Summary: Willow and Oz fluff, Spike decides to return to Sunnyhell, Buffy dreams and Tara anticipates.
Rating: PG-13 (Language mainly)
Reviews: I thrive on 'em. You don't write, I get lazy. :)
A/Note: I haven't written in quite awhile so I suggest that you go back and read parts 1 and 2 of the fic. Also, if you haven't read the series that preceded this, find A Comeback, A Spark and A Confused Wiccan, parts 1-10. If you're lazy, a brief summary: Season 4 (A Comeback..) Oz returns and fights over Willow, with not Tara, but Spike. The Scoobies and a semi-reluctant vamp defeat Adam. Spike leaves Sunnydale and Willow stays with Oz. Season 5 (The Werewolf..) Oz and Willow are living in fluffy bliss, but Tara, who made a tiny, non active appearance back in "A Comeback.." has fallen head over heels for Willow and has been suffering silently ever since. She has taken the record book from the leader of the hooky Wicca organization that she and Willow are part of and researched three witches known as the Potent 3 who were requested to leave the group due to their dark spells etc. And I'm done, which is good because this is becoming longer than my fic. Please review! Now, without further ado.....
Willow and Oz stumbled into his dorm room, giddy and intoxicated off of the sheer happiness that comes from being young and in love. They meandered over to the bed and Willow blinked sleepily in the arms of Oz, her weariness hitting her for the first time all day. With Oz, it was amazing. All of it, love, lust, happiness, life. Like the world was no longer spinning, but rather float, gracefully turning when it felt the dire need to, but still, everything was so relaxed and easy.
Smelling his hair and light cologne, she snuggled up close to him. He gazed at her serenely and she wondered what was running through his mind. Smiling, so happy she felt a like she would burst, she clambered onto his chest and folded her arms upon him, resting her head on them comfortably.
"You're beautiful," he whispered hoarsely. She felt her cheeks flush pleasantly, feeling again, that surge of impossible happiness, but he wasn't finished. He slowly sat up and held her hands in his own, gazing at her intently, sincerely.
"I know that we've, to say the least, been through a lot the past year," he started and she nodded in bittersweet agreement, "but I just want you to know that I never stopped loving you once during all that time."
She looked back at him, a thousand thoughts running through her at once. Quivering a little, she reached out a hand and carefully stroked his brow, furrowed with emotion.
"Me too," she replied quietly, then added quickly, "I mean, you know, except the other way around."
He didn't have to speak, but she could hear his thought echoing out toward her, 'what about Spike?' She looked down at their clasped hands and back up at him, lips tight in her trademarked wide smile.
"Even with Spike, I may have felt for him, but I never stopped loving you."
Something relaxed in his features and he leaned forward, gingerly placing a kiss on her forehead. He reflected on the monumental, if fairly nonverbal exchange that had just taken place. It was ridiculous really, like she was asking him for absolution about her feelings toward Spike. It was he who should be seeking, no, begging forgiveness.
And yet, with Veruca, there had not been love. Passion, lust, escape, perhaps as far as belonging, but never, ever love. But he had sensed, smelled something real, pure between Willow and Spike. And it had touched a jealous chord within him, a chord he didn't like one bit. But still, he smiled and watched the witch he belonged to, and vice versa, fall asleep, content and warm, cradled in his arms.
* * *
"Bloody hell!"
Beer bottles went crashing and a female screamed as a table flew across the demon bar, colliding with a stampeding group of creatures of the night, frantic to get out of the seemingly deranged vampire's way.
The weasel like bartender hurried over, puffing for breath, and pulling a fallen female, probably the one who had screamed, out from underneath a collapsed table. He cast a half exasperated, half terrified look at the demi demon before him.
"For Pete's sake, could you keep your rage down? It's bad for business!"
Spike glared at the meek man before him through slitted gold eyes. He looks a lot like Willie the Snitch from Sunnyhell, he mused thoughtfully. Then again, after his last whiskey, everyone had pretty much started to look the same. Or had it been the ciders that did it? Bloody hell, didn't matter. It was fluid and contained alcohol and that was all it took to escape. Shaking his head, he felt his vampire guise melt away to a less fearsome human one. He clutched his head...he couldn't remember being that drunk since...well, Dru left him.
Reaching into his pocket, he extracted some rumpled bills which he tossed at the runty bartender in front of him.
"Here's...for the damages...." he managed to slur out. He shouldered his way quickly past the slowly calming mob. They were starting to become less scared and more angry towards him, and at least one of the demons was bound to realize that he was Spike, William the Bloody, a once hardened, cold blooded killer and now a pathetic nothing who couldn't even feed off the weakest of humans.
He staggered out onto the sidewalk outside the bar. Somehow, he found his car, but found out that his finger's weren't dexterous enough to open the door. The street where he was parked was an underground place, full of clubs devoted to the town's demon populace, and thankfully, it was dark and all but vacant, other than a few groups drinking and laughing and milling around the entrances of bars.
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. There was absolutely no where for him to go--he couldn't lose himself in LA, that was Angel's town, and sooner or later someone would alert the stupid pouf of his presence, and everywhere else he had tried to set up home, the damned chip in his head had stopped him. He had nowhere so he stayed nowhere. Even before he'd gone and gotten trashed, he hadn't known the name of the town he was in.
Heavy footsteps were coming down the sidewalk behind him at a casual walking pace. He whirled around and growled at the oncoming pedestrian. Big cliche green ugly. A big cliche green ugly who was smiling amiably at him, either that or baring his teeth. Probably would look the same either way, but Spike was in the mood for neither.
"What d'you want? Looking for money? I got money! Just take my damn money...I don't even want to live anymore...I can't hurt people, I gotta stick with nasty pig blood...can't...hunt..." he blinked several times, trying to remember what the hell he had been talking about. Oh yeah...He sized up the green demon and thrust a few practice punches in the air, "Come on, I'll take you..I got the stones... To prove this statement, he swung at the rather perplexed looking demon and missed completely, nearly falling over. The green "rival" caught him and steadied him with a deep, rumbling laugh.
"Careful there, you could hurt yourself," the demon stared into Spike's face, assessing him, "you don't look so good, buddy, you could use something to eat, and a good rest too."
Spike glared pathetically at the beast before him, "I'm fine. And don't call me Buffy." He frowned, confused for a moment...no, that wasn't right. Wait, Buffy...buddy. Ah. Oops.
But his new found "buddy" had already started talking again, "you got somewhere to go? There's a good inn down the road-" he began helpfully, but Spike cut him off.
"Need to get to Sunnyhell...dale," he replied, sounding rather like Drusilla on a good day, as he fumbled with the passenger side door of his car.
"Driver's seat is on the other side, pal. But you really shouldn't be driving like that. Now come on, you need a good night's-"
"Sunnydale. Red's there..." Spike was beyond comprehension, but he still managed to come up with something relevant as he climbed in through the passenger side door and crawled across the seat to the steering wheel, "hey, wait a moment, buf...er, buddy?"
The green demon peered in at him anxiously, "yes?"
"Where the hell am I and how far is it from Sunnydale California?"
* * *
Buffy awoke with a start and she sat up in bed. Looking down at herself, she quickly clutched a blanket to her, then felt silly. She was alone in the room, save Riley, who was still sleeping serenely next to her. Exploring the floor along the side of the bed, she found her boyfriend's shirt and pulled it over her messy hair. She inhaled deeply his scent and put two shaking feet on the ground.
Patrolling had been easy the night before, nothing unusual. In face, everything save for that slightly odd vamp activity she, Xander and Willow had cited a few weeks ago, had been well, oddly normal. She chewed her lip thoughtfully. Not to be the cynic, she thought, but bad things always happen on the quiet days.
She stood and began pacing the bedroom and one of her eyebrows dipped as she retreated into thought...she'd had the strangest dream the night before...but she couldn't remember it. Nothing remained of it except for one image, a book, covered, not in leather, but in dark wood. And a face carved into the front cover amidst thorns, a face carved in deep, a face carved in anger.
"Morning," a cheerful voice said from behind her and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
"Riley!" Her voice was a little too relieved and he looked at her oddly.
"Buffy!" He replied with teasing zea; and she broke into a smile, feeling silly at how worried she had been. "You all right? You seem kinda jumpy," he intoned, pulling on pants.
"Jumpy? Who? Me? Nooo...no," she tried to reassure him. He gave her a baffled look and nodded.
"All right then..."
She smiled and copied the shake of his head...it was just a dream, probably nothing.
***
The sun seemed to shine extra bright for Tara as she rose from the first relaxed slumber she'd had in so long. The wood bound spell book holding the key to her Willow had spent the night hugged tightly to her chest, the address of the Potent 3 tucked neatly inside the needed page with a contrasting Yikes! paper clip. She wandered out of bed, shrugging a maroon kimono on over plain white cotton pajamas, and did a quickly mental inventory of the magic supplies on her desk. All in order for the spell that she, with any luck, with the Potent 3, would hopefully be performing that very night. She stolled over to the window, rubbing her arms to warm them. Impulsively, she pulled aside the curtains, allowing the sunlight, which had been impatiently seeping through the cracks between the drapes and the window frame, to stream in. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sudden warmth on her face and whispered into the morning, "Willow." And it was so perfect it chilled her despite the beaming sun.
To Be Continued . . .