Disclaimer: I don't own BtVS, Ats, or SG-1.

Code Name: Pedestrian

Chapter 4: First Dates are Always Awkward

"Well, I hope you're happy, love," Spike spat, twisting about in the passenger's side seat to keep from getting blood on the interior. He looked down at his jacket, poking a finger through the hole in the shoulder seam. "You know, I just had this replaced in Italy a few months ago."

"Bill me," the woman hissed, barely able to keep her eyes on the road without sparing the dead man a glance.

Spike, using his excellent deduction skills, noticed that she was just a wee bit angry. "I don't know why you're upset. I'm the one who was hit by your car and took a bloody bullet—you're not pissed because I tossed that pistol out the window?" The vampire chuckled at the deep groan at the back of her throat. "That's rich. It's not often that I find a normal woman who gets 'piffed when I trash their favorite weapon—well, at least I haven't seen any pretty ones who have a problem with it."

Spike dug into his pockets, searching for a cig that might have escaped without getting crushed. "What did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't say." She stared in front of her, taking the crooked road dangerously fast.

The vampire saw the worry on her face and frowned. "You say you know where this demon's headed? Toward your friend's place, right? Did your mate mention a young lady by any chance?"

"A witch?" she muttered, raising a brow at the inquiry.

"That would be the girl." The vampire with a soul nodded. "Willow will protect him from the demon if we're a bit late—she knows what she's doing. Don't worry."

A silence fell over the car.

"Sam."

Spike raised a brow. "Excuse me?"

The woman pursed her lips, giving him a look from the side of her eyes. "My name. I'm Sam."

"Do you have a last name, Sam?"

She hesitated, but, seemly realizing the insanity of her situation, she answered. "Sam Carter."

"A pleasure to meet you, Samantha," Spike grinned. "I'll expect you're number by sunrise, love."

Sam rolled her eyes. "And you're a vampire, aren't you? Or at least the equivalent to the creature of folklore commonly referred to as a vampire. . . Of course, you're not a real. . ."

"Am actually—and official names are for the politically correct. Vampire will do fine, love. But don't worry; I won't be pickin' you off for a good bite." Spike smirked at her frown. "My name's Spike. Just Spike."

"And your friend's a witch?" Sam noted Spike's nod and continued. "By witch, what exactly do you mean?"

Spike banged his head against the back of the seat. "Honestly, Sam, this is no time for speculation or interrogation. Let's just get your mate's house before he ends up as that big bad's dinner."

Sam took a breath, driving on. Spike watched her with admiration. This woman could make the little Mustang move, all right. And she seemed to be taking the 'creature of the night' notion rather well. Nevertheless, he felt himself growing a bit antsy waiting for the ride to end.

He reached forward.

"Don't touch my radio," the woman snapped.

Spike leaned back, hands up in surrender. "You know, love, it's not nice to deny a bloke his tunes—especially after shooting him on the first date."

Smack!

"Ouch. . . ." Willow hissed, raising a hand to her forehead to touch the tender spot of reddening skin. "Apparently, not so weak," she muttered, glaring hatefully down at the egg-flipper, the very object that she had been prying beneath Daniel's chair for the last ten minutes. And each time she sent a charge of magic toward the mystical adhesive holding the man down, it backfired. The last time had sent the utensil hurling toward her head.

"Let me have a look," Daniel offered, already leaning down to brush back her red locks. Willow stiffened at his touch but relaxed when she noticed his serious gaze studying her 'wound'. He almost reminded her of a younger version of Giles with that steady, scholarly concentration. "I'm an expert at the typical concussion," he said, breaking her from her thoughts, "and I can proudly say that you look fine, grill lines aside."

"Know anything about mystical concussions?" Willow asked, smiling weakly.

Daniel frowned, gently feeling the spot above her eye. "You might be forming a slight knot. Do you feel dizzy?"

She shook her head. "What about you? Still stuck to the chair?"

The man looked down, gesturing to his backside (a part of him still very much in the seat). "What went wrong?"

"Well. . ." Willow shrugged, reaching up to lift his hand away from the forming sore. "Honestly, I don't know. It doesn't make sense. This shouldn't be so hard—a lifting spell is relatively simple, even with such a primitive conduit . . . Ah!"

Daniel let out a muffled cry as he lurched forward, falling off of the chair.

The witch held back a laugh at her current situation, which did, in fact, involve her being pinned down to the floor with the weight of a man in his underwear upon her. Nope, she thought, raising a brow. She definitively hadn't been in this position in a while. At least not with a guy.

"What just happened?" Daniel groaned, his body limp for a moment as the feeling returned to his backside. He blinked, realizing that he was currently squishing the woman beneath him and talking into the soft skin of her shoulder.

"Dr. Jackson?" Willow coughed, squirming to free her 'more sensitive areas'.

"Oh!" Daniel blushed, rolling off of her. He landed on his back, eyes darting back to the Wicca still lying beside him. "Are you alright?"

Willow winced, nodding as she pushed herself up into a sitting position. "Well," she said, rolling her neck to work out the kinks, "at least you're off the chair."

"Yeah." Daniel knew he should be standing and offering her a hand up but, at the moment, he was relishing the ability to lie down far too much. "So, I guess your magic worked after all."

The witch stared down at him, frustration written across her features. "No. I didn't do that."

Daniel rose on one arm. "Then why did it free me?" he asked slowly.

"Well, I'm not sure. Maybe it wore off." She broke off, frowning nervously. "Or."

"Or what?"

"Or it could have been because it no longer serves a purpose," Willow answered.

Daniel let his shoulders hang, blinking with sudden exhaustion. "I suppose, theoretically, a predator would no longer need a way to keep its prey down if it was already . . ."

"It's here," the witch whispered, grabbing hold of the archeologist's arm as she pulled herself up to her feet, planting herself in front of him.

Before Daniel could question her, he heard the sound of his front door blasting off its hinges.