Manifest Destiny

By Uisge Beatha

Chapter 11: They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

When his brain cleared and Spike was finally able to process something other than the feel of Buffy’s body pressed to his, he looked down and focused on her eyes. They were turbulent, swirling with emotions that Spike had little hope of deciphering. Yet, with nothing more than a slight dilating of pupils and fluttering of dark lashes, they were able to gather up what was left of his rational mind and swallow him whole.

What was it about this woman that seemed to have such a hold on him? He’d like to think it was nothing more than fallout from the time displacement, but he knew better. She’d gotten to him, deep in his gut, long before they were swept here. Drusilla had seen it, and even through his adamant denial, Spike had known, deep down, that something drew him to her. Something more than just bloodlust; more than just the thrill of adding another dead slayer to his resume.

Pulling back a bit, Spike’s hands traveled from their resting place on Buffy’s hips, to grip her upper arms. His first impulse was to push her away, to distance himself from her and the emotions she was stirring in him. However, her smug smile dared him to prove to her once and for all that he was not under her control. Not here. Not now. Damned if he was going to allow his heart to once again turn him into some sniveling mongrel, waiting to be pushed and pulled and taunted at the whim of some woman.

Besides, she was, once again, stomping into the middle of his best laid plans. He’d wanted to talk to Shay alone. He wasn’t sure of it, but it seemed like the old shaman had been avoiding them. Not that he blamed the man, since the first and only time they’d met ended with the introduction of Spike’s fist to the shaman’s jaw. Better to do this man to man and keep the Slayer and her often erupting temper out of it. He certainly didn’t want to talk to the man while Buffy and Katie were mud wrestling in the background. He wasn’t sure what Buffy’s problem with her was, but it would have to wait to be sorted out until after he had his talk with the elusive medicine man.

Spike pulled Buffy flush against him, his own eyes widening at the feel of her breasts pressed to his chest. His voice emerged gruff, almost a growl. “Well, of course, I’ll introduce you . . . Darling.” His eyes moved from hers to look at the young woman with whom he’d been talking with before Buffy had interrupted. “Mrs. Monroe, I’d like to introduce you to my . . . wife, Elizabeth. Elizabeth,” he turned his eyes down to Buffy once again, his eyebrow quirking. “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Munroe . . . Katie.”

As he murmured her name, Spike’s left hand let loose its grip on Buffy’s bicep, his fingers tracing along her arm, down to her hand, where he threaded them through hers. He let his other hand drop free, and he turned her toward the young woman that she seemed so eager to meet, but he kept a tight hold of her one hand, just in case. He wasn’t sure what was running through the Slayer’s brain right now, but he didn’t want to take any chances. She’d already drawn enough unwanted attention.

Buffy continued to exhibit a smile that made a current of nervous energy dash down the length of Spike’s spine. “So nice to meet you, Mrs. Monroe.”

At the calm tone of Buffy’s voice, Spike let loose the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and he released the grip on her hand.

Katie smiled, reaching up to twine a strand of her long red hair around her finger. “Please, call me Katie.”

“Katie,” Buffy said with a slight nod of her head, her smile never wavering.

The redhead appraised Buffy, from the top of her head to the tip of her toes, before looking her square in the eye. “I was just thanking William for his help yesterday evening. I’m not sure what I would have done without him.”

“Yes.” Buffy drew the word out slowly, pulling her hand free of Spike’s and crossing her arms under her breasts. Her bright, fake smile faded. “Mr. Helpful, that’s my . . . husband.”

Katie smirked, her eyes narrowing. “I hope it wasn’t too much of an imposition.”

Buffy’s jaw clenched. “You—”

“It wasn’t an imposition at all,” Spike inserted, stepping in between the two women. “It was my pleasure. What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t come to the assistance of a lady in distress?”

He shot Buffy a warning look from the corner of his eye as she let out a loud snort.

Katie glanced at Buffy, then back to Spike. As her eyes met his she fluttered her lashes coquettishly. “Why, William, you flatter me.”

“Oh, please—” Buffy began.

Spike whirl about and face the Slayer. “Elizabeth, don’t you need to get back to the wagon?”

Buffy’s mouth fell open.

“I’m sure something there needs tending.” Spike continued. His back to Katie, he spoke slowly, his eyes urging her to listen to the message hidden between his words.

Buffy’s eyes darted from Spike to Katie. Her jaw worked for a second, opening and closing, then she sputtered, “Tending?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Spike nodded, approaching Buffy. “Now run along and I’ll be there shortly. I have somethin' to discuss with Mrs. Monroe.”

“Well, I have somethin' to discuss with you,” Buffy huffed, her face now white with rage.

Spike took a step closer, leaning in to her. He could feel the heat of her anger radiating off her face, as he brushed his lips against her cheek. “Buffy, jus’ get back to the wagon, I’ll explain later.” He waited for a moment, then even softer murmured, “Trust me, I have a plan.” After a moment, when her fierce gaze didn’t alter, he added, “Please?”

He felt Buffy’s anger begin to dissipate, her narrowed eyes softening, just a bit. He let out a sigh of relief, smiled, and chucked her under the chin. “Run along now,” he said, in a louder voice. “We may have a few more hours this mornin’ to ready ourselves ‘cause of the Turner’s axle needin’ fixed, but Mr. Masterson and Shay will expect us to be ready to go when they call out.”

“Yes, William,” Buffy said, tightly. Before Spike could draw away from her, however, she hauled him to her by the collar of his shirt, whispering in his ear. “You have a lot of explaining to do, Mr. Helpful. And if you ever talk to me again like I’m a brain dead mule, I will cut off your balls with a rusty knife and serve them to sweet, little Katie over there on a platter. Capice?” In an effort that Spike was sure was only for the benefit of their audience, she pecked a chaste kiss on his cheek before pulling back from him.

They stood nose to nose for a long moment, before Spike sighed and turned on his heel, stalking back towards Katie. “I’ll see you back at the wagon,” he said dismissively over his shoulder.

As he neared the redhead he heard the swish of Buffy’s skirts as she turned, tromping off to make her way back across the camp to their wagon. He hadn’t a clue as to what had gotten into the Slayer and why she was acting like she’d sat on a hornet’s nest.

Just when he thought he was figuring the Slayer out, she went and tore all his assumptions to shreds. He thought she’d finally begun to trust him. Thought they’d forged a truce; a mutual understanding that they were in this situation together and had to work as allies if they had any hope of finding there way home. Obviously, to her, he was still just the monster she had to keep an eye on. Heart beat or no, soul or no, to the Slayer he would always be one stake short of the dusting he so richly deserved. His jaw muscle tightened and he stretched the muscles in his neck to help ease the tension.

Whatever the Slayer’s problem was, however, was going to have to wait. He needed to talk with Shay – time was wasting and they needed to begin to figure their way out of this situation. If yesterday was any indication, this trip was not something that either of them was going to be able to get through without serious risk to life and limb. They might have been able to handle it before, if whatever had happened to them had left them as they were – a slayer and a vampire. But as humans, not versed in the ways of this time, not hardened to the life that now faced them, it was only a matter of time before one of them got hurt—or worse. If Shay couldn’t give them a clue as to what had happened to them, then Spike knew he had start looking for ways of getting them off this wagon train and into a safer environment.

He’d been up most of last night; unable to sleep as he worried not only about his changing relationship with Buffy, but also the responsibility that came hand-in-hand with those changes. Like it or not, and for whatever reason, he had feelings of affection for the Slayer – even now, as angry he as was. But in this situation, when he felt the rush to protect her, his humanity weighed him down like an anchor. His biggest fear now was not being there for her—not being able to take care of her—when she most needed him.

Spike knew, if he confided in her, told her any of this, Buffy would give him nothing but a swift punch in the nose for his troubles. She could take care of herself, she’d declare, after belting him another one, no doubt. But Spike knew his weaknesses now, and he just as surely knew Buffy’s. He may not have been a gentleman for many years, but now his every instinct drove him to protect her. Old, noble habits, were, indeed, hard to break.

“You’re a million miles away.” Katie’s dulcet tones drew him from his thoughts and he realized he’d been staring off to hills beyond her wagon.

“Beg your pardon,” he smiled sheepishly.

“No, I’m the one that should be sorry. I seem to have caused some problems between you and your wife.” She didn’t look sorry. and her smile held the promise of causing even more problems, of a particularly pleasurable variety.

“Not at all. Buffy… ah, Elizabeth is just—”

“High strung,” Katie supplied with a smirk.

Spike grinned. “Yeah, that’s a good way of sayin’ it.”

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, William, but it seems to me that a man like you needs someone that’s a bit more … How shall I say this?” She tilted her head and her smirk turned to soft smile, her eyelids lowering a bit to stare intently at him. “Accommodating?”

Spike’s jaw dropped a fraction of an inch and he felt his newly beating heart speed up. It had been a long time since a woman had so blatantly come on to him, and he felt his body responding to the offer. It had also been far too long since he’d made love to a woman, and Katie was a temptation he was finding hard to resist. His cock strained against the fabric of his jeans and he wondered what harm there could be in partaking of the pleasure this woman was so obviously offering.

As a vampire, he’d have known the answer to this question before it was even asked. Now, however, it was more difficult. He didn’t feel guilty about his attraction to this woman, even though he knew he probably should. Hadn’t he just admitted to himself that he felt something for Buffy? He would not, could not, label those feelings as love, but they were something and that made lusting after another woman wrong. Wasn’t it?

He wondered, not for the first time, how humans could deal with these moral ambiguities on a daily basis. It was so much easier being evil.

A movement caught Spike’s eye and he turned to watch the elderly shaman approach Katie’s wagon, carrying a small burlap sack in one hand, while a rifle rested in the crook of his other arm. For now, anyway, he’d have to put his feelings for Buffy and his lust for Katie on the back burner. Right now he had to quiz the old man on what he knew about his and Buffy’s displacement to this time and just maybe, just maybe, find a way out of this mess.


Chapter 12: I Feel The Summer In The Spring

“Wanna talk with you a bit, if you don’ mind.” Spike watched as Shay dropped the burlap sack into the back of Katie’s wagon and turned to face him.

Katie had retreated to the wagon when Shay arrived, wishing Spike a good day with a smile that continued the flirtation she'd begun earlier.

At Spike’s words, Shay nodded his head and moved away from the wagon toward the two harnessed horses. “You want to know more about the dream,” he said without prompting.

“Yes. Spike said, following behind the older man. “The dream you mentioned to Bu—Elizabeth.”

The old shaman smiled at Spike’s slight slip. “You don’t need to hide from me, young man.”

Spike narrowed his eyes.

“I know what I know,” the old man murmured in return to the suspicious look. Turning from Spike, he scratched behind the ear of the large while draft horse. “I know you and your woman do not belong here.”

“From the dream? You know this from the dream?” Spike couldn’t quite keep the eagerness from his voice.

“Yes. A dream. The truth comes to me that way, sometimes, in dreams.”

“The truth?”

Spike watched as Shay ran his hand over the rump of the large draft horse, stroking the sleek hide of the animal before tugging at the tracings and girth strap to make sure they were secure.

“You haven’t forgotten.” He didn’t look at Spike, continuing his appraisal of the horse and tack.

Spike’s eyes darted to the horse, then back to Shay. “I haven’t forgotten what?”

“It’s been a long time since you’ve done this, but you haven’t forgotten.”

Spike’s mouth fell open. “You know—”

“The way things were, the way things are, the way things will be.” The old man turned from the animal to look at Spike. “You will walk all three roads before you find what is lost.”

“The only thing lost is us. None of this makes any sense.” Spike huffed, turning away from the man and kicking at the ground, a small cloud of dust rising about his boots. “Nothing’s lost.”

Shay frowned, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening as he watched Spike pace back and forth. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps that is the truth you need to find.”

Spike looked up, his blue eyes dark with frustration. The shaman caught his gaze and held it for several long seconds, before the younger man looked away, once again digging the toe of his boot into the soft dirt. “This is a bloody ridiculous. Nothing but mystical mumbo-jumbo that I haven’t got time for.”

Shay smiled patiently, tilting his head to watch the younger man. “To find your way, your destiny? I would think time a small price to pay. Especially for one who has an abundance of such currency.”

Blue and brown eyes once again caught and held.

“Maybe once, old man.” Spike let out a breath, then lowered his eyes. “Not so much now.”

“You speak of the ticking of a clock, the turning of a calendar’s pages,” Shay said, shaking his head.

Spike snorted. “Yeah, well, time is somethin’ we’re runnin’ out of. Buffy and I, we can’t stay here. We need to get back . . . back to our time. How the bloody hell are we supposed to do that?”

“Using your gift, what you hold inside yourself. The tools you need to get home are with you, they always have been.” The shaman turned to walk away.

Spike stalked over and grabbed the old man by the arm, swinging him around to face him. “Who are you? Fucking Glinda, the good witch? Right. Let me just find that yellow brick road and Buffy and I will skip on out of here.”

Shay gazed down at where Spike’s fingers wrapped around his upper arm. “I know of no witch. I know only what my dreams have spoken to me – only what I have seen for you and your woman. No yellow road, only a path you seem destined to walk together, each finding your own way. Your own truth. When you have accomplished that, only then, will you be home.”

The older man never took his eyes off Spike’s hand, until at last, his fingers relaxed and he released his grip. Spike sighed, pushing the Stetson back and looked up into the fierce sunlight.

“There is one thing more.”

Spike took a deep breath and, still squinting from the sun, looked back at Shay. When the man remained silent, he shrugged. “You gonna tell me, or do I have to guess?”

The shaman smiled. “A coin. The beginning, the middle, and the end of your journey is tied to this coin. Follow it, and find your destiny.”

Spike blinked, then, his eyes narrowing, he shoved his hand deep into the pocket of his duster, pulling out an old, gold coin. Placing the coin in the calloused palm of his hand, he turned it over, studying the symbol, a knot that was deeply etched into the metal.

“I was holdin’ this when everything fell away … when we ended up here.”

Shay nodded. “Perhaps this is the yellow road of which you spoke.” He picked up his rifle and cradled it in the crook of his arm.

Spike looked up at the man, his hand still open, the coin in his palm, shimmering in the bright sunlight. “Yeah,” he sighed, wetting his lips, then looking back down at the coin. “There’s a symbol on it.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“No.” Spike plucked the coin from his palm, taking a closer look. “Just a knot, on one side. Some markings on the other. Chinese. Never learned the bloody language, now I wish I’d taken the time. Doesn’t look familiar to me. Maybe with some research . . .” He snorted then, closing his fist around the coin. “Never a Watcher around when you really need one.”

“I know of someone who might be able to help,” Shay offered. “There is man, in a town we will be passing through a few days journey from here. He is the banker, but I know that he collects coins. Perhaps he could help you with the history of that one.”

Spike raised a brow. “Know this man well, do you?”

“Well enough. I have played poker with him from time to time.”

Frowning, Spike stepped closer to the old man, the coin still held tight in his fist. “How’d you come to know about this hobby of his?”

Shay shrugged. “Mr. Grogan is a fine man. He is also a fine banker. He is not so fine a poker player. I have accepted, in payment for wagers lost, some of these coins that he collects.”

Spike gave a rueful smile and slipped the fist holding the coin into back into his duster pocket. “I see. And you’ll introduce me to this banker friend of yours?”

Shay nodded, his weathered face, showing no emotion.

“Well,” Spike sighed. “Guess that’s a start, innit?”

Shay smiled softly then, and turned and walked away. “Yes,” he murmured, the words drifting back over his shoulder to Spike. “It is a start.”


Chapter 13: People Will Say We're In Love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spike jerked the duster closed, effectively blocking her view.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buffy sighed, frowning.

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

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

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

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


Chapter 14: There's Bound To Be Rough Waters

Another long, hot, grueling day finally ground to an end. Buffy almost wept with joy when Shay rode by to tell them that the caravan was stopping early because yet another traveler had broken a wagon wheel. Spike had offered his assistance, but Shay insisted that Mr. Reynolds and his three sons had the situation well in hand.

Watching Spike jump off the wagon to tend to the horses, Buffy admitted to herself, albeit begrudgingly, that the ex-vamp was proving to be a surprisingly helpful travel companion. It was obvious now that he didn’t just jump to the aid of beautiful young widows; in fact, he was making himself quite useful with all of the wagon train travelers. He often rose before dawn to help Shay and Matthew with the harnessing the teams of some of the other families – those talents, learned long ago, came in handy in the service of those not quite as adept with horses as he was.

It seemed that Spike also now shared a sort of camaraderie with the other men of the train—a camaraderie that Buffy actually envied. It wasn’t that she was averse to making friends with the other women on the train, it was just that between the exhaustion of the physical labor and the hours spent either readying for the day’s activities, enduring them, or making camp, there was little time for ‘girl talk.’

Not that she had an inkling as to what to talk about with these women. They seemed, to Buffy, to be little more than an extension of the men in their lives. The cooking, cleaning, mending extension. And while she was now the queen of the campfire and could actually make the morning coffee without it burning and bubbling over, Buffy still felt odd and out of place. Not that that feeling was anything new to her. Feeling odd, out of place, less than normal, was par for the course for the Chosen One. Came part and parcel with the stake and cross she carried on her every hour of every day. Now, here she was, a simple human being again. No calling, other than to get through the day and still she felt at odds with herself. Out of place. It didn’t seem fair. But when had life ever been fair?

She arched her aching back and took a moment to look around at the landscape. Saw-grass rippled in the slight breeze—a hint of fall rustling the leaves of the trees. There was still some daylight left and she looked at the sun as it sat low in the sky, framed by large puffy clouds and brilliant blue skies.

“Daydreamin’ won’t get your work done, Slayer.”

She looked down at Spike, his eyes almost as blue as the sky she’d just pulled her attention from. “I know.” She sighed, pulling herself to the edge of the wagon seat, as Spike raised his arms to grasp her about the waist and help her from the wagon.

Spike, his hands still resting gently on her hips, tilted his head and gave her a look. “Happy we stopped early, yeh?”

“Oh, yeah.” She smiled, though her face clearly showed her weariness.

He reached up, pushing her sun bonnet back, and brushed his fingers through the long fringe of bangs that fell across her forehead and into her eyes. “Today was rough. Think you got more sun than you needed.” At her look, he raised his brows. “Told you go into the wagon for a bit. Stubborn bint.”

Buffy blew out a puff of air, her bangs barely ruffling off her sweaty brow. “Well, remind me next time not to be so . . . Oh, yeah, I do feel a little—” As her words faded she swayed against Spike, reaching out and grasping his upper arms for support.

“Whoa there, Slayer.” Before Buffy could object, Spike scooped her up into his arms and moved to a small copse of trees near where the wagon stopped. Setting her gently on the ground, he knelt beside her. She struggled to sit up and without much effort Spike pushed her back down. “Just lay back. You’re not lookin’ so good.”

Her eyelids drooping, Buffy looked up at Spike, his face swimming in and out of focus. As he moved to stand up, she grasped his hand pulling him back to his knees beside her. “Don’t go,” she mumbled, her mouth feeling suddenly very dry. “I don’t feel—”

“I know, pet. Just lay still. You got a bit too much sun is all. Let me loosen this a bit.” His fingers worked the buttons at the throat of her cotton dress, then folded the fabric back, exposing the blotchy skin of her throat and chest. “Gonna go get you some water, sweetheart.”

Buffy nodded, but tightened her clench on his hand. “Gotta let go, pet.” Spike smiled, his other hand prying her fingers from his flesh. “Promise I’ll be right back. Just goin’ to the wagon for some water.”

Buffy nodded, closing her eyes against the dizziness, her tongue darting out to lick at her parched lips. She slowly released his hand, immediately missing the reassuring touch of his calloused skin on hers. The world continued to pitch and heave under her, and it seemed hours before, at last, Spike took her hand again in his.

Crooking his other hand under her neck, Spike raised her head off the ground, and her lips touched the cool surface of a tin coffee cup. The water, while warm from being in the side barrel of the wagon all, still felt incredibly refreshing to her. Spike only let her sip, even though she would have loved to have gulped the entire cup in one swallow.

“Easy there. Jus’ a bit at a time, Buffy.”

Her eyes opened and she watched as Spike’s face eased into focus. Taking a few more sips of water, she attempted what she hoped was a smile. “Better,” she mumbled, her lips still feeling dry and slightly numb. It was an odd, disorienting feeling and she hated how weak and tired it left her.

Spike settled onto the ground beside her and pulled her into his arms, so that her head rested on his lap, her cheek pressed against his stomach. Buffy felt the coolness of a wet cloth dabbed against the flushed skin of her cheek and then her neck.

“She is feeling better?”

The voice was Shay’s and Buffy could tell that he was standing near them, but she couldn’t seem to find the energy to turn her head in his direction.

“Yes, she is.” Buffy felt the rumbling of Spike’s voice against her cheek. Gruff, but warm and somehow comforting. “Jus’ a touch too much sun. Be right as rain in a bit.”

Shay’s soft footsteps faded away and she was left alone with Spike. They sat like this for several minutes, as Spike continued to move the cool, wet cloth across her brow and cheek.

“I’m sorry about this,” she mumbled at last, turning her face into him, hiding away from the blue of his eyes.

Spike quirked an eye-brow at her. “What have you got to be sorry ‘bout?”

She drew in a deep breath and then sat up slowly, pulling herself out of his arms, although he continued to steady her with a hand to the small of her back. She sighed. “Going all weak-kneed and swoony on you.”

“Wasn’ weak-kneed or vapid, luv.” Spike frowned. “Jus’ a touch too much sun and heat today. Happens to the best of us.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t happen to me.” She frowned, her chin trembling slightly has she fought back the unwanted tears that threatened. “Well, not normally.” She smoothed the fabric of her cotton dress around her knees, blinking back the evidence of her emotions, and looked up at Spike. “But I guess I have to redefine ‘normal’ these days.”

“Guess we both do.” His voice was soft, and he still looked worried, the crinkles around his eyes deepened into a frown of his own. “Think we have, in fact. Think we’ve done quite well, considerin’”

Buffy looked at him dubiously, taking the cloth from his hand and pressing it to the skin of her chest. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Spike rocked to his knees, then stood, reaching down to grasp Buffy’s hand and pull her to her feet. “Well, I know. Trust me. We’re doin’ fine. And we’ll be doin’ even better once we talk to Mr. Grogan.” Before Buffy could complain, the ex-vampire swung her into his arms, striding back to the wagon. “Gonna get you outta the sun. You’ll feel like a new Slayer in the mornin’”

She bit back the response that she didn’t even feel like the old Slayer these days, realizing that whining wasn’t going to make things better. And actually, things were better. Even if only slightly. They had at least a hint of hope that this Grogan fellow might be able to help them decipher the coin that Spike and Shay seemed so sure was the origin of their mishap in time.

In fact, in the last few days since their argument over Katie, things had even gotten better with Spike. Despite her ability to hold a grudge and Spike’s ability to annoy her by just, well, existing, they’d managed to push those differences aside and work together. Fear and loneliness had been excellent motivators. They really did only have each other, and the business of simply surviving another day took precedent over their long running mutual animosity.

Not that Buffy had given in too easily. She’d let loose with a few well placed barbs, her razor sharp tongue slicing through her good intentions like a knife through butter. But Spike had, uncharacteristically, turned the other cheek and managed to maintain his good humor and even helped to cultivate hers.

Who knew there were that many dirty limericks?

Buffy wasn’t sure what was improving his disposition. Perhaps it was the soul? Or maybe it was just the joy he must be feeling at being human. Because what a joy it must have been, to now be able to walk in the sunlight, to feel his heart beating.

She could feel his heart now, beating against her own ribs, steady and strong. Her fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders as he lifted her higher into the opening of the wagon, and she studied with fascination the movement of muscles in his forearms.

“You stay put; I’ll get supper started—”

She shook her head. “No, Spike, I can—”

“You,” he pointed his finger, tapping her nose, “will stay put for a while. Get your energy back.” He went to the side of the wagon, pouring another cup of water and bringing it back to her. “Sip this, then I’ll get you some more. Once we get you hydrated and fed, you’ll feel a lot better.”

Buffy clutched the tin cup in both hands. “I—” she hesitated, her eyes moving from the water to his eyes. She chewed pensively on her bottom lip, then took a deep breath. “Thank you, Spike. I know—”

The ex-vamp waved her off, turning to step away. “No need—”

“Yes, there is a need.” She caught him by his sleeve. “I know I haven’t been . . . well,” Buffy’s eyes dropped to the tin cup held tightly in her hands. She knew she wouldn’t be able to finish if she continued looking into those concerned blue eyes. “. . . the most pleasant person to be with since this whole thing started. It’s just . . . it hasn’t been easy for me to lose everything.” Her hands shook, the water spilling onto her wrist. She took a deep, shakey breath and forged ahead. “To not be the Slayer. To have to rely on you . . .” Her eyes flashed to his for a second, then back to her hands. “But it’s not just you, not really. It’s having to rely someone else, anyone else, to take care of me . . .” She looked up then, her mouth tightening into a thin line, as she fought to keep herself from trembling, her eyes daring him to make light of her vulnerability.

“Thought we’d agreed we were a team, yeh? That means we’re takin’ care of each other, Slayer.” The tone of his voice drew here eyes back to his. His eyes were narrowed, piercing, as if they’d found a route straight to her heart. “And you’re still the Slayer. That’s not something anyone or anything can take from you. Trust me on this, luv, you are still the Chosen One.” His gaze softened a bit, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “Appointed and anointed to be a royal pain in my arse until the day I dust.”

Buffy tilted her head, a smile slowing growing. “Yeah?”

Spike huffed out a breath, raising his eyebrows, but smiling back at her. “Yeah, Slayer. Now get your ass in that wagon. You need anything before I go out to gather some wood for the fire?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Well, not unless you can round up a hot shower and a big bottle of shampoo. Oh, and conditioner. Redken, if they have it.” As if to emphasis her distress, she reached up and scratched her scalp.

“Sorry, luv, I don’t think …” Spike paused, casting a look over his shoulder to the copse of trees they’d sat next to. When he looked back it was with a grin that she’d never quite witnessed from him before. “You stay put. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

She watched, opened mouthed, as he trotted off towards the trees. As he disappeared within their depths she frowned, calling out, “Wait. Two shakes of what?”


Chapter 15: From Lips I've Never Owned

It didn’t take Spike long to carry the two pails of water from the river. As rivers went, it wasn’t very impressive; following the line of trees at a leisurely pace, at times no more than four to five feet wide. But the water was fresh, running clear and cold.

When he arrived back at the wagon he found that Buffy had succumbed to the punishment of the day’s hard physical labor. She was curled on her side on the feather tick, her hands folded, as if in prayer, tucked under her chin.

Spike paused for a moment, watching the slight, steady movement of her chest as she breathed. It hadn’t really hit him until he was standing by the river’s edge; the fear flooding through him, causing his muscles to tense, his breath quickening.

It was a simple reaction to the adrenaline, his logical mind told him. His heart argued that it was something far more. It wasn’t as if she’d almost died – a bit of heat exhaustion, quickly dealt with. But it could have been worse, and it was this fact that brought forth in Spike’s mind a myriad of dangerous situations in which Buffy could fall prey.

His biggest fear was now exposed, like a raw nerve. Buffy, admitting her feelings of vulnerability to him, had opened the wound even further. She was depending on him to make things right; to take care of her. While her belief in him made Spike proud—producing an overwhelming urge to throw out his chest and trumpet the news to anyone within hearing distance—it also scared him right down to the marrow of his bones. Could he protect her? Was he strong enough? The idea of having to live up to her belief in him left Spike doubting himself, cloaked in feelings of frailty and weakness he hadn’t experienced in over a century.

Protect her.

My arch nemesis.

My ‘chosen’ executioner.

Even now, his mind screamed that it was wrong. Emotionally, however, he knew that nothing had ever felt so true. Circumstances had conspired to place his heart into the palm of his sworn enemy. It was as it was, and Spike knew from years of experience, that in matters of the heart he had no more control than he had over the rising of the sun. He could try to fight it, but ultimately he knew he would end up under the heel of love. It seemed to be his destiny.

Spike’s eyes focused once more on the wellspring of this emotion. Tiny but fierce—his warrior princess. She would, of course, cleave him in two if she even suspected his feelings for her. She might accept him now, forced into this situation, buffered by the fact that he was now human, but Spike would not fool himself into thinking it was more than that. Her heart was surely hardened against him, forever, as he was the creature she was destined to destroy.

Her destiny.

His destiny.

Spike took in a sharp breath.

Their destiny.

He shook his head, firmly pushing any thoughts that the two of them could form some sort of alliance out of his mind, his heart. They needed each other now, but when they found there way out of this mess, they would go back to life as it was; as it was meant to be. Slayer and vampire. A chipped, hobbled, harmless vampire, but still a vampire. Perhaps they were no longer sworn enemies, he conceded, but to presume more than that would only lead him further info the dangerous territory he now skirted.

He had to keep focused on the goal. Getting her home. Anything else, well, it was just foolish. Like spitting into the wind. Better to work towards finding their way out of here, and getting Buffy back on her feet was the first step in that process. She may question her strength right now; her ability to survive in this place and time. But Spike hadn’t been lying to her; he knew that in her soul she was still the Slayer. Now he just had to get her to believe it.

Heading back to the camp site, Spike began gathering what little fallen wood there was and built another fire, beside the one that was already blazing away. He hung the two large pails of water over the flames, then went about pulling together a meager meal of beans and biscuits left over from breakfast. Kneeling, he stirred the now glowing embers of the older fire, causing them to hiss and snap, as if angry with him for disturbing them

He’d been kneeling there, gazing into the dancing flames, his mind miles and years away, thinking things a vampire should never, ever think, when a small voice drew him back, away from his pleasant, but inconceivable imaginings.

“Anything I can help with?”

Spike jumped up and spun around to find Buffy, leaning on the wagon, her dress and hair still rumpled from her nap. He took a step toward her but she held up a hand, warding him off.

“I’m okay. Is that dinner?”

Spike nodded. “Yeah, wasn’ sure if you’d be up for anythin’, but jus’ in case—”

Buffy’s hand fluttered to her stomach and she shook her head. “Not right now, maybe in a while. I still feel a little queasy.”

“O’ course,” Spike turned and removed the food from the flames, placing it on a small pile of rocks beside the fire pit. “It’ll stay warm for a while. When you’re ready.”

“What’s that?” Buffy pointed at the other fire and the two pails that were now steaming and bubbling atop the flames.

“Jus’ . . . you mentioned that you …. ” A lump formed in his throat, threatening to drown out his words and he coughed to cover it. He fisted his hands, then stretched them open, at last jamming them into the pockets of his jeans.

“Spike?” Buffy tilted her head as she took a step toward him.

Spike shuddered, like a dog shedding water from its coat, then jerked a hand from the pocket of his jeans to gesture towards to the pails of water. “Can’t help with a hot bath, but thought maybe you’d like to, well, clean up as best you can. Maybe wash your hair? Could help you with that.” His voice caught again and he cleared his throat

Buffy looked from the ex-vamp to the steaming water, then back again. “That’s hot water? Hot water that isn’t for cooking or cleaning dishes? Hot water I can . . . bathe in?” The last words were whispered reverently.

Spike gave a lopsided grin, soaking in Buffy’s obvious joy. “Yes, hot water that you can bathe in.”

Buffy’s eyes darted to the large cask of water on the side of the wagon. “But I thought—”

“Didn’ come from there, luv. Got it from the river.”

She blinked back at him for a second before a small smile began to grow. “Thank you, Spike. I—”

He waived her off. “Nothin’ to it, pet.” He shifted from foot to foot, until he looked back into her eyes. What he saw there sent a small shiver down his back. He tried to shake it off with a laugh. “It was just time we got you washed up a bit.”

Their eyes locked again and Buffy nodded, acknowledging the awkwardness of the moment, but allowing it slide off into humor with a chuckle of her own. As her hands went to the neck line of her dress, Spike’s eyes widened.

“Wha . . . ah, Buffy . . .” he stuttered, as the flesh of her neck and chest appeared and she began to slip the dress off her shoulders. “What are you doin’, pet?”

“I’m taking this dress off so I can get cleaned up.” She laughed as the dingy gown slipped to the ground, leaving her in a white cotton chemise and petticoat. Reaching up, she started removing the wooden pins that held her hair up in the soft knot at her neck, and the honey colored tresses swung free about her shoulders and down her back. “Spike, I don’t know how I’m ever going to be able to thank you for this.”

Spike mouth fell open, one brow rising, as Buffy slowly walked toward him.


Chapter 16: Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair

Hot water.

Buffy shivered just thinking about it. Her focus was entirely on the prospect of a bath as she walked past Spike toward the pails of steaming water. Days on the trail, sitting in the hot sun, sweating and toiling along with the rest of the wagon train’s travelers, had left her covered with dust and dirt that she couldn’t wait to scrub off. On the trail water had been a commodity that they couldn’t afford to waste on hygiene, but Buffy had still managed to clean up a bit. Her mother would've called them spit baths. Spike’s label of a ‘whore’s bath,’ while less eloquent, was fairly precise.

“Okay, how do I do this? I mean I know you didn’t carve me a tub while you were walking through the woods. Maybe you can just pour it over me? God I wish I could just jump in.” She glanced over her shoulder at Spike who was staring at her, his mouth open, a blank look on his face. “What?”

Spike blinked at her. Once. Twice. Thrice.

He seemed no nearer speech than when she first turned and Buffy squinted at him, at last noticing his eyes seemed focused a bit below eye level. She glanced down at herself, clad in her chemise and petticoat, then back up to Spike.

“This?” She plucked at her chemise. “Spike I can’t wash with that dress on. There is grit that is hermetically sealed to me. I’m talking industrial strength loofah time.” When his expression didn’t change, she continued. “Come on, I’ve had flannel nightgowns that show more skin than this.”

Spike’s mouth snapped shut, the glaze in his gaze drifting away as his eyes rose to meet hers. Buffy wasn’t sure, but it seemed his entire body tensed, although the only sign was a small muscle in his cheek twitching. Before she could object, he’d grabbed her by the arm and drawn her away from the fire toward the rear of the wagon.

“Doesn’t matter what you think, Slayer. Only matters what everyone else thinks. To those folks out there, you’re walkin’ around nearly starkers.” His furtive glance out to the circle of wagons alerted her to the seriousness of the situation.

“Sorry.” She shrugged out of his grasp. “I forgot for a moment that we’re residing temporarily in Repressionsville.”

Spike shot her a look.

“I know, I know. When in Spain . . .”

With a soft laugh, Spike seemed to shake off his annoyance. “That’s ‘when in Rome,’ pet.”

Buffy was happy to see his mood had changed and she smiled back at him. “Here’s one. Cleanliness is next to . . . impossible here. Can we get moving with that hot water?”

“You stay here, eh? The back of the wagon will give you a bit o’ privacy. I’ll get the water.”

She watched as he took his leather gloves from the pocket of his duster and pulled them on. He grabbed the water pails by their handles, pulling them from fire, the steam swirling up and around his hands, wrists, and forearms like serpents.

“Gonna still hafta rough this. There’s some clean rags in the side box and I think some laundry soap. Best I can do.”

He sat one pail on the ground and the other on a small stool he’d pulled from the back of the wagon. Returning to the side of the wagon, he rummaged through the side box and pulled out a lump of something that looked like yellow wax and an arm full of soft, well-worn rags.

She took the items from him, looking at the water then back at him. “I’m not sure . . . what is this?”

“Soap. Well, at least what’s considered soap ‘round here. Mostly used to wash clothes, but I think it will do in a pinch for . . . you and, well, your hair. I can hang a blanket from that limb over there, give you some more privacy and then you can, well, get on with it.”

Buffy scrutinized the soap and make-shift towels, before turning to watch as Spike hopped into the wagon and retrieved the thread-bare blanket from her tick. He then tossed it across the lower branch of the tree near the rear of the wagon. It shielded her from the rest of the camp, but was by no means private to anyone that was behind the wagon. Right now, that was only Spike, and Buffy steeled herself to make-do. She would do anything to get the grit and grime off her and have her hair smelling clean again.

Spike brushed his hands off on the backside of his jeans and turned to Buffy. “I’ll jus’ go, uh, heat up the supper again.” He gestured toward the fire where the meal he’d prepared earlier sat cooling.

He wasn’t half way to the campfire when her voice caught him. “Spike?”

He turned back to her, watching as she looked from the lump of soap in one hand to the toweling in the other. “Yeah,” he offered hesitantly.

Buffy chewed her bottom lip, then looked at him. “I’m not sure I can do this. I mean, shower massages I can handle. Buckets of water, not so much.”

“Wish I could offer you a tub, pet, but this is the best I can do.” The disappointment was clear on his face.

“No, I know that,” Buffy rushed on. “And I really appreciate it. I was just wondering … well, maybe you could help me?”

Spike’s right eyebrow did a slow rise towards his hairline. “Help you?”

“Yeah, well, the bath part I can manage, but the hair washing thingy I might need a hand with. I mean what with those pails looking uber heavy and the whole lack of Slayerish strength these days . . .”

“Guess you could use an extra hand.” Spike smiled at her.

“Or two.” She nodded, looking again at the steaming pails of water.

“Lucky for you, I got a couple to spare.”

“Yeah,” she said, sniffing the soap and wrinkling her nose, “lucky me. Say, what’s this made of?”

Spike grimaced. “Well—”

“No,” Buffy threw up a hand. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“Good choice, luv. Don’t wanna ruin the moment.”

“Nope.” She looked at the soap suspiciously, then back to Spike. “Now how do we do this?”

Spike glanced at the water pails, then back at Buffy. “You’re gonna get wet, no matter how we work this.”

“That’s fine. Get me wet.” Spike smirked, covering it quickly with his hand, and Buffy rushed on. “I mean, baths usually equal wet, so no problem.” She turned away from the ex-vamp, trying to ignore the flush of heat that had suffused her cheeks and hoping that in the dark Spike didn’t notice.

“Sounds good,” Spike said, obviously trying to hide a chuckle, and walked over to pick up the pail of water from the ground at Buffy’s feet. “Best for you to bend over, I think, let me pour the water over your hair, get it wet, then you can wash it.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Buffy nodded, bending forward at the waist, her long blonde hair spilling down to almost touch the ground. She felt a little vulnerable, and more than a tad silly, standing bent over in nothing but her underwear in front of Spike, but she tried to shrug it off. It was either this, or hair that gnomes could build a home in. Besides, she had to admit that Spike had been on his best behavior lately and, anyway, it was just Spike. She tried not worry why his presence had begun causing a little tingle of energy to work its way up her spine.

Spike tested the water to make sure it had cooled enough, then tilted the pail so that the water flowed over Buffy’s head until her hair was completely saturated. Buffy twisted her hair into a pony tail, before standing up and flipping the mass of now dark hair to her back.

She dipped the lump of soap into the remainder of the water from the pail that Spike still held and rubbed her hands together, attempting to work up a lather. After a few moments, Spike took the soap from her, rubbing the now slimy ball onto the leg of his jeans, breaking free the wax coating that had sealed the soap and creating a lather between his own two hands.

“No fair,” Buffy said, pushing out her lower lip in her trademark pout. “No one said there were tricks involved.” She watched the bubbles of soap grow between his fingers.

Spike shot her back his trademark smirk. “There’s always a trick involved, pet. Just lucky I’m old enough to know 'em. Now turn ‘round.”

Buffy’s eyes widened as she watched his tongue run teasingly along the edges of his upper teeth. When she didn’t move, he took a step closer, his breath fanning her face. The warmth of it caressed her cheeks and for an odd reason she had to fight to keep from leaning into him.

His voice, deep and gravely, pulled her from her trance. “Turn ‘round, luv.”

Turn around, she did, almost as if his voice controlled her, like the strings that controlled a marionette. Before she even had a chance to worry about this, the ex-vamp’s hands were in her hair, his long fingers massaging her scalp. As he worked the lather through her hair, she felt the tightness flow from her muscles, the pressure of his fingers washing away the stress of the day. Without thought, she leaned back into his hands, breathing deeply as his thumb pressed into the nape of her neck and the fingers of his other hand spread and squeezed the thick soap lather into the length of hair that lay against her back.

Buffy vaguely wondered if she had ever felt this good in her entire life—this relaxed. She took in another deep breath, her eyes drifting shut. It was so nice to simply let go, to let this man take care of her. She was tired and achy, and his fingers—caressing her—gave her a brief respite. And his hands felt so strong, so able. So right.

But at the thought of letting go—of handing over control to someone else—something in her tensed. She opened her eyes, and the world swirled and danced in front of her. Legs wobbly, she felt her knees begin to give out and her vision swam into darkness as she felt her head grow light. In that instant, she also felt Spike's hands leave her hair, as he grabbed her about the waist, turning her in his arms, and keeping her from falling by pulling her against him.

Buffy clutched at Spike’s shoulders, her hands moving down to his biceps, her head feeling as if it might float away, filled with nothing but cotton and fog. She pressed her forehead into his chest, taking deep breaths of his familiar scent. The smell of strong coffee, cigarettes, and a touch of whiskey tickled her nose and helped to pull the fragments of her thoughts together.

Her first coherent thought was, where is he getting cigarettes and whiskey?

The second was, how come I never noticed what great arms he had?

The third was, why in the hell am I noticing his arms?

Hesitantly she raised her head, glancing up only to come nose to nose with Spike, his blue eyes filling her vision. Their eyes held, as time seemed to shift to neutral, still and deep like the night that surrounded them.

At his slight movement, Buffy’s eyes flickered downward, watching as his tongue appeared briefly, running over his full lower lip. Spike tightened his hold on her waist and she felt the now wet fabric move against her skin, the heat from his hands searing into her. Her breasts flattened against his chest and she felt the draw of her nipples as they tightened. A sharp tug of desire coursed down through the pit of her stomach to the core of her sex, and she felt the long muscles of her thighs tighten in anticipation.

Spike’s eyes widened, his pupils dilating, swallowing up the deep blue of his iris. His head tilted a bit to the left, and once again Buffy felt the pull—an invisible string drawing her in, until, at last, her lips met his.

For a long moment it was simply that. A small thing. Her lips pressed to his. Warm, soft, and gentle. And then, slowly, it became something else. Something more. Lips moved, slipping and slanting. There was an adjustment of noses and chins. A shifting of hands encircling her back, pulling her hips flush to his. A sliding of her arms up around his neck as warm, soft breaths mingled. Their tongues began gentle explorations of the warmth of each other’s mouths, the softer movements turning to nibbles and nips and bites of lips and jaws and necks.

Buffy’s lips moved from Spike’s neck back to his mouth, her hands moved up to grasp his neck, fingers twisting in to the curls at his nape. His hands followed suit, moving up her back, one hand tangling in the wet strands of her hair, the other flowing up over her shoulder to grasp her neck and pull her lips more firmly against his.

Buffy’s fourth coherent thought was, oh my god oh my god oh my god.


Chapter 17: A Little Less Talk, A Lot More Action

Spike's mind was racing. He tried to focus on the soft lips that were hungrily devouring him and the fervent tongue that had thrust its way into his mouth and was now battling his own for supremacy, but all he could do was wonder when the other shoe would drop. When would Buffy pull out of his embrace with declarations of what a gross, disgusting, animal he was? When would her tiny fist come in excruciating contact with his nose? When would the vehement denials and heated accusations start?

Before his frenzied mind could begin to formulate the answers to any of these questions, Buffy lifted a leg and twined it sensuously about his own, urging him to action. Never being one to sit around and wait for trouble to find him, he slipped a hand down her back and over the curve of her rump, pulling her flush against him. At Buffy's sudden intake of breath, Spike knew the Slayer had felt his arousal, but amazingly she didn't pull away. Instead, she shifted her hips ever so slightly against the hardness of his erection, causing some breathing problems of his own.

His hand remained cupped against her buttocks, squeezing and caressing the firm flesh, all thoughts of what exactly was happening or why it was happening fled his brain. It was a wonderful feeling; having a soft, warm woman in his arms. Buffy’s breasts were flattened to his chest and he could feel the staccato rhythm of her heart beating in time with his own.

Despite the fact that they were only yards away from the rest of the wagon train, Spike was seriously considering simply pulling Buffy to the ground. He wanted nothing more than to feel the length of her body pressed under his, to feel the heat from her radiating through him.

However Spike wasn’t quite so overtaken with passion that he didn’t realize the folly in that act and he moved his lips to Buffy’s ear to whisper, “Best take this to the wagon, luv.”

The responding moan that rose from her galvanized him to action and he moved to scoop her into his arms. For a brief moment, he flashed on an old film and he felt just a bit like Rhett Butler carrying Scarlett off to his bed. Unfortunately, his Scarlett didn’t quite know her blocking and as Spike dipped his knees to lift her, her chin collided with his forehead and she reeled back, the soapy mass of her hair swinging down and across her face.

“Yeowwww.” The screech that Buffy gave was followed by a litany of curses that would have impressed the ex-vamp if he hadn’t been focusing solely on staying upright as Buffy pushed away from him, her hands scrabbling to get her soapy hair out of her eyes. “Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.” She hissed, stomping her feet against the pain and rubbing furiously at her eyes. “God, it burns.”

Spike quickly grabbed the towel that was hanging on the back of the wagon and dunked it into the remaining pail of now cooling water. "Here now, stop that," he admonished, moving her hand away and placing the wet towel over her eye. He grasped her elbow, trying to draw her closer to inspect her injury, but she very deliberately moved out of his grasp.

His arm, still outstretched as if he was imploring her to return to him, finally dropped to his side and a tight, leaden feeling began to build in the pit of his stomach. The other shoe had finally dropped—with a thud that was loud enough that any fool would know the ramifications. But even knowing that, and even with the sickening feeling that had crawled out of his stomach to tug at his now beating heart, he took a hesitant step towards her.

Her own hand shot up at his movement, stalling him, her eyes still hidden by the towel. "I'm fine," she snapped. She took a shaky breath and continued in a much softer tone. "It's okay, really, just some soap in my eye. It's not stinging so much . . . anymore . . . the water's working." She paused and at last looked at him, squinting at him from red, watering eyes. "Thank you."

"S'okay." Though he’d aimed for nonchalance; he hit slightly up and to the right of mildly perturbed. Even though he'd known all along that the kiss would end this way, it still hurt. In self-defense, he drew on the cold, hard shell of indifference that had withstood over a hundred years of abuse.

When she held the rag to her eyes again he sighed in frustration. "It's probably the lye," he muttered.

Buffy glanced at him again, still dabbing at her red and weeping eyes. "What lie? I wasn't lying." Her tone was clipped and she straightened her shoulders as she turned to face him full on.

"Not a lie.” He frowned. Was she being purposely obtuse? “Lye. What the soap is made with in these times. Lye soap."

She cocked her head as his words filtered through. "Lye? Like in . . . lye? I am washing my hair with lye?" Her voice grew increasingly shrill as the sentence progressed.

He shrugged attempting to extricate himself from a meaningless argument he knew was simply her defense against talking about what had just happened between the two of them. "Yeah, well, lye and lard—"

"Lard?" She practically bellowed the word, but at Spike's warning look cast a quick glance around before lowering her voice to hiss, "Lard? You're telling me I was washing my hair with lye and lard?"

"'It's what these people make soap from, Slayer." Spike tried valiantly to keep the growing hostility out of his voice. He lost that battle when Buffy raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. It didn't have the same effect, what with her red, watering eyes, but it served the purpose to irritate him none-the-less. "You know, I'm sorry I even had the bloody idea!” he growled. “Should have left you stinking to high heaven and marinatin' in your own juices."

Buffy's mouth fell open in shock, and he took the advantage and pressed forward. "You," he leveled a finger at her, "are a right bloody bitch, you know that?"

“Well, excuse me,” she huffed, “for getting a teensy bit testy about finding out I’m washing my hair with corrosive chemicals.”

Spike closed his eyes, his lips tightening into a thin line, as he attempted to rein in his anger. After a few cleansing breaths, his nostrils flaring with his barely controlled annoyance, he leveled a look at her. “That’s not what’s got your knickers in a wad, Slayer, and you know it.”

Buffy swallowed hard, the thin white cotton of her camisole and petticoat wet and plastered to her body. Watching her, Spike had to fight off his body’s urges. The raging erection that had abated during the mishap with the soap suds, had come back with a vengeance, and it was taking all his self-control not to just grab her to him and kiss some sense into her. Of course, strangling her was also an option.

He watched as she steeled herself, jerking her chin at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His eyes narrowed at her. “Oh, sure you do. All this huff and puff and tempest in a tea pot isn’ about there not bein’ any No More Tears shampoo.” He paused and watched as she took a breath and held it. He relaxed his scowl and gave her a smile that bordered on wicked. He knew he was treading on thin ice, but for some reason couldn’t stop himself. “This is about us kissin’”

“It is not,” she snapped, her chin jutting even further.

“Is too.” He pronounced with a firm nod of his head. He’d decided to push her and push he did.

“Spike . . . ”

He knew she was trying to sound tough; the big bad slayer threatening to bust his butt if he didn’t back off.

“Buffy . . . ” He mimicked back to her, knowing it furthered her annoyance and yet not able to help himself. She wanted a fight, she’d get one. He wasn’t going to back down from what happened.

For a moment Buffy seemed to study him, as if taking measure of his stubbornness on this subject; the odds of her actually winning this fight. After a moment, her head titled a bit and her chin relaxed. She looked up into the darkness of the sky, then back at him. Spike could almost see the confidence flow back into her body. “So what?”

Spike blinked, perplexed by her sudden about-face. He wasn't sure where she was headed but fairly certain he wasn’t going to like it. “What do you mean, so what?”

A slow smile spread across the slayer’s face; a smile that immediately alerted Spike to the fact that he’d made a dreadful mistake, a misstep, that had allowed her to have the upper hand. “So what? We kissed. Big deal.”

“Slayer, if you think for a moment—”

“Exactly, Spike. It was a moment. A crazy, insane—”

“Incredible, delicious—”

“Stupid moment.” She raised her voice to trump his comment. At his look, she continued, “We’re both under a lot of stress, it’s totally understandable.”

He raised a brow and regarded her suspiciously. “Oh, is it?”

She nodded, but pulled her eyes from his, turning away from his direct scrutiny. “Of course. We’re scared—”

“Speak for yourself, Slayer.”

She shot him a look from the corner of her eye. “We’re stranded here, cut off from the world we know, fighting to get home – alive – and so we turned to each other. Besides you being so nice and—”

He threw his hand up, halting her words and took a step toward her. “Whoa, wait one mo – you’re tellin’ me you decided to thank me for bein’ so nice by sucking my face off?”

Buffy turned back to him, but quickly looked away from his questioning eyes, tossing the towel over the back of the wagon bed. “Don’t be a pig, Spike.”

Spike smirked at her. “Didn’t think I was pig when you kissed me.”

She looked at him sharply. “Me? Now wait one minute, I did not kiss you.”

Both of his eyebrows rose at her statement. “No?”

“Absolutely not,” she huffed. “You kissed me.”

Spike let out a bark of a laugh. “That’s a good try at revisionis’ history there, pet. But you kissed me.”

She rolled her eyes and waived a hand at him dismissively. “I so did not kiss you.”

Buffy’s fisted hands were on her hips, the flare of anger raging in her eyes. She was using that emotion to fuel her denial of what had happened between them and suddenly Spike knew that now was not the time to try to bring those walls down. His own doubts had begun to gnaw on the edges of his own beliefs. He knew what had happened, and he even knew why – wishing with the whole of his being that just once he wasn’t the love sick sap that was kicked about like a ball in play – but he definitely didn’t want to think about what it might mean for the two of them.

For once his rational mind was able to beat up and hold down his irrational, emotional responses. He listened to that still, small voice, realizing that until he could figure out his own feelings in this matter, discretion was the better part of valor.

Yet his own stubbornness refused to relent and allow him to admit to something that wasn’t true. “You sure as hell did kiss me, Slayer. Leaned right in and laid a good one on me.”

Buffy’s eyes widened and she shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no, no, no! I didn’t not lean. There was absolutely no leanage.” Her hand fluttered up to press against her breast, the fingers visibly trembling.

Seeing this, the chill hand of guilt reached out of his newly found soul and wrapped around his heart, crushing it just a bit. She’d been through a lot today with the heat exhaustion and now they were at each other’s throats again. Where had it all gone wrong? He’d only tried to help. Had only wanted to try to make things better for her. He sighed in frustration, turning away from her. Just proves that no good deed ever goes unpunished.

“You’re right, Slayer.” He sighed again, kicking at the dirt and wishing it was even darker than it was. He needed some place to slink back in to; a place to hide away from these feelings that he didn’t want and didn’t understand. “Don’t know why I even bothered . . . was me that kissed you, and, believe me, if I could take it back I would. You were right, just somethin’ about being here and alone and needing . . . ” He looked back at her with empty, tired eyes. “Well, no use gettin’ into that. Let’s jus’ put it behind us and move on.”

"Oh." She breathed the word so softly he barely heard her. Her eyes, which had been round with wonder, now darted down and away from his scrutiny.

“Water’s there to rinse your hair. It’s cool now, so as soon as you’re done you should get wrapped up and into the wagon. Don’t need you sick with the croup on top of everything else.” He turned to walk away, needing some space between them so he could separate out the tangle of emotions he was feeling.

“Where . . . where are you going?”

His shoulders, which he’d been holding rigid, slumped. “Jus’ gonna take a walk. Maybe gather some more wood for the fire tomorrow.”

He didn’t turn back to look at her, knowing that those green eyes now held the power to slice his heart into tiny bits. Funny thing, that. She wasn’t the Slayer any longer, but here in this wilderness, both of them devoid of any special powers, she had an even a stronger hold over him. She didn’t need a stake now to do him in. She could cut him to the bone with just one lash of her sharp tongue, one rebuke from her cold heart.

He walked into the woods, out of her sight, and felt a familiar comfort in the darkness that surrounded him and welcomed him home.


Chapter 18: With Nothing Between You and the Dark

It was strange how things could change so quickly--this day, for instance. It had been miserably hot throughout the day as the sweltering sun beat down from a clear blue sky, without so much as a wisp of cloud to offer solace from the heat. Then came night fall; the darkness bringing with it a chill that set into the bones and rattled the teeth.

Buffy's mood was as changeable as the day had been. When Spike had walked away, into the woods, she'd been seething with anger. She'd hurried through her bath, using the remaining lukewarm water to rinse her hair and to wash the grit and grime from her skin. But the joy of finally feeling clean was weakened by the still churning emotions after her fight with Spike.

Now, sitting in the wagon, damp hair and soaking wet chemise and petticoat doing little to ward off the cold dark night, Buffy was rethinking her actions. Loath as she was to admit it, she knew she'd reacted irrationally to his kiss. Their kiss, she corrected herself. As much as she'd like to deny it, she'd been as active a participant as he'd been.

But in her defense, she reasoned that he had simply taken her by surprise. One minute she was relishing clean, hot water on her skin and the feel Spike's fingers massaging her scalp. Before she could even register what she was doing, she'd found herself leaning back into the feel of his strong chest supporting her and the movement of his fingers along her temples, relaxing into his embrace.

She realized now that at the time she'd felt safe, possibly for the first time since they'd been transported here. And it had been such a pleasure to escape from the tension and frustration--to allow her whirling mind to ease away from the troubles of trying to find their way out of this time, trying to survive. She remembered feeling her knees give way, feeling lightheaded and free. And then, suddenly, there were his arms, turning her and pulling her against him, his lips meeting hers.

It had felt good. More than good, it had felt right. Like she was where she belonged, where she needed to be. Letting him hold her, touch her, kiss her, making everything better in such a delicious way. Even now, the memory of his mouth on her neck, his hands pulling her close, made her shiver. She could blame it on the damp clothes, the chill of the night air, but she knew she'd be lying to herself.

Just like she'd lied to him.

Buffy peeked out the back of the wagon, her eyes scanning the dark outlines of the trees. Glancing up at the sliver of moon that hung in the sky, she worried about how long Spike had been gone. She glanced at her wrist and frowned in frustration at old habits and the wristwatch that she'd forgotten to put on the day they were transported. It was on her dresser, more than a hundred forty years in the future.

The sky was pitch black, so it was probably closer to midnight than to dawn. Still, Spike had been gone too long, and even though the thought of rehashing what had happened between them was the last thing Buffy wanted to do, she couldn't push down the empty, lonely feeling at his absence.

Vulnerability. She hated feeling this way; had always hated it. It's why she'd always fought to be the one in control, the one leading the way. She'd been taught early on that leaning on someone, needing them, was the quickest way to heartache. Oh, other people always talked a good game, making promises, swearing they'd be there when you needed them, but when things got tough, they were always long gone. She'd learned that lesson as a child, from a father whose promises were as fragile as the message notes they were written on.

Angel had reinforced the lesson when he'd walked away from her. She knew in her heart that he'd made the right decision, for both of them. They would never have been able to make it work, for so many reasons. But it still felt like she was being discarded, abandoned. So she'd pulled the shattered remnants of her heart and ego around her like a shield and had plowed on through life, vowing to never again let someone close enough to hurt her, make her weak.

Wasn't that the stumbling block between her and Riley; the cause of all their recent arguments? She wouldn't let him be the strong one--wouldn't lean on him. She couldn't get him to understand that it wasn't about him. It wasn't about worrying about him, or taking care of him. It was about taking care of herself, of her heart. She just couldn't let down her guard with him or risk opening her heart only to once again be hurt, to be left behind.

But here, now, Buffy was beginning to realize that the armor she'd cloaked herself in wasn't protecting her, it was dragging her down. She shivered again, remembering the thrill of Spike's touch, the jolt of electricity that ran through her when his body was close hers, his hands roaming her body. She hadn't felt passion like that in . . . well, a long time. She hadn't allowed herself to let go and simply feel.

Yes, it frightened her that it was Spike that was calling this out in her, but the fear was nothing compared to the realization of how much she missed feeling this way--the overwhelming exhilaration of being swept away, of opening up and showing the tender parts of her soul and trusting that they would be safe and protected.

She wasn't sure why she was willing to risk this now . . . here. And with Spike. They were in danger; they may never find their way home. But for the first time in a long time, she wasn't the strong one. And it wasn't within her control to change that. Spike was the one that fit in here, he was the one that seemed to know what do and say to help them find their way through.

And Spike was human here. Had a soul. Certainly that had something to do with her softening feelings toward him. It was only logical that his newfound humanity would make her feel differently about him. She didn't let herself ponder too long why Riley's humanity just left her feeling defensive and isolated.

Easier to deal with the here and now, than to borrow trouble from a future to which she may never return. Right now she had to make things right with Spike. The only way to do that was to open up to him and talk through whatever was going on between them. It wasn't going to be easy, but she knew she owed it to him. And to herself.

The soft crunch of boots on the dirt outside of the wagon caused Buffy to sit up from where she'd curled on her mattress. Realizing that her wet camisole left nothing to the imagination, she pulled the blanket more securely around her and then waited for him.

He climbed through the opening of the wagon, coming up short as he caught sight of her. From the look on his face, it was obvious that he'd hoped she would be asleep.

"Hi," she ventured softly, her eyes imploring him, even in the darkness, to accept her apology without her having to actually use the words. She'd been a jerk, but she was still hoping to come out of this without having to grovel too much.

He looked away from her, moving to the opposite side of the wagon. He furtively glanced in her direction again, before turning his back and stripping off his duster.

Buffy took in a deep breath. "I was beginning to worry."

"No need for that," he said, his voice muffled as he pulled his shirt over his head, not bothering to unbutton it. "Can take care of myself, Slayer."

His use of her official title caused Buffy's heart to skip a beat. "I know you can. I was just--"

"Look," he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. "You were right. I was wrong." He turned to face her, his eyes studying hers for a moment before gazing down at his boots. "Said so before, didn't I?"

Buffy blinked and opened her mouth to object, but he turned from her, sinking down to his knees on the pile of blankets that made up his bed. "Thought some more on it while I was out. You and I, Slayer, we need to keep things straight between us if we're gonna get home. We gotta work together, yeah, while we're here. But we both know that once we're home it'll be back to every vamp and Slayer for himself. Just the way it is. The way it's supposed to be. You don’t want to be havin' another vampire in your life, and I sure as hell don't want to be worryin' about your ass."

He turned back to her, his hands going to his belt buckle, the steel in his eyes visible even in the murky darkness of wagon. "When we get back, my number one goal will be what it's always been--get this bloody chip out and get back to what I do best." He whipped his belt out of its jean loops, the snapping of the leather causing Buffy to recoil from him, her eyes wide. "Killin' Slayers."

Buffy felt the rush of breath leave her as his cold eyes bore into her. "Is that so?" She whispered, almost too softly to hear.

"Yeah," Spike said, his voice softening a bit. "Just like you'll go back to doin' what you do best. Slayin' vampires. What you was made for, yeah?"

Buffy couldn't stop her lower lip from trembling, or her eyes filling with tears. She only hoped the darkness would cover her emotion. "Yeah, Spike, that's what I was made for. Thanks for reminding me."

She watched as his shoulders slumped a bit, his head tilting as he tried to see her face more clearly despite the lack of light. She covered her weakness, turning her back to him, pretending to be absorbed in straightening the bedding on her mattress.

She hadn't heard him move, but suddenly she felt his hand, tentative, on her shoulder. She held still a moment, fighting with whether to take the crumbs he was offering, but instead she pulled away from his touch. She wasn't about to take his pity.

"So, when should we be close to Plattsville? Maybe the next day or so?" Her voice was hoarse, and she cleared her throat. "We can get inside the mystery of that coin and maybe get ourselves home. Back to what both want."

She could feel his hand, still hovering near her shoulder and she tensed her body for another touch of his fingertips. She held her breath, willing him to move away. Pity or no, she wasn't sure she could turn from him again--and yet she knew she'd never forgive herself that weakness. When she felt him move back to his own bedding, she let out a trembling sigh.

His voice was gruff but not harsh when he spoke at last. "Thanks for reminding me." She could hear him rummaging with his bedding. "Now where the bloody hell . . ."

Buffy looked over at Spike, watching as he frantically searched the pockets of his duster, until at last he stopped, tossing the cost violently to the floor. He took the remaining bedding and stood, shaking it and then tossing it just as vehemently. Reaching for the oil lamp, he lit it and repeated his search of both the coat and the bedding, as well as the floor around him.

"What?" Buffy shook her head, shrugging in confusion at this new annoyance, wishing she could just go to bed and sleep this hideous day away.

Spike, his eyebrows drawn together, leveled a look at her. "The fuckin' coin is gone."

"What?" Buffy barked, jumping up to stand beside him. "What do you mean it's gone?"

"Just what I said, Buffy. It's gone." He picked up the coat, again rummaging through its pockets. "Was storin' it in this inside pocket for safe keepin'. At night I've been putting it under the flour keg here. When you mentioned the bloody coin, it reminded me that I hadn' put it away for the night."

"Did you check the floor, the blankets, maybe it fell out when you took the coat off."

"Did you not just see me do that? No, it's not here."

Buffy glanced around the wagon in frustration. "Where could it have gone? Could it have fallen out of your coat?"

The ex-vampire shook his head. "Not likely. This inside pocket is deep and has a flap." He flipped the coat over, showing her the pocket. "It's why I chose to keep it there. On my person. It's not like . . . wait."

"Wait," Buffy raised a brow. "Wait for what?"

Spike's tongue came out, running along his lower lip, as he appeared to ponder the floor boards of the wagon. "Know it was there this morning." He glanced at Buffy quickly, then down again. "There was only one time when this coat was off me today."

"When was that?" Buffy asked, noticing that Spike was studiously avoiding her gaze, his teeth gnawing almost nervously on his bottom lip. A weight formed in the pit of her stomach as she watched him fidget.

After a long moment, he let out a sigh and looked her in the eye. "When I was off helping Shay with the Cooper's back axel. Took the coat off when we went to lift the carriage."

Buffy nodded, urging Spike to continue. "Where did you leave it?"

Spike's eyes shifted again, down to the coat he still held in his hands, then back to her. Buffy's heart clenched in fear at the look on his face. "Had someone hold it for me. Just for a minute."

Buffy's eyes narrowed, the fear now moving into up into her throat, making her chest tight. She looked down at the duster and slowly back at Spike. "And who was that, Spike. Who did you have hold the coat?"

"Katie."


Chapter 19: And Now Looking In Your Eyes

"It's not missing, Spike," Buffy corrected. "We both know where it is."

The sun was low in the sky; Buffy guessed it was nearing two in the afternoon, and she was looking forward to setting camp for the day. The steady rocking of the wagon had worked its way up her spine, causing her neck to stiffen and the beginning of headache.

"Not sure of that yet, now are we?" Spike had the decency to look away from her skeptical look.

Buffy grimaced, shaking her head. "Where else would it be? You said yourself that it couldn't fall out of that pocket and Katie was the only person that their hands on that coat other than you. Face it, Spike. That skanky, frontier ho-bag has our magic coin."

"Yeah. . . " He sighed, keeping his eyes focused on the landscape. "She does."

"Damn right, she does, and we're gonna get it back, and then I plan on playing a game of kickball with her ass."

"And how you gonna do that, Buffy? Go up and demand it back? She stole the thing; she's not gonna just hand it over to you. And you accuse someone of something like that in this day and age, you better be able to back it up with proof. How are we going to prove she has it?"

"Fine,” Buffy reluctantly conceded, whipping off her sun bonnet and mopping her brow with it. “You're so smart, how do you plan on getting the damn thing back?"

"Tit for tat." Spike shrugged.

Buffy’s brows drew together in puzzlement. "Her tits are what?"

Spike sighed, darting a glance at her. "We do to her, what she did to us. We steal it back."

"Oh, okay . . .” Buffy frowned. “But how? Where would she have it? It could be anywhere."

"Way I figure it, it's gotta be in one of two places.” Spike slapped the reins and the horses let out a whinny and sped up a bit. “In her wagon, or on her person. We'll have to split up and search—"

"Oh, oh, can I guess which one of those places you want to search?"

His eyes shifted to her again. "Makes sense for you to take the wagon and for me to—"

"Take her?"

"Will you shut yer yap for just two seconds?" He slapped the reins again; this time the horses tossed their heads, showing their annoyance with Spike’s rough handling. "She and I, we've already talked, we know each other a bit. You can search the wagon while I keep her occupied and try to suss out if she has the coin on her."

"Oh, occupied.” Buffy nodded, looking away, suddenly very interested in the rumps of the draft horses that were now pulling them up a slight incline. “Is that what they called it back then?"

"You got a one track mind, luv.” The ex-vamp raised a brow, a small smile quirking the corners of his mouth. “And it leads right into the gutter.” At her look, he continued in earnest. “I'm not interested in that bint, Buffy. She's not my type. And even if she were, I have enough on my hands with—"

"Me?" Buffy looked over at him, locking eyes until at last he looked away. She continued staring at him, though, studying his profile, watching as his Adam's apple move against the collar of his shirt. For the first time, she noticed the fine lines that etched the skin around his eyes, showing more clearly that his face had tanned under the harsh sun.

He glanced back at her, opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it, and at the last minute turned his eyes to the landscape. After a few minutes—her eyes still burning into his skin like the afternoon sun—he pulled up on the reins, his now calloused fingers moving the leather reins from one hand to the other. When their eyes met again, he refused to back down from her gaze. This time it was Buffy’s turn to look away, a hint of pink coloring her cheeks as she looked down at her hands. "We do it tonight?"

"Time's a wastin'.” He nodded. “Best get to it and get that coin back."

@~~@~~@~~@

Buffy took another furtive glance at her surroundings, making sure that no one could see as she moved along the side of Katie Monroe's wagon, hugging the shadows cast by the low hung, setting sun. She moved as stealthily as one could in a long skirt, trying not to make too much noise as she climbed quickly into the back of the wagon.

Spike had barely waited for the sun to begin its descent behind the trees when he sent her on the mission to search for the missing coin. It wasn't as if she'd never done any breaking and entering before, but now, in the darkness of the wagon, she realized how difficult this was going to be. She'd give her eye teeth for a flashlight. Hell, she'd even settle for of those little ones like Dawn kept on her key chain.

Carefully, Buffy moved further into the wagon, her eyes slowly growing accustomed to the darkness. It was just a bit larger than her own, but was equally as packed to the gills with wooden boxes and barrels, barely leaving enough floor space to maneuver.

Not sure how long she had before Katie's return, Buffy quickly searched all the likely places the coin might be hidden. It didn't take her long to realize how pointless the search was. There were, literally, dozens of places the coin could be squirreled away; under or in different kegs of flour, sugar and corn meal, beneath or inside the feather tick, or even under the wooden slats of the wagon's floor.

However, just as Buffy was about to give up in frustration, her eyes landed on a large, wooden trunk, pushed to the front end of the wagon. She made her way over to it, sinking to her knees to pry open the leather straps holding it closed. As she lifted the lid, the metal hinges moaning their complaint, a musty, sweet smell of roses wafted up to her nostrils. She blinked, stifling a sneeze as the cloying smell seemed to infuse the entire interior of the wagon.

"Holy potpourri, Batman," she mumbled, waiving her hand in front of her face to disperse the scent. As carefully as she could, she picked through the clothing stored within the trunk, moving aside assorted blouses, skirts, and dresses.

Her hands lingered on the beautiful fabrics—all made of bright silks and satins—their texture felt soothing and cool against her roughened skin. These were certainly not the clothes of rancher’s widow and Buffy found herself once again regretting that she hadn’t just decked the redhead when she’d had the chance. She tried to swallow down the jealousy that rose as lump in her throat. Unbidden, the image of Katie and Spike, wrapped in each other’s arms, played across her mind’s eye. It wasn’t rational; hell, it wasn’t even sane, these feelings she had for the ex-vampire. She shouldn’t care whom he held, or kissed. And yet she did care. He was slowly breaking down the emotional walls she’d built to protect herself, and she didn’t know how to stop him. She didn’t know if she even wanted him to stop.

The sound of laughter—probably from the large communal fire pit in the center of camp—pulled Buffy from her musings, and she glanced around nervously. It had grown even darker and she knew time was running out if she wanted to find the gold coin and make her way out of the wagon without being caught.

She'd dug her way nearly half to the bottom of the trunk when something caught her eye. Raising a brow, she drew out a bright red and black stripped satin corset, its lace ribbon falling in tangles across her arms.

"Now I know where they got the phrase merry widow," Buffy grumbled, holding the garment up to her body to gauge the fit, its generous cups far exceeding her proportions. Rolling her eyes, she tossed the corset back into the truck and continued searching for the coin, only finding more lingerie.

Slamming the trunk closed, she stood, hands on her hips, and surveyed the wagon with a pout and a glare. Just as she was about to push up her sleeves and have it again, this time with a willingness to ransack the place, she heard the approach of soft footsteps.

Darting to the front of the wagon, Buffy ducked down behind a large flour keg and several smaller kegs of ground corn meal. She drew in a breath and held it, fearing that even the slightest noise might give her away.

The canvas curtain that covered the back opening to the wagon rustled, and she saw a dainty hand move through to grasp hold of the wooden backboard. Buffy gritted her teeth, screwing her eyes shut, preparing to leap from her hiding place and run like hell if she had to.

"Mrs. Monroe, I was wondering if you could spare me a minute of your time?"

Buffy tensed at the first sound of Spike's gravely baritone, but relaxed when she realized he was drawing Katie away from wagon. Staying silent and still, Buffy watched as Katie’s hand disappear, listening as she moved away from the wagon a short distance.

She waited a moment, her muscles relaxing gradually, then moved cautiously towards the wagon’s opening. Gingerly, she lifted the coarse canvas flap and peered out. It was dusk now, but still lighter than it was in the wagon, so she could clearly see Katie, who stood about five feet away. Thankfully, her full attention was on Spike, who was smiling at the redhead in a way that made Buffy’s stomach muscles clench and the pangs of jealousy nip at her heart.

She mentally shook herself; she didn’t have time for this nonsense. It was irrational for her to be angry at him—she knew this. He was only doing what they had both planned for him to do – work his charms on Katie and try to find their missing coin, at the very least giving her time to search the woman’s wagon for the missing gold piece. Whatever her feelings for the ex-vampire were—and they seemed to change as quickly as the seconds on a clock—he’d made it clear last night that his focus was on getting back to Sunnydale circa 2000 and, more importantly, back to status quo between the two of them. Her priorities should be the same.

Buffy watched as Spike tilted his head, a smile curving the corners of his mouth. He appeared totally fascinated by whatever the woman was saying. Moving behind the canvas flap, Buffy strained to hear their conversation.

“That is so kind of you, William.” Katie’s soft, southern drawl perfectly matched her wide, doe-eyed gaze. “Not having a man around, has been so very, very hard.” She plucked at Spike’s sleeve, and Buffy’s eyes narrowed as Spike took her slender hand and held in between the two of his.

“Oh, please,” Buffy hissed under her breath, “give me a break.”

Spike frowned, squeezing Katie’s hand. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but your husband, how did you lose him?”

“Lose him,” Buffy snorted. “More like he made a run for it first chance he got.”

Katie ducked her head, pulling her had free and turning away from Spike. “Oh, it was, ah, consumption.”

“Constipation?” Buffy mumbled. “What a way to go.”

Spike rested his hand on Katie’s shoulder. “Consumption? I thought you mentioned it was sudden.”

Katie glanced quickly over her shoulder, catching Spike’s eye for a moment before turning back. Her hand came up, shaking to cover her mouth.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “And the Academy Award goes to … skanky, lying bitch for her role in I am Such a Ho-bag”

“It was sudden.” Katie’s voice shook and she wiped a tear off her cheek. “The doctor said it was . . . unusual. But Henry never had a very strong constitution.”

“I see.” Spike pursed his lips, regarding the woman with a skeptical eye.

Katie turned around in time to catch his look. “Do you … have you had experience with that terrible disease?”

Spike’s eyes darkened, and Buffy moved even closer to the opening to watch him. “Yes, I have. My mother.”

Buffy blinked, watching Spike closely. Was this true? Had his mother really suffered and died from a terrible disease? Or was he just telling Katie this in hopes of her opening up more to him?

“Oh, William, I’m so sorry,” Katie moved toward him and took his hand in hers again.

It was Spike’s turn to move away, pulling from her grasp to move further away from the wagon. The increased distance made it was harder for Buffy to see his face, but she could hear the deep timbre of his voice, a bit more husky than usual. “Was a . . . long time ago.”

“But I can see that it affected you.” Katie moved up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Well, can’t take care of someone suffering that way and not be affected,” Spike said, glancing at the woman. “Guess you know that though, yeah?”

Katie pulled her hand back, her eyes meeting his. After a moment she nodded, then looked away. “Yes, yes, I do.”

Spike watched as she walked toward the communal camp site. She paused at the perimeter, watching the families gathered by the fire. Taking the opportunity, Spike glanced over to the wagon, catching Buffy’s eye, and signaling her with a quick wave of his hand to get, while the getting was good.

There was a part of her that wanted to stay, wanted to hear more of this conversation. She’d never really known much about Spike before . . . well, before he was Spike. He knew all there was about her; all about her family, friends, lovers. But what she knew about him was only what she had read in books that Giles had shown her. Mostly the grisly tales of his time with Angelus, Darla, and Dru as they cut a swath of destruction and murder across Europe.

To be honest, it had never crossed her mind to ask about what he was like before he'd been turned. He wasn’t that man any longer—or so Giles had said—so what difference would it possibly make? But the more she got to know Spike, the more she wondered if perhaps the Watchers' Council had it wrong. She could tell by his voice, by his face and eyes, that he was telling Katie the truth. And this fact made her curious as to what else of William was still there, in Spike. What other secrets could he be hiding?

Before she could ponder it further, Spike jerked his head in the direction of their own wagon again, imploring her to escape while she had the chance. She nodded, then made her escape, quickly moving to the far side of the wagon and racing away as fast as her feet would carry her.

She hated leaving Spike there, but now there was nothing for her to do but wait until he returned. Hopefully he could get Katie to either confess, or make a misstep that would lead them to their coin. In any case, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know how far Spike would go to make that happen.


Chapter 20: All That Has Brought Me To Today

What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson ~

It was pitch black by the time Spike made it back to the wagon, but he knew Buffy would still be awake waiting for him. The light from one of their lanterns flickered, clearly showing the shadowed movement of the Slayer as she moved restlessly around their small home.

Home.

It was strange, but this time– the sounds, the smells, hell, even the coarse texture of the clothing and strong pungent taste of the food – were already starting to feel like home to him.

He stopped beside the wagon, his hand running along the rough, splintered wood. Wasn’t that long ago, she’d have felt him there. Her slayer-senses would have been announcing the presence of a vampire nearby. He’d have sensed her as well--the sweet smell of her skin, the vibrancy of her power pushing against him, causing his muscles to tighten, his cock to harden.

Now just the shadow of her drew him in. He took a deep breath through his nostrils, trying to catch her scent, the unique aroma of her, but the cloying smell of night blooming jasmine was too strong.

Some things gained; others lost.

He could feel the strong, steady beat of his heart in his chest, but could no longer sense the Slayer. She was no longer a threat to him, though. In this time, without her strength, without her chosen duty. So this loss, was it really that important?

He knew it was futile to focus on this now, but something had occurred to him tonight and he couldn’t keep from mulling it over and over in his head. He’d known it all along, but with the coin still missing, the possibly became much more real to him.

They might never get home, back to their own time.

The coin and its secrets might be lost to them forever, moving their former existence beyond their reach. He wasn’t, at heart, a pessimist, but the realization that they might be trapped in this time permanently had hit him square between the eyes. And it had brought with it strong memories of another time, another place, where he’d had to leave a former life behind. Walk away from a world that was forever out of his reach and begin again.

Tonight, talking with Katie, he’d felt that mixture of dread and excitement roiling in his stomach; it was the same feeling he’d had after having been turned, when the shock and full-on rush had worn off and he’d had to accept that his world had changed, that he would no longer live in the light, but forever more walk in the darkness with Angelus, Darla and Dru.

After Buffy had made her escape from Katie’s wagon, Katie had come on to him. And in that instant, as this woman had pressed her body against his and drew his lips down to meet hers, Spike knew for certain, that if things changed forever, if he and Buffy never got back to the future, he’d accept it and find a way to adjust. As he always had, year after year, decade after decade.

Now, watching Buffy’s shadow move across the canvas, he wondered how difficult it would be for her. In many ways this was like coming home for him, old skills resurfaced, like an old knife newly hone. Nothing left behind to miss, no one to mourn his disappearance. But Buffy, how would she fit in? How would she cope without her family, her friends, her sacred calling?

He wasn’t giving up hope that they would find their way back, but he also knew that soon the Slayer would have to start facing some hard truths, and that fact had given Spike the fortitude to put Katie aside tonight, moving out her arms and the comfort they offered and making his way back to Buffy.

Whether she liked it or not, whether he wanted to admit it or not, they were tied together now, and those bonds needed to be secure, no matter how this adventure ended. In truth, it hadn’t been hard for him to walk away from Katie. He and Buffy might not ever again feel the vampire/slayer connection, but they now shared something deeper, more intimate. They shared a destiny.

He stepped back from the wagon, his boot heel snapping a twig.

“Spi—William, is that you?”

He smiled, realizing that while she might have lost her slayer senses, she still had a damn good ear. “Yes,” He answered, hoisting himself into the back of the wagon. Taking off his hat he turned to her, the words he’d been about to say stalling on his lips at the sight of her.

Buffy had changed into her nightgown, and standing near her bed with the light of the lantern behind her, the long smooth lines of her body were clearly visible through the thin cotton fabric.

Spike swallowed past the lump that formed in his throat, his hands pushing into the pockets of his duster to pull it closed over the growing evidence of his desire for her. Her eyes caught the movement and he watched a lovely flush of rose move up her throat to light her cheeks aflame.

Her eyes caught his for a second, then lowered demurely. He decided, in that instant, not to back away from the situation. She wanted him. She may not understand why, or what it meant, but she felt something for him. Maybe it was only lust, spurred on by the fear of the unknown, but he was betting it was more than that, and now seemed as good a time as any to lay his cards on the table.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice a hoarse whisper despite his best efforts to regulate it. When her eyes rose to meet his again, he tilted his head a bit and smiled. “You’re a beautiful woman, Buffy.”

Her mouth fell open a bit, her lower lip trembling, and Spike had to fight every single muscle in his body to keep from taking the three steps to reach her and pull her into his arms. Just as he was about to cease the fight, she found her voice.

“Are you sure that’s not some residual leftover from your visit with Katie?” Her tone was sharp but her eyes betrayed her. He could hear the indifference in her words, but could see the fear, the insecurity in her gaze. When he didn’t look away, she swallowed hard and turned from him. “I’m sorry. I . . . shouldn’t have said that.” She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “I . . . didn’t mean it.”

Spike pursed his lips, then nodded, shaking off the anger her words had brought up. "Good. Because it’s not. It’s definitely,” he paused, his eyebrow rising slightly, “Buffy induced.” She turned away from him quickly, but not before he caught a small quirk of her lips. A smile? His brow rose further as he contemplated the possibilities behind that smile.

The light from the lantern still illuminated her body in silhouette, and he openly admired the graceful curve of her back and feminine swell of her hips. Prairie life might be hard on her, but the fresh air and hearty food had been good to her as well. There was a lushness to her now, like the sun and mountain air had matured her. His lips parted at the thought of tasting her skin, of feeling the ripe curves of her breasts in his hands.

He took a step closer to her, saw her shoulders tense then relax again, as he slowly moved closer to her from behind. She jumped a bit and gasped slightly when his hands encircled her waist. He waited to see if she’d move away from him, maybe even turn and strike out at him for his boldness.

But she remained still.

So slowly, cautiously, he pulled her in to his chest. Again, he waited. And again, she didn’t move, didn’t speak. The soft sound of her breathing drew his head down, his nose nuzzling the juncture of her shoulder and neck. Her hair was pinned up, giving his lips easy access to the tender spot just behind her ear. As his lips moved against her, he felt her tremble in his arms, her head lolling back to rest upon his shoulder.

His hands rose, cupping her breasts through the thin fabric of her nightgown and, finally, she spoke. “We,” she started, then swallowed, and his lips followed the movement of the muscles in her throat. “This isn’t . . . it’s probably not a good idea.”

“Probably not,” he mumbled against her skin. His hands fondled her, his thumbs rubbing slow circles over her nipples as they tightened under his touch.

“Oh. . .” She sighed as his hands continuing to work their magic on her, dropping every now and then to run teasingly along her ribs, his long fingers tickling the soft undersides of her breasts. She found her voice again and whispered, “Maybe we should talk?”

“Talk, yeah, let’s talk.” Contrary to his words, his left hand moved up to the neckline of her nightgown, popping open several of the small pearl buttons and pulling the gown off her shoulder, baring more of her skin to his lips.

He licked and nibbled his way to her shoulder, then stopped, his breath rushing in and out against her damp skin. They should talk--had a lot to discuss actually. But this, this was also something that was needed. By both of them. A release. An acceptance of what was happening, to them and between them.

As he turned her in his arms, she leaned her head back, looking up at him with drowsy eyes and parted lips. Her gown hung off her shoulder, the tanned skin of her chest and the pale creamy flesh of her left breast with its rose red nipple peeking out at him through bits of lace. He dipped his hand beneath the lace, pushing it aside, then softly tapped her nipple with the tip of his index finger, watching as it crinkled beneath his touch, hardening further.

Buffy’s breathing quickened and he glanced up briefly to watch as she drew her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes drifting closed.

His gaze returned to her breast. “So sweet,” he murmured, his head dipping so his lips could suckle at her nipple, his hand cradling the fullness of her breast.

He felt her head lift suddenly, could feel her eyes looking down at the top of his head. “Talk. You said we were going to talk.”

Reluctantly, he released her breast, giving it a slight nip before looking up. “You want to talk? Now?”

Buffy nodded her head earnestly, her breasts bouncing against his chest. His eyes flickered back to the ripe, red nipple that was now mocking him. He looked back into her eyes and frowned. “Buffy—”

Still trembling, she pulled slightly away from him, but still stayed within the circle of his arms, her hands clutching the material of his shirt. “I’m not saying we won’t . . . I mean . . .” Her face crumpled, her eyes squeezing shut. “Why does this have to be so hard?”

His hand traveled back to palm her breast, the other drifted over her hip to caress her rump, pulling her hips flush with his. “It’s hard because that’s what we do to each other, Buffy. Always have; always will.”

She opened her eyes and stared into his. When she spoke, her voice was husky with unshed tears. “We might not get home.”

Spike frowned. Knowing this was coming hadn’t made it easier. He nodded. “Might not. Got bupkiss from Katie about the coin. She hasn’t seen it, or so she says. Might have to make this time, this place, our new home.” He waited and watched the fear that moved across her features. “Not giving up, mind you. Not yet. But we have to realize it’s a possibility. Think you can handle that?”

“Do I have a choice?” Her chin dropped to her chest, her gaze falling away, unfocused.

“No. Only choice we have is to make the best of whatever is handed to us. Right now, we still got hope. But know that no matter what happens—” His hand moved from her breast, the fingers curling under her chin, tipping her face up and forcing her to look into his eyes. “Buffy, you gotta know, I will always take care of you. We’re in this together. Makes no difference what once was—”

“But you said—“

“Know what I said, Buffy. And I was wrong. I was talking out my arse. Was angry, that’s all and,” he sighed, pulling her closer until her chin rested on his chest, and looked down at her. Their noses were almost touching. “I was wrong. Everything has changed. Don’t you see that? Even if we do get home, won’t be the same. Not with either of us, not between us. Can’t go through something like this and not change. We could spend an eternity trying to suss out the why and what’s of it, but we’d be fools to deny it.”

“You’re no fool.” Buffy whispered.

“No, I’m not,” Spike agreed. “And neither are you. Just hard-headed – hey, hold there,” He gripped her tightly as she tried to pull away from him. “Just speakin’ the truth as I see it. Hard-headed myself, from time to time.”

“Yeah, from time to time,” Buffy huffed, her body moving against his, causing the button fly of his jeans to cut into his erection. He shifted his hips to ease the stress. Her eyes flew to his again. “Sorry.”

A corner of his mouth tilted. “Don’t be sorry, pet. Is what makes the world go round, yeah?”

She smiled shyly up at him. “Well, that’s one way to put it.”

He tilted his head, moving to touch his lips to hers. “I can put it another way, if you’d like.”

At the last minute, she turned her head and his lips met the softness of her cheek. “Spike, still with the talky here, groping can come later.”

He pulled back, giving her his best leer. “Well, glad to hear somethin’s gonna come later.”

Her mouth fell open then, just as quickly, snapped shut. “Pig,” she muttered.

He smiled rakishly, the hand on her ass massaging her pliant flesh. “Can’t see where the two have to be separate, pet. I can multi-task with the best of them.” He ran his right hand down over her hip, to grasp her behind the knee. With a fluid motion he pulled her leg up, wrapping it around his hip. “Now, what do you want to talk about?”

Despite what appeared to be her best intentions, she smiled at him. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Been told that, yeah.” He nodded solemnly, his hand holding her leg against him. “This mean we’re finished talkin’?”

Buffy’s face grew serious. “Were you telling the truth?”

His face followed her lead, the smile replaced by a wrinkled brow. “Gotta be more specific, luv. When? About what?”

Buffy hesitated, biting nervously at her bottom lip. At last she said “About your mother . . . when you were talking to Katie. Where you just saying all those things to get to her? Get the coin?”

The hand holding her leg in place relaxed and she slid it slowly downward. “Yeah.” He could feel her tighten in his arms. “But it was also the truth.”

“Oh,” she relaxed. “She died of consumption?”

“She had the consumption, yes.” At her quizzical look he elaborated. “TB. Tuberculosis. ”

He could tell she recognized that name. “You can die from that?”

“Yeah, back then you could. . . more often than not you did.” At her puzzled look, he continued. “Gotta remember, luv, back then . . . now, there aren’t treatments for many diseases. No medications. Only treatment back then was a visit to a sanitorium.”

“That must have been hard for you and your family.”

“It was just my mother and me, at that point.” Spike took a step back from her, finally releasing his hold on her. If he was going to go down this road, he was going to need some space. It was a thin line to walk between the truth he knew he could never share with her and the half-truth that would satisfy her curiosity. “My father had died a few years back and the girls married and had families of their own.”

“The girls?” She asked, her eyes following him as he went to sit down Indian style on the pile of blankets he called a bed.

“My older sisters.”

Both her eyebrows rose. “You had sisters?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, pet. Was human once…well, before,” He waived his hand in frustration, “Again, whatever. This whole timeline of back then not even having happened yet keeps scramblin’ my brains.”

Buffy dropped to her knees beside him. “I know you were human. I guess I just never, well, thought about you having a family--people you loved and took care of.”

He reached a hand out to caress her cheek. “See, it’s what I said. Things have changed, we’re both bein’ forced to see things in a different light here . . . look past our, well, pasts, our differences.”

She sat back on her haunches, the voluminous folds of her nightgown billowing about her. The gown was still unbuttoned, a deep vee that revealed the soft tops of her breasts to his perusal. His hand moved from her cheek to run slowly down the exposed midline of her body, stopping when his index finger hit the first fastened button.

Her hand stilled his, her eyes serious, earnest. “I get that. I really do. And I agree with you.” When his eyes flashed, the astonishment clearly visible, she continued with a smile. “Don’t look so surprised.”

“So?” he urged.

“So,” she sighed. “I get it. But I also get that right now, more than anything, we need to concentrate on getting that coin back. Until we know for sure that we can or can’t get home, I think we need to . . . go slow.”

The hand under hers moved, worrying at the button on her gown. “I can do slow.”

She laughed then, and the sound was so light, lyrical, and sweet that it wrapped around his newly working heart, making it skip a beat. “Good,” she said, still chuckling. She moved his hand away from her gown, placing it palm down on his thigh, with hers over it. She placed her other hand on his other thigh and leaned in to him. “Now, what’s the plan for getting the coin back?”

Continue