Rating: Teen...ish
Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Author's Notes: I'm sorry this chapter is late. I've been debating over this chapter for a while, whether to include it at all or not. It's a lot of introspection, but I felt the story needed these thoughts and insights into Spike's state of mind since he and Willow are now in his time period, the fact that it's been so long with regard to his POV in chapters, and the how long it's been between my latest updates and the old ones. Eeek. Years.

Moonlight washed the night-covered streets in a pale glow, piercing the smog-enshrouded city with beams of yellow light. It flickered through the small rectangular window of the carriage, washing Willow's body in a sickly yellow glow as she slept.

Sleep being a generous term. More like... lying unconscious against Spike.

He should've seen it coming; she'd used a lot of magick lately, but it'd only become obvious to him once they started around that bastard Harshnell's house. And by then it was too late to help her. She'd begun to draw on anything around her that could feed her magick, and there'd been a nice, plump, juicy warlock nearby. Spike had smelt him as soon as they reached the house proper. Tasted his magick.

Apparently, so had Willow.

She'd sapped so much in such a little time that it'd overwhelmed her, taken her over so much that she'd gained quite a bit of a furious leaning toward the end of their trip to the front of the house.

'Quite a bit' being a generous term.

Shifting the weight of her body a little, Spike stared down at the innocent face that'd been twisted in fury such a short time ago. His anger had dissipated back at the house. It wasn't her fault. Not completely. Maybe there'd been some things in there that she actually had meant, but mostly it was the magick making her talk that way.

Making her hear things and see things.

Had she heard him talking to her, telling her to stay calm until they got somewhere private? Or had she been beyond that? Most likely she hadn't heard a thing he'd said, or had heard something entirely different. He knew what stealing magick could do to a person. He'd seen it once before.

Slipping his hand under her shoulder to keep her from falling, he dug a cigarette out of his cloak pocket. He'd turned down the lantern inside the carriage as low as it could go without putting it out completely in order to light his cigarettes now that his lighter was dead again.

Willow hadn't needed it to see by since she'd collapsed heavily against his side almost as soon as they'd got inside.

He pushed her back as he leaned forward, lifting the glass globe around the lantern hanging from a hook by the window, lighting his cigarette.

Smoke filled the interior as he replaced the globe with a soft clink.

He settled back against the leather seat, leaning his head back with a sigh as he closed his eyes and let his mind wander. With all the magick she'd thieved off of the warlock it was a wonder she was able to let it go long enough to pass out. His hand absently settled her more comfortably against him, smoothing her hair from her face. He relaxed a little more when she did.

He was tired.

Tired of traveling through time, tired of fighting with Willow. Tired of having to step carefully in everything he did. He knew Willow had come to a startling realization-well, startling for her-while cleaning his leg wound. He'd seen the sudden panic on her face. Was it the fact that he liked pain, or was there more to it than that?

Probably the pain thing, though he wasn't sure why that bothered her; plenty of humans enjoyed pain too. Some more than demons.

Shifting her higher in his arms, he opened the carriage window and shoved the shade out of the way.

That still didn't explain why she'd been keeping her distance from him since they'd slept together. He was frustrated and angry and annoyed with the whole situation. Did she just not care at all?

Things were just so bollixed up now that he felt like a rock-filled puppet on a string, being forced to walk over a path of eggshells and glass.

Glancing down at her, shadowed in the interior of the carriage, he saw the faded bruises on her face. He slid his hand gently down the yellowed flesh, rubbing his thumb along her lower lip in a moment of weakness. He shouldn't be touching her. Not like this. Not after her little breakdown.

She shifted on the seat beside him, not waking, but still not asleep in the strictest sense. Her body moved gently against him as the vehicle rocked its way along.

He held her lightly, watching for signs of distress, though if she had a nightmare, he knew he couldn't wake her until her body was replenished with her own magick. Hopefully the nightmares would give her a rest for the night. She had them so often that he expected them more than not and-

He scoffed at himself for being such a pansy.

Willow had treated him like a piece of meat, refused to tell him why suddenly, in the middle of sex she couldn't bring herself to even look at him anymore, and then she'd gone ballistic on him and his ex. Yet, he still cared for her. Still wanted her.

He flicked his cigarette over his knee, dropping ashes to the floor.

Still craved her.

All the snarling, angry words she'd tossed at him hadn't mattered a bit. It went with the territory when dealing with her condition. So, why then, did he crave alcohol almost as much as he craved her?

All right, maybe he was a little sore at her, but it didn't go much deeper than that.

Once they got to the inn, he'd drink alcohol. Lots of alcohol. And maybe get a separate room. Being with Willow at night and not being able to do anything about it again was going to kill him. There was no way he could spend the night with her wrapped around him after having had her once. She was too tasty a treat to resist in so many different ways.

And he'd discovered something back at Christine's place. Watching Willow fix his leg, seeing the care she'd taken not to hurt him, the tenderness and worry on her face as she wiped the blood away; he was starting to care for her more than he should.

Letting his breath out in a sigh, he tightened his arms around her.

She was important to him. The sex had been more than just sex and that hadn't happened in a long time, certainly not with Harmony.

He cared about Willow more than he should care for anyone but Dru; the love of his death as well as the death of his life. Dru was what used to keep him going. She was what had made his un-life worth living.

Now it was Willow. Spending so many years away from Drusilla with time to think and figure out what he wanted had soured him a bit toward her.

Drusilla was his ripe, wicked plum. They'd been together for a century and some change. He'd loved her through it all. And she'd loved him... to an extent. She was always there for him... unless Angelus crooked his finger her way, and then she was off and running, hurrying to fulfill her 'daddy's' every wish and demand with no shame. No apologies.

Dru wanting someone else more than she wanted him didn't appeal to him. It never really had. She'd hurt him so many times over the years they'd been together.

Willow, though, she had potential. But would she do the same thing? She'd cheated once on Oz, but that was because of an old childhood crush, a first love. And she hadn't pursued it after getting caught, she'd stuck by Oz, keeping after him. Would she stay by his side when her friends came calling? Stand up for him when they inevitably insulted him? Not that he needed her to, it was just nice to know that she would.

Looked like they'd soon find out. If she didn't run screaming-or laughing-when she saw the human version of him sniffing after Cecily's skirts like a pup in love... then she was a possibility.

They were on his old stomping grounds now, which wasn't a good thing. He hadn't enjoyed the glimpse they'd already gotten of his human self. The big, bloody poof. He'd been dreading coming here and now that they were actually here, and he'd seen himself- the way he used to be... it was going to be worse than he'd imagined, he was sure of it. Willow was bound to see more of the human him, and that wasn't a pleasant thought.

But here they were.

London, 1880, the year and place of his death. His birth. It was here that his life had ended and then begun anew. William, the human, was about to embark on a journey of pain and abuse at the hands of Angelus, Darla, and Dru that he didn't envy.

But he did envy him the revenge he got on all the people that turned him into William the Bloody Awful Poet. Fun times filled with screaming and pain, none of it his.

Tossing his cigarette out the window, he closed and latched it as the carriage slowed down. He slipped an arm under Willow, preparing to carry her inside, but the carriage lurched forward again, apparently not yet at their destination. He sat back again with a sigh, considering the woman in his arms. Were her words about not wanting him true? Was he just a pity fuck?

Maybe that was the reason for her sudden pull back.

This time period was hard on him with the object of his current affections seeing him stripped raw, down to the bone of his poetic soul, but throw in a dose of dislike and indifference from that same person, and he was damn near at the breaking point.

He worried about and stressed over Willow too damn much. Just thirty minutes ago, she'd looked at him like he disgusted her and now here he was, holding her close, making sure she was okay.

Gazing at her like a bloody schoolboy in lo- lust.

In a short time, he was going to face someone from his past that had done the exact same thing to his heart that Dru had. How was he supposed to handle that?

His lip curled at the thought of Cecily. The supercilious bitch who thought the world revolved around her. He'd enjoyed taking her down a few pegs. Over the years since, she'd been the one he'd compared every woman to, the one he'd tried desperately to forget. The one he'd somehow never been able to shove from his mind.

She'd always come up short. Always paled in comparison to them all, and he truly couldn't understand what he'd ever seen in her.

She hadn't been the kind, sweet, gentle soul his human self had thought she was. She hadn't been the person he'd craved with every fiber of his being; a soul mate to spend his days and nights with, spouting poetry and sharing kisses. He'd been naïve.

There was a lot of money and power wielded by Cecily's family name, but that wasn't what had drawn him to her and now he wasn't sure what ever had.

There'd definitely be a lot of alcohol tonight.

The carriage slowed and lurched to a halt again. Spike pushed open the shutter to see if they were at the inn. Sure enough, there it was, the inn he'd passed every week on his way to the lending library. He rolled his eyes as he picked up Willow, grabbing their valise in his left hand, holding it beneath her body.

The door opened and the driver pulled the steps down, tossing a curious look at Willow's unconscious body as Spike shifted her more comfortably in his arms. She wasn't heavy, but she was a bit awkward with the valise and her skirts to contend with as well.

"Sir?" the man said hesitantly. "Uh, would you be needing any help then?" He shifted from one foot to the other, holding his hat in his hands and staring at the dirt beneath his feet as he kicked up a small cloud of dust.

"No." Climbing down the steps, Spike brushed past him, striding into the inn like he owned the place. He had no time for timid servants. He had alcohol and a bed to get to.

A large, matronly woman with gray hair falling from the loose bun piled on top of her head, stood behind the tall wooden desk. She looked up as his boots struck the floor, frowning at Willow, tucked securely in his arms.

"Oh, sir, is she hurt?" She bustled around the desk, hurrying to his side with a concerned shake of her head. Her faded black dress, marked with a black band around her arm, and a black kerchief in her pocket, swished around her as she moved toward him. There was a distinct lack of a bustle on her, and Spike immediately knew he wasn't going to be as lucky with this woman as he'd been with the innkeeper in Galway. Or the carriage driver outside.

"She's fine," he told the woman, watching her look Willow over with a suspicious eye, stopping on the faint bruises still visible and the bite mark on her neck. It was slightly swollen and red, the skin raised, but it didn't resemble a bite any longer. "We were mugged," he added, shifting Willow in his arms, hefting her higher with his thigh. The valise slipped from his fingers and dropped at his feet with a clatter. Willow's head lolled against his shoulder, a moan escaping her. "Oh, dear," he said flatly, not a trace of meekness in his voice, eyes fixing solidly on the older woman, "could you get that for me?"

"A mugger, you say?" She bent down and grabbed the stiff leather bag with both hands, taking it with her to the counter. Her eyes once more fell on Willow as she moved back around to the other side. The dark blue of her eyes seemed to glow furiously in the dim interior of the inn. "Shall I ring for a bobbie?" she practically challenged.

Spike hid a scowl, shaking his head with a sigh. A small uncomfortable looking settee was pushed up against the left wall, and Willow was getting a tad heavy. Laying her gently down on the padded seat, he brushed back a few strands of hair that had escaped her chignon, then straightened her skirts, which were sliding up her legs to expose more flesh than these people were used to seeing in their own mirrors.

Leaving her there with a last look to make sure she wasn't about to roll off, he returned to the desk. "It's been taken care of." He nodded at the registry book on the counter. "May we have a room?"

She watched him oddly, her already wrinkled forehead wrinkling even more under her frown. With a minute twitch of her brows, she grabbed the book and spun it around towards him, handing him the ink and quill pin. "Of course."

He dipped the quill in the ink, signing their names to the registry.

The woman turned the book back toward her after another quick glance in Willow's direction. Glancing down at it, she reached beneath the counter to fish a key from somewhere. "Thank you, Mr. Rose," she said with a courteous nod, handing him the key. "My husband and I-" she cleared her throat and straightened her back. "I own this establishment, and if there's anything you'll be needing, just ask."

Widow, as he'd assumed. Odd that she wore an armband. It was generally only the military or male mourners who did that. Not that it was any concern of his. He was just grateful she'd dropped her suspicion. "Thank you, Mrs...?"

Kneeling before the counter, she glanced up in surprise, as if she hadn't expected him to still be there. "Mitchell was my husband's name and I took it 'til death do us part. Unfortunately he decided to depart eight months ago."

Great, a talker. Nodding sympathetically, he grabbed the valise from the floor and hurried over to Willow, trying not to look like he was escaping. Kneeling before her, he smoothed her gown down and turned back to the woman watching them. "Could you have a tray sent up? She hasn't eaten supper yet." The light meal she'd had at Christine's wouldn't hold her for long, especially with her body burning energy like an ice cube on a scorching day. "Oh, and a bottle or two of wine." He slid the key to their room into his frock coat. "Better make that whiskey."

"Certainly," she said pleasantly, doing a moderately good job at hiding her disapproval. "Anything else?"

Spike thought about that as he slid his arms under Willow and lifted her up. Grabbing the bag in one hand, holding it tightly underneath her, he headed toward the stairs on the right. "No. That'll do, thanks."

"You're quite welcome," she mumbled, watching him as he traversed the stairs, her eyes following him even as he reached the landing and turned to the right. He passed out of sight after that, but he was pretty sure she was still staring at the spot she'd last seen him. Or was mentally following him with her eyes.

The upstairs was lit by wall sconces placed here and there throughout the hall, lighting the way for weary travelers cold and sore from their trips. As a human, he'd never actually been inside the inn before, but he'd passed it enough times to know it wasn't frequented by prostitutes or the disrespectful clientele Mrs. Mitchell obviously thought he was. A wife beater? Kidnaper? Whatever she thought, he didn't care; he was worse than anything she could come up with.

Setting Willow down beside room eleven, he grunted as her weight shifted. Dropping their bag beside her, he unlocked the door, then pushed it open. Nice. Large bed against the right corner wall directly across from him. Nightstand by the bed. Wardrobe on his left, a pair of matched chairs that looked uncomfortable across from the wardrobe, and a single round mirror hanging on the wall at face height. Thankfully, there were no windows that would force him to dodge the light of day.

Worked for him.

He kicked the side of the valise, shoving it into the room. It slid across the wooden planked floor, coming to a halt in the middle of the room. Bending down to pick up Willow, he groaned, hoping this was the last time. She was cumbersome and he was out of practice with carrying bodies.

Why did Willow always end up unconscious when he was around?

And him. He set her on the bed with a sigh. He always drank while she was unconscious and tonight wasn't going to be an exception.

Hearing a hesitant knock on the door, he turned to see a tall, thin man standing there with two bottles of whiskey, one tucked under his arm, the other in his hand, and a scowl the size of London on his face.

Speaking of drinking. "Great," Spike enthused. "Alcohol." He strode happily toward the man and clapped his hands together in anticipation of the numbness that accompanied the burning taste of the booze as it melted a path down his esophagus. "You're a good man," he told the scowling servant.

"Aye, sir," he said in a bored tone, eyes barely lifting enough to show interest in his surroundings. "Mrs. Mitchell says to pay up front." He held his hand out and waited.

Spike dug into the inside pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out two coins. "This cover it?" he asked, slapping the coins into the man's hand.

"Aye, sir." The servant's long, thin fingers closed around the coins, his expression not changing in the slightest. He handed the bottles to Spike, one after the other, then bowed and took a step back. "A tray is being prepared for the lady. Be a few minutes."

"Great. Make sure there's tea." Spinning away, he kicked the door shut with his foot and stood there staring down at the beauty in his bed. The beauty that didn't like him, didn't need him.

Didn't want him to do more than service her when she got an itch.

Well, wasn't that bloody rude?

He set one of the bottles on the nightstand and uncorked the other with a slosh that spilled the light brown liquid over his hand. He held the bottle out toward the bed. "To you, Willow," he toasted, slapping his right hand over his chest, "for doing your level-best to worm your way into my heart and become the proud new owner of this dead muscle sitting still in my chest. May it beat only when you're near." Bringing the bottle to his lips, he tipped his head back, downing a fair amount of the whiskey before tearing the bottle from his mouth with a satisfied, "Ahh! Bracing!"

His eyes ran over her lying there on her stomach. From the top of her dark red hair, to the tips of her faded red tennis shoes. He chuckled, shaking his head at the odd sight. She was covered in too much green material for more than a peek at the pale white flesh beneath, but one calf was partially exposed beneath the layers of petticoats lining her skirts.

Taking another pull on the whiskey, he watched her out of the corner of his eye, figuring he ought to at least make her comfortable while she was out. Take off all those nasty layers of clothing.

Then he'd go out into the garden and find the ingredients he needed to do the spell to fix her. He sighed, heading toward the bed. "A vampire's work is never done."