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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks to eman and Holly, two of the best betas a girl could hope for!
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Spike could feel Buffy fall asleep, her body relaxed under his hands, her breathing evened out, becoming deeper. He was glad to see her getting the rest. It had been an incredibly taxing day for both of them. Life in this era was physically challenging, but also, for them, mentally draining. Adding the burden of constantly have to keep up the guise of a young frontier couple to the grueling labor, blistering heat, and dust clogging one’s ears, eyes, and nose, was the straw that just might break their backs.

Watching her today, fighting the pain and fatigue from sitting the on wagon for hour after hour, he could do nothing but admire her spirit and fortitude. It shook him to the core, these feelings that were tracing through his system. Still, working with her, instead of against her—
on a deep, deep level—didn’t seem right to him. But it was quickly becoming more than that. There was something about her that seemed to draw him in. Even when he wanted to stay angry, growling and cranky, she’d say something, do something, and he couldn’t help himself, he found himself moved by her. He’d find himself smiling despite his better nature.

He’d actually been concerned for her today. Worrying about her as the sun reached its zenith and he could see the signs of heat exhaustion beginning to take their toll on her newly human stamina. It had only been a few days ago when something like that would have caused him to chuckle with glee. Now, it just made him feel antsy. Nervous. Like something was crawling under his skin and he just couldn’t figure out how to get the feeling to stop.

Was it the soul?

Did he even have his soul now? He’d told Buffy he had, but in reality, he wasn’t sure. There was something stirring, deep down inside him. Something that was bringing up feelings and memories he had long since consigned to the wasteland of his past. Something that was making him think about things in a different way. But then again, it could just be disorientation from the time shift.

It wasn’t as if he was being haunted. He wasn’t drowning in guilt, knee deep in the misery of the memory of every soul he’d hastened off to heaven, or to hell. When he’d taken the time to think about Angel’s predicament—which, granted, wasn’t often—he usually envisioned his grandsire enduring grinding and unending torment in payment for every evil deed. Surely that’s what would be happening to him, now, if he’d gotten his soul back.

It was obviously a mystery that wasn’t going to be solved overnight. It wasn’t like there was some measurement that one could take to determine the presence of a soul. It seemed not to matter if his soul had been returned, along with his humanity, or if it was simply the that they were thrown together in a life or death situation – in either case, Spike was finding himself attracted to Buffy.

No doubt about it, he’d always found the chit to be absolutely enticing. Long strands of tawny hair, flying fists, snarky comebacks, all combined to make her, in his eyes, an irresistible parry to his thrust. He’d often, even with Dru lying beside him, fantasized about fucking the Slayer just before striking the death blow. She was a tasty morsel, no matter how you looked at it. But while that languid lust was still there, making his cock hard beneath the soft denim of his jeans, it was no longer mingled with blood lust. At least not the kind of blood lust that ended with Buffy drained dry and dropping limply to the ground at his feet. He still longed to taste her, even in this human guise, but now that craving was tempered with the need to see her safe, to hold her close, and to protect her.

Once again he was destined to be love’s bitch. Only this time he was falling for the Queen Bitch.

Bloody pathetic wanker!

He shuddered at the thought of losing his heart to this girl, pulling his hands away from the warmth of her shoulders for fear he would wake her.

It just wasn’t right. She was his natural enemy – both of them prey and predator to each other.
Besides, if she found out she’d chew him up and spit him out. If she even had an inkling that he was beginning to have feelings for her that weren’t intimately related to revulsion and hatred, she’d hand him his liver on a platter. He’d not only end up being tormented for his weakness, he knew, deep in his heart, that if this one every truly got her hands on his heart, she’d own it, lock, stock, and barrel . . . forever. He’d be her bloody lapdog, happy for any crumb she tossed him.

No way was he going to let that happen … soul or no soul. He didn’t have much dignity left, but what little he had he was holding on to with his fingernails. No bloody way was he possibly gaining a soul, only to lose his heart in the deal.

He stared down at the sleeping Slayer, trying with every bit of evil he could muster, could remember, to stir up and maintain his anger. He scowled, his eyes narrowing, as he tried to recall every time she’d gotten in the way of his carefully laid plans, every time she’d managed to pull victory over him out of the hands of defeat, every time she kicked his ass from here to Sunnydale.

He was just managing to work up a good head of steam when Buffy sighed in her sleep, rolling from her stomach on to her side and tucking her tiny fist under her chin. She hadn’t fastened all the buttons of her prim white night gown, and the neckline fell open enough for him to see the soft swell of her right breast as it pressed into the mattress.

Spike’s mouth fell open, his eyes widening as he took in the sight. She was, he thought, like a sweet, golden kitten; all that was missing was the purr – and the claws. Just then, Buffy emitted a soft snore and rolled onto her back, one arm flung across the mattress towards him, her small fingers curled into the palm of her hand as it rested against his knee.

He looked down at her hand.

The hand that he’d been holding, only a short time ago.

The hand that now, it would seem, held his heart.

And in that moment, in his heart, that was now beating double-time in his chest, and in his soul, where ever it may reside, he knew . . . he was screwed.

To Be Continued





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