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Author's Chapter Notes:
CHAPTER PAIRING: Willow/Tara, Spike/Buffy

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.
Ah, what a relaxing evening!

First, getting a chance to rough up some little wannabe punks at the club—doubt they'd be assaulting the girlies again any time son. Then, dusting a handful of newbie vamps out back—only thing they got a chance to assault was Spike's nose. Now, an unplanned poker game with his mates.

Gar had commandeered the stereo when he arrived, and something that sounded more like Fyarl than English thumped around them. Krolik, from the Miquot clan, sat next to Spike, eyeing Gar and his musical choice with disdain. Next to him was H'Ryknog (or Ryk, as Spike called him), a M'Fashnik demon who was one of Krolik's pals. Finally, there was Stan, an Empath demon with an unfortunate disability—he was not empathic. Spike's mates weren't too keen on the un-Empath, but Spike couldn't help it—damn this bloody soul—he reminded him of Clem. And, sometimes, it was nice to hang around with someone who didn't have death and dismemberment on the day's agenda.

"So, what was that thing?" Stan asked between handfuls of Chex Mix. Gar had been showing off his photos of the fuzzy creature from the other day.

"Bloody disgusting is what," Spike said as he upped the ante. No mewling this time, though. The demons here in Cleveland played for cold, hard cash, not kittens.

"Grrrr..." Ryk sounded as he shuffled his cards around.

"Hmm...I sense a bad hand," Stan replied, casting a side-long look at the M'Fashnik. He chuckled softly at his own self-depreciating humor when demon eyes landed on him.

"No, it's a Grrr'Rr," Ryk clarified.

"Yeah, well what the fuck is that, then?" Spike spat, taking a healthy swig of whiskey.

"Like a golem, only not clay. More like..." Ryk searched his English vocabulary. No one saw the card he slipped into his hand.

"A compost heap?" Spike offered snarkily.

"Had evil coming off of it," Gar added.

Ryk shook his head. "Not evil. Magic."

"Huh?"

Stan stole a peek at Krolik's cards while the others' eyes went to Ryk.

"It's not a demon. Just the left-overs of a strong spell. You leave 'em alone, they eventually just shrink back down to nothing." Ryk shrugged, sending another hidden card to the floor.

When Krolik leaned down to pick up the offending card, the extra aces he had stashed under the table fluttered into Spike's lap.

"Hey!"

Krolik shrugged.

"Uhhh... Chex Mix, anyone?" Stan offered, hoping to prevent a brawl.

But, Spike could care less about the game right now. He was more concerned about this Grr-thing. Someone was wielding some major mojo here, and he had obviously been dealing with its effects first-hand—and on scales he wasn't about to reveal to his mates. He hadn't quite believed Gar's earlier assessment that something big was happening in the Hellmouth, but perhaps the Kailiff was right. Spike wished he could summon Glinda the way the Little Bit had summoned a vengeance demon. He was sure she'd be able to determine what was going on.

If only the poor girl were still alive.






"I've never been to New York before," Tara admitted excitedly. Her gaze had been directed upward for the last ten blocks, amazed, like a true tourist, at all the tall buildings. Thankfully she was incorporeal, otherwise she'd have been knocked down and shoved aside more times than she could count. Instead, she floated through the typical crowds on the sidewalk.

Willow was still a bundle of nerves, trying to lead them to areas that she thought Spike might have been. She had time on the flight from South America to narrow down the choices, and the area they were in, NoHo, seemed to be the best to start off.

There was an old hostel on Bowery, and Willow decided that's where she'd bunk (secretly hoping that Spike had chosen the same locale)—it was cheap, located near the old CBGBs (where she knew Spike had once frequented), and offered a great "hiding" place with its eclectic clientele. Plus, she could stay there up to a month with no questions asked, just like the foreign students who came to NYC on holiday or to study. The building had been a boarding house for at least a century, but the owners had tried to upgrade a bit. Instead of three open floors of bunk beds, they had constructed partitions throughout—little sleeping compartments secreting only a bed and a shelf —that looked like garden sheds. Their walls were just about 7 feet tall to provide privacy, with doors that locked; but the little rooms' "roofs" were only covered with latticework, so that they were open to the super-high ceilings of the building, allowing for air circulation throughout the entire floor. So, the sound from each compartment filled every space—whispers of conversations in countless languages, soft music playing, the clicks of fingers on laptop keyboards, snoring, rustling of sheets along the plastic mattress covers, grunts and moans from lovemaking...

It was the latter that finally made Willow relax, urging her to drop the luggage bags into her little room and slump back on the lumpy bed. Without putting much thought into it, she wriggled herself out of her clothes and laid there, letting the soft sounds of others' pleasure wash over her. Tara slipped out of her own ghostly garments, gazing at the long-missed view of her red-headed lover.

"I need you," Willow whispered as she watched Tara's translucent form approach her.

Tara's lips curled into her trademark crooked smile before she crawled weightlessly onto the bed. She straddled Willow and closed her eyes, concentrating on the girl beneath her, gathering power from her own desire as well as all the coupling going on in the building.

Willow gasped as she felt sparks dancing over her skin. They trailed over her breasts, down her stomach, over her thighs, to her center. "Tara..."

This was working. Oh, Goddess, this was working! "Grasp," Tara beckoned her lover. She tried to instruct her more, but lost her words when she felt Willow's hands hold her hips.

Willow thought only of what it would be like to feel Tara's soft curves again. It was a sensation she'd give her life for. And at that moment, her fingers sparked and remembered that warm skin.

The witches wielded this heart magic for as long as they could.



Even in his dream state, Spike could feel himself grow hard. The dream he was having of his Slayer was incredible. They weren't fucking like they had always done. No, this time they were making love. They were doing what he had never done in his life or un-life. Sure, he and Dru had their own soulless version of it—which, after being around humans for so long, he determined was probably closer to the real thing than what most people did—but that was still nothing like what he was dreaming. This time, he and Buffy were giving each other all of themselves, slowly, fully-aware of every movement, every feeling, every meaning. It was so overwhelming that he was surprised he hadn't woken up. Something like magic kept him there, in a state of near-orgasm, for what seemed like hours.



"Goddess, that was amazing," Willow gasped.

Tara panted next to her, invisibly clutching her lover. "Wish I had the energy to do that constantly."

Willow smiled. "Even if we could never do it again, that was so worth it."

They both snuggled through each other, drifting off to sleep.



Spike had some serious cleaning to do now.

Hadn't made such a mess of his sheets since the Slayer used him as her personal sex toy a couple years ago. (Damn, but that was a glorious dream.) And that was only the bedroom.

He'd have another round of "patch the sodding walls" in the living room from the poker game last night. At least he managed to swipe a majority of the pot while they were brawling. He preferred not having to steal from local shops if he could help it; they would recognize him now that he'd given up eating shopkeepers. Sometimes he really missed those days. Much more enjoyable back then when he and Dru could take their own leisurely time comparing the merchandise with a nice warm beverage.

Speaking of warm beverages, fuck if he wasn't bloody starving. That dream took a lot out of him, literally and figuratively. He threw his laundry in the wash and fixed himself a mug of blood with a few hearty dashes of cayenne.

What was up with his mind lately? He thought about that as he tried to enjoy the liquid sustenance. He'd had more dreams in the past week than he'd had in years. At first he thought that maybe it was because he moved to another active Hellmouth, but he'd been living here for a short while now and this hadn't happened before. Slowly, he was starting to think that it was the opposite. That things had been getting weird at the Hellmouth because of him. Prekians only came about in an area strong with ritual magic, not the other way around. This Grrr'Rr was another example, especially with the way it responded to his touch. His touch. Was he unwittingly conjuring up this mess? Sure, he had been moping over Buffy a lot these days, but what of it? Had he accidentally made a wish to a vengeance demon or to a witch?

The more Spike considered this, the more agitated he got. His manipulation days were over, dammit. He had endured more than a century of being used, by everyone and everything, for every purpose under the sun and moon. And he had fought back by manipulating, himself. But after he saw what it did to Buffy, he had lost that twisted desire. So, no, this current magical atmosphere couldn't have been his doing. It just couldn't, he grit his teeth, trying to convince himself.



"Should we try another locator spell, now that we're here?" Willow asked the lovely specter seated at the café table with her. She was sipping a cappuccino that seemed too bitter.

Tara eyed the people snug in the coffee shop with them. She had been thinking on this for a while now, actually, not sure if what they were doing was creating more problems than not. Strong spells always left traces of magic in both the ones casting them as well as the ones receiving them. What were they upsetting with this recent onslaught of power? She didn't know how to explain her feelings to Willow. "Maybe...we should try to find him by sense, first."

Willow scooped out some of the milk froth with her tongue. "Wouldn't it be quicker to..." Oh. She remembered this now.

"We've been throwing out a lot of magic lately," Tara said gently.

Willow's eyes were downcast, ashamed to have almost slipped up.

"Let's...you know, balance it out for a while. Let the Goddess have a well-deserved nap." Tara smiled. Yeah, that's how she wanted to say it.

Willow, herself, couldn't help but smile. She looked up to catch her lover's warm gaze. "I wonder what Buffy will say? When we find him?"



"That asshole!" Buffy spat, slamming the phone down on the receiver. Why was he doing this?

No, no, she knew why. And she really didn't want to go there again. Spike was out of the picture—well, at least as far as Angel was concerned. So, sure, why not pursue her again? Her feelings for Spike were just because he was convenient, right? She cringed at the memory that she had said those words to the blond vampire once—and had not taken it back after she saw the genuine hurt that quickly passed across his face. God, Angel didn't know anything. She wasn't a naive sixteen year-old anymore. That girl had died (literally) a few times over, both before and after he betrayed her. Yeah, her "true love". Not the evil dead that her true love kept warning her about—no, that one stuck by her even when she wanted to be left alone.

Everything with Angel always had to be life-or-death, cataclysmic. Ever since Sunnydale (or, actually, a month or so after they—no, say it right, after Spike—closed the Hellmouth; Mr. True Love never checked in with her after that battle to see if she made it, the bastard), Angel had been calling her all the time. First, acting like he had earth-shattering news but not really willing to tell her anything, then under the guise of just wanting to "chat" (when the hell did they ever do that?), then to try to meet up with her because of something about losing the curse (oh yeah, like she was going to believe that line), then all that business about the Immortal, whoever that was. Now, all of a sudden, it was some ultra-possessive thing about surviving hell again and wanting to reunite with her before someone comes after her or some shit like that. Is this what Angel always spent all those broody days doing? God, Spike was so right about him. She almost wished Angel hadn't destroyed the Gem of Amarra, because, seriously—he could use a nice sunny day of smelling flowers and playing with puppies and going to Disneyland or something.

Him calling her constantly, trying to see her again? No, not happening. Her heart was still hurting over Spike, and Angel was only making it worse. She wished she could talk to Giles about it, but every time she brought up Spike, he wiped at his glasses. That just made her slip away to cry it out before he could scatter the broken bits of her heart.





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