiled sheepishly.

“No, I’m the one that should be sorry. I seem to have caused some problems between you and your wife.” She didn’t look sorry. and her smile held the promise of causing even more problems, of a particularly pleasurable variety.

“Not at all. Buffy… ah, Elizabeth is just—”

“High strung,” Katie supplied with a smirk.

Spike grinned. “Yeah, that’s a good way of sayin’ it.”

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, William, but it seems to me that a man like you needs someone that’s a bit more … How shall I say this?” She tilted her head and her smirk turned to soft smile, her eyelids lowering a bit to stare intently at him. “Accommodating?”

Spike’s jaw dropped a fraction of an inch and he felt his newly beating heart speed up. It had been a long time since a woman had so blatantly come on to him, and he felt his body responding to the offer. It had also been far too long since he’d made love to a woman, and Katie was a temptation he was finding hard to resist. His cock strained against the fabric of his jeans and he wondered what harm there could be in partaking of the pleasure this woman was so obviously offering.

As a vampire, he’d have known the answer to this question before it was even asked. Now, however, it was more difficult. He didn’t feel guilty about his attraction to this woman, even though he knew he probably should. Hadn’t he just admitted to himself that he felt something for Buffy? He would not, could not, label those feelings as love, but they were something and that made lusting after another woman wrong. Wasn’t it?

He wondered, not for the first time, how humans could deal with these moral ambiguities on a daily basis. It was so much easier being evil.

A movement caught Spike’s eye and he turned to watch the elderly shaman approach Katie’s wagon, carrying a small burlap sack in one hand, while a rifle rested in the crook of his other arm. For now, anyway, he’d have to put his feelings for Buffy and his lust for Katie on the back burner. Right now he had to quiz the old man on what he knew about his and Buffy’s displacement to this time and maybe, just maybe, find a way out of this mess.

To Be Continued

Chapter 12: I Feel the Summer in the Spring

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Wanna talk with you a bit, if you don’ mind.” Spike watched as Shay dropped the burlap sack into the back of Katie’s wagon and turned to face him.

Katie had retreated to the wagon when Shay arrived, wishing Spike a good day with a smile that continued the flirtation she'd begun earlier.

At Spike’s words, Shay nodded his head and moved away from the wagon toward the two harnessed horses. “You want to know more about the dream,” he said without prompting.

“Yes. Spike said, following behind the older man. “The dream you mentioned to Bu—Elizabeth.”

The old shaman smiled at Spike’s slight slip. “You don’t need to hide from me, young man.”

Spike narrowed his eyes.

“I know what I know,” the old man murmured in return to the suspicious look. Turning from Spike, he scratched behind the ear of the large while draft horse. “I know you and your woman do not belong here.”

“From the dream? You know this from the dream?” Spike couldn’t quite keep the eagerness from his voice.

“Yes. A dream. The truth comes to me that way, sometimes, in dreams.”

“The truth?”

Spike watched as Shay ran his hand over the rump of the large draft horse, stroking the sleek hide of the animal before tugging at the tracings and girth strap to make sure they were secure.

“You haven’t forgotten.” He didn’t look at Spike, continuing his appraisal of the horse and tack.

Spike’s eyes darted to the horse, then back to Shay. “I haven’t forgotten what?”

“It’s been a long time since you’ve done this, but you haven’t forgotten.”

Spike’s mouth fell open. “You know—”

“The way things were, the way things are, the way things will be.” The old man turned from the animal to look at Spike. “You will walk all three roads before you find what is lost.”

“The only thing lost is us. None of this makes any sense.” Spike huffed, turning away from the man and kicking at the ground, a small cloud of dust rising about his boots. “Nothing’s lost.”

Shay frowned, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening as he watched Spike pace back and forth. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps that is the truth you need to find.”

Spike looked up, his blue eyes dark with frustration. The shaman caught his gaze and held it for several long seconds, before the younger man looked away, once again digging the toe of his boot into the soft dirt. “This is a bloody ridiculous. Nothing but mystical mumbo-jumbo that I haven’t got time for.”

Shay smiled patiently, tilting his head to watch the younger man. “To find your way, your destiny? I would think time a small price to pay. Especially for one who has an abundance of such currency.”

Blue and brown eyes once again caught and held.

“Maybe once, old man.” Spike let out a breath, then lowered his eyes. “Not so much now.”

“You speak of the ticking of a clock, the turning of a calendar’s pages,” Shay said, shaking his head.

Spike snorted. “Yeah, well, time is somethin’ we’re runnin’ out of. Buffy and I, we can’t stay here. We need to get back . . . back to our time. How the bloody hell are we supposed to do that?”

“Using your gift, what you hold inside yourself. The tools you need to get home are with you, they always have been.” The shaman turned to walk away.

Spike stalked over and grabbed the old man by the arm, swinging him around to face him. “Who are you? Fucking Glinda, the good witch? Right. Let me just find that yellow brick road and Buffy and I will skip on out of here.”

Shay gazed down at where Spike’s fingers wrapped around his upper arm. “I know of no witch. I know only what my dreams have spoken to me – only what I have seen for you and your woman. No yellow road, only a path you seem destined to walk together, each finding your own way. Your own truth. When you have accomplished that, only then, will you be home.”

The older man never took his eyes off Spike’s hand, until at last, his fingers relaxed and he released his grip. Spike sighed, pushing the Stetson back and looked up into the fierce sunlight.

“There is one thing more.”

Spike took a deep breath and, still squinting from the sun, looked back at Shay. When the man remained silent, he shrugged. “You gonna tell me, or do I have to guess?”

The shaman smiled. “A coin. The beginning, the middle, and the end of your journey is tied to this coin. Follow it, and find your destiny.”

Spike blinked, then, his eyes narrowing, he shoved his hand deep into the pocket of his duster, pulling out an old, gold coin. Placing the coin in the calloused palm of his hand, he turned it over, studying the symbol, a knot that was deeply etched into the metal.

“I was holdin’ this when everything fell away … when we ended up here.”

Shay nodded. “Perhaps this is the yellow road of which you spoke.” He picked up his rifle and cradled it in the crook of his arm.

Spike looked up at the man, his hand still open, the coin in his palm, shimmering in the bright sunlight. “Yeah,” he sighed, wetting his lips, then looking back down at the coin. “There’s a symbol on it.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“No.” Spike plucked the coin from his palm, taking a closer look. “Just a knot, on one side. Some markings on the other. Chinese. Never learned the bloody language, now I wish I’d taken the time. Doesn’t look familiar to me. Maybe with some research . . .” He snorted then, closing his fist around the coin. “Never a Watcher around when you really need one.”

“I know of someone who might be able to help,” Shay offered. “There is man, in a town we will be passing through a few days journey from here. He is the banker, but I know that he collects coins. Perhaps he could help you with the history of that one.”

Spike raised a brow. “Know this man well, do you?”

“Well enough. I have played poker with him from time to time.”

Frowning, Spike stepped closer to the old man, the coin still held tight in his fist. “How’d you come to know about this hobby of his?”

Shay shrugged. “Mr. Grogan is a fine man. He is also a fine banker. He is not so fine a poker player. I have accepted, in payment for wagers lost, some of these coins that he collects.”

Spike gave a rueful smile and slipped the fist holding the coin into back into his duster pocket. “I see. And you’ll introduce me to this banker friend of yours?”

Shay nodded, his weathered face, showing no emotion.

“Well,” Spike sighed. “Guess that’s a start, innit?”

Shay smiled softly then, and turned and walked away. “Yes,” he murmured, the words drifting back over his shoulder to Spike. “It is a start.”

To Be Continued
 

Chapter 13: People Will Say We're In Love

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Haven’t you got somethin’ to 'tend to'?” Buffy muttered in a bad imitation of Spike’s English accent. She grunted mirthlessly, tossing items around the interior of the wagon, searching for her sun bonnet. She picked up one of Spike’s shirts and grabbed it with both hands by the hem, intending to rip it in half. She stopped, the fabric taught in her grasp as she realized she’d probably be the one that ended up having to mend it. Crumpling it into a ball, she tossed it across the wagon, where it ended in a heap next to one of the flour kegs.

“Oh, I’m gonna ‘tend’ to something alright,” she snarled, continuing to take out her rage on every helpless inanimate object within her reach. “When we get back home I’m gonna ‘tend’ to kicking your ass halfway across Sunnydale.”

At last she found the well-worn bonnet and pulled it on, jerking the strings tightly under her chin. Hearing the heavy tromping of Spike’s boots as he climbed up into the wagon, she turned slowly, her eyes narrowing. She took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly through her nose, as she watched him pull himself into the opening at the back of the wagon and straighten as much as he could, his hat brushing the canvas wagon cover.

When his eyes met hers, she jutted out her chin angrily.

He snorted, pulling the Stetson from his head. “See you’re in your usual lovely mood.”

“Oh, you've got a lot of nerve,” she snarled, placing her hands on her hips and glaring at him. She was fairly vibrating with anger.

“Me?” Spike squeaked, his voice climbing dangerously high. “What the bloody hell did I do other than try to help find us a way out of this hellhole?" As an afterthought, he added, "Despite your blundering in an’ doin’ your best at muckin’ up my plans.”

“Plans,” she laughed nastily. “The only plans I saw you making were to bee-line it over to chat up the merry widow.” Buffy turned from him and fell to her knees, her skirts billowing about her, as she busied her hands straightening the cotton blankets and bedroll that Spike slept on.

Despite the angry words, Spike couldn’t help but hear the wounded tone of her voice. He blinked, confused. An angry slayer he could handle, but he had no clue how to handle a hurt one. Perhaps a dose of patience was in order. He took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice calm. “I thought maybe she could –”

“Oh, I know what you thought she could do for you.” Buffy looked up at him accusingly. “What were you thinking? No, don’t answer that. You weren’t thinking. At least not with your head.” She looked pointedly at his groin.

Spike jerked the duster closed, effectively blocking her view.

“These people think we’re married,” Buffy continued, looking up into his eyes. “How is it supposed to look to them with you . . . ” She shook her head, throwing up her hands up in exasperation. “I can’t believe you were over there getting a hard-on for that hose-bag.”

Spike’s brows rose, his eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. He stared at her for a long moment, before his mouth snapped shut. “Well,” he spat, tossing his hat across the wagon where it hit the side board and bounced to the floor. “I can’t believe you get all juicy for Captain Cardboard, but different strokes for different folks I guess.” So much for patience.

Buffy’s face reddened, her eyes glistening with emotion. She struggled to her feet, tossing the blanket onto the floor between them, and kicking the sleeping roll. “Make your own bed, you pig.”

Spike looked at the mess of blankets, then back at Buffy. He closed his eyes, huffing out a breath in frustration. “Buffy, I’m trying to understand what’s got your knickers in a twist, I really am.” He shrugged the duster off, tossing it aside. “Maybe I should ha’ told you what I planned to do. Didn’t think it was that big a deal. I was jus’ talkin’ to the woman. I wasn’ gettin’ –”

“Please, Spike,” Buffy turned her back to him. “I’m not a child. I’m also not stupid. I know what you . . . got.”

Spike tilted his head, studying the rigid line of her back. He drew his lower lip through his teeth as he tried to think of something to say. She was right, after all. He had been attracted, physically, to Katie. And Buffy had caught him. But the memory of Buffy’s kiss, her body pressed intimately to his, made him realize that it wasn’t just Katie that had stirred his flesh. The widow might have lit a spark in him, but Buffy had ignited a raging forest fire.

“Wasn’ jus’ her,” he finally said softly.

Buffy turned back to him, incredulous. “Are you comparing me—”

“No.” He held up a hand, cutting off a tirade. “Just sayin’ . . . I’m a man, Buffy.”

She tilted her head, frowning. “So you’re saying, sometimes an erection is just an erection?”

His lips twisted into a smile. “Not exactly how I’d have put it, but, yeah.”

“Uhmm,” she nodded, looking down at her feet. “And the rest of the wagon train,” she continued, finally looking up, the small, tight smile on her lips wasn’t reflected in her eyes, “are they supposed to understand this whole ‘men will be assholes’ scenario? They’re just supposed to understand why Elizabeth’s hubby is off getting groiny with Ms. Community Chest?”

“Not what I was doin’. . . and you sure that’s what’s got you all wound up?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She snapped.

The tip of Spike’s tongue ran over the edge of his upper teeth, “Jus’ thinkin’ this is a tempest in a teapot an’ you’re gettin’ way too bent out of shape over it. Sure there isn’t more to it than what you’re sayin’?”

Buffy’s breathing deepened, her chest rising and falling visibly beneath the cotton of her gown. “You’re saying I’m jealous? Of you and –”

“Didn’ say that, now did I?” Spike interrupted. “Just sayin’ that perhaps you’re a little stressed. Hell, we both are. Overreactin’ an’ lashin’ out at each other’s not gettin’ us anywhere.”

Turning from him again, Buffy walked over to the feather tick. Spike could feel the anger draining from her and he let out a sigh. She looked back at him.

“Can we jus’ agree that we both stepped outta bounds?” He watched as she blinked at him slowly. “Need to work together here, Buffy. We’re never gonna get outta this mess if we keep bangin’ heads.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then she sighed. “Fine,” she said, as she plopped down onto the feather tick, her hands folded in her lap, limply. As Spike stepped toward her, her head snapped up and she caught his eye. “But. I’m. Not. Jealous. Got that?”

Spike fought to hide a smile. “Got it.”

Relief flooded his body. He’d escaped from the battled nearly unscathed. Not that he hadn’t deserved the bite she took out of his ass. It was just always nice to slip away with his bits and pieces intact, especially where the Slayer was concerned.

He sat down on the floor next to the tick. “Wanna hear what I got from Shay?”

She shrugged, falling back to lean on her elbows. “Sure, why not. Did he tell you about the dream?”

“Yeah. Bottom line? Seems we’ve got some work to do to get outta here.”

“Work?” Buffy sat us suddenly. “What kinda work? Cause, you know, I’ve had it about up to here,” she made a slicing gesture with her hand across her neck, “with the frontier version of the women’s movement. I have dust in places that I didn’t even know I had places. And really, riding in a wagon all day makes slaying look like a walk in the park.”

“I was speakin’ of work in the metaphorical sense. Shay seems to think that we were sent here on some sort of journey, seeking out the truth.”

“What? No seeking out Justice and the American Way, as well?”

“Not yet. Wait though. The day is young.” Spike reached over to grab his hat off the floor where it had landed, dusting off the brim. “Seriously, he didn’t really have a clue why we’re here, other than some mystical humbug about a journey where we find our destiny,” he finished with a snort.

“Our destiny?” Buffy’s eyes widened. “'Our’ as in you and me? Wait, that can’t be right, because we definitely do not have a destiny … not together. Maybe separate destinies. Separate, completely different, totally apart destinies.”

Spike eyed her, his brows drawn together. “Right, got that, Buffy. Two destinies, hopefully on different continents.”

“That would be nice.” She nodded, satisfied. “What about the coin?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “More o’ the same, pet. Somethin’ about it bein’ the beginnin’, middle an’ end of our journey. Shay gave me the name of a man. Fella by the name ofGrogan. He’s the banker in a town that we’ll be passin’ through. Might be able to help decipher the symbol, maybe what’s written on the other side.”

Buffy sighed, frowning.

“I know,” Spike twirled his Stetson in his hands, focusing on it and not the sour expression on Buffy’s face. “Best we can do for now, luv. Can’t see we have much other choice than meet up with this bloke and see if he can tell us something we don’t already know.”

Buffy grabbed the hat from Spike's hands and placed it on his head, drawing the brim down low over his brow. “How many days until we reach this town?”

Spike shrugged, straightening the hat on his head. “A coupla days. Maybe longer, dependin’ on the weather. Why?”

“Because after we talk to this Mr. Grogan,” Buffy said grimly, “I’m gonna find the nearest hotel, with the biggest bathtub, and I’m gonna soak in it for, like, four weeks.”

To Be Continued
 

Chapter 14: There's Bound to be Rough Waters

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Another long, hot, grueling day finally ground to an end. Buffy almost wept with joy when Shay rode by to tell them that the caravan was stopping early because yet another traveler had broken a wagon wheel. Spike had offered his assistance, but Shay insisted that Mr. Reynolds and his three sons had the situation well in hand.

Watching Spike jump off the wagon to tend to the horses, Buffy admitted to herself, albeit begrudgingly, that the ex-vamp was proving to be a surprisingly helpful travel companion. It was obvious now that he didn’t just jump to the aid of beautiful young widows; in fact, he was making himself quite useful with all of the wagon train travelers. He often rose before dawn to help Shay and Matthew with the harnessing the teams of some of the other families – those talents, learned long ago, came in handy in the service of those not quite as adept with horses as he was.

It seemed that Spike also now shared a sort of camaraderie with the other men of the train—
a camaraderie that Buffy actually envied. It wasn’t that she was averse to making friends with the other women on the train, it was just that between the exhaustion of the physical labor and the hours spent either readying for the day’s activities, enduring them, or making camp, there was little time for ‘girl talk.’

Not that she had an inkling as to what to talk about with these women. They seemed, to Buffy, to be little more than an extension of the men in their lives. The cooking, cleaning, mending extension. And while she was now the queen of the campfire and could actually make the morning coffee without it burning and bubbling over, Buffy still felt odd and out of place. Not that that feeling was anything new to her. Feeling odd, out of place, less than normal, was par for the course for the Chosen One. Came part and parcel with the stake and cross she carried on her every hour of every day. Now, here she was, a simple human being again. No calling, other than to get through the day and still she felt at odds with herself. Out of place. It didn’t seem fair. But when had life ever been fair?

She arched her aching back and took a moment to look around at the landscape. Saw-grass rippled in the slight breeze—a hint of fall rustling the leaves of the trees. There was still some daylight left and she looked at the sun as it sat low in the sky, framed by large puffy clouds and brilliant blue skies.

“Daydreamin’ won’t get your work done, Slayer.”

She looked down at Spike, his eyes almost as blue as the sky she’d just pulled her attention from. “I know.” She sighed, pulling herself to the edge of the wagon seat, as Spike raised his arms to grasp her about the waist and help her from the wagon.

Spike, his hands still resting gently on her hips, tilted his head and gave her a look. “Happy we stopped early, yeh?”

“Oh, yeah.” She smiled, though her face clearly showed her weariness.

He reached up, pushing her sun bonnet back, and brushed his fingers through the long fringe of bangs that fell across her forehead and into her eyes. “Today was rough. Think you got more sun than you needed.” At her look, he raised his brows. “Told you go into the wagon for a bit. Stubborn bint.”

Buffy blew out a puff of air, her bangs barely ruffling off her sweaty brow. “Well, remind me next time not to be so . . . Oh, yeah, I do feel a little—” As her words faded she swayed against Spike, reaching out and grasping his upper arms for support.

“Whoa there, Slayer.” Before Buffy could object, Spike scooped her up into his arms and moved to a small copse of trees near where the wagon stopped. Setting her gently on the ground, he knelt beside her. She struggled to sit up and without much effort Spike pushed her back down. “Just lay back. You’re not lookin’ so good.”

Her eyelids drooping, Buffy looked up at Spike, his face swimming in and out of focus. As he moved to stand up, she grasped his hand pulling him back to his knees beside her. “Don’t go,” she mumbled, her mouth feeling suddenly very dry. “I don’t feel—”

“I know, pet. Just lay still. You got a bit too much sun is all. Let me loosen this a bit.” His fingers worked the buttons at the throat of her cotton dress, then folded the fabric back, exposing the blotchy skin of her throat and chest. “Gonna go get you some water, sweetheart.”

Buffy nodded, but tightened her clench on his hand.

“Gotta let go, pet.” Spike smiled, his other hand prying her fingers from his flesh. “Promise I’ll be right back. Just goin’ to the wagon for some water.”

Buffy nodded, closing her eyes against the dizziness, her tongue darting out to lick at her parched lips. She slowly released his hand, immediately missing the reassuring touch of his calloused skin on hers. The world continued to pitch and heave under her, and it seemed hours before, at last, Spike took her hand again in his.

Crooking his other hand under her neck, Spike raised her head off the ground, and her lips touched the cool surface of a tin coffee cup. The water, while warm from being in the side barrel of the wagon all, still felt incredibly refreshing to her. Spike only let her sip, even though she would have loved to have gulped the entire cup in one swallow.

“Easy there. Jus’ a bit at a time, Buffy.”

Her eyes opened and she watched as Spike’s face eased into focus. Taking a few more sips of water, she attempted what she hoped was a smile. “Better,” she mumbled, her lips still feeling dry and slightly numb. It was an odd, disorienting feeling and she hated how weak and tired it left her.

Spike settled onto the ground beside her and pulled her into his arms, so that her head rested on his lap, her cheek pressed against his stomach. Buffy felt the coolness of a wet cloth dabbed against the flushed skin of her cheek and then her neck.

“She is feeling better?”

The voice was Shay’s and Buffy could tell that he was standing near them, but she couldn’t seem to find the energy to turn her head in his direction.

“Yes, she is.” Buffy felt the rumbling of Spike’s voice against her cheek. Gruff, but warm and somehow comforting. “Jus’ a touch too much sun. Be right as rain in a bit.”

Shay’s soft footsteps faded away and she was left alone with Spike. They sat like this for several minutes, as Spike continued to move the cool, wet cloth across her brow and cheek.

“I’m sorry about this,” she mumbled at last, turning her face into him, hiding away from the blue of his eyes.

Spike quirked an eye-brow at her. “What have you got to be sorry ‘bout?”

She drew in a deep breath and then sat up slowly, pulling herself out of his arms, although he continued to steady her with a hand to the small of her back. She sighed. “Going all weak-kneed and swoony on you.”

“Wasn’ weak-kneed or vapid, luv.” Spike frowned. “Jus’ a touch too much sun and heat today. Happens to the best of us.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t happen to me.” She frowned, her chin trembling slightly has she fought back the unwanted tears that threatened. “Well, not normally.” She smoothed the fabric of her cotton dress around her knees, blinking back the evidence of her emotions, and looked up at Spike. “But I guess I have to redefine ‘normal’ these days.”

“Guess we both do.” His voice was soft, and he still looked worried, the crinkles around his eyes deepened into a frown of his own. “Think we have, in fact. Think we’ve done quite well, considerin’”

Buffy looked at him dubiously, taking the cloth from his hand and pressing it to the skin of her chest. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Spike rocked to his knees, then stood, reaching down to grasp Buffy’s hand and pull her to her feet. “Well, I know. Trust me. We’re doin’ fine. And we’ll be doin’ even better once we talk to Mr. Grogan.” Before Buffy could complain, the ex-vampire swung her into his arms, striding back to the wagon. “Gonna get you outta the sun. You’ll feel like a new Slayer in the mornin’”

She bit back the response that she didn’t even feel like the old Slayer these days, realizing that whining wasn’t going to make things better. And actually, things were better. Even if only slightly. They had at least a hint of hope that this Grogan fellow might be able to help them decipher the coin that Spike and Shay seemed so sure was the origin of their mishap in time.

In fact, in the last few days since their argument over Katie, things had even gotten better with Spike. Despite her ability to hold a grudge and Spike’s ability to annoy her by just, well, existing, they’d managed to push those differences aside and work together. Fear and loneliness had been excellent motivators. They really did only have each other, and the business of simply surviving another day took precedent over their long running mutual animosity.

Not that Buffy had given in too easily. She’d let loose with a few well placed barbs, her razor sharp tongue slicing through her good intentions like a knife through butter. But Spike had, uncharacteristically, turned the other cheek and managed to maintain his good humor and even helped to cultivate hers.

Who knew there were that many dirty limericks?

Buffy wasn’t sure what was improving his disposition. Perhaps it was the soul? Or maybe it was just the joy he must be feeling at being human. Because what a joy it must have been, to now be able to walk in the sunlight, to feel his heart beating.

She could feel his heart now, beating against her own ribs, steady and strong. Her fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders as he lifted her higher into the opening of the wagon, and she studied with fascination the movement of muscles in his forearms.

“You stay put; I’ll get supper started—”

She shook her head. “No, Spike, I can—”

“You,” he pointed his finger, tapping her nose, “will stay put for a while. Get your energy back.” He went to the side of the wagon, pouring another cup of water and bringing it back to her. “Sip this, then I’ll get you some more. Once we get you hydrated and fed, you’ll feel a lot better.”

Buffy clutched the tin cup in both hands. “I—” she hesitated, her eyes moving from the water to his eyes. She chewed pensively on her bottom lip, then took a deep breath. “Thank you, Spike. I know—”

The ex-vamp waved her off, turning to step away. “No need—”

“Yes, there is a need.” She caught him by his sleeve. “I know I haven’t been . . . well,” Buffy’s eyes dropped to the tin cup held tightly in her hands. She knew she wouldn’t be able to finish if she continued looking into those concerned blue eyes. “. . . the most pleasant person to be with since this whole thing started. It’s just . . . it hasn’t been easy for me to lose everything.” Her hands shook, the water spilling onto her wrist. She took a deep, shakey breath and forged ahead. “To not be the Slayer. To have to rely on you . . .” Her eyes flashed to his for a second, then back to her hands. “But it’s not just you, not really. It’s having to rely someone else, anyone else, to take care of me . . .” She looked up then, her mouth tightening into a thin line, as she fought to keep herself from trembling, her eyes daring him to make light of her vulnerability.

“Thought we’d agreed we were a team, yeh? That means we’re takin’ care of each other, Slayer.” The tone of his voice drew here eyes back to his. His eyes were narrowed, piercing, as if they’d found a route straight to her heart. “And you’re still the Slayer. That’s not something anyone or anything can take from you. Trust me on this, luv, you are still the Chosen One.” His gaze softened a bit, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “Appointed and anointed to be a royal pain in my arse until the day I dust.”

Buffy tilted her head, a smile slowing growing. “Yeah?”

Spike huffed out a breath, raising his eyebrows, but smiling back at her. “Yeah, Slayer. Now get your ass in that wagon. You need anything before I go out to gather some wood for the fire?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Well, not unless you can round up a hot shower and a big bottle of shampoo. Oh, and conditioner. Redken, if they have it.” As if to emphasis her distress, she reached up and scratched her scalp.

“Sorry, luv, I don’t think …” Spike paused, casting a look over his shoulder to the copse of trees they’d sat next to. When he looked back it was with a grin that she’d never quite witnessed from him before. “You stay put. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

She watched, opened mouthed, as he trotted off towards the trees. As he disappeared within their depths she frowned, calling out, “Wait. Two shakes of what?”

To Be Continued
 

Chapter 15: From Lips I've Never Owned

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It didn’t take Spike long to carry the two pails of water from the river. As rivers went, it wasn’t very impressive; following the line of trees at a leisurely pace, at times no more than four to five feet wide. But the water was fresh, running clear and cold.

When he arrived back at the wagon he found that Buffy had succumbed to the punishment of the day’s hard physical labor. She was curled on her side on the feather tick, her hands folded, as if in prayer, tucked under her chin.

Spike paused for a moment, watching the slight, steady movement of her chest as she breathed. It hadn’t really hit him until he was standing by the river’s edge; the fear flooding through him, causing his muscles to tense, his breath quickening.

It was a simple reaction to the adrenaline, his logical mind told him. His heart argued that it was something far more. It wasn’t as if she’d almost died – a bit of heat exhaustion, quickly dealt with. But it could have been worse, and it was this fact that brought forth in Spike’s mind a myriad of dangerous situations in which Buffy could fall prey.

His biggest fear was now exposed, like a raw nerve. Buffy, admitting her feelings of vulnerability to him, had opened the wound even further. She was depending him to make things right; to take care of her. While her belief in him made Spike proud—producing an overwhelming urge to throw out his chest and trumpet the news to anyone within hearing distance—it also scared him right down to the marrow of his bones. Could he protect her? Was he strong enough? The idea of having to live up to her belief in him left Spike doubting himself, cloaked in feelings of frailty and weakness he hadn’t experienced in over a century.

Protect her.

My arch nemesis.

My ‘chosen’ executioner.

Even now, his mind screamed that it was wrong. Emotionally, however, he knew that nothing had ever felt so true. Circumstances had conspired to place his heart into the palm of his sworn enemy. It was as it was, and Spike knew from years of experience, that in matters of the heart he had no more control than he had over the rising of the sun. He could try to fight it, but ultimately he knew he would end up under the heel of love. It seemed to be his destiny.

Spike’s eyes focused once more on the wellspring of this emotion. Tiny but fierce—his warrior princess. She would, of course, cleave him in two if she even suspected his feelings for her. She might accept him now, forced into this situation, buffered by the fact that he was now human, but Spike would not fool himself into thinking it was more than that. Her heart was surely hardened against him, forever, as he was the creature she was destined to destroy.

Her destiny.

His destiny.

Spike took in a sharp breath.

Their destiny.

He shook his head, firmly pushing any thoughts that the two of them could form some sort of alliance out of him mind, his heart. They needed each other now, but when they found there way out of this mess, they would go back to life as it was; as it was meant to be. Slayer and vampire. A chipped, hobbled, harmless vampire, but still a vampire. Perhaps they were no longer sworn enemies, he conceded, but to presume more than that would only lead him further info the dangerous territory he now skirted.

He had to keep focused on the goal. Getting her home. Anything else, well, it was just foolish. Like spitting into the wind. Better to work towards finding their way out here, and getting Buffy back on her feet was the first step in that process. She may question her strength right now; her ability to survive in this place and time. But Spike hadn’t been lying to her; he knew that in her soul she was still the Slayer. Now he just had to get her to believe it.

Heading back to the camp site, Spike began gathering what little fallen wood there was and built another fire, beside the one that was already blazing away. He hung the two large pails of water over the flames, then went about pulling together a meager meal of beans and biscuits left over from breakfast. Kneeling, he stirred the now glowing embers of the older fire, causing them to hiss and snap, as if angry with him for disturbing them

He’d been kneeling there, gazing into the dancing flames, his mind miles and years away, thinking things a vampire should never, ever think, when a small voice drew him back, away from his pleasant, but inconceivable imaginings.

“Anything I can help with?”

Spike jumped up and spun around to find Buffy, leaning on the wagon, her dress and hair still rumpled from her nap. He took a step toward her but she held up a hand, warding him off.

“I’m okay. Is that dinner?”

Spike nodded. “Yeah, wasn’ sure if you’d be up for anythin’, but jus’ in case—”

Buffy’s hand fluttered to her stomach and she shook her head. “Not right now, maybe in a while. I still feel a little queasy.”

“O’ course,” Spike turned and removed the food from the flames, placing it on a small pile of rocks beside the fire pit. “It’ll stay warm for a while. When you’re ready.”

“What’s that?” Buffy pointed at the other fire and the two pails that were now steaming and bubbling atop the flames.

“Jus’ . . . you mentioned that you …. ” A lump formed in his throat, threatening to drown out his words and he coughed to cover it. He fisted his hands, then stretched them open, at last jamming them into the pockets of his jeans.

“Spike?” Buffy tilted her head as she took a step toward him.

Spike shuddered, like a dog shedding water from its coat, then jerked a hand from the pocket of his jeans to gesture towards to the pails of water. “Can’t help with a hot bath, but thought maybe you’d like to, well, clean up as best you can. Maybe wash your hair? Could help you with that.” His voice caught again and he cleared his throat

Buffy looked from the ex-vamp to the steaming water, then back again. “That’s hot water? Hot water that isn’t for cooking or cleaning dishes? Hot water I can . . . bathe in?” The last words were whispered reverently.

Spike gave a lopsided grin, soaking in Buffy’s obvious joy. “Yes, hot water that you can bathe in.”

Buffy’s eyes darted to the large cask of water on the side of the wagon. “But I thought—”

“Didn’ come from there, luv. Got it from the river.”

She blinked back at him for a second before a small smile began to grow. “Thank you, Spike. I—”

He waived her off. “Nothin’ to it, pet.” He shifted from foot to foot, until he looked back into her eyes. What he saw there sent a small shiver down his back. He tried to shake it off with a laugh. “It was just time we got you washed up a bit.”

Their eyes locked again and Buffy nodded, acknowledging the awkwardness of the moment, but allowing it slide off into humor with a chuckle of her own. As her hands went to the neck line of her dress, Spike’s eyes widened.

“Wha . . . ah, Buffy . . .” he stuttered, as the flesh of her neck and chest appeared and she began to slip the dress off her shoulders. “What are you doin’ pet?”

“I’m taking this dress off so I can get cleaned up.” She laughed as the dingy gown slipped to the ground, leaving her in a white cotton chemise and petticoat. Reaching up, she started removing the wooden pins that held her hair up in the soft knot at her neck, and the honey colored tresses swung free about her shoulders and down her back. “Spike, I don’t know how I’m ever going to be able to thank you for this.”

Spike mouth fell open, one brow rising, as Buffy slowly walked toward him.

To Be Continued
 

Chapter 16:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hot water.

Buffy shivered just thinking about it. Her focus was entirely on the prospect of a bath as she walked past Spike toward the pails of steaming water. Days on the trail, sitting in the hot sun, sweating and toiling along with the rest of the wagon train’s travelers, had left her covered with dust and dirt that she couldn’t wait to scrub off. On the trail water had been a commodity that they couldn’t afford to waste on hygiene, but Buffy had still managed to clean up a bit. Her mother would've called them spit baths. Spike’s label of a ‘whore’s bath,’ while less eloquent, was fairly precise.

“Okay, how do I do this? I mean I know you didn’t carve me a tub while you were walking through the woods. Maybe you can just pour it over me? God I wish I could just jump in.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Spike who was staring at her, his mouth open, a blank look on his face. “What?”

Spike blinked at her. Once. Twice. Thrice.

He seemed no nearer speech than when she first turned and Buffy squinted at him, at last noticing his eyes seemed focused a bit below eye level. She glanced down at herself, clad in her chemise and petticoat, then back up to Spike.

“This?” She plucked at her chemise. “Spike I can’t wash with that dress on. There is grit that is hermetically sealed to me. I’m talking industrial strength loofah time.” When his expression didn’t change, she continued. “Come on, I’ve had flannel nightgowns that show more skin than this.”

Spike’s mouth snapped shut, the glaze in his gaze drifting away as his eyes rose to meet hers. Buffy wasn’t sure, but it seemed his entire body tensed, although the only sign was a small muscle in his cheek twitching. Before she could object, he’d grabbed her by the arm and drawn her away from the fire toward the rear of the wagon.

“Doesn’t matter what you think, Slayer. Only matters what everyone else thinks. To those folks out there, you’re walkin’ around nearly starkers.” His furtive glance out to the circle of wagons alerted her to the seriousness of the situation.

“Sorry.” She shrugged out of his grasp. “I forgot for a moment that we’re residing temporarily in Repressionsville.”

Spike shot her a look.

“I know, I know. When in Spain . . .”

With a soft laugh, Spike seemed to shake off his annoyance. “That’s ‘when in Rome,’ pet.”

Buffy was happy to see his mood had changed and she smiled back at him. “Here’s one. Cleanliness is next to . . . impossible here. Can we get moving with that hot water?”

“You stay here, eh? The back of the wagon will give you a bit o’ privacy. I’ll get the water.”

She watched as he took his leather gloves from the pocket of his duster and pulled them on. He grabbed the water pails by their handles, pulling them from fire, the steam swirling up and around his hands, wrists, and forearms like serpents.

“Gonna still hafta rough this. There’s some clean rags in the side box and I think some laundry soap. Best I can do.”

He sat one pail on the ground and the other on a small stool he’d pulled from the back of the wagon. Returning to the side of the wagon, he rummaged through the side box and pulled out a lump of something that looked like yellow wax and an arm full of soft, well-worn rags.

She took the items from him, looking at the water then back at him. “I’m not sure . . . what is this?”

“Soap. Well, at least what’s considered soap ‘round here. Mostly used to wash clothes, but I think it will do in a pinch for . . . you and, well, your hair. I can hang a blanket from that limb over there, give you some more privacy and then you can, well, get on with it.”

Buffy scrutinized the soap and make-shift towels, before turning to watch as Spike hopped into the wagon and retrieved the thread-bare blanket from her tick. He then tossed it across the lower branch of the tree near the rear of the wagon. It shielded her from the rest of the camp, but was by no means private to anyone that was behind the wagon. Right now, that was only Spike, and Buffy steeled herself to make-do. She would do anything to get the grit and grime off her and have her hair smelling clean again.

Spike brushed his hands off on the backside of his jeans and turned to Buffy. “I’ll jus’ go, uh, heat up the supper again.” He gestured toward the fire where the meal he’d prepared earlier sat cooling.

He wasn’t half way to the campfire when her voice caught him. “Spike?”

He turned back to her, watching as she looked from the lump of soap in one hand to the toweling in the other. “Yeah,” he offered hesitantly.

Buffy chewed her bottom lip, then looked at him. “I’m not sure I can do this. I mean, shower massages I can handle. Buckets of water, not so much.”

“Wish I could offer you a tub, pet, but this is the best I can do.” The disappointment was clear on his face.

“No, I know that,” Buffy rushed on. “And I really appreciate it. I was just wondering … well, maybe you could help me?”

Spike’s right eyebrow did a slow rise towards his hairline. “Help you?”

“Yeah, well, the bath part I can manage, but the hair washing thingy I might need a hand with. I mean what with those pails looking uber heavy and the whole lack of Slayerish strength these days . . .”

“Guess you could use an extra hand.” Spike smiled at her.

“Or two.” She nodded, looking again at the steaming pails of water.

“Lucky for you, I got a couple to spare.”

“Yeah,” she said, sniffing the soap and wrinkling her nose, “lucky me. Say, what’s this made of?”

Spike grimaced. “Well—”

“No,” Buffy threw up a hand. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“Good choice, luv. Don’t wanna ruin the moment.”

“Nope.” She looked at the soap suspiciously, then back to Spike. “Now how do we do this?”

Spike glanced at the water pails, then back at Buffy. “You’re gonna get wet, no matter how we work this.”

“That’s fine. Get me wet.” Spike smirked, covering it quickly with his hand, and Buffy rushed on. “I mean, baths usually equal wet, so no problem.” She turned away from the ex-vamp, trying to ignore the flush of heat that had suffused her cheeks and hoping that in the dark Spike didn’t notice.

“Sounds good,” Spike said, obviously trying to hide a chuckle, and walked over to pick up the pail of water from the ground at Buffy’s feet. “Best for you to bend over, I think, let me pour the water over your hair, get it wet, then you can wash it.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Buffy nodded, bending forward at the waist, her long blonde hair spilling down to almost touch the ground. She felt a little vulnerable, and more than a tad silly, standing bent over in nothing but her underwear in front of Spike, but she tried to shrug it off. It was either this, or hair that gnomes could build a home in. Besides, she had to admit that Spike had been on his best behavior lately and, anyway, it was just Spike. She tried not worry why his presence had begun causing a little tingle of energy to work its way up her spine.

Spike tested the water to make sure it had cooled enough, then tilted the pail so that the water flowed over Buffy’s head until her hair was completely saturated. Buffy twisted her hair into a pony tail, before standing up and flipping the mass of now dark hair to her back.

She dipped the lump of soap into the remainder of the water from the pail that Spike still held and rubbed her hands together, attempting to work up a lather. After a few moments, Spike took the soap from her, rubbing the now slimy ball onto the leg of his jeans, breaking free the
wax coating that had sealed the soap and creating a lather between his own two hands.

“No fair,” Buffy said, pushing out her lower lip in her trademark pout. “No one said there were tricks involved.” She watched the bubbles of soap grow between his fingers.

Spike shot her back his trademark smirk. “There’s always a trick involved, pet. Just lucky I’m old enough to know 'em. Now turn ‘round.”

Buffy’s eyes widened as she watched his tongue run teasingly along the edges of his upper teeth. When she didn’t move, he took a step closer, his breath fanning her face. The warmth of it caressed her cheeks and for an odd reason she had to fight to keep from leaning into him.

His voice, deep and gravely, pulled her from her trance. “Turn ‘round, luv.”

Turn around, she did, almost as if his voice controlled her, like the strings that controlled a marionette. Before she even had a chance to worry about this, the ex-vamp’s hands were in her hair, his long fingers massaging her scalp. As he worked the lather through her hair, she felt the tightness flow from her muscles, the pressure of his fingers washing away the stress of the day. Without thought, she leaned back into his hands, breathing deeply as his thumb pressed into the nape of her neck and the fingers of his other hand spread and squeezed the thick soap lather into the length of hair that lay against her back.

Buffy vaguely wondered if she had ever felt this good in her entire life—this relaxed. She took in another deep breath, her eyes drifting shut. It was so nice to simply let go, to let this man take care of her. She was tired and achy, and his fingers—caressing her—gave her a brief respite. And his hands felt so strong, so able. So right.

But at the thought of letting go—of handing over control to someone else—something in her tensed. She opened her eyes, and the world swirled and danced in front of her. Legs wobbly, she felt her knees begin to give out and her vision swam into darkness as she felt her head grow light. In that instant, she also felt Spike's hands leave her hair, as he grabbed her about the waist, turning her in his arms, and keeping her from falling by pulling her against him.

Buffy clutched at Spike’s shoulders, her hands moving down to his biceps, her head feeling as if it might float away, filled with nothing but cotton and fog. She pressed her forehead into his chest, taking deep breaths of his familiar scent. The smell of strong coffee, cigarettes, and a touch of whiskey tickled her nose and helped to pull the fragments of her thoughts together.

Her first coherent thought was, where is he getting cigarettes and whiskey?

The second was, how come I never noticed what great arms he had?

The third was, why in the hell am I noticing his arms?

Hesitantly she raised her head, glancing up only to come nose to nose with Spike, his blue eyes filling her vision. Their eyes held, as time seemed to shift to neutral, still and deep like the night that surrounded them.

At his slight movement, Buffy’s eyes flickered downward, watching as his tongue appeared briefly, running over his full lower lip. Spike tightened his hold on her waist and she felt the now wet fabric move against her skin, the heat from his hands searing into her. Her breasts flattened against his chest and she felt the draw of her nipples as they tightened. A sharp tug of desire coursed down through the pit of her stomach to the core of her sex, and she felt the long muscles of her thighs tighten in anticipation.

Spike’s eyes widened, his pupils dilating, swallowing up the deep blue of his iris. His head tilted a bit to the left, and once again Buffy felt the pull—an invisible string drawing her in, until, at last, her lips met his.

For a long moment it was simply that. A small thing. Her lips pressed to his. Warm, soft, and gentle. And then, slowly, it became something else. Something more. Lips moved, slipping and slanting. There was an adjustment of noses and chins. A shifting of hands encircling her back, pulling her hips flush to his. A sliding of her arms up around his neck as warm, soft breaths mingled. Their tongues began gentle explorations of the warmth of each other’s mouths, the softer movements turning to nibbles and nips and bites of lips and jaws and necks.

Buffy’s lips moved from Spike’s neck back to his mouth, her hands moved up to grasp his neck, fingers twisting in to the curls at his nape. His hands followed suit, moving up her back, one hand tangling in the wet strands of her hair, the other flowing up over her shoulder to grasp her neck and pull her lips more firmly against his.

Buffy’s fourth coherent thought was, oh my god oh my god oh my god.

To Be Continued