*************

Chapter 24: Slay Me Not

It felt like fantasy, a world derived from castles concocted in Sunday heavens where William spent more time imagining futures of peace and beauty than listening to the vicar’s endless sermons. He knew it wasn’t real, of course, but from where he hovered at the side of the shop, William was just as involved in Buffy’s shoe-shopping adventure as she was, and the idyllic domesticity they presented---albeit false in nature---was addictive in its call for confidence. When she asked for his advice, he gave it, even though his experience with woman’s footwear was minimal. When she made a small joke that would inevitably embarrass the young salesclerk, William chuckled along with her, bolstering her impudence to do it again. And when she deliberately chose the fawn-colored slippers he liked the most, he unconsciously puffed in self-importance. After all, the woman he loved selected what would please him as well; how could he not take pleasure in that?

It was not a trip that had been condoned by either Richard or Rose. Both had expressed their concerns about Buffy experiencing the outside world unnecessarily, but when she’d turned her green gaze to William for support, he knew from the first blink of those long eyelashes that there was no way he could turn down Buffy’s request to purchase her own clothing. They had left the house on promises to return swiftly and to maintain the utmost discretion in their acquisitions, but the latter had only lasted until the first shop, where Buffy had launched into a long and convoluted story as to why an American was staying at the Freston home. William caught the raised eyebrows shared amongst the older salesladies, but Buffy’s surprising good humor was infectious even with them and soon all aspersions were forgotten.

He was still unsure of how things rested between them. In accordance with the tale she’d contrived, they’d maintained a gracious decorum both in the shops and in the coach, never bringing up the topic of her true presence in London or their conversations in his bedchamber. She smiled, and he smiled, and they chatted as amiably as they had always done in each of the dream encounters, and yet…William feared to initiate any physical contact, even if it had been appropriate.

And Buffy didn’t solicit any such involvement, not when she turned to smile at him as he paid for her purchases, nor even when he offered her his hand to assist her into the carriage. She just lifted her skirt and climbed onto its seat on her own, looking back at him in expectation as she waited inside.

Now, they sat opposite each other on the soft seats, the gentle rocking as the horses led the way back to the house lulling William into a slight doze. They had been out much later than he’d anticipated; even now, dusk glistened on the horizon in a rose-colored dalliance with the city, promising a cloudless night and a calmer tomorrow. Richard and Rose would long be gone; William was under instruction to contact them in the morning to find out what they may have learned. Buffy hadn’t spoken of them all day, but more than once, he imagined he saw a sad confusion cloud her aspect, and he knew without having to ask that she was contemplating her circumstances.

The same such look shadowed her eyes now.

“Are you happy with your purchases?” William asked softly.

Buffy nodded. “I guess shopping is one of the transcending time things, huh?” She grinned. “At least I got out of buying one of those corsets. A man invented that, right? Because no woman in her right mind would come up with that kind of torture device. Unless it was to get a guy to wear it.”

He said nothing, but smiled anyway. To be honest, he’d thought Buffy looked divine in the lemon-colored creation the first salesclerk had insisted she try, but her obvious discomfort had kept William from voicing his opinion aloud. It would’ve been…interesting to see her in more traditional wear, but then again, it wouldn’t have been the Buffy he knew and loved.

“I haven’t said thank you yet.” She was watching him, hesitant, her fingers tapping nervously against the window’s edge. “You really didn’t have to buy all those things for me. I mean, I probably won’t be around long enough to wear most of it.”

“It was my pleasure,” he replied. “Tell me when else I’ll have such an opportunity to spoil you so?”

William’s mention of his happiness to have her there guided her gaze outside, away from his face and away from direct contemplation of his emotions. “It’ll be good to get your life back in order, don’t you think?” she said instead. “Get your mom back, work on your poetry, forget all about the Council.”

“Buffy---.”

“I mean, it’s one thing to talk about in our dreams, but the reality? Not so pretty. And I’m sure your mom’s going to be grateful in a huge way not to be mixed up with psycho witches any more.”

He cut off what was quickly turning into babble by leaning forward and taking her hand in his. “Buffy,” William said again, but she didn’t turn to him, only pressed her lips together. “I told you earlier. I don’t regret having you here with me. My life without you? Dull beyond belief. My poetry…before you, every word that came from my pen was hollow, and now…” He faltered. “I’m…sorry you don’t feel the same. I know…this must seem rather…pedantic in comparison to your slaying, but…”

“It’s not that.” Her voice was so quiet, he had to strain to hear her. “It’s just…you deserve to have your whole life to look forward to, and getting mixed up with the Council isn’t exactly a primo first step in ensuring that’s going to happen.”

Her words sent a chill through his veins that was in direct contrast with the warm air outside. “Do you know something about my life to come?” he asked quietly. “Until today, you didn’t believe me real. How many times did we have those discussions while we slept? But now…knowing what you do…I can’t help but feel as if you know something about my future, and that it, it…frightens you.”

When she looked at him then, his first inclination was that it was guilt he detected deep within the green of her eyes. Quickly, though, it shifted, and her brows lifted, her small mouth forming a silent “o” as if a realization had only just dawned. “No…” Buffy breathed, but William knew without having to ask that it wasn’t a response to his queries. Her hand jerked away from his, leaving him desolate in its wake, and she pressed back into the seat cushion as if to distance herself even further from him.

“You do,” he said sadly. “You know something. From my journal perhaps? Or maybe…through your dealings with the Council?”

She was shaking her head, but whether it was in denial of his questions or something else, William was unsure. “This can’t be happening,” Buffy said. “I didn’t…you were supposed to be…oh god, you’re really real, and that means…”

“That means what?” he pushed.

“William the Bloody…”

It was a name he’d never imagined hearing from her lips. “How…did you read that in my journal?”

“It’s true, then?”

She wanted him to lie to her, that was more than apparent. Her eyes gleamed with that hope, her bottom lip trapped by her teeth. But his shock at her foreknowledge of the epithet that he so detested only loosened William’s tongue.

“David Howard was the one who started it.” His voice was hoarse with pain. “I don’t believe they meant for me to know of it. It was...invective of the worst order, in reference to a verse of mine that Mother requested I read at one of her gatherings. ‘William’s bloody awful poetry,’ I heard David say afterward. I refused for quite some time not to do any more readings, but of course, Mother always insisted they were too lovely not to share…”

The tale made her soften, sympathy returning to her face. “I’m sorry,” Buffy said. Something about her tone made it sound like she was apologetic for more than what had happened to him so long ago, but he didn’t press the issue.

“I suppose that explains some of your prior questions,” William mused sadly. “There are details that you know that disturb you.” At the guilty duck of her eyes, he shook his head. “I don’t expect you to tell me,” he went on. “Richard was right about that aspect of your presence here. Any more information than is beneficial to returning you to your proper place will only hurt us in the long term. You shouldn’t feel regretful for not sharing what you know.”

Nodding, Buffy turned back away from William, lost in thoughts he had no privy to. How much of what troubled her was about his future, and how much was about her present, he had no idea, but as the carriage rumbled toward home, he understood that she’d said all she was going to that night. She needed time to think, and though he desperately wished he could help Buffy order her thoughts, he also knew that pressing onward at this point would only serve to drive her even further away from him.

A startled neigh from the horses preceded a sharp jolt of the carriage, rocking both its occupants. It was too soon to be home yet, William knew as he glanced out the window to confirm his suspicion of their whereabouts, but before he could call out to the driver, a familiar voice slithered through the opposite opening.

“I’m so glad our meeting last night didn’t put you off keeping late hours,” April said.

Simultaneously, Buffy and William turned to see the smiling visage of the vampire framed in the window. Though she didn’t wear the demon face she’d shown the previous night, even he could see the predatory glint in her eyes.

“Hi,” the Slayer said before he could speak up, much perkier than she’d been during the latter part of their conversation. “You’re not one of those highwaypeople who rob stagecoaches or something, are you? Because no way am I losing any of my new clothes before I have to. Not when I’ve been out all day shopping for them.”

Does she not know? he wondered, assessing the two women even as they regarded each other. Can she not tell April is a vampire?

“That was a swift promotion, William,” April finally said evenly. “Was she only Chosen today?”

“You know I’m a Slayer?” Buffy asked. “Impressive. Was it the attitude that gave me away? Not doom and gloom enough?”

“Let’s just say, it takes one to know one.”

William felt Buffy tense at the admission, and realized then that she’d known all along, toying with the demon just as she’d described to him before. “Do you have a purpose to this meeting?” he asked April before either could further their exchange. It was bolder than he’d been the previous night, but with Buffy so close, he felt surprisingly secure. “I assume you must have a message or something you’d like me to relay.”

She was reluctant to divert her attention from the Slayer, but gradually turned to face him. “Did you speak to Richard?” she asked, and then answered herself. “Of course you did. That’s why you’re choosing to be guarded by a Slayer now.”

“I’m not his bodyguard,” Buffy protested.

“Oh?” This sparked April’s interest. “What are you then?”

Buffy’s mouth opened, then closed as the answer he was hoping to hear failed to come. Instead, she bent over and began sliding off her slippers, an action that drew curious stares from both William and April.

“What?” she said when she straightened back up. “I don’t want to get blood on my new shoes.”

The force with which she hit the door rattled the carriage’s frame, as well as sent both it and April flying back into the night. As William watched, Buffy slipped through the now-empty space to land silently on the ground, reaching around to break off a spoke of one of the wheels to use as a weapon.

She’d demonstrated some of her prowess during their dreams, but the sinuous display he now witnessed cast a pallor over the grace she’d exhibited earlier. The moment April charged Buffy, the Slayer skidded sideways to avoid the collision, whirling with a flurry of fabric from the skirt she wasn’t entirely comfortable in to land a broad kick in the small of the vampire’s back. It knocked April to the road again, but she recovered again almost instantly.

“Someone’s trained you well,” April said with a wicked smile. There was blood staining her lips from where she’d split it on the cobblestone, but she was oblivious to its drip onto her dress as she began to circle the Slayer. “It couldn’t have been William, though. Did he tell you that he tried to run from me last night like a scared little puppy? It was almost funny, except, well, not.”

“Sounds smart to me,” Buffy replied coolly. William was riveted to the determination that made her eyes glow, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched her defend him. “Knowing when to walk away from a fight can mean he lives to fight another day. Didn’t your Watcher ever tell you that?”

“That’s not exactly the lesson I walked away from Richard with.”

The casual dropping of the Council Head’s name startled Buffy for a moment, diverting her attention just long enough for April to surprise her with an uppercut. Shaking it off, Buffy countered the onslaught with her own attack, blocking each hit while letting her bare feet lash out instead.

They were fairly evenly matched, William decided as he watched the two women fight. Where Buffy faltered from the strangeness of her clothing, she more than made up in moves that clearly took April by surprise. The demon was more adept to fighting in the constriction that was the current fashion, but she lacked the resourcefulness of the Slayer’s fighting style, relying more upon strength and speed than ingenuity.

On the other hand, Buffy was sheer magic to behold. At one point, she grabbed the handgrip near the carriage door, leaving William to wonder just what she was going to do next. Before he could blink, she’d swung up and over April’s head, her skirt floating like a cloud behind her, and landed softly on the vampire’s opposite side, her leg shooting out before she’d even stopped moving to deliver a strong kick to April’s back.

A part of him felt like clapping at the spectacle, but even William knew that not only would that be extremely childish, it would also only serve to distract Buffy from what she’d set out to do. The stake had fallen to the wayside during one of their bouts, but when the Slayer pressed her advantage on a downed April, William saw that it had somehow appeared in her hand again, ready and poised to slam down into the vampire’s chest as she straddled her.

So intent on the fight, William never heard the door behind him open. Before he could move out of the way, two lean hands grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him roughly from the carriage, dragging him unceremoniously around its rear to face the pair of women in the shadows.

“Let her go!” came the voice from behind him. Though he’d never heard the speaker before, the combination of the possessive masculine tone and the demon-cool hands that felt like they were trying to turn his two shoulders into one convinced William that it had to be April’s male companion from the night before. He tried to squirm from the taller man’s grasp, but it only served to make the vampire growl into his ear, the distinct sting of a sharp fang nicking the outer curve.

“One more move and I’ll snap your neck,” the demon said irritably.

At that, William fell limp against the vampire, no doubt in his mind that Nathan would follow through on his threat. After all, he’d witnessed the callous destruction of the small child; a grown man with less sympathetic qualities could hardly be expected to survive.

Buffy was watching the pair of them, her eyes darting from William, to the vampire, and then back to William again. “Don’t tell me you’re this ho’s cavalry?” she asked wryly. “’Cause I’ve gotta say, that lean and hungry look is way overdone.”

“I’ll kill him if you don’t let April go,” Nathan repeated.

William saw the instant Buffy’s grip relaxed on the stake. Confused, her gaze dropped to the grinning mask of the vamp beneath her. “Your name is April?” she asked.

“Heard of me? I’m touched.”

“Do I have to say it again?” Nathan was growing exasperated with the wait, and William winced as he was yanked even further off the ground. “Your Watcher for April. Last chance.”

The moment of silence was quickly filled by April’s casual tones. “I can see what you’re thinking, Slayer, and yes, you probably could kill one of us.” The menacing smile widened. “But then, you’d lose your precious William, and well, would that sort of fuss really be worth it?”

He wasn’t sure if that was what convinced her or not, but as Buffy pulled back her stake, William was tossed violently aside, falling to his knees as Nathan grabbed April’s hand and pulled her into the murky night. He knew only the sting of his skin being shredded by the rough stone before shadows began to dance at the periphery of his vision, threatening to overwhelm his wakeful senses.

“Breathe.”

She was right there, guiding him away from the ground to help him lean against the side of the coach. For the first time, William saw the dead body of the driver drooping over the front seat, the stench of the blood that saturated his waistcoat now palpable in the air, and felt the bile rise up in his throat when he tried to do as she instructed.

Shame burned even higher than the churning of his stomach as he vomited in the street. It hadn’t been this bad when he’d watched April kill David, but then again, he hadn’t been held like a helpless kitten by the scruff of its neck and forced to watch the woman he loved back down from a fight merely for the sake of his life. While part of William was thrilled that Buffy valued him so, another part anguished over appearing so weak before her, and he kept his face averted while he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his mouth.

“I guess the breathing thing might’ve been asking too much, huh?” Buffy said gently. Her hand was rubbing small circles in his back, easing some of the tension it found, and in spite of his self-disgust at his behavior, William reveled in the gentle touch she was affording him. “You should probably wipe your neck before you lose much more blood,” she added. “I think April’s boytoy got a little too fang-friendly around your ear.”

“Thank you,” William murmured. His skin was clammy in the cooling night air, and his collar stuck uncomfortably to his neck when he tried to pull it away and clean the area with his handkerchief. “Are you all right?” he asked, desperate to deflect some of her scrutiny from his personage.

“Glad I took off my shoes,” Buffy said with a small smile. “But basically, yeah, I’m fine.” Hesitating, she gnawed slightly at her lip before continuing with the question he could clearly see she wanted to ask. “That’s the vamp who killed David Howard last night, right?”

William nodded. “My apologies that you’ve been dragged into this,” he said. “There is a matter of…friction between April and Richard, that, unfortunately, my poor choice of an alias has led me to join.”

“I don’t think you were the one to suck me in,” she said, though it was so low that he doubted it was meant for his ears. Louder, she said, “We need to talk, William.”

*************

The edges of the pages were softened with age, almost like silk to the touch, but the beauty of the aged journal before him escaped Quentin’s notice as he slowly closed its leather cover. Reading it had not done what he had hoped. Though he now had little doubt that Buffy Summers was somehow dabbling in time travel, the connection between the man within the journal and the events surrounding Esme still escaped the Council Head.

The only correlation he could find was the coincidence of the dates. The young poet who so eloquently scribbled out his feelings on the ancient pages described Buffy’s arrival just prior to the incident with the collection of crystal figurines as quite mundane. There was no mention made of her skills; he spoke of the Slayer as just another woman, though one he was very obviously smitten with. No feats of unusual strength, no tales of monsters bested within his presence. Every word merely chronicled their many, many conversations, what she wore, how she looked…and then everything stopped, just two days after Rhodes-Fanshaw died handing over the collection.

It was almost as if the man had ceased to exist.

He was in the process of having any records of this William Freston exhumed, but that would be a time-consuming process since the comings and goings of an unremarkable young poet over a century before would leave few trails to follow. In the meantime, Quentin was ready to pursue the time-traveling aspect that Buffy Summers had somehow lied about during her interrogation. It meant bringing her back into custody, but considering how easily she fell for Lydia’s dupe, he didn’t presume that it would be a difficult task in the end.

Picking up the book, he casually tossed it into the fireplace, watching as the flames began to blacken and curl the edges. Sparks flew up the chimney, threatening to scatter to the Oriental rug that lay heavy on his study floor, but Quentin was blind to any potential threat. His mind was elsewhere.

The journal wasn’t of any use for him now; lacking details of anything Slayer- or Council-related, it was merely whimsy in light of the tangible proof of Buffy’s blood on the handkerchief he possessed. When the time came to confront her again about her doings in the past, Quentin would much rather be armed with something useful than a collection of anecdotes on the Slayer’s charms.

He just knew that he had to act quickly if he had any hope of discovering the depths of Esme’s schemes.

*************

They had nearly reached the Council building when Esme collapsed against her. Though the witch’s weight was insignificant under normal circumstances, the sudden burden against her shoulder caused Willow to stumble, almost dropping the small bag she was toting. “Whoa there,” the redhead said, snaking her arm beneath Esme’s in order to steady her. “Is there a crack in the sidewalk or something?”

A gnarled hand clenched at Esme’s stomach, and she groaned against some inner pain. “We’re too late,” she said through gritted teeth.

“What?” Willow glanced up to see the Council building in the near distance. “We’re not even there yet.”

“No. The journal. It’s gone.”

“How do you know that?”

The look she shot Willow was withering. “We’ll have to switch to Plan B,” she said, ignoring the redhead’s direct question. She nodded toward a nearby alley. “Go in there.”

A quick glance at the impenetrable darkness was all it took for Willow to dig in her heels. “You weren’t even that clear on what Plan A was,” she argued. “I’m not going skulking about creepy alleys when I don’t know for sure what I’m doing on a Plan B you’re only now mentioning. I haven’t lived on a Hellmouth all my life for nothing, you know.”

“It’s simple,” Esme said. She began to totter toward the opening. “We’re going to do a locator spell.”

She kept waiting for the older woman to stop, but it never happened. “But you just said the journal was gone.”

“It is.” Only Esme’s voice reached Willow now.

“So what are we going to locate then?”

“Not what. Who.”

Curiosity---and a serious lack of other options---finally drove Willow to follow into the alley. Esme was sitting on the ground, pulling items out of the bag she’d been carrying---a strip of aged silk, a broken pocket watch, a vial of freshly ground sage. “Do I get to know who it is you’re going to locate?” she asked.

The older witch pointed opposite her. “Sit.”

Willow’s nose wrinkled at the debris that was scattered on the ground, but stayed silent, taking out the small towel she’d brought to clean up afterward and laying it out before taking a seat. Once her legs were curled beneath her, she said, “You still haven’t told me what you need me for. You know, except for carrying around all your magic stuff since you’re so…so what do you want me to do?”

“You’re going to do the spell.”

Her smile immediately disappeared. “But I’ve never…you’re kidding, right? I can’t do that. Not without some serious research and mucho practicing, and even then, it would probably go wrong, because let’s face it, when it comes to the magic, I’m not always at the head of the class---.” Her voice trailed into a squeak when Esme suddenly grabbed her hand, yanking her forward across the tableau that had seemingly come from nowhere.

“Repeat after me,” Esme instructed.

The Latin phrases that followed were only half-understandable to the redhead, though she caught enough to recognize that it really was a locator spell they were doing. What she didn’t expect, however, was the sudden tug in the pit of her stomach when the incantation was complete, nor the electrical flow that flowed from each of her pores and into Esme’s hand. Her breath caught as a dervish of images began saturating her senses, and she sat, bound to the elder woman, as they slowly began to settle into a discernible pattern.

“Finally, something in our favor,” Esme muttered.

As soon as the magic began to ebb, Willow tore her hand away, the breaking of the contact ceasing the tingling that had begun to burn her palm. “What was that?” she said, her breath suddenly failing her. “You…what did you do?”

“I used your magic,” came the calm reply.

“What? Why? What happened to yours?”

“If I knew the answer to that now, I wouldn’t need you, now would I?” With a wince, Esme rose to her feet. “Come,” she ordered. “We’ve got more work to do.”

*************

She was bored. If she’d known it was going to be this boring, she would’ve packed more reading materials for her temporary incarceration. As it was, she’d been in the holding cell for less than twenty-four hours and she was already starting to think that she’d just about sell her soul to the first bidder if she could just get out.

She was re-reading the file she’d managed to sneak in when she heard the first noise in the hall. Freezing, she cocked her head as she strained to listen, but could hear nothing but the muffled sound of women’s voices. She was about to go to the door to see if pressing her ear to it would help in discerning who it was out there, when the knob turned, the lock that had been keeping her securely inside falling to the floor with a clatter.

Her eyes widened at the elderly woman standing in the entrance. “Esme…” she said. “What did---? Oh!”

It was the sudden appearance of Willow Rosenberg behind the witch that surprised her more. “Hi,” the redhead said with an embarrassed smile and a waggle of her fingers.

“You’ve gone completely crazy now, is that it, Esme?” All she could seem to do was shake her head. “Mr. Travers will---.”

“Quentin will never know,” Esme replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. “But that requires you to stop talking, Lydia, and come with me…”

*************

Chapter 25: Kiss Me, Be Kind

She had no idea where to start processing everything. If she’d thought the morning had been headache-y with the realness, and the Victoriana, and the waking up snuggled up to William instead of by her lonesome back in the hotel room, Buffy was facing the mother of all headaches trying to come to grips with everything she’d learned in the past two hours. The biggest thing, of course, was…

William really was Spike.

Spike was William.

And because she’d slept with William, that meant…she’d slept with Spike.

Except…did she? Did she really?

Hadn’t Angel proved that having a soul made him a completely different person? And Willow’s vamp self didn’t seem anything like Willow’s human self. And most of the time, William was nothing like Spike. He was kind, and gentle, and so devoted, and smart, and he liked poetry, for goodness sake. So, really, she’d only had sex with William, right?

Except she couldn’t shake the thought that she’d had sex with Spike. And loved it.

And, if she was being truthful, kind of loved William, too.

With a frustrated growl, Buffy rolled over in the narrow bed, watching the shadows dance on the wall from the flickering candle at her side. Had Esme known who she was setting Buffy up with when she’d left the journal to be found? Was this all part of some master plan that Buffy still didn’t know? And if it was, what did the mess with the crystal collection and Richard and April have to do with it all?

Her mind jumped at the opportunity to think about something other than Spike---William, she hastily corrected. Learning what the mysterious April was---something that the Council had no clue about---had settled a bunch of the puzzle pieces into place for her. A Slayer turned Vampire, and the entire incident deliberately withheld from the Council’s records because Richard feared the retribution his turned Slayer would face at their hands when they discovered the truth.

In spite of the troubles William had experienced at April’s hands, he’d still been sympathetic toward Richard when he’d related what he knew. “He loved her,” he’d simply said. “I believe part of him still does. And he can’t bear to have any remnant of what might remain of her to suffer unnecessarily if he can help it. That’s why he’s spent so much of his life trying to find her and kill her himself. Because only then could he ensure that her death would be a swift one.”

“And now she sees you as some kind of messenger boy?” she’d asked.

He’d nodded. “It’s my own fault, really. I chose the name, and I let David run rampant over my interventions when she arrived. Of course, I had no idea who or what she really was at that point…” His voice had trailed off, a small frown darkening his eyes behind his glasses. “I must admit, I’m not entirely sure why she bears a different name now. I mean, Richard is the one who called her April first. Why would she continue such a falsehood when it’s not her true identity?”

She’d only shrugged, but inside Buffy had been nodding in understanding. She got it. She’d had the proof of it with Angel, aka Angelus, aka Liam. And with Spike.

Damn it.

Now she was thinking about Spike again.

William knew nothing. She’d deliberately refrained from physical contact for most of the day and it had been absolute torture, especially when she knew that simply holding his hand would alleviate some of her stress. After coming to the realization about Spike, however, touching had just seemed wrong---well, until he got sick in the street and then it had taken all Buffy’s self-control not to throw herself at him, he looked so disconsolate.

But what could she really say in explanation? That he was going to get vamped at some time in the future, only she didn’t know when? That his vamp self was a royal pain in her ass whenever he showed up in town and that he would try to kill her so many times, they’d both lose count?

That last question made Buffy bolt up in the spare bed she’d been given for the duration of her stay. Not once had Spike ever hinted that he knew anything about a past they might share, and somehow, she had a feeling that fucking a Slayer was something he’d consider fairly bragworthy. Had she already changed history by getting involved with William? Did all this prevent Spike from ever being?

It had to. Why else would the annoying vamp never mention their liaisons, or suggest that he might know more about her than met the eye? The innuendo that kind of knowledge would afford him would be too great of a gift for him to resist spilling, and Buffy couldn’t think of a single incident where his smirks or snark weren’t justified by the surrounding events. So, not saying anything could only mean that, for him, it never happened.

The possibility that she could be in a different timeline altogether raised its head as she mulled over what a Spike-less world would be like. Nothing had changed prior to her getting stuck in the past, and since she’d slept with William prior to that happening, logic suggested that maybe she’d been wrong in telling Richard that she wasn’t from some parallel universe or something.

Or maybe all those Hollywood movies and physics guys got it wrong, and traveling back in time didn’t really mess things up when you got back at all.

Too many options. So many, she wanted to toss them all into the wastebasket and start fresh. For now, though, Buffy was going to go with the one that she liked the most, mainly because it meant something good came out of this whole situation. There was no way the Spike she knew wouldn’t have gloated about bagging another Slayer, ergo, all of this stuff happening with William now couldn’t possibly affect anything in her world any more than it did prior to getting stuck in 1879. Which had been nothing.

She knew one thing for sure. She owed William an apology. As gracious as he had been from the start, as accommodating as he’d been throughout the day, her behavior toward him---even in light of the fact that he’d withheld information from her that could’ve proven useful---had been rude. Her mom would so have a field day with the How could you, Buffy?’s if she ever found out.

Pushing back the heavy duvet, Buffy forgot the slippers that were half-hidden by the bed and tiptoed for the door, straining to hear if anyone was out in the hall. When she was sure it was empty, she pushed it open, the sudden draft billowing her cotton nightgown around her legs, and quickly crossed the narrow space to rap on the opposite door.

“Yes?” she heard through the thick wood.

She waited for him to ask who it was, but when nothing came, she twisted the knob, peeking slowly around the edge in case she was disturbing him.

William sat at his desk, his journal open in front of him, his glasses tossed haphazardly aside. His shirt was untucked from his trousers, the collar undone, exposing the fine curvature of his clavicle, and the distinct downward slope of his shoulders as he rested his head on his hands all but screamed some sort of exhaustion.

“I won’t be needing my tea tonight, Meg,” he said without looking up.

“That’s a relief,” Buffy replied. The moment he heard her voice, William’s head shot up, twisting so sharply to see her in the doorway that she swore she could hear his neck crack. “I wouldn’t have a choice but to think that picking up future girls in your sleep was like a regular hobby for you.”

He rose to his feet, eyes darting past her to the open door. “Is there something wrong with your room?” he asked anxiously. “Do you need for me to send for something?”

“No, no, my room is just great.” Her hands were shaking in her nervousness---though why she was suddenly so jumpy around William, she had no idea---and her fingers played with the loose ties that hung from the front of her nightdress. “What about you?” Buffy asked. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I find my mind refusing to cooperate with the rest of me,” he joked half-heartedly. “It has a tendency to do that, unfortunately.”

When she smiled with him, William tilted his head in curiosity for a moment before ducking his gaze. He was…embarrassed. It was then that Buffy realized that not only had her up-and-down behavior of the day left her mentally exhausted, it had also left William questioning just what to expect from her, driving him back to the shy young swain of their very first encounter. After everything they’d been through together, he no longer could predict with any certainty what she might do, and just waited shyly to follow her lead.

He’d never seemed less like Spike than he did right then.

“How’s your neck?” she asked gently, taking a step closer.

His hand automatically lifted to touch the scratches half-hidden by his hair. “Much better,” he replied. He looked at her through his lashes before adding, “Thank you.”

“Let me see.” Closing the remaining distance, Buffy took his hand in hers to pull it away from the small wound, getting up on tiptoe in order to look at it more closely. When her breath fanned across his cheek, she felt William’s fingers tighten as he steadied his nerves, and swallowed when her mouth suddenly went dry.

“It shouldn’t scar,” she pronounced, breaking the contact and stepping away. She looked up to see the color rising in his cheeks, his eyes riveted to hers.

“I hate that you saw me so.” His voice was low and rough, so contradictory to the gentle pleading for understanding that darkened his gaze. “This could all be over for Richard now if I’d only---.”

“If you’d done anything differently, you’d be dead. And that’s the last thing I want…William.”

As he searched her face for some sort of understanding of what exactly was going on, the silence between them stretched from seconds into minutes. “I can’t decide,” he finally admitted. “I know you have…details about my future that frighten you, and while I understand intellectually that knowing those would be wrong, in my heart, I’m desperate to beg you to tell me what you know. Perhaps then I can understand why it is I’ve lost you.”

“You think you’ve lost me?”

“Haven’t I?”

What could she say to that? Denying his feelings would be a slap in the face for him; Buffy was more than aware that she’d been bouncing back and forth in her behavior, and to try and disclaim it would only make things worse.

So she said nothing about his direct question, choosing instead to change the subject.

“I only came over because I wanted to say I’m sorry. About you having to deal with Bitchy Buffy all day. This has been just as big a shake-up for you, too, and it wasn’t fair of me to take out my frustration on you.”

He was shaking his head before she even finished speaking. “I have no need for apologies,” William hastened to say. “Today has been…climactic, to say the least, but you can be certain there are portions of it I’ll treasure to my grave. If anything, I should apologize to you for failing to divulge what I already knew. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t be in your current predicament.”

“Sounds like we should call it a draw,” Buffy said with a smile. “Because we’ve played this round robin game before, and to tell you the truth, it’s getting a little old.”

William nodded, and after a moment’s hesitation, stepped aside to clear a path toward the door for her. “I do appreciate your thinking of me,” he said, his eyes now averted from hers again.

“You want me to go?”

“Never, but you said---.”

“So, can I stay for a bit?” He looked up at that, and Buffy was momentarily flustered by the brilliance of the blue. “You know, just to talk. Like…before.”

“Always,” William replied. “For as long as you wish.”

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled.” The relief that suffused her body warmed the chill that had settled there earlier, and Buffy almost bounced as she perched herself at the foot of the bed. “There’s so much I want to ask---.” She cut herself off in mid-lotus when she saw him staring at her. “What?”

“Are you…comfortable?” he managed to say. He gestured toward the small chair near the window. “Perhaps it might be more…presentable for you to sit there instead.”

Her brows cocked as she looked from William to the straight-backed chair and back again. “Are you serious?”

His color rose again at her amazement, and he began to fidget where he stood, taking a small step toward her only to retreat again, all the while his hands dancing from his hair to his pockets to each other in an attempt to stay busy.

“I must ask,” William finally blurted. “If only not to completely lose my mind.”

“Ask what?”

“Rather than unnecessary apologies, I’d very much like to hear what exactly our situation is. You and I. Before this morning, we were…intimate, and there were moments today if felt as if none of that had changed. But there were so many more…where I wasn’t even sure if we were friends, Buffy, let alone anything beyond that.” He was pacing as he spoke, more agitated than she’d ever seen before. Obviously, this had been building in him for quite some time, and it was her casual ease with his personal space that had finally made him crack.

“You wouldn’t even let me help you into the coach,” William continued, “but now you come to my room, and you touch me as if nothing was amiss, as if…as if you haven’t spent the entire day treating me as if I was just some polite acquaintance.” He held up his hands to cut off any protestations that might ensue. “Which, if that’s what you want, is more than acceptable. I’ve told you this, time and time again. I’ll savor however I can get your company, whether it’s friendship or more, but, Buffy…you have to tell me what it is you want. I don’t know any more, and it’s tearing me apart.”

“What if I don’t know?” she asked. “What if I’m just as confused as you are?”

“Then tell me that. Don’t sweep it under the carpet and try to pretend it doesn’t exist. If you fear my reaction, don’t. I’m not going to run from you, simply because I may not like what I hear. I don’t do that.” He was in front of her in a flash, knuckles bearing his weight on the mattress on either side of her, eyes intent as he leaned in. “I. Am not. Your Angel.”

“No,” Buffy said quietly. “You’re not.”

The scent of his skin assaulted her senses, his nervous sweat combining with the sharp tang of his soap to make her nerve endings throb in a hunger that surprised her. She’d never seen him this forceful before, demanding to have his own desires satisfied first instead of hers, and yet none of it seemed particularly out of character. Because none of what he said was wrong or out of line.

Her admission seemed to cause his fervor to ebb, and the tension in William’s shoulders fractionally eased. “Answer me this,” he said. “And don’t try to avoid the question, or lie to me, because I’ll know. Does your uncertainty hinge on what you perceive my future to be?”

No lies. No avoidance. Was he trying to kill her with this?

“Maybe,” she admitted.

“You don’t wish to see me hurt,” he guessed.

“No, I don’t want to see me hurt,” she countered.

That took him by surprise, bowing him back so that he could more broadly scrutinize her face. “But I would never hurt you,” he proclaimed. “Haven’t I said it enough for you to believe me?”

“No, I believe you,” Buffy replied, but he missed her slight emphasis.

“And still you hold choices I have yet to make against me.” William shook his head. “Our futures aren’t set in stone, Buffy. I have to believe that I would do everything in my power to preserve you from harm. I must. I’ve given you my word, and that’s…it’s all I have.”

“No.” Lifting her hand, she cupped his cheek tenderly. “You have much, much more than that. You’re a good man, William. Don’t let anyone ever tell you different.”

“But is that enough?”

He didn’t have to elaborate. The quiet desperation in his voice, the love he couldn’t hide in his eyes, the slight tremor in each word as he spoke…and she knew.

“It is for me,” Buffy said.

The muscles worked in his throat as he visibly swallowed. “So,” he said, “I’m going to ask again, and I promise that this will be the last of my questions. Are we merely…friends now? Or will you let me love you, as you deserve?”

Every worry that had tormented Buffy since coming to the understanding about William’s potential future seemed to dissipate in the face of his sincerity. She had been able to distinguish between Angel and Angelus to love the former without qualm, even after his return from hell. This, with William, was no different.

“You’d love me even if I said friends, wouldn’t you?” she asked.

“How could I just stop?” he replied, just as quietly.

“You couldn’t.”

“So…are we? Just…friends?”

Slowly, Buffy shook her head. “I think we’ve come too far for that, don’t you?”

The shred of hope that brightened his eyes made her heart leap. “Does that…mean…?”

She stopped him with a kiss, leaning to press her lips to his. He jumped at the initial contact, but it took only a moment for William to surge forward, his hands cupping her face as he devoured her mouth. His tongue was hot, and frenzied, its hunger matched only by the ferocity of his fingers as they slid to tangle in her hair, and he maneuvered to sit at her side on the mattress, not once breaking the seal of the kiss.

The draw of his flesh was all it took for Buffy to slide her hands up beneath the tail of his shirt, kneading the muscles she found before pushing the fabric up onto his shoulders. He broke apart long enough for her to slide it over his head, dark eyes never breaking from the sculpture of her face, and as soon as she’d tossed it behind her, his mouth returned, this time to nibble and taste at the hollow of her throat.

Buffy gasped when his fingers grazed over her breasts, her nipples pebbled even through the cotton, and then squirmed when his hands settled on her hips. A firm tug took her by surprise, causing her bottom to slide forward, and before she could react, her nightgown was pushed up around her waist, her slick thighs exposed to the warm air of the bedroom.

“What are you---?” she started, and then stopped when William pressed his hand onto her stomach, preventing her from escaping as he slid down the length of her body.

His tongue was warm and wet in the trail it forged over her nightgown, searing her through the fabric and making her thighs tremble in anticipation. “Lie back,” she heard him murmur, just as his mouth found the first bare patch of skin along her leg.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing,” Buffy commented as she complied with his instruction.

“What I’ve been ravenous for since the first time I touched you,” William whispered against her skin.

Tiny nibbles down her inner thigh left Buffy panting for more, her mind a clamor of color that made the room spin, and she squeezed her eyes shut in a vain attempt to make it stop. This hadn’t been on her agenda when she came over, but damn if she was going to tell him to---.

“Oh…” she breathed when he finally moved his hand from her abdomen to trace the wetness glistening along her outer lips. It was followed almost immediately by the feather touch of the tip of his tongue, and the air in her chest escaped her control.

Though his boldness had grown in leaps and bounds with each encounter they shared, this oral exploration took Buffy by giddy surprise. She was sure that the combination of his earlier frenetic mood and the reiteration of where they stood was the impetus for his hunger, but it was still unsettling and astonishing, leaving her wondering just how far he would actually go, given the right circumstances.

It also left her grateful that she’d foregone the old-fashioned underwear and came to his room wearing only the nightgown.

“Oh, Buffy,” William murmured. She heard him inhale, and his hands quivered where they brushed across the soft skin of her inner thighs. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

It wasn’t a question that demanded a response, which was just as well, because speech wasn’t exactly possible when Buffy’s lungs refused to cooperate. His tongue had returned, and when it flicked over her clit, her hands clawed into his blanket from the sudden shock of pleasure that shot up her abdomen. It didn’t leave, either. It came back, again, and again, and again, to finally curl around the bundle of nerves in a flood of sensation that made the room reverberate around her.

The irony that her first experience with oral sex would come at the mouth of the least practiced man she’d ever known---well, he’d been the least practiced in the beginning; being a fast learner definitely moved him toward the front of the pack---didn’t escape Buffy. She didn’t care, though. His appetite seemed nowhere near being sated, his fingers roughening as an inadvertent rake along her skin made the Slayer audibly moan.

Unconsciously, she began pushing back against his insistent tongue, grinding against his mouth as William’s fingers slipped inside. Stroke matched with lick, over and over and over again, sliding in and out…up and down…driving Buffy closer and closer to the brink until a catch of his teeth against her clit sent her careening over the edge.

Her scream of pleasure was silenced when William abandoned the musk of her sex to stretch out on top of her and devour her cry with an eager kiss. His throbbing cock pressed against her pussy, but when she tried to reach down to free him, he grabbed her wrist, twisting her arm up and over her head.

He stayed mute when he reached to undo his trousers, breaking away from her mouth to look down at Buffy. Though her pulse was pounding along every inch of her skin, she felt herself falling at the intensity of his gaze, the crescendo of her orgasm still echoing inside her skull. “I love you,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

William froze. “What?”

She couldn’t take it back now, even if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “You heard me,” Buffy said instead, and ground her hips against his, eliciting a groan from William’s throat. “Now…please. Don’t stop.”

His mouth was back on hers at that, taking what she so willingly offered, as he firmly and deliberately guided his cock past her slick folds. In and out he plunged, each thrust driving her into the mattress with a strength she didn’t know he possessed. It was maddening in its regularity, driving and pounding with an incessant rhythm that blurred the world around her, and all she could feel was the feverish thirst of his tongue, the hard column of his shaft.

The litany started the moment William finally began to quicken his pace.

“Buffy…love you…always…so much…love…always…oh, Buffy…so beautiful…” She knew he would complain later at his ineloquence, but in those seconds that stretched into forever, each syllable weighed just as inestimable as his poetry for her.

He came first, his shoulders arching away before bending back so that he could bury his face in the curve of her neck. “I love you,” William murmured again, his final thrusts driving Buffy to a second, or third, or whatever count it was, orgasm. Only when he finally stopped moving did he release his hold on her arm, and he seemed momentarily stricken when he realized how he’d been posing her.

“It’s OK,” Buffy soothed when he started to pull away. She tugged him back down so that his weight was full upon her, smoothing back the sweat-soaked hair that clung to his brow. “I liked it.”

Considering her words, William dropped his head to rest his forehead against hers. “Stay with me tonight,” he said.

She’d been hoping he would say something along those lines, but it didn’t stop Buffy from voicing her question anyway. “What about the maid? Won’t everyone, you know, talk?”

“I don’t care. Stay with me.”

She answered by placing a chaste kiss on the sharp line of his cheek. “What if I wake up back in my own time?”

“Then I’ll have had even one night of heaven. Stay.”

*************

As soon as she saw the light disappear from the keyhole, Meg pulled back from where she’d had her ear pressed to William’s door, her face hot. She hadn’t meant to listen, but when she’d hesitated at the top of the stairs with his nightly tea and spied Miss Summers disappear into the Master’s bedroom wearing only her nightclothes, the desire to know what was happening had been too great.

Half of their conversation had been indiscernible through the heavy wood, but Meg had caught enough before the mood had changed to know the depth of the feelings between the two. There had been talk in the kitchen after dinner, when William had disappeared with the coach to take their new guest shopping, and while the speculation had been rampant, Meg was almost relieved to hear that it was as simple as a matter of love. Certainly, the shy young Master was worthy of such a thing. He was kind, and generous, and hardly, if ever, raised his voice.

And so far, she liked Miss Summers. The young American didn’t look down her nose at the staff, and more than once, Meg got the impression that Buffy would’ve wished to speak to her if she had the opportunity. Most people who came to the house didn’t even recognize her presence. Well, except for that dreadful Mr. Howard and his unwelcome advances, of course. But Miss Summers seemed like the sort who wouldn’t put up with such nonsense. She would be a good mistress of the house once Mrs. Freston passed on.

Being careful to avoid jostling the tray she’d left sitting next to his door, Meg chewed at her lip as she headed back for the stairs. There would be questions about her long absence, but somehow, telling everything of what she had learned about William and Buffy seemed…wrong. Perhaps a carefully edited version would suffice, one where she simply told of overhearing the declarations of their feelings for each other.

Surely, the truth of their circumstances would come to light soon anyway. After everything he’d done for her, Master William deserved the courtesy of Meg holding her tongue for a little bit longer.

*************

Slowly, Rose finished brushing out her hair, her eyes weary where they stared back at her from the dressing table mirror. The day had provided more surprises than was normal, and after the unexpected inclusion of young William in the April debacle, she wouldn’t have said that was possible. Yet, Buffy Summers was here, and now Rose had to figure out what the Slayer’s presence meant for the completion of her plans.

Nothing could change. Rose couldn’t risk altering the timeline any more than she already had. She’d spent too many years watching over Richard Rhodes-Fanshaw, and while she’d never predicted falling in love with the Watcher she’d been sent to guide, she was here for a purpose, and that purpose couldn’t be sidelined this far into the game. April needed to be controlled. End of story. And though time travel was not normally accepted among her group, those women who watched the Watchers had deemed it necessary in this case. The cost of not had just been too high.

She started when she heard the light rap at the door, and turned in time to see Richard poke his head inside. “Aren’t you coming to bed?” he asked. “It’s late.”

“Yes,” she agreed with a smile. “I’ll be right there.”

It was late. Her deadline was nigh. Rose only hoped that she could meet it.

*************

She desperately wanted to ask if there was a Plan C.

Because Plan B?

Scared Willow halfway around the moon and back.

Her hands shook as she lit the last of the candles, causing the flames to flicker in the ebony vacuum of space. She caught Lydia’s raised eyebrow, but the Watcher said nothing, choosing instead to turn her eyes to where Esme was scanning over the contents of the file. For a brief moment, Willow had considered running away from the whole escapade---after all, Esme had admitted that she couldn’t do this without the resource of the redhead’s magic, for some reason---but a sudden flash of Buffy’s still-sleeping body back in the hotel room had stopped her from doing so.

Esme said this was the only way they could get Buffy back.

She didn’t really have a choice but to pray that the older witch was right.

Looking around the bare warehouse where the spell was taking place, Willow announced for anyone who was listening, “I’m ready.”

Silently, Lydia picked up the weapon Esme had made her take from the Council, training it on the patch of floor that had been designated for the job. There were other means stationed around the space, and all Willow could do was hope that it was enough. And that the Watcher’s obvious excitement for the job didn’t impair her ability with the crossbow.

“So use that for Buffy instead of---.”

Except she was concerned, and it was too late now to do anything about it.

Within the circle of candles, Esme was now seated opposite her, and just as in the alley, Willow’s hand was held tightly in her gnarled grip. At least this time, she knew kind of what to expect, though the idea of the other witch somehow channeling Willow’s magic to cast the spell gave her the wiggins. And hopefully, it wouldn’t hurt as much this time, either. Her palms still itched from the last time they’d done this.

Carefully, Willow read out the incantation that had been written out for her, avoiding the unhealthy darkening of Esme’s eyes. The empty warehouse that had been selected began to fill with wind, hot and dusty as it swirled around and through their tableau. The candles remained lit, however, even when the invocation was complete, and she lifted her gaze to watch the waiting space.

“Is it working?” Lydia asked, speaking for the first time since arriving at the depot.

“It’s working,” Esme confirmed.

“And you’re sure this will help the Slayer?”

This had been a double bonus for Lydia. Aside from the obvious, she’d admitted that rescuing the current Slayer would likely help her regain some of her status within the Council. If Travers learned that she’d contributed to getting Buffy back into active duty from the stasis Esme’s spell had placed her, surely all her wrongdoings would be forgiven.

“For the last time, yes. In order to complete the circle, the Slayer needs an anchor in this time to draw her back. That’s what William’s journal provided, but with that gone, I need to enchant something else of his to give to her.”

The air in the waiting space was thickening, darkening with mass, and Willow’s heart thumped wildly inside her chest as she watched.

Black.

White.

More black.

And it began to take shape, until the unmistakable form of a man appeared crouched on the floor, most of its body hidden by the midnight leather that draped over it.

Esme smiled, slowly rising from her seat. “Or William himself,” she added gleefully.

A pale hand splayed to the concrete, steadying an uncertain balance, and as the wind died, a familiar bleached head shook as if to clear it.

“Bloody hell,” Spike muttered, the two words echoing inside the warehouse.

*************

Chapter 26: Give Me Welcome

The contents of his stomach threatened to revolt as his fingernails clawed into the cement floor, only fractionally steadying the room’s incessant swaying. Spike knew he’d drunk a lot, but it wasn’t the cheap swill he’d nicked from the Chilean bartender that was responsible for his current discomfort. No, this was strictly the result of someone messing about with magics---on him, no less---and to say that he was little bit pissed off at being their guinea pig was like saying the soddin’ Queen was just a little bit English.

And just as soon as the floor stopped pitching, he was going to rip out the throat of the witch responsible.

Out of the corner of his eye, the flicker of candles was interrupted by a shadow passing in front of them, and he turned his head to snarl at whoever it was approaching.

“The sickness will pass, William,” the old woman said casually. She was completely unfazed by his attitude, and continued to advance until she stood just beyond his reach. “It’s best not to move until it does.”

Lip drawn back in a sneer, Spike deliberately shoved against the floor, propelling himself upwards until he was vertical and the gloom of the warehouse was visible all around him. He ignored the sudden desire to vomit across his boots and instead swallowed the bile back down as his vampire visage came to the fore.

“Don’t know what your game is,” he growled, “but the rules just changed.”

An arrow whistled through the darkness as he began to charge, embedding itself in his thigh. Howling in pain, Spike skidded to a halt and yanked it out, golden eyes intent on the figure that emerged from the shadows.

“That would be unwise, Mr. Freston,” the blonde woman said. A crossbow was trained on his chest, and she was expertly reloading another arrow as she gazed at him through her spectacles. Everything about her screamed Watcher, but it wasn’t that observation that cast a pall over the vampire’s anger.

“The name’s Spike,” he said slowly. It had been a long time since he’d heard anyone refer to his real surname; when he needed an identity, he always opted for something untraceable. He wanted nothing to do with the human sop he’d once been.

The old woman wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I would’ve thought you’d find that too common, William.”

It wasn’t that he disliked being called by his original name; it was the familiarity in which she used it that made Spike bristle. “Look,” he said, “I don’t rightly know what this is all about, but if you could just point me in the direction of the nearest pub, I’d be willing to overlook whatever insanity seems to afflict your little Addams family here.”

Her dark eyes locked on his face, so piercing that he would’ve squirmed if he didn’t know she was only human. “Don’t you know me?” she asked.

“Should I?”

“It’s been a long time for you, but…” Another pause while she continued her scrutiny, this time circling around him like she was appraising him for purchase. Spike followed the revolution with her, head lowered and eyes gleaming dangerously beneath his ridged brow, until they were both back in their original position.

“There’s no doubt you’re William,” she said. “A vampire now, but still…William. So it must be your memory that is suspect. You’re sure you don’t remember? You knew me as Miss Esme.”

“I’m sure you were a right catch, and if Dru or me ate your beau or something, well, that’s just the way the cookie crumbles, isn’t it? But I’m tellin’ you---.”

“No, you would’ve known me looking exactly like this.”

She seemed so sure that Spike actually stopped to look at her closely again. Only a little slip of a thing, skin wrinkled with advancing years but eyes still sharp and inquisitive. For a moment, the faintest of flashes made him pause, his vampire mask slipping away as his head tilted in contemplation, but then it faded, and he was left repeating his denial.

“Could we have made a mistake?” the Watcher asked behind Esme.

“No, but this certainly does make things just a bit more interesting,” she replied.

“Does interesting mean we still get Buffy back?”

The inclusion of the third voice---one he hadn’t anticipated in his concentration on the two women in front of him---made Spike’s attention jerk back to full-speed, his chin snapping up as his gaze slid around the old witch.

“You!” he exclaimed, finger pointing in accusation. Willow shrank back further into the shadows, even though he hadn’t moved an inch closer to her. “I should’ve known the Slayer was behind all this! That fuckin’ little bitch! No wonder Dru was so nutso for thinkin’ she could see her all the time, floating and all that nonsense. Wait ‘til I tell---.”

“Ms. Summers isn’t responsible for your presence here, William,” Esme said evenly. “I am.”

His eyes darted between the cowering redhead and her elder. “And Red here’s joined up in the Future Wiccas of America Club?” he commented. “I don’t think so. Where the Slayer goes, she goes. And vice versa. Had enough firsthand experience of that not to fall for whatever line you’re tryin’ to hawk.”

“She’s telling you the truth, Spike,” Willow said. “Buffy has no idea we did this. Do you really think she’d let me be hanging out here all willy-nilly without her being around as back-up?”

The witch had a point, even if it was a small one. “But you said something about gettin’ the Slayer back,” he said cautiously. “All this hocus pocus still’s somehow tied to her, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Back to Esme. “I’ve brought you here to make you a trade. One you should find very difficult to refuse.”

Spike snorted. “Not like I haven’t heard that one before.”

“Has anyone ever offered you the opportunity to kill a turned Slayer?”

He had to give her credit; Esme sure knew her timing. “There’s no such thing,” he said, carefully watching the Watcher behind her for a reaction. “Council of Wankers makes sure of that when one of ‘em bites the dust. Too unpredictable, I always heard. ‘Course, that’s half the fun, but then, they’re not exactly in it for the fun, now are they?” Another deliberate slide of his eyes over the Watcher, and this time, Spike would’ve sworn he saw her blush. “Not sharin’ with the whole class, are we?” he taunted her. His tongue tsked in reproval. “Sneaky and double-dealing with the enemy. If you weren’t one of them, I’d almost like you.”

“We didn’t know---,” the Watcher started, but immediately shut up when Esme raised her hand.

“Lydia is all too aware of Council policy,” she said. “As am I. And the Council only destroys turned Slayers when they actually know of their existence.”

“You’re tryin’ to tell me one of them slipped past the Wankers’ radar? Find that a little hard to believe, luv.”

“It’s not that difficult when her own Watcher lied about the circumstances of her death for the official records. For them, April was just another vampire, and Masia was long buried. But, surely, you must remember that.” At his blank look, she added, “Richard Rhodes-Fanshaw? Does that name mean nothing to you?”

“Just that someone’s mum and dad probably had too many sticks shoved up their asses.” This game that she was playing about his memory was starting to wear thin. “Look, as fascinating as your little offer sounds, I think you got the wrong guy. I don’t know anything about---.”

“Do this for me, and I can return your love to you, once and for all.”

For being no bigger than a toadstool, she sure as hell knew how to take charge of a situation. And how in hell did she know that he’d been stewing over losing Dru? For a moment, Spike’s eyes flickered to Willow’s pinched face. She had to be the one to know that was a bargaining chip. She’d sat there and listened while he’d cried his drunken eyes out over his dark princess. More than anyone else, she’d know how much getting Drusilla back for good would mean to him.

And, he had to face facts…the prospect of going after a turned Slayer was certainly appealing, even if he did think Esme was a few cards short of a full deck. And having a Watcher in the mix---a not unattractive, obviously interested in him even if she did take a shot at him, Watcher---gave it an air of credibility that he might otherwise have ignored. Still…

Again, Spike’s gaze wandered to the redhead. Anything involving Buffy Summers never turned out in his favor. If he had half a brain, he’d walk away from this deal right now, before he lost a little bit more than his pride.

Unfortunately, it was the other half that seemed to be in control of his mouth at the moment.

“So far,” he said, “I seem to be the only one benefiting from this little arrangement. You said something about a trade. What is it exactly you want from me?”

“It’s not anything you haven’t done before, William,” Esme said with more than just a little smugness. “I just need you to save a Slayer.”

*************

She would giggle if she could hear his thoughts at that exact moment. But as William watched Buffy sleep, his fingers trailing up and down her arm---because not touching her for as long as he had the opportunity seemed inherently wrong---he couldn’t shake the belief that she had somehow saved him. Having her trust in him, for surely she had to in order to allow him the luxury of loving her, was the salvation from mediocrity that he’d always yearned for. No vile words from callous concomitants could harm him for as long as he knew Buffy saw him as a man of value.

Those had been her words, after all. “A good man,” she’d said. She believed it; why shouldn’t he?

Part of him was mildly ashamed for his coarse taking of her flesh, devouring the succulence between her legs that had driven him mad with want since the first time he’d touched her and then pinning her to the bed to ravish her as if only his physical needs were what mattered. A smaller part wanted to smile in pride for having the nerve to do so, even if it had mostly been provoked by his raging frustration at her dallying to respond to his questions, because just a few days ago, he would never have been secure enough in his desires to act on them in such a way.

And a much smaller part, one that he had to be certain to keep locked away from Buffy’s scrutiny lest it drive her to do something foolish, was whispering, “Please don’t ever leave me.”

Intellectually, William understood that she had to go. She didn’t belong in his time, just as he didn’t belong in hers. The world was ordered to proceed along certain paths, and the magic that had been used to bring them together was dangerously close to butchering those courses. Richard’s assessment of how careful they must be not to do anything that would further damage it was correct, as far as William could tell.

It didn’t mean he had to like it.

In fact, the longer she stayed, the more he detested the idea.

With Buffy gone, life would return to the mundane ritual of waking, and tending to his mother---once he got her back---and struggling with the verses that always seemed so clumsy and shallow beyond the Slayer’s presence. Gone would be the rush of excitement that made his spirit scamper like a newly-freed foal every time Buffy walked at his side, and gone would be the sense of satisfaction that hearing her laugh and smile with him brought to his heart. The days would again be cold and gray, and William would have no choice but to continue existing in them.

It shouldn’t be this way, he rationalized. They loved each other. She had told him, with her words and with her body. Surely, those with such commitment for each other deserved to be together.

But he’d read enough literature and poetry to know that that wasn’t always the case. How often did love go unfulfilled? How often did the hero have to sacrifice himself in order to preserve his paramour’s safety? For every tale with a happy ending, there was one that wept with tragedy, and William had a sinking suspicion that their romance landed in the latter category.

Gently, he allowed his fingertips to graze over the upper swell of her left breast, eliciting a soft moan from Buffy’s throat. A smile played on her lips while she slept, and as he continued to stroke her ever-so-soft skin, she turned her head so that it nuzzled deeper into the protection of his shoulder.

There would be raised eyebrows in the morning, William knew, and the gossip would surely spread throughout the community about how young Freston was carrying on with that American strumpet who was staying with him, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t been lying to Buffy when he’d disclaimed the rumors her sharing his bed would generate; if he could, he’d marry her on the spot just to prove to one and all exactly what his intentions were.

The random thought made his hand halt in mid-stroke. Why couldn’t he marry Buffy? Not only would it be the honorable thing to do in order to legitimatize the duration of her stay, but it would also prove to her once and for all that nothing she may know of his future could ever counter how assuredly he’d fight to protect her. Though he lacked specific details of what it was she feared---other than knowing she believed it would hurt her---William had to believe that having given her his word, nothing could deter him from it. In that, he’d been most sincere. If he didn’t have his word, then, really, what did he have?

Already, ideas were starting to take shape, plans began and schemes formulated. Nothing fancy, he decided. There wouldn’t be enough time for that. Just a simple ceremony where he could declare his love for her. Perhaps he could even write a little bit of verse to share. Buffy always seemed to appreciate that, and it would show everyone just how sincere he was in his feelings.

Impulsively, William leaned down and took Buffy’s mouth in a delighted kiss. There was no response at first, but as his tongue swiped over her lips, they parted to allow hers to tangle briefly.

“Mmmm,” Buffy moaned, rolling onto her side so that their torsos were pressed together. She pulled back from the caress as her eyes fluttered open, lids still heavy with sleep. “Is it morning already?”

“Not yet,” William whispered. His hand brushed back a tousled lock of blonde hair, hooking it over her ear before allowing his palm to cup the side of her face.

“I’m still here,” she murmured, letting her lids fall closed again.

“You’re still here.”

“Aren’t you tired?”

He chuckled. “If you’re asking me to choose between being aware of every minute I have with you, or sleep, you’re asking a very foolish question.”

Buffy smiled with him, letting her head drop back to the pillow. “I like your bed. It’s comfier than mine.”

“It’s yours for as long as you wish to stay.”

Her eyes opened again at that, this time slightly more alert as they scanned his. “We have to go see Richard and Rose in the morning about what they’ve figured out in getting me back. You know that, right?”

“Of course. That doesn’t negate my invitation, though.” Letting his hand slide down the side of her body, William stopped at her waist as he tugged her even closer against him. “I’m fully prepared to make the most of whatever I can get with you. One of these days, you might actually start believing that.”

The sadness was starting to return to her eyes, and before he could allow her to continue articulating that voice of Slayer reason that so permeated her existence, William bent in for another kiss, commanding her to silence with every taste of her delectable mouth.

“No more dwelling on what will be too bright to ignore come morning,” he whispered when he broke away. His lips skated across her jaw to the fine shell of her ear, and he breathed in the glorious scent of her hair as he felt the room begin to spin beyond his control again. “For now, I just want to stay lost in you, where all that matters is you and I, and witches who do miracles by bringing you to me don’t regiment our every thought. Agreed?”

He felt her nod and promptly returned to drowning in her kisses. In the back of his mind, though, revenants of his proposal still stirred, congregating with the fears that Buffy would somehow either disappear before they could come to fruition or that her obstinance in maintaining appearances and the timeline would bar them from happening. Surely, he could find a way. He was not a stupid man, even if he was a trifle impulsive. Convincing her to accept his vow just had to be possible.

*************

Giles hesitated outside Anne’s door, exhaustion bowing his shoulders. He would’ve much preferred returning to her room with good news, and while he had more information than he had prior to leaving her side so many hours earlier, none of it was optimistic. If it weren’t for his assurance that he would return to her, Giles would almost have foregone knocking at all, choosing instead to return to his own accommodation and attempt to reason through their situation through without the cumbrance of a woman dragged straight out of time.

However, he did make a promise, and though he may not care for the creature her son would become, he already found himself liking Anne too much not to honor his word.

Please be asleep, he thought as he knocked. Those wishes were squashed when he heard the distinct sound of bed squeaking, followed by the soft padding of feet. She astonished him by opening the door, her face pale and drawn but her eyes alert in spite of being tired.

“You’re up,” he said redundantly. For some reason, barging in as he had earlier seemed rude in light of her improved health, and he lingered in the dark hall as she smiled up at him.

“As are you,” Anne replied. Her hands held the front of her dressing gown together, and though she kept the door between them, there was an ease to her demeanor that surprised Giles even further. “I’d thought you’d retired for the evening.”

“I’ve been searching our…” For a moment, he faltered. What did he call this place? Prison? Fortress? These were negative connotations and not ones that would be conducive to alleviating any stress Anne might be feeling regarding their situation. “…quarters,” he finished. “I’ve only just come back.”

Some of her weariness was stripped away at his words. “Have you found a way for us to return home?” she asked eagerly, and then hesitated as another, darker thought came to mind. “Is William here as well?”

“No,” Giles said. “To both questions, unfortunately.”

“Oh.” Anne’s face fell, and she quickly appeared her age again. “Do you know where we are, at least?”

He sighed, removing his glasses to rub tiredly at his eyes. “I wasn’t able to find a means out,” he explained. “We seem to be in a subterranean level of an ancient manor. The end of this corridor has a tall stairwell that leads upward, but I couldn’t find any means of power in the upper levels. What I could see before the light failed me was that wherever we are, it doesn’t appear to be inhabited. Except for us, of course.”

“But…if it’s a house, there’ll be doors. And windows.”

“None of them open. And the glass in the panes is unbreakable.” It pained to have to admit defeat. He’d spent too many minutes trying to find new and inventive ways to shatter the windows, all to no avail.

She quieted, obvious thoughts flashing through her head. “But the food,” Anne finally said. “It’s coming from somewhere. Surely, there’s a servant who’s taking care of such matters.”

“No,” Giles repeated. “There’s only us. I’m certain of that.” Taking a deep breath, he ignored his misgivings about the propriety of his upcoming question, and asked, “Do you believe in magic, Mrs. Freston?”

The transparency with which Spike had worn his thoughts and emotions was clearly inherited from his mother, he realized. If he so chose, Giles could literally catalog each disposition as it passed behind Anne’s eyes, the apprehension segueing into skepticism, only to be assaulted by a truth she couldn’t deny before merging into a timid concession.

“This might seem forward, Mr. Giles,” she said, stepping away from the door as she held it farther open, “but I’d very much like for you to come in. It seems as though there is much we need to discuss.”

*************

The first thing she noticed when she stepped off the platform was that London smelled different.

A century earlier, the city’s scent was worn like a proud mantle---sweat, and blood, and sewage, and more blood, and the heat of thousands of bodies pressed together in tiny spaces. Walking through its streets had been an explosion of sensation, leaving a vampire so heady with power and desire that it was simple to forget to be smart about a kill. It was why the Council made London its home. The demons were drunk on their own stupidity.

Now, however, it was an entirely different matter. Now, April’s senses were assaulted by petrol fumes, and curry, and a mishmash of colognes and perfumes that made her eyes burn, and, even though sunrise was still an hour off the horizon, already the honks and exhausts of the vehicles of this time were shattering her eardrums.

“Tell me again why I bother with this city,” she muttered as she began heading for the exit. It was impossible to keep her disgust from her voice; even the aged security guard near the door heard her.

Nathan was right at her heels, their bags slung over his shoulder as he loped along to keep pace. “We could always cross the Channel,” he offered. “Think of how long it’s been since we’ve done Paris.”

“After,” she said. Her bones were weary from traveling, and she was still understrength from the damn spell that had bound her for so long. “Right now, all I want is a good night’s rest, and then Esme’s head on a silver platter. Or any color platter. I’m not picky.”

“And you’re sure she came here? I mean, her scent was all over that Welsh train station, but she could’ve just used London as a pitstop. She might even be in Paris, for all we know.”

“She’s here,” April replied grimly. “You told me she needs a Slayer for whatever power mojo she’s lined up, right? That’s why she agreed to help you release me. And where else do you go shopping for a Slayer but Slayer Headquarters itself?” She stopped on the street corner to survey the familiar Council building in the distance, shaking her head at the sense of dread that was curling around the pit of her gut. “God, I hate this town.”

*************

Chapter 27: Against This Coming End, You Should Prepare

She kept her eyes glued to his back, every nerve ending on alert for a sudden shift where Spike might whirl around in a swish of black leather and decide to heck with the deal he’d struck with Esme and have himself a Willow-shaped Scooby snack. It wouldn’t be the first time, and just a brief flash of memory of that night in the Factory was all it took for Willow’s fist to curl tighter around the stake clenched in her hand. At least this time, she had a weapon. The crossbow would’ve been much more deadly, but she couldn’t carry that and her bag of magic stuff, and still have a smidgeon of hope to actually be able to use it without shooting herself in the foot.

“Why do you get Lydia?” she’d demanded when they were packing at the warehouse. “Why can’t I have the Watcher bodyguard?”

Fine she said, Willow groused silently. What’s so fine about walking through Underground tunnels with a hungry vampire who violently hates the person he agreed to do this for? Which made no sense, except for the fact that Esme had agreed to get Drusilla back for him and that made Spike all kinds of happy.

“Oh, yeah, because burning books is always for the greater good,” Willow commented. “Found any pretty swastikas lying around in his office lately?”

“My prejudices?” Now, she was getting riled, all her fears and all her frustrations about the situation with Buffy, Spike, and Esme focusing on the unsuspecting Watcher. “Listen here, missy---.”

“Well, let’s see. I get to chock up another notch by killing a turned Slayer, I can put this Dru cheating nonsense behind me once and for all, and I get Little Miss Stick-up-her-ass beholden to me for pullin’ her outta whatever fire she’s got herself into this time?” He grinned. “Hell, yeah, you got a deal.”

Personally, Willow hated the deal. She’d hated the deal when Esme had first brought it up; she’d hated it when Lydia had jumped into the fray with both feet and so much gusto that the redhead had thought she’d have an orgasm on the spot at the possibility of being in such close proximity to Spike; and she’d hated it for every second Esme had stolen her magic to make it happen.

“Stop lookin’ like I just killed your best friend,” Spike said, shooting a glance back at her as he rounded a dank corner. “I’m the bloody cavalry, remember?”

“Don’t remind me,” she muttered. Out of the corner of her eye, a whiskery scuttling made her hands twitch, and she unconsciously stepped just a little bit faster, closing the gap between her and the vampire.

“Frankly, I gotta admit to bein’ surprised the witch brought you along for the ride,” he went on to say.

It was all she could do not to sigh in defeat. Oh, great. Spike’s in one of his chatty moods. Lucky me.

“I mean,” he continued, “I know your little dabblin’ helps out the Slayer back in Sunnyhell, but face it, that Esme’s a big gun to your little water pistol. I didn’t suss out anything was wrong back at that Chilean bar ‘til I was plastered to the floor of the warehouse. Granted, she’s a spot cracked thinkin’ I should know her---.”

“That’s because you do.”

It came out before she could stop it, mostly because she was tired of listening to him go off on the memory thing. Though she’d been holding on to that last vestige of hope that Spike really wasn’t Buffy’s William, seeing his reaction to his real name had been all that was necessary to squash the pipe dream flat. Willow didn’t understand why he didn’t remember what had happened---unless maybe it was some other-dimension thingy where Buffy was meeting a different William, in which case having this William wouldn’t work to get her back, and oh, she was going to stop considering that possibility right now because that way led to badness and loss of hope---but in the grand scheme of things, it didn’t make much of a difference, did it, because here she was, and there he was, and god, how could Buffy ever be in love with him? And whoa, was she going to wig out in huge massive quantities when she finally woke up and realized that it had been Spike all along. That was one show Willow did not want front row tickets for.

It took running into Spike’s motionless back for her to realize he’d stopped moving, and was watching her with that same intensity he’d leveled at Esme each time she’d brought up knowing him. “What?” she demanded, lifting her chin with a defiance she didn’t feel.

“Always thought you were the smart bird,” he said. “So I’m thinkin’…there’s a twist to this little bit of O. Henry that someone’s not sharin’.”

She felt the color leech from her cheeks. Both Lydia and Esme had warned her before they did the spell about not letting Spike know too many details about the situation; information gave him power, and he was one vampire they couldn’t afford to get the upper hand. Besides, what good would it do her anyway? He didn’t remember anything that had happened---or was happening, or whatever, and boy her head was starting to ache thinking of all the potential paradoxes---so it was better just to play it cool like Esme had said. They couldn’t afford for him to go off half-cocked for whatever reason until after he’d done what they needed.

Frankly, Willow was against any kind of cocking when it came to Spike, but then that came as a result of being on the wrong end of one too many broken bottles, now didn’t it?

“Oh, look,” she said, pointing at the sign on the wall with the brightest smile she could muster. “This is our stop. Time to go get you a room, Spike.”

And before he could stop her, she rushed past him to disappear through the exit, the first time she’d risked having him behind her and out of her sight since leaving the warehouse.

*************

Something was up. Red knew it. That nutter witch Esme knew it. Hell, even the Watcher bird knew it. The only one out of the loop was Spike, and he was beginning to wish that he’d ignored the pain from the arrow and the disorientation from the spell and just killed the lot of them while he could.

Scratch that.

He was already there.

The look on Red’s face before she’d fled for the upper levels of the hotel had been all the confirmation he’d needed to know they were holding back on him. Considering his present circumstances, he was none too pleased with the idea of being in the dark on any of it. Sure, the prospect of taking on a turned Slayer made his body resonate with anticipation, and hell, hadn’t he already proved he’d do just about anything to get Dru back? It was the Buffy Summers part of the equation he was having problems with, and for some reason, Spike suspected that she was the root of whatever it was they weren’t spilling.

From the corner of the hotel lobby, Spike watched Willow wait in line to speak to the front desk about getting him a room near hers. He wasn’t too keen on holing it up in the pit of London, but Esme had been vague on when he’d be taking this April chit on.

“She’ll show,” had been all the witch had said, like it was fucking preordained or something. At least he’d laid his own terms out there, plain as day, that he wouldn’t lift a finger for Buffy until he got what he wanted. And that they’d be footing the bill for any roof over his head. And that he got carte blanche to do whatever the hell he liked during his off time.

Though why he had to stick with Red, he still wasn’t too sure on.

Wonder where the Slayer took off to, Spike thought distractedly while he fidgeted in his spot. And wonder why it is they need a vamp bloodhound to get her back.

His nose twitched. Something about the lobby was getting under his skin, and he shifted his weight once again, fighting back the urge to slip into game face. It was something in the air, a dynamic perfume of intoxicating vim that hinted with a promise of war. Not strong, but---.

Spike stiffened.

It was Slayer.

More importantly, it was Buffy.

Well, that didn’t make any soddin’ sense. With a scowl, Spike’s gaze swept over the crowd, trying to discern where exactly the scent was coming from. Why would they need him to bring the Slayer back if she was right under their noses? It wasn’t very strong, but it was there, nagging and annoying now that he’d identified what exactly it was. His chin lifted when a turn of his head directed him to the hall that led to the ground floor rooms, his body stiffening and his cock hardening as he concentrated on the smell.

There it was.

Willow was still nowhere near the front of the line when he glanced back. Can finish this here and now, he thought. Then they’ll have no choice but to follow through on their promises. Not for a second did he doubt Red’s commitment to their deal. She may be the slaymate of the month, but she had that same sense of cockamamie fairness Buffy sported. She’d honor the contract that had been made, whether she liked it or not. And who could tell? Maybe she’d be all extra-grateful for his getting her best friend back so much sooner than they’d planned. Maybe he could add to his pot of goodies for this good turn.

For someone who’d been so skittish walking beneath London with him, Willow didn’t even notice when Spike slipped out of the lobby and into the proper corridor.

All it took was a matter of following his nose. Down the narrow hall twenty feet…make a left…another eight feet…and the scent that had been growing stronger with each step started to wane.

Spike stopped, swiveling to look at the door he’d just passed. A “Do Not Disturb” sign hung from the old-fashioned knob. From behind the heavy wood, the very slow, rhythmic thud of a heartbeat accompanied the Slayer smell there was no point in denying. He frowned.

He contemplated what his options were. If the lot didn’t know where Buffy was, that probably meant she was either hiding from them of her own free will or someone else was hiding her. Either way, knocking at the door probably wouldn’t do him a lick of good.

God bless public places, he thought as he twisted the knob in his tight grip, snapping the lock that held it in place.

The interior was dark, and Spike immediately switched into vampface in order to navigate down the narrow entryway. Oh yeah. This was Buffy’s room. The whole place stank of Slayer.

Never mind the fact that his entire body was rock hard at the prospect of seeing her. It had always done that in the presence of Slayers, the fervor at what was impending exciting him beyond belief. And, as much as he may hate her, Buffy had always been the worst of the lot, all sinuous gold and so damn vital that it made the poet in him threaten to rear his insipid head, while at the same time making him feel like there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do. It was one of the reasons why he was always so willing to take her on. For some inexplicable reason, he always went into a fight with Buffy convinced he could win.

The moment he saw her curled under the blankets, Spike froze, the other aromas in the room exploding into his consciousness.

Nutmeg and citrus so entwined it made his body soporific.

Blood and sweat, heady as if from a recent fight.

And the unmistakable scents of sex, both Buffy’s and another’s, mingling in a not-so-long-ago afterglow, that made Spike’s cock twitch and drip inside his jeans.

Slayer got a boyfriend was the first thought that was able to register past the initial onslaught, which immediately merged into Where the hell is he then? Her heartbeat was the only one in the room, and try as he might, Spike just couldn’t sniff out a male presence. Well, not a male body anyway. There was no mistaking the smell of semen that emanated from the bed.

Her face was flushed with sleep, and the slow, rhythmic pounding of her heart that he’d attributed to meditation was the result of a deep slumber. She fucked herself out cold, he thought, and then his lips uncontrollably quirked into a half-grin. Not bad, Slayer. Not bad.

He almost didn’t have the heart to wake her up, but he had a job to do and damned if he was going to give the witch an excuse not to pony up. Stepping forward to the side of the bed, he kicked at the stead bolted to the floor, nudging the mattress slightly as if rocking her would do the job.

“Slayer,” Spike called out. Not too loud. For some reason, he had an urge not to make it such a shock. When she didn’t move, though, he kicked harder, repeated her name just a little bit louder.

Still nothing.

“Bugger,” he muttered with a frown. What had happened here? She wasn’t stirring; there were no self-righteous protests about not wanting to wake or even an unconscious acknowledgement that someone was disturbing her rest. It didn’t seem like any post-coital nap he’d ever heard of. It was almost coma-like.

“Slayer,” he said softly, crouching down at the side of the bed. This close, he could see the gentle rise and fall of her chest, a measure that beckoned him to join in, and Spike had to ball his hands into fists not to reach out and push back the hair that had fallen across her cheek.

God, she was beautiful. Breathtaking, even. He forgot that sometimes when his bitter thoughts turned to Sunnydale and the nightmare that had been his tenure there. Probably because she always had her mouth going, spouting off that Chosen dross or aiming well-honed sarcasm in his direction. Briefly, he flashed on what kind of California girl she’d be without the slaying badge, but couldn’t quite place it. For some reason, he saw her in a plain white dress, her hair tumbling freefall around her shoulders.

She’d probably hate it. Not couture enough.

Didn’t mean she still wouldn’t be magnificent in it.

Fuck.

Being so near to her was messing with his head. It was that, or the witch’s teleportation spell still making things go sideways and upside-down. He should just grab the Slayer and shake the life back into her. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t take it.

He really, really would if his muscles would just work.

But they wouldn’t.

And so he just watched.

*************

OK.

Not wanting to have Spike hanging around had been mega bad.

Losing him was even worse.

He was nowhere to be found when she’d turned away from the desk. She’d immediately poked her head outside to see if he was having a cigarette under the front awning, and then spent the next five minutes rushing around from corner to corner inside the lobby, opening doors when she couldn’t see him right away and even venturing a daring dash into the men’s restroom to see if he was hiding in there.

It was only when she’d exhausted all the options minus the door to the tunnels that had led them from below that she realized the only other way out was the hall that led to hers and Buffy’s room.

Her sneakers pounded against the worn carpet as she rounded the corner, and she almost passed out when she saw the “Do Not Disturb” sign lying forgotten outside the slightly ajar door. “Nooooo,” she breathed as she pushed her way in, and froze when she saw the vampire crouching at the side of the bed.

“Spike!”

Her sudden shout made him jerk back as if scalded, whirling with a blaze of anger to glare at her. “Jesus, Red!” he barked. “Give a bloke a little warning next time!”

“Get away from her, Spike,” Willow warned, reaching for the stake she’d stuffed inside her pocket. Her attempts to look menacing were thwarted when the wood got caught on the inner seam, and she had to tug against the grain in order to free it from her pants.

Spike relaxed, rolling his eyes. “Save it,” he said. “Nothin’ wrong with your precious Slayer.” His head swiveled back to gaze at the blonde on the bed. “Except for the Sleeping Beauty routine, of course.”

“What were you doing?” Warily, she stepped around the far side of the bed, muscles tense and ready to play tug-of-war with Buffy if the need arose.

“Tryin’ to wake her up.” There was a sobriety to his response that she didn’t expect, and Willow frowned as she tried to find some double meaning in his words. “Had about as much luck as you did, I reckon.” He looked up then, and her breath caught in her throat at the naked confusion that lingered in the blue, blue eyes. “This your handiwork?”

“No. Yes. Well, kind of.” She exhaled, deflating from the sudden release of adrenaline in her limbs. “It’s a long story.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

She couldn’t help but ask. “You didn’t kill her. She’s all defenseless and just lying there, and…why didn’t you kill her?”

Spike shrugged. “Well, that wasn’t the deal, now was it? S’posed to be ridin’ in on my white horse and all. That Esme doesn’t seem like the type who’d fall for the ‘oops, I accidentally ate her’ excuse, either, and since she’s got some serious mojo in gettin’ me here in the first place, it wouldn’t exactly be smart of me to go pissin’ her off, now would it?”

Willow refrained from mentioning that it was her mojo that had done the dirty work, and instead nodded in abstract agreement. It still didn’t satisfactorily explain why he hadn’t at least tried to hurt Buffy, but maybe it was better not to look a gift vamp in the mouth.

“Come on,” she said, holding out the key that she’d gotten from the hotel desk. “I need to show you where your room is.”

For a split second, she thought he was going to turn her down, but then he nodded and stepped away from the bed. “You bunking in here then?” he asked as they both walked for the door.

A quick glance over her shoulder was accompanied by a distasteful wrinkling of her nose. “No,” Willow replied. “I thought about it, but…it’s kind of…ooky, what with Buffy being out cold like that. It just seems…wrong. I got another room for me for now.”

Spike shook his head. “You humans. So fussed about a little sex. You shouldn’t hold it over the Slayer that she didn’t get a chance to shower before you knocked her out. Not like it’s not perfectly natural or whatnot.”

He was out the door and waiting for her in the hall before what he said sunk in. “Huh?”

*************

Buffy watched him get dressed, pulling his trousers up over his slim hips, watching the fine cotton of his shirt stretch across the breadth of his shoulders. They had both slept in, far too long, but while she had rushed around like a madwoman to get ready for their meeting with Richard and Rose, William had been absolutely languorous in his grooming, humming under his breath while he washed his hands, playfully flicking some of the water in her direction when she teased him about dawdling. He was acting as if he didn’t have a care in the world, and while it was nice to see him happy instead of miserable, his loitering was maddening.

“Can afterglow be a little quicker, please?” she asked. “Rose and Richard are going to think something’s up if we don’t show soon.”

He smiled at her gibe, dropping the tie he’d been fighting with to the desk before curling his arm around her waist to pull her against him. The outline of his erection was obvious even before William pressed his pelvis to hers, and his breath was a tickle in her ear when he bowed to nibble her neck.

“Something already is,” he whispered.

Buffy could feel the embarrassed flush of his cheek against hers, even though his growing boldness meant that he kept a firm grip, and she couldn’t help but smile as she leaned into him. “I’m going to start thinking you only want me around for the sex,” she joked.

He went rigid, pulling back to look down at her with something akin to panic in his face. “Have I been too demanding?” he asked fervently. “You know I love you, don’t you? It’s not just---.”

Her fingers on his lips quieted him. “I’m kidding,” Buffy said. “You’ve proven to me more than once what you and I are all about.”

Softening at her understanding, William lifted his hand to play with the loose tendrils that had already managed to escape her braid. “Before we leave…” he started, and then stopped, a small worry line drawing his brows together as he seemed to chew on his words.

“Before we leave…what?”

He took a deep breath. “There’s a matter…of some significance, that I’d like to discuss with you. And before you say anything about it not being appropriate, I’d just like to preface it by saying that I’m not mad, and I’m not being too impulsive, contrary to what you may think.”

“There’s something that I want to talk about with you, too.” She’d been waiting for an opportunity to bring it up all morning, and had decided that waiting until they were at the Watcher’s would do if it would hurry William up, but with him in such a conversational mood, Buffy figured it was probably better to get it done now rather than later.

His head tilted in curiosity, and though she could see the desire to opt for his subject matter battle in his eyes, his good breeding won out, and he merely nodded in acquiescence.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s about…last night. With April. About the fight.” It all came out in a rush, the bottling of how strongly she’d felt about protecting him the previous day returning to prominence in her mind as the words tumbled forth. “I want to teach you how to defend yourself in case it happens again. Being around Richard, and being around me for however long I’m here, and not knowing what the deal is with your mom…I’d just feel better if you knew what to do in case you got attacked again. One of these days, you won’t have anywhere to run to, and I don’t want to see you get hurt when that happens.”

Mentioning his previous flights? So not the way to go, Buffy thought when William stiffened and pulled away. Dark shutters fell behind his eyes, and his head ducked as he turned to his tie on the desk.

“This isn’t some macho thing,” she hastened to add. Her hand curled around his arm to force him to back. “I know you’d protect me if you could---.”

“What I mean is---.”
“I know what you mean.” His voice was low, roughened by barely restrained anger and ache. “You don’t think I haven’t been aware of my shortcomings ever since you told me the truth about who you are? I know I’m a coward. I know my first instinct has always been to run, and to hide, because I’ve been trained very, very well, Buffy.” He lifted his head then, and his eyes burned her as they locked on her face. “But I would do anything to ensure your safety. I would die for you, because you’ve shown me what life could be like. I thought you understood that.”

She did. She really did. She just needed him to be safe. It was the only way she could leave him behind.

“You’re not a coward,” Buffy said softly. “You have no idea how brave you really are. Just because you don’t know how to kill a vamp doesn’t mean anything. But I am not going to let you be stupid, either. April is dangerous. She knows you. More importantly, she can find you. You can’t trust vampires, William. You might think you’re safe because she’s decided you’re useful for now, but all it takes is for her to wake up one day and go, ‘Oh, I think I’m going to have a little poet for dinner tonight,’ and then, poof! You’re dead.”

“I’ll protect myself---.”

“By letting me show you,” she finished. She stepped closer. “I don’t know how long I get to stay here, but I do know that evil doesn’t take vacations, or sit on the sidelines while the good guys warm up. I can do this for you, but you have to let me. I can’t…I can’t go back knowing…” Buffy stopped, fearful of saying too much.

William was silent for far too long, regarding her with an odd mixture of disquiet and adoration that made her want to squirm inside her shoes. Finally, he asked quietly, “Do you know what one of the first things I ever noticed about you was?” When she shook her head, he said, “Your eyes. What an amazing shade of green, and how wondrously ancient they were. As if you’d seen the end of the world and lived to tell about it.”

Her smile was wan. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Perhaps. Maybe…more of an observation. Last night, you were frightened to open up to me because of what you know. Today, you’re frightened for the exact same reasons when you have no need to be. I know you feel as if you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Buffy, but it doesn’t have to be that way. I’m willing to share any and all that you trust me with. You do trust me, don’t you?”

She nodded, mutely.

“And you trust that I’d do anything for you?”

Another nod.

This seemed to satisfy him. Bending at the waist, William brushed his lips across her cheek, allowing his mouth to linger near her ear as he murmured, “I refuse to be the source of any of your pain, my love. Promise that you’ll stop worrying about what hasn’t even happened yet in my life, and I’ll do whatever it is you ask of me. Agreed?”

The relief swelled inside her. “Agreed.”

He was slipping on his jacket by the time she remembered.

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” Buffy asked curiously.

There was a moment where he paused, his eyes shifting to the side before returning to her face. “It’s nothing,” William said, and settled his hand in the small of her back to guide her toward the door. “Come. Let’s not be even later than we already are.”

*************

Chapter 28: Whereof Are You Made

Every revolution of the carriage wheels tightened the crush around William’s chest, an escalating tempo that forced his heart to pulse so loudly that he was certain Buffy could hear it at his side.

Every revolution took them nearer to Richard’s home, nearer to the answers she sought, and nearer to the gaping loss William was convinced would be left in his life once she was gone. London had never seemed so small to him before that ride; briefly, he mused whether it would ever seem large enough for him again. How does one disappear in a city where borders no longer exist?

Every revolution sealed his fate just that much tighter.

Outwardly, William maintained a neutral mien, smiling appropriately when she would squeeze his hand in reassurance, commenting on the architecture she pointed at through the open windows, offering his handkerchief to cover her nose when they passed a particularly foul portion of town. It was simple to do; after all, he’d spent the greater part of his life keeping up appearances for his mother, and while they often didn’t fool the more astute gentry, Buffy was too wrapped up in her own little world to notice his distraction.

Because inwardly, William raged at the injustice of his entire situation.

Where was the equity in offering him a moment of blissful salvation, only to snatch it away in a fit of karmic pique? Prior to Buffy, not one person beyond his own household had ever bothered to look beyond the guise he presented, to see the passion of a man desperate for love but too frightened of spurning to risk asking for it. She had seen through his attempts at concealment, and liked him anyway---loved him, by her own admission. How could he be expected to just hand her back, to a world where the men in her life were blind to what she had to offer, where her responsibilities shaved shards from the moments she was allowed peace…

…to a world…where William wasn’t?

How he wished he had the fortitude to revolt against what was expected of him. Nothing would satisfy him more than to march into the Rhodes-Fanshaw home and announce in no uncertain terms that he was ceasing all communications with Richard’s precious Council, that Buffy was staying and that William was man enough to discover the truth about what had happened to his mother, and Richard and the rest of the world could just go to hell with their vampires and their demons and their magical teas that tore the fabric of time, because William had his own life to lead, with enough human monsters to shame their history books, and he was going to do it with the woman he loved at his side, damn it.

And Buffy would realize that she could stay after all. That this new and improved William wasn’t the fool who needed to be rescued at every juncture. That he was worthy of standing at her side---not to lead the way, for Buffy had more than proven she was capable of doing just that---but to provide his support in helping her in any way he could. That they could be partners, in every sense of the word, and he could live out his days knowing the warm touch of the woman he loved.

It played out beautifully in his head.

Just like his fantasies always did.

Decorum kept him in his seat as the coach rolled to a stop in front of their destination. Though the desire to act may swell inside him, William knew he would never act on it. Buffy had made her wishes more than clear, and it was impossible for him to deny them. The prospects of marrying her that had kept his spirit so focused during the night had their polish slightly tarnished by her accidental dismissal of his ability to defend himself, but he nursed them, nonetheless. It would merely require careful timing, he reasoned.

He smiled as he held out his hand to assist her out of the carriage, and warmed slightly when she smiled back.

Now, however, was not the time.

*************

She paced in front of the closed door, feeling kind of like one of those fathers from the fifties walking the length of a hospital waiting room waiting for news of an impending birth. All she needed was a box of cigars to pass around, and Willow figured she’d be all set. Except the news she was waiting for wasn’t nearly as cheery as a baby, and Spike was the only one she knew that smoked, and no way was she going to let him anywhere near Buffy until she absolutely had to.

She didn’t care what Esme claimed about Buffy being safe around him.

When an elderly hotel guest rounded the corner, Willow came to a halt in front of the room, plastering a wide smile on her face while she looked her best to appear nonchalant, and didn’t exhale again until after the stranger had disappeared. There was nothing wrong going on inside, but somehow, she just couldn’t shake the impending sense of doom that had settled thickly around her, like that Eskimo parka she still had hanging in the back of her closet back home.

Spike’s observation about Buffy had sparked all kinds of wrongness in Willow’s head, spurring her to call Esme as soon as she’d stashed the vampire in his room and locked herself in hers. The witch had seemed blasé about the potential of the situation, but agreed to have it looked into, mildly alleviating some of the stress that was wracking the redhead’s body into pre-final conniption fits. Now, all she had to do was wait, while the looking into got finished.

As if on cue, the door behind her opened.

“Are you done?” Willow asked, rushing forward. “Was he right? Please tell me Spike wasn’t right.”

Lydia’s lips were pressed into a thin line as she regarded the young woman. “What did Esme tell you about the spell?” she asked evenly.

“The one on Buffy?” A sharp nod. “Not a lot. Just that she’d charmed the book to act as the anchor to keep bringing Buffy back, and that the tea acted as the catalyst for the time traveling.” Her eyes widened. “Why? What’s wrong? What did you find out?”

“Not enough,” came the reply. “We need to get Esme here. As soon as possible. I don’t think I care for the ramifications of this spell she’s done.”

“Oh, because doing it in the first place was such a brilliant way for Buffy to go,” Willow muttered as she followed Lydia into the room.

*************

The silence was oppressive when they finished their tale, though Buffy thought that maybe part of that was because of the massive furniture that comprised Richard’s study, or the rows of dusty books that made the walls seem to loom twice as large as they actually were. There was more than a passing resemblance to the high school library in regards to the atmosphere, but that worked in the Slayer’s favor. It made it much easier to relax when relating the previous night’s adventures.

“Are you all right?” Rose was the first to speak, her eyes sweeping between the two younger people. While Buffy had accepted the offer to sit on the leather divan, William did not, opting instead to hover stiffly at its side. Every so often during their recounting, his hand would drop to settle on her shoulder, abstractly playing with the soft tendrils at her nape, before withdrawing again into the preoccupied mood that had kept hold of him since leaving the Freston home. Buffy wasn’t trying to press the issue of his distance; she knew he was still somewhat shell-shocked from what he thought of as his failing at her talk this morning about self-defense.

The query prompted William’s fingers to lift unconsciously to his neck, twin spots of color brightening his cheeks. The Slayer, however, was the one who answered.

“As good as can be expected, considering I didn’t even know there was a vamp Slayer out there,” she said. “Or does this Council have the same standards on what exactly is shareworthy information as mine does?”

“If I recall, you stated you wouldn’t be out after dark,” Richard said. “And we agreed that our realms of knowledge shouldn’t overlap any more than was necessary, in order to protect the timeline. Why should I apprise you of an issue that should never have arisen when I assumed William would keep his word to have you home before sunset?”

“Sir, I---.”

“It wasn’t William’s fault,” Buffy interrupted. She cast a glance at him out of the corner of her eye to see him retreat even further into his shell at her intervention. “You really think a teenaged girl out clothes shopping in a new city is going to pay attention to the time? It was totally because of me we were out so late.”

The Watcher’s lips pressed together for a long moment. “You are not here to sightsee,” he finally admonished, and then softened. “Though I’m relieved to see you weren’t gravely injured in your encounter. April can be…unpredictable.”

Buffy shrugged. “She seemed pretty high on the predictability to me. She’s strong, but if her boytoy hadn’t cut in, she would’ve been dust fairly quick.”

Both Richard and Rose sat up straighter at the casual statement. “You think you can kill her?” Rose asked.

“She’s a vamp, isn’t she? That’s what I do. I don’t know why you haven’t just sicced the current Slayer on her.” When she caught the guilty glance the two older people shared, she had her answer, and felt surprising anger bubble up inside. “How many did she kill?” she asked tightly.

“Just one,” Richard admitted, and then sighed as he turned to stare into the fireplace. “A year after Masia was turned, I was in Batavia. The Slayer who was called after Masia’s death was positioned there, and I thought…I’d heard she was quite the warrior. So, I went there, knowing April would follow me, and hoped that the Slayer’s skills would be sufficient.”

“And?”

“Sofani was dead the first night April was in the city. She drained her, and then left half of her on my doorstep to find, and the other half at Sofani’s Watcher’s. I was on a boat the very next day. I never again allowed myself to be in the same city as a Slayer. I couldn’t have another death on my hands that I could possibly prevent.”

Flashes of Kendra filled Buffy’s head, and she swallowed to stop the rise of guilty bile in her throat. “Don’t worry about her anymore,” she instructed. “I’ll take care of it.”

Richard shook his head. “I can’t ask that of you.”

“You’re not asking. I’m telling.”

“It’s not your concern, Miss Summers.”

“Yes, it is. As long as she’s alive, she’s a threat to people I care about. She’s a threat to William. I’m not letting him get hurt again.” The silent thought that he’d get hurt by Drusilla soon enough made her chin lift even higher.

Beside her, William cleared his throat. “Buffy and I have agreed that she’s to teach me some elemental maneuvers in order to protect myself from another attack,” he said. “It would be simpler if we could get your aid in the matter, since training is your line of duty, but even if you choose not to help, we will do what we must to remove April from being a danger. She’s gone too long unchecked, and too many people have died at her hand. We can’t allow that to continue.”

Maybe it was his continued use of the word “we” that made Buffy smile. There had been no further discussion of her request to train him since their earlier argument, and while she’d tried chattering away on the ride over as if nothing was wrong, the distance that stayed between them was impossible not to feel. She hadn’t said a word about it, though; when it came to trying to make things better, she had an inordinate capability of saying exactly the wrong thing, as so adequately proven during her explanations regarding her reasons for teaching him. So, she kept mum on the subject of his mood, and smiled as much as she could, and hoped that William would forgive and forget before it was too late.

It looked like maybe he had.

Richard was regarding them with narrowed eyes, his uncertainty about their united front making him hesitate. “As much as I appreciate your…passion,” he said slowly, “and as much as I might agree with William’s need for training, that might not be possible, considering your extenuating circumstances, Miss Summers.”

“Well, we’ll just have to extenuate them back in our direction, now won’t we?” she retorted, and then stopped. A gravity had settled in the room, exacerbated by the increasing fiddling with her skirts that was occupying Rose, and Buffy couldn’t help the feeling that something was going unsaid. “You know something,” she accused softly. “You figured out something about the spell that brought me here.”

“Potentially,” Rose conceded.

“And when were you going to fill me in?”

“They’re merely…suspicions at this point,” the older woman said. “I’d prefer more information to substantiate what I think I’ve discovered.”

“So tell me who to shake down for this information so we can get the show on the road.”

“That would be you two.”

*************

They were making her be watchdog.

Under other circumstances, Willow didn’t mind being the lookout. Her magic wasn’t yet solid enough to be a reliable weapon, and she was much better acting as a distraction rather than actually staking a vampire.

These weren’t those kind of circumstances, though. This was her best friend’s welfare, and the fact that Esme and Lydia were shutting her out was making Willow cranky beyond belief.

They were in the hotel room now, supposedly going over the details of the spell Esme had used on Buffy, so that the fears that Lydia refused to share with Willow could be allayed. She’d been ordered to stand guard in the hallway, and to prevent Spike from entering while they had their discussion.

It wasn’t exactly a discussion, though. Even though she couldn’t make out any of the words, the volume of the Watcher’s voice and the rapid tempo at which she was speaking were the only clues Willow needed to know that not all was peaches and cream between the two Council employees. Lydia didn’t like something that was being said, and Willow would’ve given just about anything to know what it was.

With her ear pressed to the door, she didn’t even hear the presence come up behind her.

“Somebody forget your invite to the special ball?”

Willow jumped at the cool breath that tickled her ear, whirling to see Spike standing there with an inquisitive smirk on his face. “Stop doing that!” she hissed.

He pretended to pout. “And here I thought we were friends, Red,” he said.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” She stepped in front of the door with her arms folded across her chest, though both of them were more than aware that her slight frame would barely be a gadfly in stopping him. “You should be resting up for fighting April.”

“Got peckish. Thought I’d step out for a bite.”

Her eyes widened at the implication, but she lifted her chin in defiance. “It’s still daylight. And you’re supposed to be bagging it until we’re done, Esme said.”

“This the same witch who locked you out of your own room?”

Willow flushed. “It’s not my room anymore. It’s Buffy’s. And, and, they’re just talking out some of the details about…what’s going on.”

When a particularly loud shout from Lydia escaped from behind the door, Spike’s brows shot up. “Awful loud talkin’,” he commented. Her nerves jumped when he leaned closer to the door, cocking his head as he listened in. “Guess they don’t much care for the Slayer’s off-hours entertainment choices, either.”

“You don’t---,” she started, and then the reality of his words hit her. “You can hear them?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “How is it you lot always seem to forget I’m a vampire? ‘Course, I can hear them. Not like they’re bein’ subtle about their fight.”

She really shouldn’t do it. Spike was the enemy. Her job was to keep him out of the fray while Lydia got everything sorted. That was the only reason she was out in the hall.

And if they hadn’t locked her out of fixing her best friend, she might’ve actually listened to that tiny voice of reason in her head.

“Can you tell me what they’re saying?”

*************

Chapter 29: A Poet's Rage

Temperature was normally of no consequence to him. Hot. Cold. Lukewarm. All the same. When it came to heat, only the searing simplicity of fresh pumping blood sliding down his throat elicited any regular reaction from Spike, making him hard, making him throb, making him alive.

Now, though…trudging through the sewers of London, he was all too aware of the pressing damp trying to cling to his pores, each draft around his ankles making him unexpectedly chilled. It was welcome. Like the blood that dripped from his shredded knuckles, the result of repeated punches into the stone wall he’d found after losing the Watcher bird, it distracted him for milliseconds at a time from the war currently raging inside his skull.

For Spike, that had been enough to start the questions from earlier tumbling again. But hearing Red and the witch argue after the Slayer’s X marks the spot display had been the impetus for answering at least one o