“Buffy, I realize this is a bit unprecedented, and you know that I would never ask you to leave your post on a whim. Especially given the um, rather delicate circumstances as of present…”

She stared at her Watcher. Delicate circumstances. Her boyfriend left her, her sister wasn’t actually a real person, her mother had just died, and a god was trying to rip open a portal to hell. Apparently, ‘delicate’ was some kind of British code for things that will kill your heart.

“…but based on my research and the papers the Council provided us with, it is imperative that we procure the Dagon Sphere.”

She blinked at him. “Y-yeah, and why exactly does that warrant the big words? Play fetch. Would’ve got it at that.”

“Buffy…” He sighed and leaned back against the pummel horse. Bags were under his eyes, like he hadn’t had a good night’s rest in quite a while. The muffled chatter of Magic Box customers drifted through the training room door. “It’s in Oklahoma.”

She waited for the punch line. Then remembered who she was talking to. “I have never been to Oklahoma, Giles,” she said firmly, making sure that period at the end was heard loud and clear. That should settle it. But just to make sure – “And I can’t leave the Hellmouth.” There. Two facts that should knock the crazy right out of his head.

“Yes, except for when you have to, and this is one of those times when you have to.”

She couldn’t stop staring at him. “Giles!” He winced slightly. “I can’t go to friggin’ Oklahoma!”

“Oh? And why not, exactly?”

“Because they have musicals! And – and… ” She faltered, and then snapped her fingers. “Tornadoes. Lots of tornadoes.”

“While those points may be valid, you’re still going to have to go.” He pulled off his glasses, voice hardening.

Fine. He wanted to take off the glasses, then she was going to pull out the big guns. She pouted. Full on, lower-lip-jutting, pout. “Can’t you just mail it?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a calming breath. “Trust me, if that were possible, then I would. If only just to avoid this conversation.” He paused and looked her over. This had been the good part, or at least, the not quite so bad part of the news. He didn’t want to think how she was going to react to the other half. “As you know, it’s a matter of great importance and there is a very real need for haste. I’m afraid the situation with Glory is rapidly deteriorating. Surely you have noticed. I – ”

The chatter of voices zoomed up a notch as the door opened and Xander, Willow and Tara trooped in. Willow waved cheerfully before pulling the door firmly shut. “G-Man, Buffster, what’s the what?” Without waiting for a reply, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Man, they’re eating Ahn alive out there.” Willow shot him a disquieted look and he frowned. “Figuratively. Not as in literally, which… in Sunnydale, I can see the confusion.”

Before Giles could speak, Buffy beat him to it. “Giles,” she stated brightly, “wants me to drive to Oklahoma.” She folded her arms and looked at her Watcher triumphantly, as if the presence of her friends would reaffirm his madness.

Three voices piped up at once.

“Buffy, this isn’t up for debate – ”

“You mean like the musical with that chick from the Partridge Family – ”

“Ooh, Buffy! Road trip fun! ”

Tara remained quiet, a look deep skepticism on her face.

“No.” Buffy cut her hand through the air. “No road trip fun. I don’t see why I have to do this. Not when Dawn needs me.”

“I told you, this is – ”

“Great delicacy, real haste, blah, blah. Why do we even need this thing? And what is it?”

An edge entered Giles’ voice as he tried to rein in his temper. “Because it’s the only thing I’ve found that can possibly help us with Glory. Documents show that the Dagon Sphere was crafted by monks. It was designed with the intention of repelling her, though there is also the suggestion that it will weaken her a significant amount if in close proximity.” He paused before continuing tactfully, “Considering the extent of her power… I think it necessary that we have this item when we face her.”

Buffy wasn’t stupid. She could read between the lines. What he really meant to say was, considering how much she hadn’t kicked Glory’s ass, they really needed the thing. Reluctantly, Buffy nodded her head. “Fine. You’re right… I’ll go and retrieve this sphere thing. But what about Dawn?”

Giles put his hand up. “Glory has no idea about Dawn. She can stay with me. Willow and Tara can put up wards around the place and she will be perfectly safe.”

Buffy just looked at him.

“As perfectly safe as she can be with the given circumstances, at least,” he amended.

Clearing her voice, Tara spoke up hesitantly, “Buffy? Can, can you drive? …Across country?”

“Yeah, no offense, Buff,” Xander cut in, “but unless things have changed since the last time we attempted maneuvering the streets of Sunnydale, going cross country may not be the best of ideas.”

A pained look crossed the Watcher’s face. “That’s why you’re not going alone.”

Xander’s hand immediately shot into the air. “Ooh! Pick me, pick me!”

Buffy’s eyes lit up at the prospect, and Giles quickly pressed forward. “I’ve already decided who’s to accompany you. You’re not going to like it.”

Buffy gave a laugh. “As long as it’s not Spike, I think I’ll be able to handle it.”

Silence.

Buffy’s head shot straight up and she stared at Giles, horrified. “No. No.”

He sighed. He was beginning to long for the peace and quiet of his living room and a good cup of tea. “He’s strong, we don’t know what – if any – sort of resistance you can expect to see on this trip, and he has a car. He will be extremely useful.”

Xander scoffed. “I can’t believe you’re sending her off with the Bleached Wonder. And let’s not insult all the other cars by calling that piece of rotting junk of his a car.”

Willow piped up, too. “C’mon Giles, don’t send her with Spike. That’s just mean. And isn’t he all injured and broken from Glory at the moment?”

Buffy turned on Giles triumphantly. “Injured,” she said with relish.

“You know just as well as I do, that he’s recovered quite nicely.”

“But, but he’s a bad driver! And totally irresponsible. He’ll probably smoke in the car!”

Giles just stared at her, stonily.

“I’m not going to Oklahoma with Spike, and that’s final,” she said, face equally stony.

------


Buffy stared at the crypt door. Stalling, she sullenly kicked a rock with the toe of her cute, pointy boots. “I can’t believe I’m going to Oklahoma with Spike,” she muttered.

The heavy door swung open and she was bathed in warm, gold light. “Believe it, Slayer.” Spike stood there in his usual T-shirt, jeans and boots. The worse of the bruising on his face had faded. Just a little bit of discoloration remained on one cheek, around his eye. He was peering at her carefully, waiting for some sort of reaction, and she realized she’d been staring.

“I have an atlas,” she blurted.

Spike blinked and looked down at the atlas clutched in one hand. “So you do.” He stepped aside, gesturing for her to come in.

She deliberately gave him a wide berth as she stepped past him. Memories of his declaration of ‘so-called’ love and the kiss she had given him just a week ago, keen in her mind. Once she reached the middle of the crypt, she suddenly spun, intent on saying something. What exactly, she had no idea. But something. He hadn’t moved except to shut the door. He was staring at her, eyebrows up, clearly expecting her to say something, too.

“Look, Spike – ” a hundred different thoughts raced through her head, “ – I really need this to go as smooth and quick as possible, so I can get back in town for Dawn.” …and that had been exactly none of those hundred. “I don’t want to go on this trip at all, but Giles is making me.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say sod the Watcher, but then that would mean no road trip with the woman of his every fantasy. Not really the hardest decision he’d ever made. “I don’t exactly have a whole lot of biological demands here, pet. I can drive all night,” he paused, a small smile curving at the corner of his lips. She suddenly became very aware that at some point, he has crossed the room and was now only a couple steps away, his hand trailing along the back of the ratty recliner. “In fact, we only have to stop when you need,” the word fell off his tongue with deliberate emphasis, “to stop.”

She stared at him, hard. “Oh my god,” she yelled, frustrated. “It’s already started!”

He blinked at her outburst. “What?”

“You! With the weird body language and the dramatic emphasizing of things that don’t need emphasizing.”

“I wouldn’t really say ‘weird.’ I’d say s’more like – ”

“Point, Spike, stay on it.”

“Look Slayer, I know things have been – ”

“You know what? Nevermind,” she snapped, as a sudden wave of weariness crashed over her. “I don’t have time for this,” she said, shaking her head. “I have to make sure Dawn’s doing her homework. And I have to pack.” She refused to look at him. Instead, she stared at a cobweb in the corner, not really seeing it. “We’re leaving at sunset tomorrow. Please be there.”

Still not looking at him, she squared her shoulders and strode right passed him to the door. With one hand clenched on the atlas, knuckles white, and the other pushing through the crypt door, she stepped into the summer night with relief. She hadn’t gone three steps before a loud crash came from within the crypt.

All at once she deflated, her shoulders slumping. Looking up, she soaked in the stars. After a moment, it was enough, and she was able to move again. She wove through the tombstones and headed for home.

------


He was there at sunset. He didn’t come inside, though. She just glanced out the window and there he was, the Desoto sitting in her driveway. He was leaned up against the old car, pulling on a cigarette, and scowling out over the street.

All bristle and defiance, that was Spike. Being trapped in a car together for close to a week was going to be buckets of fun.

“Why doesn’t he come inside?” Dawn piped up at her side, crinkling the blinds as she peeked out.

“Because he knows he doesn’t belong,” Xander’s voice rang out from somewhere in the kitchen.

Dawn let go of the blinds with a metallic snap, turning to glare in the direction of the kitchen. “He does, too,” she yelled crossly. “Just because you don’t’ like him doesn’t mean he doesn’t belong. Maybe he’d be nicer if you weren’t such a jerk to him all the time.”

Buffy snorted. She couldn’t help it. Dawn looked at her and shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. This is the Hellmouth. And he’s nice to me and you.” A scowl crossed the teen’s face. “Except that whole chaining you up with the Queen of the Damned, anyway.”

Buffy sighed and cupped the back of Dawn’s head, pulling her forward to press a kiss on top of her glossy brown hair. “I’d better go. Be good for Xander and Giles, alright?” Dawn pulled a face. “I mean it,” she said firmly. “When I come back Giles better have only good things to say.”

Dawn’s breath suddenly caught in her throat, and she blinked rapidly. Her typical response not three months ago would have been a snappy, ‘Who died and made you Mom?’ But she couldn’t say that anymore. So all she said was, “Fine.”

Xander came wandering in and clapped a hand on Dawn’s shoulder cheerfully. “Don’t worry, Buffster. The Scoobies are on the job. You just try not to strangle Spike. And if you do,” he waved his hand away, “no hard feelings.”

Dawn mumbled darkly under her breath and grabbed one of the navy blue, zip-up suitcases, heading out the front door, while Buffy just rolled her eyes. “One week in the same car? Believe me, it’s going to be a challenge.” She reached out and hugged him. “Thank you, Xander. For being here for… everything.”

His arms tightened around her briefly before pulling back. “What are friends for,” he said. He was grinning, but she knew him. He lived for hearing things like that. “But seriously, Buffy. I know things have been rough lately. And it’s going to get better. Slowly, but it will.”

She looked down at the floor then. Before she looked back up, she squared her shoulders. “It needs to,” she said softly. “It has to.” Abruptly, she grabbed her bag and stepped onto the porch. Dusk was in full effect now and the tip of Spike’s cigarette glowed red hot as he took a drag. He cast her a look out of narrowed eyes before blowing a plume of smoke out the side of his mouth and turning his attention back to Dawn. She was chatting animatedly and happily. Buffy felt a tug in the pit of her stomach as she watched her. She didn’t look like a teenager who’d just lost her mother to a brain tumor.

She was about to take the steps when Xander’s hand clamped on her shoulder. “Seriously. If Dead Boy, Jr. gives you any hassle, stake him.”

She shot him an amused look. “I need him non-dusty if he’s going to drive.”

“You know, I think you’d be an excellent driver if you put your mind to it. Lots of normal people drive everyday.”

“Hey! I’m normal!”

His hands flew up in defense. “Whoa, you know what I mean. I’m just saying – ”

“I know, Xan. I’ll be ok.” She gave him a little wave and then hefted her duffle bag down the steps, flip-flops smacking against the cement walk.

“I know you will,” he called out, flashing her a double thumbs up.

As she neared the car the hyperactive babbling of Dawn’s voice gradually began to form words. “ – absolutely horrible. She has to listen to her music. Has to have the A/C just her way. Always has to stop where she wants to, with no regard for anyone else in the car. And if she doesn’t get her way, she’ll be cranky for the entire trip.”

“S’that so, Nibblet?” Spike rumbled, slightly amused as he eyed Buffy glaring over at Dawn.

“Dawn!” Buffy barked.

Dawn jumped a foot in the air and spun around, guilt all over her face, even as she tried for innocence. “Yes?”

“Stop,” she said firmly.

Dawn made a face and stuck out her tongue. “I was only telling him the truth.”

“And I’m right grateful for the warning,” Spike spoke up, not looking at Buffy.

“Yeah, well, as much as I hate to break up the Buffy-bashing fest you two have going on, it’s time for us to hit the road.” She turned to Spike. “Pop the trunk?”

He nodded and yanked the driver’s side door open, giving the little lever along the floorboard a pull. Buffy and Dawn stared expectantly at the trunk. Nothing happened. “Alright Slayer, now just give it a bit of a push,” he called.

The girls exchanged looks. Shrugging, Buffy stepped over and gave the trunk lid an experimental push. It didn’t budge. She pushed it again, with the result being the same amount of nothing. “I think it’s busted,” she announced.

Spike gave an exasperated huff and walked around to the trunk. “It just needs a little encouragement. I know you’re a tiny slip of a thing, Slayer, but I figured you could handle something as simple as a boot.”

“She has lots of boots!” Dawn piped up cheerfully.

“I think he means the trunk. I heard Giles say it, too,” Buffy whispered.

“If you two would stop yammering on, it’d be a lot easier to pretend there’s at least one good brain between the two of you.”

“Hey,” they protested in unison, watching as Spike threw all his weight behind one firm shove. The trunk flew open.

Buffy peered dubiously at the now open trunk. “That wasn’t ‘a little encouragement.’ That was the same amount of force you used against that Snuffle demon last week.”

A sudden waft of something old, bitter, and pungent rose in the air. “Oh my god, Spike! What is that smell?” Dawn whined, as both of the girls suddenly started gasping.

Spike squinted inside the trunk and took one long sniff. “That was a Snelflink demon, pet. And I’m not real sure. Been a while since I opened ‘er up, I guess. Kinda smells a little mucousy, like – ”

“Slugs?” Buffy suggested. “Mucousy slugs?”

Brow furrowed, he examined the dark, crusted smear that was spread all over the inside of the trunk, over the lining and the bits of paper and trash. “Like… like… ” A slow grin stretched across his face. He straightened up and turned to the girls, all teeth and satisfaction. “Like Chaos demon.” He gave a little laugh and shut the trunk with a slam. “You’re not gonna want to put your trunk in there, love.” They stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “What?”

Buffy shook her head. “I don’t want to know. A world of non-desire.”

Spike shrugged, still grinning. He grabbed her suitcase and duffle bag and proceeded to stuff them into the backseat. Buffy turned to Dawn, finding her suddenly sullen. “Hey, don’t look like that. I’ll be back soon.”

“I don’t care,” Dawn grumbled, kicking at the asphalt with the toe of her sneaker.

Buffy threaded her fingers through her sister’s long hair, drawing it forward over her shoulders. “Maybe you don’t,” she said gently. “But I do, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.” At that, Dawn gave her a quick, fierce hug and stepped back.

“Don’t forget to call me at night,” the girl demanded.

“I won’t.”

“I told Spike to remind you.”

“I won’t forget, Dawn.”

“Ok, but just in case.”

“Night’s a-wasting, ladies,” Spike called, already seated behind the wheel.

Buffy shot a glare at the vampire before moving around to the passenger’s side. “I’ll call you,” she promised over the hood of the car as she climbed in.

The Desoto roared to life and began to back out of the drive. “You’d better!” Dawn shouted as they pulled into the street.

Buffy waved and watched until both the house and her sister were gone from view. She turned to face forward, settling into her seat. It took a couple minutes for her surroundings to sink in. She looked from her feet, surrounded by empty bottles and plastic wrappers, and craned around to look in the backseat. It was full of their luggage, one small cooler, and more random bits of trash.

Spike remained very, very still as she made her perusal, eyes pinned on the road as he maneuvered them towards the highway at the edge of town. He was full of nervous, twitching energy. Torn between anticipation at having her all to himself for the next several days, nervous that the smallest thing would set her off at any moment, and angry at her for being such a bloody bitch all the time. He’d heard her exchange with Xander as they stood on the front steps. He’d bit his tongue while Dawn was chattering away, but now that she was out of the picture the words were curdling in the bottom of his stomach. He certainly wasn’t under any illusions about his place in their merry band of do-gooders, but damnit if it didn’t have him seeing red all the same. Their casual dismissal. Just who the hell did they think they were, the sanctimonious brats. And she was the worst of them all – mood swings as regular as Big sodding Ben.

As she turned back around to face him he waited, his jaw clenched, for whatever pearls of wisdom she doubtlessly felt the need to share. He’d lay odds she was going to harp on his beautiful, black baby. Say it wasn’t good enough for the likes of her –

“Your car is disgusting,” she announced definitively. A slight kick of her foot sent a wave of trash fluttering to emphasize her point.

He all but snarled at her. “You’re welcome to clean it yourself.”

“This is going to be a fun trip, isn’t it?” Her voice positively dripped with enthusiasm.

“Depends on if you’re going to nag me the entire bloody time.”

“Depends on if you’re going to be the biggest jerk on the face of the planet the entire time.”

“Just pull out the sodding map and tell me where the hell I’m going.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, staring daggers at him. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Don’t be a brat,” he grit out, his grip tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles went white.

She glared at him. He glared at her.

It was a good start.

Two hours in, the only conversation was her occasional command to take an exit and his grunting reply. It might possibly have been the longest two hours of her entire life. She squirmed, trying to get comfortable. The silence was about to kill her, but she refused to be the one that broke first. Refused. If she never said another word until they got back to Sunnydale, then that’s just the way it would have to be. She wouldn’t be the first one to speak. Wouldn’t. Would not –

“If you need to stop anywhere or anything, just let me know.” Spike’s sudden voice was loud in the otherwise quiet car. So loud, she jumped. At one point she had flicked on the radio, but, without batting an eye, he had turned it right back off.

She felt him glance over at her, and she stared fixedly, straight ahead. He cleared his throat and continued, his voice lower this time, but his words were rushed and laced with barely suppressed energy, “Snacks. Or go to the little Slayer’s room. Isn’t that what you human types do on a road trip? Stuff yourselves with sugar?”

She couldn’t help it, she turned to face him. From the rapid drumming of his fingertips on the steering wheel to his rush of words and the way he kept sneaking quick little glances at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice… Was Spike feeling…bashful? “What is wrong with you?”

His entire persona changed in an instant. His movements became more smooth and controlled. He leaned back into his seat, settling around it. His chin tilted up and the tiniest of sneers curled his lips. “Or you can just pee in a bush and get poison ivy all over your arse, for all I care.”

She blinked. Ookay. Maybe the whole not-talking thing had been better, after all. But then a twinge of guilt ran through her. He’d been trying to be nice. Which…while strange and wigsome, did go along with his new ‘I love you’ thing. I love you thing to the extent of chaining you up where Drusilla could eat you; I love you to the extent of letting a hellgod chain me up and torture me within an inch of my unlife. She should have said something nice back. Conciliatory. But thinking about Glory led to thinking about Dawn. And thinking about Dawn led to Mom. A thick and heavy weight fell over her. When Willow had been stuck in frantic babble mode after the funeral, she’d described how people used to use wrap the bodies of the dead in a shroud when someone died. That’s what the weight felt like. A death shroud. These days, Buffy never left home without it.

So instead of saying something nice back, she just got quiet. Got quiet in her whole body. “When are we stopping for the hotel?” Even her voice was quiet.

He snuck another glance at her, slow to reply. He could see it – the change in her. How tiny she got in her seat. “Just before dawn. Go ahead and sleep if you’re tired, Slayer.” He refocused on the highway, white dash after white dash. “This will end quicker if you do.”

For once, she took his advice without a fuss.


--------


When she woke up, she was warm. She was warm and surprisingly light, and that was all very different from how it was supposed to be, though she couldn’t remember why. All she knew was that she didn’t want it to end. So Buffy kept her eyes shut and basked in the warmth and the scratchy sheets and the smell of not-home on her pillow.

With her mind stuck on the slow melt of a good sleep, she sighed happily and loudly, burrowing further into the nest she’d found. The sigh turned into an intermittent hum, sometimes dipping to a halt before lurching back up again, never forming an actual tune.

Slowly, her muscles turned restless and she began to stretch. First shoulders, just tensing and relaxing the muscle, and then an arm and then a foot, curling and arching, and then her legs. And when her knee pushed out across the bed, it collided with something just as hard and knobby as it was.

“Oi, watch yourself, Slayer,” came a rumbling voice, thick with sleep.

Her eyes shot open and immediately there was blue. Blue, blue eyes, with heavy, hooded lids. All signs of bask were officially gone. They had fled the premises. Complete annihilation of all basking goodness. It took long, full seconds before her brain synapses made the necessary connections and jolts for her to speak. “Spike?” And then it wasn’t even her voice. That squeaky lurch hadn’t been her voice since that time with Tanner in middle school. This was the voice of a total spaz, not Buffy Summers, Slayer of the forces of darkness.

Just enough light filtered through the curtains into the room to give everything a pleasant golden glow. He was stretched out on his stomach like a lazy cat. All creamy bare skin and white blonde tousled curls. The sheets on his side had ridden low, with the edge resting just at the small of his back, revealing a broad swath of heavily muscled torso.

The second she spoke, those hooded eyes fell to her mouth. “Hmm?” he murmured, the sound coming from somewhere deep. It wasn’t so much a reply as a rumbling acknowledgement that she spoke. And his eyes were still fixed on her mouth. The scrutiny was starting to make her twitchy and she licked her lips nervously. The motion made one corner of his own mouth twitch and suddenly those eyes jerked right back to hers. The ferocity in them took her breath away. Unwavering, the intensity caught and held her, until gradually, gradually, she became aware of something that’d been running along the back of her mind. A slow burning sensation. Her knee was still touching his.

She jerked back so fast, she was about to tip out the side of the bed, when one long arm shot out, snagging and hauling her firmly back onto the mattress, against a very firm and solid body. His arm was like an iron band around her middle. Her arms were trapped between them, hands crushed to his chest. Her face was inches from his, close enough to count every sooty eyelash. Her mind raced, tripping over itself to find some kind of proper response to being pressed against Spike’s chest. Chest of Spike, her mind screamed frantically. “Wh-why did you do that?” Her voice came out short and breathy. Not good. Short and breathy were so not good.

“You were falling.”

“Oh,” she said, her fingers curling, ever so slightly, against his smooth skin. “Okay.”

He said it so simply. Like that was all there was to it. Buffy was about to fall, and so Spike caught her. Simple as that.

But it wasn’t that simple, because her entire body was still burning. Every inch of her was on fire. And between that look in his eyes, the one that said he was ravenous and she was the feast, and the hand that was clutching at her hip as if it had no intention of ever letting go, she was wondering if maybe he didn’t feel the same way, too.

And then her thigh shifted, just a little, and her belly was pressed tight against something that, even through the heavy denim of his jeans, was very hard, and jutting, and impossible to ignore, between them. Her eyes grew wide as saucers even as his fluttered, threatening to fall shut.

She didn’t know what to do, what the appropriate response was, and she couldn’t think with him so close. Could hardly breathe when he looked at her with eyes gone so dark.

But then he spoke. Except it wasn’t so much speaking as it was sighing. Just a small slip of breath. “Buffy.” A slip of breath, and want, but mostly just need.

It made her want to see how many other ways he could say her name. The thought struck her like a jolt of lightening, and her entire body jerked, suddenly capable of movement again. She didn’t miss the harsh drag of breath that escaped him, and his arm loosened just enough for her to squirm away. He barely had time to blink before she was off the bed and rushing barefoot to the bathroom. “I have to take a shower,” she said, without looking back, hoping that her voice sounded stronger to him than it did to her.

If he said anything before she shut the bathroom door, she didn’t hear him. Of course, it would’ve been hard to hear anything with the blood roaring through her ears. She didn’t stop to look at the mirror to see a face she knew was burning red. She didn’t stop to debate and peruse over the brightly colored toiletries she’d packed. She didn’t stop to test to the water before climbing in. No, instead, she stripped, she grabbed, and then she froze – letting the cold, but quickly warming, water cool down her overheated body.

Buffy tilted her face up towards the shower nozzle and let the water pelt her cheeks and eyes and open, gasping mouth. Everything came rushing back. One hand shot out, flailing to get some kind of grip on the wet tiles. Now it wasn’t just Spike in her head and the amazing wrongness of those thoughts. No, now it was Riley and Mom and Dawn and Glory. Now it was numbing. And all the weight that had been missing, her shroud, came and settled like a mantle on her shoulders. Like an old friend saying hello.

While Buffy showered, Spike stayed right where he was. As much as he wanted to not be there when she got out of the shower, the new day was in full swing on the other side of those cheap, barely thick enough for safety, curtains. Plus, he was still tired as hell. There was something about driving all night that took it out of you in ways that a good brawl couldn’t. And the bed… the bed was just heavenly. All stolen warmth and sweet Slayer smell. He burrowed under the covers and spread out wide, settling. He wiggled, chaffing in his jeans, then shrugged and tugged them off. Slayer ain’t in the bed anymore, might as well get comfortable, he thought as he tossed the black jeans on top of the nightstand squeezed in between the bed and the wall.

He wiggled back under the covers, still lying on his stomach. His prick was still semi-hard and he vaguely debated getting in a wank before she came back, but decided not to risk it. Instead, he closed his eyes and focused on the warmth and scent that clung to her pillow.

There’d been a moment there where he could’ve sworn she was this close to closing the gap between them. Or maybe just stayin’ put while he did it himself. He smiled at the thought, and slowly drifted off into a light sleep.

Two sharp clicks jerked him awake. He opened his eyes to see her standing there in nothing but a towel, her hair dripping and tousled, playing with the fastenings of her suitcase. The air was warm and moist, heavy with the fragrance of some girly shampoo or other.

Every particle of his undead body was awake and thrumming. His eyes drank her in, greedy. His nose flared as he pulled in the heady scents, and his fingers curled into the mattress, desperate for the feel of soft, damp skin.

But he watched her rummage through her bits of clothes and other what-not, and he can see the difference. The difference between the girl he woke up with and the girl who came out of the shower. She found what she needed and, clutching them to her, padded back into the bathroom. He followed her every move, and as she disappeared again his entire body sighed.

When she came back out, it was fully dressed. Pity that. A pair of khaki shorts, a pink tank top, and flip-flops. Her wet hair pulled up in a messy bun. The picture of summer youth, she was, but he knew better. Her eyes fell on him as she reached for her purse. Those colors, that golden skin, and those yellow forest eyes. She was a vision. As sad and lonely as she was, she was a vision.

“I’m hungry. I’m gonna go find some pancakes or something. You want anything?” Her voice was quiet, tired. She didn’t seem surprised to find him watching.

Something in his chest pulled tight. “No, love. But thanks for asking.”

She didn’t reply, just nodded, fiddling with the strap of her purse, before crossing over to the door. She cracked the door open just enough to get through, not letting in any stray sunbeam.

The tightening in his chest didn’t ease for a very long time.

------

Buffy managed to stay away all day. She kept busy because somehow, miraculously, Spike had found a somewhat urban area to stop in. Chatting with Dawn on her cell, she’d wandered from store to store. She even got a chance to kill a demon. A daytime demon. She had no idea what it was, but it sure did spray a lot when she slammed the sign post into its gut. Dry purple ichor had formed a crust on her thighs a while ago. She caught the butcher looking at it, but he didn’t say anything, and he didn’t even blink at her request. This place must have a decent amount of demon shenanigans. She wondered who the good guys here were. Or if there were any good guys at all. She shoved it out of her mind and made her way back to the hotel, bag in hand. She paused at the door, peering at the setting sun. She’d timed it well. It was almost dark enough to hit the road again, just the beginnings of dusk.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside and found him sitting up in bed, legs stretched out, TV remote in one hand, randomly flipping through channels. She blinked, and realized she’d half expected him to be gone. He wasn’t really one to listen to the sun’s orders to stay put.

His eyes flickered to her and then back to the TV. “Slayer,” he said, with a nod. In nothing but his black jeans, he looked like he hadn’t moved from the bed all day. But wet towels were on the floor and his hair was a mess of damp blonde curls. If nothing else, he’d showered today. Suddenly he twitched, and he turned back to her, attention undivided this time. His eyes zeroed in on the bag in her hand. “You brought me blood, Slayer?” He blinked at her. “I have some in the car, you know. S’what we brought that nice blue cooler along for.”

She shifted. “I figured we should get it when available, and save whatever you brought for back-up. You never know.”

He just stared at her, an indefinable expression on his face. “Yeah…” he said, voice quiet. “You never know.”

“You want it or not?” she snapped irritably, his stare getting to her.

He seemed to shake himself, then waved a hand, beckoning her over. “Let’s have it then.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to argue, but instead she found herself bringing it over and perching on the side of the bed. He plucked the brown paper bag from her hands and peeked inside. “This is going to taste foul cold. Always does,” he said as he took out the first container.

“Well, if you don’t want it – ” Buffy reached out to snatch it back, but he quickly held it out of reach.

“Was just talkin’, don’t get all wound up over it. I’m right touched by your sentiment,” he teased. She said nothing, making a face as he unscrewed the lid and twirled around the thick, scarlet contents. His face shifted and he downed a heavy swig, before his eyes flickered back to her. “You smell like T’renqua,” he said, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What did you call just me?” She glared.

He ignored her hostility. “Said you smell like T’renqua.” His eyes swept over her, finding and lingering on the stains on her thigh. “Get in a fight?”

“Oh,” she said, fingers absentmindedly scratching at the purple crust. “Yeah, I killed something today.”

He grunted into his cup. “That’s my Slayer. Always making friends.”

“I’m not your Slayer, Spike. I’m not your anything.”

“Course not. You’ve made that perfectly clear.” He put the plastic container on the nightstand and rolled off the bed. Grabbing his shirt and jacket, he headed towards the door.

“Where are you going?” She stared at his back, suddenly feeling slightly panicky.

“Just a smoke is all,” he said as he pulled open the door. “Better wash that stuff off. I won’t be smelling it the whole way.”

“I was going to,” she snapped, but he was already gone. Buffy stared at the door, dismayed. She hadn’t tried to start an argument. It just always seemed to happen. Her eyes landed on the only half empty container of blood. He’d been so eager to get away from her that he hadn’t even finished it. She frowned, and glared at the plastic container. She was not going to spend another night of driving with tensions so thick she was pretty sure she could stake it. Ignoring her cast off flip-flops, she grabbed the container and stepped outside onto the concrete walkway.

Spike was just a figure in the shadows a little ways off, leaning against a pillar, watching the highway. A slight flare of red lit up every time he pulled on his cigarette. She started towards him and when her toe scraped on a pebble, sending it skittering, she realized the picture she made. Barefoot, streaked in purple stuff, and holding a half empty container of pig blood. So this was her life. She couldn’t help the very small laugh that bubbled up.

Spike’s head jerked up sharply at the sound, his entire body tensing. As soon as his eyes landed on her he relaxed, leaning back into that lazy lounge against the pillar. He peered at her unwaveringly as she made her way over. She stopped with just a foot between them and held up the cup. “I brought this for you,” she said quietly. He stared at her. Her face tilted up to catch the last of the sunset’s ray, a slight turn in the corner of her mouth as the only indicator of the girlish giggle he had heard.

He nodded and took the cup. “So you did, pet.”

“Do you think we’ll get far tonight?” she asked, more to fill the silence than anything else.

“Depends on how many times we have to stop for slushies and Happy Meals.”

She shot him a glare and then looked out over the highway that waited for them. “I didn’t make us stop at all last night.”

“Maybe tonight is different.”

His voice was oddly thick and she quickly turned back to find him looking at her barefeet. Glancing down self-consciously, all she saw were her tiny feet with pink toenails. She looked back up and Spike’s gaze suddenly jerked off to the side, looking for all the world like a kid who’d just got caught with his hands in the cookie jar.

He cleared his throat and gestured vaguely toward the motel room. “C’mon. Night’s a-wasting. Let’s get the stuff and hit the road.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she retorted half-heartedly, but she turned around and headed back to the room just the same.

He followed her and wondered. Wondered what an onlooker might think to see the two of them together. Such a mismatched pair. He took one last drag and then flicked the cigarette away. Maybe the Slayer was right. Maybe they were too different.

Buffy headed straight towards the bathroom, disappearing through its entryway. The sound of rushing water quickly followed.

Spike threw his open duffle bag onto the middle of the bed, and began poking and searching around the room. Maybe she was right and he should just let her be. Settle into being just the back-up muscle for her when she needed it. Or just move onto the next city. Start over again. He swiped the complimentary matches off the top of the cheap desk and into his duster pocket. No sense in wasting the fuel in his lighter. But starting over would be hard this time. No Dru to keep him company. He took the back off the remote control and peered at the batteries. Irregular; probably wouldn’t fit into a damn thing back at the crypt. Next, he pried open the alarm clock. Snatching the double As, he tossed them into the duffle bag and proceeded to ransack the drawers.

Spike stopped and glanced around. Standing in the middle of the room, he scrubbed a hand over his face. Maybe he should leave. Cross the border into Mexico. As soon as this Glory bint was sent packing.

He didn’t hear the water stop. But then Buffy came out, drying her hands on one of the rough motel cheap towels. His eyes instantly zeroed in on her thighs, scrubbed clean and pink. And he remembered when she came to him, dressed like the bot, and had given him the softest, the pinkest of kisses. He looked at her and knew that he wouldn’t leave until death finally took him. If he ever tried, he would just wind up coming back.

She started picking up the random pieces of clothing and girly stuff scattered about. “Don’t you need to pack?”

He shook his head. “Nah. I’m good.”

She looked up just long enough to shoot a doubtful look at him before turning back to her suitcase. It was the blue, nice one. The one her mother would use when they went on trips. The thought made her suddenly desperate and she grasped for a distraction, anything. “Aren’t you going to take the towels? You seem like the kind of guy to steal the towels. And buy ‘guy’ I mean ‘evil undead‘, that which I slay.”

He scoffed and quickly zipped up the duffle bag, thankful she hadn’t seen him grab the batteries. “Please. I may be evil, but I have standards you know. Those things feel like sandpaper.”

“Aww…does the poor vampire have to maintain his delicate, baby soft skin?”

He glanced up to find her smiling to herself as she sorted out her kit. “Tell you what, pet. Why don’t you come over here and find out for yourself.”

Her head jerked up and the leer on his face made her cheeks burn.

Before she could say anything he spoke again. “Or couldn’t you tell this morning?”

She sputtered. She was completely certain her face was as red as a fire engine. “You’re a pig, Spike.” And she turned all her focus onto smushing everything down. He wasn’t worth one of her snappy quips.

“So you keep saying.”

Cool breath rushed past her ear, and she froze, going completely still. How had he moved so fast? So fast and so quietly, she’d had no warning. Of course she could feel it now. Awareness was like a solid wall of electricity at her back. She shifted her weight, and sure enough brushed against the edges of his coat. Carefully, she straightened, then tilted her head just slightly towards him. “Because it’s true.” She wanted her voice to come out steady and even. Firm. But it wasn’t. It was much smaller than that. “Now, are you done? Can we hit the road and do what we’re out here to do?”

And just like that, he was gone, halfway to the door already. “Ready when you are.”

She zipped up the suitcase and the noise sounded definitive, like the end to a long conversation.

This time there’s no silence. This time, within the first fifteen minutes, they bicker.

“No, seriously, I want to drive.”

“Yeah, and the answer hasn’t changed. No chance in hell, Slayer.”

“Why are you being like this? I’m not going to wreck your car. Even if I did, it’s already scrap metal on wheels! It would only be… more… scrappy.” Buffy trailed off, frowning slightly.

Spike looked at her, disbelief clearly etched across his face. “I remain deeply skeptic of any skills of yours that don’t involve the slaying of the undead. Get off the subject, you’re not driving.”

“But – ”

“No.”

There was a long, sulky silence, and he glanced over at her. “Christ Slayer, are you sitting there pouting? Now I know where the kid sis gets it from. Speaking of, did you call her? I don’t need her telling your Watcher that you didn’t call and have him drive out here to kill me.”

She huffed angrily. “Of course I did. And I’m not pouting, I’m silently fuming. There’s an entire leap in maturity there.”

“Whatever you say. You’re still not driving.” The silence stretched out again, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “‘Sides, we’ll be there by daybreak.”

Buffy blinked. She’d thought it would take longer. Turning to look out the window, she saw only shapes in the darkness flying by. She swallowed and found her tongue. “Good. I have to get back to Dawn, to Sunnydale.”

“You’ll be there soon enough. Try to enjoy the time away.”

The long handle of the passenger door creaked under her hand. It struck him, as she slowly turned to look at him, that that had been the wrong thing to say. “Enjoy?” Her voice was the embodiment of silent fury. “You want me to enjoy ‘the time away’? This isn’t a vacation, Spike!” And suddenly the fury was not so silent. “This is not relaxing, play time!”

“I didn’t mean – ”

“My mother is dead. My boyfriend left me for being too closed off, while he was off, finding more satisfaction out of getting suckjobs from vampires.”

“Buffy, I – ”

“My sister isn’t real, but she’s real enough to die and tear the whole world apart if I don’t kill a god to stop it from happening.” She laughed, short and jagged. “A god. They expect someone made to kill a vampire to kill a god.” There was a pause, and Spike, torn between trying to keep his eyes on the road and his eyes on Buffy, thought he caught her wiping her cheek. “I can’t relax. I don’t get that option.”

A chill ran down his spine. Not for her problems, he knew them already. Not for the burden, he knew that bit, too. But for the sound in her voice. The sound and look and movement that he’d come across twice before. Resignation. “The hell with that,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” she asked, voice small.

Ignoring the question, he abruptly put on the brakes and began pulling over to the shoulder of the interstate, gravel crunching under the tires.

“Why are we slowing down?” There was a dangerous edge to her voice this time, like she knew the answer and really didn’t like it. He didn’t answer, just continued to bring the car to a halt. “Spike…”

He shifted into park roughly and twisted in his seat to face her. In the moonlight he could see her eyes, tired and puffy. Her lips were pressed into a thin line as she sat, arms crossed, resolutely facing forward, not looking at him. He kept his hands clamped on the steering wheel, afraid that if he didn’t, he’d reach out to touch her and she definitely did not look receptive to that. “Buffy, pet…” he started, hesitantly. He felt as awkward as he had that night he found her on the back porch with her hundred yard stare.

“Don’t call me that.”

His jaw tightened. “Now, look. I know things are right hard at the moment. Like everything’s hittin’ all at once. But you’re made of tough stuff.” He vaguely thought back to the days when he’d still been trying to kill her. “Really tough stuff. You’ll get through this, and things’ll ease off a bit.”

“Yeah,” she chirped. “And then all the crap will start all over again. Like it always does.” She paused and the lines in her body softened. “It doesn’t stop.”

He shook his head with frustration. He was a sodding vampire. How the hell was he supposed to know what to say to a Slayer? Much less a twenty-year-old human girl? “Maybe it doesn’t. But it’s not like you’re alone in this. You got your bloody Scoobies. Got your Watcher.” She snorted. “Got the kid sis.”

Now she did turn, eyes blazing. “You mean the little sister that’s not actually real?”

He couldn’t help the growl he let loose. “She’s real enough, ain’t she? Fucking feels real enough when she cries, and when you hold her,” he demanded. “That blood pumping through her veins is real enough. Can bloody well tell you that. And it’s yours. Yours and your Mums.” He slowed, and she could see the earnestness written all over his body, the smallest bit of desperation leaking into view. “We all started out in this world a hell of a lot differently than we are now, and this is what counts. Here. Now. This is what counts, this is who we are. Right now, Dawn’s probably all tucked up in her beddy-bye, waiting for you to come home. And those dreams she’s having of some prancing nancy boy from school are real, too.”

The rush of words stopped pouring out, and the second they did he became very aware that those big hazel eyes had locked onto him and weren’t moving. He glanced down, tongue suddenly thick. “And for what it’s worth… you got me, too.” Dead silence greeted him and he rushed on. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth.”

“Spike – ”

“No, I know I screw up sometimes. But I’m trying. I really am. Glory – did right there, didn’t I? Didn’t let you down.”

“Spike.” Her voice a little more forceful this time. But he couldn’t stop, if he stopped he may not ever get another chance.

His eyes were fixed firmly on the dashboard. Every mark and scrape from years of abuse were all he could focus on. Couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t look up and see that horrified expression she got when he first told her. “I know the thing with Dru, and the bot were dumb. I know that. I’m a right sod, sometimes, but I could be good to you if you gave me the chance.” He couldn’t stand it any longer. He tore his eyes from the dash, and blue met hazel. Her eyes were huge and wet, her cheeks flushed. His hand darted out seemingly on its own accord, and he smoothed a crease in her brow with the sweep of his thumb. “I could be good to you,” he whispered.

He expected a lot of things. Anger. Horror. A good sock in the jaw. He did not expect her to crumble into tears.

Shame gripped him. Red and hot, it left him defenseless in a way he hadn’t felt since Cecily. Since Buffy repeated those words that high-class bitch had said so long ago. It was like a knife to the gut and his hands shook as he hurriedly smoothed back her hair and wiped at her tears. “Hush, hush, it’s not so bad, really. Don’t cry, please don’t cry. I know it’s not what you deserve, but – ”

She shook her head and looked up to meet his eyes. “It’s not – I can’t – ” She choked down a sob and struggled to catch her breath. “I can’t give you what you want. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

He looked at her in confusion, some of the debilitating shame starting to loosen its hold. “Pet, I’m not asking for anything.”

She dismissed her words with another fervent shake. “I can’t give you anything. Can’t give anything to anyone. There’s nothing left.”

He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

It was what she had tried to tell Giles. The words went grudgingly, each one like prying a clam from its shell. “I am dead inside.” And it was heartbreaking; the concern on his face. Because he did care. He proved that with Glory. Proved it a thousand times over. And it didn’t matter if she was attracted to him or not. It didn’t matter if there was the possibility that maybe, maybe he could be good. Because she had nothing left to give. “I am dead. Do you understand that? I don’t have anything left to give. That’s why Riley – ” she swallowed hard, “that’s why Riley left. This work? Saving the world day after day? It’s taken all I have. It’s taken everything that was soft, everything that was good and, and girly. Everything that was Buffy Summers, it’s taken away.” Her throat hurt. She was tired of crying. It was all she did these days it seemed like.

Calloused and cool hands cupped either side of her jaw, tilting her face up until he was peering into her. “Who filled you with such ideas? Why would you – ”

She tried to jerk away but he held fast. “It’s true. Even the crazy, tribal Slayer told me. The first one.”

“The first - ”

“I went out into the desert and Giles did a chant with his gourds. And I talked to her.”

“You talked to her?” His voice was firm now, all desperation and insecurity gone.

“I asked her. About why I feel this way. And you know what she said?”

He shook his head wordlessly.

“That death was my gift. Death, Spike.” Spike just looked at her, his expression unchanging, clearly not seeing the significance. “That’s the cosmic joke.” She gestured futilely with one hand at the dark world outside the Desoto, bitterness tingeing her voice. “The thing they don’t tell you in the Slayer handbook. That if you live through it all, soon enough it’ll be all that’s left of you. Pure Slayer.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This is what the Slayer was frettin’ about? This? Her sobs had quieted as she spoke, but the tears were still slipping like raindrops through her lashes. “Buffy, love, you’ve got this all backwards.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, she started backing up, retreating. At some point they had ended up in the middle of the bench seat, thigh pressed to thigh, arms and torsos invading one another’s space. He caught her by the arms, just below her shoulders, not letting her go. “No, no. You listen to me. There is nothing wrong with you. Not a thing in this world.”

Impulses slipped through her like leaves in a stream. She should cut him off and break his hold. Push him away and demand that he start driving again. But she didn’t. Didn’t want to – not while he was looking at her like that. Those blue eyes wide and earnest, pale hair and pale skin gleaming in what little light there was. He was so close; it was like being tangled up in that warm hotel bed all over again. In that bed where it’d been just the two of them, the heavy drape shielding both of them from the outside world, letting them both just be Spike and Buffy. Just two people. He was a golden net and she was caught, well and truly snared, no matter how she tried to fight it.

One hand moved from her arm to the center-left of her chest, fingers splayed. Her hackles rose up out of sheer habit, but he cut her off quick, insisting, “Nothing.” The pressure of his hand over her heart seemed to force it directly to the surface. Its hard, rushing beat sprung up in her throat even as he continued, words forceful. “The reason you feel like this, Slayer, is because you love so much. Because you care.”

She started to scoff, but he held her, unflinching. “Listen.” His hand pressed harder. “All this… emptiness you’re feeling? It’s because you’re shell-shocked, you care so much. Because yeah, everything’s hitting all at once. If you didn’t feel a little numb at it all, there’d be something wrong.”

She didn’t think she believed him. But it sounded very nice. She sniffed, rubbing the heel of her hand across her wet cheeks. “And the Slayer?” she asked quietly.

Spike finally moved his hand, if only to smooth back the wayward strands of her ponytail. “You save the bloody world, pet. Gotta kill evil things to do it. Don’t think she meant any more than that.”

Buffy fiddled with the zipper of her jacket, not meeting his eyes. “Maybe,” she conceded softly. She couldn’t help the nagging feeling it had meant more than that, but now she just wanted this conversation to be over. She was just so tired. So damn tired of all of it. A fresh burst of tears started to spill out, and she laughed, slightly manic. “I can’t – ” a sob caught her voice and it began to warble, “ – stop crying.”

He looked at her, this woman capable of so much, so utterly torn down, and he couldn’t help himself. With hands cupping either side of her face, he tilted her chin upwards and kissed her. It was the softest, most brief of kisses, but it made his entire body quiver. From spine, to fingertips, to calves, he shook. Before she could respond, his lips moved to her cheek, and then to one closed eye, and then to the other. When he stopped, his mouth was a hair’s breadth away from hers. Her eyes remained shut, and she wasn’t pushing him away, so he let his brow fall to hers. “You’re so fierce. Whether it’s with your heart or in the fight. And I don’t know how to make you see that.”

The tremble that had started with the kiss was now in his voice, and he knew he sounded like a desperate sap. Had been sounding like one ever since he’d stopped the car. But he couldn’t help it, and he didn’t care. Not when she was so close, the smell of her skin and the rush of her pulse driving him insane. Not when every small gasp for air from her crying and his kisses that fell from her mouth stoked the fire of something hot and consuming building up inside him.

Some tiny, faraway voice told him he should stop, stop before she turned him to dust. And she would, some day, one way or another. There was no doubt about that.

But then she shot forward, mouth crashing into his, and the hunger in her kiss and in her hands, those tiny, impossibly strong hands that had an iron grip on the lapel of his leather and the curve of his neck, raced like wildfire. It spread, ravenous and compelling until there was no thought left except for a single, unyielding demand: More.

More and more, and somehow she was straddling his lap, all pressure and heat against his aching cock. He couldn’t help but thrust up into her and the needy gasp that fell out of her mouth, and the hands that automatically clenched in their grip on the back of his neck almost made his fangs drop.

She tore her mouth away, gasping for air, and he immediately began planting nibbling little kisses along her jaw and down the smooth column of her throat. One hand cupped her ass, pressing her against him as he ground up into her, while the other worked the elastic from her ponytail, letting all that blonde hair tumble free. He bit down lightly into the side of her neck and the way she rocked into him had him seeing stars. “Buffy,” he husked against her skin, and then she was rocking, rocking against him in a rhythm that matched his increasingly needy thrusts. “So fucking hot,” he rasped, as a strangled mewing sound escaped from her. Spike laved one long lick across her throat as his hand worked its way up her shirt. Cupping one breast, he flicked his thumb over the hardened nipple poking against her bra.

When the surprised ‘oh’ fell from her lips, he grit his teeth in concentration. If they kept this up much longer he would be coming in his pants and that was definitely not how he intended for this particular scene to end. Opening his eyes, he looked up at her. This beautiful goddess he’d somehow landed in his lap. Her entire face was flush, her lips swollen from his kisses. With a small growl, he surged up, capturing her mouth while simultaneously rolling her down onto the seat. Settling over her, he continued to kiss her, tongue twining with hers as his hands swept from the swell of her breasts to the curve of her hips. She tugged at his jeans, fingers frantically undoing his belt before moving to the button and zipper. “Spike,” she whispered, and then her hot hand wrapped around his cock and all thought evaporated from his mind. “Need… I need…”

“Know what you need, kitten.” He thrust into her hand before concentrating on unfastening her shorts. He sat up, hooking his hand under one of her knees, and moved her legs to the side to work the shorts down her legs. She shifted awkwardly against the seat, anxious and desperate for more contact, and her calf banged against the steering wheel. The horn sounded in a jarring blast like a foghorn blaring, jerking both of them abruptly back into the present.

Buffy let go of him roughly, and he couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped him. She frantically backpedalled until she hit the passenger door. He watched her warily, his breath coming just as harsh as hers, he could hear her heart pounding like a war drum. Her eyes darted around wildly as if she’d just woken up in an unfamiliar place, and he closed his eyes against the look of disorientation and panic on her face.

Pushing off the seat, he shifted around until both feet were back on the floorboard. Painstakingly, he tucked himself back in his jeans, wincing slightly as he pulled the zipper back up. The rapid pounding of her heart hadn’t eased at all and he sighed without looking at her. He ran a hand through his mussed hair. “Buffy - ” he began, just as the click of the door sounded. He swiveled to see her disappearing out the door, not even pausing to shut it behind her.

A shot of anger surged through him. “Oh no you don’t,” he growled and shoved the driver’s side door open. He peered around through the darkness, going into game face just long enough to see her headed back along the way they’d came, arms wrapped around herself. “Slayer!” he yelled around his fangs before shaking them off. He took off after her, jogging to catch up. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” No response. “Buffy!”

“Stay away from me, Spike!” She yelled, not slowing or turning around.

“Not a sodding chance,” he retorted as he caught up with her, slowing down to match her stride. “You gonna walk all the way to Elk City, is that it?”

She turned on him. “I told you to stay away from me,” she snapped, every line in her body screaming with barely controlled energy. “Why can’t you get that through your thick head?” Her fists curled at her side.

“What are you gonna do, love? Hit me?” he taunted her. “Go ahead. Things don’t go right, things get a little messy, just start wailin’ on those that can’t hit back. Ain’t a thing wrong with that.”

“You’re not helpless, Spike. You’re a demon. An evil, soulless demon,” she spit.

He let out a frustrated growl, jaw clenched. “I’ve changed.”

“Oh, that’s right. Because you ‘love me now.’”

“Don’t you say it like that, Slayer. Like it’s just some bit of trash to be kicked to the side.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I’ve changed. That little round of torture I did with Glory? Didn’t do it on a lark, Summers. Did it for you. Did it for Dawn.”

“You don’t have a soul. You can’t – ”

“No, I don’t. I’m not Peaches. And unlike him, I don’t need one. Aren’t I here? Aren’t I helping you out?”

“Yeah, you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Well I’m sure as hell not doing this for your sun shining personality,” he snapped. They both stood there, in the gravel by the side of the highway. The only light for miles around were the headlights of the Desoto. Winged bugs darted in and out of the beams. Both of them were seething with barely reined energy, so much more used to just fighting things out with fists and brawn.

“Then why are you out here?”

He blinked at her changed in tone. Still angry, but subdued and deflated. He spoke, suddenly quiet himself, “Because I love you and want to help.” He paused and looked away from her, out at the black prairie. “And I don’t particularly want to see the Nibblet be bled by that hellbint.”

He looked back up at her. One half of her face illuminated by the headlights, the other cast in shadow, her long hair tousled and tangled. The anger was gone now. Somewhere along the line he’d said something right for once.

Impulsively, he grabbed her shoulders and brushed a kiss across her brow. Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode back towards the car. “C’mon, Slayer. If we’re gonna reach that place before daybreak, we’d best get going.”

The few seconds it took before he heard the slap of her flip-flops behind him seemed more like a year. But every step she took brought things back, a little closer to center.

The sudden stop of the car jerked her awake. Buffy blinked groggily. Her neck hurt. Stupid car. It took a moment to realize they had stopped. “Wha… Spike?” she called, voice thick with sleep.

“Shh. Just fillin’ up the tank, pet.” She forced her eyes open, immediately regretting it as the bright lights of the gas station glared forcefully. “Need anything while we’ve stopped? Won’t be stopping again for several hours yet.”

She grumbled incoherently and shoved the door open. Her bladder was about to explode. She was going to have to brave the restrooms. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she heard Spike mutter behind her. She didn’t stop, just trudged towards the building, slightly blind and slightly crooked

“Slayer-like awakeness can kick in any time now,” she grumbled to herself.

She spotted a door on the side of the building and changed course. She hated the outdoor bathrooms. They always seemed twice as gross as the inside ones. Yanking open the door, she grimaced at the odor that rose to greet her. The tiny room was only half-lit and she studiously ignored any and all suspicious discolorations and stickiness underfoot.

With as minimal physical contact with various surfaces as possible, she relieved herself and then washed her hands, splashing a little water on her face while she was at it. Feeling only slightly more awake, her thoughts shifted to the sugary sweet and caffeinated variety.

She felt the familiar twinge in her back just as her hand fell to the doorknob. The door shoved wide open before she could brace herself, slamming her back, into the wall. Her head bounced off the tiling with a force that had her seeing stars. A snarling laugh sounded on the other side of the door, and though she still couldn’t see it, her spidey senses were screaming ‘Vamp!’

She grit her teeth against the fuzziness clogging up her head and braced both palms flat against the door. “Big mistake,” she ground out. With a fierce shove, she slammed the door back the other direction, and a figure lost their balance and tumbled into the bathroom as the door shut with a definitive bang.

Buffy stood with hands on hips and eyebrows raised expectantly as the vampire – ridges and fangs firmly in place – righted himself, regaining his balance. “Now what exactly was your grand plan here? Did you think you were going to eat me in this bathroom? Because hello, kind of gross and kind of smelly.”

The vamp blinked at her, clearly wondering how things were suddenly very different from how he’d envisioned. Why she wasn’t cowering and helpless from the scary monster. “Plus? This is the little Slayer’s room,” she quipped, rapping her knuckles against the door. “No boys allowed.”

“Li-little… Slayer? You’re the Slayer?” The vampire’s voice trembled slightly.

“Yup.” The word popped off her lips. Not much with the survival instinct, this one. “And you are – ” Her hand groped blindly at the small of her back. No stake. She wasn’t carrying her stake. “… dust?” she trailed off weakly.

The vamp didn’t hesitate a second. He lunged for her, fangs bared and dripping. She ducked, hooked her shoulder underneath him and sent him flipping over her back. Normally, it would have sent him sailing, but in the tiny room he was slammed into the wall, crumbling in heap.

Buffy’s eyes raced over the contents of the bathroom. Not a single piece of wood. Not even a splinter. Okay. This was okay. No need to panic. She was just going to have to do this the hard way. A sharp kick to the back of her knee had her stumbling forward. Seizing the moment, the vamp tackled her from behind, sending them both crashing to the floor, one of her flip-flops suddenly flying solo. Face mashed into the dirty floor, she bucked upwards, trying to dislodge him. He snarled, pressing down with his full body weight and preternatural strength. He grabbed her by her ponytail, yanking her head to the side to bare her throat. One less hand holding her down was all it took to get loose – her arm shot out and she snapped her fist back, slamming square into his face. It unbalanced him just enough for her to roll away.

They both leapt to their feet, ready, waiting for the other to make a move. The man growled in irritation, gold eyes glittering meanly. Slowly, he reached behind himself to the door.

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up that easy,” Buffy said, her voice sounding much more confident than she felt.

His fingers found the door lock and turned, sliding the bar home with a small click.

“Oh.” A twinge of doubt ran through her as he smiled. This could be bad.




Spike leaned against the car with a sigh, gaze wandering. He didn’t know what to make of the Slayer. Whether he’d made things better. Whether he’d made things worse. The one thing he did know was that he had kissed her and she hadn’t staked or maimed him. Granted, it was only on the forehead, but still, he’d kissed her.

He squinted against the fluorescent lights in the direction she’d wandered off in. She’d been in there for a while now. Much longer and he was going to have to drag her out by that pretty blonde –

Someone screamed. It was quiet, obstructed. If he wasn’t a vampire he probably wouldn’t have heard it. If he wasn’t a vampire he wouldn’t have known it was Buffy. He launched off the car, running towards the bathrooms.




Buffy screamed as the fangs tore through her bicep. She could feel the muscles and sinews tearing apart. Apparently this vamp was just as happy sinking his teeth in her arm as her throat. She tore free, slamming her elbow into his nose in the process. He howled, stumbling back and clutching his broken nose. His neck and shirt were drenched scarlet in blood. Blood that belonged to both of them.

He opened his mouth to yell, fury in his eyes, and she snapped a kick, hitting squarely over his broken bones. He shrieked again and charged blindly, arms flailing. The bulk of his weight hit her like a Mack truck, crushing her up against the stall wall. She forced her still good arm between them, grabbing onto his throat, only just able to keep his jaws from closing over her own throat. He roared, the sound deafening in her ears. She flinched as flecks of spittle and blood sprayed across her face, hitting her lips and eyes. He was raving. Crazy off rage and pain and the little taste of Slayer blood he’d gotten.

Buffy could feel her own heart jackrabbiting as he held her pinned to the stall. One arm was almost completely out of commission. The other was at full exertion just trying to keep him at bay, and her body was rapidly tired.

And she still had to take his damn head off.

Her jaw clenched. Fine. Her fingers tightened infinitesimally around his blood slicked neck.




Spike slammed against the door. “Buffy!” he yelled. He rammed his shoulder against it again. The door buckled but the deadbolt was still intact. “You better unlock this door, Slayer!” he snarled, as he reared back to hit it again. He could hear her slamming around in there, her heart going so fast it was a wonder it hadn’t burst. And he could hear whatever it was in there with her, raging and shrieking. “You die in there cause of a fucking gas station lock – ” he hit the door again and he could feel the lock start to give way, “ – I’m gonna bring you back just so I can wring your neck myself!”

Through the door he could hear Buffy’s strangled gasp of pain, and then the beast screamed again, drowning out her heartbeat. Panic washed like ice through his veins, and he slammed into the door with new desperation. With a snap of metal the lock finally gave and he stumbled inside, ready to rend something or someone into tiny bloody pieces.

Instead, all he found was her. Her, kneeling in a pile of dust, one arm cradled protectively against her chest, blood seeping out in a steady trickle. She looked horrible, like she always did after a particularly down and dirty fight. Her hair was a rat’s nest, she was covered in blood from her arm and from the vamp. One cheek was starting to look puffy from what must have been a particularly hard hit. Her legs were smeared with a mixture of vamp dust and blood. She was filthy and exhausted from the fight. She looked amazing.

He made an abrupt move, intending to hold her, or touch her, or just do something to know that she was really okay, but then she finally looked up at him and it stopped him in his tracks. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, unable to keep still, needing movement of some sort. “You okay there, pet?”

She hadn’t said a word. Just sat there looking at him with those too large eyes of hers. “I – ” she started, then faltered. “I really needed that.”

One eyebrow went up and he couldn’t stop small, nervous chuckle of relief that escaped him. He quickly pushed it away and bent to help her up, careful of her injured arm. “No, what you need is a bath, and a look at that arm.”

Buffy caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and grimaced. “You aren’t wrong.” She yanked several paper towels from the dispenser and turned on one of the water taps. Spike slumped against the wall, taking in the scene as she started scrubbing at her face. The tank top was clearly a lost cause.

“He took quite the chunk out of you, Slayer,” he said as casually as he could manage. Inside, he was a tumult of rage and fear and possessiveness at the bite on her arm and the swelling in her cheek. “You don’t usually let them get that close.”

She didn’t look up. “I didn’t have a stake.”

He watched her face through the reflection of the mirror as she ran her arm under the faucet, a scowl on her face. “So… you took the ugly sod’s head off?” He blinked. “With that arm?”

“Yep,” the word popped out of her mouth.

He looked at the arm again. She was treating it with kid gloves. The wound became clearer as the blood washed away. It was far from a clean bite. It was jagged and torn, like that vamp had sunk his teeth in and pulled.

Spike tried to imagine having to take someone’s head off with that arm. Torn muscles pulling from the bone. It took quite a bit of effort to decapitate something with your bare hands using two good arms.

He watched as she frowned at the bite. Blood continued to steadily seep from the gaping wound. “Think gas stations sell bandages?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

He shrugged. “Doubt it, pet. Nothing bigger than a Band-Aid, anyway.” Pushing off the wall, he grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and started pulling it off.

Buffy blinked at him and forcefully dragged her eyes from the flat plane of his stomach as he pulled the shirt overhead. “What are you doing?”

He shot her a dirty look. “Figured it was a good time to sully your virtue,” he snarked as he started to rip the shirt into long black strips. “What do you think I’m doing? Got to wrap that thing up.” He nodded at the arm she still clutched to her chest. “Super healing or no, that’s a bitch of a bite.”

She looked at the strips of fabric and conceded. “And it’s not like you don’t already have twenty of those shirts,” she said, proffering her injured arm.

“Ha bloody ha,” he grumbled half-heartedly, as he took one of the strips and hung the rest on the sink. He grasped her wrist and twisted the arm up with a gentleness that surprised her. Slowly he began wrapping the wound. She glanced up at him through her lashes. His brow was furrowed and his blue eyes were intent, face a study of focus. Her eyes fell to the sweep of his neck and the dip of his collarbone before travelling down his naked chest. He was so very close. Suddenly the bathroom grew extremely hot. Her cheeks felt flushed.

As if sensing the shift, he suddenly looked up, clear eyes meeting hers. They held for a moment, both of them caught, before he blinked. Looking down, he cleared his throat before looking back up. “Probably going to bleed through this real quick, but it should put a stop to things.”

With that, he let go of her arm and took a deliberate step back. The new space between them was like a rush of cold air. She could breathe again, the heat wave dissipating.

He slid a hand through his hair again, letting curls loose. “We need to hit the road if we’re going to get there before sunup. D’you want anything from the store?”

She nodded slowly. “Soda. And chips or something.”

He fished a beat-up, black leather wallet from the back of his jeans. Pulling out a twenty that looked like it’d been crumpled up in a really grimy pocket for the last ten years, he handed it to her. Buffy took it without a blink. Like Spike giving her spending money was the most natural thing in the world.

With a swipe of his hand he snagged the rest of his ripped up shirt and, tossing it in the trash, started for the door. “Try not to blow it all on sugar, Slayer. Some of us have to put up with you after all,” he said with a grin before stepping outside.

Back in familiar territory, she glared at his back as he headed to the car. The cool night air hit her overheated skin like a dream as she watched the vampire. His pale torso gleamed under the white lights against the backdrop of the night. Walking into the shop and catching the clerk’s eye, it suddenly occurred to her what the two of them must look like – coming out of the bathroom together, him shirtless, her disheveled. But they were out in the middle of nowhere and there was no one around to scandalize but the cashier.

Dumping a handful of cereal bars and a bottle of brambleberry tea on the counter, she looked up at the cashier. He was staring at the blood drenching her shirt and the near sodden black fabric wrapped around her arm. She gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, I just spilled some Kool-Aid in the car. That’s all.”

The gawky clerk looked up from her shirt. Judging by his expression, he wasn’t buying it. “That doesn’t look like Kool-Aid. That looks like major blood loss, lady.”

Okay. Definitely not buying it. “Yeah… it’s just a… medical… problem I have. Look, could you just ring me up?”

He took his time in responding, giving her another careful once over before he said, “Sure.”

As soon as she paid, she booked it out of there. Flip-flops slapping against the asphalt, she could feel the attendant’s eyes on her, following her every move under the fluorescent lighting.

Upon reaching the DeSoto, she jerked the door open, slid in, and shut it again in record time. She whirled around to face Spike, who was watching her with a small frown. “We have to leave.” He didn’t move. “Quickly, Spike! Like now.”

He arched an eyebrow in question but began to start up the car. “What’d you do, pet, rob the place? Know I gave you some money.”

“I’m pretty sure the cashier guy thinks I killed someone.”

He blinked and his gaze fell to the crimson staining her shirt. He shrugged. “Fair enough. In a way, you did.” Smoothly, he shifted the DeSoto into gear and pulled out of the station.

As soon as they got back on the highway Buffy twisted around, stretching over the back of the bench seat to rifle through her suitcase. Spike peered at her, brow furrowed, as he tried to watch both the road and her, not at all put out by the lovely view of her bum and thighs. “What are you up to?” The click of her suitcase opening was the reply.

“Duh, changing shirts. Like you did.”

It was true. As much as he liked the idea of as little clothing as possible between the two of them, there was still a long trip ahead of them and he had fished out a new shirt as soon as he got back to the car. The meaning of her words suddenly pinged in his head, and images of a soft, golden Buffy in nothing but those tight khaki shorts and a pink colored bra began dancing through his brain.

“And you better not look,” she said firmly, turning back around with a new top in her hands.

Spike scoffed. “Please, what are you, five? Besides, I’m watching the road. I am driving here, Slayer.”

“Spike,” her voice snapped. He didn’t even have to look at her to know the glare she was givin’ him.

He sunk down in his seat. “Fine,” he mumbled, cross.

There was a beat of silence, doubtless she was still glaring, before a flurry of motion ensued. He barely had time to catch a flash of a long strip of flesh before the new top was firmly in place.

Several seconds of silence ticked by, and then –

“You looked.”

“What? I did not, I – ”

“You looked.”

“No, I merely saw in my peripheral vision – ”

“You looked.”

“Of course I bloody looked!”

And that’s how the next few hours went until she fell asleep. And until she awoke to the smell of burning flesh.




“What could have possibly been running through that thick skull of yours that made you think this was a good idea?”

“Thought I could make it,” he hissed, angry and in pain.

“You thought you could make it? Extra flammable beings aren’t supposed to race the sun, Spike.”

“Well I’m just so glad you’re here, screechin’ a reminder in my ear. I’d forgotten that whole burst into flames thing over the last hundred years,” he yelled, sarcasm dripping off his words.

“You clearly need something,” Buffy snapped back, eyes glaring daggers.

He glared back before turning and stomping toward the small motel bathroom, white cotton wrappings in hand. “Thought you’d be grateful. Should’ve known better when it comes to you,” he muttered darkly.

“Excuse me?” She stared at him in disbelief before fury washed over her anew, and she stormed after him. “Grateful? You thought I’d be grateful?”

He stood at the sink running cold water across the back of his hand and forearm where one long, angry burn was seared across. “And what exactly should I be grateful – ” She glanced into the mirror to better see his face and came up short. The only one in the mirror was her. Her, standing there, in a dingy motel bathroom, looking disheveled, angry, and bewildered. Buffy jerked her eyes away to find Spike peering at her out of the corner of his eyes.

“Should be grateful that I got us here, Elk bloody City, before the new day was here. Told you I would. Know you want to get back to Sunny D.” His voice was calm now, even as his fist was clenched.

And like a balloon, she deflated, all her bluster escaping in a rush. She looked away from those blue eyes and gently took his hand with both of hers. Slowly, she uncurled his fingers as the water rushed over them. “You vampire boys are all alike sometimes. Taking stupid risks and getting hurt when you don’t need to.”

His hand, his entire arm, stiffened in her grip. “I’m not Angel.” There was an odd edge to his voice, and when she looked up to meet his gaze, it sharpened into a precipice. A precipice you could walk along or just dive right over.

“I know,” she whispered.

She held his gaze another moment before turning her attention back to his hand and arm. “This is starting to blister. We should wrap it up.”

Spike stood still as stone, afraid to move, afraid to break whatever spell had gotten into her this time. He watched closely as she grabbed a towel and softly dried off his hand. He watched every move, drinking in the details greedily. The way her bare hands looked against his. The heat of her body as she stood so close. The smell of her skin after a down and dirty fight and long, long car ride.

He wanted to protest, say he didn’t need the bandages, but he didn’t want her to stop touching him. He didn’t want to discourage whatever odd sentiment had come over her. So he let her fuss over him. He watched ever so closely as she wound the white fabric round and round his hand and arm. Watched as her eyes drooped, and when she was finally satisfied that she had done all she could do for him, he watched as she trudged back into the main room and fell to the bed, asleep the instant her head hit the pillow.

Only then did he move, only then did he say a word. He took off her flip-flops, a steady stream of words pouring out of him, and he kicked off his boots, settling carefully in beside her. He stretched out, curled towards her, as close as he could without actually touching her. In seconds she managed to turn all his caution to naught, rolling over in her sleep to face him, letting their limbs tangle. And he lay beside her, low, rumbling words pressed right against her ear for a long, long time before sleep finally took him. “… was in a dream that I first knew, and I knew it was for good, for forever, forever like the sun, forever like the ocean …”

The first time he woke up, she was gone. Of course. He didn’t really expect otherwise, but one can hope. She was probably just off getting something to eat and calling the kid sis. He rolled over to a different cool spot. He couldn’t even keep the bed warm.

------

The second time he woke up, it wasn’t of his own volition.

“Wake up.”

There were hands on his shoulder, jostling him out of slumber. He automatically pushed them off, telling whoever it was to go away.

“Was that actual language? Sure didn’t sound like it.” The voice sharpened. “Wake up, Spike.”

His head started to clear. “Be a good Slayer and shut up will you?”

Silence. He almost opened his eyes, amazed that she would listen. That’s when a pillow thumped into his face with a cushy, yet rather firm thud. “If you don’t get up right now the next thing I hit you with won’t be made out of fluff, fang face.”

“Christ, woman. Give a bloke a second to wake up, will you?”

“Shouldn’t you be able to wake up instantly? You know as part of an evil, undead predator thing? What if someone was sneaking into your crypt while you slept?”

He turned his head away from her and groused into the pillow. “S’warm.” And it was. Now that the Oklahoma summer sun had been beating against the curtains all day, the entire room was warm.

Buffy blinked. “It’s warm? Natural survival instincts are crippled by a warm bed?” He didn’t answer and she glared at him. One long vampire shaped lump under the covers, with only the tip of his blonde head peaking out. “Just get up, Spike. I went out and found the place. Didn’t take long either, this town is smaller than Sunnydale.”

His head shot off the pillow. “You went there without me?” he yelled, voice rough from sleep. “Did it occur to you that we may not be the only ones after this golden bauble?”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Spike. All I did was look around. Of course I waited for you. Providing the backup muscle is why you’re here.”

“Right. Why else would I be here,” he muttered darkly.

Her jaw stiffened at his words as he tossed back the sheets to get up. “I didn’t mean it like – Gah! Naked! Spike put some clothes on!”

He scowled. He’d forgotten that at some point during the day, he’d tossed the offending articles off to the side. Jeans and the like were damn restrictive when trying to sleep. Still – she didn’t have to react like this. He shot her a dirty look as he headed to the bathroom, tugging at the bandage on his hands. “Didn’t mind my dangly bits so much last night,” he snapped, and pulled the bathroom door shut behind him with a slam.

Buffy stared at the closed door, cheeks burning, fists clenched. She most definitely hadn’t forgotten their little moment in the car last night. And she didn’t understand why things always had to be like this with him. So up and down and complicated. Her feet padded quietly across the carpet and to the door. She heard him beyond it, shuffling around, and was wildly curious as to what he was doing in there.

She tapped lightly on the door. “Spike?” she called softly through the door. He didn’t respond, but it was quiet suddenly. He’d stopped doing whatever it was he was doing. She took a breath. “I didn’t mean it like that, you know. Just that – ” she licked her lips, “that it hadn’t even occurred to me to go in without you. We came here together. We’re going to do this thing together.” She waited, and still he didn’t reply. “Spike?”

Suddenly, on the other side of the cheap, scuffed door, she heard him clear his throat. “Just going to have a shower, pet. Then we can go.” Without waiting for a reply, he started the water going.

Buffy stood there, staring at the door for another moment, before turning. She looked over the ugly hotel room, unseeing. She wasn’t certain if she had fixed things at all. But neither of them had yelled, and he’d called her that silly name, so things couldn’t be all bad. She crossed the room and peered out the heavy drapes at the setting sun. It was almost time.

It hadn’t taken very long to find the place, but she hadn’t risked checking it out further. She just had to hope that Giles’ contact was on the up and up.

Buffy sank into a chair by the window, eyeing the hotel parking lot through a crack in the drapes. Aside from the indistinct voices of the occasional passerby, the only noise to be heard was the water of the shower. The gauze around her arm itched uncomfortably and her mind wandered over last night’s events. Between her big sobfest, nearly getting horizontal with Spike, and nearly biting it in a dirty gas station bathroom, it had been a long, long night. In retrospect, facing the long lost Knights of Crazyville back in Sunnydale didn’t seem so bad.

The water suddenly turned off, and her thoughts immediately realigned to the vampire in the bathroom. Spike. She sighed inwardly. That was something she couldn’t ignore or push away any longer. Things were going to be different when they got back home. Different how, she wasn’t sure yet, but definitely different. There was no getting around it.

Spike emerged from the bathroom, white towel secured low around his waist, tousling his hair dry with a smaller hand towel. He tossed it towards a corner of the room, leaving his hair a damp riot of white. She watched him from her chair, noticing the way he eyed her warily through narrowed eyes.

He sized her up, taking in her jeans and tank top. The white bandage on her arm stood out against the bronze of her skin. He’d have to get her to cover that up before they made the grab. There was no telling which way this shindig might go.

“So, since you scoped it out, pet, what’s this place look like then?”

She bit the inside of her cheek in an effort not to come back with the first remark that popped into her head. “It’s the second floor of a two story place. Kind of run down. But a lot of places looked a little old.”

“Did you see anyone coming and going?”

“Yeah, but it’s a magic dealer. Plus, there were offices and stuff on the first floor. There’s going to be some people.”

Spike grunted in reply and dug through his bag for a clean pair of jeans.

Buffy shifted in her chair, uncomfortable in the silence. “I have a feeling this might not be as easy as just walking in there and saying ‘hello.’”

“Things rarely are when a Slayer’s involved,” he drawled. She shot him a look and he shrugged. “Just how it is. If it was easy, a Slayer wouldn’t be required.”

“I guess,” Buffy mumbled, slightly pouting.

“Might want to hide them chaste peepers of yours.”

“What?” she asked, parsing his language.

Too late. He threw his towel in the general direction of the other one and began tugging on his jeans.

Buffy sputtered, head swiveling. “You’re shameless,” she said, eyes fixed firmly on a hideous picture typical of crappy hotels. She couldn’t fight the slight blush that burned her cheeks.

“Yeah, and you love it.”

She watched in her peripheral vision as he walked over, now in only a pair of black jeans. “No, I don’t,” she protested, but it sounded weak even to her own ears.

“Yeah,” his voice rumbled directly behind her, breath pushing her hair, “you do.” One broad hand came up to gently grasp her throat, while the other travelled along the path of bare skin of her uninjured arm, from shoulder to wrist.

Her breath caught and her eyelids fluttered. How did he do this? Undo her with the simplest of touches.

“S’not a bad thing, love.” The hand at her throat tilted her head up to the side and the ghost of his lips travelled the column of her neck. He pushed his nose into the corner of her jaw and ear, and the curtain of blonde hair that fell there. “Not a bad thing at all.”

Her eyes closed, and she let loose a sigh as his hand played along the skin of her arm and he nuzzled against the warmth of her neck. It was heaven, and she wanted to stay and explore. Just for a little while. But she couldn’t. Duty was calling her name. And it was really damned persistent.

“Spike?”

“Mm?” He didn’t lift his head, just brushed his lips against the side of her neck. His hand moved from her arm to grasp the curve of her hip.

“As much as… this is really nice… we need to get going.” Even as she spoke, Buffy struggled with the words. She struggled with her feelings. She struggled with them. The them that was suddenly her and Spike.

He stilled, and she expected him to withdraw, to pull back into himself. Quickly, she covered the hand at her waist with her own, twining her fingers through his. At that, he moved, brushing another small kiss to her throat. “So we do.” He straightened, disengaging from her, and after letting his hands linger on her shoulders for a moment, he turned back to the rumpled bed where his T-shirt lay.

Pulling the back tee on, he eyed her injured arm. “You need to change into something that covers that up,” he said, nodding toward the wide swath of bandaging around her arm.

Frowning, she peered at it, fingers plucking at the edges randomly. She tugged at it until it was loose enough to peek at the wound. “Slayer healing is a magical thing,” she declared.

Spike arched an eyebrow. “I bet,” he said. “How bad is it?”

She let the bandage go back into place. “Bad enough.” Crossing the room over to her suitcase, she started digging through it. “I think I packed a jacket or a hoodie or something.” Spike watched her as he waited for his bag of blood to ding in the microwave. Knowing the Slayer and her stoic soldier routine, her arm, while much better than yesterday, would probably give under the pressure of lifting a kitten.

Buffy smiled triumphantly and pulled out an old baby blue cheer hoodie. “So.” She turned towards him and he saw the change come over her. The transformation was almost palpable. The Slayer, in business mode. It was in the squaring of her shoulders and in the keenness of her eyes. “Are we expecting trouble?”

The microwave dinged and he popped the door open, happy to find the bag nice and warm. He shrugged. “It’s like I mentioned to your Watcher after the event, love. During that refreshing bout of torture, I heard one of Glory’s scabby pinheads mention the sphere.” His face shifted, and with practiced finesse ripped the bag with his fangs. “So I’d lay bets on yeah, they might just be here, too.”

He tipped his head back and took a healthy pull, his throat working. She always felt a bit like a voyeur when he did this. Drank. Like it was an act that people just weren’t supposed to see. But, she mused, most people weren’t, were they? They were supposed to be the victims.

He sat on the edge of the bed. “Who’s paying for this little wizgig anyway, Slayer? Don’t imagine the wizard’ll just give it to us.”

“His name’s McTeague. Giles said the Council was funding it since it’s such a major need.”

Spike arched an eyebrow skeptically. “You mean the Council that you oh so recently told to kiss your pert little arse?”

Buffy frowned, her hands, in the process of putting her hair into a ponytail, coming to a momentary stop. “When you say it like that…”

Spike stretched out his legs, sprawling gracefully. “I’d wager that old Rupes is funding this one, pet,” he said, then took another pull off the blood bag.

Buffy finished pulling her long blonde hair through the blue elastic band and thought of the money her mom had left behind her. It had been a fairly modest little cushion, that was now dwindling rapidly under hospital bills. “I’ll have to thank him later. In some really vague way so he doesn’t get all… British and awkward.”

Spike shot her a look at that, but she merely shrugged. “You know that’s how it’d go.”

They fell to silence for a moment. Him drinking his blood, and her packing up the various odds and ends that had made it out of the suitcase. Before this trip she would have laughed at the idea having a companionable silence with Spike, but had since discovered that it was in fact possible. It sure didn’t happen very often, but it was possible.

Buffy shoved her flip-flops in the bag and suddenly stopped, both hands braced on either end of the suitcase.

“I’m not too worried,” she declared.

It was only half a lie. Her nerves thrummed. She wasn’t worried about dispatching a couple of Glory’s goons. She was worried about somehow missing this sphere thingy that was suddenly so integral. And she was worried about Dawn. The distance between her and her sister was like a thread of anxiety, and each day and mile between them just pulled it tighter.

Spike eyed her, lips tinged red. “Right.” She wasn’t fooling anyone. He could hear her heart going pitter-pat. “Either way,” his voice suddenly turned smooth and wicked, and she abruptly remembered the days when he had terrified her. “We’re going to put up a hell of a fight.”

He smirked around a mouthful of fangs, his golden eyes glinting, and she couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “They have no idea, do they?” she said with a small laugh. “All right.” She pushed off from where she leaned on the dresser. “Let’s get this show started.”




They peered up at the grey, two story building from Spike’s parked car. “Lights are on. Someone must be home, then,” Spike said, hands clenching and unclenching on the steering wheel.

Buffy eyed the street. Aside from the occasional passing car, the place was largely deserted. Most people probably cleared out after the work day was over, she guessed. Motion caught her eye and she watched an older man climb into a pick-up, start it up, and drive away. He didn’t look like a scabby monk, but she wasn’t going to limit her options. She looked back up at the lit up window. “Someone or some thing,” she said quietly.

Spike shot her a sudden grin. “Won’t know until we chop it open, pet,” he said cheerfully before popping open the door and climbing out of the car.

Buffy hastened to follow. Climbing out of cars with a sword in your hand was always awkward. She had decided long ago that long swords and cars just weren’t supposed to be around at the same time. Dry heat hit her the moment she stepped out. The sun hadn’t been down too long yet. “This guy could be good! You don’t know. You can’t just kill him to death.”

He glanced at her as she caught up to him, the corners of his mouth curling slightly. The orange light of the street lamps bounced off the blade of his sword and the black leather of his coat. “Won’t kill him. Just scare him a bit, is all.” He was still smiling that toothy grin as they trotted across the street, his duster furling behind him. “Think we should split up? I’ll go ‘round back, just in case he makes a break for it or someone beat us to it?”

She nodded, looking up at the light shining through the window on the second floor. “Yeah, alright.” She turned on him, and gave him a sharp look. “But no chopping unless he does something really twitchy.”

Spike turned, heading towards the alley. “Not until he twitches. Got it.”

“I meant suspicious,” she called after him, trying to be quiet about it, but he had already disappeared into the dark. She frowned at the poorly lit alleyway before turning back to the main entrance. Time to get that sphere. Finally. Energy buzzed through her, setting her nerves thrumming. Her hands and feet and muscles itched, ready to move, ready to fly, just like they always did when she set out to take someone down, or get the goods, or save the day. It’s what she was built for. That’s just what it was like, she guessed, when you were designed for a purpose.

She tried the handle. Locked. Probably locked up once business hours were over. That was alright. She had her own special key. One firm push was all it took. Wood strained and metal snapped, and she was in.

Buffy was worried the moment she stepped inside. It wasn’t the surrounding offices that worried her. They were all closed down for the day, with no one around to be suspicious of her and the sudden sound of door breakage. No, what worried her was the large circle and all the little squiggly markings drawn in a lurid purple on the floor. If Willow or Giles were here, they’d probably know just what the markings meant. Just what language or region of the world they were from. But they weren’t. Not that it really mattered anyway. Buffy had been doing this job long enough to know that whatever else these symbols might be saying, the main thing they said was bad. Bad, bad, bad.

She glanced around the building again, eyes keener now, looking for some other hint of what kind of magic had been done. The closed up rooms looked perfectly benign, so she turned to the staircase leading upwards. A sign stood beside the stairs, with white plastic letters announcing ‘2nd Floor – McTeague’s Curiosities’. Bingo.

She took the stairs quickly, running shoes moving soundlessly over the old steps that seemed blessedly creak-free. At the top, she turned the corner and paused. Across a narrow strip of landing was a wooden door torn half off its hinges. Splintered and broken, half of the door lay scattered across the hall, the other half still clinging sadly to a bent hinge. That was also bad. She approached the door, grip tightening on the hilt of her sword. Whatever had torn that door down was big. And strong. Big and strong never boded well.

Images of the monks already come and gone with the Dagon sphere and Spike trapped fighting whatever this thing was flitted through her head. She quashed them. They were not the sort of thing that a Slayer dwells on. Not if they plan on living very long.

Buffy slipped up to the door frame and peeked inside. No one was around. Shelves lined the walls, and display tables covered the floor, all full of oddities, whether in liquid form, or dried out flora, or maybe was-alive-at-one-point fauna. The inside of the shop looked much like the Magic Shop, except dustier. And completely trashed. Glass from broken jars was sprinkled everywhere, their former contents spilling over the shelves and onto the floor. Scorch marks were on the floor and walls. Display tables were upended, some missing a leg or two.

Softly, Buffy crept into the room. There were two other doorways. One, open and leading into an office behind the counter. The other, was off to the side, the door shut, with light and muffled voices slipping out. She eyed it warily. They must be in there. Probably already had the sphere, too.

She glanced at the door leading to the back office. She should wait for Spike. She should – a flash of scarlet caught her eye. Lying on the floor behind the counter, was an old man with a wide mustache, presumably McTeague. His white hair was stained red in the blood that seeped across the carpet underneath his body.

His face was contorted in a stiffened rictus of pain. It took her a moment to process what was wrong with him, for the pieces to click together in her brain. His arm was missing. It wasn’t missing in the ‘I lost it in ‘Nam’ sort of way. It was missing because it’d just been ripped off. All that remained was a jagged stump just below the shoulder. Splintered white bone poked out, glistening with red. There was blood everywhere, pooled all around him. A trail of it led from the body all the way to the closed door across the room. How didn’t she see it before?

She looked back at the old man. There was no other mark on him. He had died from having his arm torn off and from the resulting blood loss. The tip of her sword listed to touch the floor, her stomach lurched. It was a hard way to die. Good guys weren’t supposed to die this way – defeated and lone and in so much pain.

A floorboard creaked behind her and she spun, sword whirling up and ready.

Spike just looked at her. His empty hand raised in a gesture of harmlessness. His sword was lowered, even as the tip of hers found his throat, the sharp point just inches away. He took her in: hazel eyes fully dilated; breathing hard; blood pounding its way through her veins like a horse at the track. It was a long moment before she blinked, really seeing him, and lowered the sword.

He looked past her, at the body on the floor, at the way the arm was missing. He supposed he could see how something like that could get to a person. Even a warrior who’s seen more than their fair share of death. Maybe even more so a warrior like this one, one who had the threat of death dogging her around like a bloody shadow. Spike looked up from the body and took in the utter chaos of the shop and the burn marks on the wall. The old man had fought with magic. If he had to make a bet, he’d put money on whatever monster had torn off this guy’s arm being fairly resistant to physical magic. Voices and sweat and blood and something else, something thick and musky, tugged his attention to the closed door across the room.

“They’re in there,” she whispered, back planted firmly against the body.

“Yeah,” he said and nodded towards the back room he’d come through. “There’s a chest broken all to bits. Chances are they found it pet.”

“Then we’ll just have to take it back,” she threatened softly. “There was some kind of circle downstairs. The bad mojo kind of circle. I think – ” she couldn’t help but glance at the body, “ – that they summoned something.”

Spike nodded. “That explains the smell. It’s in there. Along with three of the monk types.”

“We should take it out separately. I don’t want these jerks sneaking off with the sphere while we play with whatever ugly they brought.”

Spike frowned. “That’s actually… not a bad plan, Slayer. I’m kind of surprised.”

“So not in the mood, Spike.” She tried to stay stern but a corner of her mouth curled up just a tiny bit. “Remind me to smack the crap out of you later on.”

He looked at her, eyes bright, like he wanted to say something else, but instead he simply pressed a finger to his lips to shush her. Rolling her eyes, they quietly crept across the floor to the closed door.

Snatches of voices gradually began to form words. “ – crush it. Before anything can happen to it.”

“No. I am sure that She Who is Tastefully Selective of Footwear and All Things Painful would want the certainty of seeing it destroyed herself.”

“But what if during the transportation the Slayer overtakes us?”

Buffy positioned herself to one side of the closed door, where she wouldn’t be visible. Sword in hand, Spike strolled up to the door and pushed it open, as casual as if he’d been invited.

“This a private party or can anyone join in the killing?” he drawled, leaning against the doorjamb.

Three scabby-looking demon monks stood in the small room, surprise etched clearly across their faces. One of them clutched the sphere. The golden bauble wasn’t what caught his attention, however. What caught his attention was the pale, fleshy thing hunched down on the floor, its back turned to him. It was clearly occupied with something in its hands.

“It’s the vampire,” one of the monks exclaimed. “The Slayer’s vampire!” The monk snapped his fingers at the pink thing bent over on the floor, “Glansig, kill him!”

Spike’s mouth quirked, not sure if he should be offended or pleased with that particular title. The Slayer’s vampire. “That’s right. The Big Bad’s here and…” Spike trailed off as the thing crouched in the corner started to rise. And rise. And then it turned, and he was momentarily speechless. All in all, at eight foot something, he was surprised the beast fit in the room.

It wasn’t something he’d ever run across before and he had a feeling that by the end of the fight, he’d be okay with never seeing it again. Its torso was short, but its arms and legs were impossibly long. Its knuckles brushed along the floor. For all its length, it didn’t lack in thickness. Limbs the width of young trees looked perfectly able to tear him into tiny, dusty pieces. Its face was piggish, its jaw strong and covered in blood. Blood, both scarlet fresh and darkly dried, was dribbled down its chest and bulbous belly. That’s when Spike realized what the thing was holding in one hand. He had thought it was a club of some sort, but then he saw it for what it really was. It was the arm missing off of the old man.

Spike stood in the doorway, eyes fixed on the monster. This thing had withstood all the magic the old man had thrown at it and then tore off his arm to use it as a chew toy. The monster eyed Spike back, preoccupied with the arm, with gnawing on splintered bone and cooling muscle, not terribly concerned with the monk’s orders it seemed.

A vague image of Buffy’s bad arm popped into his head and he blinked it away. “Alright,” he said, squaring his shoulders. With a snarl, he brought his gameface forward. “Step on up then, ugly,” he taunted, making a show of fangs. The beast jerked back, nervous at the change and shift of bones, the sudden appearance of another animal, the sudden threat. Then with one small roar, the monster charged.

It moved like lightning for something so big, using fists the size of hams to swing forward on its knuckles like a gorilla. Spike barely had time to duck back, out of its way before the thing smashed through the entry, tearing apart the wooden frame. He leapt over a table, simply trying to keep some distance between himself and the monster. The vampire was barely conscious of the crash behind him as the Slayer toppled over a huge bookcase, effectively blocking the now jagged doorway and leaving the monks trapped.

The monster knocked the table aside, barely a second behind him, not even pausing in its pursuit. Spike felt the rush of air of the beast at his back and his jaw tightened. Bugger this. He turned, meaning to face the thing, sword high, ready for the swing, and instead caught all the momentum of eight feet of monster barreling into him. They slammed into the wall with a force that left Spike seeing stars and with more than one cracked rib. Before he could form a solid thought, the thing sunk its teeth into his collarbone, sliding across bone and muscle. Spike screamed in pain, hands groping, searching wildly across the monster’s pink flesh, trying to find some sort of leverage.

“Spike!”

“Feel free to join in any second now, Slayer,” he growled through gritted teeth, as black waves of pain rolled through him.

A sudden whizzing through the air ended in a loud thunk, and the monster bellowed, releasing its grip on the vampire’s shoulder. With one hard shove, Spike gained enough room to roll away from the thing and to his feet, one hand clutching at his shoulder. The monster turned to face the Slayer, and while its back was turned Spike lunged for his sword. He came up to see an ancient, tribal looking spear stuck out of the things back, buried deep.

Buffy watched the thing as it flailed blindly to remove the spear from its back. She stood, feet planted firmly, unmovable; her sword, up and ready.

The monster made several desperate tugs on the spear, trying to pull it out, before giving up, it was so deep. Instead, it settled for breaking off the protruding length with a loud snap. With a howl, it threw the broken shaft at Buffy. It was a bad throw, wobbly and ineffective, and she batted it away easily with a sweep of her forearm. Brute strength and speed the thing might have, but it was nothing but a beast.

Buffy glared at the thing that had murdered the man she was supposed to meet today. It had torn off his arm like he was a doll. The creature stomped its feet and puffed out its chest, huffing angrily as it stared her down. Her brow furrowed. The thing was trying to intimidate her, like an animal protecting its territory. Something in her stomach soured. Her body was no longer singing, ready for a good fight. All that was left was an apathy that had become familiar lately, a weariness, of all the death and bloodshed that saturated her days. “I’m tired of this. Let’s get it over with,” she muttered to herself.

Switching her sword back into her right hand, she advanced on the monster. Her arm throbbed from the throw, and she was pretty sure it was bleeding again, but she had needed to get that thing off of Spike.

It watched her. Piggish eyes, leery and keen. Whatever patience it had quickly evaporated and with a grunt, it rushed her. Fully ready, in one quick step she turned, ducking sideways under its arm, sword tilted up, and let the creature use all its momentum to rush upon the blade. The sword sunk up to the hilt in the thing’s gut and the impact shot bolts of blinding pain through her injured arm.

One of its arms caught her, flinging her to the side like an oversized toy. She landed, back first, into a display table, bring it crashing down around her. Tiny glass bottles full of mysterious liquids shattered around her, throwing noxious fumes into the air. Buffy gagged, her eyes watering, as she tried to orient herself.

She watched through tearing eyes as the monster grasped the hilt of her sword and pulled it clean out, screeching horribly as it went. As soon as the blade was out, it let the sword fall to the floor with a muffled whump against the carpet. It teetered, then regained its balance and slowly turned toward her. It took one step, and stopped with a jerk. The tip of a sword emerged, protruding out of its blood stained chest, going right through the breast plate.

With another hard jerk wracking its body, the sword drew back out, disappearing from view. The monster stood, wobbling for a moment, before promptly crumpling to the floor, collapsing in a heap. Spike stood, bloodied sword hanging listlessly in one hand, clutching his shoulder with the other. He was covered in blood from the bite. A smear of scarlet stood out against his white cheek. Like a dog shaking off water, he shook off his gameface. Eyeing her, he wordlessly stepped around the carcass and held out a hand to help her up.

Gratefully, she took his hand and hauled herself to her feet. Knocking her elbow on one of the upturned table legs, she hissed at the sudden jolt of fresh pain shooting up her arm.

Spike snorted. “We make a sad pair, don’t we? I’m getting pretty tired of this shite, too, Slayer.” He nodded his head towards where the monks were still barricaded in the other room. “Let’s not keep our dates waiting, eh?”

Buffy glared at the barricaded door. “This is all their fault.” Deftly catching up the hilt of her sword, she made her way over to the bookcase. “They’re the reason we had to come all the way to Oklahoma. They’re the reason I got my arm all tore up by some loser vampire with a yen for gross restrooms.” Right beside her, Spike braced himself against the fallen bookcase. If he thought about protesting the general accuracy of her declarations, the look in her eyes quickly banished the idea. “They’re the reason that old wizard guy is dead,” she said, mouth rigid with simmering anger. Together, they made quick work of pushing the overlarge bookcase off to the side.

As soon as the way was cleared, the three monks pushed forward in a flurry of motion, trying desperately to escape. Slamming the heel of her hand to the opposite doorjamb, Buffy clotheslined the one at the head of the pack. She shot a look at the other two as they slowly backed up into the room, and then gave a less than pleasant smile to the monk lying flat on his back.

Letting her hand fall back to her side, she placed a firm foot on his chest. “Going somewhere?” she asked, voice deceptively pleasant. With both hands on the hilt, she brought down her sword, without hesitation, plunging the blade in the monk’s chest. Blood flew up, speckling her jeans and her hands, and the monk’s body jerked. His mouth flew open as if to scream, but the only sound he made was a low, gurgling moan.

With her foot still on his chest, Buffy pulled the sword clear of the body. She looked up at the remaining two monks, who, weaponless, were staring at their fallen comrade with horror. “I really don’t like doing these things,” she said, almost offhandedly. “But the two of you have my glowy ball thing. And I need it to kill your boss.” Their gaze flew back up to her, and then to Spike, sheer terror written across their faces. The monk holding the Dagon Sphere clutched it closer.

Beside her, Spike clucked his tongue. “I don’t believe they plan on giving it to us, luv.” His voice was hard and cold and he grinned, baring white, white teeth. “That’s alright, though. I was looking forward to a bit of payback from Glory’s boys here, anyway.” If possible, the two demons paled even further under their mottled brown skin.

“The mi-mighty Glorificus will not f-fall,” one of the monks stuttered. “Dagon Sphere or not, she will find the Key and open the Doors between worlds.”

“No,” Buffy said simply, “She won’t.”

And with that, she and Spike moved in and made quick work of the two monks. It wasn’t like the demons were trained to fight, after all. Not against things like her, like Spike.



Afterwards, Buffy couldn’t really recall leaving the magic shop and making her way back onto the street and into the Desoto. All she knew was the sphere clutched at her side, and a single-minded determinedness moving her feet that wouldn’t rest until she was on her way back to Sunnydale.

The slamming of the car door as Spike climbed in jerked her back to full attention. He watched her out of the corner of his eyes, wary of her silence since she’d killed the monks. With a small sigh, Buffy tucked the sphere closer into her lap. “Take me home, Spike. Please?”

He cleared his throat and turned the ignition. “Sure thing. Or at least a partial part.” He pulled the old car onto the road, and started off for the highway. He was tired as hell and his shoulder hurt like a bitch, but he could stand to get at least a good couple hours away from Elk bloody City. Patting his pockets down for a cigarette with his free hand, he came up short. Of course.

Rapidly becoming disgruntled, he shot a glance at the small bauble glowing softly in Buffy’s lap. “Going to hug that thing all the way back to California?”

“No.” A pause, and then, “Maybe.”

She fidgeted in her seat. “I really didn’t like having to do that,” she said softly. So softly, he almost missed it.

He glanced at her, at the mild upset on her face, as she leaned her cheek against the cool glass of the window. Hell, even he’d almost felt bad about killing those last two, what with the sheer ease of it. Almost being the operative word there. So it wasn’t too hard to imagine what she and her scruples were telling herself. Killing poor, unarmed, defenseless chaps and all that. “They would’ve gone straight back to Glory if you’d let them be. You know it.”

She nodded. “I know. Didn’t say I was sorry. Just that… I don’t really like it, sometimes.”

He would kill twenty more of those monks just for one bloody cigarette. “Yeah, well, that’s what makes you different from the bad guys.” She was silent for one long moment, and he shifted nervously, wondering what he’d said wrong now.

Suddenly, she shot up straight as an arrow. “Buffy – ”

“This is going to change everything, you know.” She cut him off, an edge of excitement creeping into her voice.

Spike frowned at the quick change in mood, “Buffy?”

Her tiny hand covered his, where it rested on the gearshift. “This is going to change everything.”

He glanced over to find her hazel eyes on him, and suddenly he wasn’t sure they were talking about the sphere anymore. He swept his thumb along the side of her hand. “That it might, pet. That it might.”



--The End--