Life Harsh

by Soulburnt

After the battle against the Senior Partners, Angel and Spike unwittingly fall into company with an actual angel. This is a prequel to 'Life Hard.'

4. Settling

Settling

⸹

North Carolina

May 2004

⸹

"Hey." Someone shook Angel's shoulder. "Wake up." He opened his eyes, looking blearily over at Sally in the driver's seat. She had twisted around and was now shaking Spike's knee, the easiest part to reach as he sprawled in the back. "Wake up," she repeated.

Angel glanced out of the windshield. Darkness was beginning to shift into soft gray. He sat up straighter. "Where are we?"

"Six really winding miles from home. C'mon, I want you both upright and watching the road. No motion sickness in my new truck, please." She pulled back onto the pavement. The pickup rolled smoothly through patches of fog. They saw the headlights of only two oncoming vehicles as they climbed steadily upward, curving around the foothills. Trees rose high on one side; beyond the guardrail on the other side was a steep drop.

Ten minutes later, Sally pulled onto an unpaved road blocked by a farm gate. Five-strand barbed wire fencing stretched into the distance on either side, encircling hayfields. There was a faded 'No Trespassing' sign affixed to a nearby tree. She got out of the truck, unlocked the gate and, pushing off with her foot, rode the gate as it swung inward.

"Pull the truck in," she called, motioning, and Angel scooted across the bench seat and behind the wheel. After the truck pulled through, Sally locked the gate back into place and reclaimed the driver's seat. The gravel driveway was long, running uphill past the hayfields and through a stand of trees, past more fields and a denser wood. A whitetail deer dashed through the path of the headlights, causing Sally to brake sharply.

"Sorry about that," she murmured. The truck went around one more bend and a white, one-story farmhouse came into view through the gloom, surrounded by several low outbuildings and a much larger barn. Sally drove to the front of one shed and again gave up the driver's seat to unlock doors. Angel pulled the truck into the shed and parked.

Spike and Angel got out, stretching and looking around. "Welcome to my home," Sally said, stepping up onto the rear tire so she could retrieve her cot from the truck bed. She gestured around at the structure. "This is where we used to cure tobacco. You can still smell it, even though it's been years since we had an allotment."

She led the way out of the shed and toward the house, walking backwards so she could face them and point to the other buildings. "Over there's where I keep the other cars – well, I left one in Knoxville when I picked up that last contract, so there's just one inside; y'all are welcome to borrow it or the truck. Over here's the barn. Let's go around back; once the sun clears that ridge, the front of the house gets light most of the day. Oh, and watch your step; there might be little patties on the ground."

Spike and Angel exchanged bemused glances. A few seconds later, two brown, horned heads popped around the side of the barn, followed by several little white ones. A small herd of goats trotted toward them in the gloom. Sally sat the cot on its side and squatted down. "Kili! Fili! Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin-sir, and Gloin-sir!" She held her hands out to them, and the goats surrounded her, pushing to be petted. "Where's Gimli?" A slightly smaller goat pelted around the barn and sprang onto her knees. Sally teetered for a moment, then fell over. The runty goat hopped nimbly away and bleated.

"Nice to see you, too, Gimli," Sally said dryly. She waved the goats away and stood up, brushing at the seat of her jeans. "You guys go on to the back porch; I'll be right there." She headed to the back of the barn, the goats trotting at her heels.

Spike shrugged and hefted the cot, and the two men walked toward the house. To their left, they could see Sally tossing scoops of feed into a trough. She finished with her little herd, then joined them at a set of steps that led to a screened-in back porch.

"You named your goats after Tolkien's dwarves?" Spike asked, amused.

"You have goats?" Angel asked.

Sally gave them a warning look as she searched for the key. "They keep the grass down."

"But… you have goats?" Angel asked again.

"Angel prefers sheep," Spike said, grinning as he took the easy opening. Angel shot him an annoyed look as they went inside. The walkway through the screened porch was crowded by white wicker furniture with plump pillows, and they shuffled past. "Thought all that talk about getting your goat was metaphorical, pet."

Sally ignored him as she unlocked the back door, and they moved into her large kitchen. She turned on the lights. The inside of the house wasn't as rustic as the outside. The kitchen had a sleek ceramic stovetop, Angel saw, as Sally led them on the tour, turning on lights as she went. "Here's the half-bath," she said, pointing as they went down a hallway, "and the living room – it used to be a dining room – my bedroom, the bathroom, and," she continued, opening two doors on opposite sides of the hall, "two spare bedrooms, which y'all can sort out. In here is the front parlor. I just use it for storage, since it gets so much sunlight."

She took the cot from Spike, and he peered into the room after she brushed past him. He saw a piano, bookshelves, neat stacks of boxes, a hospital bed, and a wheelchair. He wondered just how advanced her husband's Alzheimer's had been. Sally closed the door behind her and turned around. "And that's the grand tour." She shrugged. "Not much, but it's home."

"It's nice," Spike said, injecting sincerity into his voice.

"Thanks. Um," Sally continued, looking up at the ceiling in thought. "I don't usually use the air conditioning – I sort of like being almost body temperature. If the heat really bothers you guys, though, I can turn it on. Also, if you'll bring your laundry to the kitchen, I'll get started on that."

Angel shook his head. "We're not going to let you wash our clothes."

She scoffed. "If we pool our dirty laundry, I might actually have enough to do it properly, instead of stuffing the whole mixed lot of colors and whites into a cold water cycle and hoping that nothing bleeds."

"She's got a point, mate," Spike agreed. "When you're single, you either have to put off laundry for weeks until you have a mountain of it–"

Angel turned his head and gave Spike a look.

"What?" Spike asked.

"Fine, Sally. This time." Angel turned and went into the bedroom on the same side of the hall as the bathroom. He looked around, noting the simple furnishings and the shade pulled low over the window, and then dropped the plastic shopping bag with his belongings on the floor. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

She smiled and shook her head. "Are you kidding? I'm a Southern woman with guests; I'm in my element." Sally brushed past Spike and went into the remaining room. "Let me get your bed plugged in."

Spike stared across the hall at Angel, pursing his lips. Finally deciding that he couldn't not ask, he walked into his bedroom a couple of steps. "Plugged in…?"

She was crouched on her knees by the bed, feeling for a cord. "Yeah, you got the waterbed. I'll get the heating element turned on. It's really nice for those of us who are metabolically-challenged." She found the cord and sat up on her haunches. "Unfortunately, I tend to poke holes in it while I sleep, so we put it in here. There!" she said, plugging it into a socket. "In a few hours, it'll be nice and toasty." She stood up. "If you don't like the heat during the summer, just unplug it."

"Right."

Sally rose to her feet. "I guess I'll go start breakfast." She walked by him, and he heard her footsteps retreat toward the kitchen. Spike took a couple of steps himself and peered out of his door, again meeting Angel's eyes across the hallway. The big vampire shrugged helplessly.

Although she had driven all night while they slept, being back in her own home seemed to energize Sally. Angel heard her humming as she unpacked her gym bag in her own room. He took his laundry to the kitchen, spotting a washer and dryer at the far end. His hostess came back into the room and smiled at him, taking the wad of clothes from his hands. He saw three quart-sized jars of blood on the kitchen table and sat down, realizing he was hungry.

"I've got a pan of water heating on the stove," she told him as she passed by on some errand. "That'll warm those jars right up, and I think blood's tastier if it isn't microwaved. If there's anything special you'd like to eat, just write it on the list on the refrigerator door." She came back by him holding a portable phone, thumbing a number into the keypad.

Sally put the phone to her ear and listened for a while to a recording. She began to sort the laundry as she waited. "Hey, Ralph, it's Sally Tolliver at HemiGlobal Research. I've got some good news; I hope it's good news for you, too. Give me a call when you get in." She turned to take the phone back to its cradle and found Angel standing directly behind her.

"Who did you call?" His voice was silky.

Her eyebrows drew together. "Ralph Dugger over at the meat packing plant, 'cause fresh is much better than old and frozen." She walked around him, oblivious to the menacing vibe he was projecting. "I incorporated as a medical research company that's trying to invent an artificial blood." She put the phone down and turned back to him. "I get deliveries of fresh, clean blood for 'research purposes' and no awkward questions."

He blinked. "Oh. That's clever."

She nodded. "Yeah. Hey, Spike. Got those clothes?" She assumed he had overheard; she knew she could hear everything said inside the small house. The blond man came into the kitchen with his own small bundle of dirty clothes. Sally took those, too, and resumed the sorting. "Ralph is the manager of a local company that makes sausage and bacon. They slaughter cows for people in the area, too. The company hires folks from around here. It's not like a lot of other meat packing places, where they use a lot of powerless immigrant workers and have really bad labor practices." She frowned at the three loads of laundry that she had sorted, her voice slowing. "I mean, the work is still brutal, but…" She glanced over at them. "Where's the underwear?"

Neither man replied.

"All righty," Sally said, bemused. "I'll get the sheets and round out this load of whites."

A few seconds after Sally walked past him, Spike snatched up a piece of her underwear. "This is not a bra," he said, smirking, waving the wide-strapped affair at Angel, "this is a brassiere." Angel hid a smile as Sally returned with an armload of sheets from her cot.

Spike held out the item so she could see it. "Sally, where can you even buy something like this these days?"

Her lips parted in consternation, and she snatched it out of his hand. "My underwear is none of your business, thank you very much," she snapped, her cheeks going red. "This, coming from a man who doesn't even own underwear," she added in an undertone.

"Haven't seen anything like that in years, when I've been shoppin' for women's underwear," Spike said. Both Sally and Angel turned to look at him. "As gifts!" he added quickly.

"Right." Angel gave him a pat on the shoulder as he returned to his seat at the table.

Spike spared a sneer for him, then scooped up another full-coverage bra from the small pile of whites. "Sally, I mean… honestly."

She snatched that one from his grasp, too. "Just because I don't get older doesn't mean I don't live on planet Earth and under the influence of gravity," she said. "I don't want to risk having things sagging down to my knees." Sally tossed a sour look over her shoulder as she stuffed the whites into the washing machine. "You try wrangling these puppies every day, year in and year out."

"Is that an invit–?"

"Don't," Angel said very loudly from the table, then continued in a more normal tone, "say another word. You're being rude."

Spike contented himself with a cheerful leer. "Sally can take it," he said, shading his meaning.

She stood on tiptoe to glare at him. "I can dish it out, too," she warned. She left him grinning by the washer and went to the stove, removing a shallow pan of steaming water from the burner. Picking up the three containers of frozen blood, she put them in the hot water.

"I just like making her blush," Spike said to Angel as he sprawled into a kitchen chair. "You don't see that much these days. It's all… maidenly."

"Don't worry about it," Sally said dryly, addressing Angel. "You told me he was like this. Can't say I wasn't warned."

"Warned you about me, did he?" Spike drawled, giving Angel a cool look.

"Mm-hmm," Sally said, propping herself against the stove and folding her arms, "but, really? Your charm defies description."

"Or detection," Angel supplied.

Spike opened his mouth, but the telephone rang and he let the words die. As Sally went to get it, Angel picked up a pepper mill to keep his hands busy and said, "Saved by the proverbial bell." The two of them listened openly to Sally talk.

"Sally Tolliver speaking… Hello, Ralph. Thank you for getting back to me so quickly." She strode across the kitchen. "Hang on just a moment, let me turn off this autoclave," she said, lifting the washing machine lid. "Yeah, it does sort of sound like a washer, doesn't it?" She rolled her eyes at the two men at the table. "Well, the good news is that I got a National Institutes of Health grant, a large one. We'll have more capacity, and I'll need more blood, say quadruple as much as you've been delivering. Will y'all be able to supply it?" She listened for a few moments, then went back to the telephone base. "Ralph, do you mind if I put you on speaker? I need my hands free. Thanks."

Ralph's amiable voice was amplified into the kitchen. "Long as you don't mind more hogs' blood than beef, we'll do you up right."

"No, either is fine. As long as it's clean and labeled, it doesn't matter. Blood is blood."

"Well, congratulations again on the grant. Y'all have been good customers for us, and it means one less thing going to waste."

"Thanks, Ralph. How's your wife doin'?"

"She's fine, thank you for asking. She's mentioned you a couple of times since she met you at your grandpa's visitation. Didn't think you'd be so young."

"Well, you tell her hi from me."

"I'll do that. You just fax a standing order to me with your signature, and we can begin sending the larger order, let's see, on Wednesday."

"Sounds good, Ralph. I appreciate it. Y'all have taken real good care of us here, too."

"No problem. Take care now."

"You, too. Bye."

Sally disconnected, and went back to the stove, lifting one of the jars from the hot water and sloshing it around. She turned back to her company. "And that's how you conduct business in the South."

"Your grandfather's visitation?" Angel asked quietly.

Sally met his eyes. "Henry's wake, I guess you'd call it. Visitation is usually the night before the funeral here in the South, a gathering of family and friends. I couldn't go to Henry's funeral, but at least I could go the night before for the visitation. I've passed myself off as my own daughter, now as my granddaughter." She averted her eyes, but not before Angel saw the grief in them.

"I wonder if they ever do manage to perfect artificial blood," Spike mused, changing the subject, "if it will do us any good? Or would it be like that fake fat stuff and just go unused?"

Sally looked up, diverted. "I don't know, but I've always wondered about this: does it matter what a person's blood type or Rh factor is? I mean, you guys are normal vampires. Do you look for people who are AB negative, like those snooty wine experts who are always looking for grapes from a particular region?"

"Blood is blood," said Angel, lifting a shoulder and echoing her words. He watched the steam rise from the pan. "Well, human blood is best, keeps us healthiest. I can tell Spike hasn't been feeding on human blood."

"What, my coat isn't shiny and my nose isn't wet?"

Angel shrugged. "Animal blood won't sustain us at a hundred percent, but it'll do." He thought of the months of drinking bags of human blood after he came to Sunnydale. If he had hunted and fed, it might have taken a couple of weeks. On stale blood, it had taken a long time to get back to fighting strength – just in time for Angelus to take over.

"I've never had human blood, and I do just fine," Sally said flatly. Then she colored. "I mean, not me, those five, it…."

"I've always preferred the way younger people taste," Spike said, breaking the awkward silence. "Less cholesterol and the like in their blood, maybe."

"What about other vampires? Their blood, I mean," Sally asked, curious. "Can you drink that?"

Spike felt Angel's eyes rest on him. "Not recommended," he said shortly.

"Why not?"

Angel broke through Spike's impatient sigh. "Beyond a mouthful, the price of drinking from your sire is that you submit all over again, mind and body." He didn't elaborate on why vampires might want to taste each other. "Sometimes vampires not in a family will take just a sip of each other's blood to establish a bloodlink, a mental connection, to show their dealings are aboveboard."

"Bloodlink? Like telepathy?" Sally asked. At Angel's nod, she tilted her head. "How long does it last?" Angel met Spike's eyes for a fleeting, uncomfortable second.

"For bloody ever," Spike replied, "so don't do it. You can learn mental defenses against it, but you're always vulnerable. Willow was able to get into my head easier than anyone else's, back when…" He trailed off, not wanting to follow that memory to its bitter conclusion. "At any rate, not worth the price, no matter how 'tasty.'"

"You two?" Sally asked quietly.

Angel nodded shortly. "When Spike died for a while, it broke the link. One other for me, my sire. The link broke when I killed her."

Spike was staring at the tabletop. "One other for me, too. We were on different bloody continents, but I knew when she died." He missed the puzzled look Angel darted at him.

"Wolfram and Hart served a gourmet blood blend," the dark-haired man said slowly, still fidgeting with the pepper mill and thinking that it was probably a good idea to get off the subject of vampire blood, "a mix from different species, like otters."

"Aren't otters endangered?" Sally asked after a short silence.

Seeing the look of consternation on Angel's face, Spike turned to Sally. "Thank you, Mrs. Tolliver." He gestured at the dark-haired man. "You've given him something else to brood about."

"Sorry," Sally said contritely. "I'm sure that it must be harbor seals or something like that I'm thinking of."

"I wouldn't put it past them," Angel said, staring at the pepper mill.

"They were the ones who sent those vampires to find you at Mr. Giles' house, weren't they?" Sally asked. She opened a cabinet and brought three mugs to the table.

Angel nodded. "No doubt. I'm worried about Charles."

"Charlie can handle himself," Spike said. He opened one of the jars and began pouring blood into the cups.

"I know," Angel agreed with a sigh, "and so can we, but that didn't keep them from trying."

Sally started to sit down, but stopped halfway into her chair and rose again. "Crud. Forgot the washer," she said, going to close the lid. As she came back, she caught Angel's eye and gave him a wicked grin. She nodded at Spike's back and winked, her face smoothing out as she slid back into her seat.

Angel took a sip from the cup Spike pushed toward him and settled his elbows on the table, getting comfortable. He wasn't sure what she had in mind, but he figured that if the blond man was about to get a broadside, he was glad to have a front row seat.

"So, Spike," she said, scooting a little closer to the table. She picked up her cup and nodded her thanks to him.

He nodded back, but his eyes narrowed as he noticed her changed attitude. "Yeah?"

"You've been pretty bold and, uh, cocksure in offering me your… help. I have to wonder.…"

Spike glanced over at Angel, who hid most of his face behind the mug and lowered his eyes. "Yeah?" he said again, more slowly.

Sally poured honey into voice. "The way you talk…" She lifted her cup to take a sip, then paused, lowering it. "Are you supposed to be famous lover, like Don Juan or… Warren Beatty?"

His eyes narrowed as he tried to gauge her intent. They were fencing, and she was feeling him out, looking for an opening. There was something there, not the mesmer, but she was drawing him in. Spike gave her a killer smile. "Not the same circles as Warren Beatty," he said, sensing a trap, "but I haven't had… any… complaints." He leaned toward her, the cup cradled in his hands sliding close to hers. "I could keep you satisfied, pet. Just say the word." His voice was a low purr, satisfied that she wasn't flirting with Peaches.

Sally's eyes flashed mischievously; this was what she had been waiting for. She leaned forward in her chair, smiling and meeting Spike's eyes, her own voice fairly oozing with sticky Southern heat. "I'm sure you could. I've been doing it myself for years." A feline smile. "It don't take much." She settled back against the chair.

Angel tried valiantly, but the stunned look on Spike's face, caught between the sex in her voice, the insult in her words, and the visual image she had planted in his mind, was too much. He tried to swallow, choking, but sent a spray of blood across the table and onto the wall. Snorting with laughter, he sat his mug back onto the table and wiped at his mouth. Spike, looking grateful for the distraction, gave him a disgusted look.

"Eww. You're cleaning that up," Sally said, leaving them at the table as she went for paper towels and a spray bottle of cleaner.

Still laughing, Angel nodded his agreement. He wiped tears from both eyes, then held his right side as the belly laugh eased into chuckles. He took the paper towels that Sally put into his hand, still looking at Spike. "Priceless," he gasped. "You may have met your match."

Sally propped her hip against the table and watched him, smiling, then turned to Spike. "Told you I could dish it out," she said.

He didn't turn his head, but brought his gaze up to hers. "You did warn me," he said evenly, his eyes promising retribution.

She winked at him, a quick sweep of eyelashes on the side that Angel couldn't see, and he understood in a flash what her little performance had been about. He discarded the half-dozen comebacks that he had been sorting through and stood from the table, picking up his mug. "If I stay, I believe I will lose my reputation as a gentleman," he said with dignity and, ignoring Angel's renewed laughter, made his retreat to the living room.

Angel joined him a few minutes later. They could hear the sounds of Sally washing the quart jars, then of her puttering with the laundry. Spike was kneeling in front of a big cabinet, looking at the Tolliver collection of music.

"Find anything?" Angel asked.

"How come you're not in there with your new best friend?" Spike asked, throwing a trace of sulk into his voice.

"You know what they say about old friends," Angel said off-handedly.

"They know where the bodies are buried?" Spike asked.

"Something like that," Angel affirmed, sitting on the arm of the couch. He glanced at the single photograph hanging on the wall, a large oval of what must be Sally's wedding portrait. It was black-and-white, with Sally looking about twelve and clinging to the arm of a tall, skinny man who was staring impatiently at the camera. The couple looked determined, and Angel was reminded forcibly of wartime America.

"No," Spike said, answering Angel's earlier question, "I haven't found anything, except the vinyl is mostly country music, the cassettes are an insane mix, and the CDs are…" his voice trailed off as he pulled one from the lowest rack in the cabinet, "fair. No Sex Pistols or Dead Kennedys, but she has the Ramones," he said, waving it at Angel.

"Any Manilow?"

"Er, not so far. Steve Miller close enough?"

Angel left him and wandered to the computer in the corner of the room. He opened the top drawer of the desk it sat on. Inside were a checkbook, a clasp envelope marked 'important papers,' and an old Bible. The checkbook register was unused, and the checks written recently were to pay electricity, phone, and credit card bills. He found Sally and Henry's birth certificates, a yellowed marriage license, and Henry's crisp, new death certificate in the envelope. There were several stultifyingly dull letters and financial documents from a law firm named Ronson, Ferguson, and Ronson in Falls Church, Virginia. Out of curiosity, he opened the Bible to the first pages and read a faded ink notation that Sarah Elizabeth Collier had married Henry Morgan Tolliver on May 22nd, 1942. Angel closed the drawer.

Sally came to the door, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. "There's a satellite link for the Internet," she offered, seeing him standing by the computer, "and for the TV, too."

"Fancy," Angel said.

"North Carolina," she disagreed, shaking her head. "No cable company's going to run wire out this far." Sally turned her attention to Spike. "There are headphones on top of the stereo," she said, "if you want to listen to some music. Y'all just make yourselves right at home." She went back to the kitchen.

Angel sat down at the computer. "I think I'll surf the L.A. news sites," he said. Before he did, he checked the browser to see where Sally had been last. It was a mundane list of bookstore, music, and news websites.

"Good thinking," Spike agreed absently. He'd found a row of CDs that someone, he assumed Sally, had mixed. He pulled one out at random, looking at the block letters written on it with a marker: "KISS OFF." Curious, he turned on the stereo and popped it in, taking the wireless headphones and holding them near his left ear. The first song was a forgotten gem by Martin Briley titled '(You Ain't Worth) The Salt in My Tears.' The second song was 'Should I Stay or Should I Go' by the Clash. He lowered the earpiece and looked around at the door, impressed, his eyebrows raised. He rifled through the slender jewel cases until he found one labeled "HEARTBROKEN." Switching CDs, he hooked the headphones around his neck, lowered the sound to accommodate his hearing, and sprawled on the couch to listen. Hank Williams' voice came to him in a throb of grief. Spike closed his eyes and let himself think of Buffy for the first time since they'd left Ohio.

At ten-thirty, Sally came back into the living room. "Guys, I'm getting pretty sleepy. I'm going to bed. See you tonight."

This was what Angel had been waiting for. He listened until the clatter of chains had died away, then went to his room to get a couple of cell phones. There was a neatly folded stack of clean clothes on the bed. Staring at them, he felt a prick of guilt. Sally had been nothing but helpful and friendly, and she and Spike were trying so hard to cheer him up. His survival instinct, though, was too strong to accept her at face value. He would continue to be cautious until no doubt remained about her intentions.

Angel took the phones to the kitchen, putting the sounds of Spike's music and the washer and dryer between him and his hostess. He dialed the number that Gunn had given him and waited impatiently. When he got an answering machine, he spoke his own phone number and nothing else, hanging up. Charles was probably being careful, too. A couple of minutes later, the phone rang and displayed an unfamiliar telephone number, and Angel heard Gunn's voice repeating the number back to him.

"Morning. Good to hear your voice."

"Hey, you too, man. How's the big C?"

"It was a little too crowded," Angel said. "Rookie crowds, though. Have you seen any crowds?"

"No, nothing unusual. Like I said, I thought they might be kind of tapped." Gunn's voice grew quieter. "Are you back?"

"No. We're staying with the new person."

"Okay. Cool. Say hi for me."

"How are you feeling?"

"Better than I should. The doc did me right."

"If you need to get in touch, the doc will have the number."

"I've been meaning to thank him, anyway."

"Any word from our colleague with the great voice?"

Gunn sighed. "No. Not really expecting any. Did you place the overseas call?"

"Yeah. They took it… stoically. The news deserved more than that."

"Damn."

"They can't all be from Texas, huh? So, how's the day-to-day thing going?"

"Not bad. Easier than I thought it would be. Listen, man, you be careful."

"You, too." Angel paused, then added. "Miss you."

He heard Charles smile. "Miss you too, you old softie."

Angel disconnected, then bent the phone in his hands until it broke in half. He took out the other phone and called Giles, getting much less subterfuge.

"Mr. Giles! Phone!" Angel pulled the phone away from his ear, wincing, as the slayer who answered his call bellowed for Giles.

"Rupert Giles speaking."

"Good morning, Giles."

"Oh, good morning, Angel."

"How are things there?"

"Much calmer. Well, as calm as one can expect around here."

"Glad to hear it."

"And you? Are you well?"

"We're fine."

"And your suspicions?"

"Still unconfirmed."

"Buffy is standing here, Angel. Would you like to speak with her?"

Angel closed his eyes. "Sure."

"Angel? You left so suddenly. Is everyone all right? I mean, no one was hurt?"

"We're all fine."

"Spike? Is he…?"

"He's fine, Buffy. He's Spike." When she didn't say anything, Angel forced politeness into his voice. "Do you want to talk to him?"

"Do you mind?"

Angel took the phone from his ear and called, more loudly than he had intended, "Spike!" He heard the thump of boots on the floor and met him in the hallway. "Here. Don't stay on too long." He stalked back to the kitchen.

Spike took the phone warily. "Yeah?"

"Spike."

It was his turn to close his eyes. "Buffy."

"You didn't come back."

"No reason to. It wasn't safe."

"No reason…?"

"Nothing that can be changed. Buffy, it's okay."

"No. No it isn't." Her voice sounded miserable.

Spike had never been so aware of Angel's presence. He could practically feel him brooding through the wall, and he chose his words carefully. "It's best to know, innit? No uncertainty." Buffy made no reply, and Spike could see her face, knew exactly how she looked as she mastered herself. "Do you want Angel back on the line?" he asked, his voice even.

"Angel?" It was Giles' voice; she must have handed the phone back to him.

"Rupert," he said with too much warmth to be taken seriously. "I'll get him. Give Buffy my love," he added.

Spike took the cell phone to Angel, who was standing in the kitchen, looking out at the bright summer day beyond the windows. "Giles for you," he said shortly. They didn't look at each other, and the blond man left immediately.

"Yeah, Giles?"

"Angel, would you like for me to have Faith and Robin look in on you as they drive back?"

"No, that's okay. That would be, what, a hundred miles out of their way? My paranoia shouldn't inconvenience them."

"Oh, Angel, Buffy for you again."

"Angel, I wanted to tell you what Willow found." She sounded as if she had a stuffy nose.

"Any more?"

"No. Just you three."

"Good to know."

"She says you should be shielded where you're at. Something about thresholds and old family dwellings."

"Also good to know."

"Angel, would you do something for me?"

"What is it?"

"Take care of Spike."

He paused a long time. "In what way?"

She held her own silence for a moment. "In the time-to-move-on way, I guess." Her voice was desolate. "He'll need someone to…."

Angel stood up straighter. "Spike sends his love, Buffy."

"Give him mine." Her voice tightened, but there was no hesitation.

"I will." Angel's brows drew together, as he remembered that he hadn't seen Buffy while Faith was introducing him to Robin the other night. She never did her best thinking when he was in any proximity to Faith.

"Thank you, Angel." He knew her pain so well; he could see her face crumpling. "I love you."

"You, too," he replied. "Always." He hung up, crushing the telephone in his hand, little pieces of plastic stabbing into his palm.

⸹

Angel woke, sitting up in bed, the sheet falling around his waist. He looked around, unsure for a moment where he was. It came to him in flashes from battle: Connor, Illyria, Gunn, Buffy, Spike, Sally. He was in North Carolina.

He sensed that the sun had just set. Water was running in the bathroom. If Sally was in the shower, it might be a good time to talk to Spike, to see what had happened between him and Buffy. His mouth twisted. It was even possible that the blond might tell him. Angel pulled on his pants and went toward the kitchen, where he heard someone moving around. The door to Sally's room was ajar, and, curious, he glanced in. The furnishings were no fancier than those in his room, but her bedstead was made of heavy iron instead of warm wood, and it was bolted to the floor. Thick iron chains, woven with strips of cloth to silence the clanking, snaked up each corner of the bed from heavy rings that were also attached to the floor. The only other thing of note was a large, triangular gash in the sheetrock across from her bed, at almost head height.

"Hey, Angel," Sally greeted him when he entered the kitchen. "Did you sleep all right?" Her eyes danced across his bare chest, then shied away.

"Fine, yeah," he answered, wishing he'd bothered to pull on a shirt. Sally was wearing her usual modest tank top, but instead of jeans and a flannel shirt, overalls rounded out her outfit. If forced to, he would admit that he had noticed her backside, but without the concealing flannel, the list of noticed things was growing. No wonder Spike was obsessed with her choice of bras. "Sally, there's a hole in your bedroom wall."

"I've been meaning to fix that. Already bought drywall and everything."

"What happened?"

She gave him a grim smile. "I was keeping the key to my cuffs in one of those little portable safes. My inner vampire got angry and threw it across the room into the wall in March. It took me eighteen hours of tying sheets and the elastic from my pan– um, underwear into a lasso before I could pull it free."

Angel knew what it was like to be imprisoned and immortal, with no expectation of rescue. "No wonder you were trying to get in touch with Angel Investigations."

"Yeah," she agreed fervently. "Well, make yourself at home. I'm heading out to the barn, if you need me," she said, once again rather obviously avoiding looking at his naked torso.

"Thanks," he replied, forcing a smile. Angel watched her go out the back door and blew out a tense breath. Just in case she came back before Spike finished showering, he went to his room and donned a shirt. Vampires living in platonic proximity. It was a new concept.

The blond man, not having had an awkward moment, strolled into the kitchen a few minutes later clad only in black jeans, his hair damp and curling, and went directly to the refrigerator. "Angel," he acknowledged, not looking around. He selected a jar of blood and went to the microwave to heat it.

"How's the waterbed?" Angel asked.

"All right," he said, shrugging. "It's not one of those full-wave ones."

"Those are fun," Angel said, a slight smile on his lips.

"Do tell?" Spike raised an eyebrow.

"A gentleman never tells."

"So what's stopping you?" The microwave began to beep, and Spike took the jar from the oven. "Want half, mate?"

"Sure."

They sat companionably at the kitchen table as the darkness outside deepened. Twice Angel began to bring up Cleveland, but it was so nice not being in conflict that he held his silence.

"Where'd Sally get to?" Spike asked, tilting his head and listening to the quiet house.

"In the barn."

"Doing her chores, is she?" His lips curled in a sardonic smile.

"Tending the goats," Angel said, and chuckled.

"We really landed on our feet with Sally."

"Maybe."

"Don't tell me that you still suspect she's part of the Great Evil Plot to Get Angel?"

Angel shrugged, then a gleam showed in his eyes. "After this morning, I'm surprised you don't think she's evil."

Spike shrugged himself, uncomfortable. "Most likely had that coming."

"You know, you two don't have to go to all that trouble to cheer me up."

"Well, Buf–"

"Buffy what?" Angel's voice was sharp.

"Buffy asked me to look out for you." His voice was even more uncomfortable.

"Now, that's interesting," Angel mused. "She asked me to look out for you, Spike."

Their eyes met across the table for an instant. Both picked up their mugs and studied the contents.

"She's worried about you being at sixes and sevens, being out of Los Angeles and all," Spike said finally. "You know you're not happy unless you're managing some mischief."

"True," Angel agreed. "I am feeling a bit… useless. Doesn't mean I need babysitting."

Spike took a nonchalant drink from his mug and, without looking up, asked, "Did Buffy say why she wanted you to keep an eye on me?"

"Not really," Angel said. "But it doesn't take a genius to figure out that something happened in Cleveland."

Spike put his cup down and stood from the table. "Well, then, go ahead and figure it out. I'll go to the barn and see if I can catch our sharp-tongued hostess talking into her shoe or her secret decoder ring or something."

Angel stayed where he was as the screen door slammed. Buffy had been covered with Spike's scent when she stood behind Oz, her arms crossed. Despite Sally's tequila strategy, he'd smelled Buffy on Spike, too. Something had begun, but he was positive it hadn't ended the way either of them might have wished. And he had said he wouldn't interfere. Angel took another sip of blood and settled in for a good brood.

⸹

There was a small but growing pile of hay and goat manure outside the barn door. Spike could hear Sally singing snatches of a hymn from inside the lighted building, and could see an occasional clump of waste fly onto the heap.

"'This is my story,'" she sang, "'this is my song.'" She had the clear, confident voice of someone raised to sing sacred music from childhood. An especially wet glop of fresh manure went onto the pile, and Spike smiled.

"I remember when that song was new," he told her, standing on the opposite side of the doorway from the manure. "Hit Parade in the 1870s was nothing but hymns, it seemed. 'Blessed Assurance,' isn't it? Woman wrote it, I remember right."

Sally looked up, shrugging. "Not a clue about the song, just how to sing it. D'ja sleep well?"

"Yeah." His eyes flicked over her, taking in the overalls and the Wellingtons she wore as she mucked out the barn, the play of muscle beneath bare skin as her arms moved. "Go on singing. You've a lovely voice." Embarrassed, she looked down at the ground and jabbed the pitchfork at a few random places, and Spike grinned. "Not sure you'd be able to manage that maidenly blush again after this morning." He leaned indolently against the door. "And yet I find you singing hymns."

Sally raked the pitchfork along the dirt floor and, after a second, looked up at him. "Too much?" When he didn't answer, she attacked the fouled hay with renewed vigor. Without meeting his eyes, she apologized. "I'm sorry. I thought I might get you to back off a little and make Angel smile at a single go. I didn't mean to offend you."

"You didn't offend me, pet," Spike said. "You think I need to back off?"

He heard her take a breath, but she didn't say anything until she had finished her chore. Sally looked at him, then stuck the pitchfork into the heap. "Yes, I do. I'd feel much more comfortable if you backed off, even a little, verbally, humor-wise… laundry-wise." She turned and went to a stack of hay bales. "I've never met anyone like you," she said, pulling off her gloves to snap the twine from a bale. She broke the hay into sections. "You are so openly sexual," she began scattering the fresh straw across the dirt, coming closer as she covered the floor. "Everything you say sounds like a double-entendre. I just find you… disconcerting."

He watched her, not frowning, but with a serious expression. "You find me – That whole thing you said in the kitchen wasn't all Penthouse Forum?"

Sally didn't reply until she had gone back to retrieve her gloves, giving her time to think. "I did apologize, Spike," she said, walking to the door and meeting his gaze. "You can insinuate more with one eyebrow than most people can with… I was feeling needled, and I struck back in the same fashion. I won't go there again."

He nodded, looking down. "Fair enough. But we're vampires, Sally. In Cleveland," he said, his words slowing, "when we were finding the motel… I didn't understand that you aren't," a small smile touched his mouth, putting quotes around his next words, "that kind of girl." He turned away from her, propping himself more comfortably against the door and looking out into the darkness. After what happened in Cleveland with Buffy, the thought of sex just made him tired. "I know it now, so I won't… A lot of it, the 'cocksure' stuff, is leftover swagger. Pre-soul stuff, comes out automatically. I don't mean anything by it."

Sally's eyes raked over him, head to bare feet, as he stood framed in the doorway. She turned off the lights, pulled the pitchfork from the pile, and walked past him. "Of course you don't," she said in a neutral voice, shaking her head. Spike gave her a sharp look as she walked away from him. "Pull the doors closed, would you?" she called over her shoulder. "The goats don't need to be in there with this fine weather."

He complied, then followed after her, puzzling over her words. Sally was bent over a faucet at the other end of the barn, rinsing her boots and the pitchfork. "I'm confused," he began, but Sally stood up and speared him with a glare.

"Join the club." Sally stomped away, heading to the tool shed. There she slid off the boots and shoved her feet into a pair of sneakers. She laid the gloves on a shelf and hung the pitchfork on a peg, then closed the door. Without looking at Spike, she went to the outbuilding housing the pickup and turned on the light.

Spike tilted his head and followed her inside. She was holding a shallow pan and a funnel, apparently getting ready to change the oil in her truck. He watched her stretch for an orange Phram box and pick up a case of motor oil. Before she could disappear under the chassis, he spoke up.

"All right. I give. What does all that mean?"

Sally stared at him open-mouthed for a couple of beats, then closed it with a snap. "Okay, let's try an analogy." She walked away from him and sat down on a swing hanging from an overhead beam. He hadn't noticed it before. It was homemade, a wide plank secured with two sturdy ropes.

"Why is there a swing hung up in here?" he asked, beginning to feel as if everything in the world was off kilter.

"Henry hung it for me," she said impatiently. "I couldn't swing outside."

"You could at night," he pointed out.

Sally closed her eyes. "It was a romantic gesture, Spike, and like most romantic gestures, making sense didn't factor into it. Oddly enough, he didn't want his wife outside – Never mind." Her teeth were gritted, and Spike's eyes crinkled at how he was getting to her. "The analogy, honey, remember? Just watch.

"I had a girlfriend in high school who totally loved this guy, Rick, and she gave us a detailed account of every encounter she had with him. Innocent stuff, I mean: she said this, he said that. They talked all the time, but nothing ever happened between them. Another of my friends pointed out that every time Juanita talked about him, she was sitting like this," Sally continued, demonstrating, "in a chair with her knees firmly pressed together, but her ankles a foot and a half apart. She was sending Rick mixed signals." Sally left the swing, sending it rocking gently in the still air.

Spike gave her a puzzled look and gestured for her to go on.

"Mixed signals!" Sally said with a good deal of exasperation, pulling a length of tarp from beneath a bench. "You're telling me don't do the innuendo thing, that you're sorry about Cleveland, that you don't want to play anymore… and yet you're standing there looking all Chippendales in nothing but a pair of jeans." Her eyes flicked down to where they rode low on his hips. "I know it's nothing but a pair of jeans," she added. "I'm almost eighty years old; my heart can only take so much." Sally tossed the tarp onto the ground and disappeared beneath the pickup.

Spike looked down at his bare chest and feet. When he looked up, his eyebrows were raised. "The sight of my skin bothers you?" His voice was silky.

"You're doing it again," Sally grumbled. Her voice sounded oddly flat from beneath the truck. "Yes, it bothers me. It's been fifty years since I've been around a shirtless man your age… apparent age, you know what I mean. It was weird in the kitchen with Angel a little while ago, too."

"Angel was wearing a shirt," Spike protested.

"Yeah, well, I guess it must have made him uncomfortable, too," she said approvingly.

"Bloody Angel," Spike muttered, in a sudden bad mood as he imagined Sally sliding past the other man's naked chest, smiling up at him. "What about what you're wearing?" he challenged her.

There was a clink of metal from beneath the truck, then a strong smell of used oil. Sally shimmied along the tarp until she was clear of the chassis. She shot him a disbelieving look from around the wheel well. "I'm wearing," she calculated quickly, "at least seven more items of clothing than you." She stood up and brushed at her overalls, then leaned against the truck as she waited for the oil pan to drain. "One of which apparently reminds you of a truss or an iron maiden or… mummy wrappings."

"You counted each of your socks and shoes," he said solemnly. "Don't think that's fair; they should count as pairs. And, anyway, your arms are bare."

Sally gave him an aggravated look and pushed herself off the side panel. She started to say something, then shook her head and walked by him to the front of the truck. She opened the hood, standing on her tiptoes to push it all the way up. Spike came up beside her and set the brace. Sally closed her eyes, and he watched her face as she had an internal debate.

"Thank you," she managed.

"You're welcome," he said in an entirely normal voice. She started around him, but he took her arm. "Look at me, Sally." It took her another moment of inner debate, but she looked up at him. He searched her green eyes in the light of the single bulb high overhead. What she'd said about him scaring the hell out of her finally clicked. "You're attracted to me," he said, a statement. "That's okay. You don't have to do anything about it."

"Have I?"

"No." He frowned. "You haven't."

"Let go of my arm, please?" she asked, although she was more than capable of getting loose.

Spike released her, confused again by the undercurrents in their conversation. "I won't… you know, do anything. And you just treat me like you would any man you were attracted to while you were still married."

"There were none." Sally gave him a hostile look, then disappeared beneath the truck again to fasten the plug back into the empty oil pan.

Spike's lips parted as he pondered this. "You're too honest, Sally."

Her voice again sounded distant. "I'm too old to start lying to myself." She pushed the full pan of used oil ahead of her and set it on the tarp. Sally brought the case of oil to the front of the truck. "You're a guest in my home, Spike. I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I don't want to be uncomfortable myself." She paused for a moment, holding a quart by the lid, and looked at him. "Do you think it's because we're both vampires?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. You feel anything for Peaches?" When she didn't answer, Spike settled next to her in silence and held the funnel for her as she poured quart after quart of oil into the engine, examining her intently. Sally had a smudge of oil on her cheek and several far more fragrant smudges on the overalls. Her bright hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail, and he could see every faint, remnant freckle and not one trace of makeup on her pale face. She still wasn't trying, he decided, and he did find her interesting.

Sally's expression grew more troubled as she bore his examination, but she kept her silence. Her eyes flicked to him as she left the engine and knelt on the tarp, pouring the old oil into the newly empty containers. Spike continued to watch her practiced, efficient movements as she put her equipment away.

She started the engine and watched the oil pressure gauge. She had been silent for so long that he was a little surprised when she turned off the engine and called, "Close the hood, would you?" Sally came around to where he still stood in front of the truck, her hands stuffed into her overalls pockets. She was still an awkward few feet from him when she stopped. "Thanks for the company," she said, and she sounded sincere.

"You're welcome."

"Are we okay?" she asked, her eyes on the ground between them.

"Yeah," he answered slowly. "Yeah. I think I'll just go… take my own advice." Sally looked up, but Spike had already turned away, walking back to the house.

⸹

"No decoder ring," Spike said shortly, reaching across the kitchen table for his mug. "No shoe phone."

Angel was still sitting at the table, and he raised an eyebrow. "Did you check her watch?"

Spike gave him a cold look. "Listen, mate, if she were Mata Hari, she'd be sleeping with one of us by now." He gestured with his mug. "Hell, with our history, she'd be shagging us both on the barn roof." He drained the cup and set it down with a thump. "She's outside mucking out her barn and changing the soddin' oil in her truck, not plotting your bleedin' demise."

"Well, at least there's someone who isn't."

The blond man picked up his mug and took it to the sink, rinsing it out. He turned around abruptly. "Angel? Do you think…" he hesitated, looking as though he wished he hadn't brought it up, "I'm provocative?"

Angel nodded. "You provoke the hell out of me."

"No," he said, annoyed, "I mean, you know. Provocative."

How often did he get to tease Spike? Angel leaned forward, eyeing him critically. "Nah, I couldn't say. Too close to be objective. You're the last man I slept with, after all." He batted his eyelashes.

"Oh, sod off." Spike walked toward the hallway, pausing at the door. "Look, you want to keep an eye on her, do it yourself. I'm convinced that she's… good." The blond man waved his hand as though the word had a slight smell and strode away.

"Spike, my boy," he mused in a low voice, "I get the sense that you're not having much luck with women these days." Smiling, he went to get his shoes and made no effort to be quiet as he went out the back door.

There were no lights in any of the farm buildings, and Angel frowned. He heard light footfalls moving away to the north and lifted his face, reading the air. Where was Sally heading? Angel went into the shadows and began to follow.

The sound of her footsteps stopped when they were perhaps a quarter mile from the farmhouse. Angel eased closer, taking his time, then froze. He heard wet, tearing sounds, and he sped up, spotting Sally's bright hair as she knelt between some stones, ripping at the ground.

They were tombstones. A second later, he caught the green smell of grasses and the dank of earth, and he leaned against the tree that hid him, closing his eyes. She was pulling weeds from around a tombstone, and he had a good idea whose it was. He felt like an idiot, watching her tend her family cemetery.

"Hey, honey." Sally's voice was soft, and when Angel peeked around the tree, he saw her kneeling next to a fresh grave. "I'm back." Most of the conversation she was having with her dead husband was internal, because the only other thing he heard her say was, "They're like me, Henry, men like me."

Angel stayed in the shadows, waiting until she was done. When she finally did stand up, brushing the knees of her overalls, she surveyed the other graves and uprooted some more weeds. She came toward him and was a few steps away when she paused, turned her head, and found him.

"Angel, what are you doing there?"

"I didn't want to interrupt."

"That was thoughtful," she said in an uncertain tone.

"Also, I was spying on you," he admitted, walking over to join her. "I haven't known you very long, Sally, and you might have noticed that there are people who want me dead-er."

"You thought I was, what? Going to set you up?"

He shrugged. "I don't think so anymore."

"I've never been taken for a covert agent before," she said, sounding flattered. They began walking back toward the house.

After a short silence, Angel sighed. "I should apologize for Spike. I don't know what he did, exactly, but I'm sorry about it."

Sally's brows came together. "He didn't do anything. He's just… Doesn't matter. Spike can apologize for himself, if it's necessary."

"This is just… an odd living arrangement, for vampires. Typical vampires, I mean. Have to admit, it's… uh, on my mind, too."

Her steps slowed as she pondered this. "Are you saying that, if we were typical, our trois would be ménage-ing?"

"Yeah," Angel said, relieved that he didn't have to stumble around it any more. "And Spike and I have been typical, so… instinct is telling us one thing; common sense is telling us another."

She bit her lip. "Oookay." There was less amusement than consternation in her voice.

"The, um, physical contact is important, too. It's really the only thing that, uh, soothes us." How could he explain to her the safety of a family bed when she'd never experienced it? Or when both he and Spike denied themselves that comfort?

"Okay. Sure."

"Does all of this belong to you?" Angel asked, changing the subject and gesturing around.

"There were three farms separating my family and Henry's family property," Sally said, grabbing the new topic with relief, "and we bought those over time. Very good prices, too, mostly because I slaughtered quite a few of the owners." She cleared her throat and started again with less bitterness. "In all, it's a little over two hundred acres. It's not all arable; a lot of the land is too steep. The fields that had been cleared I keep for hay now, let the Scalf brothers mow and bale it for me. It's all… fallow," she finished, shrugging. "I did put out a little garden this spring, just out of habit." She checked his feet for shoes, then asked, "Would you like a tour? A quick one, I mean?"

"Sure." He wasn't just being polite. Something about this land, even with all the trees, strongly reminded him of Ireland. Once in a great while, he realized how much he missed the country.

Sally turned and led him uphill to the west, where she pointed out a long swath of woods and a break in a distant ridge where her childhood home had been. The land was steeper than the hills he had rambled over in Galway, but it had a similar, green feel to it. They went south and started downhill, and Angel began to smell water. They walked to the edge of a small lake, and turned along the bank. A boathouse was hidden from easy view, and he saw a short pontoon boat and a johnboat waiting inside.

"You're welcome to take it out, if you want. The keys to the padlock and the boat are hanging above the counter in the kitchen. I mean the pontoon; Henry's Uncle Jerry went duck hunting in the other boat and managed to shoot the bottom out of it with his shotgun. I don't know why we didn't throw it away years ago. If you head down that way," she said, pointing to the right, "you'll get to the main branch of the French Broad and, if the folks at TVA haven't lowered the water level too much, be able to go a far piece."

Angel stared at her. "The what?"

"The French Broad. Name of the river." When he chuckled, she gave him a quelling look. "Third oldest river on earth."

He swallowed his laughter and looked over the water. "Is this where," Angel began, then grew uncomfortable. "I mean, was this where you were fishing that night?"

She met his eyes in the meager light of moon and stars. "Where we walked down," she said, nodding toward the rise. "It isn't like there's a spot where the grass won't grow or anything," she added, a note of gallows humor in her voice.

"Do you ever get nervous living here, so isolated?"

"No," she said, hiding a smile. "What could possibly happen to me now?" She turned and started back up the bank. "What about you, urban cowboy? You nervous?"

"I've lived in cities too long for me to not be," Angel admitted. "It's so quiet out here. It feels big, open… but not empty."

Sally took him seriously. "It isn't empty. These are the Appalachian Mountains, the oldest range in the world. They've been here so long that time has whittled them down to where they don't count as mountains anymore, not by human reckoning. More history has passed over this ground and not been recorded… there's a memory of magic here, of power. It doesn't feel good or evil to me," she said shrugging.

The dark-haired man nodded. "Yeah, that's it. A memory of power." He stopped and looked up at the trees and ridges. "I've felt this in Ireland, even as a human. A still watchfulness."

"But not malevolent," Sally added. "Something that knows we won't be here long enough for it to even bother with."

Then Angel remembered that this wasn't how civilized people talked; not even demons spoke of a power beyond evil and its opposite. "Just imagination," he said dismissively.

Sally gave him a sidelong look. "Think so?" She didn't expect an answer, and he didn't give her one. She led him to the east until they intersected the driveway, and they started toward the house.

"What's that way?" Angel asked, gesturing to the north.

"Steep terrain. Henry's dad kept bees, and there are still a few hives in use down that way. And there's 'sang."

"'Sang?'"

"Ginseng. I gather it every three to five years. Good money in it."

"That deer that we saw the first morning," Angel mused. "Are there many of them?"

She nodded. "Judging from the tracks they leave when the ground is wet. There are elk in the area, too. The Forest Service is trying to reestablish them."

"No wonder you never left," Angel said. "It really is nice. People in the city would pay to visit here."

"They do," Sally said, amused. "Tourism is a growth industry around here. Every few years I get an offer from some developer or another who wants to turn this land into part of a ski resort." She looked around, contentment in her gaze, and drew in a deep breath of clean air. "I've thought about leaving, getting a smaller place, but I'm invisible man."

"What?" he asked blankly.

"Can't see myself doing it."

Angel cringed at the joke, even though the corners of his mouth twitched upward. He changed the subject. "Do you get a lot of snow in the winter?"

"Yes, but it doesn't last. We've never been snowbound more than two or three days. The ski resorts in the area have to use snow-making machines."

"I bet it's pretty with a heavy snow on all these pine trees."

"It is." Sally slowed, looking over at him. "You know, you're welcome to stay… indefinitely. As long as you feel safe, I mean. You can stay and see the snow. Or come back for it."

"I figured you'd be ready to kick us – or some of us – out by now. Un is safer than trois."

"Are you kidding? It's good to have the company." She looked down at the driveway, watching her step. "It's been lonesome the past few months." She snorted. "It's been lonesome the past few years, and even before then." She looked up at him, almost shyly. "I enjoy having you here, both of you. Y'all will probably be running from me in a few days, once I hit my stride with the fussing over and the catering to."

"Sounds terrifying."

"Seriously, Angel, I know you aren't moving in for good or anything, but…" her voice trailed away, and it was a moment before she made another attempt. "When you do leave, come back and visit. Anytime."

"Thanks, Sally. We're not usually welcome, vampires, you know. It means a lot." He reached across the distance between them and took her hand. She squeezed it, and they let go.

⸹

There was rain the next day, a slow, steady soak that took the blossoms off the huge catalpa trees that towered over the front yard, carpeting the grass in white. Spike ventured onto the front porch in the diffuse light, taking in the fragrant air only because he was out of cigarettes again. The back yard smelled of turned earth and growing vegetables from Sally's small garden. His window had a view of a line of rhododendron bushes choked with purple flowers, with magnolia trees beginning to bloom behind them. He was cheered that Angel only had a view of the goats in the barnyard, but even that was backed by an apple orchard, hayfields, pine trees, and distant ridgelines shrouded in fog.

He didn't look up when Angel joined him, standing close in what would have seemed like odd proximity to anyone who couldn't sense where the hidden sunlight would appear if the clouds broke. Spike didn't speak, just watched as more white flowers from the catalpas floated down to the grass.

"It's like…" Angel mused, staring at the intense white against the fresh green, trying to find the right words, "like a soundstage garden from some old Technicolor musical. These colors are too vivid, too pretty to be real. I love the country."

"Yeah, but where's your museums and theatres?" Spike asked.

"When was the last time you visited a museum?" Angel countered.

"Uh, that time I visited your lawyerly penthouse and saved your life by pulling that horseshoe crab thing off your chest."

Angel gave him a disappointed look. "Not much of an insult," he commented.

"Can't think here where it's so quiet."

The dark-haired man sent an almost fond look at the back of Spike's head. "I'd forgotten that you're a city boy, born and bred."

"Born and bred, sired and undead," Spike agreed. He waved at the surrounding nature. "I don't know that I've ever lived anywhere this rural." He had, though, a place equally tranquil. His father's friend Arthur Scott had a house in the country, an estate, really, with ponds where William had learned to swim and miles of lawns groomed by a staff of gardeners. His own family would leave London for a month-long visit each summer, his father and Mr. Scott riding out most days, their wives visiting over needlework, the children of the two families playing together. The Scotts had a son his own age and a daughter a year younger. The son, Peter, had what would now be called a developmental disorder, and the Scotts doted on gentle-natured William, who could be relied upon not to tease Peter.

In truth, he had enjoyed playing with Peter, who had vast armies of toy soldiers and small sailing ships they floated on the ponds. He had taught Peter to fly kites and how to make boats and hats and other oddments from paper. It wasn't until their last two or three visits that he really understood that his friend would always be a child. It had made him sad and angry, and when he confronted his parents over how a loving God could allow such things, his father told him for the first time that life was not fair.

"I hope William and Victoria will take a fancy to one another," Mrs. Scott had confided to his mother one afternoon over tea. William, Peter, and Peter's sister Victoria were nearby, having a naval battle with tin ships on a blue blanket spread on the lawn. He was fourteen on that visit, he remembered, because it had been their last.

"Adults seem to think we're the ones hard of hearing," Victoria said in a low voice, giving him a sidelong look, "not them." He had nodded and given her a shy smile, not wanting to admit the idea had merit, at least to him. Victoria was beginning to be quite pretty.

"If they should marry… Arthur and I won't always be here, and it would be a comfort to know that Peter would be in William's household, where he'd be loved and well looked after."

"You can't force these things, Margaret," his mother replied, "and they are still so very young."

"Oh, I know, Anne, dear," Mrs. Scott agreed quickly. "It's just a fond hope of mine."

"I sank that one!" Peter exclaimed excitedly.

"You did indeed," William agreed. He took the targeted ship in his nimble fingers and upended it with great drama. Peter laughed and clapped, and William turned to share a smile with Victoria. She was staring at him speculatively, one of her braids wrapped over her nose and across her face as she propped herself up on her elbows.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"If we could play like this always, the three of us…" she said, still giving him a speculative look, "I might marry you, but you'd have to promise not to turn into one of those husbands whose only interest is in horses and hounds and politics."

This was far more than he could handle at fourteen. He'd blushed and awkwardly pulled her braid away from her nose and given it a sharp tug. Victoria had kissed him the night before they left, quick and light but on the mouth, and he had dreamed about it for months, sometimes with shame and a pounding heart in his narrow bed, sometimes with his heart soaring as he fashioned some little paper toy for his mother to include in her letters to Mrs. Scott. Victoria and Mr. Scott died the following February in the cholera epidemic. The title and estate changed hands, and Peter and his mother had to move in with some of her family near Edinburgh, destined for a life of genteel poverty. He never saw either of them again, nor anyplace as lovely as the Scott estate.

"C'mon, Spike. You've got to admit, it's beautiful."

"Yeah, well," the blond man hedged, shaken from his reverie. Soddin' soul. The Tolliver farm was not patrolled by a troop of groundskeepers, and nature pushed to the very edges of the small yard, with daisies, clover, Queen Anne's lace, and other pretty weeds trying to creep in. The farm was overgrown and unpolished and nothing like his cherished childhood memories of the country, but it had its own tranquility. Spike glanced over his shoulder at Angel, irritated at the unwelcome thoughts as well as the company. "Not the place for me. You've got to admit, the chances of a decent fight are slim."

"You've got me," Angel said casually. "I'm always up for a fight." Without Wolfram and Hart sapping his will, he wondered if the younger vampire could win a second time.

Spike did turn around at that. "Been there, done that, kicked your arse," he said calmly even as his accent became more pronounced. "Not interested in a crap rematch."

Angel leaned toward him a bit. "Not sure you can do it again? Afraid to try?"

"Can't keep your hands off me, then?" Spike asked, tilting his head lazily to one side, a slight grin touching the corners of his mouth. "It was good for me, too," he added in a low, confidential tone.

"You don't have to try to push my buttons, Spike my boy," Angel replied, taking another step closer to emphasis his height advantage. "You know I'm ready to go. Always have been."

Unintimidated, Spike lifted his chin. "You're the one ready to go, and I'm the one pushing buttons," he mused. "Looks like we really have switched roles."

Something flickered in Angel's eyes, an odd uncertainty. "Is it me," he asked hesitantly, "or is it getting warm?"

He was warm, too, Spike realized, then a smirk took his mouth. "Could be because you're on fire, you nit." He managed to get this out through the pain that was spreading along his own smoldering arm.

"Sun," Angel hissed, backing into the doorway, beating at the flame on the back of his hand.

Spike gritted his teeth and stood his ground as he turned to look at the sunlight streaming down at them through the continued rain. Sure enough, he spotted what he was looking for. Only then did he move out of the light, passing Angel as he walked into the house. "She's even got a soddin' rainbow. Figures." He paused. "Sorry, Peaches. I'm just not in the mood anymore." Blowing a kiss over his shoulder, he moved through the parlor and into the hallway beyond.

Grimacing as he held his burned hand, Angel turned to watch him, seeing the last tendrils of smoke curling away from his arm. Where the hell did all that come from? he wondered. From a hundred years of familiarity and contempt, came the prompt answer. All he'd come outside for was a bit of company, but when Spike hadn't welcomed him, the old competitiveness came to the fore.

The blond man had told him once that it was his fault, not Drusilla's, that he'd become a monster. There was truth in it, and Angel grimaced again, this time at the red memory of a fortnight when Darla had gone to answer a summons from the Master and left him alone with the two youngsters. What he'd done to Drusilla was unforgivable; what he'd done to Spike… the difference was, he hadn't succeeded.

Angelus had destroyed Dru and remade her as he willed, but there was some core part of William that he had never been able to snap, no matter what method he used. He had managed to twist everything around that core, though, had made Spike a brother to him. Even with a soul, Angel found the urge to finally break him remained. Buffy, Dru, the Shanshu – sometimes those were just excuses for that underlying desire.

Angel moved forward cautiously and peered from beneath the roof of the porch at the sky. Sure enough, there was a rainbow. Something in him eased, the part of him that would always be Irish, he supposed. He loved this weather, cool, wet, and green. Maybe a third of the times – well, maybe a fourth – his father had assumed he was out on an extended drunk, he was really just off with his equally shiftless friends, rambling over the hills, walking to another village that was having a market day or festival. He had walked across a lot of America, too, as he grappled with his soul, though never through this region.

He'd change that tonight, maybe stroll down to the water, maybe even swim. The thought of submerging his burned hand in cool lake water was bliss. Then he'd go looking for deer. Maybe they wouldn't mind his company.

⸹

Spike lay on his unmade bed, keeping his burned arm away from the unforgiving vinyl of the waterbed mattress. Living with Angel again… return of the pissing contests. Too many memories, too many thoughts. He shook his head slightly and closed his eyes, desperately wanting a smoke. Stupid soul trying to be helpful, dragging out yet another ragged memory, the one of his six-year-old self again, trying to help him cope with his grandsire by reminding him the old man could be defeated, and he resolutely banished it.

"Angel!" Sally's shocked voice was loud in the still house, making Spike jump and jerking him from his reverie. "What happened to your hand?"

"Sun," Angel grunted. Listening, Spike rolled his eyes. "I was on the porch, trying to see a rainbow." Wanker, the blond man thought resentfully. You were in a pissing contest.

"A rain– " Sally's voice trailed off. "You do remember that you're undead, right? Sunlight on your not-to-do list?" She sounded amused. "Wait in the bathroom. I'll get some aloe for that."

"It'll heal on its own," Angel said shortly.

"Fresh aloe, Angel," their hostess said, ignoring him. "I'll get a stem from the plant in the kitchen. Nothing like it for burns."

Spike heard Angel sigh, and he smirked. Poor ickle baby needs his boo-boo tended. He examined his own arm, which by now was barely pink. One thing about channeling pure light through your soul: it really lowered that pesky sensitivity to ordinary sunbeams.

⸹

Darkness was fully on the farm before Angel managed to get away from the kitchen table. Spike had already finished breakfast and left, and Angel stayed with Sally out of politeness until she was done, getting out of the house only after assuring her that his hand was all right. Now, walking through the small apple orchard as he started to the lake, he tested the air. More rain was on its way, which suited –

"Unnh!" Something hit his jaw, and he staggered almost to the ground.

"What?" Spike asked, emerging from the shadows to loom over him. "Thought you were always ready."

Angel dropped all the way to the ground and swept out his right leg, taking Spike's feet out from under him so they were on eye level again. "Spike my boy, I am always ready."

Before he finished speaking, Spike was back up and bringing an axe kick down toward his face. Angel blocked it with crossed wrists, then caught the other man's ankle and tried to throw him. It didn't work, but Spike's leg made a handy lever for getting to his own feet. Just before he was all the way up, the blond man gave him his weight, using his caught leg as a pivot point and bringing his other leg up in a wheel kick. Angel let go in surprise as the blow caught him across the cheek, and Spike landed neatly to his left.

"Let's go, Grandpa," Spike sneered, and Angel obliged him with a straight punch to the abdomen. They fought in silence for several minutes, the only sound in the orchard the impact of knuckles and elbows and knees. Spike was grinning by then, and a smile came to Angel's lips, too. A light rain began to fall. The dark-haired man moved back a bit, watching warily as he took off his jacket. Spike nodded and shrugged out of his coat, and the two waded in again.

The cutthroat edge was missing, Angel decided as he leapt back from a sudden blade kick a couple of minutes later. They were both holding back, testing the other, almost having fun with it. He led with a side kick that missed and followed up with a backfist that connected solidly with Spike's chin. The blow seemed to have no effect, but he imagined that Spike thought the same about the short, vicious hook that Angel took on his jaw soon afterward. He jabbed at the blond, not expecting to connect, angling toward a nearby apple tree. He ran up the trunk and pushed off, landing a roundhouse kick on the side of Spike's head.

The younger vampire went over backward, but got up immediately, his expression serious. He came at Angel with unnatural speed, his movements crisper now, and drove the dark-haired man back against the same tree with a rapid series of punches that were only partially blocked. Angel spun away from the tree, feeling his shirt catch and tear as he ducked beneath a final blow.

A heavy shower of water fell on them as Spike's jab landed against the bark, shivering the apple tree. Angel felt his shirt flapping uselessly, and he ripped it off. Spike doffed his t-shirt, matching him again. One corner of his mouth went up, and he adopted the straight-spined stance of a nineteenth-century boxer. The two bare-chested men circled each other, silently agreeing to a straight boxing match. After five minutes, they had each managed to land only a handful of blows, but Angel's lip was cut and a bloody smear sat on Spike's right cheek.

"Careful," Angel warned, breaking the silence as he twisted away too late and Spike's knuckles left a line of fire across his chest. "Buffy always liked the way I look without a shirt."

"Yeah?" Spike, giving him no quarter, grazed his chin with a quick jab. "She always liked my more functional parts."

The humor left Angel's face, and he let fly a complicated combination of punches, forcing the blond man to retreat this time. His fist finally met Spike's jaw with satisfying force. "Well, who doesn't, Sweet Willy?" he mocked in a fair approximation of Dru's voice.

Spike touched his jaw delicately. "Guess I'll have to make you choke on your words, then, just like I make you choke on everything else." This time he advanced, Angel dodging and twisting away from his quick blows.

May not be such a good idea to taunt someone who's been training with an Old One for the past few weeks, Angel thought, taking another step back and setting a trap, but what the hell. "I'm pretty sure you li– "

Spike had already stepped back, blood from Angel's mouth on his knuckles, and the trap was never sprung. He watched Angel spit, red shining on the wet ground for a second before the blood and saliva soaked into the dirt. The dark-haired man looked up at him with a flat, killer's gaze, and Spike knew Queensbury rules were out the window.

They flew at each other, going down on the ground, churning up mud. Angel got his footing first, catching Spike in the ribs with a brutal kick. Too late with the block, Spike caught the foot as Angel drew it back, jerking violently and spinning the other man back to the ground. He rose to his knees and connected with three quick body blows before Angel twisted enough to get the angle for another kick.

Breaking free of each other, they got to their feet and began to circle again. Spike's teeth were showing, but not in a grin. His upper lip was curled with unconscious aggression, his fists held loosely midway at his chest. Angel eyed him, his own hands held lower, as if ready to grapple. He blinked a bit, trying to squeeze water from his eyes. "You won one round," he said softly, taunting the boy. "How many did I win before that?"

He spun, striking out with his left leg, following the spinning kick with one from his right leg. Spike stepped into the second kick and landed a perfect uppercut beneath his jaw. Angel staggered, did not go down. Catching sight of the follow-up punch in his peripheral vision, he grabbed Spike's fist and twisted. The blond man went with the motion, turning so that his muddy back was toward Angel. He launched two short backfists at the taller man's nose, and when he had a good idea where it was, he slammed his skull into it. Angel let go to cup his nose for a second, and they drew apart a short distance, eyeing each other.

"I've known I could beat you since I was six," Spike said. "Just had to keep trying till I got it right." He moved faster than Angel could see and landed a solid kick against the taller man's right kidney. "And now, I got it right."

Angel grunted. Six…? "Since Paris?" At the blond man's nod, Angel rolled his eyes. "What? Because you killed that woman who hurt us?" He snorted. "You were so proud of your little trophies, the boy's toy, the bloodstained sword."

Something between a smile and a satisfied sneer settled on Spike's bruised lips. "Didn't kill them, Peaches. Made sure she and her son were safely out of the country the next day. Deserved safe passage after what she did." He bounced a bit on the balls of his feet. "I was proud, though. Proud that I made proper fools of all of you." He ducked Angel's straight punch. "A sword and a child's doll and a bit of blood from a pinprick? You never wondered why I didn't just bring you, oh, their hearts?" He shot out with his own fist, but Angel slid away. "That's right, grandsire. A little bit of a human woman carved herself off a piece of you and your two bints and lived to laugh about it for thirty years."

His demon roared, and Angel launched himself at the grinning man, their chests meeting, straining against each other as their feet fought for purchase in the mud. The only thought in the red haze of his mind was to wipe the smirk off the traitor's face. In his rage, it didn't occur to him to be glad two humans had survived the Scourge of Europe.

Fifteen minutes later, they were still at it, too far gone under the violence to stop. They both knew it wasn't possible to kill the other with their bare hands, but the important thing was to try. Angel and Spike knew each other too intimately to touch in any way that wasn't violent. The rain was heavy now, and they were soaked. They slugged away at each other from nearly stationary positions, like heavyweights after fourteen rounds.

Someone moved between them, too fast to be Spike anymore, but Angel threw a punch anyway. Instead of ducking, Sally grabbed his hand almost casually and bent back one of his fingers. He went down on his knees, trying to avoid the bright, sharp pain, blinking his eyes against the rain as he came out of the strange reverie. She looked at him, at Spike, then back, the concern on her face rapidly fading, replaced by disgust.

"I smelled blood, and then I heard –" Spike took a step forward, and she put out a warding hand. "What on earth are you two…?"

Spike captured her hand and placed it flat against his stomach, his eyes focusing sharply on her. Dark with rain, her red hair was the color of rich blood. She looked soft and yielding, but the small woman had taken Angel to the ground effortlessly. She was strong enough to bear his desire. He no longer had an opponent, and the violence singing through his veins turned, writhing, causing other needs to flare. She smelled… clean and feminine. Inviting.

Sally locked her elbow, keeping the two apart, and turned to speak to Angel. "How long have you two been at this?" She eased up on his finger.

He shrugged wearily. "Since I came outside."

Sally looked incredulous. "That was almost an hour ago."

She turned to Spike, whose gaze was fixed on her chest. Her loose overalls gapped away from her body, and the rain had soaked her white tank top, molding it to her. He could clearly see the outline of her bra, her hard nipples. What had been bloodlust was now simply lust. Spike pushed her palm down his slick skin, past his navel, his eyes closing briefly as her fingertips slid into his jeans.

Then he blinked away raindrops and met her shocked eyes. The heat faded from his own. She snatched her hand away as if his skin burned, and Sally took a step back, letting go of Angel's finger as well. She hunched her shoulders defensively and put her hands in her pockets. Angel, getting slowly to his feet, missed the whole thing.

"Okay," Sally said quietly. "I'll ask again, what on earth were you two doing?"

"Well, training," Spike offered. "What else?"

"Training," she repeated in a neutral tone. Sally looked up at Angel, who gave a short nod. She examined him, noting that one arm hung oddly at his side, that his nose was probably broken. After a moment, she made herself look at Spike. He had a rapidly disappearing shiner, swollen lips, and she had felt broken ribs. He wouldn't meet her eyes, but, then, neither would Angel. Both were covered with minor scrapes and fading bruises. If they had been fighting for almost an hour, there was no telling how much inflicted damage had already healed. She shook her head.

"This is just –" Angel began, but Sally held up a hand, cutting him off.

"Let's get something straight," she said, "no more 'training' sessions. Either of you start it, you know I'll put a stop to it." She looked at the ground instead of them, troubled. "You're both welcome to stay, but this is my home. It's never been a place for fighting, and I don't want it to be now." Sally pushed back her wet hair and glanced at each of them, her voice softening. "Now, y'all get your stuff and come on back to the house, get cleaned up."

They watched her walk away, her footfalls squishing on the wet ground, and their eyes met briefly. Angel turned slowly to follow. Spike came alongside and held out his forgotten jacket in silence. Angel took it, nodding without looking at the other man. Safe or not, this living arrangement is never going to work, he thought. She's right. Between my need for violence and Spike's sex drive, there'll be no peace here. A week, tops, just until I'm sure the heat's let up. Then I'm out of here.

⸹

Next chapter: Spike and Angel try to readjust to living with each other.