The Keeper of Truth
Chapter 5
Summary: "There's always consequences." Spike is proven right when Willow's spell brings Buffy back, years from where she's supposed to be. He'd be bragging that one up, if Spike of season 2 knew what the hell Buffy was talking about.
Rating: R for now. Maybe more later.
Disclaimer: The usual. BTVS is not mine.
Distribution: If you want it, email me..
Feedback: Oh yes please. Dragolyn@hotmail.com
Author's Note: Due to the fact that for some reason, I can't post italics on ff.net, thoughts are put into brackets like these. Also, I do not know Latin. Forgive me for the errors.
**********
1998
The train rumbled to life beneath Buffy's feet, throwing her off balance. She reeled against the wall of the tiny hallway, her arms tightening reflexively around Spike, who was cradled in her arms like a child. A very large, loud, obnoxious child, she thought, one who reeks of cheap liquor. The sound of his drunken laughter grated on her nerves. Pulling herself off the wall, she gritted her teeth and continued down the hall towards the private compartment they'd reserved from a pay phone.
"I'm really missing your wheelchair right about now. Good thing people in Sunnydale all live in a state of perma-denial. Normal people might ask us how someone my size can lug around a guy your size. Plus, there's the whole beaten-up, not breathing part." She grunted and fell against the wall as the train rocked again, nearly dropping Spike. Clasping him closer to her chest, she sighed with relief at the sight of their destination.
"Ooh, Slayer, that's right," Spike said, still chuckling. "Put your hot, little hands right about there. No, no, go just a tad lower."
Buffy's hands twitched beneath his thighs. "I move them and you hit the ground," she hissed into his ear, fumbling for the door handle. "Don't tempt me. You're drunk and disgusting. I wouldn't put my hands on your ass in the best of times, much less when you smell like a distillery."
Tucking his head against her shoulder so that they'd fit through the narrow doorway together, Spike stuck out his tongue, tasting the skin where her shoulder met her neck. "Sweet," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I knew you would taste sweet."
"What! Oh, ew. You're so out of your mind. I never thought you'd be such a lightweight. Big, smart idea, getting you drunk to dull the pain… if I'd known it would turn you into a such a…a… hey, watch the hands! Keep them to yourself, or loose them." She opened the door and kicked it shut behind them. "Home sweet home," she said, surveying the tiny room quickly. "Hey, hands, remember!" Without warning, she dumped him on the couch.
"Ahhh," he moaned, closing his eyes and curling onto his side defensively. He pulled his legs up with his hands, moaning again at the sound of his broken bones shifting. "Mind the bruises, pet. And the cuts. And the broken bones. The bloody rattling of the train is bad enough on my body without you throwing me all about. I'm sloshed, yeah, but not well enough for that."
"You think the rattle's bad? Wait a few hours till the sun comes up. You're going to be stuck in this compartment, on that couch. No where for you to go, especially without a wheelchair." She moved to the small window and shut the blinds. "And I'll be stuck in here with you. I can't exactly move around without a care, not yet anyways. This train is jammed full of people from Sunnydale and Los Angeles. What are the odds that none of them have heard of the Slayer?"
"Better than the odds I would've given on this whole situation last week. Who'd have thought you and I'd be trapped in here together for god- knows-how-long, with nothing for entertainment but each other." He brought his hands up to pillow his cheek, wincing as the wounds on his wrists complained. "A couch, a table, a window, and I'm guessing behind 'door number two' there's a toilet. No telly. No books. Not even a deck of cards."
"There's a radio," Buffy said, pulling it from underneath the table. "That'll do for entertainment, for a few hours at least. When we cross the border, all we'll get on this is Spanish."
"You don't hablo the español?" Smirking hurt, but he did it anyways. "Well, at least one of us will be entertained."
She sent him a black look, then opened the door to the bathroom. With a sigh of relief, she said, "There's a shower. Yay us. Or, yay me, anyways. You're not gonna be on your feet anytime soon. Too bad, too, since you're the stinky one."
Spike's face clouded over. He closed his eyes again and said nothing, only took a deep breath, and then another. And then stopped breathing all together.
"Breathe," Buffy said, watching him. "It's creepy when you don't."
"Breathing hurts, you bloody fool." He didn't open his eyes, but Buffy could see the glare lurking beneath the lids as clearly as if he had. "Everything hurts."
She hovered over him, uncertainty making her movements jerky. A thin, blue blanket hung over the arm of the couch. Reaching for it, she covered him, ignoring his wheezy curse.
"Quit your fussing," he growled, but tried to pull the blanket up higher. The movement made him gasp in pain.
Perching on the table, Buffy tucked the blanket around his shoulders. "Better?" she asked, her voice quiet and carefully free of pity. No pity here, nope, no way. A pity free zone. Just because you got all these injuries to protect me, that in no way makes me want to nurse you. Nope. Her lips twitched, and she covered her mouth with one hand. What an idiot. He needs help. You think he'd just accept it, but no… Nothing can ever be simple. "Want an aspirin or something? I saw a kit of stuff like that in the bathroom."
"Vampires aren't real big on aspirin, Slayer. A bottle of tequila, maybe, since we're headed south of the border and all. But nothing so sissy as an aspirin."
"We got you all liquored up before we left town. That was supposed to last you a while."
"Yeah, well, tell that to the pain in my back." He pushed his cheek into the orange couch cushion. The friction opened the gash on his cheekbone, and he licked at the thin line of blood. "And in the rest of me too."
Buffy settled back against the wall, drawing her legs to her chest. The denim covering her knees felt rough beneath her chin, and she turned her head, enjoying the texture. "We'll be in Mexico soon. After a few days, most of the Sunnydale passengers should be gone. I'll get out at a stop and get you some tequila. Until then, aspirin is your only poison. Satisfied?"
The answer- no- was so obvious, he didn't even bother with it. He blinked at her once, with eyes so bloodshot Buffy didn't know how he could stand the feeling of his eyelids scraping over them. When he closed them, hiding their misery from her sight, she was relieved.
She hugged her legs more tightly and laid her head on them, wishing she hadn't noticed that Spike looked even worse after being lugged across town and onto the train than he'd looked ten hours earlier, after his bout with Angelus. The bruises had risen to a ripe fullness on the skin of his face, along with a translucent sheen that spoke volumes about the aches he must be feeling above his waist. Below the waist he, of course, felt nothing. Buffy was glad for his paralysis. She'd done her best to force the bones of his calves back into alignment back at the crypt, but she couldn't see if her efforts had been successful through the huge amount of swelling that had bloomed since then. She wasn't about to mess with them again. The sound of his screams will stay with me forever, she thought, squeezing her own legs more tightly.
"Are you just going to sit there," he asked, moving nothing but his lips.
"Not unless I want the pattern on this table permanently engraved on the seat of my jeans." She shifted, uncomfortable. "I think that couch pulls out into a bed. You up for moving?"
"Not as such." He squinted at her. "You're going to make me?"
Swallowing a pang of sympathy, she nodded. "If that's the only padded seat, you're not getting all of it."
He nodded and closed his eyes, waiting with reluctance for her to lift him.
"Help me," she said, grabbing him under the arms. She pulled him over her shoulder, fireman-style. "Put your arms up."
He ignored her, but she didn't mind. The look on his face told her that he was barely keeping it together. Setting him gently on the floor, she unfolded the couch and made up the bed as fast as she could.
"There," she said, settling him onto the crisp, white sheet. She waited for him to pull himself into a ball again, but this time he stayed still. Her hands trembled on the top sheet as she pulled it over his legs, then moved up to hover over his face, over the worst of the bruising that circled his left eye. "We should change your bandages. They're getting kinda ripe," she said, her voice low and apologetic. "I guess we'll have to cut your jeans off. They're not gonna fit anyways if that swelling keeps up." Without waiting for his answer, she went into the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit.
When she returned, kit and scissors in hand, he hadn't moved. Had she not known better, she would've assumed he was truly dead. "Spike," she said, kneeling on the bed beside him. "Can you… umm… twitch or something? Just so I know you're not gonna bite me if I touch you?" The sleeve of his shirt brushed her knees, though she hadn't seen him move. "Umm… fine. Okay. Let's get on with this."
Pulling back the sheet, she undid the button of his jeans, her eyes glued to his face in search of a reaction. When she found none, she continued, unzipping his fly and opening the scissors. "You really don't want to startle me right now. Wouldn't want me to slip," she said, putting the lower blade under the denim. Heat from his body warmed the metal, confusing her until she remembered he'd fed before they left the crypt. The scissors were too weak to cleanly cut the thick material, but she didn't want to rip the pants away without at least a tear started. He was in enough pain without her jerking his legs around again.
The black denim gave way to bright white briefs. Suppressing a giggle at his mundane choice of underwear, she spread open his jeans the rest of the way. What she saw beneath them made her bite her lips. "I'm not gonna tell you it looks pretty under here," she said to him, though she doubted he was conscious enough to listen. "Let's just say… the rotting look does not suit you."
"I *am * a corpse, you know," he muttered, surprising her. "More blood's all I need to heal."
"We'll take care of that after I clean you up a bit." She unwrapped the bandages, wrinkling her nose. "Ripe is such a weak word when it comes to describing this stench."
"I get it, okay? Rotting, smelly, bad Spike. Enough with the running commentary."
"Fine," she said, opening the first aid kit and removing a ball of gauze and a bottle of disinfectant. "On with Nurse Buffy."
He turned his head away from her, clenching his jaw as the disinfectant hit his skin. A low growl rumbled out of him, followed by words spoken so hard, Buffy couldn't understand them.
"Are you talking to me?" she asked, gingerly patting the wound on his right calf where the bone had pierced his skin.
"I said, why are you doing this?"
"Running away? You know why."
"No," he said, his words gritty, "not running away. Taking care of me. I know, I know, you have a timeline to protect, and I know all your little secrets. Makes me a big danger, right enough. So, why nurse me back to un- health? Be easier just to stake me. That *is* what you do, remember? Slayer?"
She didn't answer for a moment, only continued to disinfect his leg. The damp gauze felt cold against her fingers, a welcome feeling as it distracted her from the slimy wetness of the fluid seeping from his wound. Her thoughts swirled together; she couldn't pick them apart enough to answer. Finally, she said, "No."
"No?"
"No." Moving to his left leg, she pulled out a fresh piece of gauze. "Before Angelus and Dru crashed our little crypt party, you asked me a question. You asked me if a tiny piece of metal imbedded in your brain made that much of a difference in who you are. Who you will be." Wetting the gauze, she stared down at his leg, unable to look him in the eyes. "No. That's my answer. You're still you, only less… tested. I just… I just never knew it, until…" Trailing her finger alongside the gash with feather-light pressure, she darted a glance at his face. "Until this."
Something flickered over the line of his brows, but he said nothing. She took a deep breath, knowing he must think she'd gone insane. Pushing the heel of her hand into her forehead, she took another breath, and wondered if he might be right. Take a little death, add a smidge of time travel, and voila! One nutty Slayer. Her knee jerked, tipping the bottle of disinfectant over and startling her back to her work. "How're your wrists?" she asked, keeping her face closed of all emotion.
"They'll keep." He hissed as she palpitated the muscle of his calf. "Hey. You better know what you're about down there."
"You can feel this?" she asked, tickling the skin of his ankle with her fingertips. "Hey. Yeah. You could feel all this, the sting of the medicine and everything. I didn't even think… why didn't you say something?"
"It comes and goes," he said. "I try to move, and there's just nothing. Angelus breaks my legs and… nothing. Not much, anyhow. But sometimes, along the skin especially, I get… umm… prickles."
"It's coming back already. The feeling in your legs." She capped the disinfectant and put it back in the first aid kit.
"You tell me. You're the all-knowing future girl, after all."
Shrugging, she moved up his side to his chest and began to open the buttons of his shirt. "It's not like we were best pals. All I know is that sometime before May, you'll be up and running." The shirt opened to reveal the too- pale skin of his chest. Bluish bruises flourished over his ribs and down towards his hips. She started to touch one, then paused. "I'm just gonna…"
"Yeah," he said, rolling his head back to stare at the ceiling.
Beneath her hands, his skin felt smooth and solid. She stroked them over his pectoral muscles and down his sides, trying to feel the bones underneath. "Your ribs have healed already, I think. I don't feel any bumps."
"Look lower," he muttered, the corner of his mouth turning up.
She gave him a poke, then winced as he recoiled. "Umm… sorry. Well, okay. You can button your shirt yourself. I'll… umm… oh, wait. Let me get some water and soap and stuff. If I'm gonna be stuck in here with you, I'm going to have to do stink-control."
"You're not gonna give me a sponge bath. I might be a pathetic ponce just now, but I'm not getting wiped down like a child in nappies." He struggled to raise his shoulders up and glared at her, his eyes bright with pain. "You might think about a good wash yourself. I might stink of whisky, but you're the one who rolled out of a grave not too long ago."
"Fine. But if you're not up and in that shower by tomorrow, I'm dumping water on you, like it or not." She pulled the sheet over him, covering him to his chin. As she folded down the edge of the sheet, her hand brushed his jaw. The stubble scratched at her, and she jerked away. I didn't like that. No, I *so* did… not. His eyes were on her when she looked up, silent laughter locked inside them. "You got to ask me a question. Now, it's my turn. I want a straight answer from you. Why are you doing this?"
"That's so unoriginal, pet."
"Just answer me." Her eyes held his, unwavering and solemn.
He shrugged, ignoring the pain. "Staying in Sunnyhell rather lost all appeal when Angelus decided to make me his punching bag. Not like Dru cared overmuch, you realize. And…"
"And what?"
"Like I said before, it just feels like the thing to do. Going with you… it feels right, don't ask me why. I don't get this. How I feel… all funny inside, warm. I feel more alive… I'm even breathing more often. Must be your influence. Living with a human is rubbing off on me or something. Helping you… skipping town with you… I'm doing it because it feels right, but I don't understand it."
She gave him a hint of a smile. "I think I do, maybe. We've skipped town together before… or, before for me. You know what I mean."
"Why, because I was in love with you in the future? This warmth, the breathing… you think that's… love?"
The word came off his lips soured, which stung her. She inhaled sharply, trying to loosen the sudden tightness in her chest. "No," she said, "of course not. But it's something. You don't hate me. And I don't hate you. It's… something
He rolled his eyes. "So that chip really did send me on the fast track to poofterdom."
"If that's what you want to call it, but it wasn't the chip that did it. I might've never realized that if I hadn't seen Angelus beat the tar out of you. You did a lot… I mean, you will do… or would've done a lot for us."
"You're not a bit worried that taking ole Spike out of the other Slayer's future will screw things up, are you?"
Without a thought, she shook her head. "No way. You helped, but you weren't exactly vital. There was the whole truce, where we took down Angelus, but if it hadn't been you helping me, it would've been someone else. Xander, probably."
"Tell me more about future me. I want to hear all about my downward spiral into softness and sissyhood."
"Would a sissy grab the blade of a sword in both of his hands to keep it from slamming through my skull? I don't think so. You risked yourself to take off with us, me and the gang, to save Dawn's life. It was more than I ever expected of you. You really pulled through."
"'S that why you lugged me with you? Because we'd gone together before?"
She looked down at her hands, fiddling with the edge of the sheet. "You're the only person in the whole world who knows I exist. I didn't want to be alone. And I couldn't just leave you there."
Raising an eyebrow, he said, "Are you saying… we're friends?"
Her arms jerked back, away from him. With wide eyes, she shook her head. "No. We're not friends. More… I don't know. More… something. But not friends."
"Even after doing all those goody-goody deeds, catching the sword and whatnot, Glory torture, you still couldn't think of me as someone worthy of friendship?" Dropping his head back on the pillow, he shut his eyes. "Not like I care, mind you. Just that… what does it take with you? You're here with *this* me, being all Florence Nightingale-ish, when you say you never treated the other me so good."
"I didn't think you were worthy of anything back then. Friendship… not something I'd even have considered. You were just… always there. Helping. I could count on you. And then I die and get all lost in the past, and here you are, helping me again. I… ummm," she flushed, amazed at herself. "I was wrong. I mean, obviously."
"The Slayer admits she was wrong? Well, that might mean more to me if I had any memory of what it is you've done to me. As it stands, I'll just enjoy the fact that I'm on a train and not in a pile of dust somewhere." He licked his lips, wetting them. "You do realize I'll have to eat."
"There are butchers in Mexico. You'll survive."
"Not exactly what I meant, pet. Just because your other Spike was leashed doesn't mean I have to be such a whelp."
"So, you're going to start killing people, once your legs heal?" She squeezed the sheet between her hands, annoyed with herself for the trepidation that hung on her words. "You know that won't work with me, Spike. I can't let you do that."
"May, you said? I get my legs back then?"
"Around then, yeah." She looked down at the bulges under the sheet where the bandages on his legs were. "Maybe sooner, I guess."
"I could leave you, when I'm better." He watched her, giving nothing away with his gaze. "You'd fight me, wouldn't you?"
"Of course I would," she whispered. "Slayer… big protector person, remember? I can't let you hurt people. You know that. If you leave to do that, once your legs are working… well, I won't let you."
He turned on his side towards her, rolling his legs with him. "Seems we've got some issues to work out, if we're keeping this partnership together. Either I live like a human, or we fight to the death. That's it?"
Don't leave me alone, she wanted to say, wanted to beg. Pathetic much? There will be no begging. Pull it together. "Live like a man, or die like a vamp. It's your choice. But either way…" Don't leave me alone. Her hands shook on the sheet. She dropped her grip and folded them together. "Either way… it's up to you."
He closed his eyes tiredly, accepting her terms. "Right then. We'll fight, or we'll stay together. But we're not friends. Fine. I get you."
"Right," she said. She leaned forwards, pulling the sheet up to cover his shoulders. "That's it. We're not friends. You've just… always… gotten me. And I think I'm starting to get you, too."
He chuckled, a sound heavy with weariness that fell between them like a wall. "Which me?" he asked her in a rumbling undertone. "Chiphead?"
Laying down beside him, she followed the line of his throat with her eyes. Just let yourself go, already. "Both. Either. Doesn't matter. The chip didn't make a difference. It was a wake-up call, that's all." With a hesitant hand, she reached towards him and brushed her thumb over his bruised cheekbone. "You were always… you."
Their eyes locked together over Buffy's hand, both stunned by the emotion between them. Spike shook his head, one sharp movement that came to him from instinct rather than desire. Her hand fell back, hanging in the space between them. With a tight smile, Buffy let it drop. She jumped off the bed and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a firm click.
He watched her leave, his eyes narrowed. Shifting restlessly, trying to relieve the throbbing of his back, he kept his gaze on the door behind which, he could hear Buffy breathing in deep, desperate gulps. All of his pain and confusion welded together inside of him, swelling up into a single upsurge of devouring yearning. Cursing himself for his foolish patheticness, he tore his eyes away from the door. He grabbed a pillow and pressed it over his face, over his ears, trying with no success to block out her sounds. "Bugger," he whispered, pushing his hands into the ache of longing in his chest as if he could tear it out. "Bugger me."
**********
Sunnydale, 2001
"Good thing I saved all these," Willow said. She snuggled deeper into the couch, pulling one of Giles' journals higher on her lap. The vanilla- colored pages were covered with tiny words inscribed in black ink. With the tip of her index finger, she traced the date Giles had written in the upper corner of the last page. "Lots of info here, but it seems kinda off that I'd have them. I thought they were suppose to go to the Council if Giles died? Big Slayer/Watcher secrets and all?"
Tara leaned back against the couch cushions, looking over the mounds of leather-bound journals that layered the coffee table. The center of each cover bore the initials R.G. burned in italics. They were all in impeccable condition, though their owner had died nearly three years earlier. "They were your babies," Tara said, curling her legs up beneath her and facing Willow. "You kept them under lock and key in a fireproof safe. All the years you'd spent with Xander and Gile, with Buffy, before she… changed… all those years are documented in these books. I think you'd have sold your fillings before you'd part with them."
Licking her tongue over her molars, Willow sighed. "I was right to keep them. The Council wouldn't have used them right. They never did have any respect for Giles. 'Cause, you know, he loved Buffy. Like, really loved her. And love is a big evil to those guys. Or that's how they acted, at least." Flipping through the pages of the journal open in her lap, she found what she was looking for. She rapped her knuckles against the page. "See, like here. He writes about Jenny, how she lied to us all. Giles loved Jenny, but in here, all he writes about is how he's mad at her for hurting Buffy. Nothing about how she hurt him." Closing the book, she rubbed the pad of her thumb over the initials on the cover. "He cared more for Buffy than he did for himself. He would've given up his life for her, without even thinking twice."
"He did," Tara said. She took the journal from Willow and opened it to the last page. "This night, he did. I guess he wrote this just before the vampires captured him. Sometime between writing this and the next night, he was murdered."
"That's just… no. That didn't happen, not really." Tears choking her, Willow swallowed hard and took a deep breath. "No. That's all a part of the stupidity that is me. I screwed it up." She gazed at Tara with wet, bruised eyes. "How did it happen that night? In your reality, I mean?"
"I don't really know too much. Buffy… she was more than broken. There was no way for her to talk about what took place."
"She never said what happened? Not a word?"
Tara dropped her gaze, avoiding Willow's eyes. "When she'd have nightmares, sometimes she'd cry out about it being her fault. Like… at night. Every night. She was broken, Will. I never knew her as anything else. By the time I met you, she'd… well, she was not the Buffy you knew."
"I have to fix this, Tara. All this… it's beyond bad. Bad we've dealt with before. This is something new. Worse." She covered her face with trembling hands, her words soaked with misery. "I might as well have killed them myself."
Rising to her knees, Tara moved to Willow's side and stroked her hair. With one hand, she hooked Willow's chin and gently pushed her head up. Their eyes met, and held, both tired, both afraid. Tara smoothed the tears from Willow's cheeks. She brushed a kiss over her lips, then said, "We'll fix it, honey. You and I. All these books… they'll tell us how to make things right again." Kissing her again, she caressed Willow's cheek, then tucked a lock of loose hair behind her ear. "You're no killer," she said, her voice a serious whisper.
The words breathed across Willow's face, reassuring and sweet. She gazed into Tara's eyes, searching for any hint of blame, but finding only determined compassion and love. Sniffling, she nodded. "Okay. Pulling myself together here. We've got a lot to do, and me being all Sobby Sally isn't going to fix the timeline."
"That's my girl," Tara said, relief lightening her face. "Where do we start?"
"I'm thinking we could combine a general reversal spell with elements from the original spell, sort of a magic hodge-podge." She stood and went to Buffy's weapons chest, which now held various magical components. Pulling out several items, she continued, "We have all we need, I think. Are you ready?"
Standing, Tara moved the coffee table to one side. She folded back the carpet to reveal a circle of black paint on the floorboards. "We're ready," she said, kneeling and blessing the circle with a quick motion of her hands.
"Let's go it then," Willow said, sitting across from Tara. She crumbled the leaves of a spicy smelling plant, making a star-shaped pattern in the center of the circle. "Per meus famen, divello factum." Removing the cork, she upended a glass vial and sprinkled the red powder from inside over the star. Energy, like a blue wind, began to swirl over the circle. Concentrating, neither Willow nor Tara noticed the yellow light that glowed from their skins. "Refero Buffy. Abrogo veneficus." The wind moved faster, blowing the leaves out of their star-shape and sucking them up inside itself. Throwing her arms into the arm, Willow finished, "Refero Buffy!" before slumping backwards onto her back.
"Willow!" Tara shouted, jumping up and breaking the circle. The blue wind fell away, scattering bits of leaves over the living room. She started towards Willow, but was stopped by the movement of the ground. It quaked beneath them with a rolling roar. The walls shuddered from the force, shedding pictures and mirrors to fly to the floor.
Rolling onto her side, Willow crawled into the doorway. Tara followed her. They huddled together, watching wide-eyed as the earthquake continued, breaking the window. Glass rained over the couch. Outside, a woman began to scream.
"Did it work?" Willow asked, dazed. She reeled dizzily to one side. "The spell? Did it work?"
Drawing Willow against her side with one steadying arm, Tara looking at the wreckage. The woman on the street was still screaming, and as she listened, other screams arose. In the distance, an ambulance blared its siren. Hugging Willow closer, Tara felt her heart sink. "I'm thinking no."
**********
1998
Spike jerked awake to a crashing sound coming from the bathroom. He listened for a beat, then called out to her. "Slayer? You miss the pot?" When there was no answer, he propped himself up on his elbows. "Buffy? You alright in there?"
She didn't answer. He cocked his head, listening for the sound of her breathing, the sound he'd fallen asleep to. There was no noise coming from the bathroom at all. A sick feeling rose in his stomach, but he swallowed it down with annoyance. "Buffy, answer me," he said, an edge growing under his words. "I can't come to you, pet. Answer me!"
Suddenly, the door to the train compartment was flung open. Spike jerked back on the bed, stunned at the site of a not-quit-human standing before him, panting. The man whipped his head back and forth, searching the compartment with exaggerated movements that would've been comical under any other circumstances. "I smelled it," the man said, raising his face and glaring at Spike.
"Umm… smelled what, mate?" Taking in the man's appearance, Spike felt the bed behind him, hoping for some kind of weapon to magically appear. Creatures with faces textured like dried prunes and red eyes were not to be trusted offhandedly. "You've got the wrong compartment. But while you're here, you might do me a favor and…"
The creature stepped forward, growling. "Where is she? I smelled the mystical energy, vampire. If you've hurt the Slayer…"
Pointing towards the bathroom, Spike said, "In there." He leaned forward, waiting to see in the door. When the creature hesitated, Spike rolled his eyes and flipped back the bed sheet to reveal the bandages on his legs. "Hurry along now and check on her, will you? As you can see, I'm not really able to."
"I don't care about you," the creature said, shaking his finger at Spike as if scolding a naughty child. "It's the Slayer I'm here for. Who cares about vampires?" With a final glare, he pulled open the door to reveal Buffy lying sprawled on her back on the floor. Blue and yellow energy crackled over her body, sparking the air with tiny flames.
Looking back at Spike with a beaming smile, the creature nodded. "Just as I smelled. She's spell-shocked."
Chapter 5
Summary: "There's always consequences." Spike is proven right when Willow's spell brings Buffy back, years from where she's supposed to be. He'd be bragging that one up, if Spike of season 2 knew what the hell Buffy was talking about.
Rating: R for now. Maybe more later.
Disclaimer: The usual. BTVS is not mine.
Distribution: If you want it, email me..
Feedback: Oh yes please. Dragolyn@hotmail.com
Author's Note: Due to the fact that for some reason, I can't post italics on ff.net, thoughts are put into brackets like these. Also, I do not know Latin. Forgive me for the errors.
**********
1998
The train rumbled to life beneath Buffy's feet, throwing her off balance. She reeled against the wall of the tiny hallway, her arms tightening reflexively around Spike, who was cradled in her arms like a child. A very large, loud, obnoxious child, she thought, one who reeks of cheap liquor. The sound of his drunken laughter grated on her nerves. Pulling herself off the wall, she gritted her teeth and continued down the hall towards the private compartment they'd reserved from a pay phone.
"I'm really missing your wheelchair right about now. Good thing people in Sunnydale all live in a state of perma-denial. Normal people might ask us how someone my size can lug around a guy your size. Plus, there's the whole beaten-up, not breathing part." She grunted and fell against the wall as the train rocked again, nearly dropping Spike. Clasping him closer to her chest, she sighed with relief at the sight of their destination.
"Ooh, Slayer, that's right," Spike said, still chuckling. "Put your hot, little hands right about there. No, no, go just a tad lower."
Buffy's hands twitched beneath his thighs. "I move them and you hit the ground," she hissed into his ear, fumbling for the door handle. "Don't tempt me. You're drunk and disgusting. I wouldn't put my hands on your ass in the best of times, much less when you smell like a distillery."
Tucking his head against her shoulder so that they'd fit through the narrow doorway together, Spike stuck out his tongue, tasting the skin where her shoulder met her neck. "Sweet," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I knew you would taste sweet."
"What! Oh, ew. You're so out of your mind. I never thought you'd be such a lightweight. Big, smart idea, getting you drunk to dull the pain… if I'd known it would turn you into a such a…a… hey, watch the hands! Keep them to yourself, or loose them." She opened the door and kicked it shut behind them. "Home sweet home," she said, surveying the tiny room quickly. "Hey, hands, remember!" Without warning, she dumped him on the couch.
"Ahhh," he moaned, closing his eyes and curling onto his side defensively. He pulled his legs up with his hands, moaning again at the sound of his broken bones shifting. "Mind the bruises, pet. And the cuts. And the broken bones. The bloody rattling of the train is bad enough on my body without you throwing me all about. I'm sloshed, yeah, but not well enough for that."
"You think the rattle's bad? Wait a few hours till the sun comes up. You're going to be stuck in this compartment, on that couch. No where for you to go, especially without a wheelchair." She moved to the small window and shut the blinds. "And I'll be stuck in here with you. I can't exactly move around without a care, not yet anyways. This train is jammed full of people from Sunnydale and Los Angeles. What are the odds that none of them have heard of the Slayer?"
"Better than the odds I would've given on this whole situation last week. Who'd have thought you and I'd be trapped in here together for god- knows-how-long, with nothing for entertainment but each other." He brought his hands up to pillow his cheek, wincing as the wounds on his wrists complained. "A couch, a table, a window, and I'm guessing behind 'door number two' there's a toilet. No telly. No books. Not even a deck of cards."
"There's a radio," Buffy said, pulling it from underneath the table. "That'll do for entertainment, for a few hours at least. When we cross the border, all we'll get on this is Spanish."
"You don't hablo the español?" Smirking hurt, but he did it anyways. "Well, at least one of us will be entertained."
She sent him a black look, then opened the door to the bathroom. With a sigh of relief, she said, "There's a shower. Yay us. Or, yay me, anyways. You're not gonna be on your feet anytime soon. Too bad, too, since you're the stinky one."
Spike's face clouded over. He closed his eyes again and said nothing, only took a deep breath, and then another. And then stopped breathing all together.
"Breathe," Buffy said, watching him. "It's creepy when you don't."
"Breathing hurts, you bloody fool." He didn't open his eyes, but Buffy could see the glare lurking beneath the lids as clearly as if he had. "Everything hurts."
She hovered over him, uncertainty making her movements jerky. A thin, blue blanket hung over the arm of the couch. Reaching for it, she covered him, ignoring his wheezy curse.
"Quit your fussing," he growled, but tried to pull the blanket up higher. The movement made him gasp in pain.
Perching on the table, Buffy tucked the blanket around his shoulders. "Better?" she asked, her voice quiet and carefully free of pity. No pity here, nope, no way. A pity free zone. Just because you got all these injuries to protect me, that in no way makes me want to nurse you. Nope. Her lips twitched, and she covered her mouth with one hand. What an idiot. He needs help. You think he'd just accept it, but no… Nothing can ever be simple. "Want an aspirin or something? I saw a kit of stuff like that in the bathroom."
"Vampires aren't real big on aspirin, Slayer. A bottle of tequila, maybe, since we're headed south of the border and all. But nothing so sissy as an aspirin."
"We got you all liquored up before we left town. That was supposed to last you a while."
"Yeah, well, tell that to the pain in my back." He pushed his cheek into the orange couch cushion. The friction opened the gash on his cheekbone, and he licked at the thin line of blood. "And in the rest of me too."
Buffy settled back against the wall, drawing her legs to her chest. The denim covering her knees felt rough beneath her chin, and she turned her head, enjoying the texture. "We'll be in Mexico soon. After a few days, most of the Sunnydale passengers should be gone. I'll get out at a stop and get you some tequila. Until then, aspirin is your only poison. Satisfied?"
The answer- no- was so obvious, he didn't even bother with it. He blinked at her once, with eyes so bloodshot Buffy didn't know how he could stand the feeling of his eyelids scraping over them. When he closed them, hiding their misery from her sight, she was relieved.
She hugged her legs more tightly and laid her head on them, wishing she hadn't noticed that Spike looked even worse after being lugged across town and onto the train than he'd looked ten hours earlier, after his bout with Angelus. The bruises had risen to a ripe fullness on the skin of his face, along with a translucent sheen that spoke volumes about the aches he must be feeling above his waist. Below the waist he, of course, felt nothing. Buffy was glad for his paralysis. She'd done her best to force the bones of his calves back into alignment back at the crypt, but she couldn't see if her efforts had been successful through the huge amount of swelling that had bloomed since then. She wasn't about to mess with them again. The sound of his screams will stay with me forever, she thought, squeezing her own legs more tightly.
"Are you just going to sit there," he asked, moving nothing but his lips.
"Not unless I want the pattern on this table permanently engraved on the seat of my jeans." She shifted, uncomfortable. "I think that couch pulls out into a bed. You up for moving?"
"Not as such." He squinted at her. "You're going to make me?"
Swallowing a pang of sympathy, she nodded. "If that's the only padded seat, you're not getting all of it."
He nodded and closed his eyes, waiting with reluctance for her to lift him.
"Help me," she said, grabbing him under the arms. She pulled him over her shoulder, fireman-style. "Put your arms up."
He ignored her, but she didn't mind. The look on his face told her that he was barely keeping it together. Setting him gently on the floor, she unfolded the couch and made up the bed as fast as she could.
"There," she said, settling him onto the crisp, white sheet. She waited for him to pull himself into a ball again, but this time he stayed still. Her hands trembled on the top sheet as she pulled it over his legs, then moved up to hover over his face, over the worst of the bruising that circled his left eye. "We should change your bandages. They're getting kinda ripe," she said, her voice low and apologetic. "I guess we'll have to cut your jeans off. They're not gonna fit anyways if that swelling keeps up." Without waiting for his answer, she went into the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit.
When she returned, kit and scissors in hand, he hadn't moved. Had she not known better, she would've assumed he was truly dead. "Spike," she said, kneeling on the bed beside him. "Can you… umm… twitch or something? Just so I know you're not gonna bite me if I touch you?" The sleeve of his shirt brushed her knees, though she hadn't seen him move. "Umm… fine. Okay. Let's get on with this."
Pulling back the sheet, she undid the button of his jeans, her eyes glued to his face in search of a reaction. When she found none, she continued, unzipping his fly and opening the scissors. "You really don't want to startle me right now. Wouldn't want me to slip," she said, putting the lower blade under the denim. Heat from his body warmed the metal, confusing her until she remembered he'd fed before they left the crypt. The scissors were too weak to cleanly cut the thick material, but she didn't want to rip the pants away without at least a tear started. He was in enough pain without her jerking his legs around again.
The black denim gave way to bright white briefs. Suppressing a giggle at his mundane choice of underwear, she spread open his jeans the rest of the way. What she saw beneath them made her bite her lips. "I'm not gonna tell you it looks pretty under here," she said to him, though she doubted he was conscious enough to listen. "Let's just say… the rotting look does not suit you."
"I *am * a corpse, you know," he muttered, surprising her. "More blood's all I need to heal."
"We'll take care of that after I clean you up a bit." She unwrapped the bandages, wrinkling her nose. "Ripe is such a weak word when it comes to describing this stench."
"I get it, okay? Rotting, smelly, bad Spike. Enough with the running commentary."
"Fine," she said, opening the first aid kit and removing a ball of gauze and a bottle of disinfectant. "On with Nurse Buffy."
He turned his head away from her, clenching his jaw as the disinfectant hit his skin. A low growl rumbled out of him, followed by words spoken so hard, Buffy couldn't understand them.
"Are you talking to me?" she asked, gingerly patting the wound on his right calf where the bone had pierced his skin.
"I said, why are you doing this?"
"Running away? You know why."
"No," he said, his words gritty, "not running away. Taking care of me. I know, I know, you have a timeline to protect, and I know all your little secrets. Makes me a big danger, right enough. So, why nurse me back to un- health? Be easier just to stake me. That *is* what you do, remember? Slayer?"
She didn't answer for a moment, only continued to disinfect his leg. The damp gauze felt cold against her fingers, a welcome feeling as it distracted her from the slimy wetness of the fluid seeping from his wound. Her thoughts swirled together; she couldn't pick them apart enough to answer. Finally, she said, "No."
"No?"
"No." Moving to his left leg, she pulled out a fresh piece of gauze. "Before Angelus and Dru crashed our little crypt party, you asked me a question. You asked me if a tiny piece of metal imbedded in your brain made that much of a difference in who you are. Who you will be." Wetting the gauze, she stared down at his leg, unable to look him in the eyes. "No. That's my answer. You're still you, only less… tested. I just… I just never knew it, until…" Trailing her finger alongside the gash with feather-light pressure, she darted a glance at his face. "Until this."
Something flickered over the line of his brows, but he said nothing. She took a deep breath, knowing he must think she'd gone insane. Pushing the heel of her hand into her forehead, she took another breath, and wondered if he might be right. Take a little death, add a smidge of time travel, and voila! One nutty Slayer. Her knee jerked, tipping the bottle of disinfectant over and startling her back to her work. "How're your wrists?" she asked, keeping her face closed of all emotion.
"They'll keep." He hissed as she palpitated the muscle of his calf. "Hey. You better know what you're about down there."
"You can feel this?" she asked, tickling the skin of his ankle with her fingertips. "Hey. Yeah. You could feel all this, the sting of the medicine and everything. I didn't even think… why didn't you say something?"
"It comes and goes," he said. "I try to move, and there's just nothing. Angelus breaks my legs and… nothing. Not much, anyhow. But sometimes, along the skin especially, I get… umm… prickles."
"It's coming back already. The feeling in your legs." She capped the disinfectant and put it back in the first aid kit.
"You tell me. You're the all-knowing future girl, after all."
Shrugging, she moved up his side to his chest and began to open the buttons of his shirt. "It's not like we were best pals. All I know is that sometime before May, you'll be up and running." The shirt opened to reveal the too- pale skin of his chest. Bluish bruises flourished over his ribs and down towards his hips. She started to touch one, then paused. "I'm just gonna…"
"Yeah," he said, rolling his head back to stare at the ceiling.
Beneath her hands, his skin felt smooth and solid. She stroked them over his pectoral muscles and down his sides, trying to feel the bones underneath. "Your ribs have healed already, I think. I don't feel any bumps."
"Look lower," he muttered, the corner of his mouth turning up.
She gave him a poke, then winced as he recoiled. "Umm… sorry. Well, okay. You can button your shirt yourself. I'll… umm… oh, wait. Let me get some water and soap and stuff. If I'm gonna be stuck in here with you, I'm going to have to do stink-control."
"You're not gonna give me a sponge bath. I might be a pathetic ponce just now, but I'm not getting wiped down like a child in nappies." He struggled to raise his shoulders up and glared at her, his eyes bright with pain. "You might think about a good wash yourself. I might stink of whisky, but you're the one who rolled out of a grave not too long ago."
"Fine. But if you're not up and in that shower by tomorrow, I'm dumping water on you, like it or not." She pulled the sheet over him, covering him to his chin. As she folded down the edge of the sheet, her hand brushed his jaw. The stubble scratched at her, and she jerked away. I didn't like that. No, I *so* did… not. His eyes were on her when she looked up, silent laughter locked inside them. "You got to ask me a question. Now, it's my turn. I want a straight answer from you. Why are you doing this?"
"That's so unoriginal, pet."
"Just answer me." Her eyes held his, unwavering and solemn.
He shrugged, ignoring the pain. "Staying in Sunnyhell rather lost all appeal when Angelus decided to make me his punching bag. Not like Dru cared overmuch, you realize. And…"
"And what?"
"Like I said before, it just feels like the thing to do. Going with you… it feels right, don't ask me why. I don't get this. How I feel… all funny inside, warm. I feel more alive… I'm even breathing more often. Must be your influence. Living with a human is rubbing off on me or something. Helping you… skipping town with you… I'm doing it because it feels right, but I don't understand it."
She gave him a hint of a smile. "I think I do, maybe. We've skipped town together before… or, before for me. You know what I mean."
"Why, because I was in love with you in the future? This warmth, the breathing… you think that's… love?"
The word came off his lips soured, which stung her. She inhaled sharply, trying to loosen the sudden tightness in her chest. "No," she said, "of course not. But it's something. You don't hate me. And I don't hate you. It's… something
He rolled his eyes. "So that chip really did send me on the fast track to poofterdom."
"If that's what you want to call it, but it wasn't the chip that did it. I might've never realized that if I hadn't seen Angelus beat the tar out of you. You did a lot… I mean, you will do… or would've done a lot for us."
"You're not a bit worried that taking ole Spike out of the other Slayer's future will screw things up, are you?"
Without a thought, she shook her head. "No way. You helped, but you weren't exactly vital. There was the whole truce, where we took down Angelus, but if it hadn't been you helping me, it would've been someone else. Xander, probably."
"Tell me more about future me. I want to hear all about my downward spiral into softness and sissyhood."
"Would a sissy grab the blade of a sword in both of his hands to keep it from slamming through my skull? I don't think so. You risked yourself to take off with us, me and the gang, to save Dawn's life. It was more than I ever expected of you. You really pulled through."
"'S that why you lugged me with you? Because we'd gone together before?"
She looked down at her hands, fiddling with the edge of the sheet. "You're the only person in the whole world who knows I exist. I didn't want to be alone. And I couldn't just leave you there."
Raising an eyebrow, he said, "Are you saying… we're friends?"
Her arms jerked back, away from him. With wide eyes, she shook her head. "No. We're not friends. More… I don't know. More… something. But not friends."
"Even after doing all those goody-goody deeds, catching the sword and whatnot, Glory torture, you still couldn't think of me as someone worthy of friendship?" Dropping his head back on the pillow, he shut his eyes. "Not like I care, mind you. Just that… what does it take with you? You're here with *this* me, being all Florence Nightingale-ish, when you say you never treated the other me so good."
"I didn't think you were worthy of anything back then. Friendship… not something I'd even have considered. You were just… always there. Helping. I could count on you. And then I die and get all lost in the past, and here you are, helping me again. I… ummm," she flushed, amazed at herself. "I was wrong. I mean, obviously."
"The Slayer admits she was wrong? Well, that might mean more to me if I had any memory of what it is you've done to me. As it stands, I'll just enjoy the fact that I'm on a train and not in a pile of dust somewhere." He licked his lips, wetting them. "You do realize I'll have to eat."
"There are butchers in Mexico. You'll survive."
"Not exactly what I meant, pet. Just because your other Spike was leashed doesn't mean I have to be such a whelp."
"So, you're going to start killing people, once your legs heal?" She squeezed the sheet between her hands, annoyed with herself for the trepidation that hung on her words. "You know that won't work with me, Spike. I can't let you do that."
"May, you said? I get my legs back then?"
"Around then, yeah." She looked down at the bulges under the sheet where the bandages on his legs were. "Maybe sooner, I guess."
"I could leave you, when I'm better." He watched her, giving nothing away with his gaze. "You'd fight me, wouldn't you?"
"Of course I would," she whispered. "Slayer… big protector person, remember? I can't let you hurt people. You know that. If you leave to do that, once your legs are working… well, I won't let you."
He turned on his side towards her, rolling his legs with him. "Seems we've got some issues to work out, if we're keeping this partnership together. Either I live like a human, or we fight to the death. That's it?"
Don't leave me alone, she wanted to say, wanted to beg. Pathetic much? There will be no begging. Pull it together. "Live like a man, or die like a vamp. It's your choice. But either way…" Don't leave me alone. Her hands shook on the sheet. She dropped her grip and folded them together. "Either way… it's up to you."
He closed his eyes tiredly, accepting her terms. "Right then. We'll fight, or we'll stay together. But we're not friends. Fine. I get you."
"Right," she said. She leaned forwards, pulling the sheet up to cover his shoulders. "That's it. We're not friends. You've just… always… gotten me. And I think I'm starting to get you, too."
He chuckled, a sound heavy with weariness that fell between them like a wall. "Which me?" he asked her in a rumbling undertone. "Chiphead?"
Laying down beside him, she followed the line of his throat with her eyes. Just let yourself go, already. "Both. Either. Doesn't matter. The chip didn't make a difference. It was a wake-up call, that's all." With a hesitant hand, she reached towards him and brushed her thumb over his bruised cheekbone. "You were always… you."
Their eyes locked together over Buffy's hand, both stunned by the emotion between them. Spike shook his head, one sharp movement that came to him from instinct rather than desire. Her hand fell back, hanging in the space between them. With a tight smile, Buffy let it drop. She jumped off the bed and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a firm click.
He watched her leave, his eyes narrowed. Shifting restlessly, trying to relieve the throbbing of his back, he kept his gaze on the door behind which, he could hear Buffy breathing in deep, desperate gulps. All of his pain and confusion welded together inside of him, swelling up into a single upsurge of devouring yearning. Cursing himself for his foolish patheticness, he tore his eyes away from the door. He grabbed a pillow and pressed it over his face, over his ears, trying with no success to block out her sounds. "Bugger," he whispered, pushing his hands into the ache of longing in his chest as if he could tear it out. "Bugger me."
**********
Sunnydale, 2001
"Good thing I saved all these," Willow said. She snuggled deeper into the couch, pulling one of Giles' journals higher on her lap. The vanilla- colored pages were covered with tiny words inscribed in black ink. With the tip of her index finger, she traced the date Giles had written in the upper corner of the last page. "Lots of info here, but it seems kinda off that I'd have them. I thought they were suppose to go to the Council if Giles died? Big Slayer/Watcher secrets and all?"
Tara leaned back against the couch cushions, looking over the mounds of leather-bound journals that layered the coffee table. The center of each cover bore the initials R.G. burned in italics. They were all in impeccable condition, though their owner had died nearly three years earlier. "They were your babies," Tara said, curling her legs up beneath her and facing Willow. "You kept them under lock and key in a fireproof safe. All the years you'd spent with Xander and Gile, with Buffy, before she… changed… all those years are documented in these books. I think you'd have sold your fillings before you'd part with them."
Licking her tongue over her molars, Willow sighed. "I was right to keep them. The Council wouldn't have used them right. They never did have any respect for Giles. 'Cause, you know, he loved Buffy. Like, really loved her. And love is a big evil to those guys. Or that's how they acted, at least." Flipping through the pages of the journal open in her lap, she found what she was looking for. She rapped her knuckles against the page. "See, like here. He writes about Jenny, how she lied to us all. Giles loved Jenny, but in here, all he writes about is how he's mad at her for hurting Buffy. Nothing about how she hurt him." Closing the book, she rubbed the pad of her thumb over the initials on the cover. "He cared more for Buffy than he did for himself. He would've given up his life for her, without even thinking twice."
"He did," Tara said. She took the journal from Willow and opened it to the last page. "This night, he did. I guess he wrote this just before the vampires captured him. Sometime between writing this and the next night, he was murdered."
"That's just… no. That didn't happen, not really." Tears choking her, Willow swallowed hard and took a deep breath. "No. That's all a part of the stupidity that is me. I screwed it up." She gazed at Tara with wet, bruised eyes. "How did it happen that night? In your reality, I mean?"
"I don't really know too much. Buffy… she was more than broken. There was no way for her to talk about what took place."
"She never said what happened? Not a word?"
Tara dropped her gaze, avoiding Willow's eyes. "When she'd have nightmares, sometimes she'd cry out about it being her fault. Like… at night. Every night. She was broken, Will. I never knew her as anything else. By the time I met you, she'd… well, she was not the Buffy you knew."
"I have to fix this, Tara. All this… it's beyond bad. Bad we've dealt with before. This is something new. Worse." She covered her face with trembling hands, her words soaked with misery. "I might as well have killed them myself."
Rising to her knees, Tara moved to Willow's side and stroked her hair. With one hand, she hooked Willow's chin and gently pushed her head up. Their eyes met, and held, both tired, both afraid. Tara smoothed the tears from Willow's cheeks. She brushed a kiss over her lips, then said, "We'll fix it, honey. You and I. All these books… they'll tell us how to make things right again." Kissing her again, she caressed Willow's cheek, then tucked a lock of loose hair behind her ear. "You're no killer," she said, her voice a serious whisper.
The words breathed across Willow's face, reassuring and sweet. She gazed into Tara's eyes, searching for any hint of blame, but finding only determined compassion and love. Sniffling, she nodded. "Okay. Pulling myself together here. We've got a lot to do, and me being all Sobby Sally isn't going to fix the timeline."
"That's my girl," Tara said, relief lightening her face. "Where do we start?"
"I'm thinking we could combine a general reversal spell with elements from the original spell, sort of a magic hodge-podge." She stood and went to Buffy's weapons chest, which now held various magical components. Pulling out several items, she continued, "We have all we need, I think. Are you ready?"
Standing, Tara moved the coffee table to one side. She folded back the carpet to reveal a circle of black paint on the floorboards. "We're ready," she said, kneeling and blessing the circle with a quick motion of her hands.
"Let's go it then," Willow said, sitting across from Tara. She crumbled the leaves of a spicy smelling plant, making a star-shaped pattern in the center of the circle. "Per meus famen, divello factum." Removing the cork, she upended a glass vial and sprinkled the red powder from inside over the star. Energy, like a blue wind, began to swirl over the circle. Concentrating, neither Willow nor Tara noticed the yellow light that glowed from their skins. "Refero Buffy. Abrogo veneficus." The wind moved faster, blowing the leaves out of their star-shape and sucking them up inside itself. Throwing her arms into the arm, Willow finished, "Refero Buffy!" before slumping backwards onto her back.
"Willow!" Tara shouted, jumping up and breaking the circle. The blue wind fell away, scattering bits of leaves over the living room. She started towards Willow, but was stopped by the movement of the ground. It quaked beneath them with a rolling roar. The walls shuddered from the force, shedding pictures and mirrors to fly to the floor.
Rolling onto her side, Willow crawled into the doorway. Tara followed her. They huddled together, watching wide-eyed as the earthquake continued, breaking the window. Glass rained over the couch. Outside, a woman began to scream.
"Did it work?" Willow asked, dazed. She reeled dizzily to one side. "The spell? Did it work?"
Drawing Willow against her side with one steadying arm, Tara looking at the wreckage. The woman on the street was still screaming, and as she listened, other screams arose. In the distance, an ambulance blared its siren. Hugging Willow closer, Tara felt her heart sink. "I'm thinking no."
**********
1998
Spike jerked awake to a crashing sound coming from the bathroom. He listened for a beat, then called out to her. "Slayer? You miss the pot?" When there was no answer, he propped himself up on his elbows. "Buffy? You alright in there?"
She didn't answer. He cocked his head, listening for the sound of her breathing, the sound he'd fallen asleep to. There was no noise coming from the bathroom at all. A sick feeling rose in his stomach, but he swallowed it down with annoyance. "Buffy, answer me," he said, an edge growing under his words. "I can't come to you, pet. Answer me!"
Suddenly, the door to the train compartment was flung open. Spike jerked back on the bed, stunned at the site of a not-quit-human standing before him, panting. The man whipped his head back and forth, searching the compartment with exaggerated movements that would've been comical under any other circumstances. "I smelled it," the man said, raising his face and glaring at Spike.
"Umm… smelled what, mate?" Taking in the man's appearance, Spike felt the bed behind him, hoping for some kind of weapon to magically appear. Creatures with faces textured like dried prunes and red eyes were not to be trusted offhandedly. "You've got the wrong compartment. But while you're here, you might do me a favor and…"
The creature stepped forward, growling. "Where is she? I smelled the mystical energy, vampire. If you've hurt the Slayer…"
Pointing towards the bathroom, Spike said, "In there." He leaned forward, waiting to see in the door. When the creature hesitated, Spike rolled his eyes and flipped back the bed sheet to reveal the bandages on his legs. "Hurry along now and check on her, will you? As you can see, I'm not really able to."
"I don't care about you," the creature said, shaking his finger at Spike as if scolding a naughty child. "It's the Slayer I'm here for. Who cares about vampires?" With a final glare, he pulled open the door to reveal Buffy lying sprawled on her back on the floor. Blue and yellow energy crackled over her body, sparking the air with tiny flames.
Looking back at Spike with a beaming smile, the creature nodded. "Just as I smelled. She's spell-shocked."