CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER CREDITS: n/a

CHAPTER NOTES: Time to test out this spell...

.

This'll have to do, Spike thought as he reached for a couple bottles of beer.

When he turned around, he found himself the object of a painfully tender and teary gaze.

What on earth...? Spike tilted his head gently to the side, arching an eyebrow ever-so-slightly.

"Luv?" he mouthed, forgetting that he couldn't speak.

Oh God, is she crying?

Her eyes were glazed over, unfocused from the pool of tears building up. And if there was one thing Spike couldn't handle, it was a crying woman. It just figured that, despite all the incredible changes becoming a vampire had caused within him, he'd never lost poncy William's heart.

Spike looked skyward and sighed. What more can you do to me, you bastard?

"You're safe here," he mouthed to the girl. "I won't hurt you..."

And he wanted to add you don't know the half of it—got the bloody Slayer breathin' down my neck with stakes and crossbow at the ready if I even look like I'm thinkin' 'bout it. Hell even her motley crew of social rejects has a leg up on me. I really am a piece of work.

Before he could start wallowing some more, he nudged a cold beer towards her. The apologetic look on his face could have told her: sorry this was all I had; sorry you're stuck in here with me; sorry you ended up in Sunnyhell. All were true, or as true as could be for a soulless demon with a human heart.

.

.

Tara watched him a moment or two more, her eyes unblinking as her mind continued composing his tragically noble history. It wasn't until the bottle touched the side of her hand that she woke from her stupor.

He looked so sorry just then, and the tears that had threatened to fall moments before finally did. It was only a few—just what had been pooled there in her eyes while she thought about his poor state of affairs—but he saw it and shook his head, mouthed "don't cry, please don't cry". His hand even dared to reach out to her until she wiped at her face and gave him an awkward smile.

"Sorry," she scribbled quickly for him. "Allergies."

Spike relaxed a bit at that. Not being able to talk was proving more difficult than he had anticipated. He was trying to compensate by reading her body language and sniffing the various chemical changes going through her, but it obviously was not enough. Back to the notebook, then.

He raised his beer bottle to her before taking a swig. Tara followed suit, though with a more reserved sip; she wasn't a drinker, but she also didn't want to be rude. The slight warmth of the alcohol did help a little, though. Ten minutes later, any tension that had been in the crypt had been replaced by the silent effort of research.

The books were spread out before them on the sarcophagus, and Tara was writing out what looked like a spell. Spike was fairly impressed at how quickly the girl wrote in Latin. His own youth had been spent with the language, but he had paid more attention during his classes to writing poetry, and even what he ended up knowing by rote had never come that easily. Tara moved from one book to the next and back again.

When he had first seen her load, he had been sure she was another Willow. Little girl finally on her own, feeling all "empowered" by her Ani DiFranco albums and armed with a spice rack. He already knew the kind of trouble that caused. Still had the nasty taste of Slayer kisses in his mouth to prove it. Hell, he wasn't entirely convinced that this whole silence thing hadn't been Willow's fault to begin with. Surely, she was involved. Why else would he be feeling so tender toward this unknown girl here who would normally be no more than a happy meal on legs? But the white magic that had rolled off of her was too strong, too ancient. This Tara was no amateur.

So, Spike put up no protest when she began pulling out herbs. He tamped down his knee-jerk reaction—nervousness—and watched her work. In concentration, her forehead got these little ridges. They were tiny wrinkles like the ones starting to show by Joyce's eyes. Or the ones on the Watcher's neck. Bloody hell, he was spending too much time with those damn white hats. He was the Slayer of Slayers, for fuck's sake!

Tara must have sensed his frustration because she looked up then, her eyes glittering with suggestion. When they connected with his, she scribbled out some instructions for setting up the area to start a spell. He could handle that; he could be useful. Nothing worse than being helpless. Well, maybe being Angel, he snarked inwardly as he gathered makeshift bowls.

While Spike was moving about, Tara prepared the ingredients. She had to improvise a bit since she had expected to combine her stash with Willow's. But that was okay. Tara was nothing if not resourceful. Surely, this night was a test of that!

Soon, the crypt was filled with an earthy smoke. Everything was going to plan. Spike watched on intently, caught up in her confidence. Tara pulled her notebook close to her and then...stopped. Good one, dummy. How was she supposed to utter the spell if she couldn't speak?

Those little lines appeared on her forehead again. Spike saw them rise. What happened? What was she waiting for? Then it occurred to him—how was she supposed to utter the spell if she couldn't speak?

Suddenly, her forehead smoothed and she smiled at him. "I've got another idea," she mouthed.

As best as she could, Tara moved her books and the smoking herbs to the side. When Spike saw what she was planning, he helped her up onto the stone surface.

She sat down in the lotus position, taking a deep breath. Okay, center. You can do this. He's got the place secured. Another deep breath, and she closed her eyes. She'd recite the spell in her mind and project it out. She'd only done the whole telepathy thing a couple times before, but what she lacked in experience she made up for in determination. Over and over, she chanted the spell in her head. It was one she had composed herself, so she knew there were no guarantees it would work. But it was purely a healing spell, so even if it didn't solve this particular problem, it might still help those out there with sore throats or tonsillitis. So, yeah, there was that.

The energy in the room changed as Tara meditated. Spike could not only feel it, but see it. Her long hair rustled even though no breeze could penetrate the crypt. Smoke from the sage and peppermint wound around her in thick coils. The steady thump of her heartbeat put him in a trance, as did the swell of her breasts when she breathed. He watched them rise and fall, rise and fall, mesmerized.

Until the shrill sound of a coyote or—no—a fox shattered the stillness. Tara's concentration broke, and the coiled smoke dissipated.

They frowned at each other. Dammit.

Tara's shoulders slumped a bit from the wasted effort. She didn't know what else to do now, but she was exhausted. That spell took a lot more out of her than she had anticipated.

"Sorry, luv; you tried your best."

Spike's voice echoed in the nearly-empty space. All four eyes widened. The sound was booming, vibrant, clear—as if they had been deaf, too, and forgot what it was like to hear.

"You..."

"I really..."

He rushed to her, pulling her into his arms joyfully like a long-awaited homecoming. And she let him easily, equal parts relieved and excited that the spell had worked.

Their embrace was short-lived and apologetic as the awkwardness of the situation creeped in, but even in just those moments both had their senses imprinted upon: for her, the strong, ropey muscles of a powerful, protective predator and the masculine scent of leather, cigarettes, alcohol, and something else she couldn't place; for him, the heat—oh, the flush of skin pulsing with hot blood—and the softness that a body like Harmony's should have had but didn't. They broke away before they could figure out what that all meant.