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Author's Chapter Notes:
CHAPTER PAIRING: Spike & Tara

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.

CHAPTER NOTES: This chapter is a bit light on the action and heavy on the conversation. But, it's something that I wanted to see and that I felt was important to the development of the characters. Also, I veered away from the Buffyverse cannon regarding Spike & Angel during WWII; I am not sticking with the WWII storyline that was presented in the ATS episode "Why We Fight". Hope you enjoy it!
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She chastised herself as she watched him sleep. It wasn't right of her to just assume that he'd want this. Even knowing what his heart needed didn't make it right, no matter how altruistic her motives. Isn't that why she had broken up with Willow those years ago?

Tara had willed up enough concentration to close tight Spike's curtains before checking in on Willow. The little witch was still sound asleep, clearly exhausted. She was making those little sounds of hers, kind of like when a cat snores, and Tara felt warm with relief. The past day had been wound tight from worry—about Spike and about the Hellmouth. Willow may have tried hard to hide it, but Tara could see plainly that the power here was bothering her. She wasn't sure yet what could be done about that, but they'd figure something out. That's what you did when you loved someone, right?

Letting her lover get some well-deserved rest, the good witch returned to Spike's side, burrowing herself under the covers.

Hey, I really am under the covers!

It was weird how she hadn't needed much effort to gain a sense of touch near him. She and Willow still had to concentrate like Zen masters for this to happen. And inanimate objects were another story altogether. But with Spike—so odd how she could feel him. And, now, how she was leaving an impression in the bed like she was really there. How she was under the sheet instead of through it.

She sure as Hades wasn't complaining, though. This was incredible. It made her want to touch everything.

Tara pulled the sheet up over her face and giggled. She couldn't help it. Then she pressed her nose into Spike's ribs. He rustled a bit, but did not wake. She giggled again until she accidentally caught sight of bits of him that were for a lover's eyes only. Blushing, she pulled her head out of the sheets and ran her fingers along the pillows instead, then along the headboard, feeling the distinct change between satin and metal. Such ordinary stuff, but how incredible it becomes when you've been without the sense for so long!

"Mum," Spike whispered softly, reverently, in his sleep. Gently, he turned, his face that of innocence.

Tara imagined what he must have been like as a child. Wide-eyed and shy, she would bet. Just like her. From having met his mother, she knew he was adored and fragile. Amazing what the demon had done to him. Yet, she also knew that the man was still there inside; he hadn't allowed the demon to destroy it. This was the thing that made her realize what he truly was all those years ago, when the Scoobies still wanted him gone. When she discovered his hard-earned soul, she laughed bitterly; he hadn't needed one. Why didn't they see that?

Spike's lips mouthed "Mummy," though without breath he made no noise.

He wasn't a creature; he was someone's beloved child.

Tara moved closer to him, gathering his still body to hers. The energy to bring his mother to him was pulling from her, but it was no longer draining. Her heart wanted so much to spend time with them, watch his mother dote on the son she was so eternally proud of, but she knew this was too private, too dear. Instead, she let him nuzzle her, mumbling in his sleep.



What a great sleep.

So great, even the lumpy pillows on his bed felt warm and plump. He took a deep breath, eyes still closed, and settled his face back into them happily. Tugging at a pillow case, he slipped his hand inside to fluff one, then...

Huh?

Tara squeaked.

"What the...?" Spike opened his eyes suddenly, discovering an overflowing handful of Tara's chest. Different kind of pillows, mate!

"Gotta stop meetin' like this, luv," the vampire smirked, copping another feel before pulling his hand back to himself.

Tara flushed, her crooked smile forgiving him. She'd better find Buffy for him soon!

"Hey, wait a tick... how can I...? I mean, you...?"

"No idea. But neat, huh?" She beeped his nose, obviously pleased at this new discovery.

Spike grinned as well, laying back into his actual pillows and staring up at the ceiling. Could his life get any stranger?

Tara knew what he was thinking. This was just too weird. She couldn't help but reach out and brush the crumpled curls from his forehead. The stiff gel he used had worn down in his sleep, making him appear more human, more real. It was incredible to feel that. (Oh Goddess, to feel anything!) But the sensation brought her back to her earlier thoughts. She couldn't take advantage of him, as everyone else had done. As she, herself, had been taken advantage of.

Spike felt a change in the energy around Tara. Didn't need to be a witch to figure that one out; his century-plus as a woman's companion taught him well enough.

"You can tell me, pet."

She had forgotten how perceptive the vampire was.

"I...I'm s-sorry if I f-forced you to d-dream these past few weeks. It w-wasn't my right. I d-didn't mean to..." She found that she could barely say the words, realizing so acutely that this had been done to her. "...to v-violate your m-mind, your p-privacy."

He looked at her then and saw how torn she was. Her eyes hid nothing. And he understood. She didn't need to continue. He'd been the one who exposed the lie that her father had forced upon her. He remembered vividly what happened to the poor girl at the hands of the hell-god. Saw what Red did to make her forget (hell, he even experienced some of that manipulation himself).

But, she needn't fuss over him. Not like this.

"Hush, luv," Spike said softly. He took her hand from his hair and placed his lips over her shaky fingers. "Never had a reason not to trust you." He kissed her hand gently, hoping to calm her. "Never will."

Tara's eyes looked teary.

"None of that now, pet. I've already gone soft." He gave her a little smile. "Any softer, I'd be a poof like Angel. And one of him's enough."



"God, the phone calls were bad enough. Now he's clogged my inbox."

Dawn frowned. "Okay, I know I'm not Spike, but could you ignore stupid Angel for a half hour so we can have a nice dinner?"

Her words were said a little too loudly in the restaurant, and a few pairs of eyes flicked their way.

"Sorry, Dawnie," Buffy sighed, turning her phone off and slipping it into her purse. She knew it wasn't fair to keep putting her sister through this. In a way, she almost hoped Angel would show up at their apartment just so she could tell him to his face to leave them alone already. It's like they needed to get a restraining order or something.

"I just..." Dawn didn't know how to say this right. "I guess I just wish you could move on."

Buffy's eyes reddened at her.

"Or...well," Dawn corrected, "that I could bring Spike back. I mean, in a non-bringing-back-mom way." She watched her sister slump a little in her chair. "For both of us. Cuz seriously, I can't enjoy this crap with you." Dawn smirked playfully as she motioned to the deep-fried food on her plate while eye-ing the taste-impaired healthy stuff on Buffy's. "Spike never made me feel guilty for enjoying things."



"Dru always said it was an acquired taste," Spike reminisced. "But she was mad as a bag of frogs; the bloody meal cost more than a car, and it all just tasted like a wet sack of nickels!"

Tara laughed with him, happy to have this chance (however belated it was) to be the friends they could have become had she not died. She knew regret was a wasted emotion, but she couldn't help but think how much they all had lost by dismissing Spike throughout those years.

"Okay, so sushi is out," she chuckled. "What was a perfect meal, then?"

Spike closed his eyes for a long moment, thinking. "Paris, 1944," he finally replied. "Bread, butter, and Gauloises with Camus. Hands-down, best meal ever."

Tara looked at him curiously. "Are you serious?"

"Dead."

She smiled. "There's so much I wish I knew about you. Stuff that isn't in the Watcher diaries."

He reached over and stroked some silken strands of her splayed hair, smoothing them down with care, satisfied. "Can ask me anything. You know I love to talk."

Her eyes glittered.

So he told her about that memory:

It had initially been Angelus's idea to head to Germany when they had heard of Hitler's rise. He'd always been calculating and clever—the curse hadn't changed that—but Spike had grown to distrust his judgement. Particularly with this whole Nazi thing. Chaos, Spike could understand. Infiltrating ranks to fuck the order up—yeah, he'd have a go at that. But Angelus was taking too long with this game. When he started on the mercy killings at the death camps, Spike had had enough.

He talked a good talk, Spike did. But underneath all that swagger, he was still something of a decent bloke, demon be damned. It was the fight that mattered. Always the fight. Being undead made him see that even more clearly, made him value and respect those who did that in life. Angelus's mercy killings were wrong, unfair. These people were fighting. They were surviving. They were proving to the awful reich that they would win. But Angelus, the bastard—he was "saving" them from that fate. Even then, the poof was only acting on his own guilt.

So, Spike left.

He found himself in Paris during the occupation, aligned with a French Resistance cell. Here were some humans who understood the fight, the rebellion. He befriended a bloke who called himself Beauchard during the war, and they wrote for the underground newspaper of their cell's name: Combat. Risking capture, torture, execution—Spike was used to that as a vamp, but it was so different with human companions. Every moment was sacred.

That day, he and Beauchard (who was actually the author Albert Camus under a code name) had been typing feverishly, trying to get the paper finished before being discovered. News of Nazi experiments had leaked and Beauchard was so distraught he could barely keep anything down. Spike managed to maintain his composure, as he had spent the first twenty years of his unlife under Angelus's tutelage; none of the Nazi atrocities were anything new to him. So, he shared his tobacco and his strength with the writer, and when they had the issue ready for print, they broke bread. The overhead lights had been flickering, the air was stifling, and the fear was palpable. But that simple, desperate meal—it made Spike feel like a man. A man who stood for something. Crucial and necessary.

He hadn't ever shared this story, but it felt good to. Especially with Glinda.

"You knew Camus," Tara said in amazement. "That's just.. Wow. I read his books in high school."

"Good, brave man," Spike replied. "Sodding brilliant." He lit a cigarette and took a long drag. "If the Slayer hadn't blown my crypt to pieces, I could have shown you a great photo of us." Spike frowned. "Miss that bloke." He took another drag, still deep in thought. "Changed the kill for me, really."

Tara snuggled close to him then. He was truly an enigma.

"So, yeah, that was the perfect meal."



In the next room, Willow continued to sleep. She was aware that Tara and Spike were having an hours-long conversation. She even wished she could join in, especially when she thought she heard the topic of WWII. But now was a bad time. The Hellmouth was pulling her insides toward its center, and she felt more and more like she was slipping.

So Willow did the quickest thing she thought might work—she cast a somnambulist spell on herself so that she'd succumb to sleep instead of darkness.





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