Chapter Seven

He smelled her before he saw her and for a split second, the thought crossed William's mind that perhaps there were, in fact, some remnants of supernatural powers after all. But as the breeze carried her scent across the night, he blamed it on good old fashion nature. There was nothing super about it. It was just a good sense of smell, and nothing at all to do with a sixth sense.

"Apparently you didn't get the hint earlier, pet," he called out. "I walked out for a reason."

She stepped from the darkness of her room out onto the balcony.

"I came to apologize," she said softly.

He turned around and leaned back against the wooden railing of the balcony that encircled the second floor of the house. Curse her, but Annabel had placed Buffy in the room next to the one he customarily used when visiting the estate. Thankfully this would be for one night only and in the morning, she'd be gone.

He crossed his arms and stared at her. She'd showered and changed and he could smell her shampoo, a light floral scent that tempted him. William wasn't immune to her charms. He was a healthy, able bodied man and it had been months since the incident with the airline stewardesses. Buffy was a good looking woman and there was no denying there was a connection between them. He could feel her heat from four feet away and its effect on him was – well – warming to say the least.

"Tell me, pet, what exactly are you apologizing for? Ruining my final book reading and signing? Pissing off my assistant and ensuring that I have to suffer her sodding bad temper for a month? Or how about upsetting Dahlia and making her relive that nonsense about her daughter?"

She tilted her head, her blond hair swinging against her chin, and she did something William didn't expect. Something he had no way to defend himself against.

Buffy smiled.

A long, slow, seductive smile.

William caught his breath. Had he thought she was pretty? Bloody hell, she was gorgeous. Beautiful. And if he wasn't mistaken, that look in her stunning eyes spoke volumes about what she wanted.

She wanted him.

"I'm sorry for how I went about all of this," she murmured, moving towards him. She stopped and rested her hands on his chest. "The last thing I wanted to do with you, William, was argue and fight."

He dipped his head towards her. He inhaled deeply of her scent and felt something inside him respond to her on a visceral level. It literally stole his breath and all coherent thought from him. Just the smell of her hair. What would it do to him to touch her?

"Jesus, pet, what's this? A new tactic?"

Buffy ran her hand up his chest to his shoulders. "Is it working?" she asked. "Are you accepting my apology?"

"Still not sure what you're all sorry about," he murmured. "But I will admit that these tactics signal a definite improvement."

She looped her arms around his neck and pressed up against him. They both tensed as the heat and awareness between them heightened instantly.

"I'm sorry I just didn't do this right off the bat," she said.

William's eyes widened and he cocked a grin. "Would have been difficult, that. With all the onlookers and you fainting and all." His hands slid down to her hips and he pulled her against him, pressing her into his groin and the evidence that her new tactics were working.

Buffy gasped and for a second, tears shimmered in the corners of her eyes.

"It's been so long," she whispered.

He closed his eyes, not needing the reminder that in her mind, he was more or in some ways less, than who he really was.

"Then, love, let me fix that for you."

William leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. He caressed her hips and then bending slightly at the knees, he lifted her higher up against him, groaning when Buffy wrapped her legs around his waist. He plundered her mouth, sweeping his tongue across hers. He nibbled on her soft bottom lip and moaned when she returned the favor. Buffy buried her hands in his hair, digging her fingers into his scalp as she wrapped herself around him.

Gasping, he broke the kiss and pressed his cheek to hers. He could feel her hot breath against his ear and he winced as the heat coursed through him. He ached, throbbing with the need to bury himself in her, to feel her tighten around him, squeeze him until he trembled and exploded and saw stars.

William knew it would be like that. He didn't know how; but he knew that being with this woman would be the single most beautiful moment of his life.

"This is how it always was with us," Buffy whispered. She closed her eyes and ran her hands over his softly curling hair. It was longer than she remembered, and more blond than platinum, but the feel of it wrapping around her fingers was heartbreakingly familiar. "There was always fire between us."

"Fire can destroy," he replied.

She traced a finger over the tattoo that graced his arm, wondering where it had come from. He hadn't had it when he'd been one of the undead. "And fire can create."

"Which was it with – with you and Spike?" he asked, stumbling over the name.

Buffy's eyes fell shut and she curled up against him, clinging like a burr. "Mostly destructive. Until the end."

"How did he die?"

"He burned saving the world," she said softly.

"Sounds heroic."

"He was my champion."

And I, William thought to himself, am nothing but a writer. A mere, mortal, writer.

"William, what can I do to convince you?" she asked. Her legs slid down to the floor and she looked up at him.

He read the longing in her gaze. The longing for him to be the man she'd loved; the need for him to love her and to be her champion.

He wasn't a champion.

If what she said was true, she was a slayer, a woman with supernatural abilities who liked a bit of the monster in her man.

And he was just a man minus the demon.

He stepped away from her, his body going cold almost instantly, missing her heat.

"Nice try, pet," he said bitterly. "But, apology not accepted."

He pushed her away and stepping past, disappeared across the balcony and into the darkness of his room.

***

When Buffy woke, the sun was spilling across the hardwood floor of her room and a warm, humid breeze sent the shell pink muslin curtains billowing. She stretched, sinking deeper into the feather mattress and then, with a groan, she pushed the sheer bed curtains aside and climbed out of bed. She missed the step and hopped to the floor, enjoying the cool feel of the wood against her bare feet.

She strode across the room to the French doors and opening them, she stepped out onto the balcony and the scene of last night's humiliation.

Glancing over at Spike's room, she saw that it was still dark and there was no sign of life. Did he keep the same hours now that he was human? As difficult as it was for her to believe, she had felt the blood pounding through his veins and she had felt the heat coursing through his all too human body. He'd lost the cold hard steel of his demonic form, but Buffy couldn't complain. How could you complain about a hot, lean body of rippling muscle? About soft, supple lips that kissed with a hard, barely contained fury?

She couldn't complain, really. But if Willow had been there, Buffy would have had much to complain about.

Who was this guy with her lover's blue eyes and chiseled features? This man with the same accent and expressions? He looked and sounded like Spike, but beneath the skin where a demon had raged and the poet had hid, blood and heat now flowed and the poet owned the soul.

When she looked at him, she saw Spike. But when he spoke, he was a stranger. When he moved, it was still with purpose and athleticism, but it lacked the grace and menace that had characterized his former self. Buffy leaned against the railing and looked out over the river. The current and breeze caused ripples and as she watched, a fish leaped gracefully, arching for a moment in the sparkling sun and flopping back into the water.

And there was the crux of the matter, Buffy thought to herself. When she'd determined that William Pratt Bennett was Spike, she'd had a vision of how it would all go about. She'd find him and he'd be a bit lost, trapped and confused by his former self and his new existence (whatever it was). She'd sweep in, fill in all the blanks, and save the day and they would live happily ever after. She hadn't given much thought to what his new life would be like. She'd simply pictured him lonely and tortured, pouring out his former fantasies and memories onto the pages of his novels.

Oddly enough, she hadn't once thought that he wouldn't know her. She'd assumed that not contacting her all these years would have been part of whatever deal he'd struck in exchange for his life. She'd thought that the book had been his message in the bottle to her.

Buffy bowed her head. God, she'd had it so wrong. Spike hadn't been the fish out of water. He'd embraced his new life, living and breathing it fully. He had a family, friends, cars and houses and a successful career with a growing fan base. No, he wasn't the fish out of water. Buffy was.

The sound of a door slamming below echoed across the yard and Buffy leaned forward and watched as a gardener stepped down onto the path and began raking the crushed oyster shells that made up all the gardens paths on the property. At that sign of life, Buffy turned and went back into the house. She would get cleaned up and dress in the same clothes she'd worn the day before and then she would figure out what to do with, well, with William.

***

Dahlia looked up as Buffy stepped out from the house onto the porch.

"Good morning, Miss Summers," she said, gesturing to a chair. "I hope you slept well."

Buffy sat down at the beautifully set table and unfolding the napkin, laid it across her lap. She smiled up at Dahlia. "I did, thank you. That bed was amazing."

"Civil war era," Dahlia replied and smiled. "Not the mattress of course! I have those custom made and shipped up from New Orleans. Nothing like sleeping on a custom designed feather mattresses. Makes you sleep like the righteous and wake feeling like a queen."

"Not a bad way to start off the day," Buffy answered dryly and thanked the woman for pouring her a cup of coffee. She glanced around, noting at once that the table was only set for two. "Where is William?"

Dahlia sighed. "He ate earlier I'm afraid and he left at dawn. Not surprising to you of course, but he keeps odd hours. He was gone before the sun was up."

Buffy set the delicate china cup down and stared at the older woman. "He's gone? Where?"

"I suppose he went back home, to Charleston. We did not speak before he left."

Buffy sat back and shook her head. "He ran?"

Dahlia grinned. "Like a scared rabbit."

Buffy tried, for a moment, to visualize the analogy and failed. But she got the point; Dahlia was on her side. "Huh, that was my M.O., not his."

"You usually ran when the going got tough?" Dahlia asked in surprise.

Buffy buttered a scone and piled it high with jam. "Only when it came to him. Half the time I was running towards him and smashing into our crazy relationship and the other half of the time I was running from him and us."

"That sounds exhausting," Dahlia commented.

Buffy nodded around a mouthful of scone.

"And how did Spike deal with all of your running?"

Buffy thought back to those years. She saw him standing guard outside her window, smoking his cigarettes as he leaned against the tree. She saw him by Dawn's side, with Joyce, fighting with the Scoobies and finally she saw him that last night, standing fast with the world burning around him as he urged her to go, to run.

"He was always there, one step behind me, keeping me grounded."

Dahlia's eyes sparkled. "Perhaps, Miss Summers, it's time for you to do some of the chasing. Spike and William both have one major thing in common. They are men, and men can only do so much chasing before it wears down that which makes them men."

Buffy sighed and pushed a crumb around her plate. "I just wanted a normal life," she mumbled.

Dahlia laughed gaily. "Why would you want that? Darling, you are young, you have super human strength and you're as pretty as a rose! Why on God's green earth would you want a normal life? Normal is boring!"

Buffy grinned. Looking across the table at a woman who had taken normal and turned it upside down and completely around, she had to wonder if Dahlia didn't know some secret the rest of them were just chasing.

And speaking of secrets...

"Dahlia, when did William get that tattoo on his arm? Has he ever mentioned it to you?"

Dahlia frowned, trying to remember if they had ever had a conversation about it. "Now that you mention it, I did ask him about it once. And it was odd."

"Odd how?"

"He told me that he did not remember getting it. But that it was just there."

"Like the scar on his eyebrow?" Buffy asked.

Dahlia nodded. "Yes. And there is one on his side and one right in the middle of his back."

"Over his heart…." Buffy whispered. "And he doesn't know how he got any of them?"

"No, he does not."

Buffy set her fork down in frustration and shook her head. "How can he live with these – these blank spots in his memory and accept them, yet not accept the possibility that he isn't who he thinks he is?"

Dahlia smiled knowingly. "He is a man, darling. There is simply just no use trying to understand them."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "He drove me crazy then and it looks like he still is!"

"That is his gift I suppose," Dahlia said as she sipped her coffee. "And your curse."

"Were you ever married?"

"Child, I was married for three years. My husband, bless him, died in a boating accident."

"And you never remarried?"

Dahlia shook her head and sipped her orange juice. "No, never needed too. I had my daughter and then my granddaughter." She stared out over the yard and waved at Isaiah who was strolling up the path, a basket of fresh caught fish banging against his knee. "And I had love. I did not need anything else."

Buffy glanced from Dahlia to Isaiah and smiled. Dahlia knew men and she knew love. Between the two of them, they would figure William and Spike out.

***

"About time you showed up!"

William spun around and glanced at Jackie. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, glaring.

"Jackie, I can explain," he started. He'd thought a lot about this on the way over, he'd known she'd be furious and he couldn't afford to lose her. His career needed her and there were times when William admitted that he needed her too.

He tossed last night's clothes on the bed and walked towards her. "Let me explain. I acted like a bloody git and -"

"I've typed up your last series of notes and left them on your desk," she said coldly. "You have to fly in to New York on Tuesday for a meeting with Elliot and I've left your itinerary and your hotel information in the red folder on the desk as well." She pushed past him and angrily grabbed the suit from the bed. "I'll send this to the cleaners."

"Jackie," he begged. "Would you stop and listen to me." He reached out and grabbed her arm and she froze, staring down at where his hand gripped her upper arm. "Let me go!"

He took his hand away. "I'm sorry."

She folded the suit over her arm and looked at him. "I've worked for you for a year and half now," she began.

William nodded, nerves tightening his throat. This sounded far too much like the beginnings of a good-bye speech and he wasn't ready for it. Goodbyes were difficult for him, had always been difficult for him. He avoided having to say goodbye to anyone because it just ate away at him.

"And I believe I've made it perfectly clear that I'm damn good at what I do."

"The best," he murmured.

"I keep you organized," she began, counting off her fingers. "I keep your appointment book in order, I make sure you are on time wherever you need to be. I dress you, I make sure your home is cleaned on a regular basis and I practically feed you."

"Thank you," he said humbly.

"I remind you of important birthdays and I clean up your messes. I type up your notes and I read and provide feedback on your drafts."

"I couldn't do it without you."

"And for all this, you pay me an outrageous salary."

"You are worth every dime."

"All I ask," she bit out. "Is that you do your job and not embarrass yourself or me or jeopardize your career."

"I'm so sorry, Jackie," he said.

"You left a book signing and a crowd of your supporters high and dry last night. Things like that will be overlooked only so often before people become fed up. And then – no matter how great your books are, if your readers can't have some sort of personal connection with you, they become just books and you're just some writer on the discount table. There is a difference William, between a hack and an artist." She sighed, looking every one of her forty years. "I don't work for you because you pay me well. I work for you because I believe in you. And that, William, is something you better not tamper with."

She turned on her very high heel and left.

William groaned and ran his hands through his hair and tugged at it as he strode through the door and headed for his office. Jackie had mentioned that she'd typed up his latest set of notes; he'd go over them and start working on his next chapter. He'd lose himself in his work; it had always served him well in the past.

He sat at his desk and fired up the computer, looking out the wall of glass to the ocean. He thought about the night before, about the woman, Buffy Summers. When he'd walked out on her last night, that hadn't been the end of it - she'd haunted his dreams. And in his dreams he'd been strong and powerful, able to crush tombstones and bring down houses. But over and over in his dreams, Buffy had brought him to his knees. He'd begged for her touch, for her attention, for her approval and her gratitude and she'd rained a storm of emotions down on him. In his dreams they had come together, clashing like thunder clouds and setting fire to each other. They'd fought side by side, back to back and then he'd thrown her against a wall and ravaged her.

William had woken up at five more exhausted than ever and he'd hightailed it out of Beauvais Hall as if the hounds of Hell were nipping at his heels.

With a sigh he turned to the pile of papers in front of him, Jackie had made elegant order out of his crazy notes. Chapter ten of his second book had proven to be his personal rock of Gibraltar, unmoving and solid – it was going nowhere. He turned to the computer and opened the file and began re-reading it.

"Morgan, you need to stay away from him," Gavin said angrily. He threw the robe at her in disgust. "He's a freak of nature; his very existence goes against everything we fight for. We exist to kill him and others like him." He stared at the tousled covers on the bed. "He's a monster, Morgan. The monster that killed our brother."

Morgan crumbled to her knees, overwhelmed by his disgust and the heavy weight of his truth. "I can't stop," she sobbed.

Gavin leaned down and grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her. "If you can't stop then I will fucking stop it for you!"

William stared at the blinking cursor. "He is a freak of nature…a monster…"

How could Morgan love Rain? It was the question that drove his whole novel and the entire series. What made these women capable of seeing past the demon to a redemptive quality that not only enabled them to love the monster, but helped the monster to love himself?

Had Buffy managed it? Was it even possible? Or was William right, and these things were best left to late night dreams and the pages of novels?

TBC