Disclaimer: See chapter 1, or 6.
PART 8
Spike stuffed his red shirt into the sheet now filled with the rest of his Sunnydale clothes and Willow's brown gown. Too bad she was nowhere to be found. Shoving the bundle under his arm, he glared at the empty alleyway one last time, then headed off down the street. What the hell had happened this time? Everything felt the same. The spell shot from Willow into him, same as the first time. The light blinded him again, and damn if he hadn't fallen a few feet to the cobblestone alleyway, bruising his shoulder.
Now, he was alone. Without Willow. And why could nothing ever go his way?
"Son of a bitch," he growled, pushing past a trio of drunk men. They growled and bitched right back at him, until he put on his game face and snarled threateningly. After that, they pretty much ran screaming. Like women. In a slightly lighter mood now, he stopped and looked around him. London. At least Willow had gotten that right.
Now all he had to do was figure out what time period he was in, and where the hell Willow had disappeared to. Unable to tell by simply standing there staring at the people and carriages moving around him, he decided to stop in the first pub he happened upon and ask there. It had nothing to do with him wanting a drink. A big drink.
Halfway down the block, he got lucky in the pub department. Yanking the door open, he took a quick look around the place. Dark wood floor, wood walls, wood... everything. Apparently a lot of thought had gone into the decor. Sawdust on the floor... small tables set around the room, and a lot of people. And every one of them were human.
He'd have a few drinks, nab some information, and then maybe go out for a snack.
He made his way through the crowd, ignoring the loud conversations floating around the room, and sat at the bar, waving over the dark-haired guy behind the counter. "Bottle of whiskey," spike told him, before he remembered his less than filled pockets. He rifled through his pockets, found the coins from Galway, and set one on the counter.
The guy stared at Spike with curiosity but remained silent. He could stare all he wanted to, Spike thought, so long as he didn't hold back the booze. He reached out to take the bottle, but just as his hand brushed it, the barkeep pulled it back, out of reach.
"Owner doesn't accept anything but English coin," he said, nodding at the coin on the counter.
His Irish accent had Spike doing a double-take. He had seen London out there, hadn't he? Yeah, definitely saw London. "It's Irish, my, uh, my... grandfather gave it to me." He shoved it across the counter toward the barkeeper. "It's old, an antique. Worth a lot of money. You can buy this place with it." When the guy didn't move, Spike rolled his eyes. "Just give me the damn bottle."
The guy looked tempted, but he still didn't reach for it. "And why would you be giving me this 'antique coin' for free?"
He sounded a bit skeptical, Spike could understand that, since he was of a skeptical nature himself. "I've got lots of 'em. And I'm rich. So I don't give a damn about one stupid coin. Now give me the bottle."
The barkeeper finally shrugged and handed Spike the bottle, grabbing the coin off the counter and sliding it inside his vest pocket. "Thanks."
"Yeah." Spike took the whiskey bottle, grabbed a shot glass from the counter, and moved to a corner table, lamenting his lot. Damn it. He'd forgotten to ask the Irish bloke what year it was. He was alone, and Willow was lost out there somewhere, she could be hurt, or dead... or, what if she'd sent him here on purpose? To some unknown time in London. "Hey," he called to the waitress hurrying past his table, "what's the date?"
She stopped on a dime, the tray held above her head not even wobbling at the sudden halting of movement. Her blonde hair swung free down her back, held back only by a blue silk ribbon at the nape of her neck. She didn't look happy at the moment, even less happy that he'd stopped to ask her so mundane a question. "Fifth of March." When he continued to stare at her expectantly, she sighed and added, "Eighteen hundred and fifty-five."
He nodded, poured a shot and downed it. He poured four more and was well on his way to being slightly tipsy when he left. Carrying the bottle in one hand, and their clothes in the other, he stood there, wondering where to go. Shrugging, knowing it wouldn't really matter which direction he went in, he headed to his left.
Five years off the mark. A chuckle escaped him. She was getting closer. At least it wasn't two hundred and forty-six years this time. Still, she'd definitely screwed things up again. Not only was he in the wrong time, but she'd made herself scarce.
Could she be back in her own time, in Sunnydale, waiting for him to show up brassed off?
A few miles away, he found an old warehouse and decided to crash there. Just like old times. He crossed the street and headed toward it, taking another healthy drink of his whiskey. The door was barely hanging on its hinges, so he kicked it in, and made himself at home. The warehouse itself was empty of everything except dust, but the office wasn't too bad off. He went into the office, slammed the door shut, and took a seat at the broken desk, falling on his ass when the chair broke.
"Bloody hell," he snarled, "my life is turning into a farce... could it possibly get any worse?"
"Yeah," a voice snickered from behind him, his cockney accent putting Spike's to shame. "It just did."
Spike tilted his head back. There was a tall blond vampire standing behind him. Tall because Spike was still sitting on the floor. "Go to hell," he spat, pissed that his new home was being invaded. He was in no mood to fight at the moment.
"I was here first," the vamp said incredulously, "I live here, I'm not leaving." He walked around to Spike's other side, and sat on the sagging desk, crossing his arms over his chest like an arrogant bully. "You leave."
"Nya, nya," Spike sneered, feeling extremely petty, yet not willing to fight for the dubious comfort of the filthy office... maybe he was spoiled from staying at the Watcher's flat. He climbed to his feet, grabbed the clothes-filled sheet, hugging it to him like it was an academy award, and left the room, not bothering to look behind him as he slammed the door shut. He stood still for a minute, looking across the cavernous warehouse. There was another office over there, and it was empty. Now all he had to do was get there. Heaving the sigh of his life, he shuffled across the room, stopping three times to finish off the bottle, and once to pick up the clothes bundle.
Finally reaching the other office, he sighed at the dust covering everything, shut the door, locked it and laid down on the desk, using the bundle as a pillow.
He was asleep within minutes.
Spike was pissed off. He'd looked everywhere for Willow, and come to one conclusion; she wasn't in eighteen fifty-five, and if she was, she was doing a damn good job of hiding. He was about to find out for sure, once and for all. It had taken him a month, but he'd finally done it, finally found a magick shop. One that dealt with real magick, not that crap people sold at the apothecary's.
Normally, Spike was great at culling information... normally being not this time. Snarling at the annoying tinkle of the annoying bell above the door, he stomped past the rows of shelves and up to the counter. And there he waited. And waited.
He glanced around while he had plenty of time to do so, checking out the small one room shop, which was mostly filled with books and candles. Not a whole lot going on in the customers department... in fact, he was the only customer. The shopkeeper behind the counter should damn well be scraping and bowing to him, but, she was too busy reading her book. So busy in fact that she hadn't even heard him come in, didn't know he was standing there about to rip her head off. He opened his mouth, lots of cuss words on the tip of his tongue, when she held her finger up to shush him.
"Save the language for when you're with other vampires please." She looked up from her book and smiled at him.
Spike rolled his eyes. "You're psychic?" Great, just what he needed, someone poking around inside his head.
"Not really." She grinned, obviously thinking he was in a good mood and wanted to chit-chat. "The way you stomped in here, I could read your mood rather easily, and your eyes are yellow. My name is Christine, what can I get for you?"
Spike could care less what her name was, or whatever else she felt she needed to tell him, all he wanted was an answer to his question, and maybe some ingredients for a spell. "I need to find someone, but I don't know if she's here. Can you help me with that?"
His question came out sounding like a challenge, and she took it, nodding slowly. "You don't know if she's here in London? Or here in England?"
He crossed his arms and leaned against the low counter. "I don't think she's in eighteen fifty-five," he explained. "She did a spell, and she screwed it up. Certainly wasn't the first time. She's always--" realizing he was sharing too much, he cleared his throat and started over. "I need to find her, and the sooner the better."
That didn't surprise her like he'd thought it would, she simply nodded wisely, grabbing ingredients from under the counter, and looking for more on the shelf over his shoulder. "I know of a rather easy spell to find someone, but I'm not sure if it'll work through time." Biting her lip in a very Willow-like way, she moved around the counter, grabbing jars and bottles as she went.
Spike stayed where he was, watching her flit about the shop. It wasn't just her lip-biting that reminded him of Willow, she also moved like her, sort of looked like her... in the way that she didn't really resemble her at all except she was small, had red hair, and was pretty, but other than that, she was nothing like Willow.
"I think this is everything," she mumbled, setting three jars filled with brown things on the counter. "That's about two pounds worth of stuff... can you pay, or are you planning on killing me for them?"
He snickered, finding no end of amusement at her offhanded question, and handed her some of the money he'd taken off a guy earlier in the evening. "And you're doing the spell, right? Because, I have no clue how to do it."
She shrugged. "I could do it if you want me to, but typically--"
"Do it," Spike told her impatiently. "I have to find her, or at least find out when she is, so do it. Light stuff, burn things, chant words," he gestured irritably at the ingredients atop the counter.
She took a jar of sand, stepped back a bit and poured a circle around herself, on the floor. "Yes, Milord."
Her tone was more sarcastic than not, but Spike took umbrage. Complete umbrage. He frowned thunderously, barely keeping himself from draining her. "I am not a lord," he snarled. "Not by a long shot. So keep your insults to yourself."
She didn't bother looking up at him, just continued to mix her herbs. "You used to be." Dumping what looked like a mushroom into a gold-plated bowl, she smoothed a few stray hairs behind her ear.
"No. William used to be. I'm not him." Two different people, they were two different people, why didn't humans get that? Just because he wore the skin of William, didn't mean he was William.
"All right," she said, placating him as she dropped three red flowers into the mixture, "I didn't mean to offend you, M'lo-- um, sir." She lifted her head and smiled apologetically. "I sometimes forget. Vampire, human, not the same person."
"Right," he snorted, not at all mollified, but deciding to drop it. "So how does this work?"
She sat on the floor, closing her eyes. "Tell me about her. The better I know her, the better my chances are of finding her."
Spike sighed heavily. He didn't know anything about Willow, just the basics. "She's, uh, about yea high," he held his hand up to his shoulder, "has red hair, um... oh, she's smart. Real smart, knows all about computers and stuff."
"What are computers?" she asked without opening her eyes. Her hands hovered over the bowl in front of her which was starting to smoke and glow.
Realizing he'd shared too much, once again, he back-pedaled. "They're-- never mind. She's smart is all I'm saying." He pushed away from the counter, walking cautiously closer to her protective circle.
"Mmm," she mumbled.
The glowing in the bowl brightened considerably, turning from dark green to dark blue, and he could've sworn he smelled sulfur burning.
"What else?" The words were whispered, hushed.
Rolling his eyes would be fruitless since she couldn't see it, but he went ahead and did it anyway, feeling justified in his irritation. "I don't know. She's... about twenty years old, in college. Dated a werewolf, became a witch, turned out to be gay, fell in love with a witch, and screwed up the spell to bring us here. Okay? Need more?" he asked sarcastically.
She smiled widely, looking really happy about something. "That's enough, thank you." Her eyes opened, but stared straight ahead, into space. "She's in London. Not in this time though. I can feel..." she stopped suddenly, inhaling as if she'd been sucker-punched, "Pain. So much pain," She turned her eyes to him, pain and fear plain on her face. "He's forcing her to--"
"To what?" Spike ground out, not liking where this was going. If anyone was forcing Willow to do anything, it should damn well be him, not some nameless, faceless bastard who had no right to look at her, much less touch her.
"He's forcing himself on her. He's going to kill her," she gasped out, still looking and sounding like pain was a close personal friend.
There was really no decision making needed, it was obvious what needed to be done. "Send me there, do a spell and--"
She was already shaking her head, wiping at the tears on her cheeks. "I can't. I'm not that skilled yet, I'm still learning."
Spike didn't want to hear it. He stepped inside her supposed magick circle, scattering sea salt across the floor. His boots scuffed and crunched loudly as he grabbed her arms and hauled her up, shaking her fiercely. "Then find someone who can, you bloody phony." He shook her again, feeling such rage that he had to hurt someone, and she was the nearest someone to him at the moment. When she only cried more, he dropped her back to the floor in frustration. "Worthless bitch."
She didn't huddle on the floor, sobbing like he'd expected her to do, no, she stood up, facing him, and Spike knew fear. Her eyes had turned black, and suddenly, her voice was deep and masculine as she stared straight ahead. "Your journey began the moment you did the spell, as did the witch's, neither can be halted now. Continue here, and you'll find her. Try to reach her before your time is done, and you'll lose her."
Spike frowned, unsure what the hell was going on. "Who are you?" He was for damn sure not going to go on the advice of a mystery voice without knowing the who or why of it. "And why do you get to tell me what to do?"
Christine held her hands out, palms toward him. Dark green electricity flitted around them, licking its way up her arms. "I am the stabilizer of time."
"Really?" If he didn't sound impressed, it was because he wasn't. "How neat. What's this got to do with me?"
"You're trying to change what has already been written. Cease." Christine's hands were still aimed at him, even though he was circling around her now. Her eyes were all black and swirly, following him eerily.
"Cease what, exactly?" he asked. "I'm just trying to find the witch. The sooner I do that, the sooner I can get out of here and stop screwing with your time. Isn't that what you want?" He was doing a pretty damn good job of hiding his anger from this thing inhabiting Christine's body, but he was quickly losing his control. What right did this thing have to tell anyone what to do? Time Stabilizer...? Whatever.
"I want nothing. I manage what has already gone wrong." She turned toward him, blinking slowly. "You will inquire about Willow Rosenberg no more, and you will finish out your time here. If you do this, your future is assured. If you do not..." the voice drifted off, the threat obvious.
Spike wasn't satisfied with just a threat, he wanted details. Lighting a cigarette in his typically arrogant fashion, he sniffed importantly, and leaned against the counter. "If I don't, then... what?"
"Both you and Willow will die," the voice explained patiently, before raising her hands higher and letting loose a bolt or two of the green electricity. "And the world shall end."
That was the last thing Spike heard before hitting the wall and falling to the ground in a heap.
Willow felt Spike's hands tighten around hers as something flowed through her looking for a way out. Her head fell back and her mouth opened, letting the energy escape and envelop the two of them. Darkness followed. She felt no pressure on top of her this time. She opened her eyes carefully, afraid of what she might see. After their last snafu, she'd made sure to concentrate on eighteen-sixty and Drusilla.
She was in an alley. Alone. And it was day. Oh, no. She sat up quickly, ignoring the pounding in her head, and looked around for Spike. He wasn't there. "Spike?" she called, her voice shaking. What if he hadn't come with her? What if he got stuck back in seventeen fifty-three? What if the sun had killed him?
She stood up, looking around the alley for piles of dust. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't have left her here alone. What was she going to do?
"Spike," she yelled, wiping at the tears gathering in her eyes. Now wasn't the time for crying. She had to find Spike, and get somewhere safe. This wasn't a modern alley. Or even an American one, she suspected. It looked like the spell had worked... only she'd lost Spike somewhere. What if he *had* gotten stuck back in seventeen fifty-three? He'd be here now, somewhere, knowing she was on her way... and she was sure he'd be mad. Furious. Raging.
Even though he'd had a hundred and seven years to get over it.
Why did that thought not calm her down? Taking deep breaths, she carefully looked around the alley. Maybe he'd been hurt and she had just missed him on her first glance. Filthy cobblestones on the ground. A stack of wooden crates by a doorway. Trash, and puddles of things she didn't want to know about. Water stains down the walls. But no Spike.
Willow didn't know what to do. Wait here for him in case he'd left her there for some reason? Like sun issues. Or, leave and try to find shelter? With no money, damn it. She looked frantically around. Their bundle of clothes and money was gone. Not that the currency was the same, but still. She could have sold the coins she was sure. And now she was stuck in an alley in who knew what year, what country or what universe even, with no money, no clothes, and no place to stay.
And she still refused to shed any tears. She was an independent woman. Resourceful. A witch. She would figure something out. Until Spike found her? Hopefully? Please?
Chicken, she berated herself. She was being a chicken. She didn't need Spike to get by. It would certainly help, but-- no, damn it. She could do this on her own. She lifted her skirts, and put her hand in her pocket, wrapping her fingers around the small scrap of Spike's torn T-Shirt. It was like a good luck charm, made her feel like he was with her. Of course, so did wearing the T-Shirt that the scrap was from.
Taking a deep breath, she made a decision. First, get out of the alley. Okay. She could do that. Determined now, she headed toward the alley entrance and looked around. Horse drawn carriages, cobblestone streets, women in long gowns, and men in breeches. Yep, this was about the right time. Judging by the accents she heard, it was also the right place.
When she left the alley and started off down the street, she could've sworn that every single person on the street turned to look at her. She looked down self-consciously. Her blue gown was way out of fashion, and Spike's black T-Shirt was sort of noticeable underneath the bodice. At least her bright red jeans weren't.
And no Spike around to blame, she thought with a sad smile.
Keeping her eyes straight ahead, she walked, heading... she didn't know where. An inn? Hotel? Did they have hotels? Not that she had any money to pay for one. Which meant she was quite possibly royally screwed. She was receiving a lot of curious stares, which could be attributed to her own stare into space. Feeling uber uncomfortable, she headed inside the first store she came across.
Oh, not a store. A pub; a nice dark shadowy pub. Good for her!
At this time of day, the place was pretty empty. But there were enough people that, once again, Willow was the center of attention. Something that she had never liked. She preferred to stay on the fringes, blend in the background, not be stared at by the five people in the place.
The room was indeed dark. And smoky. Primarily, the owner had gone with wood as the theme when decorating. Dark, old wood floor, covered in sawdust, wood walls, scarred and pitted, long wooden counter. Even the ceiling was wood. She felt like she'd stepped onto a movie set. The patrons, three men sitting at one of the small round tables that littered the room, were eyeing her curiously. And, ick, lasciviously. She felt extremely under-dressed, even though she had two sets of clothes on.
All three men were at least in their forties, not old per se, 'cause Giles was somewhere around there too, but these men actually looked it. She knew, from statistics, that people didn't live to be very old back then... back now, or whatever, because sickness and disease was rampant.
Two of the men, formerly with their backs to her, were turned around in their seats. One was licking his lips, while the other two were content with downing their drinks and wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands.
Nervous with their attention, she turned to the bar, and the man behind it. Had to be the owner. He was watching her surreptitiously, under the pretext of wiping down the bar. He was young, probably late twenties, handsome, and clean shaven, unlike the three men at the table. His short black hair was slicked back, his dark, almost black eyes, were raised, watching her openly now.
Judging by the possessive glances being sent toward him by the sole woman in the place aside from Willow, he was also taken. The woman was tall and blonde, with hardly a wrinkle on her face. Her brown eyes were warm and inviting, not cold and weary.
In this day and age it was rare to find someone so unaffected by a life of hard work and hard times... especially someone working in a pub. The woman carried a tray of mugs to the table of guys, casting Willow a curious look as she passed her.
Gosh, Willow thought, you'd think they'd never seen a woman with short red hair wearing two sets of clothes before. A giggle threatened, but she managed to hold it back. She went to the bar and sat down on one of the stools. The barkeep, or owner, whoever he was, turned a dazzling smile her way, and walked over.
"Can I help you, lass?" His Irish brogue was familiar after having spent so long in Galway, and Willow found herself smiling back.
"Um, hi. I-- I was just..." she sighed, and started again. "I need a place to stay. I'm new around here," she added. "Is there, uh, maybe an inn or something nearby? Cheap?" Hope laced her voice, not to mention a little desperation. All of which must have been heard by the woman because she sat down next to Willow and smiled.
"Are you lost, love?" she asked kindly. Her accent was all British, not a hint of Irish in there at all. "This isn't a place for the likes of one so young."
Willow nodded frantically. "Lost, yes. I'm lost. And broke... out of money, I mean, and I need somewhere to stay. But, again, there's the lack of money, so... um, yes, I'm lost," she finished softly, hating herself for sounding like such a doofus. Why could she never just say what she wanted to say, rather than babble, and trip over her tongue as it splayed itself all over the floor? Ugh.
The waitress beside her looked Willow up and down appraisingly, and nodded. "You're not in trouble, are you?"
"Trouble?" Willow repeated, not understanding the meaning behind the innocent question. "Not that I know of."
The barkeep, silent until now, finally spoke up. "Are you in the family way, lass?"
"Fam-- no." Nearly laughing aloud at the scandalous look on the woman's face, Willow shook her head. "No, I'm not pregnant. I'm just... stranded."
"Are you looking just for lodging, or are you in need of a job too?" the blonde asked. "My husband, Joe here, has been thinking about hiring another girl." She eyed Willow's short hair with a frown. "You look strong enough to take on the job if you need it, but your hair... have you been ill?"
"Um, no. There was an unfortunate incident with my niece and a-- uh, taffy."
"Taffy?" they both queried, puzzled looks stretched across both their brows.
"A sticky candy, um, sweetmeat," she answered absently. This was quickly turning into another Willow Babble-Fest. "You know, about that job, I'm not sure. I was supposed to meet someone here. In town. My husband, actually. William, is his name. I was supposed to meet him, but he didn't show up, and I don't have anymore money, 'cause I spent it all on the trip here. And now I need a place to stay to wait for him. And new clothes, um, obviously, and money, I guess." She smiled tremulously. "So, maybe I do need a job."
Both Joe and his wife stared at her for a few seconds before realizing she was done babbling. "Honey," the woman began, "um, what's your name, love?"
Willow smiled at the familiar pet name, it made her feel like maybe Spike wasn't so far away after all. "Willow."
She held her hand out to shake before remembering that women didn't do that. She dropped her hand and cleared her throat nervously, noticing that, despite Joe's warning looks at the men behind her, their conversation had never resumed. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that they were watching the three at the bar intently.
"I'm Samantha, and this is my husband Joe. We've got an extra room upstairs for employees, and if you want the job, you're welcome to it."
Willow smiled gratefully at the couple. "I'll take it," she practically yelled. "Um, I mean, yes. Absolutely. Thank you."
Samantha smiled in amusement and put a hand on Willow's shoulder. "Come on, I'll show you your room while Joe teaches these guys some manners." She put an arm around Willow's shoulders and led her around the bar to a door that was almost invisible unless you were right upon it.
Behind the door and straight ahead was a steep, narrow stairwell, while to the right was a hallway that she assumed went to Samantha and Joe's rooms. They went up the stairs in silence and down the short hallway at the top. It was brighter up here because of the row of wall sconces lining both walls on either side of them. A door on the left was standing open, and that's where they headed. Samantha pushed the door open all the way and waved Willow in.
"Here you go. It's nothing fancy, but it has all you need. A bed," she pointed to the double bed against the wall in the middle of the room. "Dressing table," Willow saw the battered wooden table beside the door. "A wash basin," on top of the dressing table. "And a wardrobe." Yep, there it was in the opposite corner from them.
Willow had to force a smile to keep from offending Samantha. She wasn't upset with her room, she just missed her own room. And the gang. And Tara. And, if she let herself admit it, she missed Spike. "Thanks," she said sincerely. "I really appreciate this." Sitting on the bed experimentally, she bounced a few times, or tried to. This being the past, they didn't have springs, they had rope strips tied across a wooden frame in which a straw-filled mattress sat. Just like in Galway. "Um, what will I have to do? My job, I mean."
Samantha stepped over to the wardrobe and pulled it open, showing Willow the dress inside. It was similar to hers, but pale yellow instead of blue. "Serving drinks is all you're to do. Nothing more, nothing less. It's not easy work, but I think you'll be able to handle it." She went to the door and started to shut it, leaving Willow alone with her thoughts. Just before the door clicked shut, she stuck her head back in. "Have a bath, there's a tub down the hall. Get some rest, and you can start tomorrow. Sleep well."
Willow smiled again, feeling like her face was going to get stuck in that position. All this false smiling had to be bad for a person. As soon as the door clicked shut, she fell back on the bed and closed her eyes, feeling exhausted. Time travel took a lot out of a person.
Almost without realizing it, she reached into her front pocket and pulled out the small scrap of Spike's T-Shirt. Rolling over onto her side, she tucked her hands under her cheek, inhaling deeply.
PART 8
Spike stuffed his red shirt into the sheet now filled with the rest of his Sunnydale clothes and Willow's brown gown. Too bad she was nowhere to be found. Shoving the bundle under his arm, he glared at the empty alleyway one last time, then headed off down the street. What the hell had happened this time? Everything felt the same. The spell shot from Willow into him, same as the first time. The light blinded him again, and damn if he hadn't fallen a few feet to the cobblestone alleyway, bruising his shoulder.
Now, he was alone. Without Willow. And why could nothing ever go his way?
"Son of a bitch," he growled, pushing past a trio of drunk men. They growled and bitched right back at him, until he put on his game face and snarled threateningly. After that, they pretty much ran screaming. Like women. In a slightly lighter mood now, he stopped and looked around him. London. At least Willow had gotten that right.
Now all he had to do was figure out what time period he was in, and where the hell Willow had disappeared to. Unable to tell by simply standing there staring at the people and carriages moving around him, he decided to stop in the first pub he happened upon and ask there. It had nothing to do with him wanting a drink. A big drink.
Halfway down the block, he got lucky in the pub department. Yanking the door open, he took a quick look around the place. Dark wood floor, wood walls, wood... everything. Apparently a lot of thought had gone into the decor. Sawdust on the floor... small tables set around the room, and a lot of people. And every one of them were human.
He'd have a few drinks, nab some information, and then maybe go out for a snack.
He made his way through the crowd, ignoring the loud conversations floating around the room, and sat at the bar, waving over the dark-haired guy behind the counter. "Bottle of whiskey," spike told him, before he remembered his less than filled pockets. He rifled through his pockets, found the coins from Galway, and set one on the counter.
The guy stared at Spike with curiosity but remained silent. He could stare all he wanted to, Spike thought, so long as he didn't hold back the booze. He reached out to take the bottle, but just as his hand brushed it, the barkeep pulled it back, out of reach.
"Owner doesn't accept anything but English coin," he said, nodding at the coin on the counter.
His Irish accent had Spike doing a double-take. He had seen London out there, hadn't he? Yeah, definitely saw London. "It's Irish, my, uh, my... grandfather gave it to me." He shoved it across the counter toward the barkeeper. "It's old, an antique. Worth a lot of money. You can buy this place with it." When the guy didn't move, Spike rolled his eyes. "Just give me the damn bottle."
The guy looked tempted, but he still didn't reach for it. "And why would you be giving me this 'antique coin' for free?"
He sounded a bit skeptical, Spike could understand that, since he was of a skeptical nature himself. "I've got lots of 'em. And I'm rich. So I don't give a damn about one stupid coin. Now give me the bottle."
The barkeeper finally shrugged and handed Spike the bottle, grabbing the coin off the counter and sliding it inside his vest pocket. "Thanks."
"Yeah." Spike took the whiskey bottle, grabbed a shot glass from the counter, and moved to a corner table, lamenting his lot. Damn it. He'd forgotten to ask the Irish bloke what year it was. He was alone, and Willow was lost out there somewhere, she could be hurt, or dead... or, what if she'd sent him here on purpose? To some unknown time in London. "Hey," he called to the waitress hurrying past his table, "what's the date?"
She stopped on a dime, the tray held above her head not even wobbling at the sudden halting of movement. Her blonde hair swung free down her back, held back only by a blue silk ribbon at the nape of her neck. She didn't look happy at the moment, even less happy that he'd stopped to ask her so mundane a question. "Fifth of March." When he continued to stare at her expectantly, she sighed and added, "Eighteen hundred and fifty-five."
He nodded, poured a shot and downed it. He poured four more and was well on his way to being slightly tipsy when he left. Carrying the bottle in one hand, and their clothes in the other, he stood there, wondering where to go. Shrugging, knowing it wouldn't really matter which direction he went in, he headed to his left.
Five years off the mark. A chuckle escaped him. She was getting closer. At least it wasn't two hundred and forty-six years this time. Still, she'd definitely screwed things up again. Not only was he in the wrong time, but she'd made herself scarce.
Could she be back in her own time, in Sunnydale, waiting for him to show up brassed off?
A few miles away, he found an old warehouse and decided to crash there. Just like old times. He crossed the street and headed toward it, taking another healthy drink of his whiskey. The door was barely hanging on its hinges, so he kicked it in, and made himself at home. The warehouse itself was empty of everything except dust, but the office wasn't too bad off. He went into the office, slammed the door shut, and took a seat at the broken desk, falling on his ass when the chair broke.
"Bloody hell," he snarled, "my life is turning into a farce... could it possibly get any worse?"
"Yeah," a voice snickered from behind him, his cockney accent putting Spike's to shame. "It just did."
Spike tilted his head back. There was a tall blond vampire standing behind him. Tall because Spike was still sitting on the floor. "Go to hell," he spat, pissed that his new home was being invaded. He was in no mood to fight at the moment.
"I was here first," the vamp said incredulously, "I live here, I'm not leaving." He walked around to Spike's other side, and sat on the sagging desk, crossing his arms over his chest like an arrogant bully. "You leave."
"Nya, nya," Spike sneered, feeling extremely petty, yet not willing to fight for the dubious comfort of the filthy office... maybe he was spoiled from staying at the Watcher's flat. He climbed to his feet, grabbed the clothes-filled sheet, hugging it to him like it was an academy award, and left the room, not bothering to look behind him as he slammed the door shut. He stood still for a minute, looking across the cavernous warehouse. There was another office over there, and it was empty. Now all he had to do was get there. Heaving the sigh of his life, he shuffled across the room, stopping three times to finish off the bottle, and once to pick up the clothes bundle.
Finally reaching the other office, he sighed at the dust covering everything, shut the door, locked it and laid down on the desk, using the bundle as a pillow.
He was asleep within minutes.
Spike was pissed off. He'd looked everywhere for Willow, and come to one conclusion; she wasn't in eighteen fifty-five, and if she was, she was doing a damn good job of hiding. He was about to find out for sure, once and for all. It had taken him a month, but he'd finally done it, finally found a magick shop. One that dealt with real magick, not that crap people sold at the apothecary's.
Normally, Spike was great at culling information... normally being not this time. Snarling at the annoying tinkle of the annoying bell above the door, he stomped past the rows of shelves and up to the counter. And there he waited. And waited.
He glanced around while he had plenty of time to do so, checking out the small one room shop, which was mostly filled with books and candles. Not a whole lot going on in the customers department... in fact, he was the only customer. The shopkeeper behind the counter should damn well be scraping and bowing to him, but, she was too busy reading her book. So busy in fact that she hadn't even heard him come in, didn't know he was standing there about to rip her head off. He opened his mouth, lots of cuss words on the tip of his tongue, when she held her finger up to shush him.
"Save the language for when you're with other vampires please." She looked up from her book and smiled at him.
Spike rolled his eyes. "You're psychic?" Great, just what he needed, someone poking around inside his head.
"Not really." She grinned, obviously thinking he was in a good mood and wanted to chit-chat. "The way you stomped in here, I could read your mood rather easily, and your eyes are yellow. My name is Christine, what can I get for you?"
Spike could care less what her name was, or whatever else she felt she needed to tell him, all he wanted was an answer to his question, and maybe some ingredients for a spell. "I need to find someone, but I don't know if she's here. Can you help me with that?"
His question came out sounding like a challenge, and she took it, nodding slowly. "You don't know if she's here in London? Or here in England?"
He crossed his arms and leaned against the low counter. "I don't think she's in eighteen fifty-five," he explained. "She did a spell, and she screwed it up. Certainly wasn't the first time. She's always--" realizing he was sharing too much, he cleared his throat and started over. "I need to find her, and the sooner the better."
That didn't surprise her like he'd thought it would, she simply nodded wisely, grabbing ingredients from under the counter, and looking for more on the shelf over his shoulder. "I know of a rather easy spell to find someone, but I'm not sure if it'll work through time." Biting her lip in a very Willow-like way, she moved around the counter, grabbing jars and bottles as she went.
Spike stayed where he was, watching her flit about the shop. It wasn't just her lip-biting that reminded him of Willow, she also moved like her, sort of looked like her... in the way that she didn't really resemble her at all except she was small, had red hair, and was pretty, but other than that, she was nothing like Willow.
"I think this is everything," she mumbled, setting three jars filled with brown things on the counter. "That's about two pounds worth of stuff... can you pay, or are you planning on killing me for them?"
He snickered, finding no end of amusement at her offhanded question, and handed her some of the money he'd taken off a guy earlier in the evening. "And you're doing the spell, right? Because, I have no clue how to do it."
She shrugged. "I could do it if you want me to, but typically--"
"Do it," Spike told her impatiently. "I have to find her, or at least find out when she is, so do it. Light stuff, burn things, chant words," he gestured irritably at the ingredients atop the counter.
She took a jar of sand, stepped back a bit and poured a circle around herself, on the floor. "Yes, Milord."
Her tone was more sarcastic than not, but Spike took umbrage. Complete umbrage. He frowned thunderously, barely keeping himself from draining her. "I am not a lord," he snarled. "Not by a long shot. So keep your insults to yourself."
She didn't bother looking up at him, just continued to mix her herbs. "You used to be." Dumping what looked like a mushroom into a gold-plated bowl, she smoothed a few stray hairs behind her ear.
"No. William used to be. I'm not him." Two different people, they were two different people, why didn't humans get that? Just because he wore the skin of William, didn't mean he was William.
"All right," she said, placating him as she dropped three red flowers into the mixture, "I didn't mean to offend you, M'lo-- um, sir." She lifted her head and smiled apologetically. "I sometimes forget. Vampire, human, not the same person."
"Right," he snorted, not at all mollified, but deciding to drop it. "So how does this work?"
She sat on the floor, closing her eyes. "Tell me about her. The better I know her, the better my chances are of finding her."
Spike sighed heavily. He didn't know anything about Willow, just the basics. "She's, uh, about yea high," he held his hand up to his shoulder, "has red hair, um... oh, she's smart. Real smart, knows all about computers and stuff."
"What are computers?" she asked without opening her eyes. Her hands hovered over the bowl in front of her which was starting to smoke and glow.
Realizing he'd shared too much, once again, he back-pedaled. "They're-- never mind. She's smart is all I'm saying." He pushed away from the counter, walking cautiously closer to her protective circle.
"Mmm," she mumbled.
The glowing in the bowl brightened considerably, turning from dark green to dark blue, and he could've sworn he smelled sulfur burning.
"What else?" The words were whispered, hushed.
Rolling his eyes would be fruitless since she couldn't see it, but he went ahead and did it anyway, feeling justified in his irritation. "I don't know. She's... about twenty years old, in college. Dated a werewolf, became a witch, turned out to be gay, fell in love with a witch, and screwed up the spell to bring us here. Okay? Need more?" he asked sarcastically.
She smiled widely, looking really happy about something. "That's enough, thank you." Her eyes opened, but stared straight ahead, into space. "She's in London. Not in this time though. I can feel..." she stopped suddenly, inhaling as if she'd been sucker-punched, "Pain. So much pain," She turned her eyes to him, pain and fear plain on her face. "He's forcing her to--"
"To what?" Spike ground out, not liking where this was going. If anyone was forcing Willow to do anything, it should damn well be him, not some nameless, faceless bastard who had no right to look at her, much less touch her.
"He's forcing himself on her. He's going to kill her," she gasped out, still looking and sounding like pain was a close personal friend.
There was really no decision making needed, it was obvious what needed to be done. "Send me there, do a spell and--"
She was already shaking her head, wiping at the tears on her cheeks. "I can't. I'm not that skilled yet, I'm still learning."
Spike didn't want to hear it. He stepped inside her supposed magick circle, scattering sea salt across the floor. His boots scuffed and crunched loudly as he grabbed her arms and hauled her up, shaking her fiercely. "Then find someone who can, you bloody phony." He shook her again, feeling such rage that he had to hurt someone, and she was the nearest someone to him at the moment. When she only cried more, he dropped her back to the floor in frustration. "Worthless bitch."
She didn't huddle on the floor, sobbing like he'd expected her to do, no, she stood up, facing him, and Spike knew fear. Her eyes had turned black, and suddenly, her voice was deep and masculine as she stared straight ahead. "Your journey began the moment you did the spell, as did the witch's, neither can be halted now. Continue here, and you'll find her. Try to reach her before your time is done, and you'll lose her."
Spike frowned, unsure what the hell was going on. "Who are you?" He was for damn sure not going to go on the advice of a mystery voice without knowing the who or why of it. "And why do you get to tell me what to do?"
Christine held her hands out, palms toward him. Dark green electricity flitted around them, licking its way up her arms. "I am the stabilizer of time."
"Really?" If he didn't sound impressed, it was because he wasn't. "How neat. What's this got to do with me?"
"You're trying to change what has already been written. Cease." Christine's hands were still aimed at him, even though he was circling around her now. Her eyes were all black and swirly, following him eerily.
"Cease what, exactly?" he asked. "I'm just trying to find the witch. The sooner I do that, the sooner I can get out of here and stop screwing with your time. Isn't that what you want?" He was doing a pretty damn good job of hiding his anger from this thing inhabiting Christine's body, but he was quickly losing his control. What right did this thing have to tell anyone what to do? Time Stabilizer...? Whatever.
"I want nothing. I manage what has already gone wrong." She turned toward him, blinking slowly. "You will inquire about Willow Rosenberg no more, and you will finish out your time here. If you do this, your future is assured. If you do not..." the voice drifted off, the threat obvious.
Spike wasn't satisfied with just a threat, he wanted details. Lighting a cigarette in his typically arrogant fashion, he sniffed importantly, and leaned against the counter. "If I don't, then... what?"
"Both you and Willow will die," the voice explained patiently, before raising her hands higher and letting loose a bolt or two of the green electricity. "And the world shall end."
That was the last thing Spike heard before hitting the wall and falling to the ground in a heap.
Willow felt Spike's hands tighten around hers as something flowed through her looking for a way out. Her head fell back and her mouth opened, letting the energy escape and envelop the two of them. Darkness followed. She felt no pressure on top of her this time. She opened her eyes carefully, afraid of what she might see. After their last snafu, she'd made sure to concentrate on eighteen-sixty and Drusilla.
She was in an alley. Alone. And it was day. Oh, no. She sat up quickly, ignoring the pounding in her head, and looked around for Spike. He wasn't there. "Spike?" she called, her voice shaking. What if he hadn't come with her? What if he got stuck back in seventeen fifty-three? What if the sun had killed him?
She stood up, looking around the alley for piles of dust. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't have left her here alone. What was she going to do?
"Spike," she yelled, wiping at the tears gathering in her eyes. Now wasn't the time for crying. She had to find Spike, and get somewhere safe. This wasn't a modern alley. Or even an American one, she suspected. It looked like the spell had worked... only she'd lost Spike somewhere. What if he *had* gotten stuck back in seventeen fifty-three? He'd be here now, somewhere, knowing she was on her way... and she was sure he'd be mad. Furious. Raging.
Even though he'd had a hundred and seven years to get over it.
Why did that thought not calm her down? Taking deep breaths, she carefully looked around the alley. Maybe he'd been hurt and she had just missed him on her first glance. Filthy cobblestones on the ground. A stack of wooden crates by a doorway. Trash, and puddles of things she didn't want to know about. Water stains down the walls. But no Spike.
Willow didn't know what to do. Wait here for him in case he'd left her there for some reason? Like sun issues. Or, leave and try to find shelter? With no money, damn it. She looked frantically around. Their bundle of clothes and money was gone. Not that the currency was the same, but still. She could have sold the coins she was sure. And now she was stuck in an alley in who knew what year, what country or what universe even, with no money, no clothes, and no place to stay.
And she still refused to shed any tears. She was an independent woman. Resourceful. A witch. She would figure something out. Until Spike found her? Hopefully? Please?
Chicken, she berated herself. She was being a chicken. She didn't need Spike to get by. It would certainly help, but-- no, damn it. She could do this on her own. She lifted her skirts, and put her hand in her pocket, wrapping her fingers around the small scrap of Spike's torn T-Shirt. It was like a good luck charm, made her feel like he was with her. Of course, so did wearing the T-Shirt that the scrap was from.
Taking a deep breath, she made a decision. First, get out of the alley. Okay. She could do that. Determined now, she headed toward the alley entrance and looked around. Horse drawn carriages, cobblestone streets, women in long gowns, and men in breeches. Yep, this was about the right time. Judging by the accents she heard, it was also the right place.
When she left the alley and started off down the street, she could've sworn that every single person on the street turned to look at her. She looked down self-consciously. Her blue gown was way out of fashion, and Spike's black T-Shirt was sort of noticeable underneath the bodice. At least her bright red jeans weren't.
And no Spike around to blame, she thought with a sad smile.
Keeping her eyes straight ahead, she walked, heading... she didn't know where. An inn? Hotel? Did they have hotels? Not that she had any money to pay for one. Which meant she was quite possibly royally screwed. She was receiving a lot of curious stares, which could be attributed to her own stare into space. Feeling uber uncomfortable, she headed inside the first store she came across.
Oh, not a store. A pub; a nice dark shadowy pub. Good for her!
At this time of day, the place was pretty empty. But there were enough people that, once again, Willow was the center of attention. Something that she had never liked. She preferred to stay on the fringes, blend in the background, not be stared at by the five people in the place.
The room was indeed dark. And smoky. Primarily, the owner had gone with wood as the theme when decorating. Dark, old wood floor, covered in sawdust, wood walls, scarred and pitted, long wooden counter. Even the ceiling was wood. She felt like she'd stepped onto a movie set. The patrons, three men sitting at one of the small round tables that littered the room, were eyeing her curiously. And, ick, lasciviously. She felt extremely under-dressed, even though she had two sets of clothes on.
All three men were at least in their forties, not old per se, 'cause Giles was somewhere around there too, but these men actually looked it. She knew, from statistics, that people didn't live to be very old back then... back now, or whatever, because sickness and disease was rampant.
Two of the men, formerly with their backs to her, were turned around in their seats. One was licking his lips, while the other two were content with downing their drinks and wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands.
Nervous with their attention, she turned to the bar, and the man behind it. Had to be the owner. He was watching her surreptitiously, under the pretext of wiping down the bar. He was young, probably late twenties, handsome, and clean shaven, unlike the three men at the table. His short black hair was slicked back, his dark, almost black eyes, were raised, watching her openly now.
Judging by the possessive glances being sent toward him by the sole woman in the place aside from Willow, he was also taken. The woman was tall and blonde, with hardly a wrinkle on her face. Her brown eyes were warm and inviting, not cold and weary.
In this day and age it was rare to find someone so unaffected by a life of hard work and hard times... especially someone working in a pub. The woman carried a tray of mugs to the table of guys, casting Willow a curious look as she passed her.
Gosh, Willow thought, you'd think they'd never seen a woman with short red hair wearing two sets of clothes before. A giggle threatened, but she managed to hold it back. She went to the bar and sat down on one of the stools. The barkeep, or owner, whoever he was, turned a dazzling smile her way, and walked over.
"Can I help you, lass?" His Irish brogue was familiar after having spent so long in Galway, and Willow found herself smiling back.
"Um, hi. I-- I was just..." she sighed, and started again. "I need a place to stay. I'm new around here," she added. "Is there, uh, maybe an inn or something nearby? Cheap?" Hope laced her voice, not to mention a little desperation. All of which must have been heard by the woman because she sat down next to Willow and smiled.
"Are you lost, love?" she asked kindly. Her accent was all British, not a hint of Irish in there at all. "This isn't a place for the likes of one so young."
Willow nodded frantically. "Lost, yes. I'm lost. And broke... out of money, I mean, and I need somewhere to stay. But, again, there's the lack of money, so... um, yes, I'm lost," she finished softly, hating herself for sounding like such a doofus. Why could she never just say what she wanted to say, rather than babble, and trip over her tongue as it splayed itself all over the floor? Ugh.
The waitress beside her looked Willow up and down appraisingly, and nodded. "You're not in trouble, are you?"
"Trouble?" Willow repeated, not understanding the meaning behind the innocent question. "Not that I know of."
The barkeep, silent until now, finally spoke up. "Are you in the family way, lass?"
"Fam-- no." Nearly laughing aloud at the scandalous look on the woman's face, Willow shook her head. "No, I'm not pregnant. I'm just... stranded."
"Are you looking just for lodging, or are you in need of a job too?" the blonde asked. "My husband, Joe here, has been thinking about hiring another girl." She eyed Willow's short hair with a frown. "You look strong enough to take on the job if you need it, but your hair... have you been ill?"
"Um, no. There was an unfortunate incident with my niece and a-- uh, taffy."
"Taffy?" they both queried, puzzled looks stretched across both their brows.
"A sticky candy, um, sweetmeat," she answered absently. This was quickly turning into another Willow Babble-Fest. "You know, about that job, I'm not sure. I was supposed to meet someone here. In town. My husband, actually. William, is his name. I was supposed to meet him, but he didn't show up, and I don't have anymore money, 'cause I spent it all on the trip here. And now I need a place to stay to wait for him. And new clothes, um, obviously, and money, I guess." She smiled tremulously. "So, maybe I do need a job."
Both Joe and his wife stared at her for a few seconds before realizing she was done babbling. "Honey," the woman began, "um, what's your name, love?"
Willow smiled at the familiar pet name, it made her feel like maybe Spike wasn't so far away after all. "Willow."
She held her hand out to shake before remembering that women didn't do that. She dropped her hand and cleared her throat nervously, noticing that, despite Joe's warning looks at the men behind her, their conversation had never resumed. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that they were watching the three at the bar intently.
"I'm Samantha, and this is my husband Joe. We've got an extra room upstairs for employees, and if you want the job, you're welcome to it."
Willow smiled gratefully at the couple. "I'll take it," she practically yelled. "Um, I mean, yes. Absolutely. Thank you."
Samantha smiled in amusement and put a hand on Willow's shoulder. "Come on, I'll show you your room while Joe teaches these guys some manners." She put an arm around Willow's shoulders and led her around the bar to a door that was almost invisible unless you were right upon it.
Behind the door and straight ahead was a steep, narrow stairwell, while to the right was a hallway that she assumed went to Samantha and Joe's rooms. They went up the stairs in silence and down the short hallway at the top. It was brighter up here because of the row of wall sconces lining both walls on either side of them. A door on the left was standing open, and that's where they headed. Samantha pushed the door open all the way and waved Willow in.
"Here you go. It's nothing fancy, but it has all you need. A bed," she pointed to the double bed against the wall in the middle of the room. "Dressing table," Willow saw the battered wooden table beside the door. "A wash basin," on top of the dressing table. "And a wardrobe." Yep, there it was in the opposite corner from them.
Willow had to force a smile to keep from offending Samantha. She wasn't upset with her room, she just missed her own room. And the gang. And Tara. And, if she let herself admit it, she missed Spike. "Thanks," she said sincerely. "I really appreciate this." Sitting on the bed experimentally, she bounced a few times, or tried to. This being the past, they didn't have springs, they had rope strips tied across a wooden frame in which a straw-filled mattress sat. Just like in Galway. "Um, what will I have to do? My job, I mean."
Samantha stepped over to the wardrobe and pulled it open, showing Willow the dress inside. It was similar to hers, but pale yellow instead of blue. "Serving drinks is all you're to do. Nothing more, nothing less. It's not easy work, but I think you'll be able to handle it." She went to the door and started to shut it, leaving Willow alone with her thoughts. Just before the door clicked shut, she stuck her head back in. "Have a bath, there's a tub down the hall. Get some rest, and you can start tomorrow. Sleep well."
Willow smiled again, feeling like her face was going to get stuck in that position. All this false smiling had to be bad for a person. As soon as the door clicked shut, she fell back on the bed and closed her eyes, feeling exhausted. Time travel took a lot out of a person.
Almost without realizing it, she reached into her front pocket and pulled out the small scrap of Spike's T-Shirt. Rolling over onto her side, she tucked her hands under her cheek, inhaling deeply.