It was pitch black by the time Spike made it back to the wagon, but he knew Buffy would still be awake waiting for him. The light from one of their lanterns flickered, clearly showing the shadowed movement of the Slayer as she moved restlessly around their small home.
Home.
It was strange, but this time– the sounds, the smells, hell, even the coarse texture of the clothing and strong pungent taste of the food – were already starting to feel like home to him.
He stopped beside the wagon, his hand running along the rough, splintered wood. Wasn’t that long ago, she’d have felt him there. Her slayer-senses would have been announcing the presence of a vampire nearby. He’d have sensed her as well--the sweet smell of her skin, the vibrancy of her power caressing pushing against him, causing his muscles to tighten, his cock to harden.
Now just the shadow of her drew him in. He took a deep breath through his nostrils, trying to catch her scent, the unique aroma of her, but the cloying smell of night blooming jasmine was too strong.
Some things gained; others lost.
He could feel the strong, steady beat of his heart in his chest, but could no longer sense the Slayer. She was no longer a threat to him, though. In this time, without her strength, without her chosen duty. So this loss, was it really that important?
He knew it was futile to focus on this now, but something had occurred to him tonight and he couldn’t keep from mulling it over and over in his head. He’d known it all along, but with the coin still missing, the possibly became much more real to him.
They might never get home, back to their own time.
The coin and its secrets might be lost to them forever, moving their former existence beyond their reach. He wasn’t, at heart, a pessimist, but the realization that they might be trapped in this time permanently had hit him square between the eyes. And it had brought with it strong memories of another time, another place, where he’d had to leave a former life behind. Walk away from a world that was forever out of his reach and begin again.
Tonight, talking with Katie, he’d felt that mixture dread and excitement roiling in his stomach; it was the same feeling he’d had after having been turned, when the shock and full-on rush had worn off and he’d had to accept that his world had changed, that he would no longer live in the light, but forever more walk in the darkness with Angelus, Darla and Dru.
After Buffy had made her escape from Katie’s wagon, Katie had come on to him. And in that instant, as this woman had pressed her body against his and drew his lips down to meet hers, Spike knew for certain, that if things changed forever, if he and Buffy never got back to the future, he’d accept it and find a way to adjust. As he always had, year after year, decade after decade.
Now, watching Buffy’s shadow move across the canvas, he wondered how difficult it would be for her. In many ways this was like coming home for him, old skills resurfaced, like an old knife newly hone. Nothing left behind to miss, no one to mourn his disappearance. But Buffy, how would she fit in? How would she cope without her family, her friends, her sacred calling?
He wasn’t giving up hope that they would find their way back, but he also knew that soon the Slayer would have to start facing some hard truths, and that fact had given Spike the fortitude to put Katie aside tonight, moving out her arms and the comfort they offered and making his way back to Buffy.
Whether she liked it or not, whether he wanted to admit it or not, they were tied together now, and those bonds needed to be secure, no matter how this adventure ended. In truth, it hadn’t been hard for him to walk away from Katie. He and Buffy might not ever again feel the vampire/slayer connection, but they now shared something deeper, more intimate. They shared a destiny.
He stepped back from the wagon, his boot heel snapping a twig.
“Spi—William, is that you?”
He smiled, realizing that while she might have lost her slayer senses, she still had a damn good ear. “Yes,” He answered, hoisting himself into the back of the wagon. Taking off his hat he turned to her, the words he’d been about to say stalling on his lips at the sight of her.
Buffy had changed into her nightgown, and standing near her bed with the light of the lantern behind her, the long smooth lines of her body were clearly visible through the thin cotton fabric.
Spike swallowed past the lump that formed in his throat, his hands pushing into the pockets of his duster to pull it closed over the growing evidence of his desire for her. Her eyes caught the movement and he watched a lovely flush of rose move up her throat to her light her cheeks aflame.
Her eyes caught his for a second, then lowered demurely. He decided, in that instant, not to back away from the situation. She wanted him. She may not understand why, or what it meant, but she felt something for him. Maybe it was only lust, spurred on by the fear of the unknown, but he was betting it was more than that, and now seemed as good a time as any to lay his cards on the table.
“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice a hoarse whisper despite his best efforts to regulate it. When her eyes rose to meet his again, he tilted his head a bit and smiled. “You’re a beautiful woman, Buffy.”
Her mouth fell open a bit, her lower lip trembling, and Spike had to fight every single muscle in his body to keep from taking the three steps to reach her and pull her into his arms. Just as he was about to cease the fight, she found her voice.
“Are you sure that’s not some residual leftover from your visit with Katie?” Her tone was sharp but her eyes betrayed her. He could hear the indifference in her words, but could see the fear, the insecurity in her gaze. When he didn’t look away, she swallowed hard and turned from him. “I’m sorry. I . . . shouldn’t have said that.” She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “I . . . didn’t mean it.”
Spike pursed his lips, then nodded, shaking off the anger her words had brought up. "Good. Because it’s not. It’s definitely,” he paused, his eyebrow rising slightly, “Buffy induced.” She turned away from him quickly, but not before he caught a small quirk of her lips. A smile? His brow rose further as he contemplated the possibilities behind that smile.
The light from the lantern still illuminated her body in silhouette, and he openly admired the graceful curve of her back and feminine swell of her hips. Prairie life might be hard on her, but the fresh air and hearty food had been good to her as well. There was a lushness to her now, like the sun and mountain air had matured her. His lips parted at the thought of tasting her skin, of feeling the ripe curves of her breasts in his hands.
He took a step closer to her, saw her shoulders tense then relax again, as he slowly, moved closer to her from behind. She jumped a bit and gasped slightly when his hands encircled her waist. He waited to see if she’d move away from him, maybe even turn and strike out at him for his boldness.
But she remained still.
So slowly, cautiously, he pulled her in to his chest. Again, he waited. And again, she didn’t move, didn’t speak. The soft sound of her breathing drew his head down, his nose nuzzling the juncture of her shoulder and neck. Her hair was pinned up, giving his lips easy access to the tender spot just behind her ear. As his lips moved against her, he felt her tremble in his arms, her head lolling back to rest upon his shoulder.
His hands rose, cupping her breasts through the thin fabric of her nightgown and, finally, she spoke. “We,” she started, then swallowed, and his lips followed the movement of the muscles in her throat. “This isn’t . . . it’s probably not a good idea.”
“Probably not,” he mumbled against her skin. His hands fondled her, his thumbs rubbing slow circles over her nipples as they tightened under his touch.
“Oh. . .” She sighed as his hands continuing to work their magic on her, dropping every now and then to run teasingly along her ribs, his long fingers tickling the soft undersides of her breasts. She found her voice again and whispered, “Maybe we should talk?”
“Talk, yeah, let’s talk.” Contrary to his words, his left hand moved up to the neckline of her nightgown, popping open several of the small pearl buttons and pulling the gown off her shoulder, baring more of her skin to his lips.
He licked and nibbled his way to her shoulder, then stopped, his breath rushing in and out against her damp skin. They should talk--had a lot to discuss actually. But this, this was also something that was needed. By both of them. A release. An acceptance of what was happening, to them and between them.
As he turned her in his arms, she leaned her head back, looking up at him with drowsy eyes and parted lips. Her gown hung off her shoulder, the tanned skin of her chest and the pale creamy flesh of her left breast with its rose red nipple peeking out at him through bits of lace. He dipped his hand beneath the lace, pushing it aside, then softly tapped her nipple with the tip of his index finger, watching as it crinkled beneath his touch, hardening further.
Buffy’s breathing quickened and he glanced up briefly to watch as she drew her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes drifting closed.
His gaze returned to her breast. “So sweet,” he murmured, his head dipping so his lips could suckle at her nipple, his hand cradling the fullness of her breast.
He felt her head lift suddenly, could feel her eyes looking down at the top of his head. “Talk. You said we were going to talk.”
Reluctantly, he released her breast, giving it a slight nip before looking up. “You want to talk? Now?”
Buffy nodded her head earnestly, her breasts bouncing against his chest. His eyes flickered back to the ripe, red nipple that was now mocking him. He looked back into her eyes and frowned. “Buffy—”
Still trembling, she pulled slightly away from him, but still stayed within the circle of his arms, her hands clutching the material of his shirt. “I’m not saying we won’t . . . I mean . . .” Her face crumpled, her eyes squeezing shut. “Why does this have to be so hard?”
His hand traveled back to palm her breast, the other drifted over her hip to caress her rump, pulling her hips flush with his. “It’s hard because that’s what we do to each other, Buffy. Always have; always will.”
She opened her eyes and stared into his. When she spoke, her voice was husky with unshed tears. “We might not get home.”
Spike frowned. Knowing this was coming hadn’t made it easier. He nodded. “Might not. Got bupkiss from Katie about the coin. She hasn’t seen it, or so she says. Might have to make this time, this place, our new home.” He waited and watched the fear that moved across her features. “Not giving up, mind you. Not yet. But we have to realize it’s a possibility. Think you can handle that?”
“Do I have a choice?” Her chin dropped to her chest, her gaze falling away, unfocused.
“No. Only choice we have is to make the best of whatever is handed to us. Right now, we still got hope. But know that no matter what happens—” His hand moved from her breast, the fingers curling under her chin, tipping her face up and forcing her to look into his eyes. “Buffy, you gotta know, I will always take care of you. We’re in this together. Makes no difference what once was—”
“But you said—“
“Know what I said, Buffy. And I was wrong. I was talking out my arse. Was angry, that’s all and,” he sighed, pulling her closer until her chin rested on his chest, and looking down at her. Their noses were almost touching. “I was wrong. Everything has changed. Don’t you see that? Even if we do get home, won’t be the same. Not with either of us, not between us. Can’t go through something like this and not change. We could spend an eternity trying to suss out the why and what’s of it, but we’d be fools to deny it.”
“You’re no fool.” Buffy whispered.
“No, I’m not,” Spike agreed. “And neither are you. Just hard-headed – hey, hold there,” He gripped her tightly as she tried to pull away from him. “Just speakin’ the truth as I see it. Hard-headed myself, from time to time.”
“Yeah, from time to time,” Buffy huffed, her body moving against his, causing the button fly of his jeans to cut into his erection. He shifted his hips to ease the stress. Her eyes flew to his again. “Sorry.”
A corner of his mouth tilted. “Don’t be sorry, pet. Is what makes the world go round, yeah?”
She smiled shyly up at him. “Well, that’s one way to put it.”
He tilted his head, moving to touch his lips to hers. “I can put it another way, if you’d like.”
At the last minute, she turned her head and his lips met the softness of her cheek. “Spike, still with the talky here, groping can come later.”
He pulled back, giving her his best leer. “Well, glad to hear somethin’s gonna come later.”
Her mouth fell open then, just as quickly, snapped shut. “Pig,” she muttered.
He smiled rakishly, the hand on her ass massaging her pliant flesh. “Can’t see where the two have to be separate, pet. I can multi-task with the best of them.” He ran his right hand down over her hip, to grasp her behind the knee. With a fluid motion he pulled her leg up, wrapping
it around his hip. “Now, what do you want to talk about?”
Despite what appeared to be her best intentions, she smiled at him. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Been told that, yeah.” He nodded solemnly, his hand holding her leg against him. “This mean we’re finished talkin’?”
Buffy’s face grew serious. “Were you telling the truth?”
His face followed her lead, the smile replaced by a wrinkled brow. “Gotta be more specific, luv. When? About what?”
Buffy hesitated, biting nervously at her bottom lip. At last she said “About your mother . . . when you were talking to Katie. Where you just saying all those things to get to her? Get the coin?”
The hand holding her leg in place relaxed and she slid it slowly downward. “Yeah.” He could feel her tighten in his arms. “But it was also the truth.”
“Oh,” she relaxed. “She died of consumption?”
“She had the consumption, yes.” At her quizzical look he elaborated. “TB. Tuberculosis. ”
He could tell she recognized that name. “You can die from that?”
“Yeah, back then you could. . . more often than not you did.” At her puzzled look, he continued. “Gotta remember, luv, back then . . . now, there aren’t treatments for many diseases. No medications. Only treatment back then was a visit to a sanitorium.”
“That must have been hard for you and your family.”
“It was just my mother and , at that point.” Spike took a step back from her, finally releasing his hold on her. If he was going to go down this road, he was going to need some space. It was a thin line to walk between the truth he knew he could never share with her and the half-truth that would satisfy her curiosity. “My father had died a few years back and the girls married and had families of their own.”
“The girls?” She asked, her eyes following him as he went to sit down Indian style on the pile of blankets he called a bed.
“My older sisters.”
Both her eyebrows rose. “You had sisters?”
“Don’t sound so surprised, pet. Was human once…well, before,” He waived his hand in frustration, “Again, whatever. This whole timeline of back then not even having happened yet keeps scramblin’ my brains.”
Buffy dropped to her knees beside him. “I know you were human. I guess I just never, well, thought about you having a family--people you loved and took care of.”
He reached a hand out to caress her cheek. “See, it’s what I said. Things have changed, we’re both bein’ forced to see things in a different light here . . . look past our, well, pasts, our differences.”
She sat back on her haunches, the voluminous folds of her nightgown billowing about her. The gown was still unbuttoned, a deep vee that revealed the soft tops of her breasts to his perusal. His hand moved from her cheek to run slowly down the exposed midline of her body, stopping when his index finger hit the first fastened button.
Her hand stilled his, her eyes serious, earnest. “I get that. I really do. And I agree with you.” When his eyes flashed, the astonishment clearly visible, she continued with a smile. “Don’t look so surprised.”
“So?” he urged.
“So,” she sighed. “I get it. But I also get that right now, more than anything, we need to concentrate on getting that coin back. Until we know for sure that we can or can’t get home, I think we need to . . . go slow.”
The hand under hers moved, worrying at the button on her gown. “I can do slow.”
She laughed then, and the sound was so light, lyrical, and sweet that it wrapped around his newly working heart, making it skip a beat. “Good,” she said, still chuckling. She moved his hand away from her gown, placing it palm down on his thigh, with hers over it. She placed her other hand on his other thigh and leaned in to him. “Now, what’s the plan for getting the coin back?”
To Be Continued