Manifest Destiny

By Uisge Beatha

Chapter 1: Go West Young Man

It had looked rather innocuous—but then didn’t all time-altering, life-buggering talismans? A coin. Gold, roughly hewn, and etched with a symbol; an intricate knot. Spike had recognized it as Chinese, most likely Ming or Oing Dynasty. It had arrived in a shipment of fertility statues ordered from an antiquities dealer in Beijing. Oddly enough, all the statues turned out to be of pigs. Who knew that in China the pig was a symbol of virility? But that didn’t explain the coin found in the bottom of the shipping crate. It appeared to have been wrapped hastily in some stained linens and shoved in among the other items.

No one wanted to look a gift horse--or pig, as the case may be--in the mouth, but before adding the coin to the Magic Box’s inventory they all thought it best to figure out what it was and where it had come from. The dealer was called—over much protest from Anya who was sure they were going to have to end up paying for it—and Willow was doing research on the knot symbol.

That was about the time all Hell began to break loose.

Who would have thought plans for a simple night out at the movies could go so wrong? Spike wandered into the Magic Box just as the discussion began to heat up. The Scoobies were all gathered around the table in the rear of the store, Willow on her computer; and the rest lounging about pretending to peruse various dusty ancient texts. Xander was demanding no chick-flicks and pushing for Meet the Parents. The look of horror on Willow’s face nixed that idea immediately. Then, she suggested something sci-fi. Dawn was adamant about it being PG-13, figuring that would at least put Charlie’s Angels in the running. Buffy didn’t seem to care at all, as usual.

The vampire tromped over and jumped up to sit on the glass counter, his duster fanning out around him. He watched the foursome for a while, his feet swinging and hitting the front of the counter just loud enough to be a disturbance, wondering how long it would take for them to notice him. As a thought occurred, his eyes shifted slowly to the right. Nonchalantly, he leaned back and reached over to try something he’d seen the vengeance demon do dozens of times before. As the drawer to the cash register slid open, the vampire smirked, then glanced back to make sure the entertainment debate was still raging. Nimble fingers freed several bills of various denominations before the drawer was stealthily shut. Spike quickly pocketed the money and moved to pull his cigarettes from the pocket of his duster. His lighter flared briefly, and he inhaled deeply—the nicotine immediately infusing his tissues with the nice little buzz he so enjoyed.

Vampiric hearing being what it is, it didn’t take long for their continued bickering to crawl up Spike’s last nerve and take a knife to it. His shrill, two fingered whistle finally drew their attention.

“Do a bloke a favor, eh? Take it down a decibel or two?” He jumped from the counter, and sauntered over to the table.

Xander tossed a scow in his direction but continued. “I’m just saying that if I have to sit through another When Harry Met Sally wannabe, my brain is going to turn to mush.”

“To late to mind that,” the vampire grinned impishly, pulling a chair out from beside Willow and sprawling into it, legs extended, cigarette hanging from between his lips.

Willow grabbed the cigarette and extinguished it into a half-empty plastic soda bottle before Spike could object.

“Hey,” Dawn grabbed at the now fizzing Mountain Dew. “I wasn’t finished with that yet!”

Willow ignored her whining. “No smoking,” the Witch said, never looking up from the computer. “Doesn’t look like there’s anything showing that we can all agree on. Guess that does it for tonight’s plans.”

At the group grumbling that ensued, Spike shook his head in disgust. “You gits ever hear of videos? This new fangled thing, lets you watch movies at home. Heard it’s quite the rage.”

Buffy looked up from her cuticles, noticing Spike for what appeared to be the first time. “He’s right—”

The vampire’s sharp intake of breath cut off her words. “Did I hear that right? Be still my poundin’ heart—oh, wait,” he smirked over at the Slayer, who sat directly across from him. “Nevermind.”

Narrowing her eyes him, Buffy glowered. “Shut up, Spike.”

“Play me a new tune, Slayer,” he snarked back.

Buffy pointedly ignored the vampire, turning to look at Willow. “Why don’t we just rent a video? I’m sure Mom wouldn’t mind if we used the living room. Sodas, popcorn, and other salty goodness supplied on the house.”

Willow glanced up at her friend. “I don’t know, Buffy. Maybe it’s for the best. I really need to get some research done on this.” Her fingers left the keyboard of her iBook to pick up the coin.

Dawn dropped her head to Willow’s shoulder, peering over like a puppy looking for a scratch behind the ear. “It can’t wait one night?”

Xander joined Team Cajole. “Yeah, come on Wils. A night of cinematic action and adventure, surrounded by your nearest and dearest. Bondage. Of the friendly, non-sexual variety. Innocent. Innocent, friendly bondage.”

With a sigh, the redhead placed the coin back on the table and then closed the lid of her laptop. “Fine. You win. I give. Research tomorrow, for tonight we bond. But—” she leveled a finger at Xander. “No action and adventure. We see enough of that in good old Sunnydale.”

“How 'bout a Western?” Spike was flicking his Zippo lighter open and closed and didn’t look up as he spoke.

“A Western?” Dawn scrunched her forehead. “You mean like City Slickers?”

“No, Bit,” Spike dropped the lighter back into the pocket of his duster and reached over to pluck the coin from the table, his fingers working over its rough surface. “I mean a real Western. With gunslingers and cowboys and—” He stopped, watching as Buffy leaned over and whispered something into Willow’s ear and the women burst out laughing. “You got somethin’ you want to share with the class, Slayer?”

“Nothing, Spike,” she snorted in a rather unladylike fashion. “I was just wondering what you knew about Westerns. The only thing I’ve ever seen you watch was that stupid soap.”

“Not stupid. In fact, award winnin’, but beside that fact, I happen to be a fan of Westerns.” He glared over at Buffy, tossing the coin back and forth from hand to hand. “Of history in general, actually, and the American Old West in particular.”

“Oh, please,” she snorted, standing up to gather her purse and coat from the chair back. “What do you know about the Old West?”

“More than you, I venture to say,” Spike stepped toward her. He fisted the coin, then pointed his index finger at the Slayer, poking her sharply in the shoulder to make his point. “Nothing you couldn’ get from any history book, Slayer. But then, don’t expect you to understand that. Would require you readin’.”

Buffy slapped his finger aside, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “I read! Stupid vampire.” she mumbled, moving to walk around him. “You love it so much, why don’t you go live there? Get the hell away from me. How about Texas or, or … Oklahoma? That Old West enough for you?”

As she pushed past him, he caught her lightly by the arm, treading carefully lest he make his chip fire, and turned her towards him. “That would be the thing, Slayer. Nothin’ more I’d love than to be rid of this town. And back in the Old West, when things were a hell of a lot more simple. Yeah, I’d love that. Could show you a thing or two if we lived back then. Put you in your place good 'n solid. Back when men were men and women . . . weren’t. Wish we was back there this very instant, then I’d—”

And suddenly there was no more. No more floor to stand upon. No more Magic Box. No more light. Just darkness so deep it felt like being smothered in velvet. Spike could still feel his fingers wrapped around Buffy’s arm, but he couldn’t see her or any of the others. There was just a feeling of twirling and spinning and then, in an instant, lightening pain that streaked from where his fingertips touched her skin, up his arm, radiating throughout his body. Pain that made the chip seem like a tickle.

There was a sharp crack, like the sound of a bull whip, and Spike was once again on solid ground. Only outside. He had to be outside. It was raining. Hard. Beating down on him, plastering his hair to his head, and sluicing down his face.

He opened his eyes to find Buffy still standing before him, his hand clutching her arm, and her eyes wide as saucers as they stared up into his.

She reached out a tentative finger and ran it along the sleeve of his duster. It was coarse and rough. Gone was the butter soft, well worn leather. In its place was stiff denim, covered with some oily substance that made the rain bead on it, rather than soak in. It was still worn, old, and beaten, but now looked to have been hastily patched and darned in areas around the cuffs and hem.

“Your coat…”

“Your dress…”

They spoke simultaneously.

Buffy looked down, her eyebrows rising to disappear into her limp, water-logged bangs as she took in her own altered appearance. Her fashionable, and more than a tad bit expensive, leather pants had been replaced by a gown, sewn from some rough, homespun cotton.

Her hand fell from the vampire’s sleeve to pluck at the faded fabric of the dress. What in the hell was going on?

Before she could voice the question, Spike stumbled into her, almost knocking her to the mud-soaked ground. He grabbed her shoulders, pulling her to him, trying to keep them both on their feet. A shrill whinny and twin plumes of steamed air drew her attention to the large horse that stood behind Spike, as the creature butted his head into the vampire’s shoulder.

“Slayer,” The vampire spoke slowly. “I don’t think we’re in Sunnydale anymore.”


Chapter 2: Seldom is Heard a Discouraging Word

"What did you do?" Her words tore through the air and rose above the clap of thunder. Both were quickly followed by the flash of distant lightening.

"Me? What did I do?" Spike didn't resist as Buffy pulled herself from his grasp, struggling with the sodden weight of her long skirt.

"Yes, you. What. Did. You. Do?" She repeated, pushing the soggy strands of hair from her face. "Where are we?"

Spike's mouth snapped shut, his lips forming a tight, angry line. He breathed heavily through his nose, trying to contain his anger. When he felt that he could speak without bashing her upside the head, his voice was a snarl. "How the hell would I know where we are? Was on the same bloody teacup ride as you, wasn't I?"

Buffy shoved him hard in the chest, pushing him back into the horse who snorted in annoyance. "Tell me what you did, Spike, or so help me—"

"You two better get back to the wagons before you're washed away." The soft, gravely voice cut through the darkness, and both the vampire and slayer turned toward it.

They both stared at the man, jaws gaping. He was tall. Very tall. He towered over Spike. His shoulders were broad and they tapered down to a narrow waist. The man was dressed similar to Spike, in dark jeans and a long duster, a cowboy hat pulled down low over his forehead. The rain was still coming down hard, pooling in the crown of the hat and trickling down like a small waterfall over the brim.

“Come on, you two.” The man pulled his hat off, running a large hand through his dark, hair. “We’re getting the wagons moving at the crack of dawn and I’m going to need you ready and able to do a day’s work behind the reins.” He slung an arm across Spike’s shoulders and looked down into the vampire’s incredulous face.

Spike chanced a look over at Buffy and found her now peering at him, looking like a drowned rat, her hair plastered to her skull, the soaked cotton of her dress clinging to her skin. It was obvious that neither one of them knew quite what to make of this turn of events. The man seemed to know them—thought they belonged here. Where ever here was.

Buffy opened her mouth to speak, and Spike narrowed his eyes her, silently pleading the slayer to follow his lead. “Right, wasn’t good of us to slip away. Sorry 'bout that.” Spike slid out from under the burly man’s arm and moved to stand next to Buffy, who was now looking at him like he’d grown two heads.

Unfortunately Spike was all too familiar with that look. They slayer didn’t know what was going on, and skating on the knife edge of her temper, she was going to blunder them both trouble by working her jaw before putting her brain in gear. It was clear that someone or something had sent them on a little spin through time and space. Better they find out exactly where and, more importantly, when they were before letting everyone in on the game.

Spike caught Buffy’s hand in his before she could speak, pulling her close to him. “Bu—She’s soaked through. Best get her back. We’ll be right along.”

The large man nodded and turned to leave. “Don’t straggle now, Will.”

“Will? Who—“ Buffy began.

Spike’s hand over her mouth cut off her retort. He wrapped an arm about her shoulders, bringing her flush to his chest and looked down into her flashing green eyes.

Buffy struggled against the vampire. She tried to say something, but it was muffled under Spike’s calloused palm. Finally, glaring up at him, her eyebrows drawn together in an angry line over her eyes, she stood still.

Spike wasn’t sure how he managed to keep hold of her, what with the slippery clothes and ankle deep mud they were standing in. He didn’t waste time worrying about it, however. The vampire wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Looking an angry slayer in the eye was bad enough.

Buffy grumbled again against his hand again and Spike could feel her muscles tensing for another tussle.

“Shush, now, Slayer. Be a good girl.”

His choice of words earned him a swift kick to the shins and another flurry and twisting of limbs as Buffy tried to break free of his iron grip. As her body brushed against his, he became aware of the thinness of her cotton dress and the pressure of her breasts smashed against his chest. His duster was open, flapping in the gusts of wind that carried the rain around them, and the soaked fabric of their shirts clung together.

A tingle started somewhere in the base of Spike’s spine and snaked its way up to his neck and shoulders. He could feel Buffy’s warm breath on his hand, but also the softness of her lips, the smooth curve of her cheek. He was overcome with the completely insane urge to pull his hand free and replace it with his lips. Where the thought had come from, he didn’t know. The sensation was as much of a mystery as what happened to them. It was also just as real. He knew lust when he felt it, and the sudden sensation that seemed to seep into his pores dumfounded him.

Looking down into her eyes, Spike realized Buffy had stopped struggling. “Promise to keep your mouth shut, and I’ll take my hand away,” he said, his voice husky. He’d aimed for gruff, hoping his words wouldn’t betray his body’s traitorous reaction.

Buffy’s eyes rounded, and she slowly nodded. Spike relaxed his fingers and cautiously removed his hand from over Buffy’s mouth. It hovered there, waiting to descend again if she failed to keep the bargain. She remained quiet, though, and he dropped his hand to her shoulder.

“Didn’ want Roy Rogers to figure out we don’t belong here. Thought it best if we worked this little mystery out ourselves, first, before confidin’ in any of the natives.” He still had her pulled tight to his chest, his arm wrapped about her back, the fingers of his hand curled against the curve of her waist. He told himself he should let go of her now. His body refused to cooperate. It was too busy appreciating hers.

“May I speak?” Buffy’s voice was a low, but there was a backbone of steel behind the words.

He nodded. “Keep it down. Don’t know how far we are from those wagons.”

“Right. Now, get your hands off me.” She hissed quietly.

Spike released his hold on her, sliding his arm away from her waist, dropping his hand from where it had been clutching her bicep. Buffy pulled away from him instantly, her wet bodice peeling away from his shirt with a slurping sound. Spike’s eyes flashed to her chest and found the thin material molded to her skin, clinging to the curves of her breasts. Her nipples showed clearly through the fabric and he watched as they tightened into hard peaks. His mouth grew dry and despite the rain still falling on his face, his tongue darted out, tracing the contour of his bottom lip.

Buffy followed Spike’s gaze and quickly whirled away from him, her arms coming up to cross over her breasts. After a long moment of silence she looked back at the vampire over her shoulder. “Where are we? What’s happened to us?” Her voice trembled a bit and he wasn’t sure if she was cold or scared. Probably a bit of both. He knew he was.

“Far as I can figure, we got ourselves transported.” His eyes caressed the long line of her back when she turned from him again. She looked so tiny. Buffy had always been petite – a tiny bundle of fists and foul temper – but now she just looked small and scared and he had another insane urge—to go to the slayer and comfort her. Take her in his arms and tell her that everything would be fine. That they’d find their way out of this place. Must have been some residual hocus pocus, some left over magic throwing his natural instincts for a loop. Had to have been. This was the slayer after all. She didn’t want his protection. Didn’t need it. Fact was, he was the one that would be needing protection if she got it into her hard little head that he was the cause of their current predicament.

She turned back to face him, her arms still sheltering her from his view. “Where?” She glanced to her right, then her left. “Nothing looks familiar – and these clothes—” She looked down at her dress then back to him. “We’re not just in a different place. We’re in a different time.” It wasn’t a question, but the tone seemed to beg for him to disagree with her. Prove her wrong.

“Most likely. Haven’t seen duds like these, well, not ever. At least not in person. Maybe in some old photographs. Maybe. That dress you’re wearing is hand sewn, seen enough to tell you that.” He pulled the lapels of his coat open further and looked down at his own clothes. “This isn’ my duster, not my boots either. Whatever sent us here, fixed us up to fit in, that’s for sure.”

“Well, I don’t want to fit in. I want to go home. We’ve got to find out what happened… what did this to us, and find a way back.”

“First thing we need to find is a way back to, are those wagons that fella mentioned. Don’t want a search party out lookin’ for us and havin’ to explain something we haven’ even got a clue about.” Spike turned, looking in the direction where the other man had walked off. “Best get somewhere dry, where we can sit and work this through. Not gonna find the answer out here in the dark.” The rain had finally broken and a hazy moon was beginning to show through the fast moving night clouds.

“Right,” Buffy gave a heavy sigh.

“There now, Slayer, we’ll find our way outta this.”

She shrugged, then shivered. “There’s bound to be more people back at these wagons. What do we say to them? What do we do?”

He tilted his head, watching the wind ruffle the wet strands of her hair. “We act like we belong.” He looked up and caught her eye. “‘Cause, to them, we do. Seems they know us well enough. Jus’ got to keep our mouths shut and our ears open until we suss things out.”

With a quick movement, Spike shrugged out of his duster and tossed the garment to Buffy. She caught the canvas just before it landed at her feet and hugged stiff material to her chest. Before she could say anything, Spike turned and walked towards the trail the tall man had used.

His shoulders relaxed a bit when he felt Buffy step up beside him. Watching out of the corner of his eye, he saw her slip the coat around her, holding the hem up to keep it from dragging on the ground.

He eased the smile that had begun to form to a more neutral expression. “Let’s just stick close for now, eh? ’Til we know what’s what. At least it seems that to be natural for us to be together. One thing workin’ in our favor.”

“Yeah,” Buffy huffed. “Just about the only thing. And with my luck you’ll turn out to be my brother or something.”

Spike glanced over at her. “Could always be worse.”

“I doubt it, Spike.” Buffy looked up at the stars that were now starting to break through the clearing night sky. “I think I can safely say it can’t get worse than this.”


Chapter 3: There's A Long, Long Winding Road

“Oh, no you don’t. You don’t just get to sit there with that smirk on your face, being all … all … smirky. This is not funny, Spike.”

The vampire chuckled, watching the annoyed Slayer with more than a little amusement. “Better lower your voice there, Slayer, unless you want the whole wagon train to know our business.

The wagon they were in was small; filled to the brim with barrels and wooden crates. The only hint of comfort came in the form of a feather filled mattress. The tick was slightly larger than what one would consider a twin bed, and shorter by nearly a foot. And comfort was a relative term. The canvas covering the tick was rough and stained, the sharp tips of feathers poked through here and there.

“Don’t tell me to lower my voice,” Buffy hissed at him in a whisper.

“Just sayin’ that it might not be the best for all our new friends to find out who we are … or more importantly, where we’ve come from.” Spike went back to investigating the contents the wagon, kicking at barrels, and attempting to pry the tops off crates. So far he’d found nothing that interested him to any great degree. “Time travel, see, that’s somethin’ that’s too easily confused with witchcraft to people from this time.”

“This time?” Buffy picked up a cast iron skillet from the top of a small keg on the floor, hefting it as if assessing its use as a weapon. “What in hell is this time, Spike?”

“Near as I can tell, from the dress, from this Prairie Schooner, hell, just from the feel of it? I’d say near about 1850’s or so.”

“This isn’t happening.” Buffy dropped the skillet onto the keg with a loud thud.

“Oh, it’s happenin’, Slayer, and you’d best get used to it.”

“I will not get used to it!” She turned towards him, her eyes filled with frustration. “I refuse. There’s got to be something we can do.”

Spike looked up from the keg he was opening. “I’m sure there is. And we’ll be workin’ on it, no doubt. But for right now, tonight, this is happening and you need to deal—”

“Oh, I’ll deal all right. I’ll deal by going out there and kicking some ass until I get some answers.”

The vampire grabbed her arm, spinning her around and away from the entrance of the small wagon.

“Are you crazy,” he hissed. Then he took a deep breath and shook his head. “Never mind; rhetorical question.” His grip on her tightened and he pulled her close to him. All humor had left his face, and his eyes held the seriousness of his words. “Look, you go out there and cause a ruckus and we’re gonna end up in worse shape than missin’ in action.”

The Slayer freed herself from his grasp, crossing her arms across her chest, her hands rubbing at spots where his fingers had dug into her skin. “Missing in action? Spike, perhaps you’re not grasping the gravity of this sitch. We’ve been, somehow, someway, tossed back in time to God only knows when—”

“Like I said, 1850’s, maybe the early 60’s.” Spike inserted quickly.

“Or where.” She snapped back.

“From the looks of things I’d say a wagon train. Oregon Trail, maybe Sante Fe.”

“Fine, Mr. History Channel Vampire Guy. Tell me this. Why the hell do these people think they know us? How come they think we’re this Elizabeth and Will—”

“I’d say that was ironically convenient, Slayer. Don’t go lookin’ a gift horse—”

“—and they think we’re married!” She shivered in revulsion.

Spike grimaced. “Yeah, well, that’s a tad concernin’, I’ll give you that.”

“A ‘tad concerning?’ You’ll give me that? That’s big of you. Spike, they know us. At least they think they do. We’ve been transported here by some evil force—”

“Now wait one second, Slayer. Why’s it every time somethin’ happens that doesn’t go your way, its all evil’s doin’? Could just be some run-of-the-mill hocus-pocus we got caught in the middle of.” He dipped his finger into a keg he’d just opened and then sucked the finger into his mouth. “Sugar.” He stated to no one in particular. “In fact,” he began again, on a role of indignation for evil’s sake. “What if this is some act of those higher powers you keep spouting off about. Could be. You know better than most that they don’t exactly get your permission before they start fucking with your life. Maybe we’ve been sent back to this time to, I don’t know,” he paused, seeming at loss of words, when a suddenly his face lit with smile. “To put right, what once went wrong!”

Buffy’s mouth fell open. “We’re lost in time and you’re giving me Quantum Leap quotes?”

“I’m just sayin—” Spike shrugged.

“Spike, I don’t care if Mother Theresa sent us here. I want out. Now. I am Buffy Summers and I live in Sunnydale, California, not…” She gestured wildly about the interior of the wagon, “the Ponderosa. And, most importantly, I am not – do you hear me? Not. Your. Wife. ”

“Bride,” the vampire stated with a curt nod of his head.

“Oh, don’t even go there—” Buffy narrowed her eyes at him.

“We’re newlyweds.” His lips birthed a small, satisfied smile.

“Spike, I’m warning you.” The Slayer’s tone lowered, her lips thinning into a harsh line.

“On our honeymoon.” The tongue made its debut, running suggestively along his upper teeth, his smile growing along with the Slayer’s annoyance.

Buffy’s response was a growl—a low, ominous sound eminating deep within her chest.

His eyes glittered and he rushed headlong into the hurricane of her anger. “Headed out West to start our new life as Mister and Missus—“

“Don’t!” she bellowed.

“Throckmorton.” He offered the name as if on a silver platter, then waited to watch the fall out.

Buffy, her jaw slack, stared at him. But instead of the tsunami of emotion that usually predicated one of their verbal skirmishes, she suddenly let out a whosh of breath from deep within her belly. Then, as if all energy had been drained from her body, her knees folded and she sunk down upon the feather mattress.

“You know,” The Slayer mumbled, her head drooping, her chin resting dejectedly on her chest. “I could handle the rest. I really could. But that? Being Mrs. Throckmorton? I … I just can’t.”

Spike chuckled, then dropped down to sit next to her, Indian style, his knee casually bumping hers. “Look at it this way, Slayer. At least you have a devilishly handsome husband to depend on.”

Buffy raised her head slowly, her eyes blank and humorless. “What are we going to do, Spike?”

His smirk softened to smile. “For right now, you’re gonna get some sleep. Dead on your feet, Slayer and you’ll function a lot better with a bit o’ kip.” He sighed taking a deep breath. He didn’t like being generous. It went against the grain. But the looking at the dejected girl slumped next to him, he couldn’t help himself. “I’ll wait til’ the campsite settles in and then do a bit of investigating. See if I can at least figure out exactly when and where we are. Gotta hope this rain holds out as well. Either that or figure out how to—“

Spike realized that he had, somehow, lost the Slayer’s attention. He craned his neck towards her, watching as her eyes focused intently on his chest. The silly bint wasn’t even listening to him!

Slowly Buffy looked up from her perusal of his chest, green eyes capturing blue. Spike’s mouth opened, his throat worked, as if he was about to speak to her, but stopped when she tentatively reach a hand out, her fingers lightly grazing his cheek. Buffy’s eyes continued to hold his, her brow wrinkling in concern, her head tilting slightly in confusion. Slowly her fingers trailed from his cheek to his throat and down to his chest, where she pressed her palm against the damp flannel fabric at his breast.

Spike frowned as he watched Buffy’s eyes follow the trail of her hand and once again she was staring at the center of his chest. He pulled back a bit, and looked down at where her hand lightly touched him. His patience strained, he growled, “Slayer, what the fuck is going on?”

“Spike?” Buffy asked, her eyes never straying from her splayed hand. “Why is your heart beating?”


Chapter 4: Don't Squat With Your Spurs On

Spike gaped at Buffy, open mouthed, blue eyes blinking slowly, unable to grasp the meaning of her words as they worked their way through his brain.

Heart. Beating. His. Why?

He jerked from the Buffy’s touch, falling back and scrambling away, putting distance between himself and the words that were starting to make terrifying sense. The heartbeat that until that very second he’d be unaware of, took to a gallop, until that sound pounding in his ears was all he could hear; all he could feel.

“Spike?” Buffy leaned forward, reaching one hand out to him. It was a simple gesture of concern, but it seemed to do nothing but galvanize Spike’s anxiety.

“No,” he croaked, backing further from her until the wooden boards of the wagon stopped him. He drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms about them, compressing himself into as small as space as he could. His eyes darted about the small confines of the wagon, as if searching for an avenue of escape.

Buffy watched him with growing concern. “Spike, it’s okay.” She wasn’t sure that it was, but it sounded good. Right now, he was scaring her, and she just wanted the wise-cracking, cocky vampire she knew back.

“It’s not bloody okay.” Spike’s wild eyes finally focused back on her, the intensity fairly radiating out of them. “What the fuck is happening to me?”

“I think,” she paused, wetting her lips and moving a hair closer to the trembling vampire. “I think you’re human.”

“Am not!” He gripped his knees tighter and glared at her. “Take that back!”

“What?” Buffy stammered, unable to keep up with the vampire — or ex-vampire’s — mood swings.

“Take it back. Now.” His eyes narrowed at her, and he released one hand to point an accusatory finger at her. “What did you do to me? Ah, Christ, this … this can’t be happening.”

Buffy’s mouth dropped open. Then it snapped shut and she glowered back at him. “I didn’t do anything to you, you stupid vampire. . . . man . . . whatever!.”

His eyes glowed a brilliant blue, even in the dim light, as he focused his fear and anger on the young blonde sitting near him. “Was it the witch? I bet she’s behind all this. Bet you put her up to it—”

“I didn’t put anyone up to anything, Spike.” Buffy took a deep breath. She tried to even her tone, realizing that further annoying the already unstable ex-vampire was not going to get them anywhere. “Look, it must have something to do with this time warp.” She looked around the wagon, then back at Spike. “What time period did say this was?”

She watched him as his muscles relaxed a bit and saw that he was trying to focus on her question. He shook his head, as if to clear it, then mumbled, “Time?”

“Yes,” Buffy nodded. “You said you could tell about what year this was by how that man – how they were all dressed. And this wagon. You called it a Skipper or Scraper or something. Spike, listen. Focus. I think what’s happened to you has something to do with where we are exactly in time.”

Spike’s hands, which were pressed to his chest, moving along with the breaths that his body were forcing upon him now, relaxed a bit. He glanced around the wagon as Buffy just had, his breathing evening out, becoming deeper. Buffy didn’t urge him further by word or movement and simply watched as he appeared to finally be processing what had happened and focusing on what she’d asked him.

After several interminably long moments, a brief flicker of understanding seemed to cross his features. Then, he took a deep breath through his nose and closed his eyes, his chin sinking to his chest.

“What?” Buffy prompted, holding her own breath in anticipation of his reaction.

“It hasn’t happened yet.” He spoke so softly she almost didn’t hear him.

“What hasn’t happened yet?” When he didn’t answer her, she moved closer, tentatively laying a hand on his shoulder. “Spike? What hasn’t happened?”

He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers for a second before dropping to the floor. “Me. I haven’t happened yet. Bollocks!” He swore softly and pulled away from her, standing to move to the other side of the wagon.

Buffy looked up him, standing in the corner, his back to her. “I don’t understand.”

“The real me, Buffy.” He turned then, the lines of his face painted in shadows. “I haven’t … My best guess is it’s about late 1850’s, which would make it a good 20 years before … before I met Drusilla.”

His meaning finally clear to her, Buffy’s eyes widened and she looked away. She could feel Spike’s gaze upon her as she rose from the floor of the wagon. “So this, here, where we are now, is before she made you into a—”

“Monster,” Spike finished for her, his voice barely more than a whisper in the darkness.

He was still watching her. She couldn’t feel him with her Slayer senses anymore, like she used to, all tingles and soft electric-like pulses up her spine and through her limbs, but she knew his eyes were on her none the less.

“Oh,” was her only response as she tried to process the situation. As much shock as Spike had to be going through at the moment, what with the heart-beating, lungs-breathing issues, Buffy was wandering through her own confusion. She was shocked to look up and find him, once again, standing beside her.

“This might bring up another issue, Buffy.” His voice was gravely, his eyes intense upon her.

His use of her given name caused her to tuck her chin, gathering herself into a defensive posture. “What are you talking about?”

“How are you feelin’?”

She took a step back from him, tilting her head. “I feel fine. What to you mean?”

“I mean, if this little time travel adventures been playing games with me, it might be playin’ with you as well.”

“Ah, I don’t follow you,” she responded.

“Hit me.”

“Excuse me?” She blinked.

“You heard me. Hit me,” Spike growled.

“Spike—”

“Yeah, jus’ like I thought.” He reached down to grab Buffy by the shoulders, dragging her towards him.

“Hey,” she squawked, struggling ineffectually to free herself from his hold.

“Looks like we’re in the same boat, Slay—Buffy.” He caught her fists as they pummeled his chest and hauled her flush against him. Twisting her arms behind her back he effectively pinned her to him.

“What is wrong with you? Let me go,” she huffed, still fighting against him. Ready, at any moment to find the leverage she needed to toss him across the wagon. The moment never materialized.

Spike nearly fell over when Buffy’s frantic struggles suddenly ceased. She quieted against him, her cheek resting against his chest, her breathing harsh and labored. Still wary of her, however, Spike didn’t release the grip about her wrists, waiting for anger to spur her on to another bout.

It never came.

As her breathing slowed, Buffy trembled against him. “You’re hurting me.” Her words were a warm whisper against his throat.

Spike instantly let go of her wrists, but kept his arms around her, as if knowing she’d need the support both physically and emotionally. Bugger this being human! It was already making him soft in the head.

“Sorry, Pet, I couldn’t think of any other way.” He raised an eyebrow when she didn’t immediately move out of the circle of his arms. “Knew you wouldn’t believe it without bein’ shown. You’re jus’ as human as me, from the look of things. This mess of magic has bollocksed us both up it would seem.”

“I’m weak,” Buffy mumbled, her words muffled in the flannel of his shirt.

“Weak?” He smiled, his cheek shifting against the softness of her hair. “I wouldn’t say that. And neither would the bruises you jus’ gave me.”

Buffy relaxed against him, the tension easing from her muscles as whatever fight she had left in her drained away as his words soothed her.

Spike’s senses were overloaded. The warmth of Buffy’s body next to his, the sweet smell of her enveloped him, causing his head to spin. Had she always smelled of jasmine? Had her hair always been this soft? He closed his eyes and tried to will his body not to respond to her; but it was a battle he knew he’d never win. Even now, faced with the knowledge that they were both lost in time, and human to boot, he couldn’t seem to pull away from the magnetic draw she seemed to have over him.

Buffy tried to resist the urge to burrow further into the protection of Spike’s arms. Evil nemesis be damned; she was just plain worn out and his arms felt strong and safe. It briefly occurred to her that finding comfort in his embrace should cause her great concern. But it didn’t, and she just couldn’t find the strength to worry about that now. Exhaustion blanketed her until she felt the very weight of her bones within her skin pulling at her, dragging her down. The futility of trying to figure out the mystery that shrouded her was draining. And now, finding out that the one thing she could always count on–her abilities as a slayer–was gone, she felt like it was the last straw. They were in this together, didn’t that make it okay for her to lean on him, take strength from him?

Spike felt Buffy relax against him, felt the weight of her body grow heavier in his arms. She was knocked off her feet, he knew that for certain. As much as he wanted to stand there and hold her, as much as her body in his arms caused him to think of how they would fit together, how her skin would feel under his hands, he knew she needed rest. Hell, they both did. And now, without the distress of the daylight and sunshine to worry about, he knew he could put off his evening exploration and catch a bit of shut-eye himself.

He couldn't begin to understand what was happening between him and the Slayer. The feelings that he was beginning to experience—were they part of this time travel spell? Certainly they had to be. How could it be anything else? The mysteries kept growing and they would both need their wits about them to figure their way of this mess.

“Think we both need to catch some sleep, Buffy. Can’t do anythin’ tonight and maybe the mornin’ will shed some light on our situation, yeah?” Reluctantly Spike loosened his hold on Buffy and stepped back.

“Yes,” she whispered moving away from him. “Sleep sounds good. I don’t ever remember feeling this tired before.”

Bereft of her body to hold and not knowing what else to do with his hands, he shoved them into the pockets of his jeans. “Human now, Pet. Same with me. I think it’s gonna take some getting used to.”

She turned to face him, a worried frown on her face. “I don’t want to get used to it, Spike. I want to go home.”

“We will, Slayer.” He tried to sound confident but was undermined by a yawn he couldn’t quite stifle. “You and me, we’ll take the bull by the horns tomorrow and figure out what’s what.” He looked around cramped space, then back at Buffy. “You take the mattress, luv; I’ll do okay over here.” He gestured to the few feet of space that lay between the feather tick and the supply barrels.

Too tired to even worry about her clothes, Buffy dropped to her knees onto the canvas covered mattress. Lying on her side, an arm curled under her head as her pillow, she watched as Spike made him self comfortable on the floor of the wagon. The single gas lamp flickered in the darkness as he struggled to pull off his cowboy boots and then spread his black duster onto the floor. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging out of the garment and wadding it up to use as a pillow.

The sleek lines and etched muscles of his chest and arms drew her eyes down and her lids grew heavy with something other than sleep as she watched him unbuckle his belt and draw it slowly through the loops of his jeans. Her heart skipped a beat as his hand rested on the button fly and she quickly rolled over to face the side of the wagon.

Suddenly sleep was the last thing on her mind.


Chapter 5: Buffalo Gals Won't You Come Out Tonight

Spike tossed and turned for a while, the hard wood beneath his duster obviously affording him little comfort. Buffy listened as his breathing began to even out, and before too long she heard the soft snores that heralded his slumber.

Slowly, she rolled over onto her other side, keeping alert to any sign that her movements might have awakened the sleeping vampire.

Ex-vampire.

It was hard for her to think of Spike as anything but the deadly foe she had come to know and loath. Granted these last weeks and months since their victory over Adam had shown him to be useful—but he would never be a trusted ally. He worked for money, blood, and cigarettes—not to save the world, or make it a better place. Not out of the goodness of his heart, but to fill his own pockets, his own needs.

But now that heart was beating.

Spike was human now, and that fact threw a cosmic monkey wrench into Buffy’s orderly view of her fellow time traveler. Spike equals the evil undead. Did a beating heart and active respiratory system really change anything? If either of them wanted to get out of this mystery and back to Sunnydale in one piece, Buffy knew they were going to have to work together. She’d just have to hope that this new found humanity made him just a little bit less of a peroxided pain in her ass.

The object of her musing mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, and Buffy glanced quickly at this face to see if he’d awoken. He was, thankfully, still asleep, stretched on his stomach, his cheek resting on the rumpled flannel shirt that was now his pillow. One of his arms was stretched out towards her; his fingertips nearly touching the feather tick.

There was no black fingernail polish. No heavy rings graced his fingers. Just pale skin, stretched taut over bone and muscle. Buffy’s eyes wandered along the muscles of his forearms, up to the cut of his bicep. He had strong arms for man as slender as he was.

To be fair, she had to admit Spike was in excellent shape. It was probably the only thing that had kept him dust resistant in their battles against each other. Her gazed moved from his arms, across his shoulders, to the smooth, long muscles of his back as they tapered gently to an elegantly slender waist. The hollow of the small of his back dipped into shadow as it disappeared into the loosened waist-band of his jeans.

This is not good. Lying here contemplating Spike’s jeans and … well, what’s beneath them. She heaved a sigh and rolled onto her back, looking up into the pitch darkness of the wagon cover. Within two minutes she’d figured out that she was just keyed up. Lots of nervous energy and no where to expend it. It had been over week since she’d had a good slay; and longer than that since she’d had quality time with her boyfriend. His job hunt was not going well, and their relationship wasn’t fairing much better. So, here she was, all hyped up and no one to kill … or fuck.

Buffy’s eyes drifted over to Spike’s sleeping form once more. Nibbling at her bottom lip she wondered, not for the first time, where Riley was when she could really use him?

Realizing that no good would come from her current train of thought, Buffy decided to derail it. She slipped silently from the coarse mattress and tiptoed to the entrance of the wagon. Peering cautiously out into the moonlit night, she was greeted with the sight of dying campfires and the sound of the snores of some of her slumbering fellow wagon train passengers. Everyone seemed tucked in for the night, and it didn’t appear that they had anyone walking guard around the perimeter of the campsite.

Gingerly, Buffy hopped from the wagon, landing on the balls of her feet and crouching low. She slowly stood and began creeping around the side of the wagon. She stumbled once before pulling her long skirts up and out of her way, then turned towards the perimeter of the campsite and once again glanced around her.

No time like the present for a little reconnaissance work.

~~~~@@@~~~~

It was the quietness that woke him. Even sleeping in his crypt, there was the constant drone of noise that told you that you lived in a city. The purr of car engines, an occasional too-loud radio and heated conversations. There was always, in the background, ambient noise of some sort or another.

Here there was silence.

Spike had fallen asleep quickly and woke to a deep in the gut, something just wasn’t right feeling. Peering through the murky darkness of the wagon to the feather tick, he found the cause of his concern.

Buffy was gone.

~~~~@@@~~~~

It didn’t take Buffy long to skirt the perimeter of the encampment. She wasn’t sure about the normal size of a wagon train, but this one seemed small. It consisted of a dozen or so wagons and the oxen that pulled them, along with several cows and assorted other livestock. Most of the other travelers appeared to sleep within their wagons, as she and Spike had been doing, but a few slumbered outside on bunk rolls placed close to the fires that had now died down to softly glowing embers.

Buffy was about to turn back towards her wagon when she heard a muffled sound the small copse of trees off to the right of the encampment. Glancing up, she saw that the moon now hung low in the purple streaked sky. Daybreak was fast approaching, and she had a feeling that wagon train travel warranted rising with the sun. Her step quickened as she moved towards the noise that had drawn her attention.

It didn’t take her long to find the source. Although to be truthful, the source actually found her; his voice startling her.

“You won’t find answers out here.”

She approached the man cautiously. He was old, sitting upon the ground, leaning against an even older oak tree.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy offered, “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just heard—”

“You have not disturbed me. I was just gathering myself for the day, which is about to begin its journey.” His voice was deep and warm and when he looked up at her it was with worn, grey eyes. “You are on a journey as well.”

Buffy nodded. “Yes, my … my husband in I are traveling—”

“He is not as he was. This man of yours.”

“Wait, he’s not my—” Buffy’s eyes widened. “What?”

“He used to take life and blood; now he will give them.” The man nodded to himself, satisfied he’d made himself clear. Rising to his feet he approached Buffy. “I dreamed of you both last night. A fierce warrior with a true heart.”

“Who are you?” Buffy whispered, looking up into his eyes.

He smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening. “I am many people. I am Shamala. I am shaman. I am a guide.”

“Like a spirit guide?” Buffy asked, her eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“No, little one,” the older man laughed, “A train guide. Although in our own way, we are all spirit guides.”

“I’m actually not feeling the spirit guide thing right now,” Buffy allowed herself to smile at the old man. For the first time since beginning this adventure, she felt, somehow, safe. The smile fled her face just as quickly when she saw the countenance of the old man change—his eyes closing, his brow wrinkling.

“She who slays is used to forging her own way, not searching out the hidden paths of fate.” He suddenly reached out to grasp her hand. “There are many changes to be dealt with, many -choices will have to be made. Eneeapah.”

His words and touch shocked her, and Buffy recoiled from him, stumbling in her haste and falling to her knees before him. Her breath came harsh and heavy as she felt the worn, calloused flesh of his fingers brush against her temple, moving through her hair. She looked up at him through the tangle of her hair and stilled.

“The dream was dark, but not so dark that you and your man cannot find your way. But first you must—”

A flash of movement caught the corner of her eye and she turned her head slightly to watch as a lithe figure leapt out of the darkness, a pale fist flashing out to meet the dark skinned jaw of the old man. The sickening, sharp thud of bone on bone sounded and the old man went down in a heap in front of her.

Before she could even figure out exactly what had just happened a pair of strong hands were hauling her to her feet and she was pulled against an equally strong chest. Protective arms wrapped around her, one hand splayed against the small of her back, the other around her neck, gently pushing her head onto the aforementioned chest.

“Are you okay? He didn’t hurt you, did he? Christ, Buffy, talk to me.”

She felt the growling vibrations beneath her cheek as Spike tried to catch his breath. “Let me go, you idiot,” she mumbled against the flannel of his shirt.

Spike pulled back enough to look down into her face, or at least as much of her face as he could see through the tousled hair. “What?”

Buffy pulled the rest of the way out of his arms and took a few steps back from him. Pushing her hair from her face, she quickly knelt beside the fallen man and checked his pulse.

“He’s out cold,” she muttered, then turned burning green eyes to Spike. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“Can’t believe I did what?” Spike howled incredulously. “Saved your sweet little arse is what I did.”

“It didn’t need to be saved . . . I didn’t need to be saved!” Buffy stood and approached him, stopping when she was toe to toe, nose to nose with the fuming ex-vampire.

“You know, you are one stone, cold bitch. No matter what the time period. Bloody Hell! I woke up and you weren’t in the wagon. I come lookin’ for you and find you with this guy and he’s got you on your knees, his hands all over you.”

“His hands were not all over me,” Buffy huffed. “He was—”

“He was what?” Spike growled, jamming his fists into the pockets of his jacket. It seemed a safe place for them at the moment.

Buffy hesitated, frowning. She turned from Spike and walked over and looked down at the old man. “I’m not sure what he was doing. But,” she added quickly as Spike’s mouth opened to speak. “He wasn’t hurting me. I think he was channeling something or reading my aura. He’s a shaman.”

“Fuck.” Spike dropped back another step and gaped at the man on the ground. “He’s not a bloody Chumash, is he?”

“I don’t think so.” They both glanced down to the crotch of Spike’s jeans, then quickly back up at each other. “He’s employed by whoever organized this wagon train. He’s a guide. He’s also some sort of medicine man. A shaman. Spike, it was weird. He knew things.”

“What do you mean he knew things?” His irritation had fought back into first place. “What did he know?”

“Us. Me. Who I am. Who you are. More importantly what you are … or used to be.”

“Slow down, Slayer—”

“See, right there, he called me the Slayer. Well, ‘She Who Slays,’ but close enough. Spike, he knows that we’re not who everyone thinks we are. He said he had a dream about us.”

“A dream?” Spike narrowed his eyes, his brow furrowing. “What else does he know? What else did he say?”

“I think he knows more, but there was this sudden unconsciousness that happened when your fist impacted with his jaw.”

Spike grimaced sheepishly and dug the toe of his boot into the ground. “Cut me a bit o’ a break, Buffy. My eyesight isn’t what it once was, at least not at night and to me, it looked like he was manhandlin’ you.”

“If that were the case—and I want to stress here, it wasn’t—but if it was, I can take care of myself, Spike.”

“Not like you used to … Slayer.” He arched an eyebrow at her. He watched as she frowned, but didn’t disagree with him. “But I promise to try an’ suss out the situation a bit further next time, before dashin’ in to save the day.”

Buffy took a deep breath and forced herself to remember that they were both working their way through a complicated maze. It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful that he was willing to throw himself into danger to protect her. It was more than odd and, she guessed, something she’d have to find a way to get used to. She reminded herself again, things were not what they once where, and they were going to have to work together to get themselves home.

“Well,” she offered hesitantly. “As dashing goes, it was petty impressive. Just, yeah, next time make sure I’m actually in danger.”

“Will do.” Spike gave her a curt nod, then looked over at the aging shaman as he began to moan and move around a bit. “Now what?”

Buffy followed his line of vision. “Well, it’s almost morning. I say we give the doctor a call.”


Chapter 6: Horses Dream of Pastures Wide and Free

Buffy helped to steady the old man as he slowly rose to his feet. Spike, feeling discretion was the better part of valor, stood off to the side. He did have the decency to look embarrassed, however, when the old man looked his way.

After she made sure there wasn’t any permanent damage, short of the split lip and swollen, bruised jaw already blossoming, Buffy started to brush the mud and leaves from his clothing.

“I’m really sorry about that. We both are.” She glanced quickly to see Spike nod his head apologetically. The uncharacteristic move caught her attention and an eyebrow rose as she studied him.

“Yeah, sorry about that, mate.” Spike’s eyes twitched between the old man’s dark brown gaze and the unusually direct way his partner in time-travel seemed to be studying him.

“You do not need to apologize.” The old man tilted his head, seeming to take Spike’s measurement as a man in his piercing gaze. “You are a protector. A champion. You protect the woman you love. There should never be regret in that.”

“Ah . . . well . . . ” Buffy stuttered out, as Spike raised both eyebrows and pinned her with a look. “Now that you’re on your feet I was wondering if I could ask you a question.” When the old man didn’t respond, she rushed on. “What you were saying, before Spike… ah, Will hit you. What did you mean? You mentioned a dream and finding our way out. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I remember, I—”

“Shay, what in the hell is keeping you. Masterson’s chomping at the bit to be on the move—” The tall cowboy from the night before stopped dead in his tracks at seeing the older man’s face, bruised and swollen. “What in tarnation happened here?” The soft, gravely voice roughened further with anger.

Before Buffy or Spike could speak, the old man stepped towards the cowboy. “I am fine Matthew. I tripped and fell. These young ones were within shouting distance and came to help me.” He glanced back at the Buffy and Spike, a twinkle in his dark eyes suggested that they keep their mouths shut and let him do the talking.

“You fell? You?” Matthew squinted skeptically at the old man. “Shay, I’ve never seen you take a misstep in my life.”

Shay smiled gently at his young friend. “There is a first time for everything, Matthew; I am not as young as I once was. It was still dark and I was not paying attention.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Matthew came closer to his friend, frowning at the injury that marked the older man’s face. He turned to Buffy and Spike, his concern apparent. “Thanks, Will, Elizabeth. Glad you were around to help Shay out.”

“Oh, ah, we really didn’t do anything.” Buffy bit her lip, casting her eyes down in a look that she hoped appeared humble, rather than guilty. She snuck a glance out of the corner of her eye at Spike who seemed to have adopted a deer in the headlights look.

To both Buffy and Spike’s relief, Matthew turned his attention back to his friend. “You okay to get back to camp? You need to ride in one of the wagons today?”

“No, Matthew, I am fine.” Shay smiled at his friend, then turned back to Buffy and Spike. “I will finish that story I was telling you later.”

“Story.” Buffy frowned, her eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

Matthew chuckled. “Shay boring you with more of his old Indian stories? He has a million of them, you know. Best watch out or you’ll be hearing them all.”

Buffy’s eyes widened and she nodded her head. “Stories, yes, he was telling one of his stories.” She turned to look at Shay who wore an enigmatic smile on his weathered face. “I hope you can finish the one you were telling us soon.”

Shay simply nodded his head and turned to walk back towards the campsite.

“You might not want to encourage him. He can be a long-winded old coot. Not that his yarns aren’t interestin’. Was once a pretty important medicine man in his tribe. They said he had the vision.” Matthew turned towards Spike, the looked back over his shoulder to where Buffy stood. “You two gonna tell me what you were doing up and out before dawn this morning?”

“Buf—Beth was feelin’ a bit closed in. Thought we’d catch some air,” Spike offered up, moving over to Buffy and winding an arm around her waist to pull her close to his side.

Matthew rolled his eyes, trying to bite back a smile. “Save me from spoonin’ love birds.”

Spike pulled Buffy just a bit closer and nuzzled into her hair. He could feel Buffy tense in his arms and he curled his fingers a little tighter into her waist. “Calm now,” he whispered. He cast a glance at Matthew and tossed him a crooked grin. “You caught us, Matthew. Just wanted to take a walk with my darlin’ before we got movin’ this morning.”

Buffy drew in a deep breath and willed herself to relax in Spike’s arms. But old habits die hard and her slayer senses, while no longer fueled by whatever supernatural forces once drove her, were still screaming in her head that this was just wrong. On so many levels.

She shivered and didn’t know if it was because of the pressure of Spike’s thigh so intimately pressed against hers, or from the cool of morning. She hoped it was the temperature of the air and not the proximity of the ex-vampire, but she was afraid she’d lose that bet. Her body betrayed her again and she trembled, only to find herself pulled into the circle of Spike’s arms. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Matthew rumbled with laughter, turning to head back to camp. “Will, I don’t care if you are honeymooners, you better not keep us waiting or Masterson’s gonna have a piece your hide. See you back at camp.”

Buffy waited until the cowboy was out of sight before pulling herself free of Spike’s embrace.

“Okay, Handy McVampire, what’s with the gropage?” She turned from him, using the time to straighten her dress and calm her nerves. She could feel the flame of her cheeks and the too fast pitter pat of her heart in her chest.

Spike shot her a vintage smirk, coming up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. pulling her back snug against his chest. “That’s Handy Mc-Ex-vampire, to you, missy. Oh, guess that would be Missus. Missus Throckmorton. Rolls trippin’ly off the tongue, heh?”

Buffy struggled against his hold but stopped when she realized that this was a fight she wasn’t currently capable of winning. “Look, Mr. Throckmorton—”

Her grumble was cut short by Spike’s belly laugh, his body vibrating against hers, his arms tightening about her until she could feel his belt buckle pressed against the small of her back. It was large and hard. She hoped it was his belt buckle. She scrunched up her face, willing her mind from the dark road it was headed. Fire pretty.

“We’re newlyweds to these prats. And even if it looks like we won’t be here long, best we keep up with appearances, no matter how … hard it might be.” He emphasized his words with a slight shift of his hips against her buttocks.

“You are vile,” Buffy hissed, twisting out of his arms.

Spike released her, dancing back and away from her now flailing fists. “Flattery will get you -- oh, hell, it won’t get you anywhere, luv, but I adore hearin’ it.”

Catching her fists in his hands, Spike drew her up against him, and Buffy realized quickly that it hadn’t been his belt buckle pressing in to her. Before the thought could germinate, Spike smiled down into her stormy eyes, biting his lower lip provocatively. A flash of memory hit her in the gut. Sitting on his lap, kissing him, while Willow’s spell wove itself about them. Must not focus on lips of Spike.

“What do you mean we may not be here long? What’s up with you, Spike?” Buffy’s face flushed a brighter red as she instantly regretted her words and battened down for a lewd remark.

Instead she got another chuckle. “Don’t you get it, Slayer? We’re gettin’ outta here. We found our ticket out of here and back to Home Sweet Hell-Mouth.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Have you gone insane? It must be the sunlight. It’s been a hundred years since you were in daylight and it’s just made you all wonky, right?”

“It’s not that, Buffy. Although I have to admit, this sunlight business is a bit of alright.” Spike murmured, squinting at the horizon at the rising star.

Without warning, Spike released her wrists and stepped back from her, leaving her strangely bereft of his touch.

He looked at her quizzically. “You’re the one that found him. The old man. You heard what Matthew said. A bigwig shaman. With visions, no less. And he’s had a dream about us. Knew you, right off. Betcha he’s got some answers for all our questions. Betcha he’s holdin’ our ticket outta here.”

“That’s a lot of betting, Spike. For all we know he’s just some old geezer reeling senility in with both hands.” A small surge of guilt tugged at her as she watched the grin fade from the ex-vampire’s face. “Look, I just don’t want us to get our hopes up, that’s all.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Spike nodded. “You’re right.” At her smug smile, he continued, “But I’m right when I say we have to keep up appearances. Could tell that Matthew was wondering about us this morning. No need to draw more attention to ourselves than necessary.”

“Oh and all the touchy-feely and kissage isn’t attention drawing?” Buffy huffed.

“We’re newlyweds, Slayer. Two young lovers. People are gonna notice us not being near each other, touching, holding hands. Besides, this day an’ age a woman didn’t go wanderin’ too far away from her husband’s protection—“

“Excuse me?” Buffy glared at him, her hands planted on her hips. “You did not just say that.”

Spike took in a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “Not sayin’ it was right, Buffy, just sayin’ how it was. How it is.”

Buffy snorted, tilting her chin into the air. “Well, Buster, you can bet that I’m not gonna be wandering around attached to your coat tails.” At his look of frustration, she relented a bit, moving from full-throttle glare to mid-sized glower. “Fine, okay, I’ll try to watch myself and be a bit more chronologically attuned in the girl department. But can we keep the fondling and kissing to a minimum?”

Shrugging, Spike said, “Don’t see why not. A few well-placed public displays of affection should hold us.” The ex-vampire turned to head back to the campsite. Looking over his shoulder he added, “Anyway, there wasn’t any kissing.”

Buffy frowned, moving to follow him. “No kiss? Are you sure?”

Spike smiled and kept walking, hearing the rustle of her skirts as she moved to catch up with him. “There was no kiss.” When she fell in beside him, he turned to look at her with a sly grin and one raised brow. “Trust me, Buffy, when I kiss you, there won’t be any doubt.”

Spike lengthened his stride, jumping over a fallen log and jogging off to camp, leaving Buffy to contemplate his words.


Chapter 7 : Hitch Your Wagon To A Star

Buffy watched as Spike pried the mouth of the large draft horse open, inspecting whatever it was he was inspecting. The horse’s teeth looked like big yellow Chiclets to her, although Spike obviously found them adequate as he nodded brusquely and moved to run his hands up the horse’s muzzle to tweak an ear. His slender fingers fumbled with the bridle, checking the buckle, before moving down through the bristly mane to the animal’s massive shoulders and along the heavy legs.

Spike kneaded and prodded the tendons and sinews of the horse’s leg, and Buffy found the motion of his long, slender fingers utterly fascinating. When he bent over, pushing against the horse and lifting its leg to inspect the hoof, Buffy’s eyes were almost magnetically drawn to the faded denim that hugged his backside. Something caught her eye and she peered closer, focusing on a small rip near one of the back pockets, she quickly averted her eyes, whirling around and away from the flesh peaking at her through the worn jeans.

Did men not wear underwear in this time period? She raised an eyebrow at the thought, turning to look back over her shoulder at Spike’s nicely displayed butt. She shook her head and turned away once more.

“What are you doing?” She turned to walk towards the horse’s tail – figuring that rump was a lot safer than the one she’d been ogling.

Spike looked up, squinting at her in the early morning sunlight. “Just checkin’ under the hood and kickin’ the tires. Want to know what I’m dealing with before we head out.”

“You really know what you’re doing.” It was a statement, not a question, and was accompanied by a petulant frown. Somehow he was fitting into this timeframe much better than she was and it annoyed her.

Spike grinned and went back to poking at the spongy underside of the horse’s hoof. “In my day, Slayer, this was the best mode of transportation. Had quite a nice stable. Not like these,” he said, patting the immense creature on the shoulder as he dropped the hoof back down to the ground. “Thoroughbreds, Hackneys. Carriage horses. Had a beautiful matched set of bays.”

Buffy raised a slender brow. “A matched set of what?”

Spike smirked at her over his shoulder. “Mind outta the gutter, Slayer. Bays. A color of horse, like mahogany. A matched set are two identical, right down to the blaze on their nose and socks on their feet.”

“Horses wear socks?”

Spike dropped his forehead to the horse’s back. “Slayer,” he sighed.

“Stop calling me that,” she hissed, stepping up next to him.

“Fine,” he said, drawing himself to his full height. “Elizabeth, my darling, you can’t possible be that daft. Better?”

She huffed and twirled around, settling to lean up against the horse’s flank. “I just hate this. I hate being here. I hate dressing like this. I hate that I now smell like Eau de Flicka. Mostly I hate the fact that you seem to fit in just fine and I’m like this big, old, sore thumb.”

Spike’s smile softened a bit. “You’re not a sore thumb, Buf—Beth.” He looked around at the hustle and bustle that surrounded them. Everyone was harnessing their horses and oxen and packing up to move on. No one was paying them particular notice, but better safe than sorry. He leaned in to her, reaching up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, then tugged at the ties of the cotton sunbonnet that was hanging down her back. “Best put this on or you’ll get yourself a nice burn.”

Buffy fumbled with the bonnet. “Sorry, I didn’t mean turn into Pity Party Buffy with matching accessories. I’m just feeling a bit out of my element.”

“That’s okay,” Spike murmured, watching as she struggled with the bow under her chin. “Today’s gonna be the worst, yeah? But we’ll suss things out quick and, just watch, we’ll both be fittin’ in before you know it.”

She returned his smile half-heartedly. “I guess. I just wish we could find a chance to talk with Shay.”

Chucking her under the chin, he turned back to checking the harness once more. “We’ll get our chance. Maybe this evenin’ when we set camp. In the meantime, let me give you leg-up.” Buffy hitched her skirts up to her knees, as Spike bent to grab her heel, hoisting her onto the wooden plank that served as the wagon's seat. Grabbing hold of the side rail and the front support of the wagon, he placed his foot on the front wheel and pulled himself up into the wagon, plopping down next to Buffy.

Pushing her skirts out of the way, he reached for the reins and then for the lever to release the brake on the wagon wheel. As the brake gave, the wagon began to roll forward slowly, the two giant horses straining at the collars of their harness to begin the momentum.

They were approximately in the middle of the wagon train and Spike made a large arching circle before coming up behind the wagon he was to follow. The Turners, if he remembered correctly. He’d caught their name over a quick cup of something they called coffee, but that bore only passing resemblance to the 20th century brew with which he was familiar, before harnessing the horses and preparing the wagon for departure. They seemed a nice family; a father, mother and two young boys. Frank, the father seemed amicable and Spike figured he’d hang close to the man and take whatever cues he could from him. It had been a very long time since he’d sat a wagon and he’d never driven a draft team.

At the thought his hands tighten on the reins and both horses threw their heads up, nickering and whinnying their displeasure.

“Easy there, Will.”

Spike glanced over to find Matthew on horseback, keeping pace beside them.

The dark haired cowboy tipped his hat at Buffy and looked back to Spike. “Don’t worry, son, you’ll get the hang of it. There are a few in this train that haven’t driven wagons this size before. Slow and easy does it. Let me know if you need anything.” Matthew dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse and galloped away, a cloud of dust trailing after him.

Buffy wiggled on the seat next to Spike. “I could use a pillow … or two. Could they have made this seat any more uncomfortable?”

~~~~~@@~~~~~

Six hours and a mere twelve miles later the seat that had started off being mildly uncomfortable had turned into a veritable torture chamber.

Buffy was settled, for the moment, on her left hip, relieving some of the pressure on her spine from the jolting ride. When the wagon hit another rock, she grunted in pain and gritted her teeth.

Spike mopped the sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve and turned to look at his companion. “You okay there, Slayer?”

Buffy squirmed a bit more and glanced over at him with a very uncharitable look. “Oh, just fine and dandy. It’s not like I really needed those vertebra.”

“I feel your pain, luv,” The ex-vampire grumbled, scooting up on the bench a bit. “This rig makes the Desoto’s suspension seem like a Rolls Royce.”

A dry gust of wind caught the brim of Buffy’s bonnet and she clamped her hand on top of her head to keep it from flying off. “Yeah, never thought I’d actually miss that old bag of rolling rust.” She glanced over at him again. “How are your hands?”

His fingers reflexively tightened on the reins as he looked down at his leather clad hands. “Not too bad. Glad you found these gloves. Saved me a layer of skin or two.” He took his hat off and again wiped the sweat from his face, then pulled the Stetson back low over his brow.

Buffy watched as Spike flapped the reins, chucking to the horses to keep them moving up the low but steady incline they were following. Like her, his clothes and face were covered in dust. His skin had reddened, even with the protection of the hat. Wind burn, he’d told her, was just as bad as sun burn. It looked like he was proving his point the hard way.

Spike shook his head slightly and tried to blink the sweat that was getting into his eyes. Buffy’s fingers fiddled with the cloth flour sack she held in her lap, resisting the sudden urge she had to reach over and wipe his face clean. She’d found the tattered piece of fabric, along with the leather gloves, tucked in what she learned was the jockey box; a small storage area that hung to one side of the wagon. Spike had taken the gloves thankfully and told her to keep the cloth and use it when the dust kicked up. Both items had more than come in handy.

The terrain was rough and the horses needed a lot of encouragement to keep moving, and more importantly, keep moving in the direction they needed them to go. Unfortunately this encouragement came at the expense of Spike’s shoulders, arms, and hands, as he used all of his strength to guide and goad the animals along. Buffy had been annoyed, at first, having to be the one to wear the petticoats, being weighed down with yards of homespun to her ankles. Now, watching Spike work the horses, she felt embarrassingly thankful to be able to hide behind the protection of her skirts.

“Fuck,” Spike exclaimed, removing his hat again to wipe at his eyes. “Damn it all to bloody hell. That stings.”

Quickly Buffy reached behind her into the wagon, dipping the cloth into a small water cask she’d been using to fill their canteen. She scooted closer to Spike her fingers grabbing his chin to turn his face towards her. “Here,” she murmured, using the cool cloth to wipe his brow, over his eyes and, finally, his cheeks. He simply watched her, blinking slowly, as she mopped at his face until she was satisfied and then unfolded the cloth and laid it across the back of his neck.

Resting her hands back in her lap she looked at him, a small smile quirking the corners of her lips. “There, that better?”

He blinked again, once. “Yes. Much.” He hesitated a moment, then returned her smile. “Thank you, luv.”

Buffy’s smile softened as their gazes caught. It seemed like hours, but was mere moments, as green and blue held steady. Buffy was the one to look away first, ducking her head and then looking back at the bleak landscape. “No problemo. I wouldn’t want you running us off a mountain or into a buffalo or something, just because you couldn’t see.”

Spike dragged his eyes away from her profile, his teeth catching his lower lip. He gazed at the rolling backsides of the horses and chucked the reins to speed them up. “Right. Well, glad to see you’re not goin’ soft on me, Slayer.”

“Me?” Buffy asked, glancing at him from the corner of here eye. Her smile reappeared, briefly, before she turned her eyes from him again. “Getting soft? On you? Never.”


Chapter 8: An' Souls That Cry For Water

“You are truly hopeless, you know that?” Buffy crawled across the feather tick mattress gingerly on her hands and knees, the voluminous cotton nightgown she’d found in a one of the small trunks, covering her from neck to toes.

“Was being a good Samaritan, Slayer.”

Buffy gave a very unladylike snort and flopped down onto her stomach. “You were flirting, Spike.”

It was Spike’s turn to snort and he did so in an indignant fashion. “Was not! The girl needed help. She’s lost her husband, travelin’ alone, what was I supposed to do?”

“Oh, please,” Buffy rolled her eyes at him. “You nearly tripped over your own feet trying to get to her. Besides, she couldn’t, like, fix it herself?”

“A broken wagon wheel?” Spike asked incredulously.

“Hey, I learned how to fix a flat in Driver’s Ed.”

“Too bad they didn’t teach you how to drive,” Spike mumbled, dropping down to sit cross-legged near the side of the mattress. No nightgown had been found for him, only a few extra pare of jeans and some thread-bear work shirts. Normally this wouldn’t have concerned him in the least, as he slept in the buff, but with the closed, shared quarters, it was out of the question. But living in his clothes night and day would get old soon enough. He figured once the lights were out he’d skim out of his jeans to sleep—what Buffy didn’t know, couldn’t hurt her … or him.

“What was that?” Buffy lifted her head from where she had nestled it in the crook of her crossed arms.

“Never mind, Slayer. It was a bloody wagon wheel needed replacin’. Not some Firestone comes off with a lug wrench. Just did what any other red-blooded man would do.”

“You’re not—”

“Am now, so don’t get your knickers in a twist. What’s it to you anyway? No skin off your perky little nose.” Even with her cheek back resting on her arm, he could see her lower lip beginning to pout. “Got back here in time to unhitch the wagon, didn’ I?”

“Well, yes,” Buffy sulked. Then her head shot up again, and she glared at him. “But I had to feed the horses.” At his raised brow, the infamous lower lip reappeared. “I almost lost a finger,” she whined.

“Lemme see,” Spike slipped into a grin, leaning forward to grab the hand now curled under her chin.

His hands felt warm and strong around her own and although she knew she should, she didn’t pull free of his grasp and actually sat up, facing him, so he could get a better look at her hands.

“Yup,” Spike nodded, thoroughly investigating her fingers. “They do look a bit like carrots; can’t say as I blame the beasts.”

“Oh,” Buffy huffed, trying to pull her fingers free of his grip.

He’d have none of it however, holding her hand firmly within both of his. “Looks like when we get home you’re gonna have to make an appointment for a manicure.”

“Yeah,” Buffy stopped tugging at her hand and watched as his fingers worked over delicate bones with a gentle massage that felt surprisingly soothing. “Frontier life, I’m finding, pretty much sucks.”

Spike chuckled, but didn’t look up from his ministrations. He turned her hand in his, pressing and releasing his thumbs in the soft meat of her palm, feeling as the tension begin to seep from her muscles.

It had been a long day—the first of, possibly, many like it before they found their way home. While neither he nor the Slayer were slouches with regards to physical fitness, they were still far more fragile than they once were. Add to that the rigors of wagon train travel, and Spike realized that it wasn’t going to be easy to make it through this adventure in one piece. And they only had each other to rely on. Considering that two days ago they could barely stand to be in the same room for more than five minutes, he figured they done pretty damn well – but he’d be kidding himself if he thought it was going to get easier.

“Take it you didn’t get a chance to talk with Shay?” His fingers absently wandered, pushing up the loose fabric of the sleeve of her nightgown to stroke the tanned flesh of her forearms.

“No,” Buffy breathed deeply, trying not to think too much about why his hands felt so good, so soothing, when in the past they’d seemed only threatening, something to cause pain. Her eyes went from the fingers plying her flesh to the top of his head. He seemed so intent on his task, still not looking up at her. “Did you?”

The blue of his eyes, as they shifted up to meet hers, at first startled her. Even in the dim light of the oil lamp, their intensity shone vividly. Maybe it was the contrast to his skin, which was already slightly darker. Even in this he seemed to be doing better at adapting than she; tanning gracefully, the slight squint lines around his eyes framing the ocean blue to perfection. It simply wasn’t fair.

But even after only one day, Buffy did have to concede that this exact ability—to fit in—had made all the difference. There was no way in hell she could have faked her way through everything that had been thrown at her in this world; yet Spike had stepped up to the plate and made it look, if not easy, at least doable. More importantly, all the while, never once making her feel inadequate because of her lack of expertise.

It was more than a little overwhelming, seeing Spike in such a different light. Hell, seeing him in any light at all! But there it was. This adventure, or whatever it was to be called, had turned the tables on both of them. Thrown them for a loop and knocked them off their feet. That they were both still standing—albeit somewhat wobbly and a bit unsteadily—was a testament to both their wills. They’d both said, at the onset, that they’d have to work together—she just never imagined it possible. Now, with the darkness gathering behind their first day, she was beginning to think that just maybe they’d make it through this. The fact that Spike had something to do with that optimism was what surprised her the most.

“Did I. . . what?”

The sound of his voice, deeper and more gravely than she remembered it being, drew her from the depths of his eyes. She refocused, thinking it safer, on his mouth.

Bad choice.

His tongue peaked out and ran along his bottom lip, moistening it, before curling up to rest, provocatively behind his teeth.

She took a deep breath, her mouth opening to speak, yet she couldn’t seem to find the words beyond the image of his lips and his eyes and feel of his fingers on her arms. Finally, she raised her eyes back to his and managed to mumble a barely coherent and more than slightly lame, “What what?”

Spike’s raised brow seemed to pull Buffy out of her fog and she shook her head. “Sorry,” she smiled slightly. “I’m more out of it than I thought. Shay. Did you get a chance to talk with him yourself?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Got the feelin’ there isn’t a hell of a lot of socializing that gets done. But we at least know his morning routine. I’m gonna get up early and see if I can catch him. That don’t work, Katie said she’d let him know we were lookin’ speak with him.”

“Katie?” The left corner of Buffy’s mouth quirked down into a frown. “Oh, right, ‘Miss My Wagon Wheel Broke Can Some Big Strong Cowboy Come Help Me Fix It' Katie. What does she have to do with Shay?”

Spike narrowed his eyes, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “If I didn’t know any better, Slayer, I’d say you were jealous.”

Buffy’s mouth fell open and she stared at him for a second in abject horror. “Jealous,” she sputtered. “I am most certainly not jealous of some little wild west ho-bag.”

Spike’s smile deepened, his fingers now slipping under the nightgown to press into her biceps. “Shouldn’t be. There’s not a thing for you to be jealous over.”

“Right.” Buffy nodded curtly, then narrowed her eyes at him. “Not that I’d be jealous even if you were acting like some moony-eyed, love-stuck, cowpoke. Which, by the way, you totally are. And you didn’t answer my question: what does she have to do with Shay?”

He bit his bottom lip in an attempt to stifle his smile. “Seems he’s takin’ her under his wing, so to speak. Like I said, she’s a young widow, trying to make this trip all on her lonesome. She needs help from time to time, so people pitch in. Wouldn’t hurt you to try to be a bit more understandin'.”

“Oh, I think you’re being understanding enough for both of us.” She glared at him again, but leaned into the caress of his fingers as they moved back to her elbows. “NOT that I’m jealous, of course. It’s just that, well, we are supposed to be newlyweds. How does it look with you running after her all hot and bothered? Besides, when did you grow a conscience?”

The words were out before she could draw them back in. They hadn’t spoken of exactly what his new found humanity entailed, finding other more immediately issues to address. The one-sided fight with Shay had shown them the chip was, at the least, not functioning, if not totally absent, and neither was surprised at that turn of events. From all signs he looked like he had regressed back to what he’d been before being turned, which meant no chip. But did that include his getting his soul back? It had crossed her mind, but she hadn’t wanted to face that particular issue yet, much less take part in a discussion about it with the ex-vampire in question.

Spike’s eyes darkened as he watched the flood of emotion across Buffy’s face. His smile faltered, his chin jutting forward a bit. “Grew it along with the heartbeat, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Buffy murmured. “I’m sorry—”

“Nothin’ to be sorry about.” Spike pursed his lips and drew his hands down Buffy’s arms, taking hold of both of her hands in his. “Not like both of us weren’t wonderin’.”

“So, you’re sure?” she asked hesitantly, not wanting to push, yet not wanting to back away.

He blew out a breath, looking from where their hands were joined, up into her worried eyes. “Pretty sure. Been tryin’ not to think on it too much, seems we’ve got enough problems to deal with without takin’ time to contemplate my navel.”

She frowned, blinking at him. “I hope you don’t think I’d consider you worrying about your soul to be self-indulgent.”

“Not sure what it would be … but right now, I know we just don’t have the time. Soul or no soul, we have to find our way out of this mess,” he stated, unable to keep the weariness from his voice.

“I know, Spike, but—”

“No 'buts' about it, Slayer. We can talk about this more after we find out what happened to us, and more importantly, how to get us back home.”

“I guess,” she started, then finished with a yawn she wasn’t able to fight back.

“See there? Already been up too late, with an early mornin’ and another hard day ahead of us. Lie back down,” Spike said, his hands moving overtop of her nightgown to her shoulders, urging her to stretch back out onto her stomach.

“What?” Buffy tensed, but followed his gentle prodding.

“You’re tied in knots, Buffy, just gonna help you relax a bit, so you can sleep.” His voice soothed over her and against her better instincts she allowed herself to be swept along with it.

At the touch of his fingers along her shoulders Buffy’s muscles and nerves sang with relief. She really hadn’t realized how very exhausted, achy, and scared she was until he started kneading her tired flesh. They were both, it seemed, standing at the precipice of something big. Large and looming, their future was anything but stable and neither knew what the next day would bring; what peril they might have to face to find their way home. Or even if they’d be able to get home, back to their own time. Strangely, however, as her eyes drifted closed and her mind started weaving dreams, it occurred to Buffy that, at this moment, she felt safe. It was that feeling, of being tended to and cared for that let her drift off, gathering the strength she’d need for what lay ahead.


Chapter 9: The Soft Word Your Cruel Lips Will Never Say

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

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

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

Was it the soul?

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

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

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

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

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

Bloody pathetic wanker!

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked down at her hand.

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

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

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


Chapter 10: Cowboys Dance With The Farmers Daughters

She moved toward him, her skirts swaying with the movement of her hips. But he knew it was more than that. His sisters used to practice that walk. Shoulders back, chin high, toes pointed in, so that their gowns would sways seductively as they entered the ballroom. This woman had practiced too, he could tell.

She was beautiful and she knew it. This he could also tell. She held herself with a confidence that could only come from knowing, no matter who was in the room, no matter how many other women there were vying for attention, all eyes would be on her.

Right now, his eyes were on her. He couldn’t help it, really. He was a man, after all. Even more so, now. Now with his heart pumping, his flesh warm. She smiled as she saw him approach, the small, dainty tip of her tongue slipping out to wet her lips. In that brief moment, he felt his cock harden beneath the stiff denim of his jeans. Vampire or human, some things never change.

“William.” The tall auburn haired woman looked as if she was about to reach out a hand to him, but then thought better of it. Instead she clasped her hands together in front of her. “It’s so kind of you to pay a visit this morning.”

Spike tipped his hat, tugging the brim of the black Stetson lower over his brow. “Just wanted to make sure your wagon was set to rights before we needed to take off.”

Katie Monroe pursed her lips and looked to be appraising him. He wondered exactly what she would calculate his worth to be.

“Well, that was thoughtful of you.” Her eyes sparkled and her gaze met and matched his, as if daring Spike to look away.

Her soft, syrupy southern drawl seemed to envelop him and he felt even more of his newly pumping blood head south of the border. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his duster, pulling the coat closed over the evidence of his arousal.

From the first fluttering of her eyelashes, the first touch of her hand on his sleeve as she’d stood beside him while he fixed her wagon’s wheel, Spike had known that this woman’s charms had been finely honed. He’d no doubt that she’d used those charms, her beauty, many times before, to get what she wanted.

And from the look she was giving him, she apparently wanted him.

“As I told you yesterday, I don’t have much, but please let me offer you something for your services.” The shawl she had wrapped around her shoulders, dropped lower, hanging from the crooks of her elbows and gently hugging the curve of her ass.

And a fine ass it was, Spike thought, an eyebrow quirking. He suspected that her idea of payment had nothing to do with money; she was letting him get a bit of a look at just what she had to offer.

“A cup o’ coffee would be nice.” He kept his smile friendly, but nothing more. He was, for all intents and purposes, a married man. At least the Widow Monroe thought so. He wasn’t sure exactly what game she was playing, but for right now he wanted to keep his cards close to the vest. Besides, no use giving Buffy a bigger stick to beat him over the head with.

Katie’s smile faded slightly, her eyes narrowing just a bit. She wasn’t the type of woman who was used to being turned down and it seemed she wasn’t quite sure what to make of this blonde, English, cowpoke. “Of course. I have some on the fire, let me get you a cup.”

Spike watched as she bent to retrieve the dented tin pot from the ashes of her campfire. She was wearing a dingy white blouse tucked loosely into the waist band of her dark brown skirt. The collar of the blouse lay open, the top buttons undone, and at this angle he was afforded a tantalizing glimpse of the long line of her throat and décolletage.

There was a hint of cleavage. Nothing one would consider too risqué. Just an edge of lace, a flash of camisole, following the lush curve of a breast. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Not a mark, not a freckle to be seen. When she straightened, turning to pour the hot liquid into a tin mug, Spike’s gaze moved to her hands. They too were smooth, flawless. Her nails, neat and filed into a delicate oval. These were not the hands of farmer’s wife. She didn’t have the skin of a woman used to hard labor.

“Sugar?”

Katie’s voice startled him and he realized he’d been caught daydreaming. He averted his eyes, as any gentleman would, and took the cup of coffee, cradling it in the palms of his hands. “Sorry,” he offered, hoping he sounded properly aghast that he’d been caught sneaking a peek. “We didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

He regarded her raised eyebrows and slightly shocked expression. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean . . . what I meant was, I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. Buf—Elizabeth got plenty.” As Katie’s eyebrows continued to rise, he rushed on. “Sleep, I mean. She got plenty of sleep.”

Silence fell as Spike considered just how deep a hole he’d just dug for himself.

After what seemed like hours, a smile quirked at the corners of Katie’s mouth. “I’m sure Elizabeth got plenty . . . of sleep.”

Spike winced, turning to the large white horse that stood harnessed in front of the widow’s wagon. “Let me check the traces for you.” He could feel the heat radiating from his face and he grimaced. It had been more than a century since he’d had to worry about blushing. Funny how it only took a second to go from the Big Bad to the awkward gawky teenager he’d once been.

A hand plucked the sleeve of his duster, pulling him from the jaws of his past and memories as hideous as any he’d created in his years as a vampire.

“Thank you, William.” Katie had poured herself some coffee and was looking at him through the steam rising from the cup. “Shay always gets them ready for me. He said he’d be back to double-check them before we started off. He’ll appreciate you saving him the work.”

Spike nodded, busying himself with checking the harness trappings, his fingers moving smoothly over the worn leather and buckles. He’d hoped to catch the medicine man and was happy he’d have the chance to finally talk with him. “He’s a fine man. Take care of you, does he?”

“Yes. I don’t know what I’d do without him. There’s no way I could have made this trip if he hadn’t arranged for someone to drive for me.”

Spike stoked his fingers along the great beast’s coat, making sure there were no mats under the heavy harness collar. “Met him yesterday. The Taylor’s oldest boy, yeah?”

Katie nodded, taking another sip of her coffee. “Even so, it will be nice to reach Plattsville.”

Spike, who was now down on one knee, inspecting the girth, looked over at her. “What’s a Plattsville?”

“No place special,” Katie sighed. “But it’s where I’m headed. Just a little mining town. Maybe not so little since they hit gold a few months back.”

Spike continued what he was doing, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Didn’t figure you for bein’ a miner.”

“No,” she chuckled. “We . . . my husband and I, we bought a business there.”

Spike stood, dusting off his pants legs. “What type of business?”

Katie tilted her head and peered at him. “You’re just full of questions. I’ve never seen a cowboy quite as talkative as you.”

“Sorry,” Spike turned to finger the horses bridle. “You’re right, none o’ my busin—“

“No.” The red-head walked over to him. “I was just teasing. The business is sort of . . . hotel. Lots of people traveling in and out of little Plattsville these days. I just hope I can handle it on my own.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll do jus’ fine. You seem very . . . competent.” Spike smiled at her, before giving the horse a scratch behind its ear.

The young woman tossed her head back and laughed. “Competent?” She reached out to run a finger along Spike’s sleeve. “William, I think that’s the sweetest thing any man has ever said to me!”

~~@@~~

It was one of those crisp, cool mornings that made you just want to take a deep breath and hold it in your lungs. The sky was so clear and sharp, Buffy felt like she could reach out and grab hold of the brilliant blue and roll it in her hands.

Buffy’s mind wandered to thoughts of other brilliantly blue things – like Spike’s eyes. She expelled a quick breath and tried to push away the insistent images that kept popping into her mind. Ever since their talk last night, she felt shaken—almost light-headed with the feelings that were beginning to bubble up at the thought of the vampire.

Ex-vampire, she thought, shaking her head. She had to keep reminding herself of that little fact. The talk last night, concerning his soul, helped to make the issue a bit more real for her. Until that subject had been broached, it had be easy for her to slip him into the ready made, neatly labeled box she’d always kept him in. Vampire. Evil. Okay, to be honest, he had amazingly hot abs and biceps to swoon over—but that was just hormones talking. She’d made the mistake once of losing her heart to a member of Club Undead, she wasn’t going to tread down that road again. Besides, Angel had his soul when she’d fallen for him and Spike was . . . well, she wasn’t quite sure exactly what Spike was, but he definitely wasn’t boyfriend material.

Soul or no soul. And at this moment the jury was still out on that question. He’d said he thought his soul had been restored along with his humanity. But he certainly didn’t seem any different. He certainly he didn’t seem to have that same brooding essence of dread that Angel had always carried with him when he was souled. Other than being slightly more interested in her welfare – which could also be because he figured he needed her to get out of this mess — he appeared to be the same old Spike.

Okay, maybe he was a little different. A tiny bit more introverted. Not quite as mouthy or belligerent as she’d known him to be before the leap into their own version of Wagon Train. But it certainly wasn’t enough to constitute his being all soul-having. Wouldn’t he be wracked with guilt? Why wasn’t he wracked with guilt? Filled with remorse? Brooding and pouty? Granted, she didn’t have a lot of experience with souled vampires, but she probably had as much as anyone. And, frankly, Spike just wasn’t fitting that mold.

She paused from stoking the fire she’d built to prepare breakfast, frowning. She wanted Spike back in his nice little box. Immediately, if not sooner. Right now, he seemed more like a recalcitrant child, refusing to bend to her vision of him.

A high-pitched, feminine giggle caught her attention and she turned to see Spike on the other side of the circle of wagons, adjusting the bridle of a large black draft horse, while smiling down in the face of a young woman. A very pretty young woman.

Buffy narrowed her eyes, moving casually to the other side of the fire so she could get a better view, without appearing too obvious. It would seem this was the infamous Katie. She’d seen her from afar the day before – and what with trying to wipe the sweat and dirt from her eyes, hadn’t gotten that good a look at her.

The girl was very attractive, she’d grant her that. Buffy gnawed on her lower lip, peering a bit closer. Katie was fairly tall, nearly as tall as Spike, with long curly red hair that fell to her waist. It was tied back by a bit of gold ribbon into a soft pony tail, with tendrils of curls framing her oval face. Yes, she was pretty.

If you liked that kind of tall, willowy, Grecian statue kind of look.

Apparently, Spike did.

As Katie moved closer to Spike, Buffy dropped the stick she was using to poke at the fire and placed all her attention on the couple. She didn’t care if anyone observed her eavesdropping; something just wasn’t right with this picture.

Buffy continued to watch as the woman reached out to run a slender finger along Spike’s sleeve, down to the cuff of his duster, barely touching his hand, then back up to his elbow.

That floozy is flirting with my husband! Err, my Spike.

What ever Spike was, he was hers, not some bottled-dyed – because that color just didn’t exist in nature – red-headed, ho-bag's.

So, he wasn’t really her husband. Nobody knew that except Buffy. This cheap piece of wagon-trash was openly flirting with Spike, believing that he was someone else’s spouse. What would people think? Why was he smiling at her like that? Why was he leaning in towards her? What was wrong with him? Couldn’t he see what a wench-cookie she was?

That bastard!

Buffy sucked in a breath, holding it tight in her chest. She watched as Katie continued to smile at Spike, her eyes-lids fluttering in a beguiling way – and Spike seemed unable, or unwilling, to look away. This woman was nearly drowning the poor oaf in soft smiles, charming giggles, and sweet blushes.

That bitch.

In the few short days she’d spent in this era, Buffy had learned that women did not act this way. Well, not ‘decent’ women. Whether it was fair or not, that’s the way it was. Married women stayed close to their families and pretty much followed their husbands’ leads. And single women – well, single women were the exception to the rule. As far as she knew Katie was the only single woman traveling in the wagon train, short of some elderly grandmothers with some of the other families. But she had a feeling that the current societal rules were more than likely even stricter for single woman.

The object of her perusal let out another giggle and Buffy’s spine stiffened, a muscle in her cheek tensed, and the breath she’d been holding hissed out between her teeth. Picking up her skirts, she strode toward the unsuspecting twosome. She might be currently lacking in the Slayer strength area, but that wasn’t going to keep her from kicking some skanky-bitch prairie ass.

As she approached the duo, Buffy donned a broad, albeit a tad scary, smile. Wrapping her arms around Spike’s waist she rose on tip-toe and pressed her lips to the side of his throat, nuzzling her nose into the crook of his shoulder. When Spike turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow in surprise, she took the opportunity and pressed her lips firmly to his, her arms coming up to snake around his neck.

Spike emitted a low groan from somewhere deep within in his chest, his hands fluttering about her sides as if he wasn’t quite sure where or even if he should touch her. His eyes slowly drifted shut as Buffy deepened the kiss, her body pressing intimately to his. At last, his hands came to rest on her hips, his fingers curled into the soft fabric and flesh.

Feeling Spike’s hands settle upon her, his long, slender fingers pulling her close, crushing her breasts against his chest, Buffy wondered briefly if she’d really thought this plan through enough. Those concerns quickly disappeared, however, when his arms moved low around her waist and he pulled her more tightly against him. So tightly, in fact, that she had no problem whatsoever in determining, even through a petticoat and her voluminous skirt, that Spike dressed to the left was, indeed, very happy to see her.

Buffy felt Spike’s hold on her relax a bit, his hips shifting slightly so that his now formidable erection was no longer pressing against her. She didn’t know why he was pulling away, only that she didn’t want him to. In an automatic response, she pressed herself back to him, her fingers tangling in the curls at his nape, stoking sensuously along the sunburned skin of his neck.

Off to the side there was a gentle cough and clearing of a throat.

Slowly, as if the sound had just penetrated through a protective layer of thick cotton, Buffy and Spike broke their kiss. Buffy, her lips pink and slightly swollen from the pressure of his own, simply looked up at him, blinking.

Spike swallowed, and the movement drew Buffy’s eyes to his Adam’s apple. Rational thought flooded through her mind and she remembered the reason she was in his arms. The reason her lips were still warm and tingling from his kiss. She pulled her arms from around his neck, her hands coming to rest lightly on his chest. Turning slightly in his arms, which still held her loosely, she looked over at Katie.

There eyes locked and held for a long moment. Then a smile, the likes of Spike had never seen before, blossomed on Buffy’s face. But only on her face. Her eyes remained focused on the red-headed woman, as if they were stone, cold green daggers and Katie was the bullseye .

Slowly, her eyes swept up to capture Spike’s. “So, Sweetie, are you going to introduce me to your new friend?”




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