It was amazing how many things could go wrong in subsequent order. From the moment Buffy decided that the best game plan entailed capturing the rogue Slayer hands-on to the moment of departure, any number of incidents were up for grabs and failed miserably at the chance of producing actual expediency. A heated debate about seating arrangements in the variety of vehicles they were to employ resulted in Giles’s concession of his credit card to rent a Winnebago—to which Xander claimed a bizarre undercurrent of vujà de, the notion that somehow none of this had ever happened before. Then he had coughed something incoherent and went on with business.

No one really anticipated anything different from Xander.

There was the expected bickering about Spike’s involvement and the lack of understanding at Buffy’s insistence that their resident bloodsucker lend a hand. Said resident bloodsucker was wary, himself. The Slayer’s behavior since the Bronze notwithstanding, the entire situation was a bit odd for the wearer and none had the slightest idea on how to handle it.

Such couldn’t last, though. It didn’t. Within a half hour on the road, Spike and Buffy were engaged in a very loud screaming match over the virtues in traditional rock’n’roll compared to the sodding drivel that popular music stations featured nowadays. Giles’s input as driver clinched the deal, and for the first seven hours he and Spike commandeered the radio dial, playing all the classics of the way-back-when.

It was strange watching them get along. Discussing favorites and trading stories on rock-legend encounters—Giles gazing at the Cockney in awe as Spike detailed one of four meetings with John Lennon and Paul McCartney. At the rest stops, they would avoid each other, as though tainted by enjoying one another’s company. Watcher and vampire.

The other Watcher had not been welcomed with open arms, and for the most part took to the back where he engaged in idle small talk with Willow and Xander. On request, he detailed how things were with Angel and Cordelia in Los Angeles and went so far as to insist that he was there as a diplomat and not on part of Angel Investigations. He wasn’t even a part of the team, as far as he knew. More an independent demon hunter who bartered information with them when things were particularly slow.

“So, you’re working for him?” Xander had asked in a plea for clarity. At which point, Wesley mumbled inarticulately and changed the subject.

Yes. It was all very strange. A road trip with the Scoobies. A road trip in which nothing could be agreed upon—rest stops, dining options, air-conditioner settings, or space evaluation. Nothing.

Thus, following logic to conclusion, the sleeping arrangements were anything but a mild steppingstone.

“Okay,” Xander said slowly, caressing his temples. They were currently stopped in a café in Vicksburg, though were having to make quick work as everyone was gearing up for some political rally. “Lemme get this straight. We already have reservations?”

Willow frowned. “We’ve already discussed this at least twice. Were you napping?”

“Let’s not rule that possibility out.”

“It’s a start,” Anya observed with a shrug.

Giles nodded. “Yes. And that is only because of Wesley’s connections.”

The former Watcher flushed with a silly grin and turned his eyes to his plate of half-consumed bread pudding. “The couple that owns the place was very grateful,” he replied, not trying to hide the slight of boast that skimmed his tone. “Evidently, they had never seen a Kfagna demon before.”

Spike snickered and rolled his eyes. He was lounged rather comfortably, elbow resting on bended knee and supporting a cigarette that indifferently defied the non-smoking sign at the restaurant’s door. And, though the waiters and waitresses had definitely made note of him, no one had asked him to put it out. “You’re kiddin’ me,” he drawled. “An’ by the twentieth century, I’d’ve sworn everyone woulda heard of a Kfagna demon.”

“They were deeply religious,” Wesley continued, sending a glare in Spike’s direction that went answered by an uncaring shrug. “And thought that they were being targeted as a result of having a witch as a houseguest.”

Willow frowned. “Hey!”

“Understand, their impression of witchcraft is far from the actual—”

The redhead pouted and sank back into her seat, batting a hand of casual neglect. “Yeah, yeah. Only wish you hadn’t waited until now to tell us you’ve booked our rooms in witch-hunting territory.”

“Well,” Buffy said reasonably, munching on a biscuit. “Don’t wear your ‘I’m A Witch, See My Craft’ button, and we’re all set.”

Spike snickered again and cocked a brow. “Oh,” he replied. “’Cause ‘s as easy as that, is it, luv? I thought the purpose of this li’l minibreak was to snatch the big bad Slayer, right? An’ we’re relyin’ on Red here to work her hocus-pocus an’ point us in the right direction. When these blokes walk in an’ see candles floatin’, they’re gonna want an explanation.”

She sent him an unrepentant glare. “Someone please remind me who asked Spike to join our conversation.”

Willow cleared her throat conspiratorially. “Ummm, Buff…that would be you. With the—you know—inviting him and everything. And Xander’s been issuing a variation of that question ever since we left.”

Spike merely smirked in satisfaction.

“I haven’t been complaining about conversation,” Harris objected with a confused blink.

“And thus why I chose the word ‘variation.’”

“Oh.” A flush rose to his cheeks and he chuckled humorlessly before turning to Anya, who was listening but very obviously unconcerned with the direction of the matter at hand. “I got a C- in English. My vocab aren’t this good.”

“Are not your grammar, neither,” Buffy replied, smothering a grin.

The Cockney’s eyes widened. “’Scuse me, Slayer, but did you just criticize someone else’s grammar?”

“Yes, Spike, I did.”

Giles sighed longingly. “Oh dear.”

“As I was saying,” Wesley intervened, clearing his throat. “I do not believe that the tenants of the Winsel House will be scrutinizing any of us to any such degree that could comparatively match a previous guest. I have a vouch of good faith that we will be left alone in that regard.” He turned specifically to Willow. “You have nothing to fear.”

That was well and good, but the Scoobies were far too experienced to be bought with simplicity. And for all the ridiculing he had done in the past, Spike knew them well enough to identify such without delayed measure. He cocked his head curiously. “How you figure, mate?”

“Because she does not wear sacrilegious attire, sport any number of visible tattoos, actively dye her hair stark black, listen to overbearingly loud death metal, or display piercings where no person should ever be pierced.” Wesley offered a satisfied though self-conscious smile. “Anyway, point being, I spoke with them before we left Sunnydale and they were able to, in that time, empty two rooms and the townhouse to accommodate us.”

The table went still.

“What?” Xander echoed.

“Just two rooms and the townhouse?” Buffy demanded. “There are seven of us.”

Harris shrugged at that, objection wavering. “Seven? We’re including Spike? I just assumed he was left out of that equation. Doesn’t Natchez have any nice cemeteries or something to house their dead? Why does he have to stay with us?”

The vampire rolled his eyes. “Y’think this is any fun for me? ‘m bein’ carted halfway across the bleedin’ country to help the lot of you worthless sods clean up your mess before the great granddaddy wankers find out that the kiddies have been very, very naughty. ‘m with you or I’m not. You can’t go ‘round changin’ the rules in the middle of the game. Doesn’ work like that.”

“For the record, I didn’t want you to come.”

“Now, there’s the surprise of the century. Pull the other one.”

“Guys,” the Slayer growled, slamming a fist against the table and earning what had to be the twelfth wary glance from some local who was dining across the café. “Xander, look. Spike is here because he can help us.”

“And what makes you so sure that he will, Buffy?”

There was a pause at that. Her eyes met the Cockney’s on a delayed beat of unwanted recognition. He was almost smirking at her, but there was something else behind his gaze. Something he wanted to keep hidden but couldn’t. A look of half-doused perceptivity. A drive to be understood. And yes, while tensions were mounting in ways she did not at all endorse, she couldn’t allow herself to forget what he had done not too long ago.

Something that had brought them this far. He claimed it had not been for her, and she believed him. But there was more to it. More buried under levels of guarded acknowledgment. More. Always more.

“Because he hates Faith just as much as we do.”

The shine of a true smile reached his eyes but not his lips. The look he betrayed remained mordant and not at all touched. Instead, he snickered dismissively and batted a hand, raising a bite of pecan pie to his mouth. “Don’ get ahead of yourself, Slayer,” he berated. “’m here for the food.”

Giles smiled with sardonic diplomacy, removing his glasses for a routine polish session. “Yes, well,” he began, nodding at Xander. “While we may exhibit a series of…irreconcilable differences, Buffy and I have discussed and reached a decision. Fact remains that Spike is in my custody, and I am not prepared to allow him run around town unsupervised.”

The vampire’s brows arched at that. “Does Spike get a say in this?”

In a moment of stilled hilarity, the entire table sent a brief glance in his direction and answered on the same beat. “No.”

“Bugger all. ‘m not under anyone’s bloody custody. Has everyone here gone completely daft? I’m old enough to whip the lot of you.”

“And yet, mercifully unable to,” Xander chided.

“Spike is not older than me,” Anya argued. “No one here is older than me.”

The Cockney’s eyes twinkled and he leaned forward with stern condescension. “Might not be older, pet,” he purred. “But again, I’m not the one who traded in my brawn for an internal timer.”

“I did not trade in my brawn. I lost my brawn.” She frowned. “And besides, you can’t hurt me. Or Xander. Xander and I are impervious to your threats.”

The elder Watcher released a long, controlled sigh. “The fact remains,” he said slowly, “that we are traveling to a town that none of us have ever toured before—”

“I have,” Wesley objected.

Xander rolled his eyes. “Great monkey’s uncle, you passed through one night and were there for a grand total of forty-five minutes. That does not exactly make you the mayor, Wes.”

The other man flushed decently. “Ah, yes. Well. It’s all relative.”

“Spike is staying under my custody,” Giles continued, voice raising octaves to be heard over the squabbling, “because of the circumstances that I have outlined. The last thing we need is a vampire running loose in a town we don’t know… especially when we don’t know what to expect.” A grim smile crossed his features. “There are times, I believe, when trying to predict the future is just as dangerous as charging into a lion’s lair dressed in zebra skin.”

“You’re all off your rockers.” The vampire shook his head heatedly. “I don’t bloody need to be kept. Got it?”

“Respectfully, Spike, I am speaking on your behalf.” At that, there was nothing else to say. No objections to voice—nothing but a dry understanding to coincide with confused wonder. When he saw he was not going to be interrupted again, Giles turned to Wesley and nodded. “How many rooms does the townhouse have?”

“Two. Two, and one of those sofas that can become a bed.”

“I am sleeping with Xander,” Anya announced loudly.

Harris coughed. Spike snickered.

Willow rolled her eyes. “Who here didn’t see that coming?” She turned to Buffy and shrugged with a smile. “Guess that leaves the Fab Three in the townhouse.”

“Actually,” the elder Watcher intervened, “I believe that it’s better if Buffy and I assume the townhouse. We’re going to need to discuss strategy.”

The Slayer pursed her lips and sent her best friend an apologetic look. She and Giles had discussed this before they left Sunnydale. Based on Wesley’s description on where they would be staying—and what needed to be done in order to apprehend Faith in a manner that would hopefully not raise too much attention to the out-of-towners—a plan of some kind was of the very good.

Willow looked disappointed, but there was understanding in her eyes. Understanding that did not quite drown out the flavor of her sudden apprehension. She tossed Spike a nervous glance, and stilled when he flashed a particularly evil grin and waved at her.

That was all it took. Comprehension dawned on Xander, and he flew out of his seat with stern protest. “Whoa! Wait a minute! Hold the phone. You’re going to make Will room with the—”

Buffy bit her lip. Her friend’s outburst was attracting more unwanted attention. “Xan—”

“Absolutely not. The bastard can stay—”

“Xan, calm down. Spike isn’t staying with Willow.” The Slayer expelled a deep breath, doing her damndest to ignore the way the peroxide Cockney’s eyes danced at her discomfort. He had to know what was coming. He had to have known it from the start. “He’s staying with me and Giles.”

If possible, the weight of Harris’s objection intensified. “Staying with…why is he staying with you?”

“Because we don’t want the Council anywhere near us.” Buffy’s eyes fell on Wesley with guarded apology, but she offered nothing more than a shrewd shrug in consolation.

The former Watcher’s mouth drew into a tight line. “I understand your concern, but I am no longer employed by the Council.”

“Yeah. They fired you. Angel gave us the low down. Sorry if I can’t find that comforting.” She leaned forward with stern condescension. “You see, from where I’m sitting, I think Faith looks like a nice ticket back into acceptance-ville. It’s not that we don’t wanna give you credit, Wes, but you gotta admit that your track record’s not up to par.”

Masked hurt fogged his eyes. “You think I would call the Council?”

“Well, I don’t know. But we’re really not looking to find out.”

Spike grinned, barely able to contain his mirth. “What they’re really sayin’, mate,” he drawled. “’S that they trust me. Not you.”

Buffy’s gaze narrowed. “I wouldn’t push it that far. But Spike does have a vendetta against Faith. And he knows how quickly I would dust him if he decided to do something without group consensus. You, on the other hand, don’t come with that reassurance.”

There was a brief silence. Wesley sat and stared insolently at his half-consumed bread pudding. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For that. For giving you just cause.” He glanced upward, meeting Giles’s eyes. “Rupert?”

The elder man nodded without preliminaries. “Again, Buffy and I have discussed this. While we did not know exactly how the sleeping arrangements would fall, we both decided that, given my current living conditions and your somewhat questionable past with the Council that this was the best approach.”

Anya nodded reasonably. “The Slayer, the Watcher, and the vampire. Sounds reasonable.”

“I smell a sitcom,” Xander murmured.

“And this means that Wes will be staying…” Willow’s eyes widened. “With me?”

Buffy nodded again sympathetically. “Unless Anya is willing to forgo…her…umm…just forgo, that is. Are you okay with that?”

The Witch blinked. “No. No! No, I-I’m not… okay with that. I’m in delicate post-Oz mode right now. And you’re rooming me with…with a…a guy?”

Wesley glanced down awkwardly. “Willow, I assure you that I will not make any untoward advances. The last thing I want is to make you uncomforta—”

“I am not forgoing my orgasms,” Anya argued. “I need my orgasms.”

The local at the other side of the diner was flat out staring—no thought to discretion.

“Can’t imagine why you’d be roomin’ with Stay Puft, pet, ‘f that’s the case,” Spike observed with a coy grin.

“Speaking of discomfort,” Buffy grumbled.

Harris’s eyes boggled in offense. “Hey!”

“Xander’s penis is quite capable of giving me many orgasms,” the former demon declared.

Now the waitress was staring, too.

“Good Lord, woman,” Wesley gasped in astonishment. “Have you no tact whatsoever?”

“None whatsoever,” Willow agreed.

A heavy, awkward beat settled across the table. It was a minute before Xander cleared his throat in a wry attempt to draw attention away from his girlfriend. For as much as he loved her—and yes, still reeling in the wowness of that revolution in itself—he didn’t think he would ever get used to her candor. “So,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Let me get this straight. Will is rooming with Wes, and Evil Dead gets the townhouse with Buffy and Giles in party funk central. In so many ways, I’m about to call shenanigans.”

The Slayer shrugged. “Well, sorry. This is just something you’re going to hafta deal with on your own. Giles is right. We need to form strategy, and we can’t do that with Spike running around unleashed.”

Something struck out at her from under the table, coinciding with a sudden cry from Spike as his head crooned back in pain.

Ignoring the outburst completely, Xander shrugged with temperamental indifference. “So, why not stick Wes and Spike in the same room? Then you’d have two brains and the Slayer working on the case. Problem solved.”

Buffy glanced to her friend with sudden sharpness, her gaze drawing from where she had been glaring at Spike for his underhanded attack. “What?”

“I said, Wes and Dead Boy should stick together. Two annoyances, one stone. No more problem.”

“I like that,” Willow volunteered, holding up a hand.

The former Watcher froze, his eyes widening in objection. “Ummm…I do not. Evidence of Spike’s handicap notwithstanding, I am not entirely comfortable sharing living quarters with a vampire.”

Harris sighed heavily and shook his head. “And we wonder why the Council didn’t want you facing the armies of darkness.”

“There’s more than one army of darkness?” Buffy asked, head cocked curiously.

“Oh yes,” Anya replied. “There are several thousands. In the Glakupha dimension alone, I believe there might be—”

“You’re not comfortable sharing quarters with a vampire?!” Willow erupted, effectively ruining any hope of discretion they had been reaching for upon entrance. “You work for Angel!”

Spike licked his lips, eyes twinkling. “’F I may,” he began, raising his hand.

A long sigh hissed through Giles’s lips. “Oh dear Lord…”

“I do not work for Angel. I am a rogue demon hunter. I do highly important freelance work—”

“—in fact, I remember receiving pleasurable and copious orgasms from a general in the dimension of Trykilak—”

“Ahn, can you not talk about this right now?—”

“’F the lot of you are bargainin’ for my help, you’re not roomin’ me with a Peaches hand-me-down wanker.”

“Spike, we’re not gonna room you with—”

“Oh, yes you are!” Willow leapt up, pointing a finger at Wesley. “I’m shaky and vulnerable and I don’t want to be anywhere near that…that…man!”

Wesley’s eyes widened. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. Nothing! I just…nothing!”

Spike rolled his eyes and stamped out his cigarette, rising slowly to his feet. “Look, I can solve this li’l dispute right quick.” He drew in a diplomatic breath. “Wes, you spineless git, are you gonna ravish Red the minute our backs are turned?”

The former Watcher’s eyes went wide. “No. No! Of course not. I would never presume—”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.” He pivoted sharply to Willow. “Satisfied? The sod’s prob’ly not even into what you have to offer, judgin’ by his not-so manly posin’. Seems to me to be a bit more for the timber. So there, pet. Your virtue’s safe with him. Stop your bloody bellyachin’.”

Nodding his satisfaction, he sat back down and took a hearty bite out of pecan pie. “There. Problem bloody solved.”

The table grew surprisingly quiet, and the soundless impact drew the entire diner to a standstill, watching them as though expecting an explosion to cap the awkwardness. But there was nothing.

Nothing, then Willow’s begrudging, “I don’t wanna room with Wesley.”

“Bloody tough,” Spike replied. “’Cause I’m not. We have this settled.”

The Witch looked to her friend for support. Buffy pursed her lips and shrugged helplessly. “It’s the best plan,” she conceded, not daring to look the vampire in the eye for reasons she refused to examine. “I’m the Slayer…Spike’s my responsibility. And if we want his cooperation, we’re gonna need to—”

“Bow to his every whim?” Xander asked, perking a brow.

The Cockney smirked. “You catch on quick, Harris.”

“I’m not bowing. There is no bowing.” Buffy’s eyes went wide and she gestured frantically at her Watcher. “This was all Giles’s idea!”

The elder man conceded a long sigh. “Yes, sadly, I am the one to blame. And Willow, I had considered all the possibilities. I know that you’re in a condition right now that…well…I suppose I don’t…well, I have every confidence that Wesley will not try anything to make this any more awkward. And…” He nodded at his Slayer. “Buffy’s right. Spike is a vampire, she is the Chosen One. On this particular excursion, it’s better to keep him rigidly supervised.”

“There’s that word again,” the Cockney drawled, head leaning back.

“Get used to it,” Giles advised. “Now…I want it perfectly clear that further displays like these…we have a job to do. We are not going there to sightsee or, or…whatever it is you bloody do in these tourist traps. As far as we can tell, Faith is still somewhere in that town. When we get there…it’s business. Is that quite understood?”

It was then that the Scoobies seemingly remembered that they had not chosen the most discreet location for such a vocal argument. With a low, incoherent group murmur of agreement, they nodded and tried to make way with apologies. Well, all except Anya and Spike, who watched everyone else with amusement.

The Watcher noted such dryly but did not think to care. “Right then,” he drawled. “We better pay up and leave. I’d like to be in Natchez by nightfall.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Wesley commented.

“Good. Then let’s get out of here before the traffic backs up.”

Buffy frowned. “Why would the traffic back up?”

Spike’s brows perked as he rose to his feet. “Political rally, remember? Some big brew-ha-ha with your nation’s fearless leader. Bloke’s a bit of all right, but won’ be sorry to miss that, all the same.”

“Oh,” Willow grumbled. “As if Tony Blair is anything to brag about.”

The two Watchers stopped virtually on the same beat. “Hey!”

Xander pointed at the table. “Uhhh…anyone gonna leave her a tip? I would offer, but my poverty-stricken self would have nothing to offer but a napkin that reads, ‘Don’t pet porcupines.’”

Giles rolled his eyes and tossed a twenty to the wooden surface. “There. Let’s go.”

Buffy’s gaze widened. “Wow. You gave her like…seventy percent, there.”

“After us, she deserves it.”

“Right,” Spike nodded, sticking another fag between his lips. “Lot of you know how to make life hard on the middle-class. ‘S one thing to go out, mates. ‘S another to disturb the soddin’ peace.”

The Watcher groaned. “Oh, enough with it, you dull-witted termagant. It’s time to leave. Let’s go!”

“’m movin. I’m movin’. Like the wind,” the vampire agreed, deftly slipping the discarded twenty into his pocket. “Like the bloody wind.”

*~*~*

Accommodations in Natchez were uncomfortable at best.

It was one thing and a million things. From Willow’s excited outburst at seeing a large antebellum home to their immediate left before entering the town to Spike’s offhand comments of the local yuppies they passed. Giles had remained in a foul mood ever since the diner and didn’t seem to be in the mind frame to let himself go. The town itself was impossibly difficult to navigate, especially with no predetermined knowledge of its geography. And after weaseling Wesley for hard-pressed information—his memory having suffered a stroke upon entry—they were able to find the visitor’s center for directions.

That in itself proved problematic. The miniature model of the town that greeted guests upon entry served well enough for their purposes, and other than the directions themselves, proved to be the only benefit in the stop. Willow mapped the design into a gem, which she hoped she could conjure at her disclosure. Anya, however, lost herself in the gift shop, and Xander followed shortly thereafter. Wesley made a run for the men’s facilities while Buffy thumbed through brochures. Spike thought it better to sneak into the mini-theatre and catch the last fifteen minutes of the documentary on Natchez, detailing how the small, obscure town played such a vital role in history.

Giles was about through with pleasantries. After re-collecting his traveling companions, though, travel to the Winsel House was brief and efficient.

And, to the comfort of Willow and the Watchers, adjacent to a bookstore.

Business came first, once all was settled. The Witch enacted her magic and helped her friends haul their belongings onto the second floor of the home while Giles, Buffy, and Spike settled into the townhouse. The townhouse itself was not exactly the grandiose establishment that had been envisioned. It was modest, school-red, and a little on the shabby side. There were porches to don both entrances; a small dining room next to the kitchen upon entrance, a den connected to the first bedroom, which was similarly connected to the hallway. A bath and a room tucked in the back with a slant ceiling. The hall itself opened up to the kitchen as well, and one could not take a step without the floor announcing that someone was on the move.

No. It wasn’t what any of them had envisioned. But it was comfy, for the most part. And that was all that mattered.

Giles assumed the room in the far back, leaving Buffy in the larger but less private bedroom. Spike found himself on the couch, though he had notably not expected any special treatment.

With the fatigue from the drive on their backs, the Scoobies met in the living quarters of the townhouse for a quick location spell to determine that Faith was still in town. Results were positive but full of loopholes—it failed to detail a specific pathway to find the rogue Slayer.

However, for everything they had been through that day, the conclusion was more than agreeable. The actual search would initiate the next day when much-needed sleep had been obtained.

And that was that. A unanimous decision. The first since leaving Sunnydale.

They slept.

*~*~*

Willow awoke with an arm draped across her middle. The room was still dark and her mind was too foggy to form a coherent thought, even though a distant warning bell sounded that she should not be as comfortable as she was.

But why not? She missed this. She missed this more than any of her friends could ever understand.

And for now, she had him back. Daniel Osbourne. Her Oz. Her cuddly werewolf.

Thus, she snuggled with contentment, hugging the arm that nestled her, and murmured her boyfriend’s name.

Only the voice that answered was certainly not her boyfriend.

Willow’s eyes shot open and she twisted in bed, finding Wesley’s face far too close for comfort, half-dazed and murmuring something incoherent in his sleep. He seemed a step away from consciousness, but with the drapage, that could only mean one thing.

Well, not only, but massive bubble space being invaded.

“Ahh!” she yelped, firing to the other side of the bed while promptly rolling the young former Watcher off the mattress. “Get away from me, you big…guy!”

There was an ‘oaf’ and a moan of pain. A flash of guilt shimmied up her spine as the warning bell had begun to sound that she was not only unreasonable, but also insane. Wesley hadn’t meant any harm. She knew that, of course. No harm whatsoever. The room had only had the one bed, and though spacious, accidents were prone to happen.

Irrational Willow wanted charge, though. He was a male, and men right now could not be trusted.

“Out!” she cried, pointing to the door. “I want you out!”

Wesley blinked sleepily and gazed up at her. “Willow—”

There was something in his voice that quelled her irrationality down to a small flame. It was all she needed. The Witch hardly allowed herself to cross that bend into what she would respectfully call ‘Buffy madness’ when it came to men. Believing sides only existed in extremes with no middle ground. Sane Willow wanted another crack at it. He looked so miserable.

But Hell would freeze before she let him back into the bed.

“I’m sorry, Wes,” she said earnestly. Shamefully. “I just…I can’t have you…in here…right now. Here…let me go try and see if Anya will trade rooms with you.” She shrugged. “Depression is served in such large portions. Might as well pass it around until we’ve all had our fill.”

“Willow, I didn’t mean—”

She had slipped on a fuzzy pink robe as well as bunny slippers and was heading for the door without another thought. His voice coaxed her to turn for the final round, and she nodded her understanding. “I know.”

And she did. She really did.

Though that didn’t stop her from heading straight to her best friend’s room and pounding loudly on the door.

It was Anya who answered. Anya with puffy red eyes and crazy bed hair. She was wearing a skimpy nightie that Xander undoubtedly thought was sexier as hell, but judging by the sleepiness in her eyes, no nasty mating rituals had been interrupted.

The former demon blinked stupidly. “Willow?”

“Hi,” the redhead replied, doing a little finger wave. “How you doing? Good. Well, you’re probably wondering why I’m standing outside your room at four in the morning. You see—”

“Willow…why are you standing outside our room at four in the morning?” Her eyes dropped to the ground and bulged; mouth flying agape as she leapt what had to be a foot and a half into the air. “And wearing bunny slippers! Bunnies! Is this some sort of sick joke?!”

Of all the… “Of course not!”

“Then why are you interrupting my period of rejuvenation to frighten me with bunny slippers?”

“I was getting to that. You see, I need you and Wesley to switch rooms.”

A low moan rang from inside. She could see Xander peeking up with interest. “Did he actually hit on you?” her friend asked.

“No. Well, when I woke up, he was extra drapey, but that was not really his fault.”

Anya held up a hand and shook her head. “You come here in the middle of the night with your inhuman perkiness and scary bunny slippers and tell me that you want me to forgo periods of copulation because he takes up the covers?”

Willow flushed, bit her lip, but gestured to the room with a shrug. “You guys look pretty orgasm-free tonight. Please?”

Xander was sitting up completely now, looking at her sympathetically. It was a reassuring sight. There wasn’t much that she could ask of him where the answer would be ‘no.’ Life long friendship worked wonders like that. “Ahn, we could let her—”

Unfortunately, the former demon wasn’t bought. And any sentence that began with concession to her was doomed to veto.

“No, Xander. This is ridiculous.” She whirled back to Willow; fatigue seemingly vanished from her eyes. “Have you had your post-relationship orgasms yet?”

The bluntness of her question should not have surprised, but the redhead flushed all the same. “I—uhhh—”

“That’s what I thought. You deserve post-relationship orgasms. They make you feel better.” She pointed heatedly in the direction of Willow’s bedroom, ignoring the shadows of two men that had poked their heads into the hallway from separate rooms and were studying the trade in dazed fascination. “Go back to Wesley and demand that he give you orgasms for taking up the covers.”

Willow all but stomped her foot in frustration. “I don’t want orgasms from Wes—ohh—erm—you know what I mean! I can’t…do that. Not like…well, not to name names but, you. I need—”

“Oz. Yes. We all know.” Anya shook her head and stepped back into her room. “Go get orgasms. You’ll feel better.”

The whoosh of the door was not unexpected but it did happen quick enough to nearly tan the skin on Willow’s nose. She stared at the blank whiteness for a long minute, shaking with the task of going back. Wesley likely thought she was nuts, and rightly so. And if two other guests in the bed and breakfast had heard the trade, she had no trouble believing that he had, as well.

With a sigh, she shook her head and turned around. The men were still looking at her, but more with sleep-deprived confusion and morbid fascination than any desire to make an offer. And though she was usually the shiest person she knew, Willow couldn’t find it within herself to care.

A sigh sounded from up the hall. “I can already tell this place is nuts,” one man declared, turning and shutting the door without further prompt.

The other man was looking at her with soft compassion, sympathetic but not overbearing. And though his small, “Are you okay?” was perfectly harmless, her men-hating persona found a way to twist it into an unwanted innuendo.

“Fine. Leave me alone.”

The man stepped out of his room in cotton boxers and an undershirt. The hall was dark so his features remained encased in shadows, but it wasn’t difficult to tell that he was one of those guys that likely needed no career other than to stand in front of a camera and look pretty. Willow groaned an inward groan. Just what I need. Rooming across from Mr. GQ.

He stopped awkwardly in front of her, casting a hand through dark strands of thick air in what appeared to be nervous habit. “I’m not—this is not me making a thing toward you or anything. Really. If you knew me, you’d know I’m the last person to ever do that kind of…I just wanted to…” His voice cut off when he caught the look in her eyes before fumbling for a quick, friendly smile. “Hi. I’m Sam.”

Willow stared at him for a minute longer. Then walked to her room and closed the door. And it didn’t end there. Couldn’t. Wesley was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at her with a mixture of fear and understanding. And God, she couldn’t take it.

Trust a Rosenberg to make an awkward situation even awkward-er.

“You,” she said, pointing to him. “On the floor.”

There was no argument. No room for debate. He merely nodded and did as was told, murmured another apology, and left most of the comforters to her.

Like a gentleman, which only made her feel worse.

Didn’t matter, though. The night would soon turn to day.

And the cycle, as it had since Oz left, would begin all over again.

TBC

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chapter 6

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