CHAPTER 3: PLASTICITY

A dewdrop can exalt us like the music of the sun
And take away the plain in which we move
And choose the course you're running

Down at the edge, round by the corner
Not right away, not right away
Close to the edge, down by a river
Not right away, not right away

Crossed the line around the changes of the summer
Reaching out to call the color of the sky
Passed around a moment clothed in mornings faster than we see
Getting over all the time I had to worry
Leaving all the changes far from far behind
We relieve the tension only to find out the master's name

            ~Closer To The Edge I (The Solid Time Of Change), Yes
______________________________________________

Faith woke with the fleeting impression that she'd been dreaming something important. An odd feeling of deja-vu swept through her like a dark current, carrying with it scattered images of sand and white-hot sun that broke apart meaninglessly in the eddy's and swirls of her waking thoughts. A word echoed in her mind, a memory that she couldn't quite grasp (danna? danoa?) and fluttered there, hovering on the verge of knowing before it slipped her thoughts like quicksilver, a firefly vanishing into the dark wells of her mind where she couldn't follow.

She sat up quickly, jolted awake, inexplicably panicked as the word (thought? dream?) slipped away through the cracks of her memory, and for a moment there was only the sound of her heavy breathing as she struggled to remember—then pain rushed up to meet her mind, washing over her in searing waves that radiated from her battered side, and all rational thought ceased. She rode out the worst of the wave, teeth clenched in gridlock, fine sweat on her brow, and when it passed she cautiously relaxed, the dull ache that remained warning her not to heave the sigh of relief that wanted to escape. How many days had it been? Two? Three? It seemed like eternity. Groaning, she turned, slowly, carefully, trying to keep her weight off her injured side. She'd had broken ribs before, plenty of them, in fact, but it wasn't just the bones that were complaining; her lung felt like it had been skewered with a hot poker. Which was, actually, pretty accurate, if you substituted bone for hot poker.

She forced herself up off the bed, adjusting to the pain—which did seem slightly less today—and was immediately struck by the freight train of memory.

Angel, so sad, looking like a lost little boy in the night as he left her…

The Scoobies in a circle, Willow's hair standing on end as their bodies crackled with electricity and power…

The house in burning ruin, beset upon by vampires… the smashing of her ribs… her last crawl through the wreckage… her Watcher's body, twisted and beheaded on the sizzling ground…

Giles' face, so solemn and sad…

No. She wasn't going to do this. Not now. Not ever, if she could avoid it.

She managed to distract herself with an exercise in pain as she changed her clothes, grateful that she'd thought to leave a few extras at Angel's, and then dragged herself to the window, pulling back the thick velvet drapery to look outside.

It was gorgeous, a true Southern California day. Bright and sunny, cheerful light filtering through the trees, illuminating the earth in a golden glow so bright that it lent a dreamlike quality to landscape it caressed. The skies were blue and clear, like the depths of the Caribbean, and not a single wisp of cloud marred their beauty. It was the kind of day that people moved to California to experience. The kind of day where you looked around, breathed deep, and thought about how lucky you were just to be alive.

"Yeah… lucky me," she muttered, and let the curtain fall back into place.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

She was about a block from the Magic Box when the panic began to set in.

Shit. How do I do this? How am I supposed to act? Am I supposed to bring anything? She stopped in mid-stride, uncertain, and looked back and forth between hands that hung blameless, empty at her sides. She flexed them experimentally; as if she expected them to reveal some sort of wisdom to her, and when they remained silent and empty, sullen as sulking children, her gaze moved on to eye her outfit up and down, critically. Encased in skin-tight, black jeans that hugged the contours of her body like a new lover, and a too-tiny black tee that hiked up over her navel with the words "super tasty" written across her breasts in small, white print, she looked exactly like she always did. Yet suddenly, the clothes she had felt completely at ease in a moment before now left her feeling oddly naked, and she shrunk deeper within the shelter of her favorite battered black jean jacket, as if she hoped it would protect her.

This is fucking ridiculous, she thought, disgusted with herself. She forced herself to straighten, flexed her hands inside the almost too-long cuffs of her jacket, and rotated her shoulders, feeling her neck muscles creak with knotted tension. She wished she had a weapon, something to grip in her hand and center her focus, a talisman to hold up before the Scoobies and fend off the nervous twitching of her fingers. Something…

Unbidden, her mind coughed up a memory that left behind the faint, bitter aftertaste of melancholy. Doughnuts. They'd always eaten doughnuts when they were researching. Crème? No… Jelly? Yes, jelly.

Her mind seized on the idea and she'd turned, getting about halfway back up the street in the direction of the bakery when she stopped cold, frantically digging through her various pockets in search of money. A quick search turned up several tufts of lint, assorted gum wrappers and a bright, shiny quarter that proclaimed New York as the "gateway to freedom". She pressed the quarter between her lips, tasting acrid metal, and dug deeper in her pockets, wondering if she'd had any money on her when she'd left the house the other night. Shit. She froze in mid grope as a sudden, obvious thought occurred to her. Where was she going to get more money?

And then, pushed to the brink by the extreme events of the last few days, the absurdity of it all crashed down on her in an all-consuming wave. Hysterical laughter bubbled up from her chest in harsh gasps, and she bent nearly double with the force of it, oblivious to both the pain in her ribs and the stares of people on the street.

Christ. Here she was, injured, pretty much abandoned and homeless, nearly penniless with no food, her Watcher dead and now forced to side with people who'd in all likelihood rather see her dead than spend another moment in her presence—and she was worried about whether she had enough money to buy them doughnuts? She really needed to get her priorities in order. Unable to help it, she pushed her forehead against a lamppost, leaning on it for support, closing her eyes as her peals of laughter overwhelmed her.

At last her stream of giggles slowly bubbled to a halt and she sobered, like champagne going flat. She gave a few last hitching breaths, expelling her ill humor and regaining her equilibrium, and wiped at her eyes, shaking her head at her own stupidity.

Doughnuts. Hah.

She thought maybe her sanity was just a little frayed.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

A short while later she stood nervously outside the door of the Magic Box, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, the box of doughnuts feeling strange in her hands.

I can't do this. I can't go in there.

It was so ridiculous that she thought she might start laughing again. Slayer for almost three years running, she'd seen a host of truly horrifying creatures, faced the opening of the Hellmouth and the end of the world, had more dead vampires and demons under her belt than she could even count, and here she was, terrified of opening a door with only normal humans behind it. Okay, so they weren't all exactly normal, but probably none of them were going to attack her when she entered. All she had to do was walk in and sit down and act like it was the most natural thing in the world for her to be there. Except that it wasn't, and everyone on the other side of that door knew it as well as she did.

Well it serves you right, she chided herself. That's what you get for trying to murder people: the awkwardness of having to face them again afterward.

Right, because that was the worst part of trying to murder people.

She stifled a dark chuckle, biting down on the inside of her cheek to keep from lapsing back into her earlier hysteria.

She didn't have to do this. She could start walking out of town right now and never come back. The Council might catch her; then again, they might not. It didn't seem like such a bad prospect as she stared at the doorknob, feeling for all the world like she was staring down the barrel of a gun.

She shifted her feet again, and they almost began walking of their own volition, ready to follow her train of thought right out of Sunnydale. Annoyed by the temptation, she glared down at them and they stilled obediently. Running didn't sound like such a bad idea right now, but what about a year from now? Two years from now? Before she'd been in prison, she'd never been one to give much forethought to anything; she simply did as she pleased with no thought of the consequences. A good long year alone in her cell had given her plenty of time to do nothing but think as the minutes and hours crawled endlessly by, and she'd had an eternity to consider the value of foresight. She still wasn't very good at planning ahead, but at least now she knew enough to think about it, even if she didn't listen to herself.

Besides, it wasn't just that. If it had been simple fear of running from the Council she probably could have overcome it. She had something to prove here, to herself and everyone else. If she ran now all she'd be proving was that she couldn't handle it, and she didn't know if she'd want to go on living, knowing that.

Still…

She chewed nervously on her lower lip, eyeing the doorknob.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

"No, no, the Cult of Chemosh would never try to resurrect their founder. They would… consider it… tacky…" Giles trailed off as the bell above the door of the Magic Box dinged.

Xander, who seemed about to make some kind of retort to Giles' statement, shut his open mouth and looked up.

Anya paused in mid-ring at the checkout, which gave Xander actual chills to go with his surprise.

"What?" Faith asked irritably, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of their stares. "Did I grow another head?"

"Ah, no," Giles said, fumbling with his book as if he weren't quite sure how it had come to be in his hands. "Ah, please, d-do come in."

"You know, you really shouldn't joke about such things on a Hellmouth," Anya admonished Faith quite seriously. Finishing her transaction with a perky smile, the ex-demon handed her customer his change and noticed he was looking at her strangely, wide-eyed and wary.

"What?" she asked him, unperturbed. The man licked his lips nervously, and then, as if he feared she might bite him, he quickly took his change, grabbed his purchases, and hurried from the store with a furtive backward look.

Faith abandoned the doorway, leaving the customer's escape route clear, and sauntered into the store, her posture all uncomfortable attitude as she made her way to the table where Giles and Xander were gathered.

"Here," she said unceremoniously, throwing the box on the table as if she didn't quite know what else to do with it. It might have well been on fire, the way she cast it away from herself. Self-consciously, she shoved her hands in her pockets and backed up a step.

"What's this?" Xander asked with brightly feigned curiosity, eyeing the box like it was a dangerous animal that might bite him.

She shrugged. "Doughnuts."

"Doughnuts?" Xander's brightness was no longer feigned as he fumbled the box open and gazed on the contents within. "They're all jelly," he whispered reverently, and then plucked one from its waxed paper cradle, biting into it greedily.

Faith let him chew for a moment and then grinned widely. "Yeah, I thought jelly might make the arsenic taste better."

Xander choked on his mouthful of doughnut, prompting Anya to come over and pat him worriedly on the back.

"Lighten up, Xander. It was a joke."

He gave her a hard look and swallowed. "Yeah. Very funny," he said in a tone that meant just the opposite.

"So," she breezily changed the subject, determined to ignore the daggers he was staring at her. "What are we researching?" She pulled out a chair, turned it around and straddled it, resting her arms along the back of the seat.

It took Giles a moment to realize she was addressing him. "Er… yes. Well, we're ah, researching vampire cults," he said, trying to find his place in the book he'd been looking at. "From what you've described, these vampires sound very organized, highly unusual in the vampire community." His voice smoothed out and he became more comfortable as he settled into the routine of espousing knowledge. "Vampires are usually solitary creatures, only banding together to form nests for feeding and safety. It's highly abnormal for vampires to band together in the numbers you've described unless they've founded some sort of religion or cult. It certainly suggests the presence of a very strong leader."

He set the book down and ran a hand over his chin thoughtfully. "From what you've told us, this restoration scroll could be meant to bring someone back from the dead. Perhaps some kind of religious figure, or ancient leader, probably demonic in nature."

"Why can't they just throw wild parties and have orgies like normal cults? It's always with this take over the world stuff. Don't they ever get bored with that?" Xander wondered aloud, still eyeing his doughnut cautiously.

"I suppose they think the parties would be more fun with the humans in cages," Giles remarked dryly, easing one leg up on the table to lean in a half-sitting position. "Faith, can you remember anything else about these vampires? Anything distinctive? Markings perhaps? Strange clothing?"

She frowned, thinking. "No. Pretty much they looked like the garden variety vampire."

"Did any of them seem to be a leader? One who dressed differently, or gave orders to the others?"

"No." She cut him an annoyed look. "I know what a leader…" she trailed off thoughtfully, a sudden thought occurring to her. "Wait. There was one. In the… fire. The one that busted my ribs. I remember… he was huge, really tall, very strong. He seemed different than the others. More… there."

"Older than the others?" Giles prompted hopefully.

"Maybe." She shrugged, unable to remember anything more. "He definitely packed one hell of a punch."

"Did the others seem to defer to him at all?"

"I didn't really get a good look," she answered irritably. "Too busy trying to save my Watcher, remember?"

"Yes…" Giles glanced away uncomfortably. "I know this is… difficult for you to think about, Faith. But if we're going to stop these creatures, we're going to need all the information about them we can get."

"I've already told you everything I can remember," she clarified with growing annoyance, dark eyes glittering harshly in the dim light of the store. "What about you?" she challenged. "You got any more information?"

Giles seemed startled by her sudden vehemence. "Well…" He blinked, gathering his wits. "Cults often have a caste community, a hierarchy of sorts. They are more organized and ordered, and there are usually obvious differences in ranking among the members, the sort of differences that would be clear even in a combat situation. Sometimes the ranks are divided amongst members according to strength and deed, and sometimes ranking is decided by more simple means, such as age, or whether the vampire is male or female." He paused, looking back at her with a hopefulness that was mildly apologetic. "Does that help you recall anything more?"

She started to shake her head again, then stopped, looking surprised as something occurred to her. "There weren't any females," she realized.

"No wonder they're so wound up," Xander commented, looking pleased with his assessment.

"When Xander and I can't have sex I get very cranky," Anya confided, nodding as if this sealed the case.

"That happen to you often?" Faith quipped, raising an eyebrow at the other girl.

"Oh, hardly ever," she answered, running a hand over Xander's shoulder almost proudly. Looking as if she were happy to have a chance to talk about it, she went on eagerly. "Xander's like a—"

"Please," Giles interrupted, looking vaguely disturbed. "This could be very important. Faith, how many vampires have you encountered since you've been back in Sunnydale?"

She thought for a moment, trying to tally the numbers, then finally shrugged. "A lot. Like fifty? More than that if you include the army that rushed us on the hill the other night."

"And you've seen not a single female vampire among them?"

"No."

"Us, either," Xander agreed, sounding surprised, as if he'd only just realized it.

"That's extremely unusual." Giles sounded pensive. "Sometimes vampire cults will have a matriarchal, ah, female rule, but more often they are patriarchies, run by the males. Still, in either case there are usually members of both genders present in the ranks."

"Maybe they're the cult of He-Man Woman Haters?" Xander asked.

"In any case, it gives us a better place to start researching. Perhaps Willow and Tara can…" Giles trailed off and glanced around, disconcerted. "Xander… where are Willow and Tara?"

Xander looked away, shifting uncomfortably and looking guilty. "Will said they couldn't make it."

An awkward silence fell over the group, during which everyone tried very obviously not to look at Faith. Except Anya. She looked at the Slayer very openly, and her thoughts were plain on her face.

"Well, it is strange," Anya said, not quite sounding as if she were defending Willow. "I mean, we're all sitting around, planning strategies with an evil Slayer who tried to kill you all on several occasions, acting like it's normal." She paused, frowning as a thought occurred to her. "Though, I guess we do that with Spike all the time. Except that he's not a Slayer."

"An…" Xander hedged, not quite meeting her eyes.

"What?" Anya demanded. "Was I not supposed to say that?" She glanced around at them, looking confused and slightly hurt. "But it's true."

Faith gave Anya the tiniest of grudging smiles, admiring her candor, her respect for the shopkeeper increasing a notch.

"Why are you smiling?" Anya asked, her brow furrowing with suspicion, as if she suspected Faith might be mocking her.

"Because I think it's funny, you having more balls than either one of the Hardy Boys, here."

Anya perked up at that and looked around, oddly proud, her eyes challenging Giles and Xander both to argue with that. Neither of them did.

"So," Faith cut into the silence with a breezy ease that hardly seemed forced at all. "You guys wanna hash this out support group style, or does somebody wanna hand me a book and keep this little charade going?"

They gave her a book.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

"I bet they're all sitting around pretending everything's just peachy," Willow grumbled, disgusted.

Tara glanced at her, concern crouched at the edge of her features like a predator waiting to spring, her body perched unnaturally on the edge of the bed. "Speaking of which, shouldn't we be going?" she asked, attempting nonchalance.

Willow shrugged moodily. "I already told Xander we weren't coming."

Tara's face registered surprise first, and then her smooth features hardened with reluctant understanding. "Faith."

"I just can't believe Giles is doing this," Willow went on, sounding helpless, oblivious to her lover's less than pleased reaction. "I mean first with the—the lecture and then being Faith's Watcher?" She shook her head and went on with woeful sarcasm. "I'm starting to think Xander might be onto something with his pod people theory."

"Well, we should probably get used to it. She's going to be part of the group, at least until we figure out what's going on."

Willow leapt from the bed and paced purposefully toward the desk, again failing to detect the hard undertone to her lover's optimistic words. "Not if I can help it." She opened the cover of the book atop the desk and thumbed the pages. "This spell will still work if we can just—"

"Willow, you can't be serious?" Tara was aghast, her concern blossoming full-blown and edging into anger, leaving no doubt in Willow's mind as to her lover's opinion on the matter. "You're still going to try to bring Buffy back after everything that's happened? Did you completely forget what we talked about last night?"

"No," she turned and looked at Tara earnestly, cradling the book against her chest. "I-I know what you said about crossing lines, and I know what you think," she went on quickly before her lover could interrupt. "But Tara, the 'lines' are in different places for different people. The rules are written for people who aren't strong enough, or don't have enough control over their power. I have that power. I have that control. I'm probably the most powerful witch on the continent. I can do this."

"Do you even hear what you're saying?" Tara asked in disbelief.

"Tara…" Willow's voice was slightly pleading as she turned back toward the desk. "Please. I have to."

"No." Her heart hammered and her hands shook, but her voice betrayed no tremor, cutting like steel through the comforting shelter of the room they shared. "What you have to do is stop, Willow."

Willow spun around and her eyes fastened on Tara; not with the soft, confused hurt she was used to seeing on Willow's face when they disagreed, but with a true, indignant anger that struck Tara's heart with as much force as a physical blow.

"You're right. I don't have to do anything." Her voice sounded threatening, dark tones implying disregard for anyone else's opinion.

"But you're going to?" Tara asked, finishing the logic with angry remorse. "God, Willow." She leapt from the bed and stood, feet planted wide apart, body drawn like a taut wire, anger barely contained by her slight frame, fists trembling at her sides. "What is wrong with you?"

Willow didn't have a reply to that. Her face fell, threatening storm clouds giving way to gentle rain, and she seemed lost, stricken by Tara's recrimination.

"You really want to do this?" Tara asked, reluctant sincerity softening her voice. For just a moment her pain and love for Willow shone through clearly, anger receding behind growing resignation, and her posture slipped just a bit, opening with vulnerability to her lover.

Willow's eyes filled with hope and she nodded. "God, Tara. Yes, I—"

Tara cut her off with a swift movement of her hand, gathered up her sweater, jammed her arms stiffly into it, and grabbed her bag off the bed. It wasn't Willow's reply itself that filled her with rage, but the earnest longing behind it. The heartfelt words hit the wavering scale of her of mind, and slammed one side down with finality. If she had been open and vulnerable a moment before, she was locked tight as a safe now, the treasure of her heart sealed safely inside where her lover couldn't reach. Her face was cold, impassive as she looked at Willow, stolidly ignoring her lover's wounded deer eyes. "Do it without me, then."

She turned to open the door and Willow threw the book down, calling out, "Tara! Baby? Don't!"

Willow's wavering voice almost undid her. Tara's hand faltered mere millimeters from the doorknob, a lifetime of being conditioned to please responding to Willow's plea like a reflex.

"Tara! Please!"

For a split second she debated giving up, throwing herself into Willow's arms, burying her face in the haven of her lover's cinnamon colored hair and forgetting this awful fight had ever happened—and then anger overpowered her desire and reclaimed her again. She took a deep breath, momentarily pained by the thought that it might be her last breath drawn in this room that smelled comfortingly of comfrey and sage, spice and incense, safety and home. Then she grit her teeth, steeled herself, and threw open the door.

"Consisto!" Willow's voice trembled with helpless rage, the force of her command halting Tara in the doorway, freezing her in place like a statue.

Willow stood by the desk, almost as still as her lover, legs apart, one hand extended toward Tara palm outward, fingers tight together. For a moment frozen still as a sculpture, her face carved deep with lines of rage, eyes black and bright with wrath, like vengeance captured in her most primal essence. And then her hands began to tremble with delayed adrenaline and shock, the expressive lines in her face deepening in some places and smoothing in others, reforming in an expression of utter horror and deep regret. Her eyes, once again hazel-green, shone with tremulous, unshed tears. Slowly, she lowered the hand she had thrust out at Tara, staring at it in disbelief, tapered fingers looking innocuous as they were doubled and blurred by tears. Stunned, she raised her eyes to her lover's still form, lovely body frozen in mid-stride, voluminous skirt a swirl about her legs, honey blond hair swinging upward toward her cheek in a sharp wave, and she was struck again by the rashness of her reaction, by the wrongness of what she had done.

"Tara… baby," her voice cracked with regret, twisting and seeming to break. Her offending hand rose to cover her mouth in shame. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just… you couldn't leave me…" She pressed her hand against her mouth so hard that her lips felt bruised, drew a deep, shuddering breath, and closed her eyes for a moment.

She hadn't meant to. It was a vicious betrayal of all Tara's trust in her to use magic against her like that. Guilt and sadness twisted and grated against each other inside her, and she had a moment where she felt as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff, her balance teetering precariously, her arms reaching out desperately to the insubstantial blue sky above. Maybe something was wrong with her… everyone seemed to think so.

She twisted away from the vision of her frozen lover, the sculpture of Tara flesh that she had created, and slammed her hand down on the desk in helpless frustration. She couldn't understand why Tara insisted on being so angry about this. Did she really think that Willow couldn't handle it? The others, she understood; they had known her when she was timid and afraid, good old reliable Willow who inspired neither fear nor ambition in others. They couldn't see what was right in front of them, didn't understand how much she'd grown, how much more powerful she'd become. But Tara… she'd met Tara later. Tara had never seen the side of her that was weak and uncertain, the side of her that was helpless. The others had stopped listening a long time ago; Willow was a fixture in their lives, they knew exactly what to expect from her and they saw it even when it wasn't there. But Tara always listened, always saw Willow for who she was and who she might become. And tonight Tara had not wanted to listen, either. Tara had been the one who refused to see. It felt like the final betrayal, Tara turning against her. She was trying to use her power for good, trying to help the world, and no one believed in her abilities. She was alone.

The suspicion that something might be wrong with her slid away as panic tightened her chest, constricting her breath. Her knees went weak and watery with the knowledge of how close she'd come to losing Tara just then, and her heart felt painfully naked, exposed like a weeping child by her fear that no one would ever understand her, that no one would ever stay by her side forever. All rational thought fled before the terrifying idea, replaced by defense mechanisms that clicked unconsciously into place with years of practiced ease, and she was just plain old, scared Willow again, wanting only to make things better, make things right. Anything if only Tara wouldn't leave. Doubt and self-recrimination collided and crushed her beneath a wave of humility, and her mind leapt ahead, leaving her budding anger behind as she considered reparations. She'd made a mistake, she'd miscalculated… Tara just needed a little more time to adjust to the idea of how powerful Willow was becoming, and she had pushed when her lover wasn't ready. But it would be okay… she could make it right. She could be patient, she could give her lover time, ease her into the idea more cautiously. She was smart, powerful, improvising and clever.

And she knew how to fix this.

She reached her decision and didn't hesitate, moving next to Tara and slipping her fingers through her lover's, lacing them together with familiar ease. She breathed deep the heartbreaking scent of Tara's jasmine hair, so close to being lost forever, and knew that she was doing what was right. Her heart grew lighter with the knowledge, and a smile curved her lips as she caressed her lover's face. Such a simple thing. A single word and she could undo all the damage that had been done. A single word to make everything right again. How could using that kind of power ever be wrong when you were using it for the good?

She took a moment to compose herself, poised in the threshold of the door next to her lover, ready to step forward with her when the paralysis broke.

"Oblivio. Solvo."

Tara took her next step forward through the doorway and Willow moved with her at her side.

"I think we should have lunch by the footbridge, maybe feed the ducklings," Willow said without missing a beat. Her voice was casual, as if they had been in the middle of nothing more than a mundane conversation, and if there was a frantic undercurrent to it, it was easily disguised beneath the earnest, edge-of-excitement expression she so often wore when making plans.

Tara blinked, looked around, and then smiled at Willow innocently. "At the park?"

"Of course at the park, silly. Don't you remember?" Willow chided her lightly, watching Tara's face closely. Her smile was brilliant, frozen on her lips like crystal, but her heart beat a crazy rhythm in her chest, and she forced herself to breathe calmly.

"I just forgot for a second, I guess," Tara said with a comfortable shrug. Then she paused her step in the hallway as if a thought had just occurred to her, and Willow's heart ceased to beat for an instant. The second of silence between them seemed eternal as Willow waited, afraid to breathe—and then Tara cut Willow a devilish sideways look, her smile curving slyly. "Are you sure you don't want to eat in, though?"

Her heart resumed beating with a thunderous burst and she swallowed against its force, her smile never straying. Slowly, the urgency of fear faded, being replaced with a more pleasurable urgency that was no less electric. "Hmm. I guess we could order Chinese," Willow said, sliding up closer to Tara's side.

Tara's face was open, without guile as she kissed her, and Willow knew she'd forgotten their fight. The spell had worked. She felt a momentary twinge of guilt and then buried it, not wanting to dwell on unpleasantness anymore. It would be okay… just this once, it would be okay.

Her lips pressed against her lover's, Willow laid her fingers lightly on Tara's hips, guiding her backward into the bedroom. She shut the door behind them and let the thought fall from her mind.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

"Come on, Spike, you know you're bad for business," Willy pleaded querulously.

Spike glared up at him from the barstool, pale fingers tightening on the handle of his mug. He leaned toward the bartender menacingly and Willy backed up a quick step, stumbling and nearly falling over his own feet in the process. Spike let a slow, mean grin spread over his features at the spectacle, and sat back again, looking satisfied.

"Not like you could hurt me, anyway," Willy defended himself petulantly.

Spike looked up at Willy from beneath brows that seemed to challenge the bartender to argue with him. "You got insurance, right Willy?" He gave the entirety of the bar a cursory glance. "Be a bloody shame if something bad happened to your property while you weren't around, now wouldn't it? Never know when some bloke might take into his head to bugger up the place but good." He leaned forward again slightly, leather coat creaking around him as he confided, "And if I couldn't drink here anymore, I'd probably get very… violent."

"O-okay, Spike," Willy relented, trying to pretend some kind of dignity and backbone. "But if my place gets busted up because of you I'm putting it on your tab," he added hastily, hurrying away before the platinum blond vampire could retaliate.

Spike watched the bartender's retreating back with a derisive sneer, and then turned his attention moodily back to the depths of his beer glass. Actually, he'd come here hoping for a fight, anything to take his mind off the things that had been happening lately. Ever since the Scoobies had tried to resurrect Buffy the other night, he'd had a bad feeling about it all, like everything was going south. Dread filled him like a slowly expanding lead balloon, and he had an inexorable sense of being swallowed bit by bit. He hadn't credited it much at first. He'd never been a big believer in precognition, despite his time with Dru; she'd been an exception, and even her visions had been murky, difficult to predict the outcome of.

He watched patrons and potential stress-relievers enter the bar, eyeing each of them carefully and taking in their measure. None of them seemed inclined to pay any attention to him however, and whenever any of their eyes fell on him, they quickly shied away. He practically radiated testosterone and violence, and wisely, no one seemed to want a part of it. Not yet, anyway. Give them time for a few more drinks; maybe they'd be more inclined to step up. Resigned to waiting a bit longer, he lapsed into deep thought and tried to pin down the source of this nagging feeling of unease. He didn't like it. It made him cranky, distracted him, threw him off his game.

Distracted as he was, he felt it instantly when she walked in the room, and even if he hadn't, the way that everyone else froze for an instant in what they were doing, their eyes riveted on the door as if transfixed, would have gotten his attention. He turned to look, saw a shapely figure with a short skirt and long red hair, and felt the surprise of recognition.

"Spike! Sugar!" she cried in delight, her eyes fixing on him with a broad smile. "Well bless my soul!" she exclaimed, sauntering up to him with effortless grace.

As if by mutual agreement, everyone returned to their individual activities and the sound of clinking glasses and quiet conversation filled the room again.

Spike eyed the woman speculatively, rubbing a hand over his chin. "You don't have a soul, luv."

"Details!" She said with a dismissive wave, helping herself to the barstool next to his. Stepping up on to it, she sat down, crossed her long legs and arched her back, running a hand through her fiery mane of hair. Spike's eyes traveled down the length of her shapely, tanned legs as if unable to help himself, and it took him a moment to pull himself together enough to focus on what she was saying.

"So good to see you again!" she was prattling on. "What was it, the 70's?" She looked him up and down in rapt appraisal. "See you kept the punk look. I always loved that. What a surprise to find you here in Sunnydale! Is Drusilla here?"

"No. We, ah…" He made a descriptive gesture, then shrugged, not wanting to dwell on it.

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry." Her ruby lips formed a small, apologetic "o". "I always thought you two just made the cutest little couple. If you ever need anything…" she trailed off, patting his leg reassuringly, the arch of her brow letting him know how very much she meant anything, and he felt tingles race up his thigh to his spine, lodging in his brain with primal urges and bad intent.

"Your power doesn't work on me, love," he reminded her, wondering if that was strictly true. Looking into her amber eyes, he found himself stuck there, fascinated by her beauty, and he had to shake his head to break the gaze and break her hold. Damned succubi, he thought, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and feeling a headache begin to form behind his eyes. And that was a hell of a thing, wasn't it? Undead for over a hundred years and he still had to suffer something as mundanely human as a headache. 'Course it was supernatural things that caused it, like the woman sitting next to him, her body and presence like sex personified.

"That's all right, sugar," she said agreeably. "For you, I'd make an exception."

She tipped him a wink, and he smiled a little, not quite able to help himself. Little minx might be a handful but he still found her charming, which was unusual given her cheery disposition, and he suspected it had something to do with her powers of persuasion. He glanced around the room and noted the eyes that roved over her form, the males covetously, the females with jealousy. Yet none of them could quite muster the wrinklies to do anything about it, and he suspected that they never would. Succubi were notoriously difficult to kill. Not because of their prowess in battle, but simply because they charmed the pants off everyone they met, usually literally. Thankfully, they weren't very powerful beyond that, and most demons weren't in any danger from them anyway, since succubi preferred to feed on souls and didn't tend to be very violent.

She had begun chattering on during his momentary lapse, and try as he might, he couldn't quite puzzle out what the bloody hell she was talking about.

"Cherry," he interrupted, invoking the succubi's name to get her attention, nearly cringing with the loathing he felt as it left his lips. She was a bit of all right, but what the sodding hell had she been thinking when she'd picked a stupid name like Cherry? She stopped talking in mid-word and looked up at him expectantly from beneath sooty lashes. "What are you doing in Sunnydale, luv?"

Amber eyes widened beneath dark lashes, and for a moment the innocence he saw in her was exquisite in its absolution. He blinked, attempting to focus.

"Haven't you heard, honey? The message is going out all over. Sunnydale's the place to be for vampires these days. Something big is coming."

Unimpressed, he shrugged with one shoulder. "It's Sunnydale, luv. There's always something big going on here. Never know what you're going to get. It's like Christmas in Hell."

She lowered her voice, silken honey softening conspiratorially, and glanced around. "No, this is huge. Some kind of unholy sacrament."

His brows shot up in surprise, but he kept his alarm concealed behind the mask of cynical detachment he wore like a second skin. "Really?" His voice portrayed just the right amount of skepticism and interest.

She continued on in a whisper. "I hear it's a—"

"Excuse me, miss." A large, misshapen Sabanshi demon insinuated itself between them, giving Spike a withering look before turning toward Cherry. "But you don't want to be seen hanging around with this type, here." He gestured at Spike as if he were some offensive pile of demon offal.

"Really?" Cherry asked brightly, rolling with his interruption with predictable charm and ease. "Why is that, sugar?"

Spike rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek and bit down on it in amusement. They might not have the stones to challenge her, but they'd finally managed to work up the nerve to cut him out of the picture. He wondered what beautiful pearls of wisdom the mentally dim demon would have to impart to her.

"Yeah. See, he's on the side of the bad guys," the demon told her conspiratorially.

Spike rolled his eyes and snorted an abrupt laugh. "We are the bad guys, you stupid git."

The demon turned toward him, appearing momentarily baffled, eyes almost rolling up inside its head as it considered that.

Spike didn't hesitate. He launched himself fist-first at the creature, smashing its lumpy nose flat in a spatter of green goo that nearly blinded them both. Wiping at his eyes, he was unprepared for the punch that caught him in the stomach and lifted him off his feet, throwing him several yards across the room to smash into a table full of beer glasses and bottles. His coat took the brunt of the damage, and he was on his feet instantly, snarling, face shifting into full vampire mode as he attacked the larger demon again.

Oh yeah, this was exactly what he'd been needing.

Several shiny bruises, bleeding cuts and beer bottles to the head later, Spike stood triumphant over the unconscious Sabanshi demon.

He looked over the sea of faces that surrounded him, scanning for any that might want to challenge him now that their buddy was down. No one moved except for Willy, who stood at the end of the bar, wringing his hands and making strangled noises as he surveyed the extent of the damage. Apparently the demon had come alone.

It would be a pretty penny, paying for this mess, and he wasn't sure one fight was worth the money this would cost. He'd pay Willy of course, only because he didn't want this place to go to seed, or even worse, go out of business. A vampire had to have somewhere decent to drink and pick a good fight, after all. But he'd gotten just about all he was going to get out of this place tonight.

"Come on, then, luv," he said turning back to look for Cherry—

The barstool was empty. She'd vanished as if she'd never been there at all.