.

When Buffy heard Spike calling her name way, way too many hours later, she was – almost – pleased to hear his voice. At first she'd passed the time by leafing through the few magazines inside the store, but her bandaged foot and filthy state had drawn too much attention for her liking. She hadn't noticed the looks she'd been getting the first time she'd shopped, distracted as she'd been by the promise of silencing the gnawing in her belly, but now she could feel each stare, each hushed whisper.

So, in addition to purchasing two of the magazines, she spent some more of Spike's cash on what had to be the world's tackiest souvenir t-shirt, a roll of paper towels, and a small bottle of soap, and headed for the still less-than-sanitary bathroom. Buffy put her enhanced coordination and the paper towels and soap to good use, managing to wash even her hair without touching any part of the sink other than the handle of the faucet, and that only with a paper towel. After, she headed outside to sit in the sun on overturned crate in the back of the store, where she could dry out her hair and keep an eye on Spike's car at the same time.

The magazines occupied her for the next hour, after which she paced the perimeter of the rear parking lot to gauge how her foot was healing. Satisfied with its progress, she'd sat back down and re-read the magazines, in between avoiding conversation with the occasional employee headed for the dumpster.

The remainder of the time had passed in a long, fidgety blur, and now Buffy hurried to the shade and Spike's car, relieved to be doing anything other than waiting around. Waiting around had meant time for thinking, and thinking was... not good. Very not good.

"You sure you've had enough sleep?" she said as she slid into the passenger seat, more worried about her own not dying in a fiery crash than Spike's well-being.

"Enough for now. And if we get on our way, we'll be able to make it to Portland before sunup. There's a fellow there should be able to offer advice on our demon problem, or at least point us in the right direction." Spike looked her over, and raised an eyebrow. "Nice shirt."

"Oh, shut up. I needed a change of clothes, desperately, and I didn't want to disturb you. But now…" Buffy reached into the back for her duffle, and rooted around for some clean clothes. "Back in a jiff."

She returned minutes later, attired in garbage-free – and tackiness-free – clothes.

"My retinas thank you," Spike said.

Buffy considered taking offense, but she really couldn't. She was thankful to be free of the neon pink too. "Here," she said, tossing the definitely not an apology for wrecking his car at his head.

Spike caught it with one hand, and gave her a curious look when he saw what it was. "Thought you refused to go the delinquent route."

"Katie over there," she said, jerking her thumb in the direction of the bathrooms, "was very unhappy with Mike for going back on his promise to quit smoking, and decided to help him along by throwing away the cigarettes he'd bought when he thought she wasn't looking. Sorry she also felt the need to crumple them up first."

"Suppose the price can't be beat." He looked at the pack again, then back at her, head cocked and brow furrowed as he studied her. "Uh… thanks. Do you mind…?" He shook the package.

She minded, but it seemed only fair after the day he'd had, not to mention the driving yet to be done. "Knock yourself out."

Cellophane crinkled, a lighter snicked, and the car filled with the scent of burning tobacco. Buffy stifled a cough, telling herself that at least it covered up the residual garbage truck smell that had worked its way into the leather.

Spike sighed with pleasure, and started the car. "Portland?"

"Sounds like a plan." Still healing as she was, she wasn't ready to make a last stand yet, which meant she was more than happy to put another night's driving between herself and Furry. And if Spike thought somebody in Portland could help them defeat the demon, then his was as good a plan as any.

He pealed out of the parking lot, and Buffy settled in with one of her magazines. She already knew everything there was to know about Leo and Titanic, but it was that or sit in uncomfortable silence with Spike for the next several hours. Or worse yet, have to talk to him. She'd decided to just pretend his earlier creepiness had never occurred and be as civil as possible for as long as she had to be in his company, but she wasn't up for anything more. Extended conversations were likely to lead to his dusty ending, which would defeat the whole purpose of putting up with him in the first place.

Buffy flipped page after page without reading a word of it, trying to keep up the pretense. She had to admit the avoidance wasn't all Spike's fault, truth be told. She didn't want to be around anybody just now, the irony being that that was what had led to her being in this situation in the first place. If she hadn't left home…

She winced, and firmly put the thought out of her mind. She'd already spent the afternoon remembering why, again and again and again. And again. Leo, dreamy as he was, hadn't kept her from the memories. It seemed he couldn't now, either.

"So," she said, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of the wind rushing through the taped-over window. "Music?"

.


.

A slammed door startled Buffy awake and she sat up groggily, rubbing her eyes and stretching her neck to counteract the kink in it. "Mom?" she said, and opened her eyes. And yelped.

Spike stared back at her, gaze intensely focused, his motionlessness putting Buffy in mind of a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. She snapped upright, every muscle tensed, the stake she'd fallen asleep with ready for action.

He blinked, and his entire demeanor changed without apparent movement on his part. "Hey, now, we've been through this," he said, gesturing to her quivering stake. "If I'd wanted to kill you, I could've done it when you were sleeping. And if you were going to do me in, all you had to do was let the Grdnith finish me off. There's no reason to be so twitchy, we already agreed we could trust each other."

"For now," Buffy muttered. She didn't lower the stake.

"Well, yeah, for now," Spike agreed cheerfully. "When the demon's dead, all bets are off."

"Gee, I feel safer already." She lowered her arm halfway, though. In a surreal moment to top the list of surreal moments they'd already shared, she and Spike had agreed, just before she'd let herself fall asleep, that they could – temporarily – count on each other not to get murderous while the other wasn't looking.

She'd still slept with a stake in her hand, though. Trust and Spike would never, ever go together in the same sentence. Ever.

Stretching first one shoulder then the other, Buffy stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. "Are we here, then?"

"Not quite. Just stopped for some dinner."

She realized then what had been bothering her: the small splotch of red at the corner of Spike's mouth. Buffy had her stake pressed to his heart before he could even twitch. "How dare you -"

"Relax," he said, voice calm and steady. Gaze fixed on hers, he slowly raised his hands in self-defense, and then brought her attention to the bagged blood he held in his right hand with a wiggle of his wrist. "I think we've already established that I'm not suicidal, pet. Not going to be stupid enough to chow on the locals with the Slayer looking over my shoulder."

"For how many times you've tried to fight me this past year, I have a surprisingly hard time believing you're willing to pass up a fight now."

Still moving cautiously, Spike shifted the stake aside, hand wrapped over hers. "If there wasn't something scarier than you waiting for me, I'd say bring it on, but as is…"

Buffy snatched her hand away, but only because his touch repulsed her, and one hundred percent absolutely not because it sent a shiver down her spine at the remembrance of how he'd touched her before. Hand safely in her lap, she frowned at him. "Okay, now I'm offended."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of." Spike made a show of looking around for non-existent eavesdroppers, then leaned in and whispered, "I'm the Biggest Bad you'll ever meet, sweets. But between you and me, the Grdnith is even bigger and badder than me." He sat back up, and with a smirk, added, "'Course, you tell anyone I said that and I'll have to kill you. I mean, I'll kill you eventually anyway, but I'll do it with messy prejudice."

"Gosh, and I just can't put my finger on what it is about you that's so repulsive."

"It's a mystery, innit?"

His cocksure arrogance and cheeky grin had Buffy's knuckles itching for one good punch. She forced herself to take a deep mental breath, and settled for rolling her eyes at him with all the disdain she could muster – which, as former head cheerleader and Fiesta Queen, was not inconsiderable. Even Cordelia would've been proud. "Just… you know what? Hurry and get wherever it is we're going. The sooner we figure out how to kill your demon, the sooner I can us out of this mess you got me into and be done with you forever."

Spike did as she bid and started the car, but her scorn had no effect on his spirits. Still grinning, he put the car into gear and looked over his shoulder, though how he could see through the blacked-out windows to back up, Buffy couldn't say.

"So, Slayer, you never did tell me what you were doing in Los Angeles, so far from home and hearth."

She sucked in a painful breath, and fired back the first thing that popped into her head. "And you never told me where Drusilla ran off to. Or should I say who she ran off to."

The smug grin melted into a sullen glare, which quickly gave way to a ferocious snarl. Spike slammed the car into park, causing her to rebound against her seat, and he shot his hand out and grabbed her by the throat. "On second thought, why wait to do this?"

Buffy's heart trip-trapped in her chest, and sweat pooled at the small of her back. But her voice held steady as she stared him down. "Now, now, Spikey. I'm pretty sure that temper of yours is what got you into trouble in the first place." Smiling sweetly, she added, "It's the whole reason you need my help, remember?"

Spike growled, baring his fangs at her before flinging her away. "I'm going to enjoy killing you, bitch."

"Yeah, yeah," Buffy said, swallowing back the need to cough. "I've heard it all before. Like I said, let's get this over with."

He put the car into gear again and stomped the accelerator to the floor, ratcheting her heart rate even higher. Buffy gripped the door handle and silently said a prayer to whoever might be listening that Spike's self-professed desire to save his own skin would kick in before he made learning how to kill Furry a moot point.

The combination of the roaring engine and the wind screaming through the broken window rose to a deafening shriek, but Buffy remained silent, certain that any suggestion to slow down would have the opposite effect. Besides, she was damned if she was going to show any fear in the face of his temper tantrum. After what felt like hours, he slowed a little, but only so he could reach for the bag of blood he'd dropped earlier. He bit into it with a yellow-eyed snarl, and his side-glance her way made it clear just what he was imagining as he gulped and growled down the blood in a frenzy designed to incite terror.

It worked, but Buffy composed her visage in lines of disgust, not fear, as she stared forward. Spike could play all the head games he wanted; she'd endured far worse after Angel had –

Angel -

"So, who are we on our way to meet?" she said quickly, before the thought could take hold.

Spike twisted to stare at her, bloodied mouth slack, and Buffy would've laughed at his nonplussed expression if she'd been in the mood to laugh. "Eyes on the road before you greasy splotch us," she said. He thought he could intimidate her, did he?

"Uh…" he said, shifting his gaze forward. "Fellow who runs a shop. Old coot, big with the mystical knowledge."

"And how do you know him?"

He sucked on his fangs for a moment, cleaning them, before slipping his human mask back on. "Know of him, more." Spike eased off the accelerator, and glanced at her. "Rumor has it he was a Watcher once."

"If he was, the tweed'll give him away," Buffy said, and Spike snorted out a laugh.

His unexpected laughter dissipated the tension, at least for the time being, and they drove on in silence. Spike studied her from the corner of his eye, slipping her the occasional perturbed frown. It was enough to make Buffy wish he'd return to his temper tantrum. Angry Spike, she understood. This version wigged her out.

Luckily his scrutiny didn't last long; he soon slowed, peering through the strip of clear windshield at the buildings as they rumbled past.

"This is it," he said, pulling to the curb and killing the engine.

Buffy rolled down her window so she could see. "How do you know?" She frowned at the store sign that most definitely wasn't in English. Or human, from the looks of it. "What does it say?"

"Not sure," Spike said. "But the sign's done up in the Malachim alphabet. Even for those of us who can't read it, it's a dead giveaway the shopkeeper fancies themselves an expert in arcane knowledge. I'd wager good kittens this is our man."

"Kittens…?" Buffy said faintly, but Spike was already out the door.

He marched over to the window and peered in, then tried the handle. It turned easily, and he looked back at her for a brief second before throwing his shoulders back and striding into the shop.

"Sure, go right ahead, don't wait for me," Buffy said, and hurried to open her door and follow Spike inside.

.