Chapter Five

The train rumbled to life beneath Buffy's feet, throwing her off balance. She reeled against the wall of the tiny hallway, her arms tightening reflexively around Spike, who was cradled in her arms like a child. A very large, loud, obnoxious child, she thought, one who reeks of cheap liquor. The sound of his drunken laughter grated on her nerves. Pulling herself off the wall, she gritted her teeth and continued down the hall towards the private compartment they'd reserved from a pay phone.

"I'm really missing your wheelchair right about now. Good thing people in Sunnydale all live in a state of perma-denial. Normal people might ask us how someone my size can lug around a guy your size. Plus, there's the whole beaten-up, not breathing part." She grunted and fell against the wall as the train rocked again, nearly dropping Spike. Clasping him closer to her chest, she sighed with relief at the sight of their destination.

"Ooh, Slayer, that's right," Spike said, still chuckling. "Put your hot, little hands right about there. No, no, go just a tad lower."

Buffy's hands twitched beneath his thighs. "I move them and you hit the ground," she hissed into his ear, fumbling for the door handle. "Don't tempt me. You're drunk and disgusting. I wouldn't put my hands on your ass in the best of times, much less when you smell like a distillery."

Tucking his head against her shoulder so that they'd fit through the narrow doorway together, Spike stuck out his tongue, tasting the skin where her shoulder met her neck. "Sweet," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I knew you would taste sweet."

"What! Oh, ew. You're so out of your mind. I never thought you'd be such a lightweight. Big, smart idea, getting you drunk to dull the pain ... if I'd known it would turn you into a such a ... a ... hey, watch the hands! Keep them to yourself, or loose them." She opened the door and kicked it shut behind them. "Home sweet home," she said, surveying the tiny room quickly. "Hey, hands, remember!" Without warning, she dumped him on the couch.

"Ahhh," he moaned, closing his eyes and curling onto his side defensively. He pulled his legs up with his hands, moaning again at the sound of his broken bones shifting. "Mind the bruises, pet. And the cuts. And the broken bones. The bloody rattling of the train is bad enough on my body without you throwing me all about. I'm sloshed, yeah, but not well enough for that."

"You think the rattle's bad? Wait a few hours till the sun comes up. You're going to be stuck in this compartment, on that couch. No where for you to go, especially without a wheelchair." She moved to the small window and shut the blinds. "And I'll be stuck in here with you. I can't exactly move around without a care, not yet anyways. This train is jammed full of people from Sunnydale and Los Angeles. What are the odds that none of them have heard of the Slayer?"

"Better than the odds I would've given on this whole situation last week. Who'd have thought you and I'd be trapped in here together for god-knows-how-long, with nothing for entertainment but each other." He brought his hands up to pillow his cheek, wincing as the wounds on his wrists complained. "A couch, a table, a window, and I'm guessing behind 'door number two' there's a toilet. No telly. No books. Not even a deck of cards."

"There's a radio," Buffy said, pulling it from underneath the table. "That'll do for entertainment, for a few hours at least. When we cross the border, all we'll get on this is Spanish."

"You don't hablo the espaņol?" Smirking hurt, but he did it anyways. "Well, at least one of us will be entertained."

She sent him a black look, then opened the door to the bathroom. With a sigh of relief, she said, "There's a shower. Yay us. Or, yay me, anyways. You're not gonna be on your feet anytime soon. Too bad, too, since you're the stinky one."

Spike's face clouded over. He closed his eyes again and said nothing, only took a deep breath, and then another. And then stopped breathing all together.

"Breathe," Buffy said, watching him. "It's creepy when you don't."

"Breathing hurts, you bloody fool." He didn't open his eyes, but Buffy could see the glare lurking beneath the lids as clearly as if he had. "Everything hurts."

She hovered over him, uncertainty making her movements jerky. A thin, blue blanket hung over the arm of the couch. Reaching for it, she covered him, ignoring his wheezy curse.

"Quit your fussing," he growled, but tried to pull the blanket up higher. The movement made him gasp in pain.

Perching on the table, Buffy tucked the blanket around his shoulders. "Better?" she asked, her voice quiet and carefully free of pity. No pity here, nope, no way. A pity free zone. Just because you got all these injuries to protect me, that in no way makes me want to nurse you. Nope. Her lips twitched, and she covered her mouth with one hand. What an idiot. He needs help. You think he'd just accept it, but no ... Nothing can ever be simple. "Want an aspirin or something? I saw a kit of stuff like that in the bathroom."

"Vampires aren't real big on aspirin, Slayer. A bottle of tequila, maybe, since we're headed south of the border and all. But nothing so sissy as an aspirin."

"We got you all liquored up before we left town. That was supposed to last you a while."

"Yeah, well, tell that to the pain in my back." He pushed his cheek into the orange couch cushion. The friction opened the gash on his cheekbone, and he licked at the thin line of blood. "And in the rest of me too."

Buffy settled back against the wall, drawing her legs to her chest. The denim covering her knees felt rough beneath her chin, and she turned her head, enjoying the texture. "We'll be in Mexico soon. After a few days, most of the Sunnydale passengers should be gone. I'll get out at a stop and get you some tequila. Until then, aspirin is your only poison. Satisfied?"

The answer — no — was so obvious, he didn't even bother with it. He blinked at her once, with eyes so bloodshot Buffy didn't know how he could stand the feeling of his eyelids scraping over them. When he closed them, hiding their misery from her sight, she was relieved.

She hugged her legs more tightly and laid her head on them, wishing she hadn't noticed that Spike looked even worse after being lugged across town and onto the train than he'd looked ten hours earlier, after his bout with Angelus. The bruises had risen to a ripe fullness on the skin of his face, along with a translucent sheen that spoke volumes about the aches he must be feeling above his waist. Below the waist he, of course, felt nothing. Buffy was glad for his paralysis. She'd done her best to force the bones of his calves back into alignment back at the crypt, but she couldn't see if her efforts had been successful through the huge amount of swelling that had bloomed since then. She wasn't about to mess with them again. The sound of his screams will stay with me forever, she thought, squeezing her own legs more tightly.

"Are you just going to sit there," he asked, moving nothing but his lips.

"Not unless I want the pattern on this table permanently engraved on the seat of my jeans." She shifted, uncomfortable. "I think that couch pulls out into a bed. You up for moving?"

"Not as such." He squinted at her. "You're going to make me?"

Swallowing a pang of sympathy, she nodded. "If that's the only padded seat, you're not getting all of it."

He nodded and closed his eyes, waiting with reluctance for her to lift him.

"Help me," she said, grabbing him under the arms. She pulled him over her shoulder, fireman-style. "Put your arms up."

He ignored her, but she didn't mind. The look on his face told her that he was barely keeping it together. Setting him gently on the floor, she unfolded the couch and made up the bed as fast as she could.

"There," she said, settling him onto the crisp, white sheet. She waited for him to pull himself into a ball again, but this time he stayed still. Her hands trembled on the top sheet as she pulled it over his legs, then moved up to hover over his face, over the worst of the bruising that circled his left eye. "We should change your bandages. They're getting kinda ripe," she said, her voice low and apologetic. "I guess we'll have to cut your jeans off. They're not gonna fit anyways if that swelling keeps up." Without waiting for his answer, she went into the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit.

When she returned, kit and scissors in hand, he hadn't moved. Had she not known better, she would've assumed he was truly dead. "Spike," she said, kneeling on the bed beside him. "Can you ... umm ... twitch or something? Just so I know you're not gonna bite me if I touch you?" The sleeve of his shirt brushed her knees, though she hadn't seen him move. "Umm ... fine. Okay. Let's get on with this."

Pulling back the sheet, she undid the button of his jeans, her eyes glued to his face in search of a reaction. When she found none, she continued, unzipping his fly and opening the scissors. "You really don't want to startle me right now. Wouldn't want me to slip," she said, putting the lower blade under the denim. Heat from his body warmed the metal, confusing her until she remembered he'd fed before they left the crypt. The scissors were too weak to cleanly cut the thick material, but she didn't want to rip the pants away without at least a tear started. He was in enough pain without her jerking his legs around again.

The black denim gave way to bright white briefs. Suppressing a giggle at his mundane choice of underwear, she spread open his jeans the rest of the way. What she saw beneath them made her bite her lips. "I'm not gonna tell you it looks pretty under here," she said to him, though she doubted he was conscious enough to listen. "Let's just say ... the rotting look does not suit you."

"I am a corpse, you know," he muttered, surprising her. "More blood's all I need to heal."

"We'll take care of that after I clean you up a bit." She unwrapped the bandages, wrinkling her nose. "Ripe is such a weak word when it comes to describing this stench."

"I get it, okay? Rotting, smelly, bad Spike. Enough with the running commentary."

"Fine," she said, opening the first aid kit and removing a ball of gauze and a bottle of disinfectant. "On with Nurse Buffy."

He turned his head away from her, clenching his jaw as the disinfectant hit his skin. A low growl rumbled out of him, followed by words spoken so hard, Buffy couldn't understand them.

"Are you talking to me?" she asked, gingerly patting the wound on his right calf where the bone had pierced his skin.

"I said, why are you doing this?"

"Running away? You know why."

"No," he said, his words gritty, "not running away. Taking care of me. I know, I know, you have a timeline to protect, and I know all your little secrets. Makes me a big danger, right enough. So, why nurse me back to un-health? Be easier just to stake me. That *is* what you do, remember? Slayer?"

She didn't answer for a moment, only continued to disinfect his leg. The damp gauze felt cold against her fingers, a welcome feeling as it distracted her from the slimy wetness of the fluid seeping from his wound. Her thoughts swirled together; she couldn't pick them apart enough to answer. Finally, she said, "No."

"No?"

"No." Moving to his left leg, she pulled out a fresh piece of gauze. "Before Angelus and Dru crashed our little crypt party, you asked me a question. You asked me if a tiny piece of metal imbedded in your brain made that much of a difference in who you are. Who you will be." Wetting the gauze, she stared down at his leg, unable to look him in the eyes. "No. That's my answer. You're still you, only less ... tested. I just ... I just never knew it, until ..." Trailing her finger alongside the gash with feather-light pressure, she darted a glance at his face. "Until this."

Something flickered over the line of his brows, but he said nothing. She took a deep breath, knowing he must think she'd gone insane. Pushing the heel of her hand into her forehead, she took another breath, and wondered if he might be right. Take a little death, add a smidge of time travel, and voila! One nutty Slayer. Her knee jerked, tipping the bottle of disinfectant over and startling her back to her work. "How're your wrists?" she asked, keeping her face closed of all emotion.

"They'll keep." He hissed as she palpitated the muscle of his calf. "Hey. You better know what you're about down there."

"You can feel this?" she asked, tickling the skin of his ankle with her fingertips. "Hey. Yeah. You could feel all this, the sting of the medicine and everything. I didn't even think ... why didn't you say something?"

"It comes and goes," he said. "I try to move, and there's just nothing. Angelus breaks my legs and ... nothing. Not much, anyhow. But sometimes, along the skin especially, I get ... umm ... prickles."

"It's coming back already. The feeling in your legs." She capped the disinfectant and put it back in the first aid kit.

"You tell me. You're the all-knowing future girl, after all."

Shrugging, she moved up his side to his chest and began to open the buttons of his shirt. "It's not like we were best pals. All I know is that sometime before May, you'll be up and running." The shirt opened to reveal the too-pale skin of his chest. Bluish bruises flourished over his ribs and down towards his hips. She started to touch one, then paused. "I'm just gonna ... "

"Yeah," he said, rolling his head back to stare at the ceiling.

Beneath her hands, his skin felt smooth and solid. She stroked them over his pectoral muscles and down his sides, trying to feel the bones underneath. "Your ribs have healed already, I think. I don't feel any bumps."

"Look lower," he muttered, the corner of his mouth turning up.

She gave him a poke, then winced as he recoiled. "Umm ... sorry. Well, okay. You can button your shirt yourself. I'll ... umm ... oh, wait. Let me get some water and soap and stuff. If I'm gonna be stuck in here with you, I'm going to have to do stink-control."

"You're not gonna give me a sponge bath. I might be a pathetic ponce just now, but I'm not getting wiped down like a child in nappies." He struggled to raise his shoulders up and glared at her, his eyes bright with pain. "You might think about a good wash yourself. I might stink of whisky, but you're the one who rolled out of a grave not too long ago."

"Fine. But if you're not up and in that shower by tomorrow, I'm dumping water on you, like it or not." She pulled the sheet over him, covering him to his chin. As she folded down the edge of the sheet, her hand brushed his jaw. The stubble scratched at her, and she jerked away. I didn't like that. No, I *so* did ... not. His eyes were on her when she looked up, silent laughter locked inside them. "You got to ask me a question. Now, it's my turn. I want a straight answer from you. Why are you doing this?"

"That's so unoriginal, pet."

"Just answer me." Her eyes held his, unwavering and solemn.

He shrugged, ignoring the pain. "Staying in Sunnyhell rather lost all appeal when Angelus decided to make me his punching bag. Not like Dru cared overmuch, you realize. And ..."

"And what?"

"Like I said before, it just feels like the thing to do. Going with you ... it feels right, don't ask me why. I don't get this. How I feel ... all funny inside, warm. I feel more alive ... I'm even breathing more often. Must be your influence. Living with a human is rubbing off on me or something. Helping you ... skipping town with you ... I'm doing it because it feels right, but I don't understand it."

She gave him a hint of a smile. "I think I do, maybe. We've skipped town together before ... or, before for me. You know what I mean."

"Why, because I was in love with you in the future? This warmth, the breathing ... you think that's ... love?"

The word came off his lips soured, which stung her. She inhaled sharply, trying to loosen the sudden tightness in her chest. "No," she said, "of course not. But it's something. You don't hate me. And I don't hate you. It's ... something

He rolled his eyes. "So that chip really did send me on the fast track to poofterdom."

"If that's what you want to call it, but it wasn't the chip that did it. I might've never realized that if I hadn't seen Angelus beat the tar out of you. You did a lot ... I mean, you will do ... or would've done a lot for us."

"You're not a bit worried that taking ole Spike out of the other Slayer's future will screw things up, are you?"

Without a thought, she shook her head. "No way. You helped, but you weren't exactly vital. There was the whole truce, where we took down Angelus, but if it hadn't been you helping me, it would've been someone else. Xander, probably."

"Tell me more about future me. I want to hear all about my downward spiral into softness and sissyhood."

"Would a sissy grab the blade of a sword in both of his hands to keep it from slamming through my skull? I don't think so. You risked yourself to take off with us, me and the gang, to save Dawn's life. It was more than I ever expected of you. You really pulled through."

"'S that why you lugged me with you? Because we'd gone together before?"

She looked down at her hands, fiddling with the edge of the sheet. "You're the only person in the whole world who knows I exist. I didn't want to be alone. And I couldn't just leave you there."

Raising an eyebrow, he said, "Are you saying ... we're friends?"

Her arms jerked back, away from him. With wide eyes, she shook her head. "No. We're not friends. More ... I don't know. More ... something. But not friends."

"Even after doing all those goody-goody deeds, catching the sword and whatnot, Glory torture, you still couldn't think of me as someone worthy of friendship?" Dropping his head back on the pillow, he shut his eyes. "Not like I care, mind you. Just that ... what does it take with you? You're here with this me, being all Florence Nightingale-ish, when you say you never treated the other me so good."

"I didn't think you were worthy of anything back then. Friendship ... not something I'd even have considered. You were just ... always there. Helping. I could count on you. And then I die and get all lost in the past, and here you are, helping me again. I ... ummm," she flushed, amazed at herself. "I was wrong. I mean, obviously."

"The Slayer admits she was wrong? Well, that might mean more to me if I had any memory of what it is you've done to me. As it stands, I'll just enjoy the fact that I'm on a train and not in a pile of dust somewhere." He licked his lips, wetting them. "You do realize I'll have to eat."

"There are butchers in Mexico. You'll survive."

"Not exactly what I meant, pet. Just because your other Spike was leashed doesn't mean I have to be such a whelp."

"So, you're going to start killing people, once your legs heal?" She squeezed the sheet between her hands, annoyed with herself for the trepidation that hung on her words. "You know that won't work with me, Spike. I can't let you do that."

"May, you said? I get my legs back then?"

"Around then, yeah." She looked down at the bulges under the sheet where the bandages on his legs were. "Maybe sooner, I guess."

"I could leave you, when I'm better." He watched her, giving nothing away with his gaze. "You'd fight me, wouldn't you?"

"Of course I would," she whispered. "Slayer ... big protector person, remember? I can't let you hurt people. You know that. If you leave to do that, once your legs are working ... well, I won't let you."

He turned on his side towards her, rolling his legs with him. "Seems we've got some issues to work out, if we're keeping this partnership together. Either I live like a human, or we fight to the death. That's it?"

Don't leave me alone, she wanted to say, wanted to beg. Pathetic much? There will be no begging. Pull it together. "Live like a man, or die like a vamp. It's your choice. But either way ..." Don't leave me alone. Her hands shook on the sheet. She dropped her grip and folded them together. "Either way ... it's up to you."

He closed his eyes tiredly, accepting her terms. "Right then. We'll fight, or we'll stay together. But we're not friends. Fine. I get you."

"Right," she said. She leaned forwards, pulling the sheet up to cover his shoulders. "That's it. We're not friends. You've just ... always ... gotten me. And I think I'm starting to get you, too."

He chuckled, a sound heavy with weariness that fell between them like a wall. "Which me?" he asked her in a rumbling undertone. "Chiphead?"

Laying down beside him, she followed the line of his throat with her eyes. Just let yourself go, already. "Both. Either. Doesn't matter. The chip didn't make a difference. It was a wake-up call, that's all." With a hesitant hand, she reached towards him and brushed her thumb over his bruised cheekbone. "You were always ... you."

Their eyes locked together over Buffy's hand, both stunned by the emotion between them. Spike shook his head, one sharp movement that came to him from instinct rather than desire. Her hand fell back, hanging in the space between them. With a tight smile, Buffy let it drop. She jumped off the bed and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a firm click.

He watched her leave, his eyes narrowed. Shifting restlessly, trying to relieve the throbbing of his back, he kept his gaze on the door behind which, he could hear Buffy breathing in deep, desperate gulps. All of his pain and confusion welded together inside of him, swelling up into a single upsurge of devouring yearning. Cursing himself for his foolish patheticness, he tore his eyes away from the door. He grabbed a pillow and pressed it over his face, over his ears, trying with no success to block out her sounds. "Bugger," he whispered, pushing his hands into the ache of longing in his chest as if he could tear it out. "Bugger me."

♥

Sunnydale, 2001

"Good thing I saved all these," Willow said. She snuggled deeper into the couch, pulling one of Giles' journals higher on her lap. The vanilla-colored pages were covered with tiny words inscribed in black ink. With the tip of her index finger, she traced the date Giles had written in the upper corner of the last page. "Lots of info here, but it seems kinda off that I'd have them. I thought they were suppose to go to the Council if Giles died? Big Slayer/Watcher secrets and all?"

Tara leaned back against the couch cushions, looking over the mounds of leather-bound journals that layered the coffee table. The center of each cover bore the initials R.G. burned in italics. They were all in impeccable condition, though their owner had died nearly three years earlier. "They were your babies," Tara said, curling her legs up beneath her and facing Willow. "You kept them under lock and key in a fireproof safe. All the years you'd spent with Xander and Gile, with Buffy, before she ... changed ... all those years are documented in these books. I think you'd have sold your fillings before you'd part with them."

Licking her tongue over her molars, Willow sighed. "I was right to keep them. The Council wouldn't have used them right. They never did have any respect for Giles. 'Cause, you know, he loved Buffy. Like, really loved her. And love is a big evil to those guys. Or that's how they acted, at least." Flipping through the pages of the journal open in her lap, she found what she was looking for. She rapped her knuckles against the page. "See, like here. He writes about Jenny, how she lied to us all. Giles loved Jenny, but in here, all he writes about is how he's mad at her for hurting Buffy. Nothing about how she hurt him." Closing the book, she rubbed the pad of her thumb over the initials on the cover. "He cared more for Buffy than he did for himself. He would've given up his life for her, without even thinking twice."

"He did," Tara said. She took the journal from Willow and opened it to the last page. "This night, he did. I guess he wrote this just before the vampires captured him. Sometime between writing this and the next night, he was murdered."

"That's just ... no. That didn't happen, not really." Tears choking her, Willow swallowed hard and took a deep breath. "No. That's all a part of the stupidity that is me. I screwed it up." She gazed at Tara with wet, bruised eyes. "How did it happen that night? In your reality, I mean?"

"I don't really know too much. Buffy ... she was more than broken. There was no way for her to talk about what took place."

"She never said what happened? Not a word?"

Tara dropped her gaze, avoiding Willow's eyes. "When she'd have nightmares, sometimes she'd cry out about it being her fault. Like ... at night. Every night. She was broken, Will. I never knew her as anything else. By the time I met you, she'd ... well, she was not the Buffy you knew."

"I have to fix this, Tara. All this ... it's beyond bad. Bad we've dealt with before. This is something new. Worse." She covered her face with trembling hands, her words soaked with misery. "I might as well have killed them myself."

Rising to her knees, Tara moved to Willow's side and stroked her hair. With one hand, she hooked Willow's chin and gently pushed her head up. Their eyes met, and held, both tired, both afraid. Tara smoothed the tears from Willow's cheeks. She brushed a kiss over her lips, then said, "We'll fix it, honey. You and I. All these books ... they'll tell us how to make things right again." Kissing her again, she caressed Willow's cheek, then tucked a lock of loose hair behind her ear. "You're no killer," she said, her voice a serious whisper.

The words breathed across Willow's face, reassuring and sweet. She gazed into Tara's eyes, searching for any hint of blame, but finding only determined compassion and love. Sniffling, she nodded. "Okay. Pulling myself together here. We've got a lot to do, and me being all Sobby Sally isn't going to fix the timeline."

"That's my girl," Tara said, relief lightening her face. "Where do we start?"

"I'm thinking we could combine a general reversal spell with elements from the original spell, sort of a magic hodge-podge." She stood and went to Buffy's weapons chest, which now held various magical components. Pulling out several items, she continued, "We have all we need, I think. Are you ready?"

Standing, Tara moved the coffee table to one side. She folded back the carpet to reveal a circle of black paint on the floorboards. "We're ready," she said, kneeling and blessing the circle with a quick motion of her hands.

"Let's go it then," Willow said, sitting across from Tara. She crumbled the leaves of a spicy smelling plant, making a star-shaped pattern in the center of the circle. "Per meus famen, divello factum." Removing the cork, she upended a glass vial and sprinkled the red powder from inside over the star. Energy, like a blue wind, began to swirl over the circle. Concentrating, neither Willow nor Tara noticed the yellow light that glowed from their skins. "Refero Buffy. Abrogo veneficus." The wind moved faster, blowing the leaves out of their star-shape and sucking them up inside itself. Throwing her arms into the arm, Willow finished, "Refero Buffy!" before slumping backwards onto her back.

"Willow!" Tara shouted, jumping up and breaking the circle. The blue wind fell away, scattering bits of leaves over the living room. She started towards Willow, but was stopped by the movement of the ground. It quaked beneath them with a rolling roar. The walls shuddered from the force, shedding pictures and mirrors to fly to the floor.

Rolling onto her side, Willow crawled into the doorway. Tara followed her. They huddled together, watching wide-eyed as the earthquake continued, breaking the window. Glass rained over the couch. Outside, a woman began to scream.

"Did it work?" Willow asked, dazed. She reeled dizzily to one side. "The spell? Did it work?"

Drawing Willow against her side with one steadying arm, Tara looking at the wreckage. The woman on the street was still screaming, and as she listened, other screams arose. In the distance, an ambulance blared its siren. Hugging Willow closer, Tara felt her heart sink. "I'm thinking no."

♥

1998

Spike jerked awake to a crashing sound coming from the bathroom. He listened for a beat, then called out to her. "Slayer? You miss the pot?" When there was no answer, he propped himself up on his elbows. "Buffy? You alright in there?"

She didn't answer. He cocked his head, listening for the sound of her breathing, the sound he'd fallen asleep to. There was no noise coming from the bathroom at all. A sick feeling rose in his stomach, but he swallowed it down with annoyance. "Buffy, answer me," he said, an edge growing under his words. "I can't come to you, pet. Answer me!"

Suddenly, the door to the train compartment was flung open. Spike jerked back on the bed, stunned at the site of a not-quit-human standing before him, panting. The man whipped his head back and forth, searching the compartment with exaggerated movements that would've been comical under any other circumstances. "I smelled it," the man said, raising his face and glaring at Spike.

"Umm ... smelled what, mate?" Taking in the man's appearance, Spike felt the bed behind him, hoping for some kind of weapon to magically appear. Creatures with faces textured like dried prunes and red eyes were not to be trusted offhandedly. "You've got the wrong compartment. But while you're here, you might do me a favor and ... "

The creature stepped forward, growling. "Where is she? I smelled the mystical energy, vampire. If you've hurt the Slayer ... "

Pointing towards the bathroom, Spike said, "In there." He leaned forward, waiting to see in the door. When the creature hesitated, Spike rolled his eyes and flipped back the bed sheet to reveal the bandages on his legs. "Hurry along now and check on her, will you? As you can see, I'm not really able to."

"I don't care about you," the creature said, shaking his finger at Spike as if scolding a naughty child. "It's the Slayer I'm here for. Who cares about vampires?" With a final glare, he pulled open the door to reveal Buffy lying sprawled on her back on the floor. Blue and yellow energy crackled over her body, sparking the air with tiny flames.

Looking back at Spike with a beaming smile, the creature nodded. "Just as I smelled. She's spell-shocked."

Chapter Six

1998

Looking back at Spike with a beaming smile, the creature nodded. "Just as I smelled. She's spell-shocked."

Spike gaped at the creature, incredulous. "Spell-shocked? No one's been casting any spells in here. She must've fallen and hit her head or something. Quit your grinning and help her!"

"She's not hurt," the creature said, stroking an enormous, withered hand over Buffy's hair. "Were she hurt, I would sense it straightaway. There's nothing natural wrong with her. Can't you feel the magic? She's been stunned by a spell gone wrong. It'll take a while for her to come back from this. Smell that energy crackling?" He raised his face towards the ceiling, inhaling deeply through two oval nostrils that lay flush against the bones of his skull. "Powerful, it is. So potent, it was a challenge to smell the scent of Slayer beneath it. And not cast from this dimension, definitely not. Trans-dimensional magic never goes well."

"Get her on the bed," Spike snarled. He glared at the creature, vamping out for effect. "Now."

Ignoring Spike, the creature continued to pet Buffy's hair. "Lovely. So lovely. The Slayer is truly a wonder, is she not? I'd heard as much about her line, but this is the first Slayer I've met. Her hair ... so gold ... it's softer than anything else I've felt. Even my Annabella's hair, and wasn't she a wonder herself." His hand faltered, and he fell back slightly. "My Annabella was such a wonder," he repeated in a whisper, his red eyes glowing.

"Fine. Your Annabella was a swell bird. Great. Now bring the Slayer up here, before I ... " His hands clenched into fists. Helpless. He was nothing but a helpless lump, too weak to even see if Buffy was breathing. Baring his fangs at the creature, he threw a pillow at him. "Before I yell at you real loud, you nit. Get her up here!"

With great care, the creature lifted Buffy up and cradled her against his enormous chest. He stood only about five feet off the ground, but was built like a thickly-muscled square. His legs were so burly that he waddled as he walked, but Spike didn't care what the creature looked like. All that mattered was that there was someone who could help Buffy, when he could not. It should be me there, helping her, he thought, running his tongue over his fangs before relaxing his face into human features. I hate this bloke.

Laying her on the bed next to Spike, the creature smoothed Buffy's hair back from her face. He hovered over her, anxious to help. "I'll get a cup of water for her. The Slayer would like that, I think. A cool rag for her forehead, that would be nice. Another pillow, those there are no good. And maybe some soup. Annabella liked soup. Does she like soup?"

"Slow down there, Martha Stewart." Spike placed a possessive hand on Buffy's forehead. He looked down at her, noticing the blue stains on her eyelids. Bruises grew there, as though she'd been punched in the eyes by invisible fists. "Not so fast. Answers first. Who are you?"

"The name's Hugh," the creature said, punching a fist against his chest in punctuation. "Hugh Lowery."

"Okay, that's ... helpful. How 'bout telling me what you are? A faery, sure, I can see that, but what sort?"

"You can't tell by the look of me? I know, I know, I'm big for a Brownie ... and then, there's the red Phooka eyes — got those from my grand-dad, but my blood's only a bit mixed, really."

"And you came from ... where?"

"Britain, originally. I looked after mistresses and their households for centuries there, happily." A sad smile flickered over his face. "Then, I met my Annabella. She was something special, she was. Never been so taken with a human before I met her. I broke all the traditional rules, just to know her, to have her see me. When she left Britain to join her cousin in Mexico, I followed her. I cared for her home here for decades, until ... "

"Until she died. That's the way of it, mate, when you love the mortals." Running a hand through his hair, Spike sighed. Smart thing to do would be to send him on his merry way. Foolish to trust strangers offhand, but ... not much choice here ... we need help. Help with legs that work."Right, then. You're a Brownie, so you help people. No threat there. Go on, help her."

Hugh nodded complacently. "Water, water will help. Wouldn't do for the Slayer to wake up with a dry mouth." He tucked the sheet around Buffy's still form, then rushed into the bathroom. Returning with a mug of water, he wetted one finger and let the water dribble off it onto Buffy's lips.

"That's rather disgusting, you know," Spike said, watching Hugh feed Buffy more of the water. "Germs and whatnot. She's the sort who'd care about things like that."

"I gave water to my Annabella in this manner," Hugh explained. He rubbed his thumb under Buffy's lower lip, keeping her face dry. "She'd choke trying to drink the regular way. I could never let my mistress choke."

"Your mistress?"

"I'm a Brownie. Caring for humans is what we do. The Slayer is now mine to tend."

Raising an eyebrow, Spike said, "You sure about that? She's not the sort to need much help. Can't say she'd thank you for the attention."

Hugh shrugged his enormous shoulders, smiling humbly. "After a week of my care, she'll thank me well enough. And as you've noticed, she's in no condition to argue."

Looking down at Buffy's slack fact, Spike had to agree. He rested his hands over his stomach, which gurgled with hunger. "How long you think she'll be like this?"

"A week? Two? It's not an easy thing to judge, you understand. T'would depend on the spell cast, on the witch casting it, even on what the Slayer ate for breakfast."

"Eggs and toast," Spike muttered, pressing his hands into his belly. Hunger pains. Like I needed any more. "Jam, too. Some kind of berry. Don't remember what."

"So, you are lovers, then? I don't normally care for vampires, but as the Slayer's now my mistress, I'll have to make an exception for her lover."

Spike burst out with a single, nervous chuckle. "Lovers! She's the Slayer, you dunce!"

"And you're a vampire. One who knows what she eats for breakfast. One who grows very nervous when another man touches her. One who shakes like a scared child when he sees the Slayer unconscious on the floor." Hugh stood, shaking his head and making tsking noises at Spike. "You must be a rare beastie, for sure."

"Hey. None of that 'shaking like a child' stuff, you get me?" Making a chomping motion towards Hugh's neck, Spike glared at him. "And you're not exactly a man, now are you. No more than I am."

"Much less than you are. You were once a man; I'll never have that pleasure. Now, enough of the chatter. I must tend to my mistress. You ... is there anything you need? I see you've an incapability there. Your legs, they pain you?"

"Incapa ..." Spike broke off, shaking his head. "You are a real wanker, you know that? I'm not incapable of jack. Just don't happen to be up for a jaunt around the block at the moment."

Waving his hand, the Brownie shrugged. "Testy, aren't you? Never fear. I've no notion of coddling you like a nursling. Just tell me what you need, and I'll see you have it."

"Anything?"

"Just about. Food? Drink? I expect those are one and the same for a fellow with tastes like yourself. Perhaps something for the pain? I see you're hurting. I can help you with that. It's not a bit of a trouble."

Spike shook his head. "The trouble comes when this train reaches its last stop. Not so long now, and we'll all be tossed off, one unconscious Slayer and one paralyzed vampire. You sure you're up for that sort of challenge?"

With a happy grin, Hugh laughed. "As I said, I'm a Brownie, vampire. It's what we do. There's a solution to every problem, and a problem to every solution. I solve the problems, care for my mistress, and ... " He tossed Spike a wink. "And I'll care for you too, vampire or no. Her smell is all over you. You are hers. Therefore, you are mine to tend as well."

Falling back against the pillows, Spike closed his eyes. He kept one hand on Buffy's hair, hoping she felt less pain than he did. "Do your job then, mate. The train'll come to its final stop before the day's out. I'd say we're in need of some looking after."

♥

2001

"Wider, hon," Tara said, gesturing with a brimming dustpan to the black, garbage bag Willow held open in her hands. "I don't want to get this glass on your hands."

"Too late," Willow said, looking down at the scratches that ran up to her elbows. She gaped the bag open, allowing Tara to dump the remains of the window inside. "Our earthquake sorta threw knives of it at me. Almost like it knew I was to blame."

Tara picked up the broom and took it around the back of the couch to sweep the floor. She looked at Willow, tucking her hair behind her ear with one hand. "The spell fizzled, Will. It wasn't your fault."

"It was too my fault. If I hadn't messed things up so totally in the first place ..." She pressed her lips together to silence herself, fighting off utter misery. Leaving the garbage bag slumped on the floor, she leaned against the wall and watched the muscles of Tara's back move as she swept. "But yeah, the whole fizzle thing wasn't me. As least, I don't think it was."

"What happened? One minute, things seemed okay. The magic was so powerful ... but then, next thing I knew, you fell over."

Sighing, Willow shook her head. "I'm not completely sure what that was. I felt it all happen, but ... it's kinda confused in my head. As soon as I asked for Buffy to come back, to return to how things were, I got this huge ... surge."

Tara straightened up and faced Willow, both hands wrapped around the end of the broomstick. "Surge," she said, her brows arching. "Like, an energy surge?"

"Maybe. I ... I don't think energy is it, exactly. The spell reached Buffy, I know it did. I could sense her there. But ... " She folded her arms over her chest, hugging herself. "The magic sort of tugged at Buffy, psychically, like a ... like a lasso or something. It tried to snare her, to bring her back to where she's supposed to be." Dead, a cold voice whispered in the back of her mind, making her shudder. She's supposed to be dead "It failed, big time. Something about Buffy broke the connection. When I fell back, it was like ... like Buffy had sent the magic whipping back at me."

"Oh honey," Tara said, dropping the broom and reaching out to Willow with both hands. She took hold of Willow's wrists and pulled her down onto the couch, sitting close to her. "That ... that's not good."

Willow leaned her head on Tara's shoulder, inhaling the scent of her shampoo for comfort. "It's like there's something keeping her there."

"Something? Like, a spell? An entrapment spell, maybe?" Tara hugged Willow closer. "That's good, if it's a spell. It means we can fix it." She turned her face away, hiding the nervous tic above her eye. "Probably," she said in a shrinking voice. "Maybe."

"No, it wasn't a spell, not that I could sense at least. I don't think it was magical at all. Something more mundane. Something ... internal, emotional. Inside of Buffy."

Straightening, Tara held Willow by the shoulders. "She wasn't throwing off your spell on purpose, Will. You know that. Even if Buffy was adept enough at magic to do such a thing, she'd never ... never ..."

"No, she had no idea I was even casting the spell. But there's something about where she is that's keeping her there. Something she doesn't want to leave."

"You think that's really it?"

Willow nodded. "Yeah. I felt it. Buffy's psychic 'stubborn face'. She's not the type to let go of something she wants without a fight. And it's not like she knows she's ruining the timeline by hanging onto it."

"What do you think it is?"

"It could be anything, knowing Buffy. Or anyone. Whatever it is, it could be the key to fixing this whole mess. Buffy needs to be told that she's got to let whatever it is go, so we can make things right again. The timeline is more important than whatever she's got going there. She'll understand that ... we just have to tell her."

Tara slipped a lock of Willow's hair behind her ear with soft fingers. "You're just gonna call her up with your magic phone line to time dimension 1998?"

"If I thought I could reach her magically, I would. But she doesn't want to hear me. Obviously."

Tara gently pushed Willow back, reclining her into the couch cushions. She lifted Willow's feet and placed them on her lap. "I have an idea for that. The time travel problem. The reversal spell would work, if we could get to the focus of the spell- to Buffy, in the past. So, we'd have to get you into the past to do the spell."

Willow pointed her toes into Tara's hands, and closed her eyes as Tara began to massage them. "Me? Into the past? Talk about the Big Scary."

"It sounds bad, I know. The whole idea of it ... it just sounds wrong. A huge potential for more bad stuff to happen. And then there's the whole danger-to-you part. A-and, I don't even know how we'd go about it. Time travel ... not an easy thing." Tara squeezed her fingertips into the arches of Willow's feet, drawing comfort from the solid feel of her muscles and bones. "I hate it, Will. Just the thought of it makes me all quivery. We're talking about strong magic, way too strong for me to mess with. But whatever wrong that could be caused from sending you back ... could it really be that worse from what's already happened?"

Her eyes still closed, Willow shook her head. "It doesn't matter. I'll be careful, but it doesn't matter. The timeline is already so totally broken, and it's all my fault. No matter how dangerous it is, I have to do whatever I can to fix it.

They sat a moment in silence, both overwhelmed with a mixture of fear and reluctant hope. Tara gazed at Willow's face, taking in the dark sweep of her lashes over her cheekbones. With her eyes closed, Willow looked less like the powerful witch she was, and more like the mundane college student Tara sometimes wished she could be. She ran her hands up Willow's ankles, massaging the taut muscles of her calves. "Will?" she said in a husky whisper. "You'll be okay?"

Willow opened her eyes. Giving Tara a small but determined smile, she nodded. "I'll make it right again. I will. But first, we have to figure out what went wrong. If we could figure out what she did that changed everything, it might help us learn what she's holding onto so tightly. We should find out as much as we can about what happened to Buffy. I guess maybe we could check the Internet, do a search to see if we can find her in the past. She would've laid low, knowing Buffy."

"Poor Buffy. She must've been so confused. To come back to life and find yourself in the past ... with no one to go to for help ... how awful."

"Or maybe not laid low. Maybe she did go to someone for help. Giles, or someone. That could've been what screwed up the timeline. Maybe knowing that she was there threw everyone off their game enough that they lost to Angelus." Willow turned her face into the pillow, rubbing her cheek against its softness. "That could've been it."

Tara frowned. "Yeah, maybe. It would explain why Buffy- the Buffy I knew- thought that what happened that night was all her fault. And why she'd never tell us what happened. But ..." She bit her lips, pensive. "I don't know. It could've been that, but it could've also been a million other things. Let's go over that night again- the way it should've happened. There must be something different from my memories to yours. Tell me again, where everyone was that night? What were they doing?"

Taking a deep breath, Willow crossed her arms over her chest. "I was in the hospital, doing the spell to restore Angel's soul. Oz and Cordy were with me. Giles had been kidnapped by the vampires the night before. Xander went to find Buffy, to tell her we were going to try the spell. He wanted to help her too, I think. We all did. But there just wasn't much we could do, aside from the spell. And that came too late."

"What was Buffy doing before she went to rescue Giles?"

"She had to go home to get her weapons." Willow's lips twitched. "She called me from there- that's how we found out about where Giles was. She told Xander to meet her at the mansion. And ... oh!"

"Oh?"

"She said she had help. And she did. This was so weird ... her help was Spike. And don't think we didn't hear about it when Xander found that out- that Buffy had chosen Spike to help her fight Angelus instead of him. That was the start of their stupid little competition. Of course, Spike was a better help, being a vampire and all, plus the whole element of surprise with him being able to walk and not telling Angelus he'd recovered. He protected Giles- if you can call letting him get tortured, just not to death, protection."

"Spike?" Tara raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't he that vamp who left town after Angelus stole his girlfriend and Buffy dropped an organ on him?"

"What? No, Spike didn't leave town then, he had to help Buffy beat Angelus first ... oh."

"Again with the Oh." Tara moved Willow's feet aside and stood up. "That's it then, isn't it. That's what changed. In my reality, Spike left town months before the whole Acathla thing. And in yours ..."

Willow sat up slowly, shock paling her face. "Apparently, he saved the day. Even though we didn't know it then. Wow. And in the other reality, something happened that made him leave town. Something that my Buffy caused. Because of that, everything changed. Giles died. Xander died, so Anya was never summoned by Cordelia for vengeance. Dawn was never created because ... because ..."

"Buffy wasn't exactly what you could call stable after loosing Xander, Giles, and Angel. I can't imagine anyone trusting her with the Key to hell."

"And all this because Spike wasn't there." She covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Wacky. Just wacky, that Spike could be that important when none of us knew it. We always treated him like he was ... nothing. Worse than nothing, even when he was helping us and saving Dawn. And then there was the torture ... Glory ... god, even Xander felt bad for him that day. But we still treated him like he was ... like he was a normal vampire."

"Don't feel bad. Normal or not, he was still a vampire. You wouldn't expect the whole happiness of the town to be balanced on a demon, no matter how nice he acted."

Willow met Tara's eyes, her gaze earnest. "But he made such a difference. How did it all go, in your reality?"

"You already know most of it. Xander and Giles died. Buffy staked Angelus before he could open Acathla. She nearly died herself. You told me that you found her in the hospital a few days later, with major injuries. Head wound, broken bones, the whole works."

"Then what?" Willow asked, clenching her jaw to brace herself for the answer.

"We met about ... oh, about a year and a half later." Tara squeezed Willow's hands. "You were so depressed, honey. The first time I saw you, all I could do was wonder how I could help you."

"Depressed?"

"Buffy never really recovered from the Acathla thing ... from loosing everyone. She stopped slaying all together ... Sunnydale was ..." — she looked by instinct towards the darkened space where the window used to be — "is a pretty scary place. Lots of demons. Anyways, you moved in here, and you and Joyce took care of Buffy. Then, just a few months ago, Joyce died. And after that, Buffy was just ... unreachable. I'll never forget how red her blood was when she cut herself ..." Tara dropped her head, her voice cracking. A tear fell on Willow's hand.

"And Buffy died too. All because Spike left town." Willow murmured, pulling Tara to her. She stroked her hair with soothing gentleness. "What could she have done that made him leave?"

Rubbing her eyes, Tara said, "Whatever it was, it must've been bad. He never came back."

"She didn't stake him, though. My Buffy wouldn't have done that. They were ... well, not friends, but they cared about each other." With a small smile, she said, "He loved her. But hey, not for a few years yet, where Buffy is. So when she got back to the past, they probably just fought. He couldn't be what's keeping her there. You have to understand ... she was always trying to get him to leave town. That's why it's so ironic that in the other time dimension, she succeeded."

"Well, I guess it's more important right now to make sure we can get your back to talk to her, before we worry about what you'll have to argue against."

Willow sighed. "I have no clue how to get back there. It's not like I did it on purpose when I sent Buffy ..."

"You got her back there by flubbing the spell," Tara said, gentling the words with a duck of her head. "But that won't work to get you into the past. Do you ... " She rubbed her eyes again, obviously conflicted. "Do you know a spell? I hate even asking that. We shouldn't be messing with magic so powerful. But there's no real choice."

"Or ... hey!" Willow jumped to her feet, startled by the thought that flashed through her mind. "Hey! There's another way. A kinda dangerous way, but I think ... I think it'll work. I have this friend ... or, I did, in the other time dimension. Right now, I guess she's a scary, veiny, demon-y kind of friend ... one who won't know me ... but she should be pretty unhappy when she finds out I've screwed with her past."

"Unhappy enough to help you fix it?"

"That depends." She held out her hand to Tara, helping her up. "You feel any vengeance-y type wishes coming on?"

♥

Mexico-Guatemala border
1998

The birds were singing. Not just one or two, but an entire chorus of them, all performing in the lush trees that stretched into a green canopy above him. Any other time, Spike might've taken a second to wonder at a place where birds sang at night. Any other time, he might've stopped to appreciate the strangeness of the jungle, how different it was from any other place he'd been. Any other time, but as it was, all he could do to keep himself from crying out was ground his eyes shut and curse the insane Brownie who was pushing him on a small, wooden cart through the vegetation.

"Would you quit with the whistling?" Spike growled, gnashing his teeth as the cart jolted. The pain in his back screamed with every bounce that reverberated through the thin wood floor beneath him. He grabbed the edge of the cart, trying to keep from rolling into the unconscious Slayer who lay next to him. "There's enough pain here to go around without you causing more with your poncy tunes."

"Never fear, vampire. My sweet Annabella's house is just around this bend. Once we're inside, I'll have the place cozy and cool, and the Slayer can rest in comfort." With a glance over the bulk of his shoulder, the Brownie plodded forward. "And you may rest as well."

"Isn't that just ... arg!" Spike bit down hard on his lip as the cart skipping over a dip in the path. "Watch the potholes, will you? As I was saying, that's just ducky. You sure no one else decided to move into Annabella's house while you were off on your trip?"

"It was no trip. I was seeing my Annabella's ashes safely to the north. There's a lake there, a lovely bit of water. It was her last request of me. That, and to see her home put to good use." Dropping one hand from the cart handles, Hugh took a swipe at his eyes. "It will be empty, surely. Empty, empty, empty, without Annabella."

Spike thumped his head back against the floor of the cart. "Right, mate. Sure. Just remember, the bird here and I are hiding out. No neighbors would drop in here, I'm guessing. Who'd trek through the jungle to visit an empty house?"

"It'll do well for you and the Slayer." Hugh let go of the cart. It hit the ground with a thud. Panting, he rubbed the sweat from his brow and pointed through the darkness. "It's there, the house."

Spike vamped out, letting his vision pierce the darkness. "Well, you've got an odd sense of the meaning of 'hide out'," he muttered, taking in the vast mansion. It stood three levels high, with windows dotting the white front in generous number. Skirted by a wide porch all around, the house looked welcoming. "This is your idea of laying low? A bloody mansion?"

"Secluded though, it is. Have no fear, vampire. No one ventures this far into the jungle who doesn't belong here."

Raising one hand in the air, Spike said, "Hello, you think I belong here?"

"She does," Hugh said, pointing at Buffy. He scooped her up into his arms. "I'll just get her inside, make her comfortable. Then I'll return for you."

"Right," he said, then shook his head. If it's a trap, the Slayer'll never even wake up "Or, maybe not. You'll be fluttering about for days making her all snug and fit. Take me in first."

Hugh blanched. "But, the Slayer ..."

"Is a tough girl. She'll last out here long enough for you to dump me on a bed somewhere. S'not like I take any tending. Just dump me inside and come back for her."

"You make my job difficult, you realize," Hugh said, lifting Spike over his shoulder in a single movement.

"Yeah ... lot of that 'difficult' crap going around," Spike said. He groaned, his back on fire. "Let's move, faery."

Inside, the house stretched darkly around him, vast and cool. Hugh left the front door open and progressed up the wide staircase, ignoring Spike's soft growls of pain. A hallway passed by Spike's eyes, then another, blurs of shadow and numerous, closed doors. Finally, Hugh found the room he was searching for. He opened the door and dumped Spike onto the bed. Without word, he turned around and left.

Spike kept his eyes closed for a moment, as if he could suppress the pain by closing himself off to the world. Opening them, he found himself to be lying on a large, canopied bed. It was draped with red, gauzy sheaths, as were the walls of the room. The window was covered with wooden shutters, a fact which Spike noted immediately and was grateful for. Letting his eyes slip shut, he took several deep breaths, listening to the sound of Hugh's heavy feet walking towards him down the hall.

"The Slayer will be at rest in the bedroom beside yours, vampire," Hugh said, poking his head into the room. "I'll take her there now."

"Like hell you will," Spike said, trying to sit up. His exhausted body made it halfway before flopping back onto the pillows. Propping himself up on his elbows, he nodded to the bed. "She'll be staying right here, where I can keep an eye on her."

Hugh stepped back, surprised. "You don't trust me? I'm a Brownie. I'd never hurt the Slayer. It's against my nature."

"Again, a lot of that going around. You think it's in my nature to protect her?" Spike asked, his voice harsh. He flung a hand out, pointing at Buffy. "The Slayer? Not two weeks ago, killing her was all I could think about. Now, look at me. A gimp stuck in a poncey, canopy bed, fighting with you about who's gonna protect her."

"You love her. Love does change the nature of the creatures who bear it. This I know better than any other truth. For me and my Annabella ..."

"Oh, would you quit with the mooning about for bloody Annabella!" He rolled his eyes, then looked down at his lap, pretending not to notice the hurt on the gentle faery's face. "Look, just bring her here. Leave her with me, and go about your business. You want to take care of this chit, you gotta spruce the ole hide-out up a bit. Lights, she likes lights, being human and all. And the kitchen's sure to need a scrub, you having been gone. Never know what little crawlies might've taken up residence there."

Blanching, Hugh scuttered forward. With great care, he lowered Buffy onto the bed beside Spike. "I ... I'll bring a basin of warm water, a-and a rag. You ... she must be bathed. See those creases of dirt and sweat on her face, from the jungle? She'd never stand for that. Human women do not sleep with dirt on their faces."

"That's a rule, is it? Well, bring along your basin and whatnot." Pulling the bed sheet over Buffy's legs, he flashed the faery a sardonic smile. "We're not going anywhere."

Chapter Seven

Mexican jungle
1998

The room glimmered with soft light. Candles flickered on every flat surface, illuminating only the necessary places, letting shadows envelope the corners. Red draperies covering the walls glowed, giving the light a red, sensual cast. Propped on his elbows above her, Spike looked down at Buffy's face, appreciating the blush cast by the light on her pale skin.

He shifted on the bed, curving his body beside hers, her hair tickling the V of his elbow. Careful not to spill the small basin of water that rested between them, he reached into it and grabbed the small sponge. Wringing it out slightly with a squeeze of his fist, he stroked it along the side of Buffy's face, leaving a trail of wetness behind.

"Sorry 'bout all the washing. I'd leave you to sleep in peace, were it up to me, but your watch-faery insisted you get the scrub-down every day. Didn't want to cross him. You know, that bit about biting the hand that feeds you and all."

Her forehead, small and square, glistened with a thin layer of sweat. Totally absorbed, he dabbed the sponge over her temples and above her eyes, taking in the subtle arch of her brows, the shadowed sweep of her eyelashes, the delicacy of her eyelids ... shaking himself, he pushed his hand away, soaking the sponge in the basin.

"Not that he's feeding me so well, you realize. No bloody O negative to be had, he says, and if there were, well, even then he'd still make me drink that animal swill. Big on keeping humans safe, he is." A lock of her hair stuck to the damp skin of her forehead. He smoothed it back, denying to himself the truth of his hands lingering on her head. The soft tresses felt warm beneath the coolness of his fingers, like something alive, a plant or the earth beneath the sun. He nearly expected the strands to wind around his knuckles like vines, pinning him to her. Stroking her with long sweeps of his hand, he smirked inwardly, challenging himself to keep touching her. Challenging himself to pull away.

"A regular humanitarian, our Hugh is. Not unlike yourself. The two of you would get on right nicely. Birds of a bloody feather." The skin of his palm tingled, as though the mere act of touching her gentled the humanity back into him. Yanking away, he fell back onto the mattress, panting. He rolled his head back to face her, panting, then snapped his mouth shut, reminding himself of the senselessness of breathing. Gaping at her, he stuttered, "Not that we're doing too poorly ourselves."

What's happening to me? he thought, rubbing his palms on the blanket as if to clean them of contamination. He spread his fingers out in front of his face, stretching taut the skin of his palms. They looked untouched, the same pale skin creased into life and love lines. Life line, he thought, tracing it with one finger. How ironic.

"Whatever it is you're doing to me, Slayer, I don't like it. I can feel you crawling around inside me, all warm and pulsing with life, and it makes me ... it makes me want things I can't even start to understand. Just a bit ago, your mum was going at me with an axe, and now I'm here, nursing you like I ..." Love you? No. I wasn't about to say that.

He gazed at her, his eyes wet and sore with helplessness. "Whatever it is, it's eating me up. All of me, all of who I am. Maybe it's not you that's doing this. Maybe it's because I can't hunt, can't feed. Not so much a vampire now as I am a ... a ... "

What was that, below her lip? A twitch? Just an involuntary spasm of muscle? "Slayer?" he asked, rising up above her and touching her chin. "You waking up?"

Her lips twitched again, then opened in a yawn. Moaning, she flung her hands up to scrub at her face. "Spike," she moaned, squinting at him. "Where ... where are we?"

"Morning," he said gruffly, relief lightening his features. He hadn't been worried about her. Not really. He'd always known she'd wake up no worse for wear, but ... But. "We're home, I guess. Nice of you to finally wake up. Been waiting, you know. You sure took your time about it."

She turned her head, rolling it back and forth, as though proving to herself it was still attached. Blinking over dry eyes, she looked at him. "I've been awake," she rasped. She licked her lips, dehydrated. "When I heard your voice, I knew I wasn't dead. Bloody this, bloody that ... in heaven, no one talks like you do."

Taking hold of the sponge, Spike dripped water onto her lips. He started to wipe at the water that ran down her chin with the edge of the sheet but stopped himself, remembering. Slayer. Vampire. That's the drill. None of this pansy nursemaid nonsense. "You all right, then?"

"I'm weak," she said, her voice proving her words. "But yeah, I'll keep." She turned onto her side and faced him. Curling into a ball, she wrapped her arms around her legs. "I'm cold, though, which is weird since it's so hot in here. What happened to me?"

Spike moved the basin before her movements could spill it. He pulled the blanket up and tucked it around her shoulders. "Dunno what happened, really. Hugh says it's a spell gone wrong. Thwapped you in the head, magically. You've been asleep a good long while."

"Hugh? I'm guessing you don't mean Grant."

"Your new best friend. A sort of Mary Poppins-type of faery. He's been taking care of you for the last week. Found us this house to hide out in. Not a bad bloke, really."

"Where'd he bring us?" she asked, touching his arm as if by accident. Her hands itched to feel his skin, to reassure herself of his presence. "It's hot here. Are we still in Mexico?"

"Barely." Jutting his thumb towards the window, he said, "Guatemala's about a lick that way. The train stopped at the border, smack dab in the middle of the jungle. You wouldn't remember that, being that you were out for the count, but we had a hellish time getting you off that train." Hugh had a hellish time getting us off the train he corrected himself silently, grimacing.

"What are we going to do in the jungle?"

He shrugged. "Live, I reckon. For a while, at least. You'll be wanting to head back up to the States eventually, to kill off that hell god before she can kill you."

Fighting back a shudder at the memory of Ben's face, Buffy nodded. "Yeah, but that's so not something I want to think about right now. We've got a few years to kill before then. We're just gonna stay here? Alone?"

"The middle of nowhere is a decent place to hide out. Especially with Momma Brownie here to take care of you. And as for me ... "

"What about you?"

Covering his panic at the thought of heading back to Angelus's neighborhood, he said, "Not really looking forward to the repeat journey back to California. The ride down here was bad enough. Especially the last jag, trying to juggle you around. You should be glad you don't remember that."

Buffy closed her eyes. "I do remember some of what went on around me," she whispered. "The sound of the train's whistle ... birds, lots of them, singing. And I heard you ... what you were saying to me. About changing."

His face tightening, Spike looked away. "All rot," he said, his voice rising in defense. He twisted his hands together, smashing the lines of his palms. "Total rot. Not a word of it true."

"Don't, Spike," she said simply. She opened her eyes and searched his off-turned face. "Don't lie to me."

Silence grew between them, enveloping them in tension. Spike watched the flicker of the candles on the nightstand, his jaw clenched. She kept her gaze glued to his face, afraid that if she looked away, she'd miss any hint of capitulation. The candle flames sputtered as if reacting to the emotions swelling around them. Red light moved over Spike's face as though it were liquid; Buffy thought that it would burn her fingers if she touched it.

Finally realizing he was planning to remain silent, Buffy let her eyes close. Her mind, still heavy with weariness, drifted away from the man lying beside her. She let it go, let herself remember the identical man she'd known, the one with a chip in his head instead of on his shoulder. The way that man would look at her when she'd enter a room, as if he'd been waiting a lifetime just to see her walk through his door. The way he'd fight beside her, with wiry grace, and fight with her passionately, whole-heartedly. His voice, the words he would say, courageous words no one else could ever be brave enough to let loose. She could hear him in her mind, hear his last, private message to her.

"You don't understand what's happening to you," she said, her tone low but tender. "I heard you say that."

He didn't respond, but the line of his mouth tightened up a fraction more. Giving him a moment to come clean was difficult, but she held off, waiting. After several moments passed without change, she touched his hand, a pressure of her fingers so quick and light, he could pretend not to feel it if he so chose. Which he did. He blinked once, deliberately, as if telling her to go on.

Sighing, she folded her hands under her cheek and continued. "You feel alive now, after being with me. Like you've lost your evil. Well, poor you. I guess you can imagine I'm not feeling too sorry for you about that."

Twisting his lips into a grim smile, he nodded, but didn't look at her. "You're right there, Slayer."

"The day I died, you said something to me, something that made me realize I cared about you. You stood in my house, looking up the stairs at me, and you said these words to me that ... that tugged at me. 'I know you'll never love me,' you told me. 'I know I'm a monster, but you treat me like a man.' And I did treat you like that, not always, but then." She broke off, coughing.

Spike dragged his head around and met her gaze. There was a spark of some impalpable emotion in his eyes, one that both heartened and mystified her. "You're saying that you were able to forget ... to forget about this?" He vamped out, brandishing his forehead lumps like weapons of defense.

She reached up to him with one hand, covering the lumps, then stroking them with tender caresses as if they were a wound. "Let's talk about now," she said, watching his eyes close. She trailed her fingertips over his temple. "I treat you like a man, so you feel like one. It's that simple. Maybe ... maybe neither of us understand this ... this connection we have. But maybe we don't have to."

His cheek felt smooth under her hand. She traced the ridge of his cheekbone, delving into the hollows beneath, then lowered her fingers to his jaw, his neck. Feeling him swallow hard beneath her touch threw a ghost of a smile on her lips. She continued, rubbing her knuckles over the prominent shape of his collarbone beneath his black cotton tee-shirt. Showing no sign of hesitation, only patient curiosity, she let her hand roam lower onto his chest.

In a quick jerk, he caught her hand, fisting it inside of his and pressing it against the hard plane under which, his heart once beat. He searched her face as if reading her thoughts. His expression held an almost imperceptible note of pleading. Pressing her flesh against him, he started to speak, but couldn't. He released her hand, but didn't pull away when she raised it to his face, to outline the contours of his vampire mask.

"I see you," she whispered, her fingers pressing on his skin, so hot he felt branded, claimed. Her eyes, large and liquid, captured him. "You. I see you."

His voice, when he found it, sounded gravelly, as though it had fought its way up from deep inside his body. "Slayer ... Buffy." Clearing his throat, he continued. "This ... these changes, between us ... Just because I didn't want them to happen ... that doesn't mean I want them to stop, either."

"You can live like a man. I know you can. I've seen you do it."

He weighed her with a critical squint. "No, you've seen 'chip head' do it. And if you think I'm heading back up to Sunnyhell to voluntarily stick my balls under a knife, you're dead wrong."

Her face glowed back at him, lustrous with crimson candlelight. When she took his hand in hers, the very air between them seemed electrified. Looking down at their entwined fingers, her lips curved upwards. "Your chip was just a motivation. Couldn't you find a better one?"

The white of his fingers contrasted with her tan, glaring their elemental differences up at Spike. He watched the pad of her thumb move in circles on the back of his hand. Her bravery astounded him nearly as much as her gentle insistence. An indefinable feeling of rightness flooded him. Covering their join hands with his free one, he felt his whole face spread open in a smile.

♥

Sunnydale, Summers home
2001

The smoke rose between them, spiraling up from the gold goblet. Willow held the mystical herb by its stem. Pinching bits off, she sprinkled them into the goblet. Meeting Tara's eyes through the smoke, she gave her a reassuring smile and began the summoning ritual.

"Anyanka, I beseech thee. In the name of all women scorned ..." Adding more herbs to the fire, she took a heartening breath and continued. "In the name of all women scorned, come before me."

Silence fell over the living room. The girls looked at each other, confused. As the smoke began to dissipate, Willow frowned and looked down at her book. She threw another pinch of herb into the goblet. "Come before me!"

Tara looked around. "Maybe she doesn't like us," she said, a nervous smile growing on her lips. "Maybe we're not scorned enough for her to ..."

"Or maybe she just doesn't like me. We were never all crazy about each other. I guess we'll have to find another way." Reaching for a book of matches, she relit the goblet. "Will you give it a try?"

Pinching off a bit of herb, Tara held it over the goblet. She closed her eyes a moment, lines of concentration furrowing her brow. Releasing the herb, she said, "Anyanka, I beseech thee. In the name of all women scorned, come before me."

She materialized before them in a burst of power so strong, it sent goose bumps up Willow's arms. The demon mask she wore made it easier for Willow to separate her from the Anya she'd known. Tara jumped to her feet and moved a few paces away, her face pale. She looked at Willow, gesturing for her to be cautious.

"Anya ... nka." Willow looked at the demon, not sure of what to say. "Umm ... nice to see you again."

"Why have you summoned me?" Anyanka asked, her words forthright. She crossed her arms over her chest. "What is it your wish?"

Willow fidgeted nervously with the hem of her shirt. "Well, that's kind of a funny story, actually. I mean, not funny 'ha-ha', but funny, I turned the whole world into a terrible place kinda funny."

Pulling Willow back from the demon with feigned casualness, Tara gave the demon a polite smile. "H-how about some lemonade?" she asked, pointing Willow towards the couch. "You two chat, and I'll ... I'll be right back with that."

Leaving them alone, Tara went into the hallway. She opened the closet, searching for a weapon she could use again Anyanka. "Just in case," she whispered to herself, pulling out a dagger with an elaborate handle from the mess of weapons that had once belonged to the Slayer. Tucking the dagger into her waistband, she headed for the kitchen, her ears peeled for noises of distress from the living room. When none came, she relaxed slightly and poured lemonade into three glasses. She settled them onto a tray and moved back into the living room.

The room was silent. Willow looked up as Tara entered, her eyes wide. "I ... I told her everything. She knows it all."

"L-lemonade?" Tara asked weakly, putting the tray on the coffee table. She held a glass out the Anyanka, forcing her hand not to tremble.

Anyanka stood in the center of the room, her face clouded with thought. Ignoring Tara's offering, she sighed and threw her hands up in the air. "Fine," she muttered, "We'll fix your stupid timeline."

"I know you're not too thrilled about being a human, but ... " Willow gave her a tentative smile, "but hey, look at the bright side. Xander's a pretty neat guy, and ... and ... oh, you'll get to make lots of money."

"Fine. Whatever. Let's just get it done." Anyanka fingered her necklace. "I'll send you back to your friend. You know where she is, right?"

"Umm ... well, she was sent back to Sunnydale." Willow frowned, looking at Tara. "I don't think she would've left. This is her home."

Tara shook her head. "She wouldn't have stuck around. Too dangerous. This is a small town, and someone would've recognized her. Buffy's too smart for that."

Rolling her eyes, Anyanka said, "Right. So, you find your friend, then I'll send you back to her. She'll probably be in Sunnydale eventually, if she died here. Humans are always drawn to their own deaths."

Willow's face lit up with realization. "That's right!" She jumped to her feet and grabbed Tara's hands in her excitement. "Maybe this didn't go so badly after all! I mean, yeah, the world pretty much sucks, but hey, if we leave Buffy in the past long enough, she could kill Glory before she's ever in any danger!"

"What good would that do? I mean, once we change the timeline back ..."

"No, see, Glory's an inter-dimensional god. Her death is final, no matter where it's done. It'd stick." Turning to Anyanka, Willow grinned. "She'd want to do it right after Glory showed up in Sunnydale, before anyone realizes there's a god in town. That'd be the safest for her. Probably in September of 2000."

Anyanka tapped the ground with the toe of her shoe. "So, I'll send you back to that time and you can do your little spell. Satisfied?"

Tara moved closer to Willow. "That means Buffy would be messing around in 1998 for two more years. She could do a lot of damage in that time."

"It won't matter. When I find her and do the reversal spell, it'll undo whatever she's done. And she'll get to stay alive." Her eyes were bright with relief. "After all this, everything will work out just fine. My spell didn't flop as badly as I thought it did."

"Then let's get going. Just let me grant the wish that brought me here, and I'll send you back." Anyanka gave Tara a nod. "What do you want?"

Puzzled, Willow said, "Tara? You have a vengeance wish?"

Unable to look at Willow, Tara nodded. "I ... I wasn't sure, not until just now, if it was the right thing to do. But ... Will, you ruined the whole world with your magic, and listen to you! Yes, your spell did flop badly! Just take a look around you! My whole world has been painful and dark, all because you took it upon yourself to play God."

Willow took a step forward, stricken. "Tara ... god, no, I didn't mean to ..."

With a shake of her head, Tara covered Willow's lips with one finger. "I ... I'm sorry. I hope you'll understand that I'm making this wish out of love." Taking a deep breath, she turned to Anyanka and said, "My wish is that after the timeline is restored, Willow will lose all of her magical abilities. She'll be a regular girl."

Above the sound of Willow's gasp came Anyanka's firm voice. "Done."

Chapter Eight

The bed creaked as Buffy turned onto her stomach, waking up. She pressed her face against the side of Spike's shoulder, rubbing her cheek in groggy circles against the softness of his tee-shirt sleeve. They'd held hands for hours in a comfortable silence before falling into sleep, side-by-side and almost innocent in their amazement at each other. Spike slept on his back, his mouth tipped open. The line of his teeth gleamed white in the candlelight. Reaching up, Buffy ran her fingertip lightly over the blunt ends, so flat and human looking. If I didn't know what he was, I'd never guess he *was* a what. He looks like a regular person.

And that's what we can be here, she realized, watching the bleached strands stick up in tufts as her fingers played. The thought froze in her brain. Not the Slayer, not a vampire. Just us. Just a girl and a guy, lying in bed, finding their way together. Here in the jungle, where no one knows me but him, I can have a normal life.

Excitement fluttered through her, filling her body with energy. The house around her seemed to buzz with life, making every cell of her body ache with the urge to leap out of bed. She fastened her gaze on Spike's face, searching for any sign of alertness and coming up empty. "You still asleep?" she whispered, knowing he was. She threaded her fingers into his curls, pulling at them, enjoying the softness. "There's lots to do, you know. Can't sleep the night away. We have this whole house to explore. And I want to meet Hugh."

Surfacing slowly from the depths of sleep, Spike sighed and smacked his mouth shut. He rolled his head on the pillow until his lips found her forehead. "Still sleepy," he said, his words tickling her skin. "Should've known you'd be a morning person."

She smiled and took his hand in hers, rubbing the hairs on the back with her thumb. "It is so not morning."

"Morning is whenever you wake up, to my way of thinking." He yawned out of habit. Sitting up, he stretched his arms over his head. "What's with the 'early bird gets the worm' routine? You that anxious to go try on your new life? See how it feels to be a normal girl for once?"

She was surprised to hear his words echo her own thoughts. "What's wrong with that?"

"Not a thing, pet," he said, settling back into the pillows and stroking his hand over her hair. "Not a bloody thing. Only ... look at what you have here. You, me, the bed ... that's a boatload of normalness for you. No patrolling, no demons, no Watcher or end-of-the-world-oh-my to worry about. Relax. Enjoy." Making a gasp of mock-horror, he said, "even sleep in!"

"Not counting the months in the coffin, I haven't slept in for ... well, since before Mom died, that's for sure. No, since before the Initiative ... and college, I had morning classes. And there was training, Giles liked to do that early when we could, and ... " Rolling her eyes in self-annoyance, she relaxed into the mattress and pulled the blanket up high around her shoulders. "You're right. This is my new, normal-girl life. And part of that life definitely includes lazing around in bed."

Dropping his hand lower, he splayed his fingers over the skin of her upper arm below the sleeve of her shirt. His mouth quirked with amusement. "Well, that about covers sloth. Let's see what other deadly sins I can talk you into."

She closed her eyes, letting her mind delve fully into the feel of his cool skin caressing her warmth. An innocent touch, really, she knew. His hand on her arm. Nothing more. But the way her body reacted to him screamed of fire and ice, intensity, bodies moving together in the dark- anything but innocence. Opening her eyes, she gazed at him, putting all her feelings for him into the look.

The smoldering flame he saw in her eyes brought a smirk of awareness to his lips. "What?" he said, squeezing her arm deliberately. He danced his fingers over the soft skin, moving towards the pulse at her wrist. "Something you ... want?"

Buffy paused a moment to enjoy the anticipation of what she knew was about to happen. There was a tingling in the pit of her stomach, a warm tightening that seemed to grow inside of her. His fingers found her pulse and pressed into it, then ran back up her arm, brushing against the side of her breast as they moved up her shoulder.

Suppressing a gasp at the rush of heat the graze filled her with, she reached out a shaking hand and placed it flat against his chest. She clenched her fingers in his shirt, scratching him through the material. "Something I want," she said, the huskiness of her voice matching her eyes, which felt heavy with desire. So heavy, she closed them and kept them closed. "Aren't you going to kiss me yet?"

She felt him moving over her, closer, lowering his face towards her with movements so gradual, she couldn't stop her fingernails from digging into the skin of his chest. He hesitated, a shudder rippling through his frame. Forcing herself not to rush him, not to rush them, she released the tension from her hands and caressed him, urging him to move as he would. Her eyelids pressed together as she dropped all her preternatural senses of him, so conscious she was of letting this happen on his own terms.

There were images floating in the darkness behind her eyelids, crackles of red and green lightening. It had been so long since she'd cut off her extra awareness, but somehow, it felt right. Just a guy, just a girl, she thought, watching the florescent lightening sparkle. This must be what blindness feels like. Only, not blindness. I'm just ... normal now.

All she could hear was the sound of her own labored breathing. The lack of sensation began to nibble at her edges, and suddenly the world felt too small, too dark. Before she could open her eyes, the scent of Spike's arousal reached into her, deep inside, easing the momentary panic. Then came the feel of his breath on her lips, so intense it could've been the coldest cold or the hottest heat; he burned her.

"Spike," she whispered into his mouth as it grazed her own, once, twice. "This is ..."

"Us," he whispered back. He held her face between his palms, raising it to his. He brushed another kiss over her. "This is us."

Us is softer than I'd thought it would be, Buffy thought, her breath hitching as his lips graced her forehead, her cheekbones. Then she realized, with a sigh of appreciation, the reason behind his gentleness. She raised her hands to draw his face down. His forehead, flat and human, pressed against hers. She opened her eyes and stared into his, so near she could see the flecks of navy that overlaid the lighter blue.

"I want you," she said, dropping her eyes to look at all of him. Her mouth sought out his. Kissing him hard, she said, "You. This is not you. Gentle ... nice, yeah, but come on ... Show me what you've got, Spike. All of it." She pressed her closed lips flat against him, then opened slightly, flicking her tongue over the line of his mouth, urging him to open for her, to accept. "All of you. Just ... be with me. Be with me."

Her words unlocked him. Where he had been hesitant, he was now demanding. He pulled her against him, sudden and hard. Her head fell back as his mouth moved, nibbling at her lips, then soothing them with his tongue. She kissed him back with depth, feeling as if she was falling into him, falling inside of his skin. A moan ripped through her as his hands spanned her hips and drifted upwards, over her ribs, to cup her softness.

"God," she breathed, her hands tearing at his shirt. "Too many clothes. Way too many."

"Wait," he said, stiffening. His hands dropped with obvious reluctance from her breasts. Cocking his head to the side, he frowned. "Someone's here. Listen."

Gritting her teeth, she flopped back onto the pillows. "Look, if you're still not sure you want to love a Slayer, that's one thing. But using stupid excuses like that to ..."

"Would you shut it a minute?" he said, putting his hand over her mouth. "You don't know how wrong you are. Did it seem like I didn't want you a minute ago?"

Blush crept into her cheeks. "You could've been ..."

"What? Faking?" Rolling his eyes, he grabbed her hand and pressed in against the bulge pressing against his zipper. "Can't fake that, pet. Wasn't even sure I could do that at all. Broken back, remember? It's not you, Slayer. You, I like. Voices in the hallway of our supposedly private hide-out, I don't."

"Listen," she said, the sound hitting her ears. Her eyes widened with alertness. "Those can't be voices. There would have to be hundreds of people out there."

"I'd say you're right, there must be hundreds of people out there. 'Cause those are voices. Speaking ... I don't know what. Some kind of ... language."

"Isn't that helpful," she said, shooting to her feet. "People, speaking language. Great. Any guesses as to who they are? Or if they're even people? People, most of them can see me. No one here would know me as the Slayer. But demons ... they'd sense it right off."

Spike shook his head. "I can't get a feel for them," he said, swinging his dead-weight legs over the side of the bed. "Could be anyone. Or anything."

"One way to find out," Buffy said, moving towards the door. She looked back over her shoulder, and shook her head at Spike. "Stay there. Dragging yourself across the floor will not help me. I don't want to have to worry about tripping over you if whoever's out there wants a fight."

"Tripping over ..." He glared at her. "I'm not totally useless, you know."

"Just. Stay. Put."

The door was heavy, made of a dark wood Buffy didn't recognize. Placing one hand flat on the door to steady herself, she turned the knob and slowly opened it a crack, just enough to give her space to peek outside. Voices filled the room as the door opened, moans and screams overlapping fervent conversations in a language foreign to them both.

"Oh ... God," Buffy said, slamming the door shut and sagging against it. Her face paled. She swiped a hand over her mouth, closing her eyes. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

"What? What do you see?" Spike rocked slightly on the edge of the bed, the sway of his leaden legs reminding him of his helplessness. Pulling himself back to sit against the headboard, he said, "Slayer? You all right?"

She nodded, swallowing hard. "People. Lots of them. Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. Well, not thousands of people, but ... parts. People parts."

"Parts? Of bodies? Pet, parts don't talk."

"These ones do." Rubbing her hands over her face, she kept her back pressed against the door. The last thing she wanted was for the carnage in the hallway to come into the bedroom. "They're naked, and ... and headless, all of them. And it gets worse than that."

"Worse than headless? Hard to manage that."

Looking at Spike's crotch meaningfully, she said, "Worse."

"Ah. Um ... . okay. And these people and their parts are doing ... what?"

Biting her lip, she shrugged. "Wandering around out there. Crying. They don't seem to be going anywhere. They're just sort of ... standing around. Waiting, maybe."

"What would they be waiting for?"

"I don't know. Not really big on the caring at this point either. You want to tell me how to get Hugh up here? Is there a phone or something? He lives here. He could maybe tell us if decapitated people stand around in the hallway a lot, or if this is something special just for us."

"A phone? Didn't see one." He looked at the nightstand. "Nope, no phone."

"How did you get him up here when I was unconscious?"

"Like this," he said, covering his ears. "HUGH!"

"HUGH!" Buffy screamed, adding her voice to his to carry the call over the voices of the people in the hallway. "HUGH!"

A knock came on the door under her back, startling her. She shrieked, scuttling across the room in surprise. Pulling herself together, she avoided Spike's laughing eyes. "That's ... that should be him."

"How do you know? It could be ... one of them."

She shook her head. "Most of them didn't have any hands to knock with." Opening the door, she tried to cover her surprise at the appearance of the creature who rushed inside. The Brownie looked like a cross between a Saint Bernard and a monkey, with a healthy dose of not-natural thrown in. "You're Hugh?"

"Told you it wasn't Grant," Spike drawled, enjoying her discomfit. "Hugh, meet your mistress. This is the Slayer, awake now, as you can see."

Ignoring Spike, Hugh fell to his knees before Buffy. "Mistress, I apologize, a thousand times and again. You must think so poorly of me. The ghosts ... they're a bit early this decade, I didn't know they'd arrive before you awoke from your shock."

"Ghosts?" Throwing a hand up to bring Hugh to his feet, Buffy pointed at the closed door. "Those people out there are ghosts?"

"Mayan ghosts," Hugh explained, standing. "This mansion ... it was built on the site of the ancient Mayan temple, built by a demon who called himself a shaman. This demon — Lotaxh — sacrificed human beings in an effort to please his master, the god of chaos."

"Which one?" Spike asked from the bed. "Set? Cizin? Kali?"

Shuddering, the Brownie gazed up at Buffy with fear-stained eyes. "I do not speak the name of such a god, not here, not over his own temple."

Darting an evil look at Spike, Buffy patting Hugh's head. "It's okay. Whatever's wrong, I'll take care of it."

Hugh sagged with relief. "Oh, mistress. Slayer. I knew you'd help them. That's why I brought you here. The poor souls need such a one as you to free them."

"Wait. What do you mean, that's why you brought her here?" Spike gave him a narrowed glinting glance. "I thought you wanted to take care of her. Keep her safe."

"Oh, I do, I do. I'm a Brownie, that's ..."

"That's what you do," Spike interrupted. "I got that already. But if your idea of helping her is bringing her here to fight your battles, I think your days as a working Brownie are over."

"I did help her, you see? She's awake, healthy, whole ... and with you, I can smell that the two of you have been ..."

"What!" Buffy cut him off, her tone biting with annoyance. "You can smell that we've been making out?" She watched a minute as Hugh sputtered for a response, then waved him off. "Never mind that. We have a hundreds of ghost parts screaming in the hallway. What do you mean, I can free them? Free them from what?"

"The shaman," Hugh said. He walked over to the window and tugged on the shutters, making sure they were tightly shut. "The demon shaman still lives in this jungle. As long as he lives, the ghosts of his victims are trapped between worlds. It is their curse, you see, the poor souls. Doomed to an eternity of nothingness, they materialize every decade on the day of mid-season, searching for a way to kill the shaman and end their torment. Annabella heard them crying only once, bless her soul. She bid me to help them, and so I must. And so, I brought you here to be my hands and good, strong back."

"You want me to search out this shaman guy and kill him?" So much for the whole 'normal girl' thing. Buffy shrugged, thinking of the pieces of people crying for help. One last fight. That's all. Nothing I can't handle. "I can do that."

"He's strong. Tall as well," Hugh said in warning, holding his hand up several inches above his head. "At least this tall."

Buffy looked down at his hand, a foot below her own height. "Umm ... won't be a problem, really," she said, fighting back a laugh. "How do I kill micro-shaman?"

Eyeing her uncertainly, Hugh drew a hand over his throat. "Like this. His neck, that's the vulnerable place."

"Do we have weapons?" She scanned the room, then looked at Spike. "A sword would work best."

Pointing, Spike said, "In the closet, there. When do we leave?"

"We? There's no 'we' about this." She retrieved the sword from the closet and swung it in a broad arc, testing its weight. "There's me, who goes and kills the shaman, and there's you, who stays here and recuperates. Forget the 'we'."

Ignoring Buffy's words as predictable, Spike looked at Hugh. "You don't want her going out in that jungle alone, mate. Demons aside, there are also dangerous animals ... snakes, wild cats, and the like."

"Oh yeah, like I can't take care of myself." The sword hissed through the air as she spun with it, brandishing it within inches of Spike's head. "Wimpy ole Buffy, that's what they call me. How would you fight off an attacking animal? Scowl at it real hard? Scare it off with the glare of your fangs? I don't think so."

Hugh looked back and forth between Buffy and Spike, unsure of who to obey. "He could be a help to you, mistress. You've no knowledge of the paths through this jungle. The vampire has been down the main path; he could show you the way."

"Why don't you show me? Not like you've got a hopping social schedule. No hot dates planned tonight, right?"

Shuddering, Hugh cast a frightened glace towards the window. "No, mistress. That demon is something I stay far away from."

"Get my cart," Spike said, hefting his legs over the side of the bed. "I'll ride along. Slayer can build herself some arm muscles and push me."

"My arms are just fine the way they are," Buffy said, hefting the sword back towards his head. "See? Strong enough to cut through your neck if you don't quit acting like a big baby. You know that if I take you along, I'll be worrying about protecting you. I need to focus on the slaying, not on the protecting of the defenseless vampire."

Growling, Spike said, "Come a step closer and call me defenseless, Slayer. I'd love to show you just how wrong you are."

Buffy flashed him a grin. "Later on, I'll hold you to that threat. Right now, I've got a demon to decapitate. Hugh?"

"You don't want me to aid your search." Hugh shook his head furiously. "If you bid it, I must, but mistress ..."

"Just point me down the right path. I'll take it from there. Demons, especially magickey demons, sorta tend to prick at my Slayer senses. Shouldn't be a problem to hunt him down." Pointing at Spike with the sword, she narrowed her eyes. "Put me on the path, then come back up here and guard Mr. Pouty here. Paralyzed or not, he's big with the stubbornness. I wouldn't put it past him to crawl through the jungle on his elbows, just to prove me wrong."

"Wouldn't crawl," Spike muttered, his face a portrait of frustration. "Wouldn't have to if you'd just ..."

"Shut up," Buffy said. She placed her hand on the doorknob. "I have to run through these ghosts. Apparitions or not, they look real. Something about them being headless and ... other-parts-less makes me not want to linger and say hello. You coming, Hugh?"

"Stay where the Slayer placed you," Hugh said to Spike. He took his place at Buffy's side, ready to rush past the ghosts.

"The *Slayer* didn't place me anywhere, you ponce," Spike said, reddening with annoyance. "I'm a free agent, no matter what sort of scent you picked up between us. If I decide to spend the night lounging about in bed, well, then, that's my choice."

"And if you decide to crawl out of this house, we'll just see how many choices you get after I beat you into a pulp." Buffy smiled to soften the words, but her eyes read serious. "I'll see you soon."

"Fine," Spike said, watching them go. The door slammed shut on the Mayan voices in the hallway, the thud reverberating through his body with finality. "I'll just ... be here."

♥

Killing the small shaman was as easy as Buffy had expected. After cleaning the blood from her hands, she walked up the hallway towards the bedroom, delighted to find it empty of ghosts. Entering the room, she smiled at Spike, who was sitting up in bed, reading.

"How long has the ghoulish gang been gone?" she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. She pulled off her shoes and climbed up to sit next to him.

"The screams and such died off about twenty minutes ago." He closed his novel and placed it on the nightstand. Examining her with his eyes, his lips twisted with enigmatic emotion. "Took care of the demon?"

Buffy nodded, reading the stiffness of his face and adjusting her demeanor accordingly. "He's dead." She reached out and traced a line down the back of his hand with her finger. "You okay?"

"Fine, for a defenseless invalid," Spike said, his eyes flashing with indigence. "If you think I'm such a weakling, why are you here with me? Touching me? Or do you just like being the one with the power?"

"Hey," Buffy said, tension riding the word. "I do not think you're a weakling. You're hurt, you idiot. But you'll heal. I know you will, I've seen it happen already."

"By that time, there'll be no demons left to fight," he said petulantly.

"That's what this is about? You want a good fight?" She couldn't keep the amusement from her voice. "No problem. There's plenty around here to do. First, you and I can spar, once you're back on your feet. And there's hunting. How are we supposed to eat if I can't hunt and neither can Hugh? We'll need you to get us meat."

"Hunting," Spike said, rolling the word around his tongue as if trying it on. "Suppose I could give that a try."

"You'll need a good source of blood. Hugh can't keep buying it from the locals, not without raising suspicion anyway. So, go hunt some jungle pigs. They're out there, Hugh showed me their tracks."

"Pigs and sparring. Please, help me contain my excitement."

"The sparring is important. Another two years, and we'll have to head back up to Sunnydale. If we k ... " She swallowed hard, then continued, "If we kill Ben, then Glory won't kill the other me. But Ben's not a little guy. He can take care of himself. We have to keep up our skills, especially knowing he could turn into Glory at any moment."

Looking at her closely, Spike said, "You think you can do that? Kill a human?"

Buffy took a deep breath. No. I can't kill Ben. I like Ben. But ... She stiffened her chin with resolve. "I guess we'll find out, won't we?"

"Or I can do it," Spike said, nodding in understanding. "One way or another, you- the other you- won't have a hellgod to worry about."

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, we can enjoy just being us." His hand felt cold beneath hers. She clasped it between her palms, lending him her body heat. "Forget about titles and callings and inclinations and just ... just be."

His eyes caught hers, deep blue pools of emotion that assessed her boldly, merciless. He drew her into him with that gaze, as though he was examining her soul and taking his time with the judgment. With reckless courage, she moved up his body, and kissed him. Not a passionate kiss; not even a friendly kiss. Just a press of lips against colder lips. When she moved away, it was only a hairsbreadth.

"Can you do that?" she whispered, her mouth grazing his as she spoke.

He pulled her roughly, almost violently against him. Grabbing his shoulders, she buried her face in his neck, inhaling the kaleidoscope of scents that had belonged to every version of him she'd ever known. Leather and cigarettes, bourbon, and an underlying tang so elemental, she knew it only as his very essence.

"Good answer," she said, inhaling gingerly so as to not discourage his arms from squeezing around her. "Great, even. But ... words please?"

Tipping her head back to face him, his eyes softened like a kiss even as they burned her with their intensity. Seeing his face, she had every answer to every question she could ever think to ask him. But she had to hear him say it. "Spike?"

Words so honest they seemed painful rumbled against her as he pulled her to his chest. "I can't not do that," he said, and to Buffy's surprise, he sounded full of joy.