Crossing over into unchipped country by dutchbuffy2305;
Rating: R;
Timeline: Starts around AtS 5.09 or 5.10, goes AU and ends somewhere in April;
Author's note: Big hugs to my wonderful betas, mommanerd, meko00, LadyAnne and Ayinhara;
Author's website: http://home.planet.nl/~dutchbuffy2305
Feedback: Yes, please do, to dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk

Chapter 1
Buffy gets home from evening class and steps into the welcoming warmth of the house with a shiver of relief. There is something so hostile about Cleveland weather, and her memories of California become more and more golden the oftener she gets them out to drool over them. Balmy nights and sunny days, thermal underwear a distant rumor. She heats up some chocolate and gets up the stairs to the study, where she can hear everyone being busy and talking a lot. The sounds from below indicate that Xander is busy in his work room, probably in the company of Andrew. They might be sealing Andrew's entire X-men collection in plastic, or whittling stakes.

The bright copper head bent over something invisible on the big table looks up. "Hey Buff. How was class?"

"Okay, with a smidgen of disappointment."

"Did you sit next to Hot Guy?"

"Hot Guy was not there, hence the smidgen."

"How about my interdimensional vortex generator?" Willow says proudly, indicating the shimmering circle of light in front of her.

"I'm thinking it would look really nice in my ears?"

"Bad idea. You'd be tearing across the galaxy for the rest of your natural life. Which would then be really short, I guess."

Buffy does a mock shiver and holds up her hands to show she won’t touch.

Willow turns back to her research. A glowing hoop of blue fire lies on the table. Willow handles it with a pencil, careful not to touch it. Dawn and Kennedy sit chatting at the other end of the table. Buffy lets her tiredness wash over her and leans back, sipping slowly from the hot chocolate. She wishes she'd remembered to put in those little marshmallows her Mom used to have. She thinks she did a reasonably good job of touching base with her friends just now, light-hearted and asking after them, not just talking about her own concerns. They know that she's still not feeling all quippy and happy Buffy, and Europe only made it worse, because it was full of tall well-dressed people who didn’t speak English, a fact that Dawn and Willow handled way better than she did. She's glad to be back home, even if home is now Cleveland.

She yawns. Early to bed, she guesses. She puts down the half-empty mug of chocolate, but her tiredness makes her miss the table and she grabs hastily after it. Her outstretched pinky touches the fiery hoop and with a silent explosion of light a vortex opens and sucks her into it.

The vortex spews Buffy out after milliseconds, or centuries, she can't tell. Her milling legs catch solid footing and she stumbles, propelled forward by her own speed until she manages to stop. Gray concrete swirls around her and she throws up the entire contents of her stomach. The world steadies and comes into focus. She's in a big space, somewhere unbelievably hot, and already there’s sweat exploding from her skin in a haze of droplets. Urgently she peels off her down sleeveless vest, her fleece sweater, her long-sleeved T-shirt and then she's still too warm in her pink thermal undershirt. She's not in Cleveland anymore, baby.

That leaves her with wool trousers, thick socks and boots. She peels off the sodden socks and takes stock of her surroundings. She's sitting on the splotched, rough concrete of an old factory floor. The big doors to the outside are opened out into the night. The silence here is deafening compared to the subsonic roar of the snowstorm. Far away she can hear some traffic.

It smells like home, and nostalgia and heartache set in with breakneck speed. If she didn't know she'd been flung through an interdimensional vortex she'd think she was back in Sunnydale. She shakes off the sadness, which is inappropriate for an adventure. She's an experienced interdimensional traveler after all, she's met ancient Slayers and enigmatic shamans in cheap print dresses. She balls up her winter clothes and hides them behind some old crates. Shoes in one hand, she starts to explore cautiously. To the left there seems to be some kind of glass-walled old office space where a faint light is shining out. She paddles over there silently, her tender winter feet cringing away from the dirt and roughness of the flooring.

She peers around the wall through the windowpanes into the small space, cluttered with a library's worth of books in tottering stacks. A hunched shape is reading one of them by the light of a few candles., illuminating only the sparsely printed page, a poem she thinks.

The dark form looks up and throws his book face down. '"What are you sneaking around for, Buff? Trying to surprise me?"

He stands up and comes over to her. Buffy's heart shoots up into her throat, then sinks down into her bare feet and starts up a wild ricocheting dance.

"Had a nice feed, did you? You smell all human," the voice continues.

"Spike?" she croaks.

"Expecting someone else?" he says and walks up to her.

The way he walks makes her heart scream. How well she remembers that cocky strut and roll, taking his time about it, fishing out a cigarette and his lighter from his jeans pocket while he walks and lighting one. He smirks at her through blue-gray smoke.

"C'mere here," he says. "Give me a taste of what you ate, pet."

A sound tries to make its way out of her throat but fails. Spike stops stock still at ten feet away. "What the fuck! I can hear your bloody heart beat!"

She can’t speak. Destiny is dealing her a low blow and she's petrified by it. He's on her faster than her eyes can track and has her neck in a crushing grip. His scent and the familiar contours under her fingers make her soft and will-less. His face and body are rock hard, deflecting her limp defeated fists with ease. But it's Spike, after all. She won’t have to defend herself.

"Who are you and what have you done to my Buffy?"

The air is thick and slow around her. She stares at the furious milk-white countenance above her through spider webs and dew. This can't be her Spike. He snarls at her as if he hates her and he has an air about him as if he's never been insane in his life. He exudes lack of soul and barely contained bloodlust with every vibration of his body. She actually feels a sliver of fear for this one.

"Who are you and what have you done to my Spike?" she counters two beats late.

She may be a little rusty, but she does remember quipping. The Spike pushes her away from him, still holding her neck, with her artery close under a big black-lacquered thumb, and looks her over carefully. He raises the other finger and points at her.

"No games, you cunt. My Buffy does not have a heart beat or body heat. You're older than her. Spill."

"I accidentally touched a magic object, an interdimensional vortex generator. It flung me here. Is this Sunnydale?"

"What else?"

"In my world, Sunnydale is a big hole in the ground, courtesy of you."

He grins at that. "I've always been bad."

She can't let that one go. "No, you haven’t. William."

His hand jerks and rattles her head like a doll's. "What the fuck! I told you, no games. Where is my Buffy!"

"How would I know," she says, irritated. "Probably in Cleveland where I came from. " She sees him frown. "Surrounded by a powerful witch and two slayers," she adds. "She's probably dust by now."

He brings his face very close to hers. "You better hope not, Slayer. You better hope she's right as rain, because then I will exchange her for you. Otherwise you die."

When Buffy hears him call her 'Slayer' she tears up like a wimp. The Spike notices it and sniffs her suspiciously.

"You're not that scared. Why cry?"

She looks into his cold blue eyes and something inside her swells and bursts open like a boil, leaving her weak and shaken.

"He used to call me Slayer all the time."

Tears are running down her face now. His smirk is evil. "I usually love it when girls cry before I rape and eat them because it makes their blood taste better. But now I don’t want you to cry, I want you to pay attention. Tell me more. How is your world different? We need to get one of these interdimensional whatsits for the exchange."

Instead of answering she says, "Do you love her?"

He brays with laughter. "Don’t be daft. She killed my Dru. I probably hate her. But she's mine, my get, my lieutenant. First minion of the Master of Sunnydale."

"The Master? I killed him."

He cuffs her, "Don't be stupid. I killed him, the Most Annoying One, and now I'm Master of Sunnydale. Have been for six years now. A sweet gig, and I don’t want your little interdimensional fooling around to bollix it up."

Buffy almost covers her ears and screams. She makes her voice come out even, knowing that Spike will read her every emotion from her smell and heart rate anyway. "I killed Dru, and then you killed me?"

"Right."

"And this is 2003?"

"'Course," he says, frowning, but fishing for a cigarette again.

"Things went differently in my world" she says. "I never killed Dru. As far as I know, she's still roaming the world."

His face goes slack and wondering at that. "Dru? Dru alive? My Dru?"

It's a relief to see him like that, get that face she associates with herself, Spike blindly and blissfully in love. He can't be that different then.

"So. You never got chipped?" she asks.

"What? Of course not. Burnt the fuckers out who were trying that thing. I fell for that in your time?"

"You were distracted, I guess," Buffy offers, obscurely needing to exonerate her Spike. "Dru dumped you, and you were pretty cut up about it."

Her ears are ringing and her cheek hurts. She's lying on the floor, and realizes she's been hit by a furious Spike with a burst of vampire speed, which hers never seemed to use much.

"You're lying," he grates, towering over her.

She shakes her head numbly. She receives a kick in the side for it. It's very reminiscent of her kicking Spike when he was possessed by the First. She crosses off one tally. Still plenty left.

"Don't damage me too much," she says flippantly. "I might not be able to get you to the vortex generator else."

He roars and smashes a chair through the window. That is so Spike, taking out frustration on inanimate objects. The love boil that burst open in her heart races flames to her cheeks and fingertips. Too late, too late, it sings. The real Spike will never know now.

A minion in game face sticks a worried head around the door. "Boss?"

"Bugger off!" Spike says, a little calmer. "Get my car ready."

Buffy sits up. "You're going to what, just drive to Cleveland? Don’t you need a plan?"

"I have a plan, Slayer. Got contacts in Cleveland. You'll see."

Buffy mulls on that. At least she'd be back in Cleveland. "The car. Is it the DeSoto?"

Spike rakes a hand through his hair. "How the bloody hell do you know all this stuff about me? What was I still doing in Sunnydale if I wasn't its Master? You are the Slayer, right?"

He delves behind a stack of books, she hears clicking and he surfaces with a thick wad of cash, which he stuffs in his jeans pocket.

"We were enemies for a long time, but finally we became allies. First to defeat Angelus."

Spike nods at that. "Right. Same here. We killed the old man."

The pang she still feels at the thought of killing Angel is very small now, more of a reflex than a real feeling. "Is he in LA now?"

"What? You just heard me say, we killed him, dusted him. Of course he's not in LA."

"So he didn't come back?"

"No, why would he? Did he in your world?"

She nods, wondering still. "He was raising Acathla, and I ran him through with a sword and sent him to hell."

She registers his incomprehension.

"We, my Buffy and me, dusted him because he had a filthy soul, and was trying to kill us together with your old friends," he says.

Oh. Of course, there would be no rising of Angelus if she wasn't around to sleep with him. Oh. She crawls up from the floor. Spike does not extend a hand to her.

"You killed my friends?"

"We killed them, pet. Had us a real ball doing it, too."

"Filthy soul, you say?" she taunts, angry now. "You went and got one for me!"

He gapes. "Never."

"Oh yeah. Dru dumps you; you get chipped, fall in love with me, and get a soul for me."

Why she leaves out that they were lovers before he got the soul, she's not sure. He roars in anger and starts for her throat again, but this time she's ready for him. The all-out fight that ensues destroys most of the ancient office furniture, although it seems to be made of steel. The books scatter and fly around in the tiny space until they can't set a foot down without crushing some ancient tome. The fight is oddly out of whack. She caroms into a wall of books, expecting resistance but going through it like a fist through butter, and then the second time she's counting on give and painfully rams a solid steel disk with her butt. Buffy is a little weirded out to notice that she's really enjoying this. She hasn't even reached for her stake. Is she incapable of staking this Spike because she loved the other one? Geez.

She manages to get him up against the wall and positions the stake over his heart. She's pressing up close to him and can't help noticing the outline of his body under his tight black T-shirt.

Arousal flares through her, love riding hard on the heels of anger, and she sees Spike take a deep whiff to determine what he's smelling exactly.

"Bloody hell, slayer," he growls. "You loved him back, didn’t you?"

"No way," she bites back, "I used him as a sex toy. What Slayer would love a vampire?"

His face turns soft and he smiles sweetly at her, using his free hand to stroke her upper arm.

"I would love you, Slayer," he says huskily. "Such a pretty girl you are, with your big green eyes and your tawny hair. Come here."

The stake drops from her hand and she's kissing him before he's finished his sentence. He tastes like her Spike, exactly like him, brassy and smoky at the same time, brimstone and pennies. She feels him harden against her and moans helplessly. His whole body tenses in preparation for she knows no what and she's flung across the room. He straddles her, applying merciless pressure to her throat.

"Are you insane, you daft bitch? Falling for a ploy like that? Of course I wouldn’t love a Slayer. Any Slayer is my enemy, and if you weren't one you'd be my lunch, not my date."

He despises her, she can see it in his face. His lisp are curled in disgust and he shakes her head and pushes on her throat until she sees black stars dance in front of her yes. Note to self: he's not the real Spike. He's just another vampire.

He sits back on her thighs and lights his third cigarette. "So. Dru's still alive. Why'd she dump me?"

But he does love his Dru. She's always thought that was what made him different, his ability to love. There's hope.

"She was mad because you'd allied with me to kill Angelus."

She sees the flash of pain on his face and wishes she could kiss it better. "And then you got chipped, and when she came back you threatened to kill her to save me."

He shakes his heads and smokes pensively. He's gorgeous, his face and hair a vision in creams and blues, the smoke curling around his head enhancing his eerie beauty. He looks younger and smoother than her Spike, she thinks. She made him suffer so much that she made a vampire age. An achievement she can be real proud of.

She can hear a car roll up. The minion comes in, dangling the keys proudly.

"Here you are, boss."

Spike doesn’t take them. He remains sitting on her hips, finishes his smoke and asks the minion.

"Which way is the car pointing?"

The minion gibbers a bit but points away from the big doors.

"Get back in and turn it for me, you stupid sod. And remember next time, or you'll never get tenure."

"Tenure?"

"Manner of speaking," Spike says curtly, but winks at her.

He jumps up like a big cat and stalks off in the direction of the car, one hand unerringly swiping the duster off its hook in mid-stride. Buffy sits up, staring after him. What does he expect her to do?

"Slayer!" he calls out mock-sweetly. "Are you coming or do you want me to make you?"

She gets up stiffly. Lying on the floor like that has made her remember she was really tired, although the balminess of the climate here cushions tiredness like the relentless cold in Cleveland doesn’t. She wobbles for a moment and feels disoriented. She must be getting old, because events are developing faster than she can follow. She only just got here and already she's leaving.

She walks over to the DeSoto. In her universe she's never seen it after her so-called date with Spike. The car frames him like a painting, Dorian Grey. She opens the car door and crawls in reluctantly. "Why don't we fly? Would be lots faster."

"Too much security these days, Slayer. This won’t attract any attention."

"Maybe not the car, but the trail of people you ate certainly will, " she retorts.

How can she find this ruthless killer even remotely charming? The thing is, she does. She should try to keep the two Spikes separate in her mind.

"You volunteering to donate some blood?" he smirks at her, showing his tongue.

She shivers. The tongue. She looks away from him and tries to look bored, but is very much afraid he'll see right through her like he always did.

"Off we go then, Slayer."

"Wait!" she says. "My clothes. I'll need them in Cleveland."

He hesitates but nods. She gets her clothes from behind the crates and dumps them in the back.
They roar off.

Chapter 2
Baker, Barstow, Primm. The names zoom by in a blur, flashing in his narrow field of vision for seconds before he's past them. He's put his window down so he can get some fresh air and see a little more of the road, as it's night anyway. The snoring of the Slayer beside him can hardly be heard over the loud growling noise of the old-fashioned eight-cylinder engine.

Spike wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it. Bleeding Slayer just lay down and was off in minutes, sagging against him like he was her boyfriend. As if she trusts him completely. He pushes her over to rest against the door, but it's somehow wrong on a deep visceral level, and it upsets the balance of his world. He's the Slayer of Slayers, he killed four of them and keeps one of them around as his minion; petty revenge born of the anger he felt when his companion of more than a century was ripped away from him by her little baby-soft hands.

He shakes away the game face that still threatens when he thinks of Drusilla's death. He doesn’t ever want to forget it, which is why he still keeps the annoying ex-Slayer around, who even in death has the most galling sense of duty and honor and gives him his due as her sire punctiliously. He often sends her on long and dangerous missions because he can't stand having her underfoot all the time. It's more out of a sense of outraged possession than affection that he wants her back. Maybe it’s time to stake her when he's got her back again, huh?

He sticks his head out of the car, howls at the moon and swerves playfully at a few cars coming in the other direction. The tooting of their horns and the flashing of their lights follows him for half a minute and he laughs. He lights up and smokes contentedly. Actually, this is fun. There's a quest, there's a Slayer he can needle to his heart's content and possible kill if the mood strikes him. How would he tell the tale? Met this Slayer, killed her twice? He shakes his head and blows a little shred of tobacco from his lips. He can play this anyway he likes, that's what makes it this such a blast.

His eyes are needed to keep him on the road and stay away from the scarce traffic at this time of night, but for the rest his nose tells him all he needs to know about his surroundings. The mild foggy air of the coastal town changes into sharp cold desert night, varied by snatches of small town miasma he travels through, a fug of human breath and sweat, gas and stale cooking. Each town has a unique combination of smells, the powder and decay scent of old people, milk and shit from the babies. He detects the rich blood scent of fertile women, mitigated or strengthened by diet, tacos or hamburger, polyester sweat or wind-dried cotton. The further he drives inland, the drier the air gets. At a long stretch between two towns the air gets so pure and empty he can detect the spoor of a single desert fox crossing the road in the millisecond he needs to pass through it.

The fat-bellied moon flops up over the low ridge on his left. Something shifts in his internal awareness of the world around him. Almost sunrise. In a quarter hour or so he will wake the Slayer. She turns around under her blanket and he gets a good look at her face. So changed in looks compared to his Buffy, who still has the round face and big eyes of a seventeen year old, but so similar in the power of their will. Apparently life has stripped away all softness and sweetness from this one, just as death has with the other. The blanket slides off her throat and he has to fight off a surge of hunger for a moment. He should have taken someone to feed off, but he never thinks when he's in a hurry. He's old and strong-willed enough to fight it off until tonight, when he will hunt and drink with impunity.

He grins to himself when he thinks of the bitching that will ensue from the woman next to him. He's been the victim of her tongue for six years now, and he just knows this one will be exactly the same.

Spike contemplates exacting some retribution on this Slayer on behalf of his other self. The tale is beyond belief. Dumped, chipped, souled. It's bitterly shameful, and he doesn't know if he can manage to keep his resolve or if he will kill her in a proper fight. Killing Slayers is his business, the foundation of his fame. Turning her was payback for killing his beloved. Humiliating rather than killing this one seems in order, for turning his other incarnation into the very epitome of everything he's not. Weak and goody-goody beyond belief. He wants to know every detail of the other's sorry tale, needs to torture himself with what he's escaped from.

Sun's getting really close. He's the Master of Sunnydale, and she'd best not forget it. Now she’ll drive him for a change. He pulls off the road near Littlefield and shakes her awake.

"Wakey, wakey Slayer. Time to earn your keep."

She smiles fuzzily at him before jolting awake, and nearly leaves a Buffy-shaped hole in the car door when she remembers everything. Her hand flies to her neck, as if she can feel the touch of his gaze there. Her body races and panics, and he has to admire her composure, because none of this is visible on her tight face. Too bad for her, he can sense every variation in her heartbeat, smell minute changes in her hormone level and the sharpening of her faint sleepy odor into a sweat of fear. He shows her his teeth.

"It's me, sugar," he says in a honeyed tone. "Did you sleep well?"

He just knows he can piss her off twice as easy by pretending to be his unlucky shadow, who presumably sweet talked his way into her confidence or some such, instead of using snark and wit, which she seems to enjoy.

She yawns and stretches. When her skinny form is animated with her spirit he can see a vague echo of his luscious Buffy in her movements, the fierce warrior spirit that imbues the Slayer, and they are uncannily similar. Then her face sinks back into lines of worry and discontent and the resemblance fades again. Has her nose grown or what? These humans grow taller, fatter, thinner and shorter before your eyes. Wrinkles appear on their foreheads like slugs' tracks, their brows sink over their eyes and their cheeks fall in. Second chins appear and the spines shorten and bend and before you know it they're dead. Rotting away in their coffins, not like him, cheating Old Nick for more than a century now. You have to eat them quick, when they're young and fresh, before they lose their flavor, like tender summer fruit, strawberries or raspberries, sweet juice exploding against his palate.

Once when he was young, he made the mistake of befriending a human being. He forgot about the passing of time, and when he looked the friend up again he was old and bent, almost dead. He hasn't forgotten the jealousy in the old man's eyes upon seeing Spike young and beautiful as ever. What could have possessed the other Spike to engage with a human being? Heartache lay around the corner, look away for a second and they’re dust in the wind. Not him.

The Slayer grumbles and bitches about showers and breakfast but he pays her babbling no mind. If he listened to every word prey and their ilk mouthed at him he'd never get his dinner on time. He curls up on the backseat and falls asleep instantly. He wakes in time to steer her east on the I-70.

He wakes up because the car is standing still. The Slayer's heartbeat is going into overdrive and he can hear her harsh panting. He checks out the sound of the motor, no problem there, then the mileage, but there is still be plenty of gas. No screams, so sirens, nothing out of the ordinary.

"Wake me up for money if you need more gas," he mumbles and goes back to sleep.

Again the car stops. He gives her money, watches her carefully as she buys water, food and gas. She doesn't try anything funny, and indeed, what would it be in this universe? No one she knows is alive. His Buffy saw to that. This Buffy needs him to get to Cleveland and find the amulet. His contacts. He rolls back into the same pose so that she will think he slept on. Her fleece sweater is soft under his head.

The third time he wakes it's slow, because the Slayer's heartbeat has slowed. He cricks himself up on his elbow to investigate. She's sleeping, again, on the front seat. It's too light outside for him to drive, so he settles back to sleep, irritated at the weakness of humanity. He orders himself to wake a few minutes before sundown, so he can drive off the minute it's dark enough.

The Slayer doesn't even wake up when he shoves her upright and drives off. She's managed to turn off on the I-76 at the right moment, for which he's thankful. They're deep in Nebraska – Gothenburg, Overton, Elm Creek - before she regains consciousness. She doesn't smell so fresh anymore, and the deep grooves between her eyebrows are an indication that she's not feeling so hot. This is none of his concern. He hopes she keeps her gob shut so he can pursue his own thoughts.

So. Dru's alive and well somewhere in another dimension. He's not sure how that makes him feel. The first few years after her dusting he'd have gone after her like a shot, done anything to join up with his Dark Beauty again, but now? A fellow gets settled, gets used to things as they are. The moment he thinks this he's appalled at himself. He's never in his whole long life stayed anywhere longer than a few months, maybe a year. How come he's been letting himself get cooped up in Sunnydale for so long? Has his Buffy been influencing him?

He starts tapping the steering wheel to lighten the building tension in his body. Dru. Alive. Wait, didn’t the Slayer tell him something about getting dumped by her? That can't be right. He opens his mouth to bark a question at her, but sees from the corner of his eye that she's rubbing her temples and licking her lips as if in thirst. To proud too ask, huh? He must have been a bit distracted and all, there are better ways to get a woman to talk than snarling at her.

"Slayer? How about we pull over for dinner and a shower? Not necessarily in that order?"

She perks up immediately and smiles at him with her dry lips, her big tired eyes regain some sparkle. Way to go, Spike old man. She'll sing like a canary.

Chapter 3
An elastic cord stretches between Buffy and Sunnydale, and driving away from the town is making it longer and thinner. Any moment now it'll snap. She didn’t realize how much she was longing for home until she smelled the scent of a Sunnydale night and heard the peaceful sounds of surf and highway rumbling in the background. In the rest of the world everything's so intrusive. The shape of the houses and the cars, how people dress, jumps on her retinas and hijacks them, fascinating and irritating her with the differences. Every city has a different shape to it and the McDonaldses are just plain wrong, with icky local specialties and just not hitting the sameness she longs for.

And there is so much weather all the time. Not only in Europe, which she on the whole only pretended to like, but also in Cleveland, rain, wind, snow, it never stops. You have to dress for it, it's on TV, people keep mentioning it in their small talk. Somewhere in her guts this just registers as wrong, as if the balmy unchanging warmness of Sunnydale is imprinted on her soul as the only right kind of climate.

She rolls her shoulders and tries to concentrate on the road. She's never driven this long at a stretch and it's hard. She has to force herself to go on, driven by a need to get back to Cleveland and be done with this too familiar alternate reality that taunts her with might-have-beens. She forces herself but actually she'd like to turn back and let Sunnydale's presence soothe her again and she can’t let that happen.

The past summer, when the triumphant feeling of defeating the First started to fade she let herself go, just for a few days, she thought. She let out all the inappropriate mushiness and hurt and undigested lumps of maybe-love and wallowed in them. It was just a few days, and then she tried to reconnect to the others again, but it's as if they'd gotten so much of a head start in those few days that she's never managed to catch up again. They all have these plans and dreams, schools they want to go to, businesses they want to start, and she doesn’t seem to have any. Not that she wants to have fantasies like Andrew, who thinks he's going to be the next great thing in script writing or comic book drawing, or a Watcher like Dawn or a contractor like Xander. But it’s scary not to have any dreams, so she's been making them up when the others ask about hers. She dutifully enrolled in night classes when they got back from the confusion of Europe, but she doesn’t know what she's doing it for.

Buffy suspects that if you take away the Slayer, the girl that remains is just kinda small. She has no wants and no dreams, she gave up on them a long time ago and she doesn’t know what to replace them with.

She rubs her eyes with one hand and the car makes a sickening lurch to the left. It takes her endless rubbery moments to get back into the right lane and her heart keeps thumping in her throat. Her body feels full and hot, about to burst into flames or splatter apart into little shapeless pieces. She pulls the car over as soon as she can and rests her head on her hands. The vampire behind her stirs and mumbles something. She can't muster enough energy to reply to him and he stops moving. She's thirsty and tired, her head aches, but she can't make herself decide to go and buy some food and drink. She doesn't have any money on her; she didn’t have her purse when she was snatched away from her friends.

The only thing to do is get back on the road and drive, back on the black ribbon that stretches all the way to Cleveland. She doesn't know where she is now, she's never had a head for distances or geography, it's just this dry and arid place, white from the glare of the sun, cars the only thing that give brief color to the landscape. She sits up and drives on.

Buffy waits as long as she can to replenish the gas. It's getting colder already. She buys water and food with Spike's money. No soda or hamburgers, just plain water and apples. She wants to be light as air, as insubstantial as she can, not weighted down with meat and starch. The feeling is familiar from when she Slayed, the later years, when not eating was a kind of power game she played with her body. She wanted to see if the Slayer energy diminished when she did, like she wants to be ready for take-off when the moment comes. She did fly once, jumping straight into that vortex swirling below Glory's tower, and secretly she'd like to try again. Snow starts at first powdering and then thickly covering the side of the road, and she goes on until she can drive no longer; she stops the car and feels herself falling, flying towards sleep spread out like a black landscape beneath her.

When she wakes up it's dark and Spike is driving again. She feels awful, dried out and headachy, thirty-two rather than twenty-three. She sneaks a peek at Spike at the wheel and marvels that she mistook him for her Spike for even a second. There's a wildness about him, a lack of containment that she thinks she remembers from meeting him long ago. But she can't be sure. It's not as if she paid a lot of attention to the original Spike at first. She does remember taunting him in the bathtub, all chained up and chalky pale with poor feeding, but even then he was stripped of real power. Or what he perceived to be his power, his ability to kill. There is no point in engaging this one in conversation. It's just hard to feel herself react to his face or a casual touch of his hand or the flare of his duster. She hopes her guts will catch up with her brain sometime soon.

When he mentions food and a shower she practically slavers and wags her tail, so goodbye to staunch Buffy. She'd do almost anything to feel clean and taste a hamburger. They get off the road and check in at a motel. She has to put on all her Cleveland clothes again and her nose almost freezes off in the thirty feet to the motel office, her boots crunching snow with loud crackling sounds. Middle America weather is back. It's pretty clear what the clerk thinks when Spike asks for a room for a couple of hours and lots of towels, but she doesn’t care.

She hesitates when she steps into the stuffy room with its bland ugly furniture and synthetic carpet. A motel room is so cheap, she thinks. And yet all Spike and she ever did was fuck in his crypt or outside. She fingers the slippery maroon polyester sheets. Spike's sheets were cream and of a good quality cotton. They almost never used them.

"No time to sleep," the other Spike says brusquely. "Grabbing a shower and eating is all we're gonna do. You shower first."

He leaves and Buffy is grateful for his tact. It's vaguely embarrassing to be in one room with him if there's a bed. The bathroom is barely clean, with strips of mold so thick she's almost afraid they'll tear themselves off the wall and attack her, but the shower is heavenly.

She's wrung out her hair and is trying to dry it with the inadequate dryer they've screwed to the wall here when Spike comes back in. He's wiping his face with his sleeve and the first thing Buffy thinks is that his manners are awful. Then the realization that he's been hunting hits her, that he's killed a person while she was blithely showering! The dryer whuffs jerkily next to her ear as she sinks down on the bed and stares at him.

"What?" he says, mildly irritated. He has a sated, lustful look on his face, lips full and eyes at half-mast, a look that she knows from right 333333333333333333333333333333333333333333after sex, in that minute before she kicked it off his face with her words or her fists. He flings a jacket and some other items of clothing on a chair.

"Brought you some warm things to wear, Slayer."

She can hardly speak, anger and betrayal clog her throat. "Did you rape before you killed her, or after? Was she Dawn's age?"

He lifts an eyebrow while he's shrugging out of his duster. "Didn't have time for fucking the food, love. Who's Dawn?"

She watches, paralyzed with choices, while he undresses nonchalantly and walks buck naked to the shower, swaggering and sleek. She stares but doesn’t see him. She ought to stake him right now. He's a killer. She knew this in theory, but she's never seen the reality of it this close. When he was manipulated by the First, the bodies rising in the cellar were horrific, but she didn’t feel him kill them as she feels the loss of the unknown life right now. She should have known he wasn’t letting her shower out of chivalry, it was just practicality. He kills, she showers; he showers, she has a hamburger. Jesus, who knows how many people he killed just now?

The dryer dies in her hand. It needs another coin. She stares stupidly at it and stomps off to the bath room, stake in hand. She's gotta do something or she'll explode. She opens the door he hasn’t bothered locking and freezes on the threshold. Spike hasn't bothered with trivialities like shower curtains. He's hanging lazily against the shower wall, cream against the blotched white, eyes closed against the water, his hands lazily stroking his erect cock. Buffy sees a tiny splatter of blood on his neck bleed down quietly, pinking a trickle of water and then getting lost in the fall of water running over his chest.

She's staring, heart clenching at this sight, and knows she won’t be able to put a stake through those languidly bunching chest muscles. She's lost it, it's official. Her friends were right after all, she is blind to Spike, and she probably couldn’t kill him if she saw him drink a victim right in front of her nose. She turns away, putting the stake in her pocket again, she needs to think. All her instincts are overset, they are too stupid to keep her Spike and this one apart, and her brain has never been a reliable guide.

"Leaving already, Slayer? Thought you were going to lend me a hand…" Spike drawls after her.

Yeah, yeah, enough with the innuendo already. She finds no funny quip ready on her tongue and makes do with slamming the door. The situation is impossible. She's on a road trip with a serial killer and she's just been letting it happen. From the moment he said they were leaving for Cleveland until now she's just tagged along behind him. It has to stop.

She tries to think over her options. She could dust him right now and drive on to Cleveland on her own. She'd have to take his money before it dusted with him, though, or she’ll never get there. Does she need him? The trip will go slower without him, that's for sure. And didn’t she just decide she couldn’t dust a Spike, however evil? Might as well bow to the inevitable and let him whisk her to Cleveland with all possible speed. One they get there, when or if they manage to locate the vortex spiral, will be soon enough to have another try at killing him.

And really, this is another world. The weight of her own world was a heavy enough burden to bear, has had her on her knees and occasionally with her nose in the dust, and she's just learning how to stand up straight again and not doing a very good job of it yet. The Slayer of this world is the one to take care of this Spike, and her responsibility is to get back to Dawn in one piece. Crystal clear, if you just take a moment to check it out. If she can't prevent him from killing for ever after, at least she can see to it that he doesn't kill anymore in her presence.

Spike ambles out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel and not bothering to have one around his hips. Of course she looks, why shouldn’t she? She'll just have to add one resolve extra to her new little stack, and that is not falling for the lure of this Spike's hot little body. That said, his dick is still half hard from his jacking off in the shower, and it makes her feel tingly, which is kind of shameful. How pathetic is it that she had no trouble at all keeping her hands off a Spike who was living in her basement, for God's sake, and yet this one is just oozing edibility? Best not think that thorough, or she'll like herself even less.

Spike dresses while she watches. He rakes his hands through his wet curls with a sigh and she guesses he wants gel to flatten it down. He never could be persuaded that the curls are cuter. She refrains from saying this.

"Let's get your dinner, Slayer."

"I'm not made up," she grumbles but complies. She's made her resolve now, she's gotta be strong to see it through. And she'll have to get some clothes at the next stop, because it's just awful to be wearing these totally smelly old ones. Vamps don’t sweat, but she does.

At the B-rated hamburger place across the road she demolishes her burger with gusto. Spike smiles.

"You tear into that burger like it's a pumping artery, Slayer. Some things don’t change."

What does he know? She hasn’t eaten this much in years.

Spike plays with a cigarette but doesn't light it, which would get him kicked out in no time. Very cool and controlled for Spike, she thinks. Must be the Master thing that's taught him patience like this, or maybe he always had it. She wouldn’t know, after all.

"So," he begins, "why don’t you tell me a bit about your world. I think the branching off point is your not killing Dru, right?"

Buffy nods, too busy eating to reply just yet.

"Why didn't you?"

That's a good one. She tries to cast her mind back to that moment in the underground club, holding Dru at ransom to get the clueless vampire groupies out.

She swallows a big bite. "I guess I saw your reaction to Drusilla. And I knew some of what Angel did to her, and maybe I felt a little bit sorry for her."

Spike snorts. "Just because she was driven insane by Angel and Darla before they raped and killed her doesn't mean she wasn't a killer, love. All vampires were human once, remember? Doesn't make us any less evil."

Buffy chews on that while she demolishes her second burger. "I know. You started out a sensitive Mama's boy, William, and still you got to rank pretty high on the Evil Top One Hundred."

Spike preens a little. "That I did. Do." He puts the cigarette on his lips and absentmindedly pats his pocket before he remembers and lays it on the plastic daisy patterned table cloth. He's making a little daisy himself, from cutlery and salt shakers, and the cigarette makes a petal. Buffy looks at it in wonder. Geez.

"And how can you be sure Dru is still around? Or did we stay in Sunnydale all those years, same as I did?"

Buffy thinks deeply and takes a few big swallows from her nice cold Coke. "You helped me defeat Angelus because you wanted her back, and then you left…"

Spike's hands grip the pepper shaker hard. Oh, bad boy, I could cut you to the quick…"What? Wanted her back? From who?"

"Angel…Angelus I mean. You were in a wheel chair. I dropped an organ on you after you captured Angel to restore Dru to health."

"Ah! So that panned out then!" Spike nods in satisfaction.

"Uh-huh. Well, I understood from you she was kind of too fond of her Daddy…"

Spike growls and his fingers tear eight little holes in the long-suffering table cloth.

"And?"

"I saw you again a year later, when Dru had dumped you for a Chaos Demon. Then you returned to Sunnydale for…" She just manages to swallow "the gem of Amara." She's not responsible for this world, true, but to let loose a Spike in it who's invincible would still be a very bad idea. "….and got captured by the Initiative soldiers…"

"Must have been out of my mind," Spike grumbles.

"Dru returned to Sunnydale a year later, with burns on her face, and tried to get you back. But you'd fallen in love with me by then and offered to stake her for my loving you in return."

Spike looks as if he's swallowed something bad. "I find that bloody hard to believe. Why the hell would I fall in love with a Slayer?"

"You tried killing me first," Buffy says pointedly, kind of enjoying this. "Many times. But you failed."

"Huh."

Buffy looks up and away, trying to think how to phrase this. "Time passed. You tried to rape me in my own bathroom and felt so bad about it you went and got a soul."

Spike curls his lip. "In your own bathroom? How'd I get in then? You must have invited me! And I don’t rape Slayers, I kill them in honorable battle."

"Yeah, well. You lost it for a few, I guess. It was a bad thing to do, and you repented. You got your soul, went crazy, became sane, and sacrificed yourself to defeat the First Evil and the Turok Han from the Hellmouth. Sunnydale slid into a great big crater, end of story."

Spike looks gobsmacked. "That's just…rubbish. I would never do any of those things. Don't even know what they are."

Buffy shrugs. "Get your head around this: you loved me. A lot. Everything follows from that. Weren't you the same with Drusilla? Love's bitch?"

"Hey!" Spike says, pointing his finger at her. "You don’t get to say that"

Buffy shrugs again and thinks about a third hamburger, but decides on a milk shake. Chocolate. She's not vanilla girl anymore. Spike gets one too, and they slurp up the frothy stuff in tandem. Buffy smiles, imagining how they must look, Slayer and vampire drinking from straws together, like skewed mirror images. It's a sad smile, because this is the wrong vampire.

TBC

Chapter 4
"I loved you, you say," Spike says pensively and licks a drop of milkshake from his lips. "And you never loved me back, but you still kept me around all these years and didn’t stake me?"

"Uh, yeah. Basically."

Spike watches the Slayer slurp hard to get the last dregs of her milkshake out of the cup. She glows from the shower and all that food she gobbled up, and she's looking very attractive and edible. He won't eat her, though. He's gonna kill her in a fair fight, and leave her dead. There's a Drusilla in her world, and he owes her for that. Still, he doesn’t quite believe her story. It’s too farfetched to be completely fabricated, but he's betting she's leaving a lot of stuff out.

She flicks him one of those absentminded but assessing looks. He thinks she's comparing him to the other Spike, and she keeps on doing it, probably without knowing it. Didn’t love Spike back, huh? He knows she was hot for Angelus before he turned her, so it’s not that far off the mark for this Slayer to go for a vampire, but still. Odd.

"So, what do you do all day? What does a Master Vampire occupy his time with?"

The Slayer is looking at him with a little devil in her eyes, taunting him a bit. It's almost like flirting. He likes it, even if she is the Slayer. Always her way, it is, getting in a quip rather than a kick. Although she was mighty fond of the kicking and the killing, too.

"Oh, you know, what does a man do? Hunt and feed at night, make up tasks for the minions, keep them good and scared."

"And by day?"

"Sleep, watch telly, fool around with the girls."

"How about making evil plans, ending the world?"

"What? I'm in it for the fun, love, not serving on someone's evil agenda." Christ. Who does she think he is, Hitler? What gave her such a skewed idea of what a vamp wants? His milksop alter ego he supposes. Can't imagine what got him into rooting for apocalypses, though.

"So you just kill for the thrill of the hunt and to feed?"

'Yeah. What other reasons are there?"

She shrugs. "I thought you might have dreams of killing and terrorizing whole cities…"

"Terrorizing sounds just dandy, pet, but no point in killing off the whole population, is there? The idea is to keep the humans oblivious, fat and happy, and then cull the herd."

"Cull? Ew. Thanks for making me feel like a cow. But I get it. The Happy Meals on Legs thing."

Nice turn of phrase, he admits. She sighs and tosses her hair. The light catches the vampire bite on her neck. He reaches over the table and touches the mark.

"That looks like one of Angelus's. Did you enjoy it?"

She freezes and looks at him like a frightened rabbit. He traces his thumb over her jaw and turns her head the other way. His finger finds another raised pair of bite marks.

"Turn a bit more into the light, love."

To his surprise, she does. He gets up so he can see and feel the mark better. He bends over and gives it a lick before she knows what's happening to her.

He sits back, greatly surprised. "Drac? You do get around, Slayer. Are there any famous vampires who didn't get a piece of you?"

A lovely flush, hot blood flooding to her cheeks, she looks utterly bitable at that moment.

"Just you," she says between clenched teeth.

"Ah."

Curiouser and curiouser. She rallies quickly though and gets back at him with an unerring stab in the wrinklies.

"Do you have a regular girlfriend?"

"None of your business."

"Do you still miss her? Drusilla?"

"What's this? Twenty questions? And a fine thing it is, you asking about her, when you were the one who killed her!"

He subsides and rubs his eyes. No, she wasn't. Still can't get his head around that bit. Or his heart, rather.

"So," she continues, "the Buffy in this world and you are not an item?"

"Christ, no. She's my minion. Won't say we haven't fucked occasionally, but she's not my type. Straight-laced little black and white bitch, she is."

The Slayer flushes again at that. Ha. He looks down at his hands to hide his smirk and sees he's been shredding the straw in to a little daisy shape. He crumples it and stuffs it in his paper cup.

"Do you make a lot of minions?"

"No," he says curtly. "Never liked doing that. Lot of bother, they are."

He needs to get back on topic. Hellmouths and whole towns sliding into a big hole, was it?

She nods understandingly and goes on, oblivious of his sudden fidgets. "Because of what happened with your mom. I get that."

He almost rips her head off right then and there. The paper cup crumples under his fists and he needs to get out of here now before he smashes the whole place. "You know nothing about me and my mother. Shut up."

He stalks out of the diner, Slayer irritatingly close on his heels, still yapping away.

"She loved you, you know. That was just the demon talking."

He throws himself behind the wheel and tears out of the parking lot, although the slippery bits of snow almost make them spin against a row of cars. The Slayer barely has time to close the door behind her. He can't believe she knows all that. He'd never so much as mentioned his mother to Drusilla again, who probably thought that was a good thing. His other self must have bared his soul to her, the git, laid it belly up and quivering below her feet. And he just knew she'd kicked it, taken a pleasure in grinding her heels into his soft underbelly. She's like that. And it wasn't true what she'd said. People are the same after they'd been vamped, just minus the inhibitions; she's a prime example herself. Righteous little Slayer, righteous little vamp.

Although here she is, looking cold and disapproving, but not so righteous that she isn't prepared to go gray by traveling with him for days. He shakes his head and stares at the road. If she opens her mouth he doesn't know what he'll do. Kill her probably. Bitch.

It's starting to snow again, and visibility gets worse and worse. The Slayer doesn't pay the roiling snowflakes much attention and starts yawning. After a bit of that she crawls over to the backseat. He eyes her curvy bum so close to his face and contemplates fucking it, sliding in and out that hot little cunt, but it's hard to imagine doing that without thinking of feeding. The Slayer removes the bum from his field of vision. She starts tossing and turning to find a comfortable spot and he hopes she drops off quick.

The snow is turning into a snowstorm now and driving slows to a crawl. They won't make Cleveland tomorrow at this rate. Sodding snow. Slayer almost made him feel like a domesticated idiot staying in California for so along, but there's good reason not to spend winters in Middle America. Iowa, hurry on up and slide by faster. Adair, Stuart, DeSoto. Hey.

At about five o'clock in the morning, when he hasn't covered more than 200 miles in seven hours, the engine gives up. He's an idiot, hanging on to an old car like that. He should have let the minions steal a new one, a SUV or something. Bugger. He's in the middle of nowhere, the last town twenty miles or so back. Not a car in sight, not a farm, nothing but roiling white closing in around the car, making the world small and confined. The Slayer snores on, oblivious. He lets her sleep. Fat lot of help she'll be in a bind like this.

He gets out of the car and roots around in the trunk. He thinks he remembers seeing a road map there a couple of years back. He does find it, but it's dated 1979 and has almost disintegrated. The only other things in the boot are an old burgundy velvet dress of Drusilla's that gives him a painful pang in the region where his heart used to be, and a blood spattered axe. He can't remember whom he killed with it.

He trudges back to the car. His short extravehicular activity has rendered him stone cold and covered in snow. The map is useless, not enough fine detail to make a guess at small towns or outlying farms nearby. He checks out the Slayer, who's curling up into a tight ball and shivering in her sleep. He tosses the dress over her shoulders, but knows it won't do much good in the long run. It must be below zero out there and she'll die if they don't get somewhere warm, because there's no telling how long the storm is going to last.

An hour till sunrise. He'll be safe from the sun as long as the snowfall continues, and he can always burrow into the snow if the sun decides to make an appearance. They have to strike out now, before the cold starts to get to the Slayer and renders her unable to walk.

He bends over to the back seat and shakes her awake. She gives him that unnerving sweet smile again before she's completely awake, then starts frowning and withdraws from his hands.

"Is it time already? It's still dark."

"The car broke down," he says. "We have to get walking before you freeze to death."

She's slow to take this in. "What?"

She looks outside and sees the white wall of snow and wind bearing down on them. "Shit. Can't you fix the car? We can't go out in this, we'll die."

"You'll die for sure if you stay in the car. If we walk you have a chance."

"Can't we wait for help? Can't you phone in or something?"

He just raises his eyebrows and looks at her. She sighs. "No cell phone, I guess. Mr. Technologically Challenged."

He fishes the cell phone out of his pocket and holds it up to her. Its battery is empty. He never had the car loader installed like he meant to.

She grimaces and rubs her face. Finally, she nods. "Okay."

She dons the stolen jacket, hat and mittens without another word on their being looted from a person he just killed. Very sensible of her. He gets back around the car and roots in the trunk for the piece of rope he noticed but didn’t have any use for five minutes ago. He ties it around his waist and the Slayer's, despite her protests at being treated like a dog or a toddler.

Spike sets off on the road. He's betting on seeing a signpost for a town or a farm within a few miles. The map makes it seem as if this part of Iowa is scattered with small towns, and he hopes scattered doesn't mean fifty miles apart. It doesn't matter. Sitting in that car growing colder by the minute is sure death for the Slayer and he hasn’t given up hope of reaching Cleveland sometime this week.

After a minute or so of leaning into the howling wall of the blizzard he turns around to see how far they've got. He can’t see the car anymore. The Slayer bumps into him and sputters a bit about it, but he's concentrating too hard to pay attention to her. They have to stay on the road or perish.

There is no time anymore. There is just a faint rhythmic strengthening and abating to the onslaught of snow in his face, as if the wind is a frosty giant's breath, a giant who needs to inhale every now and then. Hundreds of these polar breaths have gone by when he bumps into something. He can't see a thing; it's either still night or he is snow-blind, but his hands feel the shape of a mailbox. A strip of skin tears off, he shouldn't have touched the metal thing, but he doesn't feel it. He takes a sharp right and strides south into the white maw of nothingness, hoping the farmer has put his drive at a perfect straight angle to the road. The Slayer trips and falls when the rope tangles with the mailbox post. They are both slow and stupid and it takes a while before they're straightened out again.

Spike's set his mind far ahead, expecting a long traipse, so the sudden appearance of a screened porch about six feet from his face is a surprise.

He raps sharply on the door. Only then do the Slayer's mitts land on his back.

"Why are we stopping?"

He can hardly understand what she's saying, her teeth are rattling so hard. She must be seeing even less than he is.

"There's a farm here. We're going to ask for shelter."

The Slayer, who he thought was practically comatose, yanks on his duster lapels and brings his face close to hers. He can't see much of her except the lilac tip of her nose, but she's probably directing a stern, forbidding expression at him.

"One thing, Spike! You're not eating these people, understood? I want your word of honor on this. And let me do the talking."

"You think I didn't learn some tricks to get in a house in the past hundred-odd years?"

She snorts. "Do you have any idea what you look like right now? Bela Lugosi looked healthy next to you."

"Hey! You check the color of that Barbra Streisand thing on your face lately? It's probably frozen and it's gonna turn black and drop off!"

For a moment he thinks she's gonna cry, and it would be interesting to see what would happen with tears in this temperature. She shakes her head and lifts her nose higher. She'd be almost cute if she didn’t remind him so much a certain vampire named Buffy. Spike, we need to concentrate on doing serious evil. Spike, we're not in it for fun and games. He is his own man, evil to the core, and no little chit is going to tell him otherwise.

"And you'd accept my word, Slayer? How come?"

"I've seen you keep it," she says levelly.

How strange that she'd trust him. He really ought to disabuse her of trusting vampires, for her own good, but he nods and holds up his hand, which is an interesting shade of blue gray.

In spite of her fighting words the Slayer is so weary that he's practically propping her up. Her threats don’t pack much punch now. Still she insists on pretending to take charge.

"Is there anything else about this world I need to know? Is America still America? Not invaded by demons or anything?"

"Bit late with that, aren't you? No, I defeated and killed everything that might have ended the world, and I think I would have noticed if it had."

The inner door is opened and securely closed behind a thickset man in pajamas, a robe and a down jacket. He opens the screen door and looks down at them.

"What have we here?"

"Sir?" the Slayer says politely, although the effect is a bit ruined by her stiff cheeks and chattering teeth. "Our car broke down. Could we please use your phone and wait inside for the tow truck?"

"Tow truck?" The farmer looks at them as if they're insane. "Ain't no truck gonna come out and rescue you in this weather. Come on in, I wouldn't leave a dog outside in this." He hands them a sturdy brush. "Here. Get that snow off you so you don't ruin the carpet."

"Does this mean you can get in the whole house now?" the Slayer hisses at him in an undertone. Single-minded, that's what she is. Thinking like the Slayer even in a situation like this, although you could call them rescued by now, he reckoned.

"Mother!" the man calls out. "We've got visitors!"

The clock in the hall strikes eight o'clock. It's a scary thought that he hasn't even been able to tell that the sun has long since risen. A stout woman, comfortably bundled up in trousers and a thick home-knit sweater pads down to them. Her beady eyes rake him over critically. He looks away from her inquisitive gaze, not caring to reveal his predatory eye, and surreptitiously inhales the musty lived-in smell of the house. Doesn't seem to be more than two people living here, middle-aged people, cough drops, liniments, yesterday's cooking, and a faint trace of incense.

"I'm Nancy Andersen, and that fool man over there, because I bet he hasn't introduced himself yet, is John." She waits for a few seconds and then asks, with a hint of asperity, "And what are your names?"

"I'm Buffy Summers and this is…Spike," the Slayer says quickly.

"Hi, Mr. Summers, hi, Buffy."

This trick seldom fails, and the presence of the Slayer only makes it more believable. People always let stranded travelers in their houses, especially if there is bad weather, and many a farmers has regretted letting him and Dru in. Andersen looks at him sharply and distrustfully, no doubt because bleached hair and black leather aren't exactly acceptable outside of New York, but he can distrust all he want, there's nothing the man can do now, he's in. Too bad he's so old. Doesn't seem like there are any nubile daughters, and him a veal kind of man. Not that the Slayer will let him, and he promised. He still can't believe that she accepted his word, but the worst is that he knows he'll keep it.

Chapter 5
Spike brushes the snow off her, and she does the same for him. It's curiously intimate. She leans on his shoulder while he lifts one of her boots to get the snow off the soles, her mittened hand receiving impressions of creaking leather and a solid shoulder as through a layer of cotton wool. Her own shoulder is gripped securely by his big hand, the touch of which she remembers well, but she doesn’t feel the cold of it through her stolen jacket and thick layers underneath. It's matter of fact, and he's not smirking or nudging her with his elbow or anything, but it's as personal as a kiss.

She and the real Spike had that together for a few short months, before every touch became scintillating and dangerous. And then afterwards, her Spike never came this close to her again all the time he lived in her basement. Even when they slept against each other he kept his hands away and the moment she got up the distance was back. In fact, it never left, she sees that now, and she's getting a glimmer why he didn't believe her when she said she loved him. Their hands coming together and bursting into flame was the most intimate thing they did. The other Spike doesn't sense any of this, she's sure of that, he's not shy or contained around her, and if she reminds him of vampire Buffy it doesn’t seem to set off any embarrassment or great feeling. Which is kind of sad in itself. Poor other Buffy. As if Spike is the only person in the world who can offer her this enormous all-defying love, and if he doesn't there's nothing.

Mrs. Andersen escorts them to her guestroom, a plain space with a wooden floor and throw rugs. There's just one bed in it. Buffy doesn't think that would be a good idea at all, and turns to Mrs. Andersen, but Spike's iron grip on her upper arm halts her.

"We're much more innocuous when we're a couple instead of people traveling together," he hisses in her ear.

Buffy doubts this, but as Mrs. Andersen babbles on about hot showers and is putting out towels and spare clothes on the bed the right moment slips by.

She gathers up the acid-washed narrow-ankled jeans and check shirt that have been laid out for her and walks briskly after Mrs. Andersen to the bathroom. This is going to be so weird, sharing a room with evil Spike, whom she doesn't even know, and pretending to be his wife? Rampant ickiness. She checks her face in the mirror and has to conclude Spike was right about her nose. It's now bright red and itches. Very attractive, especially with the icicles of snot melting and running down. On the other hand, it's a good and safe thing to tone down any attraction around him. There be worms in the shoals of physical attraction to any Spike. She showers, relaxing in the heat and realizing she's both hungry and sleepy. Spike should be hungry too. Crap, Spike's without her supervision right now. He could have eaten Mrs. Andersen while she's been showering. She dresses hastily, seeing by her reflection that a too big check shirt and dark circles under her eyes do nothing for her looks.

Spike's lounging naked in the wicker chair, a feat of endurance in itself, smoking slowly and pensively. There are no bloodstains or drained bodies lying around. Just to be sure she asks.

"What are you going to eat, Spike?"

He lifts heavy lids over eyes that are bluer than the smoke of his cigarette.

"Making the difficult choice between chicken and mice, unless you're offering? Thought not. That is if they have a chicken coop."

Buffy doesn't know what to say. I'm glad you didn't eat our hostess sounds lame. Maybe he will keep his word.

"Don't they have cows or sheep or something?"

"This is Iowa, love, they're farming grain. Might have a couple of heads of cattle for the milk, perhaps, but not great big herds like you're imagining."

"I'm imagining nothing, Spike. The only worthwhile knowledge I have is about slaying and shopping," she says bitterly.

"Self pity doesn't become you, Slayer," Spike answers unfeelingly. "Have you no pride in what you are?"

He gets up to leave for the bathroom stark naked.

"I see you have big plans for Mrs. Andersen," Buffy remarks.

Spike gets a faintly revolted look on his face and rolls his eyes. "You act like we're actually married," he complains, but dons a towel. "D'you miss it so much, fussing over your pet vampire? Did you hold his willy for him when he had to pee? "

He leaves the room with the broad swagger of a man who knows he's scored a hit. Buffy wonders for a few moments if she should follow him and make sure he doesn’t eat anyone, but her instincts are completely dormant on the subject and mostly nudge her to go down and have breakfast. Enticing odors of fried sugary dough are wafting up and she's hoping for waffles or pancakes. Her search for a dryer yields nothing, and she braids her wet hair to get it out of her face.

Buffy finally ventures down the stairs on her thickly stockinged feet. Mom and Pop are already waiting for her at the breakfast table.

"You hungry?" Mrs. Andersen smiles her pearly white dentures at her and indicates a chair.

Strangely enough, when you think that the last thing she did before falling asleep was eat, she is. She nods silently, and watches the homely comforting actions of Mrs. Andersen's hands, which pour coffee for her in a flowered mug and deposit a stack of pancakes on her plate. There's a carafe of maple syrup, she sees. She really wants blueberry, but something tells this is a one-syrup household.

She's halfway through her stack when Spike comes down and slides in next to her, smelling of wet hair and cheap shampoo. Waves of fabric softener waft up from his blue and white plaid shirt. He looks smaller and more harmless in the farmer get-up; even his face seems blander than before. She looks closely and registers the absence of eyeliner, which makes the blue of his eyes less noticeable and dramatic. His hair's bubbling off his head in unlikely lemon sorbet curls, which she last remembers from an insane basement moment.

Mrs. Andersen pours him coffee, but he refuses the pancakes, which is no great surprise.

"I'll just eat a bit off Buffy's plate."

His refusal to eat is met with frowns and disapproval.

"Son, you need to eat in this cold," Mr. Andersen tells him bluntly. "You're pale and skinny as it is. I'm sure the missus would like to see some meat on your bones."

For some inane reason Buffy blushes fierily at this remark, and covers up her confusion and irritation at her own blood vessels making fun of her by reaching for her coffee mug. It doesn’t exactly smell like her favorite frappaccino, but it'll have to do.

Mrs. Andersen's sharp eyes rest on her. "You're not wearing a ring, honey. You two are married, you said?"

Another flush makes her sweat in her borrowed flannels. Next to her Spike makes a tiny sound of exasperation, which she knows only she recognizes, and puts his hand over hers. Thank god he's not wearing polish, she thinks, but below these sane thoughts another Buffy howls in anguish and tears up. Her hand twitches under his but he keeps it in place.

"We needed the money," he tells the Andersens ambiguously.

Buffy admires this. They can make up their own interpretation whether this was before or after the wedding, and the subject is so delicate they will likely not touch on it again. And she's right, an uncomfortable silence falls, disturbed only by the irregular ticking and whirring of an old clock somewhere in another room. The overly sweet sauce and the fatty textureless pancakes are making her nauseous but she can't stop eating, it's like a void inside her needs filling. She peers surreptitiously around her while she eats on, but the room is so bland there is nothing for the eyes to rest on. Everything the Andersen's have is generic, owned by millions of people across the country, the patterned plates, the dishcloths, the toaster.

There is only one thing missing and after another pancake she realizes it's music. There ought to be some kind of bland pop noise in the background, but there's only the clock, the buzz of the old model fridge and the furtive eating and moving sounds people make in a quiet room. She wishes they would turn the radio on but after practicing several requests for it she realizes that the storm is probably blocking all transmissions anyway.

She out-eats Xander in the pancake stakes and manages to finish the mug of coffee. It does nothing for her alertness. Her head is blanketed in snow and in spite of all the sugar and caffeine nothing much makes an impression any more. She can't hide her yawns and Mrs. Andersen sends her to bed.

"Sorry I can’t offer you anything to occupy you, Spike," Mr. Andersen says. "I'm up to my ears in taxes and I already fed the pigs. Best get some rest as well."

Buffy slowly climbs back to her bedroom. Her socks slide silently on the polished wooden stairs and it's almost impossible to lift her foot to the next rung of the stairs. It takes an age for her hand to descend on the railing and she doesn’t feel wood under her hand, but something like felt or a thick moldy layer of decay. She decides to stop, she wants to turn around and tell Spike they have to get out of here, snow storm or not, but her feet go on doggedly ascending, almost obscured from her line of vision by a wisp of hair that swings in front of her eyes.

There is the guestroom door, a darkly stained affair with a red heart and the word 'Marilyn' fixed to it. Her hand comes up and presses the handle. Stumbling and yawning she shucks off her clothes, put on only an hour ago, and slides the flannel nightgown Mrs. Andersen has thoughtfully left for her over her head. The blue gingham sheets are cool and welcoming and she wriggles under the thick covers luxuriously. Sleep, just what she needs. She's so tired, although why this would be so when she slept away most of the night in the car she doesn’t know. Maybe that trek in the snow took a lot out of her.

Spike slides in next to her, yawning just like she is and there's something not quite right about that, but she can't think what. He nestles against her back and falls asleep immediately. Buffy hangs on to consciousness by sheer force of will, fighting for another few seconds to think about this, but she feels so safe, so very safe that she lets go. Her dreams are ready and waiting for her.

There are little blue checks all around her, braids swinging, and so is her axe. She smoothes her little white apron and casts around for someone to kill. Oh, hey, there's Spike. For someone reason she never got around to killing him before, and it’s totally okay because he's a vampire. She hefts the axe high and brings it down on his sleeping neck with a satisfying crack. Two more chops and it’s done. There is very little blood. He wakes up, winks at her and blows out his last sigh theatrically. So typical, always tries to get in the last word, even when it’s clear she's won.

"Won’t be enough, you know," Spike remarks conversationally from behind her.

He fastidiously swirls the duster closer around himself to avoid the blood that is fountaining up from his other body. There is suddenly a lot of blood spraying around and she looks at her little white apron in dismay. It's now a little red apron.

Spike tweaks her left breast casually and lights a fag. "I'll just wake up again and start over. No keeping me down, pet."

He's up in every sense of the word, that's true. She might as well since her apron is stained anyway. With a sigh she cranks his engine, going on patiently until the engine starts with a great roar and he's off to the horizon.

Well, that was different. Still, ultimately not very satisfying, like most dreams. A girl likes to get her hands on some real meat, after all. No matter how many baloney sandwiches you eat in a dream, you still wake up hungry.

Chapter 6
The sun sets and Spike wakes up, deliciously warm, pressed up against a softly breathing bundle of blood and bones. This is the kind of waking up he likes. Breakfast in bed. The tremor of blood rushing under Buffy's silky skin is tantalizing, and his hard-on against her flannel-covered bum makes for a perfect combination. Spike decides that he's going to keep his prey alive a little longer in the future now and then, just for the pleasure of waking up like this. He buries his nose deeper in her fragrant hair and gives an experimental lick along the top of her spine. Buffy sighs softly but doesn’t wake up. He starts to pull up the long nightgown, softly humping his cock between the cleft of her buttocks. He can hear her heart rate accelerate, she's going to wake up any moment now, he'd better be quick. The gown bunches around her middle and he slides in a finger first to test the waters. She's wet and shivers around his finger. With a start she wakes up.

"Wha?"

Fuzzy and sweet. He might just get lucky. Then a Slayer-powered elbow in his solar plexus disabuses him of that notion and he sits back laughing and coughing at the same time.

"Thought you wouldn’t let me get this far, Slayer. You sleep pretty deeply. What were you dreaming of?"

She's beet-red and almost speechless with fury.

"How dare you? How dare you?"

He grins and leans back in the pillows, well aware of the picture he makes against the gingham sheets. He pushes down the comforter and takes his hard cock in his hand, pleasantly stimulated by the glare of the blushing Slayer, so angry she gives off waves of heat against his sensitive skin. She gapes at him.

"You’re going to do that right next to me? Are you out of your mind?"

He thinks briefly and shakes his head. "Don't think so. Got to get my jollies some way, don't I, now that you're not obliging?"

"'You're the crassest, crudest, most insensitive thing ever!" she stammers out and flounces out of the bed angrily, flashing him some golden thigh and cheeks.

"You've known me for, what, six years, and you hadn't come to that conclusion yet?

"I guess not!" she says with averted head and bangs off, in search of the bathroom he supposes.

It's easy to imagine the velvet heat he'd felt around his finger for a moment around his dick instead and he's shooting into his hand when the Slayer storms back in, shouting something and yanking on his arm.

"Stop playing with yourself, Spike, something's wrong. The lights don’t work and there is no hot water or anything."

He glances up and blinks a few times to get his eyes to focus. The room is lit, but not by the fringed lamp overhead. The drapes aren't drawn, and outside all is black and grey whirling endlessly around itself. A glow seems to emanate from the walls and floors themselves. He just needs a moment to get back some control over his limbs and then he'll get up and kill somebody.

"Let's get dressed, Spike. I've got a feeling about this. How come we slept the day away? And us in one bed? That never would have happened if I'd been normally tired."

She's right about that. He gets out of bed and reaches for his borrowed clothes. He turns around to watch Buffy dress; Slayer's too distracted to care about showing off just about everything to him. Nothing he hasn't seen many times before, but it's different when it's a live body and can blush in shame or arousal.

She catches him looking and turns around angrily. Her bottom is just as edible as her tits and it's nice to get a good eyeful, but it's mightily strange that the idea of staking him never seems to cross her mind. After all, he never sleeps without a stake nearby in case one of his minions gets uppity, and her alter ego is the one he's most wary of. It's an odd sensation to be trusted so much. He doesn’t think it's ever happened to him before. It's not a good thing, mind you, makes a bloke soft, makes him weak. The only person you can trust is yourself.

The Slayer comes up to him and thrusts her hand in his left pocket, an action so surprising he almost takes it for an attack and is whirling halfway across the room preparing for a kick when he sees her bemused face and her hand holding up his lighter.

"Geez, Spike, jumpy much? I thought we might need this in case the magic lighting fails."

"Right! Good thinking, Slayer," he says, a little embarrassed. Crazy bint. Knows what he keeps in his pocketses, even, if that doesn't mean they had a thing he'll eat his hat. "You'll be needing the light, while I will be able to see everything."

"Yeah," she says, distracted. She's staring down at her feet, where, now that she's alerted him to it, her own tracks can be seen crisscrossing each other in a thick layer of velvety dust. "Ew. How about the bed?" She steps over to it and slaps the comforter. Great clouds of dust billow up and a hole appears in the cover. It disintegrates under her hand. "And I slept under that? How come I didn’t freeze to death?"

"That's because I was keeping you warm," he says quickly. "Foregoing my natural disgust at sleeping with a human being for the mission."

"Hah. Keeping me warm with the heat of your ice cold vampire feet? I don’t think so."

They've started moving as they speak, and he holds the door for her automatically. She stops and crosses her arm across her chest.

"Just this once I'll allow you to go first, Spike. Be my guest."

Well, well, who’s being all perky and witty here? A far cry from the tired woman who sat next to him, slumped and despondent. Adversity agrees with her. Which surprises Spike, because he got the distinct impression she was fed up with being a Slayer and all.

He concentrates on his awareness of the old house surrounding them. He senses no people close by, no animals, nothing living as far as his ears and nose can reach. The bare boards on the landing creak and they both freeze. But there is no reaction whatsoever, neither in the physical world nor in the blanket of magic he can feel covering the house.

The stairs bitch and moan like a whole batch of tortured souls but they've both stopped reacting to it by now. Downstairs the same glow lights the hallway and they split up to check the other rooms without needing to discuss it. You'd think she'd been guarding his back for six years, so seamless is their cooperation.

He finds a wrecked and empty sitting room, a windowless pantry and a small room without any furniture at all, the walls a pale yellow with bunnies cavorting all over them. He heads to the kitchen, where the Slayer is still poking around.

"Look, Spike," she says, without even checking if it's really him, she just knows, apparently, "it's all empty and dusty and old. Ancient."

He takes another look around. He wouldn’t call it old, actually. It's not such a distinct style he can pinpoint the exact decade all this stuff belongs to, but it’s not fifties or anything. He spots a green and brown stylized flower pattern; he guesses late seventies. That would be old to the Slayer, he supposes. In keeping with the age the Andersens seemed to be.

"Okay, what's left of the house? Attic? Cellar?" he asks.

He knows that she knows which one it'll most likely be, there's an inevitability about gigs like this, but he agrees to go up to the attic together first. As expected, it's a jumble of old furniture, rotted washing and sad-eyed lonely toys.

They each take an old brass curtain rod with them so they'll have some sort of weapon. The Slayer has left her stake in her own clothes, and who knows where they are now? Mrs. Anderson took them away to wash them. Maybe they'll find them in the basement; although why people would need a basement with all of Iowa available to build on, he can't guess.

"Ready, Slayer?"

"Ready, Spike," she says with a crooked grin. Enough nostalgia in that smile to make a bloke queasy. He doesn’t want to know.

The door to the basement swings open without a sound. Nothing but utter darkness comes wafting out, and not a whiff of earth or dampness, which is suspicious in itself. He gives the Slayer a look. She nods. He puts a careful foot out for the first step down. The world slows down after that, or maybe he's speeding up. It's suddenly day bright and he flinches in unreasoning fear of sunlight although he knows it isn’t, all in the middle of falling down the stairs and landing with a loud thunk on the swirling concrete. The Slayer lands on top of him only a second later, forcing the last bit of air out of his lungs so he can't even make the appropriate lewd or sarcastic comment. The swirly concrete dissolves into magic symbols and when he looks up he sees the Andersens again. They don’t register on his other senses so they're not really there or something. They're standing outside the pentagram he and the Slayer have fallen on and he suspects he won’t be able to leave it, but punches the air anyway. His fist strikes up a shower of blue sparks. Magic barrier, just like he thought. The Slayer wants to try for herself, of course, and gets the same result.

Mrs. Andersen looks on with a woeful expression on her face, wringing her hands. "I'm so sorry, Buffy and Spike. We needed the sacrifice for our taxes, it’s nothing personal."

"Don't talk to them, Nance. We agreed on that. They're drug addicts, and not even married," John Andersen says gruffly and doesn’t look Spike in the eye. He's fiddling with something on a crude little altar which looks like it’s made out of orange crates and prairie grass. The wall behind it is painted a shiny black, contrasting wildly with the colorful loops and squiggles of the pentagram underneath Spike's feet. He tries to scuff a line of it with his feet, but it's painted on the concrete and keeps right on shining. It's as if Keith Haring painted a pentagram in the style of Joan Miro, thick black lines outlining red and yellow patches. Or maybe the subway plan of a city that's not London. Whatever it is, it has them stuck.

The Slayer is standing back to back with him, which is as it should be. "See anything?" he asks her.

"Yeah," she says. "Look at what Mr. Andersen is doing. He's using an interdimensional thingy that looks just like the one that got me into this universe."

Mr. Anderson is using a number 2 pencil to poke at a shiny blue bracelet of light on the altar.

"Ready, Father?" Mrs. Andersen asks nervously.

She's picking at a hangnail. Spike still can't sense her. Maybe she's a ghost? No kind of demon he knows has this lack of presence on his people radar.

"Talk to her," he says to the Slayer in an undertone. "Find out why they're doing this."

The Slayer complies immediately. She makes a good minion. "Mrs. Anderson," she asks plaintively, in an 'I'm an innocent victim' voice, "why are you doing this to us? I don’t use drugs, and we were getting married soon, honestly. As soon as we've saved up enough money for a nice ring and a dress."

Spike continues to watch Mr. Andersen, who's steadily and patiently fiddling away with his pencil. It looks like a precise operation, like using a PDA or something, as one of his minions likes to do.

"Oh, honey," Mrs. Andersen wails, "If it was up to me we wouldn't be doing this, but we have to. We were so wretched when our baby girl died, and John's brother-in-law said he knew someone who'd help, and he turned out to be a demon, and it didn't help at all, it backfired terribly. Gus died, and we never got Ingrid back, but we still have to pay a yearly tribute to the demon. A young man and woman, and he eats them and leaves the town in peace."

"Nancy…" Mr. Andersen implores, but his concentration is on the altar.

"The house looks so empty, Mrs. Andersen. What happened to you two?"

The Slayer is doing well at this. Spike strains but can’t make out the details of what Mr. Andersen is doing.

"We died too, Buffy, we died too," Mrs. Andersen admits sorrowfully. "We went to hell, of course, and every year we have to do this, and…"

"Nance!" Mr. Andersen barks. "Don't talk to them. It's coming."

"Mrs. Andersen, please, I was someone's baby girl too, and you wouldn't do that to my mother, would you? Her name is Joyce."

The woman utters a wail of anguish. "We can't! It's gonna eat your souls! It needs two souls or it'll come out and eat everyone!"

Spike thinks it's time for a change of tack. "You're fucked anyway, you old twit. I haven’t got one, I'm a vampire."

Mrs. Andersen walks around to him and gapes. "A… vampire? What's that? Father? Did you hear that?"

Spike vamps out to make his point and Mr. Andersen goes white as a sheet. Funny to see that on a ghost.

"Let us out, Mrs. Andersen, we can fight your monster, we're strong. Do you have weapons?" Buffy is saying behind him.

Spike grinds his teeth. Here he was going for threatening, dammit, and then the bloody Slayer goes in a completely different direction. Doesn’t the woman know when to take her cue from him? He checks the altar again, and the black wall behind it is starting to bulge and sizzle. Right. Not much time for shilly-shallying around anymore.

"Gimme your wrist, Slayer."

"What?"

"Your wrist. We need something to paint out those concrete swirls. Don’t think Mrs. Ghostly and Mr. Concerned Citizen are gonna be much help."

She stares at him with blank eyes and a frowny forehead. He throws another look over his shoulder, yanks her wrist to his mouth and bites.

TBC

Chapter 7
Buffy has long since ceased to expect Spike's teeth in her flesh so when the blood arches from her wrist like a Technicolor fountain she's too stunned to react. The feel of his cool fingers gripping her arm tightly is more urgent than the pulsating arterial spray or the slight sting from his bite. It wasn’t like taking a bite from an apple; he was raking his teeth into the soft skin of her under arm, tearing it open. She looks up into his face and sees his pupils gazing large and hungrily dark upon the bright red stream as he licks his lips slowly. He looks away from her, she doesn't know why, and she's not prepared for the sudden swoop of his head back to her wrist. His tongue licks her wounds, with a raspy briskness that she can’t connect at all to the endlessly delicate lickings of her pussy way back when.

Her thoughts are hazy, and her mind trails after her like a fluttering ribbon when she whips her head around to check out what Spike sees. Bright red blobs on the shiny white floor, hissing and burning away the markings on it and before she can decide what to do her feet leap after Spike, who goes straight through Mrs. Andersen with a roar. A little wail hangs in the air where she used to be. Buffy turns to Mr. Andersen and his doings at the makeshift altar. Without stopping to think she picks up the brass rod which is still lying at the foot of the stairs and throws it at, and through, him. It strikes the bulging cellar walls with a hollow clang and bounces ringing onto the floor.

Mr. Andersen's face twists up like a Silly Putty parody of disappointment and his mouth opens wide in a silent scream. The shiny blue ring of light expands with a flash and a pop like a photo in a black- and white movie. Then there is no more basement wall, there is a roiling darkness and a jet of foul air leaps out to meet them. When the demon pops out his giant head and stretches his rubbery lips wide in anticipation Buffy totally gets the bad breath deal. His tobacco brown teeth look like all his victims from his entire existence are still rotting away merrily in every crease and surface.

She feels no hesitation. The rod is back in her hand, she must have picked it up. Quip and weapon leave her in the same instance.

"Tongue piercing, anyone?"

In its way this moment is wonderful. For a little while her path is shining true and straight ahead of her with no branching or off ramps. She must kill this thing, and her favorite fighting buddy is beside her. He will anticipate her every move and guard her back.

The demon spits out the curtain rod disdainfully. "Yeah, baby, slay me with your tooth pick," he rumbles and waves of dark laughter ripple out from him, setting Buffy's teeth on edge and sending a sickening wave of fear to her stomach.

The one giant eye is surrounded by thick wrinkled purple flesh, the sclera bright yellow, and Spike comes in from the left with a masterful lunge. He hits right in the middle of the black well of its pupil and the eye bursts open and spews fluid all over Spike's wild curls. The roar that comes from the big mouth slams Buffy into the far wall. Spike has sensibly ducked beneath it after his spraying.

"Slayer!" Spike pants. "Get an axe or a saw! Bitty staves aren't going to kill Yaphet Kotto Senior here! I'll distract him."

"Whoo! That hurt!" the mouth brays. A massive shiny tentacle wriggles out of the hole from beside the ear and wrenches it further open to allow a bulging shoulder through. "Is that a curtain rod or are you just happy to see me?"

The tentacle grows longer and grabs Spike around the middle. It smashes him up against the ceiling and back down against the floor. "Bamm-bamm! Bamm-bamm! We'll have a yabba dabba doo time, a dabba doo time, we'll have a gay old time!"

Buffy scrabbles across the floor near the far wall, trying to get to the other side of the basement, where she thinks she saw a work bench. Spike looks sort of limp and leaves bloody stains on both the ceiling and the floor.

"Wiiilllllmmmmmmaaaaaa!!!"

Buffy pulls herself up by her fingertips. Someone tweaks her ass, which is so not the right time for this. She cranes her head to check out how Spike got loose but then spots another tentacle trying hard to get a grip on her and visibly succeeding inch by inch, growing longer and thicker.

The frenzied singing and the Spike smashing continue. "It's time to play the music, It's time to light the lights…"

Bamm bamm!

"Slayer…" It comes out like "Zhazher" and Buffy's hands frantically feel their way about on the work top. With a feeling of relief she finds a heap of assorted tools, a saw, a hammer and so forth. The mad singing goes on and on, pouring from the foul mouth like vomit.

"It's time to put on makeup, It's time to dress up right, It's time to raise the curtain…

She turns and throws the big file and the screw driver into the thick glistening arm that's playing with Spike, just to hurt it some and maybe even shut it up.

Thick oily laughter bubbles behind her as she directs her attention back to the work bench. She's not expecting a sword but a saw would be nice, or an axe. She finds a nail extractor and finally a bonus chainsaw. Time to go Giles and cut through some red tape. Contrary to popular belief Buffy does not kill all things mechanical on sight and the saw's drive catches at the first pull. She slices off the tentacle that's trying to gain grip on her waist. A sluggish fluid like crude oil seeps out.

"Owie!" the beast carols gaily. "And now let's get things started, Why don't you get things started, It's time to get things started, On the most sensational inspirational celebrational…"

The best place to get rid of the thrashing tentacle is close to the portal and she sets the vibrating blade against the meatiest part of the black fleshy arm. The blade goes through easily but the circumference of the arm is huge, and since it doesn't exactly keep still it takes a few minutes before she's through. Spike drops to the floor and lies motionless while she continues to saw. Another tentacle tries to wriggle out from the portal and although it keeps on getting wider and wider, it's still too narrow.

"Aw! You cut off my pinkie!" the liquid voice booms in her ear, making her teeth rattle and ache with subsonic tremors. "The rest of me is gonna sit on you and squash you like a bug!" The big face starts to retreat.

Spike tugs at her arm. Blood drips down on his face from his battered head, but he can still walk and talk. "Come on, Slayer; let's make ourselves scarce before Fred Flintstone comes back."

The saw starts to buck in her hands and stops. Buffy tries to get traction on the floor, slippery with black and red fluids, but Spike's sturdy boot heels win over hers and she's tugged along willy-nilly. This is not acceptable. Her duty is clear, the monster must be destroyed, and she's not going to be deflected from her purpose now that she has one.

"Spike, stop. I'm going to kill it before it destroys the whole town or worse."

"Who cares? Let's steal the Andersens' car and get out of here fast."

They reach the stairs and Buffy makes her stand on the first step. She's stronger than Spike, or she used to be, she thinks as he continues on upwards. Subtler tactics need to be deployed.

"Spike, I can't believe that you're walking out in the middle of a fight. My Spike never was a coward."

"Slayer, you don't think I'm going to fall for that piece of transparent emotional blackmail?”

"Stop with the excuses already. It'll be fun," Buffy says firmly and manages to halt his progress. She tries to look up to him winningly, because although she can't see his face, he can probably see hers.

Spike comes to a decision. "All right. Let's go kill the big smelly bastard. I hate it when something I'm killing tries to be witty at me, puts me off my game."

"His pop culture references were way behind the times anyway," Buffy says, stung.

"Spongebob Squarepants!" The voice booms in their ears. A jet of putrid dark fluid leaves its lips and Buffy dives to the right just in time. The smell gives her an idea and she fishes Spike's lighter from her pocket and flicks it on. She thrusts it just below the stream of monster logy and it flames up with a deep rumbling whoosh that makes her ears pop.

The demon utters a wordless scream and withdraws into the portal, where she can hear it burble and whine in a moist basso profundo.

"Good thinking, Slayer," Spike says from the other side of the basement. "Now why don't you crawl in after it and set the whole thing on fire."

"Yeah, right. I'm so over the whole death wish thing. If we had a kind of bomb we could throw into the portal, something that won’t go out so easily?"

She strains to see a little better in the dimly lit basement, but it's not very likely that there will be hand grenades or cannonballs lying around like in cartoons.

"Did you happen to spot a bottle of turps or lighter fluid on your little foray just now? I could make a Molotov cocktail from one of those," Spike says.

"We're going to offer him a drink?"

"Forgot you weren't there when the Soviets invaded Finland, love. Trust me, it'll work just fine."

Buffy gets back to the bench and finds the plastic and glass bottles with murky fluid she passed over a couple of minutes ago. "Something like this?"

"Yeah. Exactly like that."

Spike tears some strips from his bloodied shirt and stuffs them in the necks of the bottles. He silently holds out his hand and she places the lighter in it. Tentacles explode from the black hole, straight as spears right at her, and she only just manages to roll under them. The head follows the arms, blaring loud indistinguishable words and Buffy feels the air get heavier and slower, pressing down on her. From the corner of her eye something orangey bright arcs through the air and she sees the monster turn his head, snap out with his long black tongue and flick it back into the wide toad-like gash of his mouth. Spike falls on top of her and claps his hands over her ears. He's gonna wrench off her head and she doesn’t know why.

The world turns inside out and when she's managed to heave Spike away the basement is back again, not a single trace on the wall to indicate there was a hole in the world just a minute ago. The floor is a whole different story; it's blotched and glistens with blood and oily splatters. Two big pieces of tentacle are lying limp and dead across the altar.

Spike holds out his hand to her. She takes it and half stumbles against him. He steadies her with a hand on her hip and she doesn’t slap it away.

"Let's go get the device, Spike," she says, and her voice sounds small and flat.

"Yeah."

Spike slurs a bit and slumps down on her. He's not holding her up anymore, she's supporting him. He does look very battered, lumps and cuts vying for territory on his pale face. She puts her arm around him more securely and props him up with one hand under his shoulder. Walking the few steps towards the wall is harder than she thought, her legs are jittery and her feet are woolly and uncertain on the floor. Spike's hand is hooked around her hip, digging painfully into her belly, but she knows he'll fall otherwise.

Hooking Spike's arm over her neck so she can still keep him upright she reaches for the oversized piece of squid ink spaghetti. The moment she touches it, it snaps back into action, tautly coils around her arm and lifts its pointy end, searching for her face as if it has a purpose.

She can’t hold Spike and fight at the same time. "Spike! Wake up. Stand up. I have to fight."

The other tentacle has joined the play and they snake around her legs and torso, on their way up to her neck. Now's she's getting really mad. It was just a fight until now, but this is pushing her boundaries. She hopes there's no special reason these tentacles are back in action again, are they vampire tentacles or something? She grabs one and tears it into two, shouting and stamping with the effort. At last it breaks and she gasps in relief as the coils around her middle loosen. The moment the last breath of air has left her throat, a cool slick necklace winds around her neck and draws tight. She wants to call out to Spike, whose weight she can no longer feel, but it’s too late. She can’t get a grip on the thing squeezing the life out of her and her sight is starting to dim. Not like this, she thinks frantically, not now, lemme get home, I was just getting…

Spike draws her off the floor again and she leans against him, gulping great big draughts of air, clasping him tightly because her rubbery legs threaten to topple her. She leans her forehead against his shoulder, which is sticky and smells of iron filings and oil, and attempts to get her bearings back.

"Thanks," she croaks into the flannel.

His hand lies reassuringly on her neck and he presses her closer. "You too, Slayer. Can we go now? Is this dead enough satisfy those righteous Slaying criteria?"

"Yeah."

But she can't move just yet, although she knows she should. The tentacle pieces could become alive again, she's embracing a dangerous vampire, they could freeze to death, but she needs a minute to get back on her feet, she doesn’t want to face the reality of alternate universes and wrong vampires just yet.

Spike pushes her hair aside and breathes on her neck. "Feeling better now, aren't you, love? Heart getting all slow and quiet." His lips move against her skin and they don’t feel cold at all. Buffy leans against him a bit more, but there's nothing going on here, just two tired warriors taking a well-deserved rest. He feels so solid and real, anchoring her with his body from her thighs up to the crown of her head, Spike everywhere.

She pats his shoulder blade, but her hand is too heavy to lift so it becomes more of a stroking. Spike pushes his hips against hers, and it’s still okay, she can handle it, it's not her Spike. He licks her neck and now she's awake, her whole body tingles with awareness and a small moan leaves her mouth. This is not safe, but she arches against him and pushes back, so good, such a long time ago. His hands stroke down her back firmly, up and down, cupping her ass for a moment and then pushing the tension out of her back muscles again and she relaxes against him further. She's too limp to come into action herself, but can he please lick her neck again?

"That's right, love, let Spike take care of you, so sweet and warm you are, good little Slayer, all hot for Spike, the prettiest little bum you have and such nice skin, so sweet and salty, so tender…"

He licks and licks, she sags against him so he has to prop her up by shoving his hand between her thighs. Her legs buckle and Spike's all that's holding her up now. Her neck falls back and she wants only one thing now, Spike inside her. Why is she still wearing these damn jeans?

"… so sweet and hot, pulsing inside, all that lovely blood, let Spike have one little sip, just a drop, promise, cross my heart and hope to die, right here, one tiny drink from your sweet neck, let me drink from it like a chalice, my Slayer, my sweet…"

His sexy babble finally penetrates what remains of her brains and she wrenches her neck away. He wants to drink from her? How can he say that? It hurts on so many levels that she's speechless. Betrayal gives her strength to shove him away.

He grins unrepentantly and licks his lips. "I see the disapproving look is back. Don’t be such a tight arse, Slayer. It'll feel good, I promise.

The bright path of her future, that shone so straight and true a moment ago has scattered into a rainbow of choices, no white or black, just red and yellow and blue to pick and choose from. Which is right and which is wrong? It's up to her. Her tongue moves over her lips and Spike takes a step closer to her, smirking again and already holding out his hands to her breasts.

She turns away. "No. No drinking, no biting, no nothing. Let's torch this place and get out of here."

Spike sighs but shrugs. "Take it or leave it, Slayer. Would have been fun, though. And aren't you forgetting a little something here?"

He holds up the interdimensional device with the same pencil Mr. Andersen used. Buffy swallows. She almost forgot that in her insane fuck-the-wrong-vampire moment. "Right. Good thinking, Spike." They are complimenting each other a lot, polite and thoughtful, like strangers. Which they are.

She finds an old plastic bag and Spike shoves the shiny bracelet in. She walks painfully to the stairs, Spike close on her heels. So close that her back tingles all over, but she's not going to go there, she's firm on that.

At the top of the stairs, Spike lights another piece of his tattered flannel shirt and tosses it down. The basement goes up in flames with a whuff and a muted bang.

"The bastards took my duster too, damn them all to hell."

"Not to mention my boots and some really nice underwear," Buffy agrees. "Let's get out of here. Take their car, like you said."

"Right."

Chapter 8
The Slayer ahead of him is stumbling and bumping into things. Spike brushes past her brusquely and takes her unwilling hand into his. Stubborn bint that she is! He can see so much better than she can in this murk, she should just have let him go first. She tries to wrench loose, still pissed about the little fiasco downstairs, he reckons, but he ignores it and forges ahead. They must be in the downstairs hallway but it seems unwontedly long. He bumps into a wooden barrier, which ought to be the front door. He kicks it open and sure enough they are on the porch. The reverberations of the kick go on for a long time. At last they die down and everything is silent again. It's still pitch dark outside but the snow reflects what little light there is. Almost midnight, he gauges. He's lost less than twenty-four hours and the portal device is already in his possession, pretty fucking good as adventures go. The Slayer is bringing him luck. He thinks ahead to the actual activation of the portal. It should be a piece of cake if his contact comes through as expected, and he considers possible courses of action afterwards.

Too bad he didn’t manage to wangle some blood and pussy, and his own silly fault it had been too. He really should learn to keep his gob shut, but when his cock and fangs are doing the thinking for him his mouth pretty much tends to run away from him. However, the Slayer is still gently steaming under her borrowed clothes, angry or not, and that bodes well for the future. He'll simply not mention biting or drinking at all and strike when he's good and well inside her, when she's screaming for more. How difficult can that be? His hard-on is giving him plenty of grief, and the discomfort overshadows all other cuts and bruises, of which there are many. He's of a mind to try again right here and now, but he sees the Slayer stiffen up and shiver in the suddenly frigid air, and regretfully sets his plans aside until they find a more congenial venue.

The house creaks and settles again. The clear night sky indicates low temperatures, and he looks doubtfully at the Slayer in her jeans and flannel shirt. The first and biggest barn is no more than fifty yards away, but it's risky. They'd better search the house for some warmer clothes for the Slayer, maybe even use the rotted bed covers.

A deep sigh trembles through the house. Spike looks around and sees nothing out of the ordinary. The floor starts to rattle beneath them. A rumbling comes closer and closer. The Slayer doesn’t react but stares with big unseeing eyes at the dimly lit expanse of snow outside. He decides they can't wait anymore and they should make a run for it. He seizes her limp hand and pulls her outside.

"Get a move on, Slayer. We'll look for a car in the big barn over there."

The Slayer mumbles something he doesn't want to listen to and hangs back, trying feebly to get her hand out of his. It's annoying to see her return to morose silence, especially when he was thinking she was some kind of alright as a fighter. He pulls on her arm sharply and they run stumbling and slipping to the shelter of the big wooden structure at the other end of the yard. Behind them there is a whooshing and a dull thud. Spike whips around to check out the danger and sees a softly billowing cloud of pale powder dust where the house used to be. There's a gust of warmer air over his face but it dissipates quickly. The dust clears from the air and the moon obliges them by popping into the sky from behind it. He sees there is nothing left of the farmhouse but a rubble-filled pit, still hazy with heat and settling house fragments.

Where the porch used to be there's a shapeless heap of a different substance. Spike pokes it gently and it falls apart into their own discarded clothes. His duster! With a shout of joy he fishes it out of the heap and shrugs it on. He is taller and more commanding when the soft old leather falls in its accustomed folds around him. He strides towards the barn with strong easy steps.

The moon's appearance brightens the whole scene so much he can make out the details of the cast iron weather cock on top of the barn. Spike jumps on top of the structure in one big leap, just because he feels like it. He balances on the roof beam and looks around at the white world spread out beneath him like a pristine table cloth, with only the picnic missing, although the Slayer would make a damn fine starter. The quarter moon throws long shadows away from the barn and the other outbuildings that are still standing, until they finally peter out and the silent plains begin, glittering eerily and seeming infinite.

Spike throws his head in his neck and hollers upwards, "Look Ma, no hands!" He jumps down with a back flip, down into the white mound of sugary snow that the wind has blown against the side of the barn, arm outspread. He disappears into a cloud of powdered sugar that enters his nose and mouth and ears. He waits until the snow clears up and he can see the stars again. They pierce the dark blue porridge bowl of the night with their prying eyes. When he was a young boy he believed that the souls of his father and sisters looked down upon him from above and would tattle to his mother if he was naughty. Now he knows there is no one looking down on him, because with all the things he's been up to they would have been raining fire on his head on a daily basis.

He never really believed it even as a young man, but went to church every Sunday nonetheless, his mother on his one arm, the prayer book filled with his father's scribbles in the other. There will never be names and dates of William's children on the flyleaf, like his father meticulously kept adding. "A son and heir!" his father's careful script announced behind his name. He'd shown more restraint in writing down his daughters' particulars, all of whom he subsequently buried during his short lifetime. Spike remembers their funerals, remembers his love and sadness, but the memories have lost their sting and seldom intrude when he rifles through his past.

He spreads his arms and makes swimming motions. "Look Slayer, I made an angel in the snow."

She hovers at the edge of his vision, a black blot against the spangled splendor of the sky. He can tell she's wearing her disapproving expression just by her hunched-up arms crossed body language. She may be this great warrior, but she's not very playful, is she?

He wishes Dru could be lying beside him, and they would stay like that for hours, impervious to the cold, free as night birds. He'd name the stars for her and make up stories about them because Dru didn't like the real ones. She always got mad if he forgot the ones he'd made up before, like the one where Cassiopeia was a beautiful princess who lived happily in a castle with her Daddy, tending her little babies and roses and nothing exciting or bad ever happened to her.

A boot in his ribs reminds him of his present circumstances, Dru-less and bound to the serious straitlaced Slayer. She's standing over him and glowers at him. Under other circumstances he might think it was a sexy glower, but the cold makes her look pinched and worried.

"Car, Spike? Cleveland? Getting back your minion?"

Does she really think he gives a shit about his stupid minion?

"What are you waiting for, then, Slayer? Can't get the barn door open with your own lilywhite hands?"

"Can't start the car," she admits stiffly. "It's old, it probably won't run at all."

Spike leaps up with a showy flip, which is wasted on his unappreciative public, but a man's got standards to keep up. The car in question is a perfectly respectable looking pick-up truck, no more than twenty five years old. How convenient that it didn't fall apart with the house. He climbs into the driver's seat and flips down the rearview mirror. Of course there is a key taped there, not a lot of car thieves in the middle of those endless cornfields. The truck starts at the third try, but shows a nearly empty tank.

He jumps out and winks at the Slayer, who looks daggers at him. May the best man win, he thinks, knowing that it's him. He potters about the barn, whistling a cheery tune, and finds several neatly lined up gallon-containers of gas. He just loves these neat and careful people, who are now gnashing their teeth in hell as they watch him escape. He fills up the tank and climbs back in. The Slayer sits slumped on the passenger seat, still lost in her own unhappy thoughts, if her furrowed forehead is any indication.

He turns the truck to the north and strikes out for the highway. In less than a mile they're there, and it's even been swept clear of snow. He stops the car and debates with himself whether to go back for the DeSoto or not, and decides the risks of it being towed away or stolen are minimal and he can retrieve it on the way back. He climbs out and walks around to the passenger door. The Slayer stares back sullenly. He climbs in and sits next to her.

"Your turn to drive."

"It's still dark!" she protests.

"Our friend from Bedrock banged me up pretty good back there. I need some time to heal," he says.

She doesn't answer but slides silently over to the driver's seat and drives off.

Spike shifts around until he's found the least uncomfortable position and closes his eyes.

When he opens them again there's something lying over his face that smells of Slayer and a past meal. His aches and pains have abated for the most part, and now he's just really hungry. The Slayer's scent so close makes his mouth water and he has to force his game face back into hiding.

He lifts the jacket up and has to close his eyes to the bright light. Still day. He checks out the rest of him and sees the Slayer has covered him with a rough grey horse blanket as well as her down jacket, and has hung something on the side window to protect him from the sunlight. How thoughtful of her. If she keeps this up he's gonna think she has soft spot for him.

"Where are we, Slayer?" he asks softly, so as not to startle her. Not a very reliable driver, this girl. She has to have been driving for at least eight hours straight.

"Couple of hours from Cleveland," she says and yawns widely.

Spike ponders his options for a few moments and then suggests, "Why don't you find another motel? You need to be fit and alert if we're to get you back home. Kip for a few hours."

"Is kip like sleep?"

She yawns again.

She gets them to the next motel in one piece and is still yawning when she gets back with their room key. Spike runs for it while she holds the door open for him. Very efficient and all.

The Slayer stumbles to the bead and crashes down fully clothed. "Wake me in a few hours, 'kay?" she mumbles and passes out.

He might as well grab a couple of more hours, it's still light outside anyway. He wakes himself up just after sundown and has almost succeeded in stealing outside, shoes in hand, when the damn woman suddenly blinks awake and is on him in an impressive display of alertness.

She has him in an iron grip. "You’re not killing people," she says grimly.

He tries an elbow, wants to step on her feet, but she's got everything covered. He never realized just how strong she was.

"Perhaps," she says silkily, "you've been underestimating me, because I'm not a very experienced driver and don’t much like the cold. Perhaps you don't realize what it means that I'm the oldest surviving Slayer ever. Let me spell it out for you: you will not kill people, not on this trip. Understood?"

He nods and she releases him. He doesn't understand how, but she manages to block his vicious headbutt backwards and the crippling blow to the midriff he had in mind, and now he's lying on the floor with his cheek in the polyester carpet and his arms cruelly twisted behind him. Okay. He'll accept that she is his equal in the person to person fighting stakes, but she has other vulnerabilities.

"Ow," he says. "You're giving me carpet burn."

"Stop whining," she says, not unkindly.

Spike wiggles his hips, trying for her weak spot, and for a moment thinks he's succeeded when she gets off him with a muffled exclamation. He rolls over and faces a stake, poised at exactly the right place. He'd forgotten she must have recovered it with her clothes. Her face is soft and warm from sleep but glows with determination. If she wasn't standing between him and a much needed meal, he'd like her more.

"Slayer," he says, softly and reasonably. "How could you possibly enforce that? You'll need to sleep once in a while. You could really use a shower right now for instance, and what would keep me from popping out for a bite?"

She quirks an eyebrow. Summers, Buffy Summers, licensed to kill him. "Your word. Again."

"I couldn't have eaten those ghosts anyway, now could I?"

The Slayer doesn't answer, just shifts the position of the stake minutely so she's more comfortable. She's obviously not gonna take no for an answer. He doesn’t think she'll stake him, not really, but the boredom of facing her off a minute longer is already threatening and he'd really like something to eat.

"But what will I eat? I need blood or I won’t be able to function properly to fulfill the mission!"

"Pig's blood," the Slayer answers. "We'll find a butcher."

"Don't tell me the poor sod drank pig's blood for all those years?"

Silence from the Slayer.

"He did?"

He tries to think of a good reason not to go for it. "Isn't that really fattening?"

Her voice darkens. "He was always lean as a whip."

He relaxes and looks up at her. She's sitting across his thighs, and her hand is still holding the stake, but her other hand is splayed on his stomach. He doesn’t think she even knows she's doing it. She's staring straight through him, her eyes dark green with remembrance and grief, the emotions scudding across her face like storm clouds. If he wasn't so hungry this would be the best moment to take advantage of her, but he lets it go.

"Get off me, Slayer," he says gruffly. "Let's grab a shower and get going to find my contact. I've had it up to here with the Midwest already, let's not extend our stay longer than necessary."

The Slayer returns to the here and now and looks at him silently. Then she nods and gets up. She gathers her recovered clothes and heads for the shower. Spike shucks his coat and is sinking down in a chair, preparing to wait for her when he sees her look back at him. He wipes the scowl from his face and tries to look blank, a canvas for her to draw on. She doesn't extend her hand or say anything but he knows it's an invitation anyway, or as much of one as she can allow herself to give. He gets back up and walks towards her slowly, unbuttoning his shirt, not saying anything, because he knows he'll fuck up again if he does.

They have to stand close together in the cramped little bathroom and he can see every tremble of the Slayer's hands as she undresses. This is not the heated aftermath of battle, nothing here to create a mood, just plain bathroom fittings and ugly tile. It only serves to make the living breathing woman in it more beautiful to him, filled to the brim with the gentle simmering of life, a myriad fragrances swirling around her body like a ball dress, a cloud of warmth exploding from her breath.

The hardened points of her small breasts almost brush his chest as he slides the shirt from his shoulders and he sees her catching her breath. He moves his hands down slowly, very slowly, doesn’t want to scare her off, and undoes the first button of his fly. Her bloodwarm hands slip under his and finish the job for him. He's in a hurry now, yanks the jeans of his legs and follows the Slayer into the shower. Her heat throbs against the palms of his hands moments before he actually touches her and he stifles a moan. When his hands do meet her flesh everything happens in a blur, handfuls of hot Slayer ass, she's climbing him and eating him alive, her hot mouths draw him in and devour him.

"Slayer, you're so…" Shut up, shut up, he sings to himself on the rhythm of his hips, don’t talk you fool, don’t think of dinner, just fuck and shut up. He closes and opens his eyes, dark red from the inside of his closed lids alternating with flashes of fluorescent lighting on white tiles, while the Slayer vibrates under his hands, slick with water and need, saying unintelligible things to him.

When they finally make it out of the shower he can hardly stand. How long have they been at it? The Slayer is like a demon in her insatiable lust, wringing the last scrap of stamina out of him, and he drops down at her knees where she sprawls on the bed covers like a lewd goddess and worships her anew. He crawls up on the bed beside her and collapses. He can do no more, but she's merciless and forces him in again. He's covered by warm pliable slayer flesh like a blanket and her smooth neck rests with the unmarked side against his lips. He hardens again at the thought, it would be so easy, his whole body tautens like a bow, ready to twang and let go, and the Slayer flutters around him at the slight movement. He's about to explode again himself, he won’t need more than a couple of strokes when he thinks of drinking her dry, feeling the blood hit his parched throat like a blessing, but he won't, bound by his word like the gentleman he once was.

Chapter 9
Spike's post-coital driving style is so laid back that he rolls into corners at the very last moment while Buffy hangs on grimly to the little handle above the door of the old pick-up. She doesn't want to slide into him when he takes one of these liquid turns, which probably feel cool and speedy to him but are really very uncomfortable if you’re a passenger. She doesn’t want to slide into him because she can still feel him inside her, and she's feeling odd all over, trembly and hot, about to burst into tears. She can't believe she did this, made him do this, because it's just wrong. She doesn’t love him and he doesn’t love her and they're the wrong people in the wrong place.

Tactile memory and muscle memory have betrayed her both tonight. In fact every sense she possesses has conspired to make her feel for precious moments that he was the right person. The padded silk of his luminescent cream skin, his scent, tobacco and hot metal before the shower washed it off, later like musk and an echo of the way of her own bed smells in the morning. His eyes grey and stormy, but bluer than the sky if the light catches them, tiny pink nipples and lush reddened lips. The sound of his voice, just a tremor between her thighs or cooling butterscotch chocolate poured down her neck, whispers against her skin to make the goose bumps race up and down her spine. The way he tastes, for which there is no comparison, uniquely Spike. When their tongues shiver against each other delicately she closes her eyes and she's no longer Buffy, no longer anchored to the world by duty and gravity and stuff, but something floating free above it all.

And yet something so perfectly fitted the one moment often strikes a wrong the next. The fine malt voice caws out a harsh sentiment and she almost draws back, chilled, until she warms again by a velvet tongue lapping her nipples until they scream. She's exhausted, she has worn herself thin by rubbing the glass goblet to a fine sheen, but when she rings it the sound is dull and falters quickly. All the positions and orgasms in the world cannot make her forget a request for her blood.

She sighs. She can hear how tremulous it sounds and she throws a worried look at Spike, who sits there presenting his perfect high-nosed profile, cream and silver against the backdrop of the night, smoking non-stop while he drives. She doesn’t have the energy to hassle him about it. He flicks her a quick smile and pats her thigh. He always gets her moods, and his touch goes straight through her jeans to her deepest innermost places. She needs to think of something else. She'd better ask him some questions about this contact of his they're on their way to see, to stop thinking about that thing they did, although actually it was more like seven things. Oh boy. This shouldn’t be so bad, it’s no different from what all the Lorenzos and Jean-Pierres failed to do for her in Europe, just two lonely people comforting each other. No reason to be so angry with herself, she should just forgive her little mistake.

The thing is, she knows exactly the moment she decided to give in to it. It was when he said he wouldn't kill anyone, though not in so many words, when he surrendered to her. Is that what she likes in a guy, to be top bitch to him? Or is it just Spike? Her self-esteem is like a yoyo these days, up and down all the time. She remembers what used to happened to yoyos, the string would get slack and rough and Mom would throw them away.

Spike was all touchy, cuddly guy afterwards, insisting on keeping his hand on her neck all the time in the butcher shop, which was so embarrassing. His finger rested lightly on her artery, and she had no idea anymore what message he was sending. Buffy works death magic and enslaves second vampire? Vampire holds Slayer in thrall? She sits up straighter and shakes her head. Go away, deep thoughts. Not now.

"So, tell me about that contact of yours. You’re still sure he’ll be able to provide us with the magic we need to operate the portal?

Spike sits up straighter and his face tenses. To Buffy’s surprise he steers the truck to the side and parks it.

He turns to Buffy and takes her hand. He clears his throat. “See, there’s this really ancient and powerful vampire who holds court in Cleveland. Maybe he's even the oldest living vampire. Him and me did a deal before, so I guess we could make it work."

“He owes you a favor?”

Spike scratches his head and doesn’t meet her eyes. “Not exactly. I thought I’d offer him a trade, but now I have to think of something else to persuade him with."

“What trade were you gonna offer....” Buffy’s voice trails off when she realizes who was gonna be offered in exchange for the magic.

"Oh. Oh! You sneaky bastard! You two timing...You were gonna offer me to this creepy old vamp?”

The words stick in her throat. She shouldn't be so surprised, he's just an unsouled vamp, but she’s been fooling herself again that he's different. The yoyo shoots sideways and does a back flip. Not evil temptress Buffy, luring men to their death, just delusional Buffy, who thinks she just needs to have sex with vampires to reform them.

"'Course I would! You're my enemy! ‘S only reasonable, Slayer." He sighs and tries to placate her. “Now we’re partners, okay, we fought together. Wouldn't sell you now, you know that.”

No, she doesn't. In fact this earnest avowal of partnership is as surprising and unsettling as his confession just now.

A slight headache is starting behind her eyes and she tries to rub it away by pinching the skin between her eyebrows. “Okay. Rewind. Ancient vampire. Powerful, but willing to negotiate.”

"Yeah, well, maybe." His voice sounds doubtful. "I delivered something he really wanted when he came to Sunnydale a couple of years ago, hunting. Scary looking bloke, he’s so old that his hands are cloven like hooves."

Something tickles in the back of her brain. “Sunnydale? Ancient vampire? Name of Kakistos by any chance?”

Spike nods, surprised. "You know him?

Buffy throws her hands to heaven, exasperated. "We killed him, you idiot. That creep is your contact? I didn't exactly get friendly vibes from him when he was trying to kill me and Faith.”

“Right, that was her name.”

Buffy screeches. "You traded him Faith? That is so inhuman! Didn't you know what he'd do to her?”

“Well, yeah. So? Didn't know the girl. And besides, Slayer, risk of the trade and all.”

Yes, Buffy, do try to have a pointless conversation about morality with an unsouled vampire. Rewind again. Forward.

“So we’re going to talk to this very powerful, unfriendly, ancient vampire...

“Oldest in the world,” Spike adds helpfully.

"Oldest in the world, who looks like something we’d rather see in neat cutlets on the barbecue than have a chat with. What’s the plan now?”

Spike assumes that raised eyebrows, innocent face he uses when he's bluffing. “We’ll have to improvise.”

“He'll just welcome you, a strange vampire on his territory? You have rules of hospitality?”

“Not exactly, pet. We’d have to have a bloody good story to convince his perimeter guards to let us in.”

"And our cover story is...?”

Spike shrugs. “Something will occur to me. We can always fight our way in if need be.”

Buffy shakes her head. “No. No, no no no. We make a plan first. Not a vague harebrained plan like yours but a serious plan with research and deployment and stuff.”

Spike snorts. “Right. And where’s the legion of Watchers who's gonna do that for us? Waiting for us at the school library, no doubt?”

“We’ll make the plan ourselves. You're a Master Vampire, I'm the oldest surviving Slayer. We can so do it, we don't need Watchers.”

Fifteen minutes or so later they agree on a plan. “I pretend to be a captive Slayer – and you do understand the concept of pretend, don't you Spike? You won't forget in the heat of battle and trade me off for real?"

“Hey! Who do you think you're talking to? Have I ever reneged on my word as a ...vampire?”

"Not in the past three days, no. With me and my stake to persuade you every inch of the way." Buffy ticks off the points on her fingers. "You pretend to trade me off, we capture the tame magician you say Kakistos always has with him, and then we leave. We leave. Together. Or we fight. Agreed?”

“Sound plan, love. Spoken like a true general. Go in, kick ass and leave. Perfect. But you know, maybe you could change your looks a little? Look a bit more like a prize?”

Buffy flushes so hard her ears tingle. Her Spike would never ever have suggested that she looked less than perfect. Guys. But he's right, they're gonna deliver a performance, and looks matter.
"Are we talking lipstick and a comb through my hair here, or are we talking Xena costume? Last thing, not gonna happen. Ever.”

Spike backs off. “Fine, pet, fine. Not that you need a Xena costume to look very, em, appetizing.”

Buffy glowers in his general direction of his grinning face and proceeds with the combing and lipsticking. Motel quality, alas, but better than nothing. Spike starts the car again and they cruise on through one of Cleveland's industrial areas, where, according to Spike, Kakistos reigns in an enormous derelict factory building.

“What's with you guys and abandoned factories? Why not go for, say, a mansion? A nice hotel? Factories tend not to have much in the way of modern comforts.”

Spike shrugs. “Kakistos is three thousand years old, doesn't need to eat or shit, doesn't need sunlight or a nice view, and heating and electricity are concepts he's probably never got the hang of.”

The car approaches a brightly lit chain fence which surround a giant brick structure, some kind of nineteenth century tycoon's dream of the ideal work place.

“See? Buffy says. “Someone loves electricity."

Spike scowls. He slows the car and they drive up to the gate at a crawl. A couple of big hulking vampire goons step out of the shadows and bend down to Spike’s window.

Spike stares straight ahead. “Tell Kakistos that the Master of Sunnydale is here and has an object that will interest him.”

The goons confer rapidly in a strange language.

“Is that Ancient Greek?” Buffy whispers to Spike.

“Huh. No, Chechen. They're all the fashion in goons.”

"Oh.”

Spike leans towards her and yanks on the zipper of her down coat.

“Hey! Hands off.”

“Don't be so prudish. We’ve got to show off some goodies, don't we?”

"I thought we were selling the fact that I'm a Slayer, never mind the size of my boobs?”

“Always helps to add a bit of sex into the mix, Slayer, you ought to know that.”

Buffy feels her cheeks heat and Spike chuckles and squeezes her thigh, moving his hand upward to her groin in a kneading motion. Buffy slaps his hand sharply, excited and irritated at the same time at the involuntary clenching and flooding her pussy is doing. “Spike! Knock it off! They'll be able to smell..."

Spike smirks his nastiest, most irritating smirk at her. "Exactly, Slayer.”

Great. Buffy scoots away from him and sits fuming in silence while they wait for Goon 1 to return. She checks out Goon 2, who's standing with crossed arms on her side of the car. He bares his pointy teeth at her and scratches his crotch ostentatiously. Ew. She moves a couple of inches back in Spike's direction. There are nuances in evilness, that is very clear right now, and Spike must be almost at the good end of the scale if these guys are any indication. Jeez, what a creep.

Goon 1 returns and confers with Goon 2. If they are newish vamps, why can't they use cell phones? At this rate, half the night will be used up in waiting. Goon 1 motions the car through the gates and two other, almost identical goons fall into step beside it. Spike drives so slowly that the vamps can keep up with him while going no faster than a dignified parade walk, as if he is the President. Buffy groans and tries to think of something to make the time go faster. The suspense is killing her.

Spike’s finger hooks behind the waistband of her jeans. "If you're bored, Slayer...” he offers sotto voce.

It's pretty hard to say no, even with Goon 4 walking not four feet away from her window. “Gross, Spike, with people looking on! That means no.”

He sighs. “Thought you wouldn't. Look, there's the gate.”

As the car rounds the corner to the north wall of the giant building Buffy can see there’s a tall broad gate in the factory wall. She can hardly believe it was original, but it's very impressive. Big doors flank the opening and she can see torches flickering in the interior. On the other end of the gate a neat row of a dozen or so XXL black stretch limousines are parked. Maybe Kakistos runs a funeral home on the side.

Spike stops the car when Goon 4 gives him a hand signal. He steps out and bends in to grip Buffy's arm hard. "One step behind me, Slayer and not a word!”

Buffy nods. He yanks her out roughly and doesn't help her when she almost falls on the concrete. This must be so much fun to him, she thinks. Or maybe he’s already been there, done that with her alter ego. He stands as tall as he can and struts forward into the big hall, duster flaring out behind him. He still looks pretty short next to the goons 3 and 4, Buffy notes with a strange kind of sad, sweet feeling she has no name for.

She follows behind him, keeping her eyes downcast but letting them rove around the dark echoing space she enters. It's so big she can't see the ceiling and mostly empty, with some movement she can't yet determine at the edges, and glimpses of people moving in torch light at the far end. She wonders what they made in here when it was still a factory, why it had to be so big. Workers would need so much time to move from one side to the other; she thinks people probably didn’t have roller blades back then. She can make out a small throne with a figure on it. She walks on behind Spike, and it takes a long time before they finally approach the throne. It has grown in their long trek down the aisle. There is no wedding march, only low key wailing and murmuring. She can't pinpoint the source of the sounds, but as her vision adjusts she can see more clearly.

The throne is enormous, and so is the bulky ancient vamp sitting on it, sipping leisurely from a drooping naked white-skinned form. He lifts his ruined swine face as Spike approaches and smiles a blood spattered yellow-tusked smile. He drops the neck he was drinking from and the red headed girl slides down without a sound into a small heap at his feet. She can't be more than fourteen or fifteen. Her little white breasts are covered with purple bruises and bite marks. Buffy has to look away; the girl's white skin reminds her painfully of Dawn. She doesn't want to look Kakistos in the eyes either; afraid he might sense her anger.

Now that her eyes are more used to the dark, she can see chained up vampires dotting the walls at regular intervals like statues in a church. They are all female, mostly naked or randomly hung with rotted scraps of cloth, frighteningly skinny like concentration camp victims, showing every bone in their humanoid bodies. Their hair is long and matted and their nails grown long and curved. One of them pokes out her own eye when she walks past her. They gnash their teeth and shriek at her with broken voices. She almost feels sorry for them, and is glad she can't understand a word they say, if they are saying words.

She looks away from the beseeching eyes and black stump of tongue of the crazy vamp on the left and concentrates on what's in front of her. Row upon row of vamps in all shapes and forms line the back wall of the factory interior. Some of them look a bit like the Master, bat-like with their mouths stained red, others like younger versions of Kakistos, and some wear their human faces.

"William the Bloody!" Kakistos' voice booms. She remembers that voice. On his left there is another vamp she remembers, Mr. Treat or something.

"Hail to Kakistos, Prince of Cleveland," Spike says, and Buffy has to bite her lip at the Prince moniker. So un-American.

"I ask a boon from you, Kakistos. I want your magician's services."

Spike's being very direct. Maybe that's the way to go in vamp society. No, an elaborate ritual starts, and her attention wanders away from the conversation to take in potential opponents and exit routes. Her conclusions are chilling; anyone here could kill her, and there is no way out. Great. Spike and Kakistos are still boasting of their prowess and past deeds. Buffy takes another sweep of the pack around the throne. The dense mass of vampires shifts a bit and she sees a cage quite close to her at the foot of the throne. In it is another of the emaciated female vamps, not chained, but huddled down in a pitiful heap of bones, and is she seeing that right? Actually gnawing on her own thin olive skinned arm. Ew. The vamp acts as if she's heard the mental exclamation and lifts her head. Dark eyes stare at her from under matted black hair and she bares her teeth at Buffy. She hisses something at her. Buffy strains to hear it and inches closer to the cage.

"Bee…" the vamp whines. "Kill Bee…."

Buffy steps back hastily, every muscle in her body clenched to smother the sounds her mouth wants to make. She stuffs her fist between her teeth and drives the nails of her other hand in her palm. It's Faith. She takes a deep shuddery breath and blinks furiously to keep the tears away. Faith vamped, killed by the only vampire, the only being she'd ever been afraid of. Killed horribly, no doubt, and now kept in a cage like a psycho dog, starving and insane. Oh God. She has to find some way to kill this poor creature, put it out of its misery. Poor Faith. The thought that she was rutting away with a vampire just hours ago now makes her sick. This is what vampires do to Slayers, what Spike perhaps did to the Buffy from his universe, and she's been entertaining the thought of not killing him?

She feels cold through and through, her face freezes and she's biting down hard on her own teeth. She has to get out of here, torch this whole filthy place, kill them all.

Spike and Kakistos seem to have reached some kind of agreement.

"You brought me another Slayer?" Kakistos rumbled. "She smells familiar. Smells like your bitch."

Buffy is unprepared for the vicious yank on her hair Spike uses to bring her closer to Kakistos' murky gaze. She suppresses an indignant squeal and keeps her gaze below Kakistos'. The old vampire leans forward to get a better look or maybe sniff at her. One of his cloven fore hooves digs absentmindedly into the still white body puddled at his feet and he brings the hoof to his mouth and licks it off with relish. Buffy remembers seeing him killed and wishes she could do it right now. She owes it to Faith.

Kakistos wants to take possession of Buffy immediately, but Spike bluffs and postures until he sighs wearily and waves to Mr. Trick or Treat to take them to the court magician. Mr. Trick walks them past a row of the gibbering shackled vamps, who start to writhe harder when Buffy comes closer and try to spit at her, throwing themselves at her. The chains abrade their cold flesh and sluggish blood creeps out.

"Is this the vamp equivalent of prison?" Buffy asks Spike.

He shrugs. "Dunno love. I usually just kill a minion that displeases me. Of course, if you're into torture…They say Kakistos brought these vamps with him when he removed his court from Athens and moved here in the eighteenth century."

Creepier and creepier. Mr. Trick depresses a brick in what appears to be a completely unmarked wall and a door opens outward. Buffy meekly follows the henchvamp and Spike through, but a gob of spittle lands at her feet just when she wants to step over the threshold.

The vampire who spat glares at her in human face. She was a tall girl once, and is even now less emaciated and damaged than most of the other prisoners.

"One girl," she says in a low monotonous voice. "One girl in all the world…" She spits again.

Ew. These vampires know she is the Slayer. That explains the extra writhing and cursing efforts they've been putting in for her benefit. Buffy turns away and steps through the door.

TBC

Chapter 10
Spike emerges from the dim hall, which seemed hushed but had as much susurrating background noise as a beach, into a brightly lit stark white interior. Computer screens on worktables line the walls and shackled vamps sit typing busily. You'd have to shackle most vampires to make them do data entry instead of killing and partying, Spike reckons. He prefers a simpler approach. He just kills a great big computer nerd and let him do all day what he likes best, namely sit behind the computer. Trick looks around proudly at the modern conveniences.

"Committing Internet crime?" Slayer says, a sneer in her voice.

Mr. Trick ignores her completely. Spike decides to take pity on the fuming Slayer and says, "Nice set-up. Yours?"

Mr. Trick smiles a wide toothy smile and his gold incisor keeps flickering as he talks enthusiastically. "I'm making so much money doing my thing on the web, this setup and everything be legal now. The big man don't get that these are not the old days, when you could get away with just inspiring terror. Government could just drop a bomb on this factory, we'd go poof. But it's legal, see, so they won't. The big man can get his mind around cars, just about, but he don't like electricity, never mind the Internet. Works just fine."

The pug faced vamp on the right gives him the finger behind his back. It makes her chains rattle and Mr. Trick is on her in a flash. "I don't like insubordination," he says silkily, "fucks up productivity."

Spike doesn't see how he does it, but the vamp falls apart silently and dust rains on the keyboard.

"Damn," Mr. Trick says. "Vampire dust is hell on keyboards. I go through keyboards something terrible. Call up a replacement from the holding tank," he instructs one of the other data vamps. "Make it quick."

Spike likes this Mr. Trick. He should get one of his own, let him run Sunnydale operations. He follows the vampire through another door. The cell into which he emerges closes in on him like a damp pillow clamped across his mouth, stiflingly soft and clammy. A middle aged, dun haired man sits at a small table, writing with a quill on a thick stack of parchment sheets. One of his legs is shackled to the wall with a long chain. Kakistos is really big with the shackling, he must be so popular with his workforce.

Mr. Trick greets the man by cuffing him sharply about the ears. "Got a customer for you, my man. Sit up straight and listen good. Kakistos want what Mr. the Bloody is offering so you better cough up the magic pronto this time."

The man looks up slowly, ignoring his bleeding ear. Buffy guffaws softly near Spike's ear. The magician looks right past him, sending a wide mirthless smile at the Slayer. They know each other? The wariness and enmity they broadcast reassure him a little. Even if they’re both human, they don't seem to feel like natural allies. Good. He doesn't want the Slayer to do a Bounty on him.

The Slayer's body language has been all over the place anyway since they fucked each other senseless in that motel room. One moment she's sending out come closer, fuck me vibes, the next inute she's all cold eye, I'm about to stake you, you horrible creep. Confuses a bloke alright. Sometimes a girl means no, apparently, even when she's throwing him on the bed and riding him like he's Black Beauty. Someone gave her quite an education. Never mind about that, they only need each other as long as their quest lasts.

"Mr. The Bloody. Ethan Rayne. What can I do for you?" the Magician says.

Spike grabs the other chair and sits down without waiting for an invitation. "Call me Spike. I need to find out how operate a magic device. Can you help me with that?"

Ethan shrugs and raises and lowers his sandy eyebrows. "Probably. Should I want to?"

Mr. Trick shakes his head. "Dudes, don't even try to make deals with each other. You be surrounded by hundreds of mean hungry vampires, there is no point. I'll even leave, I'm so not scared of whatever you can cook up."

He leaves. Ethan sighs. "He's right. Janus knows I'm more than interested in improving my situation, but I haven't managed to wangle my way out of this over the past five years , so….Let's get down to business."

Spike leans back and balances his fingertips together so he can think better. "I need to open a transdimensional portal to a specific dimension. I have a device that's capable of it but I don't know how to work it."

Ethan nods. "Show me."

Buffy nods at Spike. He doesn't need her permission, thank you. He gets the plastic bag from his duster and unwraps the portal opener.

Ethan's eyes narrow and he picks up the shiny bracelet with his feathered pen. "Interesting. I can make this work. Which dimension do you want and what do you want to do in there?"

Spike's eyes meet Buffy's briefly. "Slayer here's been exchanged with someone else; she's from that dimension originally. She wants to get back."

"Really? Well, it is true that you can't just travel between dimensions, there is always an exchange. The exchange can be controlled, but if you don't do that, the universe grabs the closest equivalent from that dimension automatically."

Spike looks thoughtful. "So if I wanted to travel to another dimension, what would happen?"

"If there was a Spike or something like it in the target dimension, he or it would be exchanged for you and end up at your starting point."

"And if the Spike in that dimension was dead, for example? As in dust in the wind?"

Ethan's brow furrows and he thinks for a few moments. "Tricky. An undefined situation. You could end up in hell, or in limbo, or end up not existing at all, depending on what happens to vampires in that universe. In that case, you'd better to do a special spell to define something else to exchange. Your weight in steer manure or something like that."

"Very funny, Rayne."

"Not really. You must appease the Gatekeeper of the gate you're going through. He's the one that keeps track of the balance. There's one for every portal between the universes, an infinite amount of them. If you weren't a vamp, a drop of blood would do it. If you don't keep him happy, he'll go for your soul."

"What does a gatekeeper look like?" Spike asks idly, watching Ethan's hands arrange spell supplies deftly and competently.

"Great big black toad-like things, voice like an avalanche."

"Oops," the Slayer squeaks.

Yeah, he was thinking something along those same lines. Great. They pissed off a gatekeeper? He tells Ethan about their Iowa encounter.

Ethan makes an amused noise. "You messed with a gatekeeper? Good job. I don't know if they are in communication with each other, but if I were you I wouldn't travel through the interstices more than strictly necessary… "

"Why don't you start doing the magic? Return the Slayer here to her dimension, and let me go along."

"What? No way. You think I'm going to let you loose in my dimension? Forget it," Buffy says firmly.

He can hear her heart pounding away. What is she thinking, silly bint, that it's a declaration of eternal love?

Ethan grins that too wide grin again. It doesn't reach his dark deep eyes. "Miss Summers, so nice to meet you again. I'm a little confused here. Who am I doing this deal with? You or your charming swain?"

The Slayer blushes. Blushing is good, all that lovely blood flooding about. Would it taste any different if he were to bite her pink cheeks right now? More heated, full of excited hormones?

"We're equal partners in this venture, Ethan. And it's Ms. Summers."

Ethan inclines his head graciously. "Do forgive me; I forget my American manners, surrounded as I am by people from other eras. Many of whom, by the way, were colleagues of yours once, now sadly limited in their freedom."

Spike gets it, of course, and he hopes the Slayer won't, but then her eyes snap open wide and she goes after the words like a dog after a bone. "Colleagues? What do you mean? Slayers?" He sees her get it. "All the shackled vamps are former Slayers?"

Spike tries to count how many he saw. Five hundred feet of factory wall, a vamp every six or seven feet? The mind boggles.

Rayne is obviously enjoying the Slayer's discomfiture and grins like a shark, and not the vegetarian kind either. "I bet my beloved Rupert and his council mates never saw fit to tell you just how many Slayers ended up in Kakistos' court, did they, Buffy?"

The Slayer clenches her teeth and the grinding is so loud even the magician must be able to hear it. She jerks her head at Spike. She wants to talk. Spike gets up and starts towards her. He doubles back and takes the device out of Ethan's hands and sees surprised approval on her face. Bugger it, he knows perfectly well he's no slouch, but it is annoying that it surprises the Slayer so. The chip thing must have ruined the other's brains or something.

"Spike," the Slayer begins tightly. "We have to do something. Free Faith and those poor Slayers. We can't allow that creep to torture them and…"

Spike casts his eyes to heaven. "Slayer, for God's sake, they are vampires, and have been for fuck knows how long. There's no bleeding point in doing anything for them. They won't thank you for it, they'll just kill you."

"Ethan could free them!"

"You'd free a cartload of psychotic vampires? Are you out of your mind?"

"No, you're right, we should kill them, that would be the kindest thing."

Is that what she thinks? That being a vampire is torture? "Wanna give me a merciful death, Slayer?" He extends his arms and crooks his head aside. "Go on then. Why wait?"

The Slayer looks cornered. "Not you. You're…never mind. Don't sidetrack me. We'll promise to free him, if he programs the device and frees all the ex-Slayers. I'm betting they'll go straight for Kakistos and give us an opportunity to escape in the confusion."

Spike whistles. She's on to something. "Slayer, I take it all back. This is just nifty. But, um, what about the magician? Got the impression you were old enemies. Or does he get a free pass because he's human?"

She shrugs. "Evil or not, in my book he ranks way below Kakistos on the evil scale. Win some, lose some. Should he happen to come to some harm between here and the door, I won't shed a tear about it."

"Right. Let's do it. Device, protection spell for me, free the Slayer vamps."

"Spike, you're not coming with me…" the Slayer starts, but gives up halfway.

He'll persuade her yet, but they have to get some more pressing concerns to take care of first.

"Ethan," the Slayer says without preamble, "could your magic dissolve your chains?"

Ethan flicks his fingers and the chains disappear. He flicks them again and they're back. He crosses his arms and looks at them with a superior little half smile. "Not a problem. It's the after I'm more concerned about."

Spike winks at Buffy. "Neat little trick, Mr. Sunshine. Can you do the same to a specific set of chains in the factory?"

Ethan leans back. "Possibly. My question always is, what are the benefits to me?"

The Slayer leans forward aggressively into his face. "How about your life and your freedom? That's about as much as you can expect!"

Spike sighs inwardly and has to exercise some prime self-control not to react. Will the fucking Slayer please stop interfering with his delicately balanced negotiations? She has no concept of the give and take that can exist between opponents. It could be vital to allow the magician to save some face, but what does she do? Spell it out brutally and deliver some none too subtle threats. He never had this with Dru; whatever she said could always be written off to her insanity, if it happened to make sense, so much the better.

"What she says, Mr. Magoo. You create the confusion, we help you get out, for the rest you're on your own."

Ethan nods. "Fair enough. But how will I know Ms. Summers is not going to wreak vengeance for my past trespasses?"

"Slayer?"

The Slayer shrugs. "This universe is not my responsibility. I'll leave you to the Slayer in residence."

"All right. I'll do it. Hand me the device."

Spike gets the bag from his duster again, but the Slayer stops him. "Ethan, lemme tell you about your present fate in my world," she says, and her voice is as hard and clear as glass. "You're in a government prison. No one knows you're there and you'll never get out. Just a little hint not to go gallivanting off on your own through the multiverse."

"I'm an honorable man," Ethan says, but doesn't even bother to put any sincerity in his voice. "I'd never do something like that. Anyway, we can't activate it in here. The whole building is shielded and also impenetrable to magic because of all the magnetic fields. Computer cabling."

"Just so we know that," Spike says and goes to stand close behind Ethan while he works. He starts making a protective circle from little pots and vials he gets from cupboards all over the room and starts scribbling spells, muttering multi-syllabic words under his breath.

The Slayer thinks this is the prefect moment to continue haranguing him. "And you were the one who sold Faith to Kakistos, you disgusting evil…monster! That she's a Slayer doesn't make it less horrible, it makes it worse. She served the Good. She's an innocent victim, Spike."

"So were we all, once. Remember? All vampires started out as human beings, not just the ex-Slayers. Doesn't stop them from being monsters, doesn't stop you from killing them. Is as it ought to be."

"That's sounds really logical in theory, but it doesn't feel like that! Faith can't be a number to me, she's no faceless vamp!. If you know people, you should treat them differently, because they make you feel different."

What is she beating herself up for? There is no shame in living by your feelings and instinct.

"Did you treat the other Buffy like that?" she asks.

"Please, love, all that yammering and clanking of chains all day long would ruin my enjoyment of life. Death, whatever. She's my minion, and as long as she minds me, she gets treated all right."

"Minds you?" the Slayer hisses. "You mean does exactly as your tell her to."

"Well, yeah! What are minions for?"

What the hell did she expect? He grabs her by the upper arms and presses her into the side wall of the little room to contain all that useless thinking. She's sending out such a deliciously mixed cocktail of signals, it's enough to make a man's head spin. The tears that glisten in her big eyes and her heaving little bosom tell him she's prey, vulnerable, her fists tell him there's power here, be wary, and the press of her springy belly against his cock is pure sex. What's he to choose? He wants them all, her blood, her pussy and her fists. He wraps a big hank of her long hair around his hand and bends over for a kiss.

Ethan coughs politely. "If you two can spare a moment of your time, the device is quite ready."

Spike eyes it suspiciously. "Ready to transport the Slayer and me to her dimension, complete with protection spell for me?"

Ethan nods. Both he and Ethan ignore the protesting sounds from the Slayer.

"How do we activate it?"

"You both have to grab it at the same time."

"From what I heard," the Slayer says, "I won't get to meet my counterpart? She'll be flung right back to this dimension?"

"That's right."

The Slayer looks disappointed. "Too bad."

"What were you planning, love? Staking or reforming?"

"Ha ha. Staking, of course."

"What? You weren't gonna try and convince her to get herself a soul? You'd make a poor missionary, pet."

She always rises to his bait, so cute. Spike takes the transdimensional device and puts it away carefully.

Ethan mouths some words and they can hear a sudden ringing sound from the big hall; all the chains tumbling to the floor at once. There is a moment of petrified silence and Spike notices with chagrin that he's holding his breath in anticipation, like a human being.

Then a single sobbing scream rents the air. As it reaches crescendo a thousand other voices join in and for a second it's like attending a pop concert, all these female voices screeching on one high note. Then the unity breaks and a random caterwauling and thudding starts up.

"Okay, people, now's the time. Run."

The Slayer and him grab Rayne under his arms and push through the door, through the stunned ranks of the data entry vampires and into the dim confusion of the hall. It's all milling bodies and waving lights. One vampire has become a living torch and runs shrieking into a huddle of other vamps, setting them on fire. This is all good. No one will be paying attention to them.

He meets the Slayers eyes and knows they'll take off at the exact same second.

They are running through the hall. Screams echo through the big space, the scent of old blood tickles his nose. Rayne hangs like a rag doll between them; they're running faster than any ordinary human could. Everything is confusion, no one is minding them at all. He rips off a skull-like head from one of the freed vamps. It's like tearing off wet toilet paper. He runs through a spray of blood like a kid running through a sprinkler and licks his lips in appreciation. Only vamp blood, but better than that pig swill the Slayer made him drink.

The Slayer is glorious as she runs beside him. Her power and determination arc around her like shining wings. She twists and wends between the milling vampires, now kicking, then thrusting out with her stake without breaking stride. Her face is open and accepting, seeing all, no shame now, she and her power are one. She's beautiful like this, a queen. His heart yearns towards her, should he throw it at her feet?

They explode out into the brightly lit night and slow down. Ethan doubles over coughing, and then stumbles on towards one of the ridiculous limos.

"Come," Spike pants to the Slayer, and pulls at her hand.

Her wings are folding back in, she's pulling all that gorgeous energy back inside, making herself small, crossing her arms before her heart. He aches to see her withdraw her radiance and go dark and dull. Her Slayerness makes an almost palpable wall between them, and yet it is the only thing that connects them, makes them equals, where ordinarily just the ephemeral thread between hunter and hunted would span briefly. He toys with the thought of killing her now, at the apex of her powers, which might make it different from when he killed her the first time. But no, he knows what the very essence of her glorious nature would turn into, that her holy conviction would turn inside out and become warped and rancid. A joyless love of torture and submission into eternity. Some people are not made to be vampires and can ruin even the limitless freedom of that existence with their self-made shackles.

She wrenches loose and stands firm beside the door, stake ready. "No. We should kill as many as we can. Torch the place."

"With what? We have to go, we could do it right here, let's just move, Slayer! Let these creeps kill each other, none of our business."

Her face is so small and tight. "I have to kill the Slayers, Spike. They deserve to die. I owe it to them. I owe it to Faith. "

She sets her mouth and turns back. "I have to free Faith. I'm going back in."

Chapter 11
Buffy is just about to hurl herself back through the factory entrance when a small form in game face bursts out of the door. It halts and swivels its head toward Buffy like a snake, as if there is no human spine in there at all. The face melts with a crunching sound and a grunt from the vamp. Buffy looks in vampire Faith's haunted dark eyes and she's paralyzed. This Faith must have been killed pretty soon after arriving in Sunnydale, hadn't even had time to choose the Mayor and turn evil. She was more innocent than the living Faith she knows. She was a victim. How can she kill her?

Faith shifts back and forth from game face another time and says with a big grin full of fangs, "Howya doing, B.? Any last words?"

Buffy opens her mouth to answer, although she has no clue what she's gonna say. Before anything can come out Faith turns gray and disintegrates before her eyes.

Spike looks at her levelly, stake still held at the height of Faith's heart. "Thought I'd spare you the decision, love."

What should she say? Thanks? He's the one she blames for selling Faith to Kakistos and at the same time she knows she's being unfair. Faith never stood a chance against Kakistos without her, Spike or no Spike. Still, her grief feels muted. Things that happen here don't really matter because this is not home. This was not the real Faith.

Spike gently takes her hand and tugs her towards where the truck was parked. He is not Spike. She shakes her head to get rid of the fuzziness and looks back to where Faith's dust speckles the concrete.

"Bugger! It’s gone!" Spike says. She bumps into him because he's stopped. "We'll take a limo then. Always fancied me a ride in a hearse, got cheated of that when I died."

"Spike. Help me burn down this building. We can't afford to leave Kakistos alive."

Spike hesitates only a second. He nods at her and streaks off in a burst of vampire speed. It seems in direct opposition to his assent until Buffy sees him return with a kicking and struggling Ethan, carried by the scruff of his neck.

"Calm down, mate. You can't afford to let Kakistos on your tail either. Do a fire spell or something," Spike says.

Ethan straightens himself and brushes down his black star-spangled coat. "I told you, the building is impenetrable to magic. Cabling, remember? Magnetic fields?"

Spike paces up and down a few paces. "Think of something else. Collapse it? Trap them inside until the sun comes up?"

Ethan shakes his head. "Won't kill them. Tunnels."

Spike glances at the cars. "There's gas in the tanks. Let's get that out and douse the building."

Ethan gets a crafty look on his face. "I've got it. The building is protected against magic and people entering, but not against inanimate objects. We'll put the cars on fie, drive the cars to the gate and jump out. They'll explode Inside, in a purely mundane way. We've got a dozen limos here, ought to do the trick."

"Brilliant. Save two for our own getaway, though. Alright, go make the other two ready. Slayer and me'll drive them up and jump out, won't harm us."

Ethan's very quick and efficient when his safety is at stake. In no time the first two cars are ready for take off. Buffy drives the first one up to the gate at a modest thirty miles per hour, and jumps out at the last minute. She's calculated it a little too narrowly and almost crashes in to the wall. Spike falls on top of her and takes the time for a quick grope before he rolls off and hastens to the next car. Buffy's determined not to be out-speeded by him and races after. The first explosion rolls out of the gate, closely followed by the second. A few vamps try to storm out but Buffy gets the first one and sees Spike hurry after the other two.

Another two explosions, and two more. It gets to be routine, drive up, jump out, roll, stand up, hop into the next one. When Buffy's heard explosion nine she gets up to find only one limousine left. The other one is already accelerating in the direction of the gate. Ethan's understandably hasty to leave here and so should they. Now they can think about getting away.

She's just in time to see Spike rip out the door of the last car. She hurries to the other side and opens the passenger door. The dashboard covers are ripped open and Spike's fiddling with a piece of wire. Hotwiring, Buffy knows this from TV.

When they've plowed through the goons and the gate and are safely on the road again, Buffy puts her hand briefly on Spike's arm.

"Thanks," She says. For Faith, she means. It's important to say it to him, because she so often hasn’t said it to the other Spike.

"I know," he nods but keeps his eyes on the road.

"We could use the portal opener right now," Buffy says. "Why wait?"

"Don’t like to do it from a moving vehicle, Slayer. Also, we can't be sure if the Amazing Rayne didn't try and double cross us. Don't trust too much on other people's skills. Maybe it'll work, maybe it won’t. We best be gone. Might even think of stocking up on flammable goods in case we meet a Gatekeeper in the portal and it's as cranky as the one we saw in Iowa."

"Okay. Let's drive to my house? Or where it is in my dimension? If we cross near there we'd be safe after the transition. And I don't think the vampires are gonna be organized enough to follow us there."

"Yeah, vampires are the least of our concerns now, I reckon."

Buffy can't keep herself from checking the rearview mirror many times, though. She sees that Spike can't either. No driverless vehicles show up behind them and after ten minutes or so she relaxes in her seat and breathes out deeply. The moment she does the next hurdle pops up in her brain, grinning like a tumble doll on crack. Spike intends to cross with her into her home dimension for reasons he's kept secret so far. How do you solve a problem like Spike? The answer according to Giles would be devastatingly simple, but as she pleaded about Faith a few minutes ago, once you know a person the rules change.

It's like one of those decision trees. Staking: when impossible, go to box X: prevent him from entering your dimension. When impossible, go to box Y; please contact one of our employees at the following number. Only there is no one to call, the buck always stops with her. A leaden feeling descends. She remembers it well; she's been wearing it with varying degrees of confidence for years. Now that it’s back she can be grateful for the days of reprieve, having a lighthearted adventure with a trusty companion.

She tries to sigh the heaviness away. She needs more data.

"You sound a little blue, pet. What are you thinking of? Feeling sad because this is nearly goodbye?"

Admitting that would be crossing a line she doesn’t want to cross.

"I'll miss you, Slayer. Never thought I'd say that. Started feeling different about you."

Okay, so two minutes ago she thought this would be exactly what she wanted to hear, but now that he's almost saying it, she dances away from the feeling like a skittish horse. No another vampire lover. Not the unsouled version.

"Spike, you're a great warrior and the perfect partner on an adventure like this, but I don't...I mean…"

The amused glint in his eyes makes her stop. "I'm not the guy you love? I got that, pet. You're not the woman I love either. There's the possibility - if we continued to work together - feelings might develop. But we won't. No hard feelings?"

"No, no, God, no. I'm glad we agree on this. I was afraid…" Buffy hesitates.

"You thought, me being Spike and all, I'd fall for you head over heals like my departed look-alike? Yeah, well, let's face it, I'm the real thing. Not a muzzled caged sad sort of vampire but the real Big Bad. I eat your kind, and I'm not planning on changing that. Wouldn't go down too well with you, I wager."

"You wouldn't, like, go to Africa to get a soul?"

"Emphatically, no."

Spike emphasizes his words with one of his sweeping gestures, making the limo swerve a bit. Limo swerves go on longer than ordinary car swerves, Buffy can feel it in her belly.

"Okay. I'm glad that's settled, then." Buffy says.

"Yeah, me too."

"Yeah."

The silence returns. Spike drives on. He fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it one-handedly. Buffy wishes that the limo had a radio or CD-player but there's a gaping hole where radios normally are. Maybe Kakistos couldn’t get his head around radios either. She doesn’t want to look at Spike again, but she doesn't want to close her eyes and fall asleep either. She's done enough sleeping the past few days, and the adventure part is almost ending. Her neighborhood is approaching, and with the device in their possession, it won’t be too hard to get back to her own dimension or universe.

She sees his right hand lying motionless on his jeaned leg. She's never looked really closely at Spike's hands before, and they are pretty big for a man as modestly sized as he is. Are his feet big too? There was only one thing she'd cared to measure in the old days, but it's embarrassing that she doesn’t know this already. She stretches her neck to get a look at his feet. They seem enormous, but that could be due to his battered thick soled combat boots.

She returns her gaze to his hands. The black polish has nearly worn off. She opens her mouth to sat something about it but shuts it abruptly. All this getting friendly with him will lead nowhere. She could pretend she was making up for lost time, but the hard truth is, it's too late. Her eyes fill up and she looks away into the dark hole on her right. Stupid tears. Too late.

Spike puts his hand over hers for a moment. Never heavy, his hands or limbs. He only weighs on her conscience, never making her feel physically trapped and pinned like a bigger guy would.

"What do you want in my dimension, Spike?" she asks as the limo turns onto her street.

Spike cruises along slowly, both hands lax on the wheel now . He looks at her, his face tilted slightly down at her, eyes thoughtfully slitted.

"Something that's missing in mine. You think if you know, it'll help you decide whether to stake me or not?"

He grins at her confusion. Still reading her like a book, just like the other one. She used to hate him for that, but now she welcomes it. She smiles back, she can't help it.

"Here is the house."

It looks the same as hers. She and her friends haven't started personalizing it in the three wintry months they've lived there.

Spike stops and kills the engine. "This is it, eh? Moment of decision. What'll it be, Slayer?"

Buffy swallows. "What can you give me to make it easier? What promise?" Her voice sounds hoarse, no doubt telegraphing her feelings to Spike, who probably already knows about them from dozens of other signals.

Spike looks back steadily and takes her hand again. As the coolness of his palm enfolds her much smaller hand a sob sticks in her throat. She brutally forces it down and nearly chokes from it.

"One: I won’t stay there forever. Once I find and take what I want, I'll return home. Two: You have the portal device at your end, so I'll always need your help to return. Big incentive for good behavior."

He's still not saying what he's gonna do in her world, which she takes to mean that she won’t like it.

"What does good behavior mean?"

She wants to bare her neck and say, here, take it all, but knows it for folly. Spike doesn't make a bid but balances his fingers together, stretches his arms and pops his knuckles loudly.

She considers briefly and tells him the bottom line. "Don’t kill anyone."

Spike leans forward and puts his hand on her thigh. "Slayer," he says, "that's unreasonable. You can’t ask me to live like that!"

Buffy just raises her brows and withdraws her hand. He exerts the subtlest of pressures on her thigh.

Buffy stares straight ahead. She's afraid that if she looks into his eyes she’ll waver. "My world, my rules."

"Slayer…"

She crosses her arms securely.

Spike sighs and his voice is very close to her ear now. "Pig's blood it is."

She turns into the voice, her arms fall loose from their tight folding and she finds her lips and inch from his. His face is so close to hers that she can’t focus on his eyes, a blue and white blur swimming in front of her. His arms have snaked around her back.

"One for the road, Slayer?"

The kiss is honey and smoke, his nose resting against her cheek, his fingers threaded in the hair at her neck. His lips are softer than sugar and more sweet. Buffy flows like molasses against his skin and wishes she need never solidify. Spike pulls away first and after a breathless second or two she opens her eyes to find him far enough away from her to get a really good look at him. The bright sodium lights of the street lamps make his skin milky white, his hair silver and his eyes darker than the night. The silence between them is prolonged and solemn. She looks back without saying anything.

Spike blinks and the connection is severed. They turn away from each other as if on cue. Spike reaches for the plastic bag with the magic device. He holds up the portal opener with Ethan's swan quill.

Buffy nods and they reach out to grab the blue ring of fire simultaneously.

Blink.

Buffy is stretched like spaghetti and strung around the universe's fork. Black strings creep in of their own accord next to her pale limp strands, crowding her out, smelling of squid, no, oil. She struggles against the sticky black tentacles, it's her fork, her sauce. The vortex spits her out. Metal clangs and she finds herself in her own Cleveland basement. She's chained to the wall and handcuffed in a very uncomfortable position. She didn’t know she owned any. The handcuffs are a little too high. The other Buffy must have been wearing really high heels.

She's galvanized into action when the realization hits. The other Buffy! She's home! The basement is silent but is a silence that rings with the absence of a great noise the moment before. Where is Spike? She needs to see him, remind him of his promise. She needs to see him once more.

"Xander!" she bellows, straining against the cuffs. "It's me, I'm home! Get me out of here!"

But those can’t be Xander's footsteps she hears tip-tapping lightly and rapidly down the stairs. Dawn!

"Dawnie!"

"Buffy!" Dawn hurls herself around Buffy's neck and doesn’t let go for a long time. "I was so scared, Buffy…"

Buffy's nose is squashed against Dawn's breastbone. She can't have grown this much in three days, can she?

Dawn looks her over with a smile. "You look as if you've been without a comb or moisturizer for days."

"Hey!"

Remarks like these will go stale very quickly, but it’s good to be under a sister's scrutiny again.

"I'll tell you about it later. Unlock me, I need to go find Spike."

Dawn guffaws. "Spike who's in the insanely big hearse? He's wrapped around our front porch right now, not going anywhere soon. How did you find him?

"Dawnie, stop yammering and get me loose. It’s not the Spike you know, it’s one from another universe and he's unchipped, unsouled and dangerous."

Dawn jitters up and down from nervousness, unable to decide what to do first. "I have to go warn Xander."

"Dawn. First, cut me loose. Then go warn the others."

Dawn unlocks the cuffs with shaking fingers and Buffy sprints up the stairs, Dawn on her heels.

Buffy finds less mayhem and slaughter than she expected. Xander is standing on the porch, staring at the limo. Spike is still sitting in it, looking a bit dazed. Its crumpled nose is pressed up against the side of the house as if it was trying to get in, barring Spike from exiting through his missing door.

"Spike! You alright?"

"Bit shaken. I seem to remember the car wasn’t moving?"

So does Buffy. "Maybe," she says slowly, circling the car, "you were aimed for the basement like me, where the other Buffy was. But you don’t have an invitation so you bounced off the magic barrier, car and all. For which I'm kind of grateful, because it would have been hard to get the car out of the basement."

Spike grunts and feels his head. "Not exactly grateful here. On the upside, at least I have wheels."

He crawls out of his seat and manages to kick open the passenger door with Buffy's help. She grabs his arm to steady him when he almost falls out. The pointed silence behind her reminds her that they’re not alone.

"Slayer, help me get this car down to Mother Earth."

Spike completely ignores Xander and Dawn, and Buffy realizes she can't do the same.

"Hey Xander."

Xander walks up to her but doesn’t hug her like she expects. "You look...different. No time to shower I guess?"

"What's with you guys? Here I am, back from a harrowing adventure through different dimensions, driving halfway across America, and all you can do is comment on my personal hygiene?" Buffy says automatically, but her eyes have already swiveled back to Spike.

The front end of the limo lands on her front yard with a thud.

"Let me give you a hand, Spike," she says.

"Ta, pet."

The back of the car follows the front. Spike starts to move to the drivers' side but Buffy halts him with her hand. The black leather of his coat feels stiff and cold.

Spike picks off her hand gently but firmly. "I'll be back here, Slayer. Dunno when."

She watches him clamber in the driver's seat and start the car. With a lot of wheel-churning and cursing Spike gets it positioned pointing to the street. "I'll be off, then. Cheers!"

And he's gone. Buffy stands and watches the car drive off in the direction they came from. Just before the turn the taillights wink on. Responsible driver, Spike. The sound of the receding engine goes on for a long time in the quiet suburb.

She turns to the house with a sigh and meets the avid stares of Xander and Dawn. Xander makes the universal gesture for 'well?'

Explanations seem unavoidable. "So, how much do you guys know already? You met vampy me, I guess?"

Xander's hand goes to a bandage on his neck she hadn’t noticed yet. "We did, Buff, right when she landed on your chair with a big bang. The unrestrained type, you as a vampire. Not like I remember from when our nightmares became true."

"I'm sorta glad I didn’t meet her. It must be so weird seeing yourself as a vampire."

Xander nods. "Willow has been giving many and detailed accounts of her personal experiences with this phenomenon. So, we didn’t stake the Buffy vampire right away like Kennedy wanted, and researched first. Will realized we needed her if we wanted you back, like when Spike got the demon when you went to the Slayer dimension? Right now, Will and Ken are off buying spell supplies. And doing a movie. We would have tried a spell first thing tomorrow, Buff."

"Hey, that's cool. I can take care of myself, remember? I hooked up with the Spike from that world-"

"The same one who vamped you there?" Dawn says.

"Um, yeah. Well, he had a car. We figured the device came from Cleveland, and we had to get there to find one."

"We?"

"Yeah. We made a deal. I wanted to get home, he wanted his Buffy back," Buffy says defensively.

Why does she always have to defend her choices? Can’t her friends trust her after all this time?

"It was an emergency. I allied with who was at hand," she says, going for stern and lectury. "No time for the fine points of morality."

Xander looks up at nowhere, in that remembering look he has, which comes out disconcertingly lopsided because his new eye doesn't quite track that far. "Wasn’t it you who said, 'you can't beat evil by doing evil'?"

"I didn't do evil. I temporarily decided not to take immediate action on evil. That's not the same."'

"I thought there were vibes, Buffy. You two were vibey. And there were beseeching looks and hands on sleeves. I may be one-eyed but I'm not blind."

Buffy looks to Dawn for support, but her sister crosses her arms and nods. "There was vibeyness."

Great. She's back, in every sense of the word.

"But Buffy, I don't see why he's here, in our dimension. Unchipped and unsouled, I guess? How's that work with your so-called deal?"

If you put it like that it does sound wrong. The suspicion what she ought to have done nibbles uncomfortably at her peace of mind. Knowing what's right and being able to do it aren't the same thing at all, though. Blue eyes, knowing exactly what to do to her next, long strong fingers plying her body, they cloud the issue where they shouldn't.

"He gave his word he wouldn't kill anyone. He needs something in this world."

"But you don’t know what? And you accepted a vampire's word? Playing a risky game, Buff. How will you feel when he breaks it?" Xander says, and she hates him for asking the question. He's never exactly been Spike's advocate, or Angel's, even when they were souled, so this comes as no surprise, but usually she finds it easier to dismiss his opinions.

"Well, I'm off to take a shower since my smell and appearance are so offensive. I'll wait until the others ar home to tell the gripping tale of my adventures. "

She has one foot in the door when a car turns onto their street. Her heart does a little double take but stands down again quickly. The engine sounds different. Never mind, shower and moisturize first. She has missed her personal care products and she's so gonna burn these clothes.

Chapter 12
"What was he like, Buffy? The other Spike?"

Buffy sits stretching idly and watches Willow work the vortex generator. Willow delicately manipulates settings that apparently only witches can sense.

"Different. Wild. Evil."

"Uh-huh. I sense a certain…lack of disapproval in your voice, Buffy Summers."

"I meant, obviously, that he had no chip and no soul, and he'd never fought by our side."

Buffy turns around and raises her arm up behind her head, pulling with the other arm until it creaks. The gradual loosening of winter's hold on Cleveland has made running a daily exercise once more. She's just come back and is keeping Willow company while she stretches and cools down. Willow's preparing the dimension device for Spike's return; she and Xander don't want to take any chances with the unchipped Spike when he returns. If he returns.

"Come on, Will, quit the fishing expedition. Ask outright if you wanna know something."

Willow looks at her from under her lashes. "We talked about this before, Buffy. Wicked energy?"

"What do you want me to say, Willow? Was I in love with the original Spike? I guess. Do I mourn him? Yes. Do I wish I could move on? Maybe. Not with Jean Pierre the would be magician or Lorenzo the black belt, anyway. Talk about lame."

"That must have made Spike happy, that you loved him back."

Buffy shakes out her arm muscles fiercely, concentrating too hard to be able to look Willow in the eye. "I kinda told him at the last minute."

She throws Willow a quick look. Willow looks back with a softness in her eyes that makes Buffy squirm inside. "I thought you two were making the most of your moments together in the basement. I'm sorry, Buffy."

There's not much to say in answer to that.

"Look, Buffy, I'm done. See the change in frequency?"

"Huh. Not really. And did you program in the extra thingy Ethan told me about, the exchange thing because there is no Spike in this universe?"

"Yeah. I used a drop of my blood. No other Spikes in any universe whatsoever will be harmed by the execution of this spell. Hey, remember Lorenzo? I though he was particularly good looking. What was it exactly that was lacking with him?"

Buffy flicks her towel dangerously close to Willow's grinning face. "Wicked energy. Need I say more?"

"I rest my case. Did you get to see what Ethan used to protect your new Spike?"

"Not my Spike," Buffy says automatically. She tries to replay before her mind's eye Ethan's actions in the stuffy little room behind Kakistos great hall. "I don’t think I did, or I didn’t know what I was seeing. Why? Everything went well, didn’t it?"

"Sure. I just did some research on the Gatekeepers, and it's not wise to get on their wrong side, is all."

"Nothing happened last time. I'll just make sure never to use these gateways again."

"Sounds sensible to me," Willow says absently, checking her work one more time. "What is the alternative Spike after, Buff, do you know that?"

"No. He wouldn't tell. But if it’s the gem of Amarra he won’t find it."

Willow makes a face. "He could find it in his own dimension, couldn't he?"

Buffy shrugs. "Let's not mention it at all, huh? Anyway, he certainly wasn't invincible when we fought the Gatekeeper, so I feel safe in assuming he doesn’t have it. I can’t think of anything else he'd want here."

"Me neither. Except you."

"No way, Will, no way. Not this one!" Buffy says, but Willow's words set off a thrill down her spine and her heart does a drum roll.

*

Buffy enters her bedroom and throws down her bag. Normally the sun has already set when she comes in at this hour, or the heavens are grey and somber with imminent snow or rain, but now the last rays of the sun shine on something white just outside her window. She opens it - it takes Slayer strength to do that - and leans out.

The lone tree in their depressing little yard, which she's so far seen as a white ghost, or a black dripping skeleton, has transformed itself into something straight off a Japanese scroll. The bare dark brown branches are dotted with the cutest little white flowers. The setting sun gives them a pink sheen as they curl around the writhing bark, a veil that clads their nakedness with beauty.

Growing pretty petals, preparing for spring. She decides it's a symbol for herself. This is who she’ll be. It's a sign.

She goes to sleep with the window and curtains wide open. She opens her eyes again after a while and finds the room glowing with sourceless blue light. It sucks the color out of her furnishings and her hands seem grey. She gets up and walks to the window. Spike is lying on one of the thin branches of the little tree, arms behind his head, staring up at the moon. He's bare chested and bare footed and the top button of his jeans is open. She says something to him but can't hear her own words. He hears them anyway and grins at her.

He holds up his bare arm, pale blue in the full moon's spotlight and she sees he's hurt. Black fluid drips out and spatters on the white blossoms.

"You should put a band-aid on that, Spike. Simpsons or Powerpuff girls?"

"Bart please," Spike says faintly. He holds out his arm for her but it's too far away.

She can see the branches shine through his pale torso, he's fading. No, she has it wrong. He's hollow. He's made of glass and the moonlight fills him up, gives him substance. She leans out of the window further, perilously close to losing her balance. Too late. She falls. She sits bare-assed in her front yard, surrounded by cartoon band-aids. She looks up at the sky. Spike is gone, and so is the moon. Mocking laughter sounds from the utter darkness around her.

"He's mine," a forgotten voice says. "I drew my starry hair around him like a veil and you will never find him."

Buffy stands up, she's not going to take this lying down. She stumbles into a hole she hasn't seen. She tries to get up again but silent black stuff rushes in, filling up the hole, and she can't swim. The lid slams on with a soft click and she's back in the coffin.

"Spike! Spike! Help me! Get me out!" she screams but the sound is muffled and weak.

She'll have to do it herself, like last time. Grimly she sets to work for the thousandth time, she has the routine down pat now. Rip the satin with the little blade she's never without these days for just this emergency, punch through the wood, claw through the earth. When she emerges coughing all is still black. She has to save Spike. She jumps up as high as she can, she has to storm the bastions of heaven. At the third try she catches the hem of the night's black garment and tears it down. Grateful stars twinkle down at her and there is shining Spike, lying unscathed in his twiggy bower.

"Took your sweet time, Buffy. Did you forget about me?" he chides her.

He turns his head away in sad reproach and the night darkens again. A hot wind strikes up and blows Buffy away.

She awakes gasping in bright spring sunlight. She's way too hot under her thick duvet and sweating with heat and fear. She throws it off and lies listening to the frantic pattering of her heartbeat. That was some nightmare. She hasn’t had digging-herself-out-of-the-grave dreams in a long time.

She goes to check on her flowering tree first thing. It's still there. The blossoms are bright pink. Weren't they white last night? Maybe someone has bled watery ghost blood on them. She shivers in spite of the mild temperature.

A shower and new spring clothes make her forget the momentary wiggins and all is so utterly normal at breakfast that the nightmare seems just that, a random dream because she was too warm. Willow and Kennedy bicker, Andrew and Xander discuss obscure comic books and Dawn is reading. This means she can sip her coffee and eat her yogurt in peace.

Funny that she expected something to be different. Dreaming of Spike, of course. Doesn’t mean anything, because she does that all the time. Rational thought doesn’t lift the heaviness from her heart. Could she have saved Spike? Forced him away from the cave with her? She rolls her shoulders and plans to go out for a long run tonight after class. Nothing better than a hard workout to dispel deep thoughts and vampire cooties.

That evening, she's lacing up her running shoes in the hall when a car rumbles to a halt outside. The laces snap and she's on the porch before she knows she's moving. It feels as if there should be a Buffy-shaped hole in the door and little dust clouds hovering. Wile. E. Buffy.

Her Roadrunner is standing in her yard already, deep black against the dusky sky. Behind him the blotched pink of another DeSoto makes for an incongruous fashion statement.

"Spike!" She cringes inwardly at the transparent joy in her voice.

"Slayer."

He doesn't move, just stands there with his hands in his pockets. Buffy's running shoes have stuck to the path and she sways but doesn't go forward.

"Hey," she starts again. "You're back. You got your prize?"

"Yeah."

Spike shifts the lapels of his duster. It's ripped in many places. Buffy would like to know what happened to it but her tongue is as paralyzed as her feet.

"You still got the portal device? I'm ready to get back home."

"Spike. You could…" Buffy begins, but Spike swiftly steps forward and puts a finger on her lips.

"Don’t say it, Slayer. Wouldn't lead to anything good, don't we both know that?"

Tears prick in her eyes. Spike sighs and brings his hand around her face to cup her cheek. Buffy leans into it for the few seconds he allows his hand to remain there. There's still an arm's length of empty space between them and Spike makes no move to bridge the gap. She swallows. He steps back and runs a hand through his hair. He inclines his head in the direction of the car, where Buffy now sees a dark shape sitting on the passenger seat.

"Who…" but she doesn’t really need an answer. Of course he'd go and fetch her.

"Aren't you afraid she's gonna dump you a fourth time, Spike?"

Oh God, she sounds like a jealous ex.

Spike is unfazed and looks at her calmly, though his feet are starting up a little shuffle. "I'm not the remake, Slayer. I have every confidence I'll manage to keep her in line."

"But you can't know that for sure!"

"You never can, with love."

"So you still love her, six years after her death. Wow."

"I do. I'm love's bitch and proud of it too."

"I'd want to be someone like that," Buffy says wistfully.

"And very bad you'd be at it, Slayer. You've got all the empathy of a park bench. You're a leader, a wanter, and you'll find someone to take care of these wants for you. As long as you admit to them, is all."

He's really going to leave. He's going to take Drusilla and leave forever. By the sinking of her heart she knows she expected something else. Foolish heart. She might have known. Men leave, even the real Spike did.

"Slayer? The portal device?"

"Yeah. Sure. I'll go get Willow."

There is a silence after that and Spike looks at her as if he's waiting. She replays the last thing she said in her head and scurries back into the house.

"Willow! Spike's back!"

Willow comes down the stairs, with mussed hair and still buttoning her blouse. "What?"

"Can you get the dimension thingy? Spike's back, we need to get him to his own world. He's taking Drusilla."

"He's taking who? Right. Okay. I'm on it."

Willow returns with the device floating a few inches above her hand. If you're a witch you don’t need a pencil. Buffy walks back outside, Willow close on her heels. Safe behind the Slayer, although these days Willow could probably zap Spike with a look at twenty yards.

"Tell your witch I want the car as well."

"I'm standing right here," Willow says.

Buffy can hear what expression she has on her face. "Never mind, Willow. He has a different view of human beings from our Spike."

"Huh. Well, I'm ready."

A tall shape, her head crowned with a mantilla and comb, moves faster than her eyes can blink and stands next to Spike. She cradles a stiff unmoving creature with spotty orange and white fur. A dead cat?

A high voice speaks. "Spike, the stars are calling me their daughter and I must see them better to hear what they are riddling about me. We must be off now or they’ll be cross with us."

"See?" he says. "I'm needed. Goodbye, Slayer."

He grabs Drusilla's hand and strides off a few paces, but then turns and holds up a finger, as if he almost forgot something. He opens the trunk of the car and heaves a tall oblong package out of it. It's a dark green tarp, wound and wound about with several colored nylon ropes, orange and blue. Duct tape is used in many places to seal loose flaps shut.

"Little present for you. Do with it what you will."

Spike lopes off to the other side of the car and opens the door for Drusilla, who’s still stroking her motionless furry companion and staring at the cloudy April sky, her head thrown back ecstatically. She graciously folds herself in the passenger's seat and sits regally waiting until Spike is back at her side. He drives off in a roar of faulty exhaust pipes.

Buffy watches Spike and Dru pull away. She doesn't see what Willow does, but the car doesn’t even reach the end of the driveway. It shimmers blue and vanishes. Long after it's disappeared the sound of the Sex Pistols and the rumble of the old engine still echo down the street. Well. She's almost sad it's over. Weirdest adventure ever.

Maybe Willow says something to her, she's not sure, but Buffy hears her go back into the house. She's still staring down the empty street. The sun has set completely now and although the sky is still pale purple, the only things she sees are streetlights and the glowing curtained windows of neighboring houses.

"So he's going back to 1985?" Xander says right behind her.

Buffy jumps up. "Jesus, Xander, you startled me."

"I suppose you were too enthralled with what his majesty was saying?"

"Why d'you call him that?"

"It's the way he acted, as if you'd obey his every command. That alone would clue me in he wasn’t our Spike. Come, it's getting chilly and Willow is brewing mead."

"Mead? What's mead?"

"I don't know but it smells good."

They turn to get back inside, but the package gives off a small grunt. Buffy jumps in surprise for the second time in two minutes. The package almost blended with the driveway surface in the rapidly falling darkness.

"What the hell is that?"

"Present from Spike," Buffy says. "I dread to think what's in it. His sense of humor is not refined. You got a knife?"

Xander puts on his can do face and produces a Stanley knife. "Take care, Buffster, I keep them wicked sharp."

"You are the Yoda of tools," Buffy says gravely.

She starts sawing at the multiple orange nylon ropes and the duct tape and the triple folded tarp that Spike has wrapped his present in. It's getting chilly, and although the hard work is keeping her body warm, her feet are getting really cold.

"Come on, Xander, help me get it in the house," she says.

The others are all snugly ensconced inside, so together they lug the protesting present up the front yard and onto the porch. They can't get it in, so it's a vampire. Why the hell would Spike give her a vampire as a gift?

"I don’t wanna invite it in, Buff," Xander says worriedly. "If this misfires…"

He's right. She waves him in, indicating that hot chocolate would be very welcome. The package sighs. Maybe the vampire would like chocolate as well, although the ones she's met generally prefer blood. She tries to rip straight through the three layers of tarp, but it's hard going with her little knife, however sharp it may be.

Xander comes out with mugs of hot chocolate and a saw.

"Let me do this Buffy," he says importantly. "This is taking too long. You get warmed up, okay?"

"Thanks, Xan." Buffy says. "Give a shout when you need help, but don't stake it. That’s my call."

She goes inside and leans against the radiator in the kitchen to get warm. April, they call it. The trees seem to agree that it's spring, but it's not a temperature a normal human being would call mild.

It's very silent out there. She gets a nervous feeling and since she's all warm and toasty again goes back outside.

Xander saws.

The saw slips for a few seconds and the vampire utters a muffled yelp.

"Shut up!" Xander says nervously.

Then Buffy takes a turn. She saws and cuts and wrestles with the miles of duct tape Spike has used to wrap the demon up. She hears her friends talking and walking about in the warm comfy house. Damn Spike and his damn present. She could just stake it, or leave it on the porch all night. The sun would take care of it in the morning. She sighs but sticks to her work. She's not completely sure but she doesn't think Spike would give her something useless or annoying.

Finally her knife cuts through and she can rip off a triple thick flap of tarp. She lugs the package under the porch light and drops it with a thud when platinum curls are revealed. What the? This looks like another Spike. Where on earth did Spike find yet another version? She saws on with a vengeance, and after another quarter hour the complete and only slightly cut head of a Spike is revealed. The rest of his body's still trussed up like a turkey and his mouth and nose are taped shut. When he sees her his head falls back. He just looks at her for a long time and then turns his face. Thanks a lot, Spike two, she really needed to meet Spike three.

"Xander!" she bellows.

Xander comes out, wiping his mouth. A sickly sweet odor wafts from his cup. Willow follows after him.

"Look guys, another version of Spike."

"I don’t really get all these Spikes, Buff. How come there are so many?"

"Willow?"

Willow puts on her lectury face. "Every time someone makes a decision, a universe in which the decision is different splits off. So you get all the possible universes."

"So what decision did this one make, Buffy?"

"How should I know? Version two killed me when we were still in high school, before Angel turned into Angelus and everything. This one may never even have met me. Willow can find out what kind this one is and send him back," Buffy says.

"And if it’s a souled version? Wouldn’t you consider keeping him?" Willow asks.

Buffy shakes her head. "Like a pet? Believe me, I have my belly full of other Spikes after having had number two's company all across America."

A need to punish this Spike wells up in Buffy, she'd like to get in some payback for the indignities she suffered on that journey. She leaves the tape on his face undisturbed and starts sawing away at his ropes. What possessed the other Spike to use orange nylon rope? Nothing harder to cut, dammit. She has to bite her lip from time to time when she catches the worried, impatient look in Spike's face. Serve him right. Where did the other Spike find him, she wonders. From what time line? He could be from anywhere, any alternate universe.

She relents and tears off the duct tape with a quick jerk, remembering from childhood experience that this hurts the least.

"Buffy," is Spike's first word.

How dare he call her that! The use of that name is reserved for one Spike only. Buffy slaps his face in a fit of uncontrolled fury. "Slayer to you, you creep."

She'd like to kick him, punch those false blue eyes, destroy the cheekbones and the pretty skin. They're beautiful packaging for lies and deceit, and as thin and flimsy as tinsel and tissue. She's fallen for it once, and she's learned her lesson. She can't trust her instincts, which are loudly telling her once again that this is Spike and go for it, girl. She needs an instinct transplant, a gut makeover. Her hands tremble and she feels sick. She could almost rip his head off with her bare hands at this moment. Almost. She suspects that if she couldn’t kill a Spike she knew for certain was evil, she might have a little more trouble with this unknown quantity.

She slams the Stanley knife into Xander's hand. "You finish him," she says curtly to Xander. "I’m going to run like I planned, or I won’t be responsible for my actions.

"But Buffy…" Xander protests weakly, but she's off after another yank on her laces.