“Well, it’s about time,” Toby snapped as Spike approached, abruptly hanging up on whoever he had been barking at and stuffing the cell phone into his pocket. “You know, you really put truth to the old adage that the road to Hell is paved with Good Samaritans.”

Josh looked up from where he was holding a flashlight for Sam, gaze skeptical. “You mean he’s gonna stop being a jackass and lend us a hand?”

The vampire stopped soundly in his tracks without a note of apology. Bloody decent way to get what you want—though these wankers were politicians from the country’s very own capital, so he couldn’t be too surprised. Instead, his brows perked with indifference and he reached into the pockets of his duster to dig out his cigarettes. “Well,” he retorted, lighting up. “Since you asked so nicely.”

“We’ve been asking you for two days,” the Communications Director grumbled.

“No. I believe you’ve been tellin’ me to do it on an unfounded presumption of my skills in this department.” Spike grinned and indulged a long puff. “I never told a one of you that ‘m good with cars. You heard that bit from Red. ‘Course, she happens to be right; the thing is, I don’ rightly care much ‘f you get back or not. An’, I might add, that none of you bothered to ask me. ‘S it so bloody beneath you to say ‘please’?”

Josh and Toby paused, exchanged a long look, and answered on the same beat. “Well…yeah.”

It was obviously meant to be taken as a joke, but the vampire rolled his eyes and flicked his fag to the ground. “Unbloodybelievable.”

At the hood of the car, Sam strained and wiped his forehead with the back of his greasy hand. “Not beneath me to ask,” he offered. “I’ve been about as successful in my attempts to piece the car together as I would be trying to fix a pocket watch with a hammer.” He met the Cockney’s eyes and stepped aside more than willingly. “She’s all yours.”

There were certain things that put a vampire in his element. Blood, violence, and showing up a group of arrogant humans. Thus when Spike stepped away less than three minutes later, nodded at the gits and turned to retreat back indoors, he was more than satisfied.

“I could’ve done that,” Josh murmured as Toby slid into the driver’s side for an impromptu turn around the parking lot to confirm that everything was in working condition. Just like that.

Simplicity was maddening at times.

“I’ll take it for a test drive tonight,” Sam said. “If it’s really running as well as it seems to be, we should be ready to leave by tomorrow morning.”

“Why not leave now?”

“Because,” Toby retorted as he slipped out of the car. “We don’t want to get stuck in another Hicktown with no means of getting out.”

“Plus we’re paid through tomorrow,” his Deputy added with annoying rationale.

Josh offered a begrudging nod. “Yeah, yeah. But honestly, what are the odds that we would end up stranded in another place without a surplus of rental cars or mechanics at our disposal?”

The Communications Director smiled a little. “Well, considering your supreme skills of navigation, I suppose that is aiming a little high. After all, being stuck anywhere remotely near civilization was a lucky break, wasn’t it? We’d be fortunate not to end up in Nova Scotia.”

“For the last time—”

“I’m taking the car for a test-drive tonight,” Sam said. “All right?”

There was a brief pause. Nothing more worth arguing over.

“Right.”

“It’s the smart thing to do,” Toby murmured.

“We’re Democrats. Since when have we been credited for doing the smart thing?”

“Someone has to do the smart thing, even if they don’t get the credit,” Sam offered reasonably. There were times when logic and mindless ranting were not linear, and thus when clumped together, found most annoying. The Deputy Communications Director had his noted temper tantrums, but he tended to keep his cool much longer than either of his colleagues.

A wane grin tickled Toby’s mouth. “I think you’ve been in the backwash country for too long.”

“I’d been here too long before we got on the plane in DC,” Josh retorted.

Sam stepped in as the great neutralizer, hands in the air in a call for diplomacy. “It’s fine, guys. It’s fine. I’ll take the car for a test-drive tonight. In the meantime, I’m sure there are other ways to make ourselves useful around here. And someone owes Spike a thank you.”

“Not I.”

“Why can’t you test-drive it now?” Josh asked.

“Because I’m greasy and hungry and would prefer a shower before taking on any other activity. And I don’t want either of you near the car, because I have handled this entire ordeal much better than both of you combined and quite frankly, we can’t afford that kind of negative Karma.” Sam wiped his hands against his jeans. “I am going to go clean-up and make a sandwich.”

Josh and Toby exchanged another long look that clearly read a predisposition of inherent disagreement. There was nothing for a long minute, then the former released a breath and sighed his resignation. “It’s just one night.” It was palpable he was making an attempt at optimism, though the sentiment didn’t reach his eyes.

It could have ended there, but it didn’t. Toby didn’t reply, but response had never stopped the Deputy Chief of Staff from talking. And thus, as some cosmic punch line, he spoke the unspeakable. In was an unfortunate but inevitable reality.

“What could go wrong?”

*~*~*

It wasn’t as though she went searching for these situations to fit herself into. They seemed to find her perfectly well on their own without outside interference. And today was certainly one of those days where situational dilemmas were searing in popularity. Everything had simply ganged up against her with some resolute determination to go wrong.

She had heard him come in; it was impossible not to, as he hardly tiptoed through the front door. The past ten minutes had been spent buried in her designated room, looking through clothes to find an article that was neither a turn-off nor come-hithery. With the way they had been playing at it, she wanted her clothes to make as much statement as possible as to the status of her confused feelings. Not indifferent but unsure. Interested but hesitant. While everything thus far was more than mutual, they had yet to trust words with the emotions they had been dancing around. Clothing, in this instance, would have to do the trick.

He was supposed to be fixing the car, and he was back. It aggravated her at first, but she knew without question that Spike wasn’t one to be ordered around, even and especially by her. Disobedience in this particular regard hardly surprised.

That was until she peeked outside and saw Toby Ziegler performing provisional doughnuts in the parking lot. At that, Buffy had to smile.

Spike had come through. In less than ten minutes.

“He’s good,” she murmured.

It wasn’t until a moment later that she realized the shower was running. He must have come in directly from the car and to the lavatory without stopping. Which meant that she was alone in the townhouse with a wet, naked vampire.

The same wet, naked vampire that had pulled her against him less than a half hour before.

A color of naughty thoughts bombarded her mind, ignoring her pleas for neutrality. This was no good. It was no good, but similarly inevitable with the endless couple of days they had spent together. The shameless flirtation that grew more potent with every exchange. Every glance. Every everything.

She knew that she should turn around and leave him to his peace. Besides, it was beyond time to see Willow. Thus expelling a deep breath to compose herself, she turned for the door with every intention of marching through.

That was until the acoustics gave way and started playing the Devil’s song. She had heard the sound before: once from Angel. His quiet baritone tickling her ear as he tried to sooth her aching body with gentility and poise. Not too long ago from Parker as he used her presence as means for his own end, no matter how attentive he had been in the course of her own pleasure after he was sated.

If there was anything her two failed encounters with sex had taught her, it was the difference between moans of pleasure and moans of pain. Simple elementary, but true nonetheless.

And by the potency of Spike’s whimpers, it didn’t take a rocket-scientist to figure out what he was doing in there.

Oh god.

Logic was a funny thing. Logic told her very plainly to turn promptly at the heel and continue toward the door, unhampered. Logic told her that regardless of anything that had occurred over the past couple days, this was very obviously the vampire’s private time and to leave him alone. Logic told her that it was none of her damn business what he did behind closed doors. Logic told her that he didn’t know she was still there; else he wouldn’t be doing…that. Well, at least not that loudly.

And just when she needed it the most, logic promptly flew out the window. Before she could stop herself, Buffy was following her feet’s command to satisfy the nagging curiosity in her gut. To fuel the shades of arousal that tackled her just at the thought of him touching himself like that. Bad thoughts. Bad, bad thoughts. She was just asking for trouble.

Yes. I’ll have two helping’s of trouble and a diet coke. Thanks.

The thought did little to quell the nervous titter that spread in her stomach. She was at trouble’s entrance, literally; she and Spike were separated by a door and a door alone.

And that door would just have to be ajar.

Buffy released a shuddering breath and dared a step forward, ignoring the voice of inner conscience that screamed she was violating every code of ethics she tried to live by. It didn’t matter. She had an imp on each shoulder and couldn’t move away for anything in the world.

Especially when she caught a glance of him through the transparent shower curtain. The world as she knew it might as well have blinked itself away.

Spike was standing at an angle, head under the nozzle with water pellets rolling down his back. His left hand was pressed against the wall as though to keep himself from tumbling over completely. And his other…ohhh. The sharp, desperate movement of his arm timed perfectly to the thrust of his hips was easily the most erotic scene she had ever witnessed. The strangled moans rumbling from his throat bounced off the walls with strong confinement—each sending intent drives of pure, unmitigated desire to her core.

God, why hadn’t she felt like this before? Why was this the most sensual moment of her life? Sure, there was something intimately stimulating about watching without permission—seeing him take his pleasure in stolen moments. But for all the world, she had never craved like this before. Not Angel. Not anyone.

Spike was a work of beauty. A god among men.

The fire in her belly was growing unbearable. Her fingers strained and her skin ached for his. She had never been so turned on in her life, and knew vaguely that the thought should disturb her, but it didn’t. It didn’t. It was wrong but right. So right.

Wanting Spike was right. She had crossed that line. It was okay now.

His gasps were becoming sharper, his movements gaining momentum. If possible, the ceaseless pumping of his hand reached epic proportions. As though he needed a thought of pain alongside satisfaction. And when his climax was upon him, he released a heady moan, whimpered her name with as much craving as she had ever heard one person bear, and slumped against the wall as water ran down his back and aftermath took hold of him.

Buffy’s world came crashing down. The liquid heat pooling between her thighs was becoming excruciating, the scent of her own appeal tackling her senses and sending off a warning signal that she could not quite abide. Without looking at her, without touching her, without anything, Spike had made her feel more like a woman than anyone before him. It filled her with both gratification and terror. Apprehension and furthered strings of longing. Her stomach was empty and fluttering, her heart pounding, her senses on overload and her mind trying to send her a thousand and a half signals at once.

He had called her name as he came.

Her name.

It occurred to her belatedly that standing outside the bathroom wasn’t the best idea in the world. Now was not the time for introspection: it was the time for avoidance and feigned ignorance and oh my god had she mentioned that Spike had just gotten off while thinking about her?

The shower stopped running, and all thought with it. Her feet started moving before her brain could catch up. She needed to get out of the townhouse. She needed to be where the air was clean and not fogged with lusty Spike thoughts or how she wanted to jump him before he got out of the shower and demand that he fix her problem. Now was not the time.

Never was the time. She might want him, but she could never act on it. Never.

Yeah. Right. Her mind wasn’t buying that.

Neither was her heart. Not anymore. Her heart was already in this too deeply.

Buffy stepped outside and shook her head. She couldn’t think of this now. Not now. They were here to do a job. A job they had somehow gotten nowhere on in the three days since arriving. A job that they needed to start taking seriously. This was no time to be worrying with such things.

Somewhere she knew, though, that that excuse could only last so long. They were in too deep to stop this now. And even if that weren’t the case, she wouldn’t want to. Not with everything that had happened.

And that thought terrified her beyond reason.

*~*~*

Willow frowned as the water hissed and bubbled over the rim of her borrowed pot, leaping back just before it could splatter along her arm. “Okay, Mr. Oregano,” she said in a faux-menacing tenor, eyes darkening. “I know you’re not exactly the herb I usually use for these sorts of spells, but you don’t have to get all pissy about it. Really—if I could find some genuine rue herbs, I wouldn’t be using you. B-besides…you’re more a seasoning then an herb…but the Wiccan Hotline told me that this…” She trailed off and her frown deepened. “I’m talking to a pot. There’s no one here but me and a pot…and now I’m talking to myself about talking to a pot. Get a hold of yourself, Rosenberg.”

It wasn’t as much that she was talking to the pot; she was talking to it as though it would talk back. Not that such was out of the realm of possibility, of course. Stranger things had happened.

“Words to live by,” she murmured, raising a hand to beckon a wooden ladle her way. All in all, she wasn’t really expecting this to work. The supplies were all wrong and the spells were pretty much case sensitive, though she didn’t want to tell Buffy and get her hopes up.

Of all the possibilities she had planned for upon preparing for the otherwise spontaneous excursion this far south, she hadn’t foreseen encountering a dilemma where there were no magic stores at the ready. Natchez evidently didn’t believe in witchcraft, which didn’t surprise her. She didn’t know what she had been expecting. The South was moderately conservative when it came to such things; New Orleans the only exception that immediately came to mind. So here she was—waiting for an emergency shipment from a supplier in Sunnydale and using cooking ingredients as meager substitutes.

It might work. She didn’t think so, but evidently witches before her had been successful. Of course, witches before her had also been far more gifted in their craft. She was an amateur in a world she wanted to know better.

Which was good, because Willow hardly refused a challenge of this nature.

“Salagadoola methinks boola, bibbidi-bobbidi-boo,” she sang absently, motioning for the heat on the stove to increase before sending the ladle to attentively stir while she searched for other seasonings. If anything, she was certainly getting better at simple levitation. The days of floating pencils were behind her, though she was still far from her goal of lifting pianos. “Put 'em together and what have you got? Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.” She motioned for the cupboard on the other side of the kitchen to open. The hotline had also told her that basic salt, which she used anyway, and cumin could make amicable substitutes if necessary. “Salagadoola mechicka boola, bibbidi-bobbidi-boo. It'll do magic believe it or not. Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.”

Willow grinned and slid across the wooden island in the middle, encouraging her brewing pot of mixed goodies to follow. She indicated another cupboard and immediately had a bowl to her liking alongside the pot before motioning for it to take place under the faucet at the sink. The wooden ladle she had been toying with a minute before came immediately to her grasp, and she used it to thumb through the jars of cooking mixes the Wensel House owners had stocked for their guests. Any other time, she would have felt guilty for so shamelessly using all of the ingredients in the kitchen for means that were far placed from culinary, but Mrs. Miller had been nothing but accommodating, even encouraging, in that regard. She would remember to send her and her husband thank you cards for such lovely treatment while staying at their Bed and Breakfast when they inevitably returned to Sunnydale.

“Salagadoola means mechicka booleroo. But the thingmabob that does the job is, bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.” Willow turned again and summoned one of the flashlights she had found under the sink to her side, flicking it on with a tilt of her head as her eyes scoured the cabinet. “Salagadoola menchicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo. Put 'em together and what have you got? Bibbidi-bobbidi, bibbidi-bobbidi, bibbidi-bobbidi—”

A piercing shriek rang through the air, effectively slicing through her concentration and breaking the stability of her various flying utensils. The redhead gasped and whirled around, caught the wide-eyed panic-stricken gaze of Sam before realizing that her potion was about to splatter boiling hot water across the kitchen floor.

What came next was what was natural to her. She could hardly let the pot hit the ground. That would lead to badness, and possible second-degree burns. Thus, in a loud and commanding voice, she snapped, “Sisto!” and suspended the fall in mid-air.

It was only after she had a control on her potion that she felt it safe to look back up to Sam, which turned out to be a very bad mistake. He was screaming again in an instant. Screaming, but not running, which either meant it was reactionary or he didn’t remember that he had legs. Willow flashed him an apologetic look before nodding to her pot, sending it back to the stove with a definitive hiss.

The screaming came to an end, but the look of utter terror did not.

The redhead bit her lip and held up a hand. “I…ummm…hi! I…uhhh…just…this is…something…I’m just…I was just…” She took a cautionary step forward and flinched when he automatically retracted it in the opposite direction. “Please. Please don’t be…afraid. Ummm…I…” She released a deep breath. “I know what it looks like. I was just…you see, there’s this hobby of mine, and I guess you can say—”

“I wanted a sandwich.”

Willow blinked. It took a minute to register that he had actually spoken. “Oh. Oh! Well…here…I can make you a sandwich. Turkey? Ham? Peanut butter and jelly? I can make a mean peanut butter and jelly. Oh, I can even…ummm…you want a boiled egg? I can boil an egg and—”

Sam shook his head rapidly, eyes wide with conviction. He seemed to have surpassed the screaming phase and was more into shock, but not because he was still responsive. “No. No. I’m just…I’m just going to go away now. I’m going to go away…and be…away.”

No. No, that couldn’t happen. The last thing she needed was one of the most important and influential men in the country thinking he had lost his mind—or worse—putting her in some institution for the magically inclined…or wherever they would put her. Willow stepped forward, eyes large with worry. “No…no, it’s okay, Sam. It’s…I’m a witch. I am. But I’m a good witch. I’m Glinda. The one that the munchkins liked? I-I wouldn’t hurt a fly or even a…fly. I’m sorry I scared you, but it’s just something I do.”

He was just staring at her. She didn’t know if the words were clicking in the way they were supposed to. “You’re a witch.”

“Yes. A witch. But a good witch. Emphasis on the good part, there. I’m a very good witch.” The redhead huffed up a little with furthered assurance. “In fact, if there was a reward for good witches—benevolent witches, I’d take it home. You know why? I’m a good witch. I…” Sam’s eyes broke from hers and turned to the scene around them, taking in the telltale signs—at least in his hindsight—of witchcraft in the works. She followed him without missing a beat, reaching up to brush hair from her eyes. “You see, I was just…umm…Faith. We need to find Faith…and I was trying a location spell. I’m not very good at location spells, but I thought—”

“I thought you were a good witch,” he replied. She didn’t think he was even aware he was speaking.

“I’m not. I really suck. I’ve been at the same level for—” Willow broke off when his gaze went wide again. “Oh, you meant good as in benign. I am! I am! I totally am! You’ll never find a better witch. I—”

Of course, just when things might have started to go right, everything would have to be shot to hell in the proverbial handbasket. And in all fairness, Xander wasn’t used to censoring his comments. Witchcraft wasn’t exactly an abnormality in Sunnydale—one of the many luxuries of their hometown that they evidently took for granted.

Which was why, she supposed, that he didn’t think before yelling, “Hey, Will! Anya wants to share a room tonight. Will you please tell Wes that you won’t turn him into a newt if he creeps onto your…” He pushed open the kitchen door and nearly tripped over himself at the sight of Sam standing in the middle of a very magic-inflicted area. “…side. Oh, I didn’t know you were—”

The Deputy Communications Director finally snapped, moving for the door with such swiftness that he might as well have tried out for the Olympic track team. “I have to go now.”

Willow stepped forward pleadingly. “Sam—”

“No. I have to go now.”

Xander licked his lips as the man brushed past him, offering his friend a wan, apologetic smile. “Oops?”

The redhead whimpered miserably. This was bad. This was beyond bad. She had mucked things up in a royal only-Willow-can-do-this-manner. Giles was going to be angry. Livid, even.

And strange as it was, that thought didn’t bother her as much as the idea of Sam thinking ill of her. Of being afraid of her. Of the way he had looked at her before he left.

Her face must have been ready to crumble, because Xander stepped forward, all apology, and took her into his arms. “Oh, Will. I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I—”

“No.” His shoulder muffled her voice. “It wasn’t you. It was me. It was all me.”

Her. Always her. Her fault. Her mess. Her screw-up.

Always.

How in the world was she going to fix this?

*~*~*

In loo of not wanting to face anyone at the moment, Buffy decided to skip peeking in on Willow and the spellcasting that was her. It was the clumsy thing to do, she knew, but she also knew that if there were any genuine leads on Faith that her friend would let her know. And even so, by the time Spike was ready for their nightly sweep of the town, her friend had evidently already packed everything in and retired for the night. The Slayer found it strange that she hadn’t stopped to tell her how the spell went or goodnight, but decided not to dwell. Everyone had been at odds and ends since arriving.

Buffy’s face flamed as Spike stepped out of the townhouse and she did her damndest to avoid his eyes without being obvious. She waited until he had double-checked the lock before whispering her greeting. When they started walking in syncopation for the Winnebago, she did as best she could to stay at least five paces ahead of him.

Which didn’t work.

“Hey! Hold up there, pet.”

Buffy was tempted to walk even faster but decided that was ridiculous. Acting suspicious would do nothing but get her in trouble. “Sorry,” she said, conversational as possible. “I was just…I wanna get back quick tonight. Get some sleep.”

Avoid you like the plague ‘cause I’m a big perv and you masturbate while thinking about me…which I shouldn’t know, but I do, ‘cause I’m a big perv.

“Yeh. Been lackin’, too.” Spike dug out his cigarettes and leapt forward to hold her door open for her before she climbed into the passenger seat. Had he not made the obvious attempt to extend a hand at courtesy, she wouldn’t have noticed. He had; she did, and her blushes grew more potent.

Which, of course, he caught. Vampire and all. He could probably smell that her blood was hotter than usual. “What’s wrong, Summers?” he asked, frowning as he lit up. “You’re warm…are you feelin’ all right?”

Just say no and go to bed.

But no. No. Sensible or not, the sun had just fully set and she knew that sleep was not going to happen at all tonight, regardless of when she started trying.

“I…uhhh…I’m fine.”

He peered closer at her. “Are you blushin’?”

“No. I’m just—”

Spike chuckled and released the door handle, hands coming up diplomatically. “Look, pet. Jus’ wanted to be chivalrous. No strings. Don’ go gettin’ all dainty on me ‘cause I do have cause to use manners on occasion.”

Buffy opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again and sat back with a mute nod. Better to agree with him than explain herself.

The front door of the Wensel House swung open before another word could be spared, and Sam came bounding around the corner, eyes wide with a drive that she couldn’t quite identify. He stopped when he saw them and flustered as though he owed them an explanation. “I’m going for my test-drive now,” he said.

The blondes just looked at him.

“Yeh…” Spike said, cocking a brow. “’S fine, mate. There wasn’ much wrong with it to begin with.”

“Yes, but I must go test-drive it now.”

And that was all he said. Before either of them could retort, he had climbed into the rental and pulled out as though all Hell’s demons were following.

“An’ that’s the bloke that Red likes?” the vampire asked, slipping around to the driver’s side door and sliding behind the wheel.

“I think so. She hasn’t admitted anything.” And in the category of schoolgirl infatuations, neither of them had. For some reason, she didn’t think Willow would handle her crushing on Spike as well as Buffy would her crushing on Sam.

The thought made her face flame even more. Which, naturally, the vampire noticed.

“Kitten, are you sure you’re okay?”

He calls me kitten.

“Yeah…ummm…yes. Yes.” Buffy nodded. “We should go. Cemetery tonight. That okay with you?”

Spike grinned. “Vampire, luv. ‘S home sweet home for me.”

They continued like that for several minutes. Quiet, reserved trade as the Cockney navigated the Winnebago through downtown Natchez. They were getting better at the art of map reading and finding-without-asking-for-directions. The town was peppered with one-way streets that they had yet to master, but the vampire was notably talented at correcting a blunder if he made a wrong turn.

They had gotten good at this teamwork thing. And they were getting better yet.

Buffy was enjoying the silence, answering a few questions and reassuring him that she was fine every few minutes as her guilt waned and she started to feel like herself again. She was ready for another night of this—of being with Spike and getting to know who he was on levels never before touched by inquiring human minds.

She could do this. She could be with him like this, as friends. She could want him and know that he wanted her, too. She could do this until she was ready for the next level. She could—

Buffy’s eyes bulged as they came to a stop at a red light. “Oh my God.”

“Hmmm?”

“Spike, go.”

“What?”

“Go. Now. Foot to pedal. Drive!”

“’S a red light.”

“Run it.” She leaned forward. “Now!”

Spike arched a brow but shrugged and did as he was told. “Okay, you got me. Breakin’ the law’s my specialty. We bein’ followed?”

“No. We’re following the Toyota.”

He frowned and glanced to the car ahead. As though it knew it was being discussed, it had practically torn the road apart with its leave. “Why?”

“Because,” she said simply, “—and don’t ask me how I know this. I just do. And drive faster!”

“Know what?”

She released a breath. Strange. She had never been surer of anything in her life. Beyond reasonability. Beyond doubt. There was no knowledge if she wasn’t positive about what lay ahead.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. The sky was ready to open with a storm.

“It’s Faith.”

Spike’s eyes widened at her. But he did not question. Did not doubt. Simply nodded and indicated that she should buckle her safety belt.

And drove.

TBC

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chapter 14

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