In the world according to Toby, every molecule of daily interaction revolved around making his life a living hell. With the President’s speech a thing of the past—the motorcade gone and Air Force One in the air and back again—he still couldn’t find a single car rental agency that would listen to his plight, nor could he find a mechanic with skills enough to repair the hunk of metal that was crowding the gravel driveway of a house he never wanted to see again.

It was strange. Hell, it was more than strange: it was downright bizarre. But Donna wasn’t complaining. Oh no. She reveled in it. The opportunity to inadvertently be granted the vacation that she had been bugging Josh for over the past forever. There were things to be done, she knew. Big, important things. But a little time away from the office would hardly be the downfall of a man as great as Josiah Bartlet—especially in the modern era of telephones, fax-machines, and e-mail.

And, as she had come to accept over the past year, as long as Leo McGarry was in the White House, there was nothing to fear.

Which was why, instead of yelling into her cell all day—as certain other unnamed persons were now attempting—she was lounged quite comfortably in the foyer of the Wensel House, debating whether or not she would like to retire to Natchez after Bartlet’s eight years were over.

And it would be eight. To suggest anything else was blasphemous.

Of course, to presume eight aloud was bad luck. She couldn’t win.

The company here was fabulous. She didn’t know what Josh’s problem was, other than the obvious, but she was having the time of her life. Buffy and Willow really reminded her of herself when she was that young. Ambitious, carefree, smart, and with their whole lives ahead of them. Their paths unblemished by the mistakes she had made.

A sad realization indeed. She was too young still to think of her life as no longer being ahead of her.

“Did you know it’s illegal to catch mice in Cleveland without a hunting license?” she asked as Wesley entered the room with what appeared to be an old history book. “Whoever passed that law must’ve been an animal-rights activist.”

The man offered a faint smile. “I find most American laws to be rather silly,” he replied.

“I’m right there with you.” Donna leaned back and released a long sigh. “So…England, huh?”

“God Save the Queen,” came the retort. His smile had turned rather shy, his eyes downcast. “I actually haven’t been home in quiet some time. I was last in London about two years ago…right before…well, I suppose you could say, my employer transferred me to the United States.”

“What do you do?”

There was a pause; he flashed her a deer-in-headlights look and gulped. “Pardon?”

“Your job…the one you had to come to the States to do?”

“Oh…of course.” The explanation obviously hadn’t done anything to change his disposition. He shifted a bit in his seat and cleared his throat. “I am an instructor.”

“Of what?”

“Uhhh…self-defense and weaponry.” At her skeptical look, he held up the history book and flashed a nervous smile. “Also…ancient cultures for the bizarre and otherworldly.”

“Are you related to Mr. Giles?”

“We’re in the same line of work. He and Buffy…” There was a pause at that. “He’s Buffy’s surrogate father, I suppose is the best way of putting it. She came to a point in her life when she needed an instructor…and the organization that employs us both sent him to her.”

“Are you guys like Rent-A-Teachers?”

Wesley flushed. “We’re not very well known in your circle. And actually, I am no longer employed there. I am a rogue dem—” He broke off and reddened even further. “I am a rogue.”

Donna blinked. “A rogue what?”

“I work with Angel, in Los Angeles.” He paused. “Well, I don’t really work with him. On occasion, I allow him to supervise my findings so that we might put our minds together to come to a similar, logical conclusion when any given issue is—”

“Angel…as in Buffy’s ex-boyfriend?”

Wesley’s eyes widened. “You know of Angel?”

“Well…I went out for bread pudding with Willow and Buffy a couple days ago. Or—when I say ‘went out’, I’m overstating it a little. We ran into each other.” She shrugged, an easy smile brightening her face. “They’re very nice. You all are. But you’re working for Angel?”

“With. With Angel.” The former Watcher laughed uneasily and leaned back. “Not really with, come to think of it. We’re mutual acquaintances in the same line of work that, on occasion, share information that will be mutually beneficial.”

“Okay. So what do you do now?”

“Angel is a private investigator.”

Donna frowned and gestured emphatically. “So that would make you a private investigator?”

“Of sorts. I do not have a license to practice in California.”

She nodded and chewed on that one for a minute. “Did you know that it’s illegal to eat oranges while in a bathtub in California?”

Wesley quirked a smile at that. “Do you memorize strange laws by practice?”

“It’s something to do.” Donna shrugged. “For instance, it is also illegal for a chicken to cross the road in some town in Georgia.”

“Well, naturally. It draws attention to a universal question that has baffled philosophers for years.”

“There’s also a law in Louisiana that says you can’t rob a bank and then shoot the teller with a water pistol.” She laughed. “Which, of course, suggests that robbing the bank is perfectly fine…but it’s a felony if you shoot anyone with water. And then another in Oregon that says no man may curse while having sex with his wife.”

Wesley was staring at her. “Damn yanks,” he murmured.

“You probably shouldn’t say that while we’re south of the Mason Dixon line.”

He smiled slightly and set his book aside. It was obvious that he wasn’t going to get any reading done. “So…tell me about what you do.”

*~*~*

The day was passing at a steady pace that Buffy had long taken for granted. By default, it was decided that Xander and Anya would cover the day shift of scouring the town for Faith—interrogating the same people and trying to cover bases that hadn’t yet been meddled with. Giles had phoned Angel in hopes of acquiring a rendering of her that he could staple onto streetlights and hand out across town. Evidently, her former boyfriend had foreseen being requested of such and had sketched a good likeness of the rogue Slayer; there simply wasn’t a fax-machine handy. The elder Watcher, for that reason, was currently hitting every modernized establishment in the hopes of locating anything that would be of any help and wasn’t having a good time of it.

Buffy had spent the day with Willow, who was trying to gather some ingredients for another location spell; no one had any idea why she would be successful on this endeavor and so utterly not on all those preceding. But at this point, she was willing to try anything. It was obvious they weren’t getting anywhere fast with the routine sweeps of the town, and no evidence had been presented to suggest that Faith had gone anywhere. She knew that Giles, when he wasn’t drinking, had been following the news programs for reports of her elsewhere; there was nothing. It was as though she had arrived in Natchez and fallen off the edge of the world.

There was something else. Neither Wesley nor Giles were exactly a part of the Watcher’s Council grapevine anymore. There was every possibility that the rogue Slayer had been apprehended right under their noses.

But even still, that didn’t seem altogether likely. Giles was still highly respected. Whenever the Watchers Council was about to interfere with their lives, they at least had the courtesy to let him know in advance.

Buffy and Willow were just returning from one of the novelty shops across the way from the Wensel House. The shops themselves were set into what used to be a train-depot—a mini-golf course separating the court down the middle. The Slayer was discovering that everything in the town was neatly naturalized like that—or as naturalized as a manmade structure could be. She wondered honestly, aside the chain restaurants, the shopping mall, and visitor’s center if there was any establishment within a hundred miles that had been constructed after 1912.

They hadn’t bought much. The Witch was out of an herb that she thought could be easily replaced with potpourri. And just like that, it was time to start again.

“I’m gonna go into the kitchen and mix some of these things together,” she said as she stepped onto the porch of the house. The sun was dipping out of the sky slowly; should this spell go right, Buffy and Spike would have a direction to target their search tonight. “If anything of the good happens, I’ll let you know.”

“Right.” The Slayer nodded, glancing with a weary sigh at Toby, Josh, and Sam who were trying to refigure the clockwork-like configuration under the hood of their all-but-dead automobile. “You know…I think it’s time for me to make Spike help them.”

“You think?! I thought I told you to last night.”

“Well…you know Spike. He doesn’t do anything if he doesn’t wanna.”

Willow’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. And yet, you’re going to make him help them?”

Buffy didn’t miss the slightly edged accusatory tenor in her best-friend’s voice, nor did she think she needed to answer it. Especially when she hardly had things worked out for herself. “Yeah. Why? Are you eager for Sam to be gone?”

The redhead’s eyes lost their indictment and she flushed accordingly. “That’s not the point,” she said. Then disappeared inside before another charge of the nature could be voiced.

Buffy smothered a grin and turned to circumvent the home and head around toward the townhouse where she found Spike sleeping lightly on the sofa. The sight should have annoyed her, but they had stayed up late the night before talking about a number of things that weren’t as important as they had seemed. She was moving beyond the part of her introspection and self-criticism for expanding her relationship with the vampire. It wasn’t wrong anymore—or if it was, she had surpassed the glamour of its influence.

Getting to know Spike was likely the most revolutionary thing that had happened in her adult life. He was taking her expectations and blowing so far past them that she could barely keep up. He was dangerously close to becoming a friend, if he wasn’t already. And by how shamelessly they had flirted in the past two days—something more. Much more.

And that terrified her.

With as much as she did not want to disturb him, they would have no peace unless they utilized every asset to assist the staffers on their journey out of town. Back to the world where things made sense, if it wasn’t already too late. And since Spike’s skills with a car had been boasted far and wide, he was their final resort. The resort that could have been taken two days prior had she not been so thoroughly engaged in more pleasurable pursuits of entertaining his company.

But that was over, now. And they needed him up.

Which meant…

Buffy released a long sigh and moved forward, reaching for the remote and flicking the television off. She was hoping that alone would do the trick, but her vampire was determined to be contrary. He didn’t budge. Didn’t murmur. Didn’t do anything to suggest that he was anything other than dead.

That would not do.

“Spike.” Yeah, that’ll work.

The Cockney murmured and rolled further into the cushions.

“Spike!”

He crooned his head a bit against the sofa arm and then sank into deepened slumber.

Okay, so Giles was right. He did sleep like the dead.

So much for the diplomatic approach.

Buffy huffed out another sigh and caved, crossing the room so she could assault him bodily—which hey, not complaining. She didn’t do much more than prod his shoulder, though her hand did take a brief detour to run through his peroxide locks to see if they were as soft as they looked.

And oh, they were.

How in the world did he take such good care of his hair with all the crap he put in it? Easy answer—he was a guy, and thus all things hair-wise came naturally.

Life was so unfair.

“Spike!” she said loudly. “Come on. Wakey, wakey! Rise and shiii…oh, well, you probably don’t like the ‘shine’ part all that much. How about rise and…well, dark’s lame but, you’re not giving me much to work with here.” Nothing. “Come on! Fresh blood in the kitchen for vamps who wake up in less than five seconds.” Still nothing. She pouted. “Okay, so you got me. You are the residential vamp, and seeing as you’re the only one of said persuasion that I can tolerate as of now, the blood is probably yours. ‘Cause, really? Gross. Massively disgusting. Major ‘ding’ on the ick factor. But hey! Still there, and it isn’t getting any fresher.” Nothing. “Okay. That’s it. I’m taking off my shirt.”

What happened next occurred in a blink. One minute she was standing above the sofa; the next, Spike had seized her wrist and tugged her onto him, his hands holding her at the waist as his eyes came open. The smirk on his face was enough to verify that he had been awake for some time, and his eyes danced as her jaw dropped with indignance.

“Why you little—”

“Thought I’d better stop you before you started strippin’, luv. While you’d find many an appreciative eye in this room, the blinds are up an’ the view from the parkin’ lot’s nearly panoramic.” He grinned unrepentantly as her gaze darted to the open window above them and widened in astonishment. Not that she had really been planning on disrobing, of course. The thought alone provided enough embarrassment to fund burrowing a hole to crawl into. When she looked back at Spike, he was obviously very pleased with himself; his tongue running over his teeth in a way that he had to know was too sexy for words. “Though, ‘f you wanted to gimme a free show here an’ now, I wouldn’t be one to complain.”

“You pig!”

“Oink bloody oink. Come on.” He tugged teasingly at her hem, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Take it off.”

Buffy guffawed her frustration and battled away his prying hands. “Let me up.”

“Nah. ‘m rather comfy, myself.”

“Spike!”

He positively purred. “That’s right. Yell it. Nice, loud, an’ with a li’l ‘umph.’”

“I swear to God.” Buffy grumbled. “Spike, come on. Let me up.”

“You’re the Slayer. Make me let you up.”

She deliberately chose not to answer the logic of that argument, placing her hands firmly on his chest and wiggling for leverage.

Wrong move. Definitely wrong move. A long moan hissed through his teeth and she felt the consequences of his physical reaction pressed against her in a manner that she had never thought to experience, least of all from the persistently annoying vampire beneath her.

Spike at least had the decency to look embarrassed. As well he should; while he might be of the male species and thought perpetually with that particularly part of his anatomy, he was the one that was holding her to him. The flash only lasted a minute, though, and he gathered his bearings before the cocky, self-assured look that she knew so well dominated his eyes once more. “Oh yeh, kitten,” he cooed nastily. “Li’l to the left.”

That was it. Buffy popped him in the nose and was up in two seconds.

“Bloody hell…”

“Don’t ‘bloody hell’ me, you…pig.”

The vampire arched a pointed look in her direction, cautiously examining the tenderness of the skin she had just assaulted. “Bugger all, Slayer, can’t you think of anythin’ with a li’l originality?”

“So says you, you big ass.”

His eyes softened with almost immediate shades of apology. “Buffy, I—”

“No. All with the…the no. And the no.” She shook her head. “You’re going to get outside, fix their damn car, and then we’re going to find Faith and get far, far away from here. You got me?”

There was nothing for a minute. Then a small smile crossed his face. “Yeh,” he retorted. “I got you, all right.”

She didn’t know, but there was something about the way he said it that made her think he wasn’t referring to the simple basics of elementary comprehension. And that was all sorts of bad.

“An’ sorry.” He tilted his head curiously. “’Bout bein’ me.”

Buffy arched a cool brow. “Since when have you ever apologized for being you?”

“Since I started to value our…whatever we have.” He smiled kindly and rose to his feet. “I like you when you’re not bein’ a bitch, Summers. Hell, ‘f I wanna be honest, I like you pretty much all the time. An’ I liked yesterday…an’ last night. I liked it a lot. Don’ wanna muck it up ‘cause I got me a wicked tongue that doesn’ know when to stop.”

A very naughty word picture threw off the charm of his apology unexpectedly. She flushed again. “Well…it’s not…mucked, that is. Or whatever you call it. And…” Almost quieter. “I don’t mind you being you…most of the time. Just…ummm…” And suddenly, she was at a loss for words. Her mind blanked and her tongue swelled. Nasty Spike she could deal with. Human Spike was becoming a good friend. But sweet Spike? No. She wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. “I—uhh. Willow. I should go and…Willow…she’s doing the…the thing. The spell…inside the house…to find Faith. You know. I…ummm…I’m gonna go…change, and then I’m—not that you need to know that I’m changing or—”

Spike merely smiled and brushed past her. “Sun’s set on this side,” he said. “’m gonna go fix the car.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving her alone and dumbfound.

But more grateful than he could imagine.


TBC

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