Chapter Eighteen
Toby decided to move out with Giles, namely because he needed to maintain his sanity and the situation at the Wensel house was making that more and more impossible. He expressed some apprehension—as much as he could—about leaving Sam alone, but was ultimately encouraged that space was what the younger man needed.
So, naturally, the minute he was gone, Josh took up residence with his best friend and left Donna to tend to the emotionally numb Willow, who was still trying to come to terms with the knowledge that Faith had taken advantage of someone she cared about. Again.
Ultimately, having the Communications Director and the elder Watcher relocate proved to be in everyone’s best interest. Wesley was left in charge of the research, but the Scoobies tacitly noted to turn to the Witch in that regard. And now that Willow had a reliable female roommate, Anya was free to move back in with Xander to obtain as many orgasms as she pleased.
No one really seemed to mind that the new arrangement left Buffy alone in the townhouse with Spike. No one outside Xander, who voiced his objections but was drowned out for sudden apathy. Things were too estranged to worry with particulars.
Furthermore, Willow didn’t want to be too far from Sam if he needed her. While she didn’t disclose the reason why he would need her, Harris could not meet that with a plausible excuse in favor of the other. He similarly could not bring it to Buffy’s attention that the choice was upon her to either send Spike away or leave him alone in the townhouse. For whatever reason, he knew that suggestion would be shot down with feeble excuses that his range of acceptance was not yet prepared to interpret. It was better to let things lie as they were.
In the end, Buffy came up with a solution on her own that made his nerves rest easier. She moved into Giles’s old room because, while smaller, it allotted for the most privacy. And Spike, in turn, moved into the room she had been using. While it did nothing to discourage space between them, Xander was comforted to know that the Slayer’s room had a lock on the door.
The excursion to Longwood was brief but the girls were more than happy to have something else to focus on, even if it was just for a little while. It was one of the most visited houses in Natchez—built by Dr. Haller Nutt for his wife, Julia, and their eight children. However, because of the conflict between the States, the home was never completed and Dr. Nutt died before the war was over. The basement was the only portion of the home that actually looked livable: the rest was brick and wood and all things unmanageable. They learned on the tour that Julia Nutt had sued the government after Lee’s surrender in hopes of completing her would-be palace, but never acquired the needed funding to get the job done.
Willow was particularly interested in the old tools and various containers that were abandoned by the Northern construction workers. And she took five or six pictures of the piano crate that sat in the unfinished parlor.
In the gift shop, Buffy had purchased the diary of Julia Nutt. When Willow looked at her askance—since when did Buffy read?—the Slayer had turned her eyes downward and muttered something about Spike being a dork and liking these places.
Another testament to how things that were previously set in stone could change so quickly. The Witch was learning not to question her friend and her bizarre fixation with her former enemy. What was happening between them was almost inevitable. And it was nice to see her happy.
Besides, if the two ever decided to go public and attempt at a real relationship, Buffy would need support. And she certainly wouldn’t get it from Giles or Xander.
More over, Willow was sick of it. The whole it. She had dated a werewolf and that was acceptable because Oz hadn’t known when he turned into a crazed animal. If he killed, he killed. That was the wolf. And Anya was a former demon turned human. No one had ever handed her a soul to go along with that. In fact, she had tried to get Evil!Vampy!Willow to kill everyone at the Bronze. There was no difference, there. She was still a demon at heart. And Xander was fine with that.
So, if Buffy wanted to mack on Spike, considering their collective records when it came to love, she had her best friend’s blessing.
Besides, when it came down to it, Spike just wasn’t as scary as Angelus. Angelus was big and nasty and a fish-killer. And something told her that Spike would never kill her fish.
Or, more importantly, hurt Buffy. She didn’t know what made her realize that; it was just in his eyes. The way he looked at the Slayer now was all soft and lovey. It was the way Oz used to look at her times a thousand. She had never seen Angel look at Buffy like that. No. Whatever Spike felt, it was more potent than anything her best friend had ever been exposed to.
And eventually, Buffy would know it.
As for her, Willow was too confused to delve through her own feelings. Donna had reluctantly related just enough information about what had transpired the night before for her to piece together the rest. And she couldn’t believe it. Well, she could because Faith was an evil ho-bag, but there was something seriously wrong with the entire scenario.
Something even more so than being used so blatantly for sex. Than being used.
Even still, when the redhead saw the other Slayer again, heads were going to roll. If Faith was under orders from God Himself, she did not care. No one deserved to be put through what Sam had been put through.
The fact that it was Sam made her even angrier.
Right now, everyone was at separate ends. Buffy had immediately retreated to the townhouse following their humdrum search of the last unexplored part of town. From what Willow gathered, her friend had obtained very little sleep the night before, and thus by noon was practically a walking zombie. Which, considering where they were from, wasn’t anything to joke about.
The redhead had walked Buffy to the cottage and barely grazed the front porch before Spike threw open the front door, held out his hand to the sleepy Slayer, and shut them inside with nothing more than a quick nod in her direction. As though thanking her for bringing his girl home safely.
The notion in itself was ridiculous but sweet at the same time.
Willow had returned to the main house where Mrs. Miller handed her a note from Giles. He had barely settled in before calling her so she would come and review certain elements of the book with him and, as a magically inclined individual, offer her expertise. It didn’t surprise her. While the move had seemed like the best idea the minute he proposed it, something told her it would end up doing less good than he was hoping.
No, it didn’t surprise her at all.
What did surprise her was Sam. The hotel was structured for the less-modest spender and rang of classic charm; she could see why Giles liked it. And at the bar he sat. With Sam.
It didn’t take long for either to notice her. The Watcher turned to her after a number of seconds and motioned for her to join them. “Willow,” he greeted. “We might have a problem.”
In Giles-lingo, that meant that the world was falling apart at the seams. She tried not to panic.
And the best way to not-panic was to focus on the cute brunette to the left.
“What…” She blinked and motioned at Sam. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to help.” He offered a weak smile. “Might as well see if I can be useful.”
While she didn’t miss the logic in that, it seemed more than unfair to ask so much of him given that not twenty-four hours had passed since his ordeal. The humanitarian in Willow screamed in protest; a steady cry that wedged up her throat and out her mouth before she could stop herself. “Giles—”
Sam held up a hand, foreseeing her objection with a nod of grateful understanding. “I wanted to come,” he explained. “Toby was moving his things over, and I offered to lend a hand. If I have information that can help, I want to share it…regardless of what has happened.”
The redhead stared at him in wonder, her shoulders relaxing as the weight of protestation abandoned her. Her gaze fogged with admiration. “Oh…I just…I wanted to, you know…make sure…”
The Watcher cleared his throat. “Willow,” he said. “We might want to step aside for a minute. The book that Buffy brought back—”
“It’s okay,” the Witch intervened, eyes not breaking from her objective. “Sam knows.”
“He knows?”
“I know.”
“About me. About…he doesn’t know everything, but he knows that I…I can do things.” She licked her lips and finally looked away with a quick breath. “He knows that I’m a witch.”
Giles blinked at her dumbly. “Excuse me?”
It took less than two seconds to divulge that the older man was less than satisfied with that revelation, and Willow’s tactics changed immediately. She pivoted slightly at the heel and released a short laugh that rang with more than a sting of apprehension. “Yeah.”
“I can’t believe you would be so careless as to—”
“Hey! It was an accident!…and it’s not like we’ve been all that careful.”
Sam shrugged. “She’s got you there.”
“I…” The Watcher let out a deep breath. “Do the others know, or do we need to continue speaking in code? Which—I might add—I am having trouble following.”
Willow shook her head. “I haven’t told them. Sam found out and that was pretty much it. He doesn’t know the other stuff.”
“I haven’t told the others, either.” Sam smiled a bit. “Right now, they’d think I’m crazy. And other stuff?”
There was a secretive glance between the Watcher and Witch.
“Things you’re not ready to know,” the redhead finally decided. “Especially considering…well, everything.”
“Things like how a girl could punch through the hood of a car without flinching?”
Willow perked a brow. “A girl? How about anybody, bucko?”
Sam’s hands came up in a plea for neutrality, and he nodded his mistake with humble recognition. “I’m sorry. That was rude. But she didn’t…she didn’t look like the type of person who could—”
“Does Buffy?”
“Pardon?”
Giles sighed and removed his glasses. “Willow…”
“Does Buffy look like the type of person who could punch through the hood of a car? Does Spike?”
The Deputy Communication’s Director’s eyes widened. “Okay. You’re right. There are some things I am not yet ready to know.” He paused thoughtfully and licked his lips. “Perhaps ever. And if I were you, I’d never, ever tell Josh and Toby.”
“We weren’t planning on it.”
“Willow, the book?” The Watcher expelled another deep breath and flashed her a patented look of irritation when she smiled guiltily and whirled back to him. He had the book on the counter in seconds and gestured to the barstool beside him. “Loathe as I am to admit it, Spike was right. This does merit our attention.”
“What is it?”
“I am not sure. The writing is sporadic and appears to be patched together through several different languages. Latin, Greek, Assyrian…mostly Assyrian, actually.” He removed his glasses as was the norm and leaned forward to pinpoint a specific passage. “See here. The sentence doesn’t make sense if you conjugate that verb according to the Assyrian rules of—”
“Giles.”
He paused, then looked at her slowly. “You don’t know Assyrian, do you?”
Willow offered a wane smile. “Believe it or not, all the good Assyrian professors transferred over to Notre Dame last semester. What a bummer, huh?”
“The President went to Notre Dame,” Sam offered.
“Really?”
“Willow?”
“Right. The book. All ears.” She edged forward in her seat and leaned in to get a better look. “So, language aside, do you know what this is about, or is that what I’m here for?”
“Yes and no,” Giles replied. “The book is a text of spells, rituals, and tributes to several of the ancient gods. The problem is with the translation…and the spells. I have reached a point where I no longer understand what is being said, so I thought it best to turn it over to you. Now…” He waited until she peeled her eyes away from the primordial pages and looked at him. “You are not, under any circumstance, to attempt any of the spells you uncover, even if you think it would be beneficial. That book is not to be trusted.”
“The book itself is not to be trusted?”
“No. I am not convinced that it does not play a greater role in this.” The Watcher let out another heady breath. “It had enough power to drive Buffy out of town to seek it out. And with as much running as she was doing…I do not understand why Faith would have stopped here, of all places.”
Willow froze, her eyes widening. If Giles was suggesting what she thought he was suggesting, they were definitely in over their heads. They had raced unprepared across the country to retrieve a rogue Slayer. Should things be more complicated than that, it could lead to trouble in the worst of ways. “Okay. I’ll look over this—not try any spells—and let you know what I think soon, okay?”
“Thank you.” The elder man paused a moment as though to collect his thoughts, then turned his eyes to Sam. “Mr. Seaborn?”
It took a second, but he snapped back to them quick enough. “Oh. Oh, it’s Sam, Mr…Giles. Just Sam.”
“Very well. And it’s just Giles.”
“Okay.”
“Are you all right with all of this?”
He grinned softly. “I made a point to stop listening when you started speaking about things that I’m not ready to grasp yet.”
“I envy you in that regard. If that is all, I believe I will be retreating upstairs.”
“That’s all. But I don’t think…” Sam paused thoughtfully. “Toby called the motel, though, and she was gone. She has the car, too. Or the car was moved…or something. I don’t know how far that will get you—”
“It’s more than enough. And again—”
The other man held up a hand. “Please. Don’t. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
Willow wet her lips. “Even mine?” That fear had been wracking her brain for the better of the morning. Last night she thought she had driven him off; today she thought that what he had seen had forced him into something that was a thousand times worse. And if that were the case, she would never forgive herself. “You seemed really…zoned after you saw me in the kitchen.”
“I was going to go for a test-drive anyway.” His smile turned reassuring, though it was missing the sparkle she had come to cherish over the past couple days. “Trust me. It wasn’t your fault.”
Giles was gone in a matter of seconds, leaving them to their own devices. While he would never concede it aloud, Willow suspected that Buffy’s absence the night before had been more trying than he wanted to admit. The Slayer had never been considerate when it came to the impact of her impulsiveness on others. And while Giles had long accepted that Buffy would never change, she couldn’t expect him to stop worrying.
Willow trembled a bit and turned her attention to the book. The knowledge that the Watcher was putting a lot of trust in her ability was not lost on her. She had come far in just a couple years; the weight of the obligation was intimidating and more than serious. And of everyone, she was responsible. Responsible for an unholy text recovered from a concealed burial ground and summoned for the purposes of God-knows-what.
Great. Just great. No pressure or anything.
“Are you okay?” Sam asked softly.
The Witch started a bit at the abrupt break into her musings, but offered a wan smile all the same. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
“I’m good,” he replied. Then frowned. “Well, no, I’m not…but that’s okay. I’ll be good sometime. I’m just kind of…” The frown deepened and he set himself into a pliable state of concentration. “Other than last night being what it was…it was just strange.”
“I can imagine.” That and then some. There was no good thing to say to a man that had suffered through what he had suffered through. She was at a loss of words and more than a little disjointed about what she knew. Knowledge was, at times, the great enemy. “So…I, uhh…gotta look through this book.”
“You need me to go away?”
No. And that was the problem.
“It’s in Latin, Assyrian, and Greek all combined.” Willow bit her lip. Ignoring questions was always the best tool when she didn’t want to answer them. “I don’t know any of those languages, much less a mutated mixture…but I do know certain spells within individual dialects, and I think that’s what I’m supposed to be looking for.” She glanced up with a weary sigh. “Do you know Assyrian, perchance?”
“I know a little Latin.”
“Really?”
“Well, the President speaks fluent Latin. And I went to law school…we were required to know Latin in some areas.”
“I didn’t know Latin was spoken.”
Sam grinned softly. “Yeah, neither does he. We’re trying to keep that off his agenda as long as possible. We still have the Mendoza confirmation to get through before he has a senator submit that piece of legislation to Congress.”
Willow nodded, smothering a smile. “Yeah, well. Giles and Wes both know Latin, if Watchers are anything alike.”
“Watchers?”
“Don’t ask. I wonder if Spike would know Assyrian…he’s been around forever.”
There was an audible gulp. “How long has he been around? I’m beginning to understand that you and your friends don’t speak in metaphors.”
“Oh, we do. Just…not the ones you’d think of.” The redhead frowned. “And you don’t want to know with Spike. I’m not sure if that’s something that should be on the desk of the President…although it would make sense, and we do have a problem with these commandos back home and—”
“Willow?”
“Yeah.” She leapt off the barstool as though burned, wiping her hands on her jeans with a small, nervous titter that had Sam smiling in seconds. “I’m—uhhh—gonna go…call Spike and see if he knows Assyrian or Greek. You know…just in case. If not, I guess I’ll be doing this the hard way. But you…watch the book for me?”
He nodded. “Sure.”
“Okay.” And she was gone—bounding off in search of the nearest phone.
Sam watched her as she hurried away, short red hair flopping against her head in a manner that he couldn’t help but find thoroughly adorable. Willow was the sort of person he didn’t get to meet. The sort of person that reminded him of values he oftentimes thought a lost cause. She was bubbly and sweet and idealistic. And she had more power, both in the literal and metaphoric sense, than anyone he had ever encountered.
Save the President, of course.
It took a few minutes, but he was somehow able to tear his eyes away from the corridor she had disappeared down and to the aforementioned book left on the counter. Strange. A book that combined three very different languages into one vernacular had to be worth a peek.
The first passages were in all-out gibberish. Sam hadn’t been lying when he explained that he had taken some Latin. He had. Granted, he wasn’t nearly as educated in the language as the President was, but he knew his way around conjugated verbs and nouns. He knew what alea jacta est meant and often used it when meeting with Republican leadership. The day that Josh came back from his meeting from the Hill and yelled, “Veni vidi vinci!” Sam had stopped to correct his pronunciation.
Despite popular belief, there were times—like now—when Latin came in handy.
“Tuum missio?” He frowned and leaned forward. It would be a day that he had neglected his reading glasses. “No, that can’t be right. Abyssus abyssum invocat… definitely Latin.” There was another break in the phrase that forced him to stop again. Sam released a sigh and neared as close as possible. The Assyrian was coming into play. Along with the Greek, a language that he didn’t understand aside a few choice words.
Choice words that didn’t look like they had any sort of proper pronunciation. But Sam was always up for a challenge. He also needed a project to distract himself from the ever more potent reality that surrounded him. Thus, situating himself comfortably, he released a sigh and began fighting with the words for sound and quality. He had no idea what he was saying, or if he was approaching it in the correct manner, but the drive for perfection egged him forward.
Said drive was always getting him into trouble.
“…tat tvam asi. Es hai'dou. a'idos'de…numen diablolus, es'tô!” He slammed his fist down on the counter and beamed with pride. “I know I got it that time.”
And got it he had. All too well. The sky outside roared with a sudden crash of lightning and the lights flickered in response. Sam licked his lips, overwhelmed by sudden anxiety, and turned his eyes skyward.
“Please oh please let that have been a coincidence.”
*~*~*
It took several attempts to wrangle himself away from the Slayer’s side. She was dozing comfortably now; had practically fallen directly asleep the minute he tucked her into bed. And true, while an hour at best had ticked by since she returned home, he could not bring himself to leave her. Thus, he had dragged a chair from the dining room into her newly acquired living quarters and taken seat at the side of her bed. Watching her. Studying her. In awe of her.
There were many ways that the situation could be worse. At least he knew that he was falling in love with her. At least he recognized it for what it was. Felt that every look she sent his way was another drop of perpetual non-ending in her eyes. He was a sucker—fortune’s fool, but he couldn’t help himself.
And the amazing thing was—the really amazing thing—she felt something, too.
Something big.
Together, they could break down the Walls of Jericho.
There were certain truths to be reckoned with. Conversations to be had. But none of that mattered so long as she was at his side. He had her friendship now, and if she was entirely honest, her affection as well. And he was more than happy to grant her the time she needed. Anything.
Yeah, he was pretty much a sap.
He was also getting decently hungry. While they had stopped at Denny’s, though that was more or less a joke, he had not obtained the certain nutrients that vampires required in order to remain healthy and undead. There was a stack of bagged blood under the sink in the kitchen, but as they were out of clean mugs, he would be making a very cautious trip to the main house.
The past few days had seen a number of changes in Spike’s eating habits. He had noted dutifully while incapacitated in Giles’s bathtub that the notion of drinking blood disgusted the Slayer, but actually seeing it was ten times worse. Bearing that in mind, he was trying to be more considerate of her feelings on the subject by concealing his needed sustenance in closed containers where she could happily pretend he was sipping at coffee rather than warm gooey goodness.
Humans didn’t like blood. He remembered not liking blood as a human. And since Buffy was very much a human, he was making his best effort to be mindful of her sentiment.
Even if she was asleep now and would never know the difference. It was better to make and keep the habit, especially since it wasn’t yet a habit.
Spike stood with some reluctance and neared her bedside. Watching her enjoy her peace was a moment of stolen intimacy, but—he figured with a small grin—turnabout was fair play.
Very fair.
The vampire drew in a shuddering breath and brushed her hair from her forehead before leaning in to caress her skin with his lips. “Sweet dreams be yours, luv,” he murmured. “’F dreams there be. Sweet dreams to carry you close to me.”
Buffy murmured a bit and stretched, but did not awaken. And he had to leave the room before he let himself wither away for the sight of her.
Though mid-afternoon, the sky was overcast—damn near menacing—and thus allowed him to travel from the cottage to the main house without relying on his duster or a blanket to shield him. He came crashing in through the back and wandered seamlessly through the dark. He set the microwave for forty-five seconds, as that seemed a good sturdy number, and was enjoying his second mugful when a familiar scent hit the air.
Two seconds before it presented an equally familiar face.
Spike quirked a brow and licked his lips, lowering the mug and hoping the dark would appropriately conceal its content. Seemed logical enough. The git was only human. “Curly,” he acknowledged dryly with a nod.
Josh had frozen in the doorway and was staring at him blankly.
The vampire frowned. “Whatsa matter? Run outta blokes upstairs to annoy?”
There was nothing. Nothing at all.
“’Lo, anyone home?” Nothing. “What the bleedin’ hell? You finally go off the…” It hit him out of nowhere. A universal truth established before time began. Something that he had known too long without consideration to stop when it was needed the most. Something that was too a part of him to apologize for, regardless of the circumstances.
Vampires tended to show their true skin when they ingested what they needed to ingest.
That and some of his lunch was dribbling down his chin.
Josh was still staring at him, completely frozen.
In defeated verification, Spike raised a hand to feel at his forehead. Yep, sure enough. Bumpies were there. Bumpies, fangs, blood, the works.
“Oh, balls.”
Cue screaming.
TBC