Chapter 17:

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Spike's mind was racing. He tried to focus on the soft lips that were hungrily devouring him and the fervent tongue that had thrust its way into his mouth and was now battling his own for supremacy, but all he could do was wonder when the other shoe would drop. When would Buffy pull out of his embrace with declarations of what a gross, disgusting, animal he was? When would her tiny fist come in excruciating contact with his nose? When would the vehement denials and heated accusations start?

Before his frenzied mind could begin to formulate the answers to any of these questions, Buffy lifted a leg and twined it sensuously about his own, urging him to action. Never being one to sit around and wait for trouble to find him, he slipped a hand down her back and over the curve of her rump, pulling her flush against him. At Buffy's sudden intake of breath, Spike knew the Slayer had felt his arousal, but amazingly she didn't pull away. Instead, she shifted her hips ever so slightly against the hardness of his erection, causing some breathing problems of his own.

His hand remained cupped against her buttocks, squeezing and caressing the firm flesh, all all thoughts of what exactly was happening or why it was happening fled his brain. It was a wonderful feeling; having a soft, warm woman in his arms. Buffy’s breasts were flattened to his chest and he could feel the staccato rhythm of her heart beating in time with his own.

Despite the fact that they were only yards away from the rest of the wagon train, Spike was seriously considering simply pulling Buffy to the ground. He wanted nothing more than to feel the length of her body pressed under his, to feel the heat from her body radiating through him.

However Spike wasn’t quite so overtaken with passion that he didn’t realize the folly in that act and he moved his lips to Buffy’s ear to whisper, “Best take this to the wagon, luv.”

The responding moan that rose from her galvanized him to action and he moved to scoop her into his arms. For a brief moment, he flashed on an old film and he felt just a bit like Rhett Butler carrying Scarlett off to his bed. Unfortunately, his Scarlett didn’t quite know her blocking and as Spike dipped his knees to lift her, her chin collided with his forehead and she reeled back, the soapy mass of her hair swinging down and across her face.

“Yeowwww.” The screech that Buffy gave was followed by a litany of curses that would have impressed the ex-vamp if he hadn’t been focusing solely on staying upright as Buffy pushed away from him, her hands scrabbling to get her soapy hair out of her eyes. “Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.” She hissed, stomping her feet against the pan and rubbing furiously at her eyes. “God, it burns.”

Spike quickly grabbed the towel that was hanging on the back of the wagon and dunked it into the remaining pail of now cooling water. "Here now, stop that," he admonished, moving her hand away and placing the wet towel over her eye. He grasped her elbow, trying to draw her closer to inspect her injury, but she very deliberately moved out of his grasp.

His arm, still outstretched as if he was imploring her to return to him, finally dropped to his side and a tight, leaden feeling began to build in the pit of his stomach. The other shoe had finally dropped—with a thud that was loud enough that any fool would know the ramifications. But even knowing that, and even with the sickening feeling that had crawled out of his stomach to tug at his now beating heart, he took a hesitant step towards her.

Her own hand shot up at his movement, stalling him, her eyes still hidden by the towel. "I'm fine," she snapped. She took a shaky breath and continued in a much softer tone. "It's okay, really, just some soap in my eye. It's not stinging so much . . . anymore . . . the water's working." She paused and at last looked at him, squinting at him from red, watering eyes. "Thank you."

"S'okay." Though he’d aimed for nonchalance; he hit slightly up and to the right of mildly perturbed. Even though he'd known all along that the kiss would end this way, it still hurt. In self-defense, he drew on the cold, hard shell of indifference that had withstood over a hundred years of abuse.

When she held the rag to her eyes again he sighed in frustration. "It's probably the lye," he muttered.

Buffy glanced at him again, still dabbing at her red and weeping eyes. "What lie? I wasn't lying." Her tone was clipped and she straightened her shoulders as she turned to face him full on.

"Not a lie.” He frowned. Was she being purposely obtuse? “Lye. What the soap is made with in these times. Lye soap."

She cocked her head as his words filtered through. "Lye? Like in . . . lye? I am washing my hair with lye?" Her voice grew increasingly shrill as the sentence progressed.

He shrugged attempting to extricate himself from a meaningless argument he knew was simply her defense against talking about what had just happened between the two of them. "Yeah, well, lye and lard—"

"Lard?" She practically bellowed the word, but at Spike's warning look cast a quick glance around before lowering her voice to hiss, "Lard? You're telling me I was washing my hair with lye and lard?"

"'It's what these people make soap from, Slayer." Spike tried valiantly to keep the growing hostility out of his voice. He lost that battle when Buffy raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. It didn't have the same effect, what with her red, watering eyes, but it served the purpose to irritate him none-the-less. "You know, I'm sorry I even had the bloody idea!” he growled. “Should have left you stinking to high heaven and marinatin' in your own juices."

Buffy's mouth fell open in shock, and he took the advantage and pressed forward. "You," he leveled a finger at her, "are a right bloody bitch, you know that?"

“Well, excuse me,” she huffed, “for getting a teensy bit testy about finding out I’m washing my hair with corrosive chemicals.”

Spike closed his eyes, his lips tightening into a thin line, as he attempted to rein in his anger. After a few cleansing breaths, his nostrils flaring with his barely controlled annoyance, he leveled a look at her. “That’s not what’s got your knickers in a wad, Slayer, and you know it.”

Buffy swallowed hard, the thin white cotton of her camisole and petticoat wet and plastered to her body. Watching her, Spike had to fight off his body’s urges. The raging erection that had abated during the mishap with the soap suds, had come back with a vengeance, and it was taking all his self-control not to just grab her to him and kiss some sense into her. Of course, strangling her was also an option.

He watched as she steeled herself, jerking her chin at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His eyes narrowed at her. “Oh, sure you do. All this huff and puff and tempest in a tea pot isn’ about there not bein’ any No More Tears shampoo.” He paused and watched as she took a breath and held it. He relaxed his scowl and gave her smile that bordered on wicked. He knew he was treading on thin ice, but for some reason couldn’t stop himself. “This is about us kissin’”

“It is not,” she snapped, her chin jutting even further.

“Is too.” He pronounced with a firm nod of his head. He’d decided to push her and push he did.

“Spike . . . ”

He knew she was trying to sound tough; the big bad slayer threatening to bust his butt if he didn’t back off.

“Buffy . . . ” He mimicked back to her, knowing it furthered her annoyance and yet not able to help himself. She wanted a fight, she’d get one. He wasn’t going to back down from what happened.

For a moment Buffy seemed to study him, as if taking measure of his stubbornness on this subject; the odds of her actually winning this fight. After a moment, her head titled a bit and her chin relaxed. She looked up into the darkness of the sky, then back at him. Spike could almost see the confidence flow back into her body. “So what?”

Spike blinked, perplexed by her sudden about-face. He wasn't sure where she was headed but fairly certain he wasn’t going to like it. “What do you mean, so what?”

A slow smile spread across the slayer’s face; a smile that immediately alerted Spike to the fact that he’d made a dreadful mistake, a misstep, that had allowed her to have the upper hand. “So what? We kissed. Big deal.”

“Slayer, if you think for a moment—”

“Exactly, Spike. It was a moment. A crazy, insane—”

“Incredible, delicious—”

“Stupid moment.” She raised her voice to trump his comment. At his look, she continued, “We’re both under a lot of stress, it’s totally understandable.”

He raised a brow and regarded her suspiciously. “Oh, is it?”

She nodded, but pulled her eyes from his, turning away from his direct scrutiny. “Of course. We’re scared—”

“Speak for yourself, Slayer.”

She shot him a look from the corner of her eye. “We’re stranded here, cut off from the world we know, fighting to get home – alive – and so we turned to each other. Besides you being so nice and—”

He threw his hand up, halting her words and took a step toward her. “Whoa, wait one mo – you’re tellin’ me you decided to thank me for bein’ so nice by sucking my face off?”

Buffy turned back to him, but quickly looked away from his questioning eyes, tossing the towel over the back of the wagon bed. “Don’t be a pig, Spike.”

Spike smirked at her. “Didn’t think I was pig when you kissed me.”

She looked at him sharply. “Me? Now wait one minute, I did not kiss you.”

Both of his eyebrows rose at her statement. “No?”

“Absolutely not,” she huffed. “You kissed me.”

Spike let out a bark of a laugh. “That’s a good try at revisionis’ history there, pet. But you kissed me.”

She rolled her eyes and waived a hand at him dismissively. “I so did not kiss you.”

Buffy’s fisted hands were on her hips, the flare of anger raging in her eyes. She was using that emotion to fuel her denial of what had happened between them and suddenly Spike knew that now was not the time to try to bring those walls down. His own doubts had begun to gnaw on the edges of his own beliefs. He knew what had happened, and he even knew why – wishing with the whole of his being that just once he wasn’t the love sick sap that was kicked about like a ball in play – but he definitely didn’t want to think about what it might mean for the two of them.

For once his rational mind was able to beat up and hold down his irrational, emotional responses. He listened to that still, small voice, realizing that until he could figure out his own feelings in this matter, discretion was the better part of valor.

Yet his own stubbornness refused to relent and allow him to admit to something that wasn’t true. “You sure as hell did kiss me, Slayer. Leaned right in and laid a good one on me.”

Buffy’s eyes widened and she shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no, no, no! I didn’t not lean. There was absolutely no leanage.” Her hand fluttered up to press against her breast, the fingers visibly trembling.

Seeing this, the chill hand of guilt reached out of his newly found soul and wrapped around his heart, crushing it just a bit. She’d been through a lot today with the heat exhaustion and now they were at each other’s throats again. Where had it all gone wrong? He’d only tried to help. Had only wanted to try to make things better for her. He sighed in frustration, turning away from her. Just proves that no good deed ever goes unpunished.

“You’re right, Slayer.” He sighed again, kicking at the dirt and wishing it was even darker than it was. He needed some place to slink back in to; a place to hide away from these feelings that he didn’t want and didn’t understand. “Don’t know why I even bothered . . . was me that kissed you, and, believe me, if I could take it back I would. You were right, just somethin’ about being here and alone and needing . . . ” He looked back at her with empty, tired eyes. “Well, no use gettin’ into that. Let’s jus’ put it behind us and move on.”

"Oh." She breathed the word so softly he barely heard her. Her eyes, which had been round with wonder, now darted down and away from his scrutiny.

“Water’s there to rinse your hair. It’s cool now, so as soon as you’re done you should get wrapped up and into the wagon. Don’t need you sick with the croup on top of everything else.” He turned to walk away, needing some space between them so he could separate out the tangle of emotions he was feeling.

“Where . . . where are you going?”

His shoulders, which he’d been holding rigid, slumped. “Jus’ gonna take a walk. Maybe gather some more wood for the fire tomorrow.”

He didn’t turn back to look at her, knowing that those green eyes now held the power to slice his heart into tiny bits. Funny thing, that. She wasn’t the Slayer any longer, but here in this wilderness, both of them devoid of any special powers, she had an even a stronger hold over him. She didn’t need a stake now to do him in. She could cut him to the bone with just one lash of her sharp tongue, one rebuke from her cold heart.

He walked into the woods, out of her sight, and felt a familiar comfort in the darkness that surrounded him and welcomed him home.

To Be Continued
 

Chapter 18:

It was strange how things could change so quickly—this day, for instance. It had been miserably hot throughout the day as the sweltering sun beat down from a clear blue sky, without so much as a wisp of cloud to offer solace from the heat. Then came night fall; the darkness bringing with it a chill that set into the bones and rattled the teeth.

Buffy's mood was as changeable as the day had been. When Spike had walked away, into the woods, she'd been seething with anger. She'd hurried through her bath, using the remaining lukewarm water to rinse her hair and to wash the grit and grime from her skin. But the joy of finally feeling clean was weakened by the still churning emotions after her fight with Spike.

Now, sitting in the wagon, damp hair and soaking wet chemise and petticoat doing little to ward off the cold dark night, Buffy was rethinking her actions. Loath as she was to admit it, she knew she'd reacted irrationally to his kiss. Their kiss, she corrected herself. As much as she'd like to deny it, she'd been as active a participant as he'd been.

But in her defense, she reasoned that he had simply taken her by surprise. One minute she was relishing clean, hot water on her skin and the feel Spike's fingers massaging her scalp. Before she could even register what she was doing, she'd found herself leaning back into the feel of his strong chest supporting her and the movement of his fingers along her temples, relaxing into his embrace.

She realized now that at the time she'd felt safe, possibly for the first time since they'd been transported here. And it had been such a pleasure to escape from the tension and frustration—to allow her whirling mind to ease away from the troubles of trying to find their way out of this time, trying to survive. She remembered feeling her knees give way, feeling lightheaded and free. And then, suddenly, there were his arms, turning her and pulling her against him, his lips meeting hers.

It had felt good. More than good, it had felt right. Like she was where she belonged, where she needed to be. Letting him hold her, touch her, kiss her, making everything better in such a delicious way. Even now, the memory of his mouth on her neck, his hands pulling her close, made her shiver. She could blame it on the damp clothes, the chill of the night air, but she knew she'd be lying to herself.

Just like she'd lied to him.

Buffy peeked out the back of the wagon, her eyes scanning the dark outlines of the trees. Glancing up at the sliver of moon that hung in the sky, she worried about how long Spike had been gone. She glanced at her wrist and frowned in frustration at old habits and the wristwatch that she'd forgotten to put on the day they were transported. It was on her dresser, more than a hundred forty years in the future.

The sky was pitch black, so it was probably closer to midnight than to dawn. Still, Spike had been gone too long, and even though the thought of rehashing what had happened between was the last thing Buffy wanted to do, she couldn't push down the empty, lonely feeling at his absence.

Vulnerability. She hated feeling this way; had always hated it. It's why she'd always fought to be the one in control, the one leading the way. She'd been taught early on that leaning on someone, needing them, was the quickest way to heartache. Oh, other people always talked a good game, making promises, swearing they'd be there when you needed them, but when things got tough, they were always long gone. She'd learned that lesson as a child, from a father whose promises were as fragile as the message notes they were written on.

Angel had reinforced the lesson when he'd walked away from her. She knew in her heart that he'd made the right decision, for both of them. They would never have been able to make it work, for so many reasons. But it still felt like she was being discarded, abandoned. So she'd pulled the shattered remnants of her heart and ego around her like a shield and had plowed on through life, vowing to never again let someone close enough to hurt her, make her weak.

Wasn't that the stumbling block between her and Riley; the cause of all their recent arguments? She wouldn't let him be the strong one—wouldn't lean on him. She couldn't get him to understand that it wasn't about him. It wasn't about worrying about him, or taking care of him. It was about taking care of herself, of her heart. She just couldn't let down her guard with him or risk opening her heart only to once again be hurt, to be left behind.

But here, now, Buffy was beginning to realize that the armor she'd cloaked herself in wasn't protecting her, it was dragging her down. She shivered again, remembering the thrill of Spike's touch, the jolt of electricity that ran through her when his body was close hers, his hands roaming her body. She hadn't felt passion like that in . . . well, a long time. She hadn't allowed herself to let go and simply feel.

Yes, it frightened her that it was Spike that was calling this out in her, but the fear was nothing compared to the realization of how much she missed feeling this way—the overwhelming exhilaration of being swept away, of opening up and showing the tender parts of her soul and trusting that they would be safe and protected.

She wasn't sure why she was willing to risk this now . . . here. And with Spike. They were in danger; they may never find their way home. But for the first time in a long time, she wasn't the strong one. And it wasn't within her control to change that. Spike was the one that fit in here, he was the one that seemed to know what do and say to help them find their way through.

And Spike was human here. Had a soul. Certainly that had something to do with her softening feelings toward him. It was only logical that his newfound humanity would make her feel differently about him. She didn't let herself ponder too long why Riley's humanity just left her feeling defensive and isolated.

Easier to deal with the here and now, than to borrow trouble from a future to which she may never return. Right now she had to make things right with Spike. The only way to do that was to open up to him and talk through whatever was going on between them. It wasn't going to be easy, but she knew she owed it to him. And to herself.

The soft crunch of boots on the dirt outside of the wagon caused Buffy to sit up from where she'd curled on her mattress. Realizing that her wet camisole left nothing to the imagination, she pulled the blanket more securely around her and then waited for him.

He climbed through the opening of the wagon, coming up short as he caught sight of her. From the look on his face, it was obvious that he'd hoped she would be asleep.

"Hi," she ventured softly, her eyes imploring him, even in the darkness, to accept her apology without her having to actually use the words. She'd been a jerk, but she was still hoping to come out of this without having to grovel too much.

He looked away from her, moving to the opposite side of the wagon. He furtively glanced in her direction again, before turning his back and stripping off his duster.

Buffy took in a deep breath. "I was beginning to worry."

"No need for that," he said, his voice muffled as he pulled his shirt over his head, not bothering to unbutton it. "Can take care of myself, Slayer."

His use of her official title caused Buffy's heart to skip a beat. "I know you can. I was just—"

"Look," he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. "You were right. I was wrong." He turned to face her, his eyes studying hers for a moment before gazing down at his boots. "Said so before, didn't I?"

Buffy blinked and opened her mouth to object, but he turned from her, sinking down to his knees on the pile of blankets that made up his bed. "Thought some more on it while I was out. You and I, Slayer, we need to keep things straight between us if we're gonna get home. We gotta work together, yeah, while we're here. But we both know that once we're home it'll be back to every vamp and Slayer for himself. Just the way it is. The way it's supposed to be. You don’t want to be havin' another vampire in your life, and I sure as hell don't want to be worryin' about your ass."

He turned back to her, his hands going to his belt buckle, the steel in his eyes visible even in the murky darkness of wagon. "When we get back, my number one goal will be what it's always been—get this bloody chip out and get back to what I do best." He whipped his belt out of its jean loops, the snapping of the leather causing Buffy to recoil from him, her eyes wide. "Killin' Slayers."

Buffy felt the rush of breath leave her as his cold eyes bore into her. "Is that so?" She whispered, almost too softly to hear.

"Yeah," Spike said, his voice softening a bit. "Just like you'll go back to doin' what you do best. Slayin' vampires. What you was made for, yeah?"

Buffy couldn't stop her lower lip from trembling, or her eyes filling with tears. She only hoped the darkness would cover her emotion. "Yeah, Spike, that's what I was made for. Thanks for reminding me."

She watched as his shoulders slumped a bit, his head tilting as he tried to see her face more clearly despite the lack of light. She covered her weakness, turning her back to him, pretending to be absorbed in straightening the bedding on her mattress.

She hadn't heard him move, but suddenly she felt his hand, tentative, on her shoulder. She held still a moment, fighting with whether to take the crumbs he was offering, but instead she pulled away from his touch. She wasn't about to take his pity.

"So, when should we be close to Plattsville? Maybe the next day or so?" Her voice was hoarse, and she cleared her throat. "We can get inside the mystery of that coin and maybe get ourselves home. Back to what both want."

She could feel his hand, still hovering near her shoulder and she tensed her body for another touch of his fingertips. She held her breath, willing him to move away. Pity or no, she wasn't sure she could turn from him again—and yet she knew she'd never forgive herself that weakness. When she felt him move back to his own bedding, she let out a trembling sigh.

His voice was gruff but not harsh when he spoke at last. "Thanks for reminding me." She could hear him rummaging with his bedding. "Now where the bloody hell . . ."

Buffy looked over at Spike, watching as he frantically searched the pockets of his duster, until at last he stopped, tossing the cost violently to the floor. He took the remaining bedding and stood, shaking it and then tossing it just as vehemently. Reaching for the oil lamp, he lit it and repeated his search of both the coat and the bedding, as well as the floor around him.

"What?" Buffy shook her head, shrugging in confusion at this new annoyance, wishing she could just go to bed and sleep this hideous day away.

Spike, his eyebrows drawn together, leveled a look at her. "The fuckin' coin is gone."

"What?" Buffy barked, jumping up to stand beside him. "What do you mean it's gone?"

"Just what I said, Buffy. It's gone." He picked up the coat, again rummaging through its pockets. "Was storin' it in this inside pocket for safe keepin'. At night I've been putting it under the flour keg here. When you mentioned the bloody coin, it reminded me that I hadn' put it away for the night."

"Did you check the floor, the blankets, maybe it fell out when you took the coat off."

"Did you not just see me do that? No, it's not here."

Buffy glanced around the wagon in frustration. "Where could it have gone? Could it have fallen out of your coat?"

The ex-vampire shook his head. "Not likely. This inside pocket is deep and has a flap." He flipped the coat over, showing her the pocket. "It's why I chose to keep it there. On my person. It's not like . . . wait."

"Wait," Buffy raised a brow. "Wait for what."

Spike's tongue came out, running along his lower lip, as he appeared to ponder the floor boards of the wagon. "Know it was there this morning." He glanced at Buffy quickly, then down again. "There was only one time when this coat was off me today."

"When was that?" Buffy asked, noticing that Spike was studiously avoiding her gaze, his teeth gnawing almost nervously on his bottom lip. A weight formed in the pit of her stomach as she watched him fidget.

After a long moment, he let out a sigh and looked her in the eye. "When I was off helping Shay with the Cooper's back axel. Took the coat off when we went to lift the carriage."

Buffy nodded, urging Spike to continue. "Where did you leave it?"

Spike's eyes shifted again, down to the coat he still held in his hands, then back to her. Buffy's heart clenched in fear at the look on his face. "Had someone hold it for me. Just for a minute."

Buffy's eyes narrowed, the fear now moving into up into her throat, making her chest tight. She looked down at the duster and slowly back at Spike. "And who was that, Spike. Who did you have hold the coat?"

"Katie."