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Author: The Deadly Hook
E-mail: thedeadlyhook(a)hotmail.com
Site: www.stakeme.com
Disclaimer: Not mine. Mutant Enemy, Twentieth Century Fox, etc. No profit being made here, just the love.
Rating: NC-17, action/angst.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Summary: Sequel to "Dirty Back Road" in three parts. Set about one week after the events of the epilogue. Post-Angel Season 5, about a year after the events of "Not Fade Away." Buffy is living in Rome, she crosses paths with Spike, who happened to be there too for his own reasons... and then where do we go from here? Buffy POV. 66,464 words.

Winner in the Love's Last Glimpse and Vampire Kisses awards!

.........

Does It Have to Mean Something?, Part One

----------

Rome, Italy, October, 2004

"So what do you think?" Amid a pile of boxes and shopping bags, Buffy slid into a pointy-toed pink suede pump and lifted her foot, turning the ankle every which way to model the shoe to its best effect. "Aren't they fabulous? And the best part? Totally on sale."

"Yeah, fabulous." Dawn rolled her eyes. The cafe table they were sitting at was nearly swamped by Buffy's recent haul. Dawn drew her feet under her chair and picked at a plate of tomatoes and cheese drizzled in olive oil, studied Buffy from under lowered lashes. "You have no idea how weird this is, do you?"

"How weird what is?" Buffy slipped back into her walking shoes, put the pink suede back in its box. Her own lunch, an extravagant fruit salad, was as yet untouched.

"Seeing you go all shopping spree over Spike."

Buffy guffawed. "That's so not why I've been shopping. I love shopping! It's like a sport. Think of it as me trying for my own personal best." She rummaged through the bags. "I mean, look at this purse. Isn't this the cutest purse ever?" She slid the strap over her shoulder, modeled it for a moment. "It even matches the shoes, only not too much. It's perfect."

"Right. Perfect," Dawn chuckled, knitted her fingers together under her chin. "Buffy, c'mon. You've been buying all these flirty dresses and low-cut tops--"

"They were on sale."

"Plus you've been floating around for days with the dorkiest grin on your face--"

"There's nothing dorky about my face."

Another practiced eye roll. "You guys are totally dating."

A small smile played about Buffy's face as she repacked a bright yellow shopping bag. "We are not dating."

Dawn was unconvinced. "Uh-huh. You've been out every night this week. You get all dolled up. And he drops you off at the apartment at eleven. That's a date, Buffy."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "That's got nothing to do with it. He has stuff to do at night. People to meet." She fussed with another paper shopping bag, arranging layers of colored tissue. "That's why he's here in Rome."

Dawn's eyebrows raised. "What, you mean he didn't come here just to see you?" She took another bite of tomato and cheese.

"Nope." Buffy shrugged, waved a hand. "There was this whole big story. Blah blah Angel, blah blah fight against evil. The usual." Buffy picked up a fork then, began shoveling food into her mouth. "Wow, I didn't realize how hungry I was," she mumbled around a forkful of fruit.

"What's Angel got to do with it?"

"Don't know." Buffy lifted her shoulders in another shrug. "Apparently they're working together on something. I mean, that's a whole reality-warping idea by itself." She continued eating.

Dawn digested this information for a moment. "So that's it? You don't even know what he's doing after your 'not dates'?" She made air quotes.

"I didn't ask," Buffy said stubbornly, mouth full, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown. "Whatever it is, I'm sure he's handling it fine." She paused to swallow, spoke clearly. "I trust him."

Across the table, Dawn continued to watch her sister eat, a little smile playing over her lips. She shook her head, a movement that sent her long hair swinging.

Buffy caught the motion. "What?" she said, looking up from her food.

"You're really in love with him, aren't you."

Buffy thoughtfully chewed and swallowed, a teasing smile on her face. "Why do you ask?"

"Why do you think?" Dawn rolled her eyes. "C'mon, Buffy, admit it. You love him."

Buffy's eyes held a devilish gleam. "Like I love chocolate?" she asked airily.

"You don't buy pink shoes for chocolate."

"I don't buy them for Spike either. He'd look pretty silly in heels."

"Buffy--"

"Oh, c'mon, Dawn. I've had a week to get used to the fact that he's not dead. Can't you cut me a little grace period to figure out exactly what's going on?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever, I'm just--" Dawn blew out an explosive sigh. "Look, I'd just like a little warning, okay? Preferably before I go into the kitchen some morning and get an eyeful of bare skin in towels."

"That only happened once--god, Dawn, give me some credit."

Dawn snorted. "No way. Seeing your buddy Romeo looking all underwear model was bad enough. If I'm gonna have to deal with Spike like that, I want to know ahead of time so I can schedule my therapy appointment."

Buffy laughed. "Alright, alright, fair enough." She pushed her plate aside, dabbed daintily at her lips with a napkin, avoiding her sister's eyes.

Dawn wasn't deterred. "So is that my warning?"

"What?"

A sigh. "Spike. Are you guys a thing now, or what?"

"It's... possible." Buffy smoothed her skirt primly, then fished in her purse, pulled out a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses and put them on. With her wavy blond hair and chiffon scarf to complete the effect, she looked almost like a movie star. La dolce vita.

"Possible," Dawn echoed.

Buffy heaved an exaggerated sigh of the type familiar to sisters everywhere. Honestly, if we weren't related...

"We're not dating, okay?" Buffy sighed. "I mean, after everything we've been through together? The whole mortal enemies thing and the mutual dying? Dating is the last thing I'd call it. That's for... people who don't even know each other yet."

"Uh-huh. And?"

"And I don't know yet, Dawn. We're... taking things slow."

"Uh-huh."

Buffy rolled her eyes, exasperated. "God, why is everyone always so interested in my love life? Geez, I promise you--when I have details to share, you'll so be the first to know."

"I'm so gonna hold you to that."

"Okay, then."

"Okay."

__________

Lunch over, the sisters separated--Dawn heading back to her class and Buffy industriously hauling her shopping bags back to their shared apartment. It was a long walk, but Buffy didn't mind--she didn't enjoy cab rides in Rome all that much anyway, given how relentless some drivers could be, plus her not-completely-confident command of Italian. And at least one perk from her Slayer strength meant that toting heavy loads over long distances was no big deal.

Hard to see how that wasn't a plus.

It was late afternoon by the time she reached home, slanting sunlight reflecting gold off the apartment's tall windows. Over the last week, she'd pretty much decided that this was her favorite time of the day, the hours just before dusk. Waiting for night to fall, delicious anticipation in her stomach. Primping and taking bubble baths and trying on new clothes for her twilight rendevous.

Not dates. Honestly, where did Dawn get these ideas?

There really wasn't a good word for it, the way she and Spike had been lately. They'd been... friendly with each other in a way they'd never been before, certainly not when they were... well, seeing each other. They'd certainly never dated, although she'd described it that way once. I'm the one who dates dead guys. She'd known at the time that it wasn't true--dating was soda shops and movie nights, not fistfights in dark alleys--but as a description, it had sure sounded better than I'm the one who has tragic, doomed love affairs and hot, self-hating sex with vampires.

Sometimes objective facts just had to take a back seat to quality quippery.

No, this... whatever they had now, the vibe that was between them in these last few days, it something new. She'd met up with Spike every night, just like Dawn had said, companionable outings that started at nightfall and ended before midnight, when he'd drop her off at her home and jet off to meet with other people, something he said he had to take care of on his own. That alone was different--he'd never, ever been like that before, wanting to handle things without her help.

But she was sure it was fine. Whatever he was doing. Just like she'd told Dawn. And it was entirely possible that he had explained it to her at some point, not that she would have remembered. Spike had told her the whole story of what had happened to him after the Hellmouth that first night, holding her hands across a cafe table at some candlelit trattoria, and she'd... well, honestly, she'd really only registered about half of it. There'd been stuff about a ghost phase and boxes in the mail... an old nemesis of Angel's and some woman who turned blue, something vague about a werewolf. It had all gone over her head. She'd been too mesmerized by the sight of him at the time, glasses of prosecco on the table between them, candles and miniature lights making the dark little corner where they sat all fairy-lit. As romantic moments go, it had been at least an eight out of ten.

She'd known what she'd felt. That was enough.

It was fresh start for them, being here in Rome, so far away from everything--the old, bad history and her disapproving friends, both of them back from far side of death... it was hard to even think of herself or Spike as being the same people anymore. And if she was honest with herself, she had to admit she was really enoying the whole Peggy Sue Got Married quality of things right now--not that she'd ever seen that movie, but she got the gist of it anyway, going back in time to redo your past. This was a second chance for them, to get to know each other as new people, her without being a Slayer and him with a soul... she was learning to just be herself, with him.

Huh. Okay, maybe Dawn was right. Maybe they were kinda dating. A little.

In the apartment, Buffy kicked off her shoes and piled her loot on her bed, surveyed the damage. Three cute, floaty tops and a lyrca halter. A chainlink belt, a crocheted lace poncho. An absolutely luscious Italian leather skirt. The pink shoes and the almost-matching purse. Plus a couple of scarves, a tooled leather bracelet, and a jeweled hairpin.

Not at all bad for a day's work. Thanks to the New Council and their regular stipends.

She dug in her purse and hauled out her cell phone, one eye on the windows and the fading sun.

It was the type of phone that took pictures. She had a photo of Spike on it, the first she'd ever had of him. She smiled to herself and hit the speed dial, put the phone to her ear.

"Hey, you," she said warmly the instant the phone picked up.

"Hello, Buffy." The rich sound of his voice sent a pleasant tingle through her.

"You sound sleepy. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, I was already awake." He did so sound sleepy. She pictured him in her mind, drowsy and blinking, rubbing a hand through his new shorter hair.

"Sure you were. A person would think you didn't sleep at all these days." She pulled the chiffon scarf from around her neck and tossed it on the bed. "I mean, you're always awake when I call."

He snorted. "I sleep, you know that. Although what with some people calling me at all hours, I can't say it's easy." There was humor in his voice when he said it, but Buffy felt a flush creeping up her neck and ears anyway.

She had called him a lot lately. Several times that first day--for starters, to convince Dawn, who'd honestly thought Buffy had gone off her rocker when she'd stumbled into the apartment after midnight babbling you'll never guess who I saw tonight. No, you'll really never guess. Dawn had simply dropped the phone on the first call, blanched sheet-white at the sound of Spike's voice and retreated into her room. Bringing Dawn up to date had taken hours, multiple phone calls, some of them confused and tearful, and Buffy had collapsed in exhaustion the following morning, worn out from all the excess emotion... only to bolt awake some time later, woozy and panicked, convinced that she'd hallucinated the entire thing. She'd called him a few more times after that, just needing to hear his voice to reassure her, to know it was true.

"I haven't done that in awhile," she pouted, teasing. "It's been at least a couple of days." She shrugged out of her jacket, switched the phone to her other ear and began to unbutton her shirt, one-handed.

It wasn't until their third outing that she'd finally thought to take the photo.

The picture was proof. That he existed, that he was real. She could look at that picture anytime, revel in his enigmatic smile. It was hers to keep, like a talisman.

He came back to me. He came back. She smiled.

"So what's on your mind?" Spike said.

"Oh, nothing much. I bought new shoes," she said conversationally, wiggling out of her shirt and then reaching behind her to undo the clasp on her skirt. "There's this cocktail bar I know that has really tall bar stools. And good Cosmopolitans. But the real reason we should go there is so you can get a good look at my feet. What do you think?"

"Um, right. Listen, Buffy, about tonight--"

"I got a new skirt too. Leather," she said brightly. Stepping out of her skirt, she surveyed herself crtically in the mirror. Her underwear looked a little worn around the edges--not that it was old or anything; nothing she had was much older than a year, but she'd worn this set while she'd been seeing Romeo. She made a mental note to put lingerie shopping next on her menu.

"You do always look right fetching in leather," he agreed pleasantly. Wasn't that an appreciative sound in his voice? New underwear, definitely.

"Well, if you feel that way about it, I might even wear it tonight," she said, her voice dripping with promise. "You can see me in it starting at, oh... dammit, Dawn showed me where to look up sunset times on the Internet, and I had this whole schedule..."

"Buffy--"

"Here it is!" Paper rustled as she consulted her list. "Sun sets at 7:31. Wanna meet at... how about 7:45?

"Don't know if I can do that tonight."

The full-length mirror showed a slender young woman standing in her bra and panties, phone to her ear. The image frowned. "You don't want to see me in leather?" she teased. "Make up your mind, already."

"No, I mean I don't think I can see you tonight."

Buffy paused. Well, that sucks. "Why not?"

"Got someplace to be."

Someplace? "Spike, don't be mysterious."

"Sorry, pet. Safer this way. Shouldn't explain too much more."

She blew out a puff of air in frustration. "Okay, listen. I'm fine with whatever you do at night, okay? But when you start bailing on our dates because of it? I think I have a right to know what it is."

There was silence on the line for a moment. "Hello?" she finally said after a reasonable period of waiting.

"Sorry," he said then. "Just... ah, didn't expect to hear you say that."

Her brows drew together. "Hey, don't get the wrong idea, Mr. Sensitive. I'm not accusing you of wanting to bail, just that... and I think you should know that I trust you by now."

"No, not that, I didn't mean--" He paused again. "You trust me." He said this very softly.

"Uh, duh."

"You hadn't actually said that before. In so many words."

"Yeah, well, I haven't said a lot of things in so many words." She unhooked her bra. "So spill. What's this 'someplace' you have to be tonight?"

"Well, I, um..." A soft sound, like a sigh. "It's one of those meetings I told you about. A bunch of high-level demons are having a pow-wow. I sorta have to be there. So I'm... gonna have to break our 'date.' Sorry about that."

Slipping out of her panties, Buffy paused. Oh. Date. I guess I did say that. She adjusted her strategy. "Well, can't I meet you there?" Naked in front of the mirror, she ran a hand from her breasts to her hip. She hadn't been training like she used to, but she hadn't gotten flabby either. She could hold her own in a room full of demons, no problem.

"'Fraid not. It's gonna take time just setting up a reason for me to be there. Can't quite see how a Slayer could crash the party."

"So what, you're ashamed of me now?" she teased. "And hey, guess what I'm wearing."

"Of course I'm not ashamed of you--where do you get this stuff? Just not that kind of night, is all. It'll be a meeting. Boring. You know, like that poker game." He paused. "What are you wearing?"

"I can so do a poker night," she insisted, and sat down on the bed, ignoring his question. She bounced playfully instead, wondered if he could hear the springs squeak. "Not like we haven't done it before."

"And that was such a success." Okay, she could hear the smile in his voice now. She lay back.

"Hey, I've gotten better at holding my liquor since then."

"I'll bet you have."

"So? Tell me where to meet you."

"Uh, no. Can't do it, pet. Sorry."

Buffy rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, forgetting for a moment that he couldn't see her. "Oh, don't be such a sourpuss. I can blend. I'll do a disguise. Like, something all slinky and with the serious makeup. I can hang off your arm like one of those girls in casinos." She was starting to warm to this idea. She traced the outline of a nipple with one finger.

"Can't risk it."

Frowning, Buffy halted in her motions, fell silent. Spike wasn't budging. Not even slightly. She'd never been in this situation with him before, heard him talk about what he couldn't risk.

It felt strangely backwards.

"Is it really that dangerous?" she asked softly, levering herself up on her elbows. "What you're doing?"

He paused. Long enough to put a twist of worry in her stomach.

"Well, spot of danger now and then keeps things from getting dull, doesn't it?" he offered eventually.

"Right," she said. That twist of worry coiled tighter. "Nothing worse than the dullness."

"So rain check for tonight, alright luv? If there's any way I can get clear of this before sunrise, I'll call you. Still want to see you in that leather."

"I'll be ready," she said. "Just... be careful, alright?"

"Always."

He switched off his phone then, and Buffy did the same. Folded the slim silver device closed and mouthed the message she hadn't spoken when they'd said their goodbyes. I love you.

She hadn't said it to him yet. And neither had he. They hadn't talked about it at all, those last few moments together in the Hellmouth... what she'd said to him, what he'd said to her. It hung between them still, silent, and she knew all too well why.

He hadn't believed her. She understood that, why he wouldn't. In retrospect, she had to admit that her timing had sucked. That the first time she'd told him her feelings, let herself say I love you, was the moment he was dying. Even though she honestly couldn't see how she could have done anything differently at the time didn't change that.

No you don't.

And she would have had to live with that, if it had been their last moment together. Knowing that he'd gone to his death honestly thinking that she was just being kind, even after she'd touched his soul, felt what was in him, saw herself through his eyes. Heartbreaking to think it, but that could have been their ending, their moment, his only chance to hear her say it, that once. It almost was.

Thanks for saying it.

But now she had another chance, and it was going to be different. She would make sure of that. There wouldn't be room for even the slightest doubt in his mind by the time she was done--it was why she didn't want to rush. The next time she said it, he'd know that it was nothing to do with gratitude or pity, but just because she, Buffy, wanted to say I love you to him, Spike. Simply because it was true.

She stood up and stretched sinuously. So, a night in. Might as well make the best of it.

She walked naked across the bedroom and snagged a red silk kimono from a hook on the door. Shrugged it on and made her way to the kitchen to make herself dinner.

Chapter Two

__________

Sprawled out on the couch, a bowl of sliced bananas and yogurt balanced on one knee, Buffy flipped channels on the TV. She settled on one of the three music video channels and turned the sound up, wolfed her fruit to the sound of Eurobeats, and made a mental note of the outfit of one of the dancers in a hip-hop sort of video. Capri pants. Hm. Maybe.

The sound of a key in the front door lock drew her attention away from the TV. She could just see over the back of the couch to the entryway from where she sat. "Hey, Dawn!" she waved.

Dawn paused in the doorway, scanned the room. It was her day for drawing class; she had a large pad of paper and portfolio tucked under her arm. "Is he here?" she said.

"Who here?" Buffy mumbled. Her mouth was full of banana.

Dawn made no attempt to step into the room. "Spike."

Buffy crinkled her forehead, swallowed. "Uh, no," she said, sitting up straighter, oblivious to the way her silk robe draped open, revealing her cleavage and bare skin to the waist. "In fact, I'm probably not even gonna see him tonight. He's busy. It's just you and me."

Dawn sighed as if relieved, and closed the door.

Buffy dug into the yogurt again with her spoon, head down, surveyed her sister through her lowered eyelashes. She continued to eat quietly as Dawn bustled around the apartment, rattled dishes in the kitchen. Music blared cheerfully on the TV.

It wasn't until Dawn finally took up a position on the other end of the couch with her own minimalist dinner of cold pasta noodles that Buffy spoke.

"You're really not looking forward to seeing him again, are you?"

Dawn didn't answer right away. She looked thoughtful, spun noodles with a fork.

"Not really," she said finally.

Buffy pulled in a breath, let it out. "You still hate him, huh."

Dawn smiled, shook her head. "No. I don't hate him. I mean, I only ever really did because of what he did to you, and well... it'd be pretty stupid of me to still keep hating him if you don't."

Buffy smiled back, the all-knowing big sister. "That's not really how it works."

"I know that." Dawn settled back into the couch cushions, stirred her noodles. "I mean, you just... feel what you feel, right?"

"Kinda, yeah."

"So I'm okay with it, Buffy. Really. Or... I will be. I'm adjusting." Dawn's gaze floated over toward the TV screen, and she spoke as if to the energetic dancers. "It's just... kinda weird, you know? Having him back."

"Don't I know it," Buffy said. She settled back into the couch cushions herself, realizing with some surprise that she'd been more worried about Dawn's opinion than she'd realized. "I mean, the way it usually goes with me? Guys just drop by for a quick visit and then get right back to running for the hills."

"Uh, that's not what I meant." Dawn shot her sister a look. "Was kinda thinking more of the 'look he's dead' and 'now he's not' sorta thing."

Caught in the middle of scraping the last of the yogurt from her bowl, Buffy looked up. "Oh."

"Yeah, you'd think I'd be used to people coming back from the dead by now." Dawn teased, and swatted her sister with a pillow.

Buffy laughed, her tension evaporating. Thank god. "So you're really okay with--"

"Yes, I'm okay with you and him."

"Well... good. Because you know that your opinion is really important to me, and--"

"Sure. Super important." Dawn gave Buffy another hit with a pillow. "Just don't not tell me before you've made up your mind this time, okay?"

"Um, okay, huh?" Buffy fended off the pillow swat.

"Well, you are going to bring him by sometime, aren't you? For dinner or couch smoochies or whatever." Dawn flicked a finger at Buffy's open robe.

"Dawn!" Buffy laughed, but colored slightly and tugged her kimono closed, tied the belt a little tighter. "Yeah, I guess so. When he's done with his job or whatever. So far there just hasn't been time."

"See? That's what I mean. Just make sure to not surprise me, okay?"

"I already told you I wouldn't."

"So great. By then, I'm sure I'll be able to deal. After all--" Dawn closed her eyes, recited in a Buffy-imitation voice. "--he-has-a-soul-now."

Buffy swatted Dawn with a pillow this time. "It's not just that," she sighed, exasperated.

"I know, I know." Dawn dodged a pillow hit, tried to protect her bowl of noodles.

"He was changing before."

"I know. And with the whole world-saving, got it." Dawn rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Spike's a good guy now."

"No he's not," Buffy insisted, and she was still smiling, but her eyes were bright, like she really understood something and desperately wanted to explain it. "Or rather... not just that. Good is just part of what he is. I mean, he used to be bad, Dawn. Really bad. Like the kind of bad they came up with the name 'bad guy' for. But then he changed. Into something better." She stopped herself, bit her lip, watched TV for a minute.

"Don't you find that kind of encouraging?" she eventually added, when the video switched to a shampoo commercial.

Eating now, eyes on the TV, Dawn glanced back at Buffy. "Encouraging?" she mumbled around a mouthful.

"Yeah. That you could just... change like that. No matter what kind of life you've led, or mistakes you've made, you can still... make a choice about what you want to be. And then just... be it."

Dawn's head fell back then, and she groaned. "Oh, god, Buffy. This isn't going to turn into one of your big Slayer things, is it?"

"What big Slayer things?" Buffy protested. "Hey, it's not like I brag about it. Like, 'ooh, check out my battle scars. I got this one from fighting vampires.' What are you talking about?"

"You. The way you talk about being the Slayer lately. You get all spiritual." Dawn made a "spirit fingers" gesture. "It's like, now that it's all over you're trying to figure out what it means."

"Well, maybe I am." Buffy protested, after a short pause. She nudged her sister with her foot. "I was a Slayer for more than seven years, Dawn. You don't just wake up one morning and forget about that. Daily world-saving was kind of a big deal."

"Uh-huh," Dawn said. "You always used to complain about it."

"Well, don't get me wrong--I didn't say I wanted to be the Slayer anymore, just that it meant something."

"Right." Dawn rolled her eyes. "The Chosen One no more. Just one of the Chosen Many. I suppose I can see how you might be up for a new self-definition."

Buffy swatted her sister with a couch pillow again. "Ow!" Dawn protested.

"Life is mysterious," Buffy intoned. "It's a surprise a minute. I learned that from my long years of being a Slayer, Little Miss Know-It-All."

"Yeah, yeah. You never know what's gonna happen next. That's almost good enough for the back of a cereal box, Buffy."

Another pillow swat. Thwack. "Well, I think the idea that we have some kind of control over our destinies is kind of inspiring."

"Oh, sure, and now we're back to talking about Spike again, huh? I'm sure that's the only thing about him you find inspiring." Dawn made gagging sounds. "Oooh, Spike, you inspire me to shop for trashy outfits just for youuu!"

Buffy laughed then, and the two of them began pillow fighting in earnest.

__________

About nine o'clock, slow hours of TV watching sliding by, Buffy finally decided she was bored. Dawn had been talking on the phone in rapid-fire Italian to one of her school chums for what seemed like ages, she'd seen every music video at least a few times over, and she felt itchy and restless.

The night air was calling to her.

And hey, one of the plusses of having a cell phone was that she didn't have to be stuck waiting around at home. Even if Spike did decide to eventually call.

"I'm going out," she announced to her sister, who merely waved and nodded, and went back to laughing and chattering in Fellini-movie language on the phone.

Satisfied she'd fulfilled her sister-informing duties, Buffy headed for her bedroom and fretted over outfits. The new leather skirt was definitely out. She wasn't about to wear something that cool on just an off chance that she might get to show it off. His loss. She pulled a worn pair of jeans on instead, low-rise and skin tight, and topped them off with a finishing flourish of a fluffy scarf belt. Tight tank top, pointy black boots, red leather jacket. She was set to go.

She grabbed her house key, waved to Dawn, and took off into the night.

If daytime Rome was wonderful, Buffy thought, then nighttime Rome was a revelation. She loved the city after dark--she'd actually explored far more of it by night than she ever had by day, a lot of it with Romeo. Taking her around to all the fashionable nightspots had been The Immortal's favorite pasttime--she'd probably seen every hot dance club and see-or-be-seen restaurant the city had to offer during their brief affair. But even more than that, she'd gotten him to take her to historical places, show her all the initmate ancient hideaways that only a hundreds-year-old alchemist would know about. He'd been pretty dismissive about most of them, complained about how all the really interesting spots she'd wanted to see were all overrun with tourists. Oh, no, cara mia, the catacombs, they are so tacky. That keyhole panorama was invented by Knights of Malta to impress the ignorant--it's a simple trick by a craftsman; he was bored. So silly. You don't want to go to the museo of pasta, be serious. I know of an amazing new nightclub, all the movie stars go there, let's go.

Romeo really had been something of a spotlight hog. In hindsight, she wasn't sure how she'd ever put up with him.

Buffy set a brisk pace, skipped her way up their quiet residental street to the main road and waited under a streetlamp for the bus. Rode the shivering old coach to the vicinity of the Trevi fountain. The heart of the old city was still her favorite area, always bustling with visitors going to and fro between the fountain and the forum and the Spanish Steps... she felt at home as a local and comfortable among the visitors both. A true citizen of the world.

Ignoring the usual loud traffic and blaring horns, she forged across the roadway. Found a cafe and ordered a double espresso and a pomegranate-flavored Italian soda. Drank them both standing at the bar, one foot on the rail. She always felt so cosmopolitan when she did that. European to the core.

Rejuvenated, she strolled back out onto the plaza for a little people-watching. Amused herself checking out the tourists for awhile, then wandered off on her own.

The back streets of Rome were a whole other realm of fascinating. So many eras of architecture crammed in close. Old, new, crowded, noisy, quiet. Cobblestone and brick and sleek new Maserati sports cars.

And no demons to speak of.

How could she not love this place?

She jumped up on a low wall, tiptoed along it as if it were a balance beam.

In all honesty, she knew exactly why she was so restless. Dawn's questions hadn't helped. Well, you are going to bring him by sometime, aren't you? For dinner or couch smoochies or whatever?

Sure, all but come right out and ask her when she and Spike were going to start having sex. Typical pushy little sister stuff.

They hadn't even kissed yet.

And the reason why wasn't what Dawn was thinking, either. They'd already gotten past that particular hurdle on the final night before the Hellmouth, laid the ghost of that horrible bathroom incident finally to rest. She'd made love to him in that damp basement, on that creaky old camp cot in a house that didn't exist anymore. And by noon the next day, he'd been dead.

It was hard for her to look back on that night and not feel like she'd done everything exactly wrong.

He'd been silent. Not a word had been spoken between them beyond the softest of instructions... and that had felt right at the time but oh-so-wrong now. The sex had been unremarkable too--it hadn't lasted long, and that had definitely been new for them. She hadn't given that a thought at the time either--after all, her mother's basement had hardly been the best atmosphere for it, what with the need to be quiet and the tension of the upcoming battle and the surrounding mildew and laundry smells. But all of that had seemed unimportant--it was like the sex itself was just a prerequisite, a necessary barrier to get past. It was the aftermath that she'd really wanted, to lay peacefully in his arms and sleep there, surrounded by the scent of their sex and combined warmth, feeling strengthened and loved and safe.

Looking back now, it looked exactly like a goodbye.

She'd been too caught up at the time with what it wasn't to even notice what it was.

Buffy leaped down from the wall, then back up again. Traversed the entire length of the wall like that, up and down and back and forth across the stone surface in a burst of giddy energy. To any curious onlooker, she probably would have looked like she was dancing. Gene Kelly in Singin' in the Rain.

So the sex could wait. She could wait. And sure, it was hard sometimes--there were moments when all she could think of was burying her hands in his hair and kissing him breathless... or herself, rather, since he didn't breathe. She wanted that with him again, desperately, that feeling of trust and sharing and gentleness that they'd only ever felt together so rarely. She did want to bring him home, have smoochies on her couch like Dawn said, make love to him in her own bed. Sleep next to him and wake up together.

She'd dreamt of that, sometimes. After he'd been gone. There'd been moments in those first few weeks on the road that she'd wake up in some unfamiliar house or hotel, convinced he'd be there with her, as if in those last three nights she'd spent with him by her side had somehow been accepted by her mind as the norm. Like all she had to do was turn around and he'd be there, sleeping.

But she couldn't have that again until he knew. How much that meant to her. And it certainly wasn't time for that yet. Right now, there was no way that throwing herself in his arms would look like anything but her just being demanding with him the way she'd always been. Service me, William.

She'd buy herself a vibrator before she'd let him entertain any idea that she'd given him a pity sendoff again.

Buffy jumped down from the wall, resumed walking up the quiet road.

No, the all-clear signal would have to come from him this time--the way he'd come back to her had been enough to tell her that. Spike was different now, self-contained and confident and strong in a way he hadn't been since... well, since he'd first stepped into that alley behind the Bronze and threatened to kill her. And honestly? There was more than a little thrill in it for her to see him that way, almost as if they were resuming their dance where they'd originally left it off, so, so long ago... only now instead of death threats it was a dance to see who would give in first, who would be the one to admit to wanting and needing. He wasn't yearning up at her with that hopeful look on his face anymore, all lost and submissive and surrendered to her. Even if Buffy had, honestly, found that kind of sexy too, the whole helpless-in-chains look, she didn't really miss it. It was better that he be like this. Much better that he could stand on his own two feet without her.

It would mean that much more to him when she gave in. Yes, Spike, yes, I love you. I want you. If you want me, then yes.

She understood that much, she thought, about the way his mind worked.

And they had time now. All the time in the world.

The phone in her pocket gave a little trill. She fished it out, smiled at the picture that flashed up at her, caller I.D.

"Hey there," she said softly, putting the phone to her ear.

"Know it's late, pet, but if you still want to meet up...?"

"Late?" She checked her watch. Three a.m.? How did that happen? "Hey, I'm wide awake. Just point me in the right direction."

As usual, he wouldn't tell her where he was. Just named a spot where they could meet. It was kind of far out, unfortunately--she consulted her pocket map, estimated at least an hour for her to get there by bus. Not a lot of time before sunrise by then, she thought to herself, and then wondered if this might be the night when he'd finally give in and let her see where he stayed during the daylight hours.

"I'll be there," she told him, and hung up the phone.

Chapter Three

__________

It actually took more than an hour in real time for Buffy to reach the appointed meeting spot. She got off the bus at the wrong stop and had to circle around on foot. Which wasn't exactly a cakewalk, either--the place he'd picked was on the far side of the Villa Borghese, acres and acres of open green space surrounded by a good old-fashioned high fence.

In the old days, she would have jumped the fence and done a sprint across the grounds, although that would have been on account of pursuing killer demons. Nowadays, she figured, better to stick to the streets.

After nearly forty-five minutes of walking and almost-jogging--for which she really hadn't worn the right shoes--she finally reached the right corner. It was a residential neighborhood; venerable old houses covered in ivy, drooping, bushy old trees and a roadway lined with expensive cars hidden under carefully draped tarps. She didn't spot Spike immediately, but finally caught sight of him waiting for her near a high garden wall, just out of the circle of light cast by a streetlamp.

"Hey you," she said, walking up to him briskly, straight across the middle of the empty street. The houses all around them were dark, residents sleeping. The main roadway was far enough that even the ceaseless Roman traffic couldn't reach them. Other than the soft noise of the wind, there was no sound.

Spike smiled at her approach, took his hands out of his pockets. Instinctively, she reached out for them, clasped his hands tight, threaded her fingers through his.

This was how they always met now. Hand in hand. It never failed to send a throb all the way through her, to touch him like that, in the way even a more intimate gesture wouldn't. No hug or kiss could possibly have the same meaning to her as having her hands in his.

It was a reminder of their last connection, their last moment together, and more. Hearts bathed in fire.

"Hey yourself." He smiled at her, eyes shaded. Faded blue jeans today, she noticed, and a chocolate suede car coat, his pale face somehow even more stark and dramatic against the new shorter hair. She was still getting used to the look--she'd never admit it, but she missed his outdated old style sometimes, even the crappy old battered leather duster--but for the most part, she liked it. He almost looked... younger, somehow, and more normal. Without the bright blond hair and the all-black clothes, he barely stood out in a crowd.

At first glance, you'd never guess there was anything special about him.

"Sorry I'm so late," she apologized. "It took forever on the bus, and I got off at the wrong place. Were you waiting long?" Of course, it was nearly two hours since he'd called, so of course he had. She flashed him a guilty smile.

"No worries," he said smoothly. "I figured, you were the one willing to come all the way out here. It's hardly a hardship on me, waiting around for a pretty girl." He flashed her a genuine smile, one of the type she'd been seeing a lot of lately--curled lips quirking up, fond amusement in his eyes.

She loved that look.

"Flattery'll get you everywhere," she replied, and let one of his hands fall so they could walk side by side. This was so natural, so comfortable. She wished they could have done something like this before. It almost felt like they had.

Only in Willow's spell, Buffy thought to herself, a private little smile touching her face. The why don't you just get married spell. That'd been back in the days when they'd wanted nothing more than to kill each other, and yet just a little magical push from Willow and they were necking like teenagers. Oh, and he'd proposed to her on bended knee. Boy, that had been a picture.

"Oh, and I know the perfect song for our first dance!" she'd said, twirling a lock of his hair around her finger as she balanced on his knee.

"What's that then, pet? 'Why Don't We Do It In the Road?'" He bounced her lightly, slipped a hand between her thighs.

"No," she giggled, and made a fake show of wriggling away from his hand with extremely pleasant results. "'Wind Beneath My Wings'."

"What, that soppy song about how you 'know I'm your hero'? I'm not going to dance to that pitiful noise. Consider yourself lucky I agreed to wear a monkey suit." He'd given her a scorching look, and pressed a fingertip into the point of her breast. She'd bit a lip to stifle a moan.

It was amazing, sometimes, the sorts of things your mind could dredge up.

They strolled along the dark street, from one pool of lamplight to the next.

"So how was your big demon meeting?" Buffy turned toward him, put on her best mildly interested face. "Anything you can tell, or is it all still with the hush-hush?"

"Can't tell you much of details. Can tell you it was right about as boring as you'd expect, hearing about the glory days from a bunch of demons whose last idea of a good time was the Inquisition." Spike sighed, let his head fall back in faux exhaustion. "Nothing more tedious than washed-up old evildoers, let me tell you. 'Oh, I started that witch hunt. Hundreds burned because of me. That revolution? Oh, yeah, that was me too.' Blah blah blah." He made a "talking" gesture with his free hand.

"Wow. Friday night at the demon rest home, huh. You poor, poor thing." She patted his hand. "I gotta say, though--this counts as fighting the good fight exactly how?"

"Bit hard to explain," he answered, and left it at that.

There wasn't much she could add to this, so she didn't. He'll tell me when he's ready. She just continued to hold his hand and they kept strolling, enjoying companionable silence.

After a few silent minutes, Buffy squinted at the sky. Even with the lights of the city confusing the issue, she could see that it had lightened to an ominous dark blue. "That would be the sunrise coming, huh?"

"Yeah, in about half an hour, maybe. Started to feel it in my bones a few minutes back."

"That doesn't give us much time at all."

"'Fraid not." He gave her hand a little squeeze. "Thanks anyway, though, for coming out. Needed to talk to you anyway."

"Well, maybe you can take me back to your mysterious lair and we can talk there."

Spike sighed. She'd made this a joking question, but in truth, she was getting really curious. He'd been very resistant about letting her know where he stayed. Always citing some kind of security issue.

"Can't do that, pet." Unsurprisingly, another amused smile. "Taking enough of a risk just seeing you."

"What kind of a risk? Being seen with a Slayer?" She brought her other hand up to encircle his arm. "Ooh, poor Spikey. Gonna ruin your Big Bad reputation," she teased.

He snorted, a near laugh. "Not hardly. Most of the demon underworld's already heard about you and me."

He said this so casually she almost didn't register it at first. When it did, shock brought her up short, stopped her dead in her tracks. Spike kept walking for another step or two, oblivious, until the link of their joined hands stretched taut, halted him as well. Standing still, he looked back over his shoulder at her, brows drawn in puzzlement.

That couldn't be what I thought he just said. "They what?" she coughed politely.

Oh, now he looked like he was getting it. His brows drew in more, lines etching across his forehead. "Well, I didn't tell them, so don't look at me," he said.

Oh. My. God.

"Demons know. About us," she repeated, still fighting the shock.

"Well, stories do tend to get out, Buffy," he said, sounding defensive. "Demons are chatty little buggers. They've got nothing better to do than kill things or trade tales. You won't find a bigger pack of gossips outside of a quilting bee. And stories about Slayers..." He winced, glanced away, face contorting.

"I might have told Clem," he muttered then, low. His foot scuffed the ground; he looked embarrassed, head down. She stared at him, at the motion, still in shock.

"Could be that's how the whole thing got started, don't know," he continued. "Maybe it's my fault. If so, then I'm sorry. Didn't mean to... well, I did tell him not to say anything, for what that's worth. Either way, it's a pretty well-known story by now." He lifted his head and swung around to face her. Guilt on his face. Possibly a little irritation there too. Buffy stood there, frozen, her hand still in his.

Not so long ago, this information would have horrified and infuriated her.

She took a deep breath, let it out.

"So what you're saying then--" she said slowly, drawing out the tension. "--is that your reputation is already ruined." She quirked her mouth into a very deliberate smile, and arched her eyebrow, felt pleasure blossom all the way through her as he caught on, slow grin forming on his face.

"Wouldn't say that," he said, and they began walking again, an easy motion once more, linked hands swinging. "Compliment, more like. Although I do defend your honor, just so you know," he added hurriedly. "Don't let them talk trash about you. Not in my earshot."

"Well that's... good to know," she agreed, although that part of it hadn't actually occurred to her as such. She supposed demons would trade filthy stories about her, come to think of it. She was the enemy, after all. Buffy? Oh, she's that Slayer who lets the vampires stake her. Got that fatal attraction. Digs on the undead. Likes her men cold. Boy, I'd like to get my tentacles into her. She shuddered, put the thought out of her mind.

"So point is, no big deal if someone sees us together." Spike was still talking. She refocused. "Not gonna make anyone suspicious or anything. But you coming back to my place? That's out. Too dangerous."

"Dangerous? Slayer here, Spike, remember?" Okay, back on the original topic now. His place. She could be patient about this. Really she could. Although, she was starting to get a little pissed off with his whole elusive, sorry-can't-explain act. Frankly, it was about past time for him to spill. Way past.

"And you being the Slayer's enough to keep most demons from bothering you," he agreed. "Wouldn't hold for a minute if they thought you were involved, though. Not to mention how Ang--" Spike stopped, bit his lip. "Not gonna have the wrong sort tracking you home," he said then, trying a new tack. "You don't want to mess with this lot, Buffy, believe me. And I'm not gonna put you and Dawn in danger, that's final."

"Isn't that something for me to worry about?"

"Not this time, love, sorry." He looked down at the ground. "I'll only be in Rome for a couple more days anyway, and you'll be safe after that."

He continued walking as he said this, as if it were nothing at all.

Buffy felt like something had suddenly hit her in the chest. Her feet kept moving forward only on sheer momentum.

"A couple more days... you're leaving?" Her own voice sounded like it was coming from someone else.

Surreally, he just nodded, eyes forward. "Demons I was sent here to tail, they'll be moving on soon. Found that out tonight. Wanted to let you know, before you called me some night, caught me on the road."

"Oh," she heard herself say faintly. "But then you'll be coming back. Right?"

"Sure. Sometime, anyway, odds are good," he said. "After all, most of the big demon dynasties are here in Europe. The ones who fancy themselves poncy royals, anyway. I mean the old timers, the real primal ones, they're all in Africa, but the clans, the ones that like to play dressup with the castles and the mumbo-jumbo? They love hobnobbing in Rome. Anyplace with the big religion. Jerusalem, Mecca, Constantinople. Fancy that sacrilege, you know? It's all a pose." There was nothing in his voice that indicated this was anything but a casual conversation topic. They might have been discussing the weather. Dinner and a movie.

Her feet were going numb in her shoes. She felt like she was tottering along balanced on blocks of ice. She forced herself to stop walking, tugged on his hand to make him stop too. They stood there, in a little pool of streetlight, looking at each other.

"You're leaving," she said again. It was still sinking in.

He tilted his head in that way he did, as if reading her. Seeing the motion sent a lance of nostalgia through her, a sensory memory that seemed to put her in a thousand places at once. I've been here before.

"No need to look at me like that, pet, it's not the end of the world," he told her softly, and he brought his free hand up to brush her cheek. "You've got my number. You can call me, anytime you want to talk."

Anytime you want to talk. "I can call you," she echoed, and oh, this conversation really was taking on the feel of a dream. A recurring nightmare, even, the kind you wake up from shivering in sweat-soaked sheets, and spend hours convincing yourself wasn't real.

Because the realization was hitting her, hard and horrible, that somehow, despite all her best intentions and careful overtures...

She had still somehow gotten this all wrong.

He hadn't believed her. In the Hellmouth. He hadn't believed her. No you don't. And he still didn't. He thought... oh god, he thought she was still just being kind, just humoring him, like he was just a good friend or something.

You'll never be friends. You'll fight and you'll shag and you'll--

She'd thought they'd been moving forward. Taking slow cautious steps, and... creating something new built something on respect and trust. Learning to just be with each other when there was nothing hanging over them, no judgments or pressure or looming threats.

They'd moved backwards instead. They weren't even standing still.

Buffy let out a long, slow breath and took hold of his other hand. Stood in front of him, face to face.

"Spike, I... I did this all wrong," she said then, speaking carefully, deliberately, trying hard to keep the devastation out of her voice. "I was just... so glad to see you, and I thought that--that I shouldn't rush you, rush into anything, so you'd know that... That I was just... here for you, like you were for me. When I came back."

She lifted her head then, and looked up at him with brimming eyes.

This wasn't what she'd wanted, not at all. She'd wanted to take her time, build a cushion of moments, of good times and good feelings to balance out the bad, not... coughing up some last-minute confession during a crisis or a desperate plea to keep him from leaving...

Can't always get what you want.

She composed her face, put everything she felt into one determined expression, searched for his eyes in the dim predawn light and spoke.

"Spike. I love you."

There was a brief pause.

"Love you too," he breathed.

His expression didn't even change.

And then the silence spun out, and his eyes were still on hers, still patient and open, and Buffy's own eyes widened with every passing beat of her heart as she waited, waited for him to say something else. Of course I love you too, pet, you know that. Bugger that job, whatever it is, of course I'll stay. I'm yours. I always will be. As long as you want me, I'll never go. There's nothing that could make me ever want to leave your side.

"You aren't staying, are you," she whispered. "You're still going to go."

"I am," he said, and it was like a stab straight into her heart. "Sorry, pet."

And with his words came the shock, tingling and icy, boiling up in her like acid, adrenaline hot. Her heart thudded hard in her chest, leaping like it wanted to escape.

"Sorry," she repeated.

"Got a job now. Been telling you about it. Kind of important, you know?"

This was a nightmare. A nightmare that kept happening. Over and over again. Her feet were in icy water in some dank tunnel, there was a sweaty workout smell in her nose from the training room mats, and she was running, running to catch up, and watching Angel walk away from her through smoke and fire...

This wasn't happening.

"Important," she repeated. "You have an important job."

Spike frowned a little. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Like I been telling you. You feeling okay?"

"No," she said. "I'm so not." She actually did feel woozy.

His brows drew in tighter. "Wait... Buffy, did you think I was staying?"

"I..." She couldn't finish.

"Buffy. Love," he said patiently. "You're out of it now. Got yourself the normal life you've always wanted. No one's going to say you haven't earned that. Look happier than I've ever seen you, all bright and glowing..." He smiled, ruefully. "But that's your world, pet, not mine."

"My... world." The words were rising up in her throat, choking her.

"I mean, you're not the Slayer anymore. And you know, still a vampire here. You don't want all that dragged back into your brand-new life, do you, vampires and drinking blood and demons beating down your door?" He shook his head, squeezed her hands. "There isn't... a happily ever after for us, Buffy. You're done now. I'm not."

Buffy's mouth hung open then for a scant second. She closed it with a snap, and took a step back, let go of Spike's hands.

"And you decided all this exactly when?" she said through closed teeth. "Just now?"

"No, been thinking about it for awhile, actually." Lines appeared across his forehead; he looked a little puzzled. "Tried to tell you what was going on with me that first night, in fact, although I kinda got the impression you could've cared less."

Because I was happy. I was just so happy to see you, dammit! Buffy took a few rapid breaths to calm down.

"I had just found out you were back from the dead, Spike, give me a break." She rapped out the words, precise and cold. "I was just glad you were alive. I'd have studied harder if I knew there was going to be a pop quiz."

He frowned. "Well, I guess 'glad' isn't the same as 'interested' then."

She balled her hands into fists.

"Fine. Hey, then, let's review. You died. And then you came back. Which you didn't feel like telling me about, but whatever. Then you came here, where I see you, I welcome you, I tell you I love you... and then somehow you can tell just by looking at me that you know everything about how I feel, and that all of a sudden that's not good enough--"

"Buffy--"

"Shut up! You've had a year to prepare for this, Spike. You're... coming at me with all these assumptions while I've just had a week to... You don't get to just come in here and throw ultimatums at me! And while we're at it, why is the default setting in this picture always that Buffy screwed up?"

His brow drew in harder, he scowled. "Look, this isn't about you, love, it's about me."

"Right, it's about you not wanting me. Well, thanks for the heads-up all this week." Coldness was flooding through her, freezing her limbs. "Do I just... not push your buttons anymore because I stopped being the Slayer? Way to have a fetish, Spike."

His mouth dropped open. "Don't think you're one to talk, pet. Headed straight for the supernatural first chance you got, judging by the way you were shaking your ass on the dance floor with The Immortal."

"How did you know about th--" she sputtered. "You saw me with Romeo?"

"Oh, is that his real name? Bloody perfect. Saw you a few months ago, came to your place to see you with An--" Spike cut himself off, blew out a frustrated stream of air through his nose. "And you were too busy with your centuries-old morally ambiguous boy toy to even be arsed. Don't think you get talk to me about kink."

Okay, now she was really starting to get mad.

"Well, excuse me for going out with other people when I thought you were dead."

"Hey, go out with whoever you like, Buffy, it's your call. Probably plenty of guys lining up to be Ken to your Malibu Barbie now that you've moved on from saving the world to shopping for shoes."

What did he just say?

Buffy's voice reached lethal levels of icy calm. "I was a Slayer for seven years, Spike. I died to save the world. Twice. Don't you think I've--"

"Earned a rest? 'Course you have. Only just because you're not fighting the good fight anymore doesn't mean it doesn't still need doing."

"And that's what you're doing now? Fighting the good fight? With your--your business meetings with demons?"

"That's right." Pride in his face. "Got responsibilities now. Never thought I'd hear myself say that, but there it is. And it feels good, you know? Like I'm really doing something important."

"Yeah, right," Buffy snorted. "You're a regular champion of the people."

The words hadn't finished leaving her mouth before she regretted them. Felt the pain that slammed across his face like her own.

She rushed to take them back. "I-I didn't mean it like th--"

"No. You're right," he cut her off with a cold glare. "I'm not a hero. Don't need you to tell me that--already got that memo from Lord High Hair Gel. Only saved the world that one time, right? Don't have much in common with the likes of you and Angel and other selfless helpers of the helpless. But I can still do my part, and that's what I'm doing. Meanwhile, you've quit."

She stared at him.

"Don't you dare lecture me, William the Bloody. What, you think you're... better than me, just because you're still out there killing demons and I'm not?"

"This isn't the time for this conversation," Spike ground out.

"No, this is exactly the time for this conversation!" Buffy shouted.

...and then the sun broke over the horizon.

Chapter Four

__________

Abruptly, the air was glowing. The early-morning mist caught the first rays of light, made each shimmering bead of suspended moisture gleam. Then bright Italian sunlight washed over the empty street like a flood of golden water.

Buffy gaped, paralyzed, her last angry words still vibrating on her lips. They'd been so busy arguing that she'd totally forgotten the time. She stared in horror, her mind going into slow-motion mode as one improbably thick sunbeam pierced straight through all the ground cover of shrubs and trees and closely packed houses to hit Spike directly in the face.

... and just for an instant, he was vividly illuminated, all intense and golden, almost exactly as he'd been in the Hellmouth.

No you don't.

Then he was throwing himself backward, diving away from the light with a wounded howl, smoke rising in sharp curls from his hair and hands and face. He stumbled over the curb and onto the sidewalk, back coming up hard against a garden wall and stopped there, unable to move further, trapped. There was no shade in immediate area, no trees. No shelter of any kind.

The surge of deja vu that washed over Buffy at the sight was almost crippling.

No you DON'T!

She shot forward on a surge of adrenaline, both hands outstretched. Grabbed him by his jacket lapels and took them both up and over the high stone wall in a single rolling motion.

__________

They landed with a hard thump in the greenery on the other side, the thick old wall momentarily providing blissful covering shade.

Buffy stared down at Spike, panting. Smoke had stopped rising, but she could smell it on him, on his clothes. He was facedown beneath her; she was lying across his back. She registered all this in a single eyeblink before his body bucked sharply, jarring her hard, nearly throwing her off.

"Let me up," he barked. "Let me up!" She could see his burnt hands scrabbling in the undergrowth, trying to find purchase. His back flexed and heaved.

Wordless, Buffy shifted her weight back onto her heels and lifted herself off.

He sat up sharply, crouching on his heels, and shot her a brief, unreadable look. "Bramble bush," he explained, wiping a hand across his forehead. The motion smeared blood across his face in a sticky trail.

Buffy bit her lip. She could see the punctures now, stab wounds dotted across his face from curved and vicious barbed thorns. His hands were similarly marked and bleeding, the skin red and angry from the sun.

She glanced down. They were kneeling in a thick tangle of thornbushes, possibly planted as an extra security to prevent people from doing exactly what they'd done, climbing over the wall. And now that she'd actually noticed them, she could feel the thorns too, digging into her knees and stabbing through her jeans. She rocked back farther on her heels and felt new sharp pressures against her butt instead. Pain pushed her upright, almost standing. Warm sunlight immediately touched the top of her head.

This can't be happening, her mind insisted. Not... not now.

She put a hand against the wall to steady herself, glanced down.

Spike was just below her, seemingly unconcerned, on his knees in the thick mat of thornbushes. He was searching through his pockets for something.

The sunlight streaming over the wall was barely a foot from the top of his head.

Buffy took a deep breath. Her warring emotions from the last few minutes were hurriedly shoved aside, tucked away for safekeeping somewhere far inside her. This was an old ritual, one she'd performed time and time again as needed in a crisis. Her own feelings, no matter how intense, would have to wait. Save his life now, she told herself grimly. Yell at him for being an asshole later.

"We have to get you inside," she said, voice even, and glanced around, absorbing information. They were in someone's back garden, a large space taken up mostly by low plants and flowers. The trees were all small and bare of leaves, thanks to the autumn season--no help there. The shadow cast by the wall they were crouching behind was narrow, just wide enough for the two of them to kneel in. And the angle of the rising sun told her that it wouldn't last long.

"Working on it," he said shortly. He was still digging through his coat pockets. Trickles of blood ran down his forehead.

"Working on it?"

Spike didn't answer, fumbled at something in his hand instead, a small white object that immediately slipped through his blood-greased fingers and went bouncing into the sunlit undergrowth, outside the shadowed area. "Bugger!" he shouted.

He shot Buffy a pleading look. Without hesitation, she reached into the thorny brambles for it, felt around. "What am I looking for?" she asked. Thorns picked at her skin, tugged at the sleeve of her coat.

"Plastic, about this big." He held two fingers apart, then yanked his hand back as his fingertips began to smoke, grazed by the slanting light. Buffy swallowed hard and leaned over farther, out into the sunlight, got down on her hands and knees. The shrubbery was wet with morning dew. Thorns stabbed through her jeans, cut the skin of her hands. She reached and reached, pushed her face nearly into the thorns, her jeans-clad butt in the air. Minutes of frantic searching passed. Spike was pressed nearly flat against the wall, his cheek turned into the cold stone.

A sight of relief escaped Buffy as her fingers finally encountered the slick plastic. She curled her hand around it firmly, and gingerly withdrew her arm from the thornbush, hissing as the barbs drew deep scratches across the back of her hand.

"Got it!" She held the thing up triumphantly. It was a white cylinder about four inches long, like a penlight someone might keep on a keyring.

Spike reached out, wrapped one of his own bloody hands around hers. Smoke rose immediately and Buffy could feel the heat seeping through her fingers, horribly, frighteningly reminiscent of their last shared moment back in Sunnydale... only this time she was afraid, afraid like she hadn't been then. She felt utterly helpless, terrified that he would burn to death right in front of her, and there was no way she could see for him to get out.

She couldn't take her eyes off his.

The object in their hands glowed, neon-bright, sending its own lurid streaks of green light shooting up from between their joined fingers. Spike brought a thumb up to cover the top of the cylinder, pushed it down.

And then suddenly they were somewhere else.

__________

Blackness.

Total emptiness. Nothing.

Buffy blinked rapidly, struggled to adjust. The sunlit garden was just... gone. She was still in the same position she'd been in, kneeling down, her hand still locked within Spike's, but she couldn't see the floor beneath her or anything else. It was... blackness like a negative space, a black hole, absorbing all light, without form.

She swiveled her head, back and forth, clinging to Spike's hand like an anchor line. Nothingness on all sides. There was light coming from somewhere, though--she and Spike themselves were brightly lit, as if a battery of hidden spotlights were aimed directly at them. Spike's face seemed to fill her vision--set against the empty dark, every tiny detail on his skin stood out, every flaw and infinitesimal crease and stray hair. The sluggish trickles of blood on his cheeks stood out like chips of ice.

It made her think of photographs of jewelry in magazines, sparkling bright gems laid against black velvet. Stars in a weightless void.

"Where...?" Buffy sputtered. Her eyes were drawn helplessly back to their still-joined hands. The red marks on his pale fingers stood out starkly, and she could see the scorch marks, thin streaks of blood.

Spike opened his hand, let her go. "Well," he said, his voice low, intimate. "You did say you wanted to see my place."

__________

"Your place?"

He got to his feet then, brushed his bloody hands on his coat and just stood there, vivid and bright against the empty darkness as if illuminated from within.

Buffy stood herself, levering up on trembling legs, and turned in a half circle. Her original impression of nothingness was still holding. There were no landmarks anywhere. "Your place?" she said again in a trembling voice. "Spike, there's nothing here."

"Pocket dimension," he said then, nonsensically, and gestured to the plastic widget in her hand. She looked at it dumbly. "Only one entrance or exit. Got it rigged for me by a friendly mystic."

"This?" she looked at the white cylinder. Her original impression had been a cheap penlight, and on closer examination she saw that she'd been more or less right. It even had the little hook on the top to hold it in place in a shirt pocket. "This... takes you to another dimension?"

"That's right." He flung his arms wide. "King of my own little kingdom, what there is of it, anyway, which is pretty much nothing."

Buffy gaped. "You... live here?" She couldn't picture it. All those times she'd called him, he'd been... here?

"No," he said softly, letting his arms fall to his sides again. "Nothing lives here, Buffy. It's empty. Dead. I just... visit from time to time. When there's the need."

She let this sink in. "For emergencies. Like being trapped by the sun."

"Right. Sort of an escape hatch. Spend most of my time out in the real world, but if I need a rest or a break, I can go down the rabbit hole."

"You... sleep here."

He nodded, watching her carefully. "It's a safe place. No one can find me here. Time's different. I step out, I step back, and no one even knows I was gone. Untraceable."

Always awake when I call. That explained it.

But Buffy's mind refused to accept the picture. She just couldn't see him here, sleeping alone in the dark, surrounded by nothingness.

That... so wasn't like him.

Spike always had... things. Wherever he was--even when he'd first arrived in Sunnydale, he'd set up a lavish little nest in that old factory, with furniture and decorations and minions and a car. He seemed like he belonged. He made himself at home.

He liked the world. That's what he'd said, years and years ago, and you could see it just by looking at the way he lived. His crypt had been decorated for gossakes, all soft pillows and electrical appliances and expensive carpets. He'd even had a bar. Aside from being in a cemetery and not aboveground, it could've competed with any ol' bachelor's crash pad. Favorably, in some respects--it certainly beat the hell out of Xander's old basement.

He was still watching her carefully. "Told you things were a bit dangerous," he said.

"Guess you weren't kidding," Buffy replied, then looked around like there was anything there to look at. Dangerous enough that you have to live like this?

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, forced her mind back to business. "So we just... wait here for the sun to go down, is that it?"

He turned away from her slowly, spoke over his shoulder. "No, actually. That... won't work. It's... I've been here lots of times, Buffy, hours on end. But I've always come back the same instant I left. Time doesn't exist here--this isn't even a real place. Just empty space that has the potential be one, if that makes sense. Things could happen here someday, but they haven't yet. Or did already, but everything's gone now. Over." He fell silent.

"What do you mean there's no--you do know you're not making any sense," she insisted, suddenly feeling the need to get back to some form of communication between them she understood. Even arguing was better than this--this... weird blankness. "This is a place. I mean it's a--" She searched for the right words. "--totally minimalist and boring place, but it's--it's real. I mean, what is this we're standing on?"

"Had Mr. Magic put some solid ground in. Didn't much love the idea of floating around in here like Major Tom. Too Altered States. Otherwise, just one undead tenant." He tapped his chest.

Her eyes widened. "What about air?"

His expression copied hers, a look of sheer horror. "Oh, shit. I don't... can you breathe?"

She sucked in a breath experimentally, let it out. "Yeah, I'm--" She breathed a few more times, waiting for her pounding heart to calm. "I think it's okay."

Spike looked honestly relieved. He scrubbed his hands across his face, unwittingly smearing the streaks of blood even worse. "Didn't even think of that... I'm... I'm so sorry, love. Could've just gotten you killed."

"I'm glad you took the chance," she told him, and made sure the relief she felt came through in her voice. "Not like I ever wanted to see you burn."

An odd expression crossed his face as she said this, and he turned slightly away from her again, hands on his hips.

"Question is," he said then slowly, "What do we do now?"

Buffy thought. "Can you... come back to a different place?" The sunny garden had been a deathtrap, obviously, but if they could move, reappear somewhere in the shade...

"Gadget just puts you right back where you left."

"Okay, then I go out, find you something to cover up with, and then we go."

Spike nodded, his expression unreadable. "Sounds like the only way."

"Right. Then I'm on it," Buffy said. A plan made her feel better. A rescue mission. That was something she could do. She tossed her hair over her shoulders, lifted her chin. "So how do I work this?" she said, studying the gadget. "Just push on the--"

"One thing, pet," Spike interrupted her. His voice was strangely hoarse. "I've, ah, never tried this, comparing times inside and out. Could be that... a few minutes in the real world might be a long time in here. A very long time."

There was a moment of silence.

Buffy stepped forward, device clutched tight in her hand. Walked up to Spike, her footsteps making no sound. She didn't bother to wonder at the physics of it. Magic.

She extended a trembling finger to his cheek, wiped away one of the remaining trickles of blood that had left a trail running down his face like a ruby tear.

"I'll be quick," she whispered. "I promise."

And then she pushed the button, and was gone.

Chapter Five

__________

There was no feeling of transition at all. One second, she was there with Spike in that empty space and the next, back in the sunny garden, standing in the thorns.

Her muscles tensed, like a sprinter in the footblocks, and she checked her watch, mentally logging the time. Then she burst into action, took off at a dead run.

If Spike was right, then time was a major factor. There wasn't a single moment to waste.

The house loomed at the edge of her vision, a dark shape in the early morning light. Buffy gave it a minute's grace, checked the garden first. But she'd break into that house if she had to--grab a bedspread right off the sleeping residents.

She skirted the length of the stone wall, feet pounding the ground, hands pushing through the bushes impatiently. When she spotted a little shed in the far corner, nearly hidden behind a stand of bare trees, she let out a worldless cry of relief.

Sprinting over to the shed, Buffy broke the padlock on its door with a single twist of her hand and burst inside, a long way from caring about clattering noise.

Her eyes scanned the interior. Rakes and spades and lawn equipment and... a folded canvas tarp. Perfect. She snatched up the fabric, checked it for rips or tears, then balled it under her arm and glanced again at her watch.

Three minutes.

Urgency whipping through her, Buffy lifted the glowing dimensional gadget and poised her thumb over the button--

--and hesitated, despite the adrenaline panic. Something, some instinct, was staying her hand.

The gadget puts you back where you left, she remembered, near feverish with the speed of her thoughts. That's what Spike had said. The gadget puts you back where you left.

She wasn't in the same place he'd left from.

What if the device couldn't handle that equation, bringing them back?

She pictured it. They might be split up. She and the tarp could be put down back here, in the shade of the shed, while leaving Spike right smack in the middle of that sunlit garden with nothing.

If that happened, she'd never reach him in time.

Running toward him, the flames, his scream of pain. She could imagine every moment of it. Crumbling to ashes right in front of her.

No.

She couldn't take that risk.

She might not understand dimensional dynamics or magic, but rules were always rules. And without knowing these rules...?

It wasn't worth taking the chance. She yanked open the door.

...and was promptly leapt upon by a snarling dog.

__________

Buffy cried out in surprise. Curled her entire torso protectively around the bundle she carried as the dog went for her arms, snapping teeth grabbing at the sleeves of her jacket. With a wordless howl, she performed a whiplash-fast pirouette, snapping her foot into the dog's ribs. It fell back, yelping and growling, and the two held their positions for a moment, wary and panting.

Guard dog, Buffy realized, tensing on the balls of her feet. It must have been only a few minutes in real time since they'd first come over the wall. She had just enough time to wonder if they'd tripped some kind of alarm as well before the dog leapt again.

This time, though, Buffy was ready. She snap-kicked it in the belly, hard, then delivered a solid roundhouse to the head that dropped the animal like a stone. She didn't even hear the anguished scream tearing out of her own throat as she kicked the unconscious dog again, the body nearly lifting in the air with the force of her move. Stay down, damn you, stay down, this is taking too long. THIS IS TAKING TOO LONG.

Panting, checked her watch again. Five minutes. With a last frantic glance at the unconscious animal and another toward the house--oh god, lights on, there's an alarm, they're awake--Buffy sprinted back toward the stone wall. She threw herself onto her hands and knees and crawled, frantic, searching for any sign to exactly the right spot--blood, broken branches, anything.

She found it, finally--a tangle of thorns matted down by their combined weight. Bloody tips on the thorns. Shreds of torn fabric. Six minutes. Buffy fumbled with the plastic device, pushed the button.

And once again, she was somewhere else.

__________

Silence. Dark.

No sign of Spike.

Buffy could've sworn she literally felt her heart stop.

Eyes nearly starting from their sockets, she turned in a circle, fear paralyzing her. The place was just like it had been the first time--darkness everywhere. No light except for whatever mysterious light seemed to be coming from her.

Except Spike wasn't there.

He had to be there.

She dropped to her knees, collapsed. Let the tarp fall from her hands, tumbling carelessly, and felt around on the floor on her hands and knees, heart pounding hard. Dust, she half-expected to feel dust, some trace of whatever was left of him--

He can't be dead he can't be dead I was fast I said I'd be fast and I was--

Could be that... a few minutes in the real world might be a long time in here. A very long time.

Tears ran down her face in burning trails.

"No!" she screamed, a raw, primal sound tearing out of her throat. There was no feeling, even in the action of touching the ground. Not even texture or pressure. No dust. No nothing.

"You can't be dead! Spike!" she called out, hopeless, desperate. The still air refused to carry her voice. The sound fell flat. There was no echo, no feeling of distance or open space. "Where are you?"

The silence was oppressive while Buffy just breathed, nearly hyperventilating, and gathered her wits, wild panic transforming to instinct, insistent and aware.

Think, Buffy, think, her mind insisted. There's no way he wouldn't be here, waiting, right here where you left him, here.

Except...

This isn't even a real place.

Maybe he wasn't here because there was no... here.

Just empty space.

She took a deep breath.

Not a real place. That's what he'd said, not a real place. No time, nothing in it--

No form.

--and he's only one who ever comes here. So why would the device bring you right back to the same place? Not like there'd be a reason for a homing device, or--

What if he had things stored here? How would he find them?

She knew, instinctively somehow, that he didn't. There was nothing in this place but him. And he was still here. Somewhere. She could feel it.

He was just... far away.

But how far?

She took more deep breaths, calming herself, letting the thoughts fill her, letting herself think things through. Noticed in a dim sort of way that her most reasonable, rational, internal voice sounded a bit like Dawn.

If there's no here here, then he could be anywhere. Not like there's a here anywhere here. If that makes any sense.

Things could happen here someday, but they haven't yet.

Great, so this place could be as big as the whole damn universe. Limitless potential for... anything. Anywhere.

She took another deep breath. Let it out.

Potential.

Maybe that little fact made things easier. Potential. Nothing had happened here before, wasn't that what he'd said? Or everything had happened, and now it was over?

Well, she was here now. That made things different.

Maybe you could have an empty space with just one person, but not with two. Two people equaled things happening. Two people equaled history. None of that tree-falling-in-the-forest zen crap. She'd been here with him and she knew that he was still here. Knew that they still had a future together, here or anywhere else.

She could do it. She could make things happen. Because they weren't over yet.

She sat down. Calmly. Kept breathing deeply. Arranged herself into a cross-legged pose, closed her eyes. Cast in mind into that meditative state that Giles had taught her, concentrated. Thought of Spike and searched within herself for that little-used signal that told her a vampire was near.

There were rules to any universe. There had to be. And so what if she didn't understand magic and or dimensions, or any of it.

All she needed to do was find him.

And that was something Slayers were made for.

When she opened her eyes again, one hundred and forty-seven carefully counted deep breaths later, he was there.

Chapter Six

__________

Buffy let out a relieved sigh. Tension drained away from her body, leaving numb gratitude in its wake.

He was really there.

Spike lay on his side a few feet away from her. That same strange light that illuminated her outlined his form too, photo-flash bright. He was curled up on the inky-black floor, his suede coat pillowed under his head. Body turned mostly away from her so she could see little more than the curve of his back.

Asleep. He was asleep. Buffy laughed, the sound bubbling out of her in a irrepressible flood.

That was so like him.

She kept laughing. It sounded a little crazy, maybe, and the sound fell ominously flat in the still air, but Buffy didn't care. For all her screaming and hysteria and having to kick dogs unconscious and tearing up the skin of her hands with thorns, everything had worked out. Everything. It wasn't such a tragedy after all, not such a disaster. And for a moment there, she'd really been sure that it was--she'd felt it, that horrible sense of dread she got when it seemed like the whole world was crushing down on her like an immense and impossible weight, an onrushing freight train of bad. Nothing ever seemed to happen to her in small doses. When things started to go wrong, they went really wrong, and then hurried on to the next stop, which tended to be apocalyptic. Spike saying he was leaving her had felt like the opening overture in some opera of evil to come.

But she was wrong. She'd been wrong. They weren't center stage in some badly scripted melodrama and all this... this was just something they would have to get through, get past, get over. They'd talk, and they'd fight, and they'd do what they always did, but they'd get through this. She knew it.

Nothing was impossible. It was okay.

And this time, she even had proof. He was here. She'd conjured him back to being just by the power of her belief. Wishes really do come true.

Things like that couldn't happen if the universe was really conspiring against her. No way.

She got to her feet, still laughing, a half-chokey, almost hysterical sound caught in her throat. Funny. Tottered around his still body in an unsteady circle, around to where she could see his face. Dropped to her knees and leaned over him to shake his shoulder, wake him up. Honey, c'mon, open those eyes. It's time to go. He would love to hear that.

Then she really saw him, and gasped.

__________

Spike had been right about the time difference. Six minutes. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.

His face was... not just thin. Thanksgiving, that first Thanksgiving when he'd come to her door for help after having been newly chipped--he'd looked thin then. Pale and sickly, eyes ringed in shadow, but not like this.

He looked... ancient. Like The Master had... maybe worse. Dessicated. White as parchment, his skin stretched tight over the bone, mouth a shriveled line. His cheeks were sunken, far more than was normal, even for him, and his eyes...

Spike had talked about it, she remembered--whined, really--complained in that really irritating voice he used when he felt like being annoying, about what would happen to vampires who went too long without blood--

Living skeletons, mate.

His hands, curled loosely near his face, were bony claws.

He looked like a mummy. She was afraid to even touch him.

How long had it been?

He'd been trapped here, all alone. Waiting for her. With nothing around him but darkness. Waiting for her.

Starving to death.

A whimper escaped her, an awful cry of grief muffled by the back of her hand, and tears spilled down her cheeks from too-wide eyes as she sat there, frozen, looking at him.

She sat there like that for a long time.

But eventually, the grief began to retreat. A sense of unreality crept in over it, slow and sure like the tide, flooding her agony, hiding it deep.

She couldn't think when she was so upset. She'd learned that a long time ago. The only way to get things done was to put her feelings aside.

She was calmer now. Rational.

It was easier to think if you didn't feel. Or rather... not think, maybe, but act. Much easier to do what had to be done.

Buffy stood. Wiped her nose with the back of her hand and skirted around Spike's body as if it were a coffee table. Something that was just there. She felt around on the ground then for the tarp, realized with dim surprise that she was damn lucky to find it. The fabric had faded into invisibility in the darkness. And hadn't she begun her little meditation trick because she'd realized that things probably weren't exactly anchored here in time or space? Stupid. She was lucky it was even still there. And if six minutes away had left Spike a dried up old corpse, what would a second trip to get a replacement have done? Hah. Right. She couldn't afford a mistake like that again.

Living skeletons, he'd said living skeletons, she reminded herself distantly. Living. That meant she could still save him, because he wasn't dead yet, he wasn't dust.

She could try, anyway.

Recrossing the floor to where Spike was laying, Buffy gently wrapped his body in the canvas tarp, with with the suede coat around him too for good measure. His limbs were stiff and brittle--she held her breath as she tucked the fabric around him, half-convinced that he would disintegrate under the pressure of her fingers.

For the first time she noticed that he'd grown back a full head of hair.

Sandy brown. Surprisingly curly. Nearly chin-length--well, at least that gave her one clue at how long the relative time had been. Although she didn't have much of an idea how fast vampire hair grew, come to think of it--that summer he'd been away he'd let his hair grow out, it had been shaggy and bleach-tipped, but that had been starting from--

Not now. She combed her fingers through the thick locks before for a moment before draping the canvas over his face.

Lifting him was easy. He felt hollow and light, even shrouded in heavy canvas. She cradled his head against her shoulder, held out the device, and pushed the button down for what she hoped would be the last time.

__________

They rematerialized back in the garden, back in the thorns. Lights still flaring in the house, voices audible now in the distance. The dog lay unconscious at her feet. Buffy hugged the wrapped bundle close to her chest, stood stock-still, assessed.

No smoke rising, so the canvas was proof against the light at least. Good. A cautious look in the direction of the house. Not so good. Movement there, hazy through the back windows. People would be out here soon, maybe even police, other dogs.

She considered. She could jump the wall, take off at a run, find safe shelter. Get him some blood, keep feeding him until he was strong enough to move. A garage somewhere, or an abandoned building, or...

That might take awhile. In this part of the city, there weren't a lot of unoccupied places. And taking him down the sewers, tending to him there... that was only a last resort. He was so... fragile right now. She didn't relish the idea of leaping and running too far while carrying him, never mind dodging questions from possible bystanders or leaving him alone somewhere while she found blood. She was horribly afraid that jostling him too much might start things breaking off.

The tool shed was at least temporary shelter. And he needed blood right now. Buffy took off at a run, and was back inside the dark space almost before she could register having moved.

Laying Spike down, she unwrapped the canvas. Winced again and how bad he looked, put it out of her mind. Not now. Moved stealthily to the door, peeked out, then slid to the ground and crept outside, through the grasping thorns until she found the unconscious dog. Wrapped a hand around its collar and dragged it back with her to the shed.

The dog was a doberman. Those are dangerous dogs, she reminded herself, trying to think of some news article she might have read. They attack people all the time, right? That's why they're used for guards. They're nasty and violent, a-and... it attacked me, anyway. If I hadn't been the Slayer, it probably would have torn my throat out. So hey, one less vicious attack dog in the world? No big loss.

It wasn't much of a trade, really, the life of some Italian family's probably unloved and badly treated miserable guard dog to save Spike. Really, it was a no-brainer. Seriously, she'd been willing to stick a knife in Faith's gut to save Angel. Be pretty silly of her to quibble over something like this.

She shoved the furry body at him, made sure the pulsing vein in the throat was under his nose.

Feed, Spike, she pleaded inside her mind. Feed. Take it. You need it.

He didn't react. He just lay there, like an inanimate object. Shriveled and dead.

She shoved the dog closer. She could feel the tears inside her now, welling up and surging, backing up in her throat. Not now. She dug her fingers into the dog's neck, drew blood, ignored the animal's sharp whimper. Clamped down hard on a feeling of nausea as she lifted her bloody fingers to Spike's mouth, painted lines across the still lips. She kept the other hand firmly twisted in the dog's leather collar as the doberman began to muzzily wake, to kick and thrash.

Spike's eyes slowly opened. Her heart gave an answering leap, and she breathed his name. Spike. Not dead. His gaze shifted toward her at the sound, eyes dusty-white and blind, filmy, unfocused. Bright red blood painted on his lips, vivid against the pale skin, he looked like a leathery geisha.

Not dead.

Then he moved, whiplash fast, and Buffy nearly cried out in surprise as the dog was jerked out of her grasp. Clawlike hands wrapped around the dog's body, fangs out and buried in the dog's neck with the speed of a striking snake. Buffy hadn't even seen his face shift.

The dog shrieked and howled, scrabbled with its own claws. Spike's bony hands moved again in a single, impatient twist, broke the dog's neck. She had a quick glimpse of his face, alien and terrifying in its withered state, mouth slathered with blood, before he dipped his head again and began to feed, shaking his head a little as if trying to get good purchase, worrying at a tough piece of meat.

Empty hands trembling, Buffy scooted herself backwards on her butt. Her back came up against a pile of hoses and garden rakes and she settled there, drew up her knees. Sat there and watched him, listened.

She'd never really seen him like this.

Well... she sort of had. She'd seen the vampire side of him enough times. Enough to never forget that about him, no matter how many years he'd had to drink his blood out of a glass. A mug and a straw. Kiss the Librarian. She'd seen him attack people right in front of her in the bad old days, when he was still Spike the happy vampire, throat-ripping machine. He'd attacked her too, with game face on, plenty of times--that was certainly not an unfamiliar sight. And... okay, getting into topics her mind was alll too happy to shudder away from, she'd certainly seen him drink blood before, seen him feed--

Face bumpy and ridged and wolfen and he's eating out of her hand, drinking from a plastic bag she's holding over his face...

Coming at her, that same ridged face, all perverse sneer and it doesn't look like him, it isn't him, ready to drink the blood from her throat while the vampire children he made are right there, holding her...

Do you have the slightest idea what I'm capable of?

The dog was certainly dead now. Legs sticking out stiff and rigid, it looked like a husk, a stuffed dog. Spike was still working at the corpse, sucking at it hard like he was trying to slurp up the last dregs of a furry milkshake.

The sounds he was making were uncomfortably close to the sounds of sex.

Liquid slurpings, suckings, and the movement of his head... She closed her eyes. What was it he had said once about blood? Makes you warm, makes you hard...

Makes you something other than dead.

She made a joke once, about how vampires got it all confused, sex and death. Only for them, death--blood--was... life. Blood is life.

She'd done this for Angel.

Fed herself to him, let him penetrate her throat with his fangs, drink her blood just like Spike was doing right now with the dog.

It had been... one of the most intense experiences of her life. Terrifying. Angel had nearly killed her. Poisoned and delirious, he'd still refused to drink her until she'd forced it on him, punched him in the face until he'd reacted like an animal, grabbed her and latched on, sucked on her throat till she was almost dry. And she'd... part of her had... enjoyed that.

The giving herself to him. The pain. The utter surrender.

She'd saved his life. Her body had been ecstatic with that, shivering. Even if he'd killed her, she'd at least have given him something. Given him everything.

She couldn't do that for Spike. Not now. Starved as he was, he'd drain her without being able to stop, just like the dog. That was a vampire's nature.

She hugged her legs tighter. It wasn't that she was playing favorites. No, that wasn't it. She couldn't afford to be helpless. Not now. She needed to be strong, needed to be able to face down angry homeowners and police and guard dogs, to carry him out of here, keep him safe.

Spike had never bitten her. Never. She'd begged him to do it once, to have that feeling again, that surrender, although she couldn't say for sure what it was she'd wanted then. Pain, or the release of death, or something else... either way, he hadn't taken her up on it.

She'd bitten him instead. Made him gasp and cry out and...

She found herself wondering if that's what he had felt then. Like he'd given all of himself to her.

Buffy curled her hands around her kneees, and watched him until he was done, her eyes drinking in the way the lines smoothed out in his face, skin plumping, bony lines disappearing. Not normal, no, not nearly, but... better. Healing. Better.

Better.

She slid forward on her knees, reached out to him past the hollowed-out corpse of the dog.

"Spike?" she said, voice quavering. "Can you hear me? Can you... understand? We have to... leave here now." She extended a hand.

He growled at her.

She halted. Left her hand hanging there in space, just above his head.

His face was still bestial, ridged and fierce. Bloody lips drawn back from red fangs. He scented the air, wobbled his head blindly toward her hand. Snapped at it.

She yanked her hand back, heart beating fast.

That had definitely never happened before. Her mind stumbled over the possibilities--he wasn't thinking straight, he was still hungry, there was some aftereffect of the dog's blood... whatever. It surely couldn't be what it looked like, that he was reacting like that to her...

No. That couldn't be it.

She steeled herself, reached out again. Placed her hand right on top of his curly head, ignoring his loud growls. "Quiet!" she told him through closed teeth. Tried not to let herself notice that the command sounded more than a little like something you'd say to a dog, and oh, she was so not going there...

"You have to be quiet," she said again. "We have to leave here, Spike, can you hear me? We. Have. To. Leave." She pressed down with her hand, on the top of his head, a plea in her mind for him to understand. To submit.

God, she so couldn't stand thinking about this.

She moved fast then, without waiting for a reaction. One hand kept pressed to the top of his head, she tugged the canvas back around him with the other. Wrapped him up again like a mummy, removed her hand just long enough to pull the cloth over his face.

The moment the fabric was between them, he began to thrash and struggle.

"Don't, Spike, stop it," she begged him through the canvas, positioning his head on her shoulder again, pulled him close. Both arms around the bundle, she lifted it. Oof. Heavier.

"I'm going to have to run, okay? You understand? Don't fight me. Spike, listen. Don't fight me."

There was another growl, and then the sounds from the bundle grew quieter. His frantic movements slowed and then ceased. She passed a soothing hand over where she hoped his temple was. There, there. It's okay.

"Just hold on," she said then, and kicked open the garden shed door to the suprise of a couple of sleepy Italians dressed in their bathrobes. A woman, hair still up in curlers, let out a blood-curdling shriek.

Buffy ignored them. Without sparing the couple a second look, she bolted past them and took herself and Spike back over the garden wall in one running leap, landing catlike on the other side and setting off down the street at a run.

Free.

Chapter Seven

__________

She ran through the sleepy residential neighborhood at top speed, doing her best to keep to the back streets. It was still far too early for most people yet, but there were a few delivery vans, early rising joggers, and people walking their dogs about. She really couldn't afford to draw any attention. After all, it was all too obvious from the shape under the canvas that she was carrying a body around. Really didn't need to have to answer questions about that on top of everything else.

The homes around her were maddeningly neat and well-kept. Perfectly manicured gardens, fenced yards, winking lights to warn the curious or sticky-fingered of installed alarms. Even places that were dark and quiet were still obviously alive with habitation. No safe haven there.

Under the drooping branches of a large pine tree, Buffy stopped for a moment to catch her breath. She wasn't totally exhausted yet, but getting there--worn out from stress, sweating from exertion in the early morning sun, and it wasn't that Spike was heavy, not to her anyway, but the marathon aspect certainly wasn't helping. Her feet were aching inside her pointy-toed boots and her hair was plastered to her forehead in sweaty trails.

No time to rest. Keep going. She allowed herself a few gulps of air, and moved on again, keeping to the shadows.

When Buffy finally spotted a house under renovation, draped in scaffolding and plastic sheeting, she was almost too tired to dare hope.

She crept closer, inspected the place. The house was dark. She worked her way around to the back garden, slipping silently through the thick shrubbery, praying there were no motion sensors installed. All it would take was one alarm to ruin everything--she could fight her way through a crowd of cops if that was what it took, but the odds of getting Spike away safe in that scenario were slim. She just needed somewhere, a place to rest, keep him out of the sun, was that so much to ask?

Around the back, the construction work was even more in evidence--piles of lumber and brick, stacks of marble tiles. The kitchen entrance was merely an open doorway. She peered in. Empty. The countertops were shrouded in plastic sheeting and plaster dust. If there were any residents still living in the house, they certainly didn't cook. She edged inside.

It was a grand old townhouse, of a kind she'd seen all over Rome. Two-storey brick covered in stucco, framed in climbing ivy. Balconies over the windows, all baroque plaster detail and wrought-iron rails, lots of leaded glass. Gorgeous from the outside. Inside, however, you could really see the age of the place--Buffy noted cracks and stains in the plaster on both the walls and the ceiling as she tiptoed cautiously toward the front of the house. No wonder it was being restored.

The floor of the grand front parlor was draped in canvas. There was scaffolding all around the edges of the room. A dissambled chandelier lay in the corner, and the curving marble staircase leading up to the second floor was piled with paint buckets.

The house was deserted. Buffy let out a held breath, a huge sigh of relief.

They would be safe here. If there was no alarm--and there didn't seem to be--they'd be safe. It was possible that workingmen might show up later in the day, but if they were quiet and careful, this would be a good place. She readjusted her grip on Spike, carried him back into the kitchen, and looked around for a cellar door.

Yes. She thumbed the catch open, found the light, and hurried down the cracked cement steps.

Typical storage basement. Plain, unfinished. Piled boxes covered with dust. A few cases of wine. Old sports equipment. It would do.

She chose a corner under the stairs, well out of line of sight from the doorway, and set Spike down. Arranged the canvas around him into something like a cozy nest as she unwrapped him. He'd either fallen asleep or had passed out again, oddly enough still in vampire face. Blood still on his mouth.

She pressed a kiss to his bumpy forehead. "I'll be back," she whispered, smoothing the unruly sandy hair. "Just rest here. I'll be back." Then she was back up the stairs and gone, reaching back to turn off the light as she left.

__________

The butcher was easy to convince. Buffy rolled out the usual old story about making blood sausage, a little primitively told in her limited Italian, but with enough hand gestures it still worked. The butcher, a big beefy guy who looked exactly like he might have been the model for Mario in the video game except taller, chuckled as her handed her an overstuffed paper bag filled with plastic quart bottles. He'd thrown in a package of intestines for sausage casings too--she just smiled and took it, unsure if she was paying for them or if he'd given them to her for free. Didn't matter. She'd either chuck the guts in the trash first chance she got, or see if Dawn would be interested in trying sausage-making to go along with all that pasta.

When she arrived back at the house, there were workingmen there.

Buffy hugged the bag to her chest, huddled up against a streetlamp, and watched the place, assessing. A big painter's truck was parked right in front, and there was plenty of loud activity going on, banging and hammering, men walking back and forth puffing cigarettes and carrying lumber. A radio blared Europop music out onto the street.

She weighed her options. She could try to make a run for it, slip into the house without being seen, but if she was caught... right. Again with the police. She'd either be clapped in jail or held up talking to the American embassy for hours, and Spike would be left behind on his own. Or worse, discovered hiding in the basement and thrown out into the street. Not good. Spectacularly bad, actually. Next.

Option two. Beat the crap out of the workers and keep them unconscious until dark. Okay, maybe that wasn't such an option. Start a fire? Um, no.

It was starting to look like she'd have to wait.

Sour with disappoinment, Buffy plunked herself down on the curb, paper bag clutched between her knees.

She waited for four hours.

Finding a way to spend the time was the worst part. At first, Buffy tried just sitting, like she was waiting for a bus or a ride, but that got too much attention. Buon Giorno from passersby. She started pacing instead, from one end of the block to the other, then around the block and back. She did her best not to look too obvious, not to obviously lurk. Even if she was, technically, doing exactly that.

The workingmen took lunch around noon, out in front of the building. They spotted her on one of her strolling walks, hooted and whistled and catcalled. Buffy gritted her teeth and grimly beat down an internal urge to reconsider option two.

She was really starting to worry about the freshness of the blood.

Around one o'clock, the workingmen finally left. Piled into their big truck, and drove off. Watching from her stakeout spot across the street, hidden behind a particularly bushy flowering shrub, Buffy got to her feet casually. She tried not to look too eager, strolled across the street, painfully aware that it was broad daylight and people might be watching. Not that anything could have stopped her from going back into the house at this point--her nerves were stretched so taut that she was ready to erupt into violence at even the slightest suggestion of one more surprise.

At the kitchen door, she paused and listened, heart in her throat. The way her luck had been going, she half-expected to find another obstacle there--a solitary painter, someone who'd stayed behind. She waited, senses all on full alert.

The house was silent. Buffy rushed to throw open the cellar door and turn on the light.

The light didn't work.

She frowned, flicked the switch off and on again. Still nothing. The workingmen must have done something electrical. Buffy sighed in irritation, then descended the stairs anyway, feeling her way in the dark. The light from the kitchen faded quickly. The darkness surrounded her like a thick blanket.

"Hello, Buffy."

Buffy froze, mid-step. The voice was Spike's. Thin and raspy, with that bit of a lisp that told her he was speaking through fangs.

Relief flooded her. He can talk. Oh, that's so much better. "Spike?" she called out into the darkness. "Oh, thank god you're all right."

"All right," he repeated. There was a low sound, almost like a laugh.

She pushed her feet faster down the stairs, sliding her soles along the concrete. "I-I came as fast as I could. I brought you some blood--"

Another laughing sound. "Can smell it. So sweet." His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. "Bring it here, will you?"

"I'm coming." She felt her way further down the steps. "I'm coming, Spike. Just hang on, I'll be--"

"Starving here," he said, and now the sound was thin, weak. "Need... I need..."

"I'm here, Spike, I'm right here." She stumbled, slid on her feet, recovered. "I just can't see, I'll--" Can't afford to trip, drop the blood...

"Straight ahead," he said, and his words were slow now and precise. "Thaaaat's it, little Goldilocks. Come down into the dark."

Buffy halted. She'd reached the bottom of the stairs. A trickle of apprehension ran through her. No. Oh no.

"Are you okay?" she asked. Stupid question. Of course he's not. The memory came back to her of the dog, his feral fangs and glowing eyes. The growling and snapping.

"Okay," he echoed. "Little girl's in the woods. No woodsman here. Just the Big. Bad. Wolf."

Now the hackles were standing up on the back of her neck. Oh, god. Okay, so he wasn't so lucid. No, actually, he was out of his mind, but she'd been through this with him before. She just had to...

She just had to talk to him. Remind him who he was.

"Spike. Listen to me," she said patiently. "I'm Buffy, remember? Do you remember me?"

"Remember," he echoed. "Slayer."

"Right. I'm the Slayer. Buffy. And do you... do you know who you are?"

"Who I am?" he laughed again, a scratchy hiss. "Don't think I've forgot. Maybe you have."

She took another shuffling step, stretched out the fingers of her free hand, looking for him.

"Got caught up, didn't I?" he rambled on, rasping. "Not paying attention. Leg stuck in a trap. Happens every time."

Buffy gasped then. He was right in front of her. All she could see of him were his eyes, burning yellow in the darkness, like a cat's.

He chuckled, and it wasn't a pleasant sound. She could hear the fangs crowding his mouth, distorting it.

"Dark. Basement. Another ruddy basement. Right where you left me, Buffy."

Sympathy welled up in her then, and on top of that, overwhelming wash of guilt. It was dark, when he woke, and I left him all alone. After... oh god, poor Spike.

She sank to her knees, felt for him in the dark, her hand making contact with his hair. His yellow eyes blinked, glowered at her.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that had to happen to you," she whispered, and stroked his hair. "But you're okay now. You're safe. I'm here. You're not alone anymore." Buffy felt with her fingers to the line of his cheek, smoothed her fingers across the ridges, stroking. "Please, you just have to remember who you are."

He didn't answer her. There was a tugging sensation on her fingers instead. Spike trying to take the bag of blood. "Give it, give it here," he hissed.

Oh. The blood. Buffy pushed the bag at him, let it go. Spike tore into it, into the bottles. The smell of blood was suddenly thick in the air and she could hear him drinking, throaty swallowing sounds, near-orgasmic moans of relief. His glowing eyes had closed, leaving her marrooned in total darkness.

Those sounds again. She tried not to think of them. Tried not to think how familiar all this was, even her fear. His hands on her body, and his insane ramblings, and those sounds...

"Can hear you," he said suddenly, and she gave a little jump. "Heartbeat. Blood pumping." He inhaled deeply. "Other things... pumping." His cold fingers touched her arm. "Need more, Buffy," he hissed. "Need more... need..."

Both hands on her body now, crawling up her arms, cold, sharp, like claws. She could feel his breath on her face, and he laughed again, a bubbling growl. The hairs on the back her neck stood up. This was a little too close to what she'd been thinking of. That and--

Angel's fangs in her throat.

She shoved back against him. "Stop it," she said firmly, and he halted his advance on her body. His fingers retreated, sliding away from her in reverse like a receding tide.

Buffy took a deep breath then, tried to calm her hammering heart. He can hear me. Hear my heart. She wasn't scared. She wasn't. He was just hurting and lost. He needed her help.

She groped again in the darkness, felt for him, found his hands. Pressed them between hers, and kept her voice calm. "You need more, Spike?" she asked him carefully, making sure he understood the words. "More blood? Do you need me to go get you more?"

"No!" He twitched, violently, nearly jerking from her grasp. "No, please. Please," he whispered, and he leaned into her, face into her shoulder. "Don't... don't leave me. Please don't leave me alone. No more. Not... alone." His hands struggled a little against hers, and she changed her grip, weaved her fingers through his. It seemed to calm him.

"I won't," she insisted. "I'm right here," she told him. "I'm right here."

Chapter Eight

__________

They waited in the basement until dark. Spike mostly dozed, sleeping off the glut of blood, but stayed connected to her, touching. Curled up on the floor, or half leaning on her shoulder, his hands were on her the whole time, a desperate clutch on her arms or legs or waist as if he needed to touch her just reassure himself that she was still there. And she did her best to soothe him while they waited, to lull him to sleep, sliding a comforting hand along his back as she watched the long shadows move across the stairwell with the passing of the day.

When the light from the upstairs had faded completely, she shook Spike awake. Together, they slowly made their way up the the stairs and outside.

"Where in hell are we?" Spike slurred as they pushed through the bushes. Buffy could see him clearly in the dusky sunset light. His face had returned to something like normal--no more fangs, at least, and no longer so horribly aged and lined--but his coordination was totally gone. He could barely stand without her help.

"Some house," she grunted, supporting his weight with an arm slung around his waist. The blood he'd eaten seemed to have added pounds--he was heavy now. "I just... needed a place to keep you out of the sun."

"Ooh. Trespassing again. Baaad Buffy." He laughed--or rather, made a laughing sound that segued into coughing. His voice was simultaneously too loud and semi-incoherent, like he'd had too much to drink.

"Hey, I'd have taken you on a tour of the Villa Borghese, but you weren't exactly in the best shape." They were out in the street now, staggering like entrants in some drunken three-legged race, but Buffy no longer cared about being seen by the neighbors. Or heard, for that matter. So what. They were out of the house now. They'd be out of this place completely, soon. Good riddance.

He coughed again. "Oh, right. Posh area. Forgot. Where the meeting was. Around here." Spike waved a hand, an expansive gesture. "Then you wann'ed to meet, so I just... stuck a pin in a map. Well, 's'all on a gadget, actually. GPS or some balls."

"You have a GPS?" Buffy readjusted his arm around her neck, panting, tried to remember where the bus stop was.

"Sure, dinn't I show you? Got all sorts of gadgets now." Tipsily, he began fishing in his pockets, nearly toppling them both off balance.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Buffy shoved him upright with her shoulder. "Save it for later when you can stand on your own, okay? Then you can show me all your neat new toys."

He eyed her, looking across the slant of his cheek at her, head falling back as if it was too much effort for him to hold it up.

"Oh, right, because you're the hero now, aren't you?" he said. "Rescuing all the damsels in distress." He lifted a hand, pounded himself in the chest, gorilla-like. "Thass me. Saved by everyone these days... you and... his Broodiness, an'... bloody Xander'll prolly rescue me next." His eyes narrowed in a glare. "Very emasculating, you know?"

She sighed, rolling her eyes. Well, there he is. That's my Spike. He must be feeling better if he can manage a word like 'emasculating'. "Don't get all macho on me now, Spike," she said frostily, and tightened her grip around his waist, concentrated on walking. "This is hardly the time for it."

"I don't s'ppose it ever is."

"What do want me to do? Let you die because it's so embarrassing to be rescued?" This arguing was actually kind of a relief. Like old times. Sparring with him made her feel better, for some reason. Like everything would be okay.

Oops, watch the road. One foot in front of the other.

"Least I'd be... responsible for m'own mistakes," he mumbled. His feet weren't doing a great job of keeping up with her. "If 'm stupid, I deserve to get fucked up. Not--not have somebody step in and say, 'hey, bloke, you should give that another try till you really get it bent sideways." He coughed. "Shoulda left well enough alone."

"Okay, now you're really not making any sense," Buffy planted her feet, swiveled her head around. His face was right next to hers. "Let's save the stupid arguments until after I get you on the bus and back to my place. You can chew me out for saving you while I'm nursing you back to health. That sound okay with you?"

He jerked back, nearly yanked out of her grasp, feet stumbling. Buffy was pulled along with him, nearly fell.

"Y'outta your mind?" he barked loudly. "Not gonna... get on a bus full of people. Don' you--don't you remember what I--" His eyes suddenly fixed on her neck, mouth open and panting, hypnotized by the pulsing vein in her throat. "Don' have the same reasons not to hurt them as I do you," he growled, low.

She met his eyes calmly. "You wouldn't do that."

"Don' be so sure." His eyes were still on her neck, unfocused. "Could smell those blokes upstairs. Big manly workers. All full of hot, musky blood. I was too... weak," he slurred. "Lucky them."

"You wouldn't have hurt them," she said confidently.

He coughed again, followed it by a snort. "You really do forget, don' you?" he said. "Vampire, Buffy. Not a... tame puppy. With... pulled teeth. Got a soul, but--" He panted, out of breath. "You don't know. All that sound. The smell." His lips trembled over bared teeth. "Not--not that strong, Buffy."

"You are," she told him. "I know you are."

He considered her, eyes steady. "Not gettin' on a bloody bus," he gritted then, each word enunciated carefully.

Buffy inhaled, let the breath out. Okay. That sounded pretty final. Time for Plan B.

"Okay, then, got any ideas?" she said mildly. "I didn't bring money for a taxi, and there aren't any stands around here anyway--hey!" Spike was struggling away from her, pulling himself up straight, staggering and weaving on his feet. "What are you doing?"

He fished in his pocket, pulled out a cell phone "Welll, c'mon then, give 'm a call." He pushed the phone at her. "Calvary rides in to save the day, inn't time for that?"

What? Frowning, Buffy took the phone. It was a featureless black device, sleek and expensive-looking. She flipped it open. There were only two names stored in it. Her own name, Buffy, and a second entry. Hairgel.

Angel.

She glanced up at him, confused. "You want me to call Angel?"

He coughed. Made a meaningless gesture with his hands and turned a little away from her, saying nothing.

Buffy watched him for a moment, her brow furrowing in confusion, then blew out an irritated sigh and hit the speed dial, put the phone to her ear.

"Where the hell have you been?" Angel's voice rapped out of the receiver at loud volume before Buffy could even get out an introductory hello. "It's been thirteen hours. You were supposed to check in--"

"Angel?"

There was a brief pause. "Buffy?" Angel's voice was instantly different, the harsh edge vanished. "Why are you--why are you calling on this phone? Are you... with Spike?"

"What? No--I mean--yes. I mean, he's here. With me." She shifted the phone to her other hand, suddenly flustered. "We need help."

"What kind of help? What's wrong?"

"Well, it was--I mean, we were just talking, a-and then the sun rose, so he took us to this dark dimension thingy to get away from it, and then I came back--"

"He took you through the dimension portal?"

"Uh, yeah, that is what I just said. Anyway, he's in bad shape. There was like a difference in time, when I went out and came back, and--"

"Okay, that's enough, I get the picture. I'll be right there."

"You'll be--? O-okay. Wait--uh, don't you even want to know where we are?"

"It's fine. I can see you. Just stay where you are, and I'll be right with you, alright? Just stay there."

A dry click. Angel had hung up.

Buffy closed the phone, thoughtful. Angel. He'd sounded so... distracted.

"So, Dark Avenger's on his way, is he?" Spike asked from his position a few feet away from her. He wasn't looking in her direction. She blinked and stared at him, his rumpled appearance and unsteady posture, thick curls of brown hair. He seemed so... small, somehow. Diminished. She felt a swell of compassion.

Spike needs me right now, she told herself. She couldn't let herself get all confused over Angel. This really wasn't the time for that. And... wait, what had he meant when he said he could see them?

She barely had another minute to think on the subject before a car suddenly rounded the corner at high speed, wheels shrieking. A Lamborghini. Bright red, the engine purring and growling like some magnificent sleek monster.

The car pulled up alongside them, parked. And the driver's side door opened to disgorge... Angel.

"You called?" he said.

[end, part one]

Go to Part 2.

 
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