The Keeper of Truth
Chapter 7
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. Next chapter update will be in about 10 days since I'm off on vacation to the Grand Canyon.
*************
Mexican jungle
1998
The room glimmered with soft light. Candles flickered on every flat surface, illuminating only the necessary places, letting shadows envelope the corners. Red draperies covering the walls glowed, giving the light a red, sensual cast. Propped on his elbows above her, Spike looked down at Buffy's face, appreciating the blush cast by the light on her pale skin.
He shifted on the bed, curving his body beside hers, her hair tickling the V of his elbow. Careful not to spill the small basin of water that rested between them, he reached into it and grabbed the small sponge. Wringing it out slightly with a squeeze of his fist, he stroked it along the side of Buffy's face, leaving a trail of wetness behind.
"Sorry 'bout all the washing. I'd leave you to sleep in peace, were it up to me, but your watch-faery insisted you get the scrub-down every day. Didn't want to cross him. You know, that bit about biting the hand that feeds you and all."
Her forehead, small and square, glistened with a thin layer of sweat. Totally absorbed, he dabbed the sponge over her temples and above her eyed, taking in the subtle arch of her brows, the shadowed sweep of her eyelashes, the delicacy of her eyelids… shaking himself, he pushed his hand away, soaking the sponge in the basin.
"Not that he's feeding me so well, you realize. No bloody O negative to be had, he says, and if there were, well, even then he'd still make me drink that animal swill. Big on keeping humans safe, he is." A lock of her hair stuck to the damp skin of her forehead. He smoothed it back, denying to himself the truth of his hands lingering on her head. The soft tresses felt warm beneath the coolness of his fingers, like something alive, a plant or the earth beneath the sun. He nearly expected the strands to wind around his knuckles like vines, pinning him to her. Stroking her with long sweeps of his hand, he smirked inwardly, challenging himself to keep touching her. Challenging himself to pull away.
"A regular humanitarian, our Hugh is. Not unlike yourself. The two of you would get on right nicely. Birds of a bloody feather." The skin of his palm tingled, as though the mere act of touching her gentled the humanity back into him. Yanking away, he fell back onto the mattress, panting. He rolled his head back to face her, panting, then snapped his mouth shut, reminding himself of the senselessness of breathing. Gaping at her, he stuttered, "Not that we're doing too poorly ourselves."
What's happening to me? he thought, rubbing his palms on the blanket as if to clean them of contamination. He spread his fingers out in front of his face, stretching taut the skin of his palms. They looked untouched, the same pale skin creased into life and love lines. Life line, he thought, tracing it with one finger. How ironic.
"Whatever it is you're doing to me, Slayer, I don't like it. I can feel you crawling around inside me, all warm and pulsing with life, and it makes me… it makes me want things I can't even start to understand. Just a bit ago, your mum was going at me with an axe, and now I'm here, nursing you like I…" Love you? No. I wasn't about to say that.
He gazed at her, his eyes wet and sore with helplessness. "Whatever it is, it's eating me up. All of me, all of who I am. Maybe it's not you that's doing this. Maybe it's because I can't hunt, can't feed. Not so much a vampire now as I am a… a…"
What was that, below her lip? A twitch? Just an involuntary spasm of muscle? "Slayer?" he asked, rising up above her and touching her chin. "You waking up?"
Her lips twitched again, then opened in a yawn. Moaning, she flung her hands up to scrub at her face. "Spike," she moaned, squinting at him. "Where… where are we?"
"Morning," he said gruffly, relief lightening his features. He hadn't been worried about her. Not really. He'd always known she'd wake up no worse for wear, but… But. "We're home, I guess. Nice of you to finally wake up. Been waiting, you know. You sure took your time about it."
She turned her head, rolling it back and forth, as though proving to herself it was still attached. Blinking over dry eyes, she looked at him. "I've been awake," she rasped. She licked her lips, dehydrated. "When I heard your voice, I knew I wasn't dead. Bloody this, bloody that… in heaven, no one talks like you do."
Taking hold of the sponge, Spike dripped water onto her lips. He started to wipe at the water that ran down her chin with the edge of the sheet but stopped himself, remembering. Slayer. Vampire. That's the drill. None of this pansy nursemaid nonsense. "You all right, then?"
"I'm weak," she said, her voice proving her words. "But yeah, I'll keep." She turned onto her side and faced him. Curling into a ball, she wrapped her arms around her legs. "I'm cold, though, which is weird since it's so hot in here. What happened to me?"
Spike moved the basin before her movements could spill it. He pulled the blanket up and tucked it around her shoulders. "Dunno what happened, really. Hugh says it's a spell gone wrong. Thwapped you in the head, magically. You've been asleep a good long while."
"Hugh? I'm guessing you don't mean Grant."
"Your new best friend. A sort of Mary Poppins-type of faery. He's been taking care of you for the last week. Found us this house to hide out in. Not a bad bloke, really."
"Where'd he bring us?" she asked, touching his arm as if by accident. Her hands itched to feel his skin, to reassure herself of his presence. "It's hot here. Are we still in Mexico?"
"Barely." Jutting his thumb towards the window, he said, "Guatemala's about a lick that way. The train stopped at the border, smack dab in the middle of the jungle. You wouldn't remember that, being that you were out for the count, but we had a hellish time getting you off that train." Hugh had a hellish time getting *us* off the train he corrected himself silently, grimacing.
"What are we going to do in the jungle?"
He shrugged. "Live, I reckon. For a while, at least. You'll be wanting to head back up to the States eventually, to kill off that hell god before she can kill you."
Fighting back a shudder at the memory of Ben's face, Buffy nodded. "Yeah, but that's so not something I want to think about right now. We've got a few years to kill before then. We're just gonna stay here? Alone?"
"The middle of nowhere is a decent place to hide out. Especially with Momma Brownie here to take care of you. And as for me…"
"What about you?"
Covering his panic at the thought of heading back to Angelus's neighborhood, he said, "Not really looking forward to the repeat journey back to California. The ride down here was bad enough. Especially the last jag, trying to juggle you around. You should be glad you don't remember that."
Buffy closed her eyes. "I do remember some of what went on around me," she whispered. "The sound of the train's whistle… birds, lots of them, singing. And I heard you… what you were saying to me. About changing."
His face tightening, Spike looked away. "All rot," he said, his voice rising in defense. He twisted his hands together, smashing the lines of his palms. "Total rot. Not a word of it true."
"Don't, Spike," she said simply. She opened her eyes and searched his off- turned face. "Don't lie to me."
Silence grew between them, enveloping them in tension. Spike watched the flicker of the candles on the nightstand, his jaw clenched. She kept her gaze glued to his face, afraid that if she looked away, she'd miss any hint of capitulation. The candle flames sputtered as if reacting to the emotions swelling around them. Red light moved over Spike's face as though it were liquid; Buffy thought that it would burn her fingers if she touched it.
Finally realizing he was planning to remain silent, Buffy let her eyes close. Her mind, still heavy with weariness, drifted away from the man lying beside her. She let it go, let herself remember the identical man she'd known, the one with a chip in his head instead of on his shoulder. The way that man would look at her when she'd enter a room, as if he'd been waiting a lifetime just to see her walk through his door. The way he'd fight beside her, with wiry grace, and fight with her passionately, whole- heartedly. His voice, the words he would say, courageous words no one else could ever be brave enough to let loose. She could hear him in her mind, hear his last, private message to her.
"You don't understand what's happening to you," she said, her tone low but tender. "I heard you say that."
He didn't respond, but the line of his mouth tightened up a fraction more. Giving him a moment to come clean was difficult, but she held off, waiting. After several moments passed without change, she touched his hand, a pressure of her fingers so quick and light, he could pretend not to feel it if he so chose. Which he did. He blinked once, deliberately, as if telling her to go on.
Sighing, she folded her hands under her cheek and continued. "You feel alive now, after being with me. Like you've lost your evil. Well, poor you. I guess you can imagine I'm not feeling too sorry for you about that."
Twisting his lips into a grim smile, he nodded, but didn't look at her. "You're right there, Slayer."
"The day I died, you said something to me, something that made me realize I cared about you. You stood in my house, looking up the stairs at me, and you said these words to me that… that tugged at me. 'I know you'll never love me,' you told me. 'I know I'm a monster, but you treat me like a man.' And I did treat you like that, not always, but then." She broke off, coughing.
Spike dragged his head around and met her gaze. There was a spark of some impalpable emotion in his eyes, one that both heartened and mystified her. "You're saying that you were able to forget… to forget about this?" He vamped out, brandishing his forehead lumps like weapons of defense.
She reached up to him with one hand, covering the lumps, then stroking them with tender caresses as if they were a wound. "Let's talk about now," she said, watching his eyes close. She trailed her fingertips over his temple. "I treat you like a man, so you feel like one. It's that simple. Maybe… maybe neither of us understand this… this connection we have. But maybe we don't have to."
His cheek felt smooth under her hand. She traced the ridge of his cheekbone, delving into the hollows beneath, then lowered her fingers to his jaw, his neck. Feeling him swallow hard beneath her touch threw a ghost of a smile on her lips. She continued, rubbing her knuckles over the prominent shape of his collarbone beneath his black cotton tee-shirt. Showing no sign of hesitation, only patient curiosity, she let her hand roam lower onto his chest.
In a quick jerk, he caught her hand, fisting it inside of his and pressing it against the hard plane under which, his heart once beat. He searched her face as if reading her thoughts. His expression held an almost imperceptible note of pleading. Pressing her flesh against him, he started to speak, but couldn't. He released her hand, but didn't pull away when she raised it to his face, to outline the contours of his vampire mask.
"I see you," she whispered, her fingers pressing on his skin, so hot he felt branded, claimed. Her eyes, large and liquid, captured him. "You. I see you."
His voice, when he found it, sounded gravelly, as though it had fought its way up from deep inside his body. "Slayer… Buffy." Clearing his throat, he continued. "This… these changes, between us… Just because I didn't want them to happen… that doesn't mean I want them to stop, either."
"You can live like a man. I know you can. I've seen you do it."
He weighed her with a critical squint. "No, you've seen 'chip head' do it. And if you think I'm heading back up to Sunnyhell to voluntarily stick my balls under a knife, you're dead wrong."
Her face glowed back at him, lustrous with crimson candlelight. When she took his hand in hers, the very air between them seemed electrified. Looking down at their entwined fingers, her lips curved upwards. "Your chip was just a motivation. Couldn't you find a better one?"
The white of his fingers contrasted with her tan, glaring their elemental differences up at Spike. He watched the pad of her thumb move in circles on the back of his hand. Her bravery astounded him nearly as much as her gentle insistence. An indefinable feeling of rightness flooded him. Covering their join hands with his free one, he felt his whole face spread open in a smile.
*****
Sunnydale, Summers home
2001
The smoke rose between them, spiraling up from the gold goblet. Willow held the mystical herb by its stem. Pinching bits off, she sprinkled them into the goblet. Meeting Tara's eyes through the smoke, she gave her a reassuring smile and began the summoning ritual.
"Anyanka, I beseech thee. In the name of all women scorned…" Adding more herbs to the fire, she took a heartening breath and continued. "In the name of all women scorned, come before me."
Silence fell over the living room. The girls looked at each other, confused. As the smoke began to dissipate, Willow frowned and looked down at her book. She threw another pinch of herb into the goblet. "Come before me!"
Tara looked around. "Maybe she doesn't like us," she said, a nervous smile growing on her lips. "Maybe we're not scorned enough for her to…"
"Or maybe she just doesn't like me. We were never all crazy about each other. I guess we'll have to find another way." Reaching for a book of matches, she relit the goblet. "Will you give it a try?"
Pinching off a bit of herb, Tara held it over the goblet. She closed her eyes a moment, lines of concentration furrowing her brow. Releasing the herb, she said, "Anyanka, I beseech thee. In the name of all women scorned, come before me."
She materialized before them in a burst of power so strong, it sent goose bumps up Willow's arms. The demon mask she wore made it easier for Willow to separate her from the Anya she'd known. Tara jumped to her feet and moved a few paces away, her face pale. She looked at Willow, gesturing for her to be cautious.
"Anya…nka." Willow looked at the demon, not sure of what to say. "Umm… nice to see you again."
"Why have you summoned me?" Anyanka asked, her words forthright. She crossed her arms over her chest. "What is it you wish?"
Willow fidgeted nervously with the hem of her shirt. "Well, that's kind of a funny story, actually. I mean, not funny 'ha-ha', but funny, I turned the whole world into a terrible place kinda funny."
Pulling Willow back from the demon with feigned casualness, Tara gave the demon a polite smile. "H-how about some lemonade?" she asked, pointing Willow towards the couch. "You two chat, and I'll… I'll be right back with that."
Leaving them alone, Tara went into the hallway. She opened the closet, searching for a weapon she could use again Anyanka. "Just in case," she whispered to herself, pulling out a dagger with an elaborate handle from the mess of weapons that had once belonged to the Slayer. Tucking the dagger into her waistband, she headed for the kitchen, her ears peeled for noises of distress from the living room. When none came, she relaxed slightly and poured lemonade into three glasses. She settled them onto a tray and moved back into the living room.
The room was silent. Willow looked up as Tara entered, her eyes wide. "I… I told her everything. She knows it all."
"L-lemonade?" Tara asked weakly, putting the tray on the coffee table. She held a glass out the Anyanka, forcing her hand not to tremble.
Anyanka stood in the center of the room, her face clouded with thought. Ignoring Tara's offering, she sighed and threw her hands up in the air. "Fine," she muttered, "We'll fix your stupid timeline."
"I know you're not too thrilled about being a human, but…" Willow gave her a tentative smile, "but hey, look at the bright side. Xander's a pretty neat guy, and… and… oh, you'll get to make lots of money."
"Fine. Whatever. Let's just get it done." Anyanka fingered her necklace. "I'll send you back to your friend. You know where she is, right?"
"Umm… well, she was sent back to Sunnydale." Willow frowned, looking at Tara. "I don't think she would've left. This is her home."
Tara shook her head. "She wouldn't have stuck around. Too dangerous. This is a small town, and someone would've recognized her. Buffy's too smart for that."
Rolling her eyes, Anyanka said, "Right. So, you find your friend, then I'll send you back to her. She'll probably be in Sunnydale eventually, if she died here. Humans are always drawn to their own deaths."
Willow's face lit up with realization. "That's right!" She jumped to her feet and grabbed Tara's hands in her excitement. "Maybe this didn't go so badly after all! I mean, yeah, the world pretty much sucks, but hey, if we leave Buffy in the past long enough, she could kill Glory before she's ever in any danger!"
"What good would that go? I mean, once we change the timeline back…"
"No, see, Glory's an inter-dimensional god. Her death is final, no matter where it's done. It'd stick." Turning to Anyanka, Willow grinned. "She'd want to do it right after Glory showed up in Sunnydale, before anyone realizes there's a god in town. That'd be the safest for her. Probably in September of 2000."
Anyanka tapped the ground with the toe of her shoe. "So, I'll send you back to that time and you can do your little spell. Satisfied?"
Tara moved closer to Willow. "That means Buffy would be messing around in 1998 for two more years. She could do a lot of damage in that time."
"It won't matter. When I find her and do the reversal spell, it'll undo whatever she's done. And she'll get to stay alive." Her eyes were bright with relief. "After all this, everything will work out just fine. My spell didn't flop as badly as I thought it did."
"Then let's get going. Just let me grant the wish that brought me here, and I'll send you back." Anyanka gave Tara a nod. "What do you want?"
Puzzled, Willow said, "Tara? You have a vengeance wish?"
Unable to look at Willow, Tara nodded. "I… I wasn't sure, not until just now, if it was the right thing to do. But… Will, you ruined the whole world with your magic, and listen to you! Yes, your spell *did* flop badly! Just take a look around you! My whole world has been painful and dark, all because you took it upon yourself to play God. I love you, and I hope you'll understand that I'm making this wish out of that love." Taking a deep breath, she said, "I wish that after the timeline is restored, Willow looses all her ability to do magic. She'll be a regular girl."
Above the sound of Willow's gasp came Anyanka's firm voice. "Done."
Chapter 7
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. Next chapter update will be in about 10 days since I'm off on vacation to the Grand Canyon.
*************
Mexican jungle
1998
The room glimmered with soft light. Candles flickered on every flat surface, illuminating only the necessary places, letting shadows envelope the corners. Red draperies covering the walls glowed, giving the light a red, sensual cast. Propped on his elbows above her, Spike looked down at Buffy's face, appreciating the blush cast by the light on her pale skin.
He shifted on the bed, curving his body beside hers, her hair tickling the V of his elbow. Careful not to spill the small basin of water that rested between them, he reached into it and grabbed the small sponge. Wringing it out slightly with a squeeze of his fist, he stroked it along the side of Buffy's face, leaving a trail of wetness behind.
"Sorry 'bout all the washing. I'd leave you to sleep in peace, were it up to me, but your watch-faery insisted you get the scrub-down every day. Didn't want to cross him. You know, that bit about biting the hand that feeds you and all."
Her forehead, small and square, glistened with a thin layer of sweat. Totally absorbed, he dabbed the sponge over her temples and above her eyed, taking in the subtle arch of her brows, the shadowed sweep of her eyelashes, the delicacy of her eyelids… shaking himself, he pushed his hand away, soaking the sponge in the basin.
"Not that he's feeding me so well, you realize. No bloody O negative to be had, he says, and if there were, well, even then he'd still make me drink that animal swill. Big on keeping humans safe, he is." A lock of her hair stuck to the damp skin of her forehead. He smoothed it back, denying to himself the truth of his hands lingering on her head. The soft tresses felt warm beneath the coolness of his fingers, like something alive, a plant or the earth beneath the sun. He nearly expected the strands to wind around his knuckles like vines, pinning him to her. Stroking her with long sweeps of his hand, he smirked inwardly, challenging himself to keep touching her. Challenging himself to pull away.
"A regular humanitarian, our Hugh is. Not unlike yourself. The two of you would get on right nicely. Birds of a bloody feather." The skin of his palm tingled, as though the mere act of touching her gentled the humanity back into him. Yanking away, he fell back onto the mattress, panting. He rolled his head back to face her, panting, then snapped his mouth shut, reminding himself of the senselessness of breathing. Gaping at her, he stuttered, "Not that we're doing too poorly ourselves."
What's happening to me? he thought, rubbing his palms on the blanket as if to clean them of contamination. He spread his fingers out in front of his face, stretching taut the skin of his palms. They looked untouched, the same pale skin creased into life and love lines. Life line, he thought, tracing it with one finger. How ironic.
"Whatever it is you're doing to me, Slayer, I don't like it. I can feel you crawling around inside me, all warm and pulsing with life, and it makes me… it makes me want things I can't even start to understand. Just a bit ago, your mum was going at me with an axe, and now I'm here, nursing you like I…" Love you? No. I wasn't about to say that.
He gazed at her, his eyes wet and sore with helplessness. "Whatever it is, it's eating me up. All of me, all of who I am. Maybe it's not you that's doing this. Maybe it's because I can't hunt, can't feed. Not so much a vampire now as I am a… a…"
What was that, below her lip? A twitch? Just an involuntary spasm of muscle? "Slayer?" he asked, rising up above her and touching her chin. "You waking up?"
Her lips twitched again, then opened in a yawn. Moaning, she flung her hands up to scrub at her face. "Spike," she moaned, squinting at him. "Where… where are we?"
"Morning," he said gruffly, relief lightening his features. He hadn't been worried about her. Not really. He'd always known she'd wake up no worse for wear, but… But. "We're home, I guess. Nice of you to finally wake up. Been waiting, you know. You sure took your time about it."
She turned her head, rolling it back and forth, as though proving to herself it was still attached. Blinking over dry eyes, she looked at him. "I've been awake," she rasped. She licked her lips, dehydrated. "When I heard your voice, I knew I wasn't dead. Bloody this, bloody that… in heaven, no one talks like you do."
Taking hold of the sponge, Spike dripped water onto her lips. He started to wipe at the water that ran down her chin with the edge of the sheet but stopped himself, remembering. Slayer. Vampire. That's the drill. None of this pansy nursemaid nonsense. "You all right, then?"
"I'm weak," she said, her voice proving her words. "But yeah, I'll keep." She turned onto her side and faced him. Curling into a ball, she wrapped her arms around her legs. "I'm cold, though, which is weird since it's so hot in here. What happened to me?"
Spike moved the basin before her movements could spill it. He pulled the blanket up and tucked it around her shoulders. "Dunno what happened, really. Hugh says it's a spell gone wrong. Thwapped you in the head, magically. You've been asleep a good long while."
"Hugh? I'm guessing you don't mean Grant."
"Your new best friend. A sort of Mary Poppins-type of faery. He's been taking care of you for the last week. Found us this house to hide out in. Not a bad bloke, really."
"Where'd he bring us?" she asked, touching his arm as if by accident. Her hands itched to feel his skin, to reassure herself of his presence. "It's hot here. Are we still in Mexico?"
"Barely." Jutting his thumb towards the window, he said, "Guatemala's about a lick that way. The train stopped at the border, smack dab in the middle of the jungle. You wouldn't remember that, being that you were out for the count, but we had a hellish time getting you off that train." Hugh had a hellish time getting *us* off the train he corrected himself silently, grimacing.
"What are we going to do in the jungle?"
He shrugged. "Live, I reckon. For a while, at least. You'll be wanting to head back up to the States eventually, to kill off that hell god before she can kill you."
Fighting back a shudder at the memory of Ben's face, Buffy nodded. "Yeah, but that's so not something I want to think about right now. We've got a few years to kill before then. We're just gonna stay here? Alone?"
"The middle of nowhere is a decent place to hide out. Especially with Momma Brownie here to take care of you. And as for me…"
"What about you?"
Covering his panic at the thought of heading back to Angelus's neighborhood, he said, "Not really looking forward to the repeat journey back to California. The ride down here was bad enough. Especially the last jag, trying to juggle you around. You should be glad you don't remember that."
Buffy closed her eyes. "I do remember some of what went on around me," she whispered. "The sound of the train's whistle… birds, lots of them, singing. And I heard you… what you were saying to me. About changing."
His face tightening, Spike looked away. "All rot," he said, his voice rising in defense. He twisted his hands together, smashing the lines of his palms. "Total rot. Not a word of it true."
"Don't, Spike," she said simply. She opened her eyes and searched his off- turned face. "Don't lie to me."
Silence grew between them, enveloping them in tension. Spike watched the flicker of the candles on the nightstand, his jaw clenched. She kept her gaze glued to his face, afraid that if she looked away, she'd miss any hint of capitulation. The candle flames sputtered as if reacting to the emotions swelling around them. Red light moved over Spike's face as though it were liquid; Buffy thought that it would burn her fingers if she touched it.
Finally realizing he was planning to remain silent, Buffy let her eyes close. Her mind, still heavy with weariness, drifted away from the man lying beside her. She let it go, let herself remember the identical man she'd known, the one with a chip in his head instead of on his shoulder. The way that man would look at her when she'd enter a room, as if he'd been waiting a lifetime just to see her walk through his door. The way he'd fight beside her, with wiry grace, and fight with her passionately, whole- heartedly. His voice, the words he would say, courageous words no one else could ever be brave enough to let loose. She could hear him in her mind, hear his last, private message to her.
"You don't understand what's happening to you," she said, her tone low but tender. "I heard you say that."
He didn't respond, but the line of his mouth tightened up a fraction more. Giving him a moment to come clean was difficult, but she held off, waiting. After several moments passed without change, she touched his hand, a pressure of her fingers so quick and light, he could pretend not to feel it if he so chose. Which he did. He blinked once, deliberately, as if telling her to go on.
Sighing, she folded her hands under her cheek and continued. "You feel alive now, after being with me. Like you've lost your evil. Well, poor you. I guess you can imagine I'm not feeling too sorry for you about that."
Twisting his lips into a grim smile, he nodded, but didn't look at her. "You're right there, Slayer."
"The day I died, you said something to me, something that made me realize I cared about you. You stood in my house, looking up the stairs at me, and you said these words to me that… that tugged at me. 'I know you'll never love me,' you told me. 'I know I'm a monster, but you treat me like a man.' And I did treat you like that, not always, but then." She broke off, coughing.
Spike dragged his head around and met her gaze. There was a spark of some impalpable emotion in his eyes, one that both heartened and mystified her. "You're saying that you were able to forget… to forget about this?" He vamped out, brandishing his forehead lumps like weapons of defense.
She reached up to him with one hand, covering the lumps, then stroking them with tender caresses as if they were a wound. "Let's talk about now," she said, watching his eyes close. She trailed her fingertips over his temple. "I treat you like a man, so you feel like one. It's that simple. Maybe… maybe neither of us understand this… this connection we have. But maybe we don't have to."
His cheek felt smooth under her hand. She traced the ridge of his cheekbone, delving into the hollows beneath, then lowered her fingers to his jaw, his neck. Feeling him swallow hard beneath her touch threw a ghost of a smile on her lips. She continued, rubbing her knuckles over the prominent shape of his collarbone beneath his black cotton tee-shirt. Showing no sign of hesitation, only patient curiosity, she let her hand roam lower onto his chest.
In a quick jerk, he caught her hand, fisting it inside of his and pressing it against the hard plane under which, his heart once beat. He searched her face as if reading her thoughts. His expression held an almost imperceptible note of pleading. Pressing her flesh against him, he started to speak, but couldn't. He released her hand, but didn't pull away when she raised it to his face, to outline the contours of his vampire mask.
"I see you," she whispered, her fingers pressing on his skin, so hot he felt branded, claimed. Her eyes, large and liquid, captured him. "You. I see you."
His voice, when he found it, sounded gravelly, as though it had fought its way up from deep inside his body. "Slayer… Buffy." Clearing his throat, he continued. "This… these changes, between us… Just because I didn't want them to happen… that doesn't mean I want them to stop, either."
"You can live like a man. I know you can. I've seen you do it."
He weighed her with a critical squint. "No, you've seen 'chip head' do it. And if you think I'm heading back up to Sunnyhell to voluntarily stick my balls under a knife, you're dead wrong."
Her face glowed back at him, lustrous with crimson candlelight. When she took his hand in hers, the very air between them seemed electrified. Looking down at their entwined fingers, her lips curved upwards. "Your chip was just a motivation. Couldn't you find a better one?"
The white of his fingers contrasted with her tan, glaring their elemental differences up at Spike. He watched the pad of her thumb move in circles on the back of his hand. Her bravery astounded him nearly as much as her gentle insistence. An indefinable feeling of rightness flooded him. Covering their join hands with his free one, he felt his whole face spread open in a smile.
*****
Sunnydale, Summers home
2001
The smoke rose between them, spiraling up from the gold goblet. Willow held the mystical herb by its stem. Pinching bits off, she sprinkled them into the goblet. Meeting Tara's eyes through the smoke, she gave her a reassuring smile and began the summoning ritual.
"Anyanka, I beseech thee. In the name of all women scorned…" Adding more herbs to the fire, she took a heartening breath and continued. "In the name of all women scorned, come before me."
Silence fell over the living room. The girls looked at each other, confused. As the smoke began to dissipate, Willow frowned and looked down at her book. She threw another pinch of herb into the goblet. "Come before me!"
Tara looked around. "Maybe she doesn't like us," she said, a nervous smile growing on her lips. "Maybe we're not scorned enough for her to…"
"Or maybe she just doesn't like me. We were never all crazy about each other. I guess we'll have to find another way." Reaching for a book of matches, she relit the goblet. "Will you give it a try?"
Pinching off a bit of herb, Tara held it over the goblet. She closed her eyes a moment, lines of concentration furrowing her brow. Releasing the herb, she said, "Anyanka, I beseech thee. In the name of all women scorned, come before me."
She materialized before them in a burst of power so strong, it sent goose bumps up Willow's arms. The demon mask she wore made it easier for Willow to separate her from the Anya she'd known. Tara jumped to her feet and moved a few paces away, her face pale. She looked at Willow, gesturing for her to be cautious.
"Anya…nka." Willow looked at the demon, not sure of what to say. "Umm… nice to see you again."
"Why have you summoned me?" Anyanka asked, her words forthright. She crossed her arms over her chest. "What is it you wish?"
Willow fidgeted nervously with the hem of her shirt. "Well, that's kind of a funny story, actually. I mean, not funny 'ha-ha', but funny, I turned the whole world into a terrible place kinda funny."
Pulling Willow back from the demon with feigned casualness, Tara gave the demon a polite smile. "H-how about some lemonade?" she asked, pointing Willow towards the couch. "You two chat, and I'll… I'll be right back with that."
Leaving them alone, Tara went into the hallway. She opened the closet, searching for a weapon she could use again Anyanka. "Just in case," she whispered to herself, pulling out a dagger with an elaborate handle from the mess of weapons that had once belonged to the Slayer. Tucking the dagger into her waistband, she headed for the kitchen, her ears peeled for noises of distress from the living room. When none came, she relaxed slightly and poured lemonade into three glasses. She settled them onto a tray and moved back into the living room.
The room was silent. Willow looked up as Tara entered, her eyes wide. "I… I told her everything. She knows it all."
"L-lemonade?" Tara asked weakly, putting the tray on the coffee table. She held a glass out the Anyanka, forcing her hand not to tremble.
Anyanka stood in the center of the room, her face clouded with thought. Ignoring Tara's offering, she sighed and threw her hands up in the air. "Fine," she muttered, "We'll fix your stupid timeline."
"I know you're not too thrilled about being a human, but…" Willow gave her a tentative smile, "but hey, look at the bright side. Xander's a pretty neat guy, and… and… oh, you'll get to make lots of money."
"Fine. Whatever. Let's just get it done." Anyanka fingered her necklace. "I'll send you back to your friend. You know where she is, right?"
"Umm… well, she was sent back to Sunnydale." Willow frowned, looking at Tara. "I don't think she would've left. This is her home."
Tara shook her head. "She wouldn't have stuck around. Too dangerous. This is a small town, and someone would've recognized her. Buffy's too smart for that."
Rolling her eyes, Anyanka said, "Right. So, you find your friend, then I'll send you back to her. She'll probably be in Sunnydale eventually, if she died here. Humans are always drawn to their own deaths."
Willow's face lit up with realization. "That's right!" She jumped to her feet and grabbed Tara's hands in her excitement. "Maybe this didn't go so badly after all! I mean, yeah, the world pretty much sucks, but hey, if we leave Buffy in the past long enough, she could kill Glory before she's ever in any danger!"
"What good would that go? I mean, once we change the timeline back…"
"No, see, Glory's an inter-dimensional god. Her death is final, no matter where it's done. It'd stick." Turning to Anyanka, Willow grinned. "She'd want to do it right after Glory showed up in Sunnydale, before anyone realizes there's a god in town. That'd be the safest for her. Probably in September of 2000."
Anyanka tapped the ground with the toe of her shoe. "So, I'll send you back to that time and you can do your little spell. Satisfied?"
Tara moved closer to Willow. "That means Buffy would be messing around in 1998 for two more years. She could do a lot of damage in that time."
"It won't matter. When I find her and do the reversal spell, it'll undo whatever she's done. And she'll get to stay alive." Her eyes were bright with relief. "After all this, everything will work out just fine. My spell didn't flop as badly as I thought it did."
"Then let's get going. Just let me grant the wish that brought me here, and I'll send you back." Anyanka gave Tara a nod. "What do you want?"
Puzzled, Willow said, "Tara? You have a vengeance wish?"
Unable to look at Willow, Tara nodded. "I… I wasn't sure, not until just now, if it was the right thing to do. But… Will, you ruined the whole world with your magic, and listen to you! Yes, your spell *did* flop badly! Just take a look around you! My whole world has been painful and dark, all because you took it upon yourself to play God. I love you, and I hope you'll understand that I'm making this wish out of that love." Taking a deep breath, she said, "I wish that after the timeline is restored, Willow looses all her ability to do magic. She'll be a regular girl."
Above the sound of Willow's gasp came Anyanka's firm voice. "Done."