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Author's Chapter Notes:
Couldn't do it without the help of my betas, eman and Holly!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Haven’t you got somethin’ to 'tend to'?” Buffy muttered in a bad imitation of Spike’s English accent. She grunted mirthlessly, tossing items around the interior of the wagon, searching for her sun bonnet. She picked up one of Spike’s shirts and grabbed it with both hands by the hem, intending to rip it in half. She stopped, the fabric taught in her grasp as she realized she’d probably be the one that ended up having to mend it. Crumpling it into a ball, she tossed it across the wagon, where it ended in a heap next to one of the flour kegs.

“Oh, I’m gonna ‘tend’ to something alright,” she snarled, continuing to take out her rage on every helpless inanimate object within her reach. “When we get back home I’m gonna ‘tend’ to kicking your ass halfway across Sunnydale.”

At last she found the well-worn bonnet and pulled it on, jerking the strings tightly under her chin. Hearing the heavy tromping of Spike’s boots as he climbed up into the wagon, she turned slowly, her eyes narrowing. She took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly through her nose, as she watched him pull himself into the opening at the back of the wagon and straighten as much as he could, his hat brushing the canvas wagon cover.

When his eyes met hers, she jutted out her chin angrily.

He snorted, pulling the Stetson from his head. “See you’re in your usual lovely mood.”

“Oh, you've got a lot of nerve,” she snarled, placing her hands on her hips and glaring at him. She was fairly vibrating with anger.

“Me?” Spike squeaked, his voice climbing dangerously high. “What the bloody hell did I do other than try to help find us a way out of this hellhole?" As an afterthought, he added, "Despite your blundering in an’ doin’ your best at muckin’ up my plans.”

“Plans,” she laughed nastily. “The only plans I saw you making were to bee-line it over to chat up the merry widow.” Buffy turned from him and fell to her knees, her skirts billowing about her, as she busied her hands straightening the cotton blankets and bedroll that Spike slept on.

Despite the angry words, Spike couldn’t help but hear the wounded tone of her voice. He blinked, confused. An angry slayer he could handle, but he had no clue how to handle a hurt one. Perhaps a dose of patience was in order. He took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice calm. “I thought maybe she could –”

“Oh, I know what you thought she could do for you.” Buffy looked up at him accusingly. “What were you thinking? No, don’t answer that. You weren’t thinking. At least not with your head.” She looked pointedly at his groin.

Spike jerked the duster closed, effectively blocking her view.

“These people think we’re married,” Buffy continued, looking up into his eyes. “How is it supposed to look to them with you . . . ” She shook her head, throwing up her hands up in exasperation. “I can’t believe you were over there getting a hard-on for that hose-bag.”

Spike’s brows rose, his eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. He stared at her for a long moment, before his mouth snapped shut. “Well,” he spat, tossing his hat across the wagon where it hit the side board and bounced to the floor. “I can’t believe you get all juicy for Captain Cardboard, but different strokes for different folks I guess.” So much for patience.

Buffy’s face reddened, her eyes glistening with emotion. She struggled to her feet, tossing the blanket onto the floor between them, and kicking the sleeping roll. “Make your own bed, you pig.”

Spike looked at the mess of blankets, then back at Buffy. He closed his eyes, huffing out a breath in frustration. “Buffy, I’m trying to understand what’s got your knickers in a twist, I really am.” He shrugged the duster off, tossing it aside. “Maybe I should ha’ told you what I planned to do. Didn’t think it was that big a deal. I was jus’ talkin’ to the woman. I wasn’ gettin’ –”

“Please, Spike,” Buffy turned her back to him. “I’m not a child. I’m also not stupid. I know what you . . . got.”

Spike tilted his head, studying the rigid line of her back. He drew his lower lip through his teeth as he tried to think of something to say. She was right, after all. He had been attracted, physically, to Katie. And Buffy had caught him. But the memory of Buffy’s kiss, her body pressed intimately to his, made him realize that it wasn’t just Katie that had stirred his flesh. The widow might have lit a spark in him, but Buffy had ignited a raging forest fire.

“Wasn’ jus’ her,” he finally said softly.

Buffy turned back to him, incredulous. “Are you comparing me—”

“No.” He held up a hand, cutting off a tirade. “Just sayin’ . . . I’m a man, Buffy.”

She tilted her head, frowning. “So you’re saying, sometimes an erection is just an erection?”

His lips twisted into a smile. “Not exactly how I’d have put it, but, yeah.”

“Uhmm,” she nodded, looking down at her feet. “And the rest of the wagon train,” she continued, finally looking up, the small, tight smile on her lips wasn’t reflected in her eyes, “are they supposed to understand this whole ‘men will be assholes’ scenario? They’re just supposed to understand why Elizabeth’s hubby is off getting groiny with Ms. Community Chest?”

“Not what I was doin’. . . and you sure that’s what’s got you all wound up?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She snapped.

The tip of Spike’s tongue ran over the edge of his upper teeth, “Jus’ thinkin’ this is a tempest in a teapot an’ you’re gettin’ way too bent out of shape over it. Sure there isn’t more to it than what you’re sayin’?”

Buffy’s breathing deepened, her chest rising and falling visibly beneath the cotton of her gown. “You’re saying I’m jealous? Of you and –”

“Didn’ say that, now did I?” Spike interrupted. “Just sayin’ that perhaps you’re a little stressed. Hell, we both are. Overreactin’ an’ lashin’ out at each other’s not gettin’ us anywhere.”

Turning from him again, Buffy walked over to the feather tick. Spike could feel the anger draining from her and he let out a sigh. She looked back at him.

“Can we jus’ agree that we both stepped outta bounds?” He watched as she blinked at him slowly. “Need to work together here, Buffy. We’re never gonna get outta this mess if we keep bangin’ heads.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then she sighed. “Fine,” she said, as she plopped down onto the feather tick, her hands folded in her lap, limply. As Spike stepped toward her, her head snapped up and she caught his eye. “But. I’m. Not. Jealous. Got that?”

Spike fought to hide a smile. “Got it.”

Relief flooded his body. He’d escaped from the battled nearly unscathed. Not that he hadn’t deserved the bite she took out of his ass. It was just always nice to slip away with his bits and pieces intact, especially where the Slayer was concerned.

He sat down on the floor next to the tick. “Wanna hear what I got from Shay?”

She shrugged, falling back to lean on her elbows. “Sure, why not. Did he tell you about the dream?”

“Yeah. Bottom line? Seems we’ve got some work to do to get outta here.”

“Work?” Buffy sat us suddenly. “What kinda work? Cause, you know, I’ve had it about up to here,” she made a slicing gesture with her hand across her neck, “with the frontier version of the women’s movement. I have dust in places that I didn’t even know I had places. And really, riding in a wagon all day makes slaying look like a walk in the park.”

“I was speakin’ of work in the metaphorical sense. Shay seems to think that we were sent here on some sort of journey, seeking out the truth.”

“What? No seeking out Justice and the American Way, as well?”

“Not yet. Wait though. The day is young.” Spike reached over to grab his hat off the floor where it had landed, dusting off the brim. “Seriously, he didn’t really have a clue why we’re here, other than some mystical humbug about a journey where we find our destiny,” he finished with a snort.

“Our destiny?” Buffy’s eyes widened. “'Our’ as in you and me? Wait, that can’t be right, because we definitely do not have a destiny … not together. Maybe separate destinies. Separate, completely different, totally apart destinies.”

Spike eyed her, his brows drawn together. “Right, got that, Buffy. Two destinies, hopefully on different continents.”

“That would be nice.” She nodded, satisfied. “What about the coin?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “More o’ the same, pet. Somethin’ about it bein’ the beginnin’, middle an’ end of our journey. Shay gave me the name of a man. Fella by the name ofGrogan. He’s the banker in a town that we’ll be passin’ through. Might be able to help decipher the symbol, maybe what’s written on the other side.”

Buffy sighed, frowning.

“I know,” Spike twirled his Stetson in his hands, focusing on it and not the sour expression on Buffy’s face. “Best we can do for now, luv. Can’t see we have much other choice than meet up with this bloke and see if he can tell us something we don’t already know.”

Buffy grabbed the hat from Spike's hands and placed it on his head, drawing the brim down low over his brow. “How many days until we reach this town?”

Spike shrugged, straightening the hat on his head. “A coupla days. Maybe longer, dependin’ on the weather. Why?”

“Because after we talk to this Mr. Grogan,” Buffy said grimly, “I’m gonna find the nearest hotel, with the biggest bathtub, and I’m gonna soak in it for, like, four weeks.”

To Be Continued





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