Slightly drunker, inhibitions starting to really ride the floor, Buffy nabs the pool table as soon as it's free. She can still smell Willow's wonder smoke hanging over her in a sweet comforting fug, like a weighted blanket over her mind. Strangely its effects seem to be getting stronger, like the essence of it is sinking deeper, its warm, dark tendrils of passivity spreading out through her veins.

It's going to kill me when this wears off, she thinks, knowing the dark misery isn't gone, it's just waiting on the edges. It reminds her of a page she saw in a children's Bible once: Moses walking through the Red Sea, walls of water waiting on the edges, ready to burst forward and drown everything in their path at any moment.

Probably gonna have nightmares about that now…

She feels like she should be mad at Willow for dangling the possibility of normality in front of her, albeit one under the influence of whatever this is. Feeling so free of it all. Feeling so aggravated and distracted by Spike again instead of clinging to him like a life raft, even if it'll all slip away by morning.

It's going to make going back to that bright cruel nightmare harder than it already was, she thinks. But even that thought isn't enough to penetrate the shroud of indifference.

She rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand, trying to clear her head.

"It's your turn, Merlot Man," she says as Spike slides up onto the edge of the pool table, chalking his cue. The way his head moves to take her in she can tell he's feeling about as liquified as she is.

"Is it?" He smiles slyly as she breaks the rack. "Think I might have to pay you back for your last one and ask a truth."

Buffy pointedly doesn't look at him.

"I shudder to think where your mind is already going." She chuckles as she lines up a shot.

Spike's eyes roam without his permission, taking in every inch of her. The way she's bent over the table knocks all possible questions out of his head like the balls already spinning away across the green felt.

All but one.

"Since you're already thinking the worst of me, then," he purrs, leaning in as she straightens up. "Tell me the wildest position you've done."

A soft pink hue dusts her cheeks. "You mean…?"

"I do mean." He grins, wanting to see if he can push the blush higher. Buffy's eyebrows raise, clearly mortified.

Though not disgusted, he notes.

"Hard. Pass."

Spike pulls his bottom lip back in a faux such a pity expression. "Missionary. Gotcha." He thumps her on the shoulder a little too hard and the blush turns an angry red as he takes his turn at the pool table."What a waste, luv. Bet you're flexible." He sinks two balls before losing his streak.

"Feel free to keep your infinite wisdom to yourself," Buffy says, too buzzed to really put any acid into her voice. "I'm sure you're depraved enough to make the Kama Sutra look like a beginner's manual but I think I'd be less traumatized not knowing."

Spike turns and his gaze burns her alive, her breath catches in her throat as he crowds her side.

"Good place to start," he says as he tucks her hair away from her ear with a slow sliding finger, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper as he leans closer. "You can get away with a lot more if breathing isn't an issue."

She doesn't stiffen, doesn't even throw a punch, and he thinks fuzzily that he must be drunk if he's taking such a chance to say these words out loud, right into her ear, as she holds a pool cue of all things. Buffy turns to face him, and he has to rein himself back from closing the last piece of distance between them. Her face is only an inch or so from his as if she's about to reply with a secret of her own.

God, I'm so hungry for her.

The leer on his face drops in anticipation as a smile spreads across her lips.

"Ew," she says, smirking at his captivation. His face doesn't change as she pulls away, eyes fixed on her as she moves to take her shot. He blocks her with his cue.

"You owe me a dare."

Buffy raises an eyebrow.

"I owe you a broken nose for that last question," she retorts but finds herself not meaning it.

Maybe in another lifetime, she would have. The lifetime she lost. But now she'd be lying to say she wasn't enjoying the back and forth between them. It's almost like turning back the clock.

She's unable to pull away from the thoughts of their nights together as they filter into her mind like a rolling fog. Soft, sweet, calm moments…

The way he'd held her so tightly when she needed it.

Made her eat.

Made her laugh.

The having breakfast together-ness after waking up around each other wonder. Her in his arms and him in her clothes.

Mundane intimacies pulling her inch by inch away from the brink, back off the ledge. Keeping those huge walls of water at the sidelines.

Maybe she wouldn't turn the clock all the way back, even if she could…

Spike purses his lips like he's about to mock her with another chicken call and she butts in before he can. "What's the dare then?"

He smiles, and a wicked glitter sparkles in his blue eyes. He tugs her closer to him with a hand at her elbow and, surprisingly, she lets him. Lets him pull her between his legs as he perches on the edge of the pool table.

Ice feels like it's filling her lungs as he leans in a little, the kiss she'd been a spectator to earlier holding her by the throat.

He's going to dare me to kiss him.

He is.

He is and I'm going to.

No, wait- no I-

He has one hand on her arm and one on his pool cue and as he moves his mouth to her ear again her spine ripples with a sudden shuddering tension.

"I dare you…" he says and she can see him grinning in her periphery- "to do the splits."

Buffy pulls back with a lurch.

"What?!"

He chuckles obscenely as he relaxes back on his elbows on top of the pool table, not caring about the balls he sends scattering.

"Your choice, luv. Show or tell." The lecherous purr in his voice makes it clear that if she's not going to divulge her bedroom antics then this is the next best thing. Or the next worst thing, depending on perspective.

Buffy sighs, trying to subtly take some deep breaths.

"You really are a pig," she says, albeit with a suppressed smirk as she drops the pool cue onto the table. A fluttering heat still warms her chest where her heart tried to pound its way out.

Too close…

She sets her feet, back foot flat and front sliding forward until she's low enough to the ground to settle her hips into a full split. Each inch down pulls Spike up off his elbows like he's tied to her by a string until he's curled over his legs, forearms resting on his knees.

"This floor is disgusting," she mutters. Something sticky pulls at her hand as she lifts it to give Spike the finger. "Happy, you asshole?"

Spike cocks his head, taking in every inch of her spread out on the floor. "I'm not completely dissatisfied," he says, leaving her on the floor for a few seconds more before offering her the end of his cue to help her back up. She takes it and he levers her upwards. She wipes the seat of her pants free from crumbs and spilt beer.

"Balls in your court," he says as she glares at him, but under the glare is a clear unfiltered glee. Her lip is held in place by her teeth to stop it from spreading into a grin and the sight of it makes his dead heart clench. It's so raw, the look on her face is such a stranger, that if he had a pulse it'd skip several beats in a row.

She's having a good time.

She actually is.

With me-

His thoughts screech to a halt as Buffy closes the distance separating them, slipping in between his legs, until her face is cheek to cheek with his.

Whoa-

"I-," whatever he was about to say stutters out as she slips her hand into his coat pocket, fingers brushing his thigh through the fabric- "Oi, what-" she yanks out a couple of bills and deserts him for the bar, leaving him blinking slack-jawed on the pool table.

What the bleeding hell was that?

She's back before he can properly recover, still catching his breath as he leans on his hands underneath the pool table's lights.

Buffy plonks down a shot glass of clear liquid onto the felt and he eyes it with an arched eyebrow.

"This your dare?"

"Yup," she says, crossing her arms with excessively smug confidence. "I dare you to take a shot."

He levels a dead look at her. "I'm a big boy, sweetheart, I can handle my liquor," he says as he picks up the shot glass.

She covers it with her fingers before it reaches his lips.

"Upside down."

"What?" He asks, following her finger to the balcony railings above. "Ah."

The crowd pulses like a hive of wasps. Groups of people fracturing and breaking apart and reforming below them, but the balcony is quiet. A few couples are dotted along the iron walkway but at enough of distance for Buffy and Spike to feel like they have the space all to themselves.

She holds the shot as he shrugs out of his duster and folds it over the iron railing. He turns to face her as he hitches up onto the bar, tucking his boots behind the bottom rail as an anchor.

"If I get vodka in my eyes you're in for it."

She smirks, but as he lowers himself down her smile fades.

Oh…

The black cotton of his shirt slips down to pool at his chest, revealing taut muscle and a dark trail of hair that disappears into his jeans. The momentary and inexplicable craving to reach down and touch him is snuffed out by the horror of the scars. His skin looks so smooth, save for the healed over ragged peaks and dips of abused flesh that are even paler against the white expanse of his stomach.

A rip over his ribs, three punctures over his stomach, and a starburst shape over his heart.

Was… he staked?

She knows in her heart he got them from Glory, doesn't need to be told, and like a hit of cold water down her back the memory of that kiss, their first-and-truest-spell-free kiss, yanks her backwards and locks her in place.

His face had been cut to ribbons, gashes so deep that if he had been human he would've needed facial reconstruction. She'd tasted the blood on his lips. Had met his one good eye as he flinched back in shock. If he hadn't pulled back she can't honestly say she would have.

That slashed and ravaged face had lived in her head permanently afterwards, even when those battle wounds melted away. They took no more than a few weeks like snow filling in snow.

The ones across his stomach and abdomen though… they must have gone deeper. Much deeper.

She thought he was being glib when he said Glory nearly turned him inside out…

Buffy jolts as Spike snaps his fingers for the shot glass and she swallows a couple of times to bring herself back to the moment.

Get a grip…

She hands it to him, and his stomach constricts into a dangling half-crunch. He miraculously manages not to spill it as he empties the liquid in his mouth, then lowers back into his full recline over the bars as he swallows.

He sits back up in a deadlift, wiping his wrist across the corner of his mouth. He hops off the bars and Buffy carefully arranges her face not to look as distraught as she feels. He shrugs back into his coat as she internally shoves her thoughts away, back into the Pandora's box they came out of.

To her continued shock, Spike pecks her quickly on the cheek with the slightest, quickest kiss. There and then not.

"Thanks for the drink, luv." He smirks before adjusting his collar with a self-righteous tug.

The cinema is loud. Obviously. That's normal. But tonight it feels like a sledgehammer to the face when Willow wants quiet, and warm lights, and books in her hands and an answer to the Buffy/sleep/memory riddle.

It's driving her mad. Little building blocks are rearranging themselves into half-formed answers that she breaks down and starts from scratch every couple of minutes.

I could still use the Valerian, she thinks as the movie washes over her, blind to it.

Maybe I could do a…

No, but then that would….

She sighs. Metaphorical ants crawl across her skin and she wants to leave, leave, leave.

I could figure this out if I was home… Maybe crystals? Sort of using them with a resonation spell kind of thing? Like an amplifier so it wouldn't need to be under her pillow to work?

I wouldn't need to be in her room then I could-

Maybe if-

"Sweetie you're mumbling," Tara whispers and Willow jerks guiltily.

"Sorry. Just… trying to follow the plot," she whispers back. Tara raises her eyebrows, a humorous crease in the center mocking her gently.

"Of Beauty and the Beast?" She asks and Willow flushes.

"Oh, right." Willow smiles back, embarrassed but too distracted to dwell on it. The hairs on the back of her neck are straining, every muscle in her body begging to go already and resolve this dilemma.

She takes a shivery breath, fingers twitching. Palm sweating even as Tara scoops up her hand and intertwines it with hers.

The magic is calling her desperately. It's making her ache. It's making her fidget uncontrollably.

"You doing ok?" Tara whispers again and Willow huffs, untucking her hair from her collar.

"I'm fine. My seat's sticky, is all," she says as she crosses her legs. Uncrosses them.

Magic is building up in her fingertips until it feels like they're swelling. In the veins at her temples and in her back teeth like it's rising up from out of her and will burst forth in an unstoppable flood-

-need to use, need to get it out, need to-

Take a breath, Willow. She commands herself, forcing her muscles to relax back into the seat. It's a strain, but the magic crackles back to a manageable level. Just a constant tinnitus-like buzz behind her eyes.

No problem. Not a problem.

I can hold on until tonight, right?

It's fine. I'm fine. It's fine, I'm fine. She chants in her head, squeezing Tara's hand as singing wardrobes prance across the screen. It'll be fine.

"No!"

"Yes."

"No, no, no!"

"Yes."

He's bracing her back, stopping her retreat from the front of the stage. People are piled in close, all dancing and jumping along to the music that's loud enough for him to have to lean right in her ear for her to hear what he's saying. He's so close behind her that when she turns around, his face is practically touching hers.

"Why are all your dares so stupid!?" She shouts. Pleads.

He takes a step closer to her, and her back hits the edge of the stage. His hands come up to either side of her, caging her in completely. Being in such close proximity to him for two whole nights is starting to do funny things to her. Making her stomach tie up in knots every time he comes another centimeter closer to her.

"Want me to make them harder, darlin'?" He asks, running a tongue over his teeth. She ignores it.

"What if no one catches me?" She asks, and he chuckles.

"At least one person will catch you. You just run and jump. Got it?"

"No, but-" Buffy's complaints are cut short as his hands are suddenly on her waist, and with one smooth push out of the crowd, she's on the stage.

She freezes. She can feel the band watching her as she straightens up.

Oh god…

She feels like she's teetering on an edge. Embarrassed and exposed.

Oh, God.

Something about this moment triggers panic.

No, not 'something'.

She knows exactly what's triggering it. Knows exactly why her whole body has started shaking, why her skin is frozen even as her blood boils to a fever.

Standing on an edge. She's standing on an edge.

Needing to run.

Needing to jump.

She's been here before.

I'm gonna be sick.

But the music is blaring, and the crowd is cheering and there's so many hands and arms waving in front of her, and there- about five people deep- is Spike. He's watching her intently like every move she makes is being committed to memory.

That's the point, isn't it? This is a memory. A new one. A fresh one to replace a festering rotten one that's turned her heart and her head black and moldy from the inside out.

He wants her to jump. He wants her to soar out into a void-

and be caught.

Wants that horrifying, terrifying, suicidal last moment on this earth to be painted over with the same action, only rewritten. A jump that ends in a catch.

Every night I catch you-

She stares transfixed at his face, a slight smile tugging at her lip.

It could work.

It could actually work.

Maybe not for all of it, but for some of it. For part of it. And wouldn't it be worth the risk? To live without that one shard of horror? To not have to drag it around when she's already carrying so much? To begin pulling down this toppling tower of insanity and trauma, starting with this piece of it?

These thoughts race through her mind in a single breath.

Ok…

She takes a step back away from the lip of the stage then a second, and a third- and then she runs. She leaps, arms spread into waiting arms and cheering faces. They catch her and lift her and push her up, and she rolls onto her back as the hands of everyone beneath her pass her further away from the stage under the warm yellowy glow of the Bronze's lights.

I'm floating.

Tears sting her eyes a little, but when she blinks them away they don't come back. Her face hurts and she realizes she's smiling so wide her cheeks are beginning to ache.

I'm not dead.

I'm here and I'm not dead.

I'm here I'm here I'm here….

Two hands hold onto her waist as she passes over and instead of releasing her like the others they tug her down into the warmth of the crowd. She tucks her legs to avoid kicking a tall man in a dark blue shirt in the head as she gets her arm around Spike's shoulders.

"Worked, huh?" He grins with a firm hand on her side as he settles her back on the floor.

"Yeah," Buffy says with a sigh, casting a look back at the stage. "Yeah, it worked."