“I swear to God, if they make me do one more location spell before this trip is through, I’m going to turn them all into newts.”

Willow expelled a deep, tremulous sigh as she flopped down onto the settee in the main parlor. It occurred to her fleetingly that such candor and disrespect for the furniture was something she would have once looked down upon, but the Wensel House had nearly become home. The dazzling interior no longer had any supreme effect on her, the novelty having worn off for something less than remarkable. She was somewhat disappointed with herself in that regard. The house was not something to familiarize herself with; it was one of the Natchez treasures and was not to be domesticated, especially by guests. However, what was done was done. For now it was home; at home, she flopped onto sofas without a second thought.

There was a short laugh. She glanced up and met Sam’s eyes and, as was rapidly becoming habitual, found her insides melting into all sorts of warm gooey goodness. He was such a doll. A soft cuddly teddy bear, only the kind she wanted to do more with than cuddle. It was so strange; she had never envisioned having these sorts of feelings for a man that was not Oz. With Oz, it had been an all-the-way-going-to-get-married-someday little girl fairytale that she had never wanted to end. And true, while Willow was certainly sensible enough to recognize that most high school romances ended in tears and separation, it was different with Oz. They were different. Sunnydale was not made for normalcy, and thus she held herself and her friends on a higher platform than regional schools across the country. It was amazing to find someone at all, much less someone that she had loved with the extensive fervor of Oz.

Sam was not Oz, and she did not want him to be. She wanted him to be Sam. The cute, bumbling intellect from Washington DC that had wormed his way into her heart when she was not looking. They flirted, they talked, they spent most of their time together. They were aware of what was being said about them, but never made an issue of it. Never referred to it directly.

A move had not been made. She knew that he liked her—he oftentimes wore that giddily boyish ‘I’ve gotta crush on you’ grin whenever they traded stories or enjoyed lines of seemingly flawless banter. The fact that he had a decade and a half’s worth more experience refused to faze her—granted, the age thing was probably more an issue for him than for her. She came from the world where sixteen year olds got into relationships with men one or two centuries older; fifteen years, give or take, was nothing in the long run.

They had not discussed it, though. They had not mentioned her age, or geographical complications, or anything that would suggest the flirtation would extend into a bona fide relationship once the current apocalypse had been stopped in the manner per norm. And true, while Willow was not expecting a marriage proposal when they had not so much as shared a first kiss, she thought it reasonable to want to know if this was going to end up being something or nothing at all.

“Do location spells usually work?” he asked. “Or are your friends just being stubborn?”

“Oh no, they usually work.” She smiled wanly. “I usually have the right ingredients. For some reason, Natchez, Mississippi doesn’t seem to be big on the pagan/witchcraft thing.”

“You’d think they would be,” he replied. “Being so close to New Orleans, and all.”

“Not terribly close.”

He frowned, as though the answer was unacceptable. “I’m sure if you got off exit 3B and took the—”

Willow grinned. Despite all else, he was damn adorable. She held up a hand. “Sam, you’re doing that thing again.”

He stopped and grinned sheepishly. “Right,” he said. “The thing.”

They settled for a few minutes in companionable silence, studying the carpet and drape scheme that had so rapidly settled in as a second home. Really, for everything else, the redhead was becoming as familiar and comfortable with Natchez as she was with Sunnydale. Granted, a big evil was just enough to make anyone feel right at home, but there was something indisputably comforting about having a room to come home to at the end of every day. Looking forward to mornings even if each passing one edged them even closer to another apocalypse.

“Have you seen Buffy today?” Sam asked spontaneously. “I would imagine she’s not having a very pleasant morning. Well, granted, I think Spike will likely do whatever he can to take care of her. He’s a nice guy, you know. Kind of a bully, but a nice guy. He really reminds me a lot of Josh.”

Willow frowned. “What?”

“Sure they’re priorities are not exactly attuned, but Spike seems confident and egocentric to me—though from what I saw last night, likely also a bit on the softie side. That’s something Josh would kill me for telling you, but I don’t think he—”

“Sam, what are you talking about? What happened last night?”

There was another break. He looked at her askance. “Oh,” he said. “So you haven’t talked with Buffy today.”

“I’ve been with you all day today. Did we go talk to Buffy?”

He searched her eyes questioningly as though unsure of the answer, himself. “No?”

“Right. The chances of my having a conversation with her while not having spoken to her are not of the great. What happened last night?”

At that, he fidgeted with discomfort. The picture of a disobedient child that had run his mouth when warned about the consequences from an overbearing parental figure. “If she hasn’t told you yet, I shouldn’t—”

Willow rolled her eyes. “If it’s that she’s danced to the tune of the funky monkey with Spike, I’m not exactly dropping my jaw. Th-though I do wonder why she would’ve told you and not me.” A frown creased her lips. “Why did she tell you and not me? She doesn’t even know you. And hey! Best friend here. You’d think she—”

“She hasn’t danced to…any tune with Spike. Unless they go dancing regularly and I completely mistook that for an analogy.”

“Well, I’ve known Buffy to dance, but I don’t think she and Spike—.” The redhead cut off abruptly, eyes falling shut. “We just got off the exit ramp, Mister. What’s going on? What happened?”

Sam fidgeted a minute more before releasing a tempered sigh and shrugging. “What the hell?” he asked the room rhetorically. “It’s not like they’re going to be talking to me anytime soon, anyway. Buffy evidently got a little intoxicated last night at one of the bars Under The Hill. I’m guessing she and Spike have had a fight or some sort of disagreement, because…well…”

“Oh God. She didn’t stake him, did she?”

There was a long, blank silence. “What? No. No, she didn’t stake him. God, would she stake him for just having a disagreement? And does she use actual stakes, or is that just Californian slang for kill?”

“She’s a vampire slayer…you know the old ‘stake through the heart’ thing?”

He winced and covered his own heart out of reflex. “Ouch.”

“Well, not for you. No ouchies unless you get some major vamp neck. What happened last night? Buffy got drunk and she…” Willow’s eyes went wide. “Oh no. Did he…? Did Spike? That’s it. I am so opening up a can of medieval on his shiny white hiney. That little—”

Sam threw his hands up. “Spike didn’t do anything,” he said. “Actually, that’s why I know about this. From what I can tell, Buffy came back last night after drinking and decided that she wanted to…progress to the next level in her relationship with Spike. I don’t think he was strong enough to fend her off himself, so he called me.”

“He called you?”

“Well, me and Josh.”

“He called you and Josh.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t he call me?”

Sam shrugged. “I guess he didn’t want to embarrass Buffy.”

“So instead of calling the magic wielding best friend, he calls some of the most influential people on the President of the United States’ payroll to help him get away all unmolested from the Slayer?” Willow shook her head. “Yeah, because sense is being had in that scenario.”

“Well, if we get out of this alive, she won’t have to look at us every day for the rest of her life,” he explained reasonably. “You, she would have to see all the time.”

“Trust me, getting drunk and flinging herself at a vampire is not exactly Buffy’s biggest mistake.”

“It wasn’t her choice, Willow. Spike’s the one who made the call.”

“It was a stupid call.”

“I am not going to take a stance in this one way or another.”

They were quiet for a minute longer. The Witch sighed and sank back into the cushions of the chaise lounge. “Donna slept with Wes,” she said a minute later. Then she frowned. “Oh God, I’m channeling Anya.”

“Donna slept with Wes?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me. We are kinda roomies now, you know.”

Sam sighed and tossed his head back. “Well, now I know what I’m going to be doing for the rest of the day,” he said.

“What?”

“Counseling Josh. He gets in moods when Donna has a new boyfriend.”

“Oh, I don’t think Donna and Wes are gonna become a thing. She was kinda wigged about it and didn’t really act like she thought it was a step in the positive direction.” Willow shrugged, then looked up with interest. “Why would Josh care? Is he—”

Sam held up a hand and shook his head. “It’s a thing with them,” he replied. “Don’t ask. They’ve been dancing around it since he hired her, quite frankly. And if I know either of them, they’ll be dancing around it still for years to come.”

“So it’s a thing that’s not a thing.”

“Precisely.” He sighed. “Kinda like us, when you think about it.”

The world stopped with those words. Willow blinked, unsure if they had been real or imagined out of a dreary line of wishful thinking.

“Only I am mentioning it,” Sam continued, his voice oddly businesslike. “I am taking charge of this.”

“You’re taking charge?”

“Yes.”

“Of…what?”

“Of us. Quite frankly, I don’t want to be like Josh and Donna. I don’t want to be a wasted opportunity for something more than we are. If there is something between us, I say we take charge.” He looked at her sheepishly then, as though just realizing the words that had escaped his mouth. “If that’s all right with you. This isn’t like you’re my boss’s daughter or a call girl or an ex-fiancée who, quite frankly, didn’t like me very much. You’re a witch.”

“I’m a witch,” she echoed, still unsure if this conversation was actually happening.

“And you’re quite young, which I would have had a problem with if you weren’t so…well, you’re Willow.”

“I’m Willow.”

He smiled fondly; if he registered how exceedingly nervous the turn in the conversation was making her, he didn’t build an issue out of it. “You’re Willow,” he said again. “And I’m finding that having Willow around makes my life a little brighter.” A pause. “Even with the impending apocalypse that I will inevitably assume full responsibility for before this is through.”

She blinked. What he was saying was completely and utterly surreal. “So you’re taking charge.”

“I am taking charge.”

“You want us to be a thing?”

Sam’s smile grew wider. “You’re starting to sound like me,” he said. “In case you haven’t noticed, ‘thing’ is pretty much the universal euphemism where we come from.”

“I think it’s pretty much the universal euphemism,” she replied nervously. “A-and, hello, you’ve always sounded like me, so it’s not like my…like it’s a…”

“Thing?”

“No, I—”

“You talk too much.”

“So do you!”

“Yes, well, I am trying to rectify that now.” Then, before she knew what was happening, Sam had gently cupped her cheeks, drawing her into the tenderest kiss of her lifetime. The feel of him was soft, sweet and exploratory. As though he was unsure of what she would do; unsure of himself. That bumbling Seaborn quality she had come to adore. A man with the world at his feet and nothing to fear, quivering against her in a kiss that would remain with her as one of the most memorable moments she had captured. That she possessed to enjoy.

When they pulled apart, it took a minute for Willow to find herself. She was dazed, and more than a little swept off her feet. “S-so,” she said, licking her lips. “You’re taking charge, huh?”

He smiled. “I’m taking charge.”

That was a good thing, because after that kissage, there was no way she was letting him or his lips go again.

“Okay.” Willow released a deep breath as his mouth neared hers once more. “I can live with that.”

*~*~*

The room was spinning. She hadn’t even opened her eyes, and the room was spinning. One of those fast spins that often served as the culprit of many tumbles. She was clawing for balance even before the first waves of conscious could tumble into being. Her head felt like someone had kicked her brains in, and there was an uncomfortably massive sensation of nausea playing football with her insides.

A few minutes passed before she felt she could attempt to broach the line between sleep and wakefulness any more than she already had. Her mind raced against her body’s will, trying to remember exactly what she had consumed the night before and just how much of it. And what she might have done to thoroughly embarrass herself as a result.

There was movement in the room, then. Suddenly. Movement followed by the sense of a comforting presence. Buffy relaxed into the overbearing sense of protective affection even before he pressed the warm washcloth to her forehead, tilting the mattress with his weight as he sat down beside her.

“Hey,” he said softly, running his hand through her hair.

“Hey,” she replied, reaching for the wrist that held the washcloth at her brow to rub loving circles into his skin. “What happened?”

“Think you drank yourself under the table last night, pet,” he murmured. “’S gonna be a miracle ‘f the pub has any goods to give the public t’night.”

“I remember there being booze.”

There was a brief pause. “Do you remember anythin’ else?”

“No. Just booze and then blah.” Buffy drew in a breath and decided to brave it. She opened her eyes to meet Spike’s heavy gaze, troubled and saddened but not misplaced. He looked more concerned for her than anything else. “Did you have to come get me, or did I find my way back?”

A gulp at that. “You found your way back, baby. Anythin’ after that? You don’ remember?”

She pursed her lips in thought. There were flashes here and there and an odd sense that she needed to be very embarrassed when it came to looking Sam in the eye today, but other than that, nothing particularly scandalous came to mind. “No,” she said. “Not a thing. Why? Did I do something? Oh God, I did something, didn’t I? Dammit. This is why Buffy and liquor are nonmixy things. I knew I—”

The smile of reassurance that crossed Spike’s face was forced at best. He removed the washcloth the next minute despite her murmur of protest, then gestured to the nightstand. “Wager you have a bad headache, sweetling,” he said. “Donna an’ I ran out this mornin’ to get some provisions. Thought you might like some aspirin.”

That was sweet, but her mind could do nothing but pick out the objectionable portion of that statement. “You and Donna?”

Spike’s lips twitched with a grin. “Well, she offered, kitten, but she still smelled a li’l too much like Wesley to strike my fancy.”

Buffy pouted. She knew she was being ridiculous, but there was an ever-present nasty voice that reminded her that she was no one’s first choice. And for some reason, it oftentimes adapted the peroxide vampire’s tenor.

To his credit, he was very good at reading her mind. His eyes softened accordingly, and he brushed a few wayward strands of hair from her forehead before leaning down to caress her skin with his lips. “Also,” he said, “she had this annoyin’ quality that I din’t exactly take a likin’ to.”

“Besides smelling like Wes?”

“Yeh. An’ bein’ completely an’ nauseatin’ly head over for Curly.” He sighed and shook his head. “Bloody dish like that could do so much better than that wanker.”

“Hey! With the comfort and the—”

Spike rolled his eyes good-naturedly, but his entire demeanor was still a couple shines off its regular glow. She knew there was a lot to talk through, still, but found his bedside presence to be comforting. At least they were getting past the awkwardness of yesterday and approaching the boundary of reasonability.

At least she thought so. The shiftiness in his gaze was making her uncomfortable.

“She’s not you, you daft bint,” he said, and all else fell to the wayside.

It didn’t last long, though. The moments of stolen tenderness in the wake of a hangover and a sun that looked to be setting. Strange. She had slept the day through. That almost never happened.

“Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?”

Spike shrugged simply. “You needed rest.”

“An entire day?”

“’F Rupes had unlocked the mystery behind our impendin’ doom, I would’ve woken you up, all right? Seein’ as he din’t, I figured havin’ a well-rested Slayer was more important than you gettin’ out there for more meaningless daytime patrollin’.” A long sigh heaved off his shoulders, and he was up the next minute. “’ve got some coffee brewin’, an’ if you know what’s good for you, you’ll drink it. It’ll make the hangover more tolerable.” There was another brief pause. “’m gonna go,” he said abruptly. “Run a quick patrol for you then head over to the Eola to see ‘f Rupes has anythin’ he feels he needs to share.”

Buffy frowned and kicked her legs over the side of the bed. “Well, hold on. If you wait a minute, I can—”

“Fall back down again?” he asked rhetorically, and interminably well-timed as a dizzy wave decided to strike at that exact moment. “’m not lettin’ you go out there with a bloody lot of buruburus runnin’ around.”

“Spike, it might’ve been just the one—”

“Might bein’ the operative word there.”

“And if I go with, it wouldn’t be like it was two nights ago.”

“You’re right, ‘cause you’re not goin’. Get used to people carin’ about you, Slayer. ‘F you have me around, you’re gonna get taken care of. I’m not like the Scoobs—I can hold my own.” He looked at her for another long moment before parading across the room to brush another kiss across her forehead. “Jus’ stay here an’ rest. You deserve a night off.”

“I’ve taken a day off.”

Spike chuckled. “You must be the only person alive that objects to a spontaneous holiday. I’ll be back in later, sweetling. Get some rest.”

And then he was gone. Moving faster than she had ever seen him move. The slam of the front door sliced through her brain like a silver bullet. Buffy groaned and flopped back to the mattress. That vampire had to be the most annoying entity on the face of the planet. She was so sick of not talking about what was between them. It was time to throw everything on the table and kick consequences upside the head if they tried to interfere.

There was something about his demeanor, though. He seemed edgy today. Nervous, withdrawn, but trying very much to be himself.

Buffy released another sigh and tried once more to get up. She glanced around the room wearily as though daring the hand of God to knock her back down again. Being sickly wasn’t of the fun, especially when she had sacred duties to uphold. Perhaps, despite all the aggravation in such an admittance, he was right in that regard.

Her eyes landed on the meds he had placed at her disposal; right next to the book she kept forgetting to give him. The same text she bought at Longwood during one of her daytime patrols with Willow—the one right after her overnight adventure with the vampire in question. Trapped about a hundred miles south in the rumored most haunted house in America. His cute interest in the old homes manifest in her mind; she bought it then because he hadn’t been able to come with her that day, and had forgotten to fork it over every day thereafter.

The scent of coffee hit the air. With another sigh, Buffy snatched the pills along with the book and obediently followed her nose. Perhaps reading some nineteenth century sleep-machine was just what the doctor ordered in getting her thoughts away from their present course.

It wasn’t until she made it to the kitchen that the first wave of remembrance hit her. Out of nowhere a doorway opened and all her secrets tumbled out. The night, what had happened—what she had done—everything put on the table for agonizing retrospection. A flash of stumbling through the door with a one-track mind. Catching the relief in Spike’s eyes before he fell to anxiety all over again. Watched herself while standing to the side. Watched him catch her as she started to fall.

Buffy’s hand froze mid-air, quivering with the weight of the coffee pot. Her eyes went wide.

“Oh my God.”

She stretched and stumbled, replacing the pot onto the burner before she had a catastrophe. Her hands clutched at the counter. The book fell to her feet as the room started spinning all over again.

God, how could she have done that to him? Put him in that position? Asked him to…

“Oh God.”

It was a wonder he could even look at her this morning, and no wonder that he didn’t want her on patrol with him.

Wanted to be as far away as possible.

“Oh. Oh God.”

Buffy turned slowly and slid to the floor, her heart pounding. Things were just too messed up now to even begin to sort through.

And still, she couldn’t get one image out of her mind. Stuck there on infinite repeat. Spike watching her enter the house and start to fall. He had leapt forward to catch her. Even when she was at her worst, he was still there to catch her.

And something told her, regardless, that he always would be.

*~*~*

Spike was already well on the road to complete mental abstraction when the bell above the bar door chimed and Josh Lyman walked in. It might as well have been timed; they took one look at each other and released near-identical groans of aggravation. Just as bloody well, though. And damn near predictable. There weren’t many pubs in Natchez to begin with: the likelihood of them selecting the same one were favorable odds.

Annoyance gave way to cynicism, and finally to amusement. Spike shook his head and rumbled a low, grave chuckle. For one night, though, it didn’t seem to matter. Any of it. The fact that they weren’t the best of friends and likely would never be. Former grudges shoved aside for the want of nothing at all. They were weary—that much was more than clear, but nothing else could stand in the way of a night of forgotten sobriety.

“What’s the matter, Curly?” the vampire sneered, edging over and motioning to the empty barstool next to him. “Come to drink your sorrows away?”

Josh perked a brow but did not contest. He took the opposing stool and shrugged off his jacket. “No, I’m in a bar alone because I feel so good about myself,” he retorted. “Same to you, I expect?”

Spike snorted again, examining his shot glass wryly. “’m in a bar alone ‘cause it’s dark, dank, an’ there are lots of blokes in here with death wishes.” He released a long sigh and tossed his head back with another drink. “’Sides, the Slayer’s temporary amnesia’s gonna go the way of the dodo soon. I try to make habit of not bein’ where I’m most likely to get staked.”

The other man’s brows arched accordingly. “You think your girlfriend would kill you because you didn’t take advantage of her in a drunken stupor last night? Man, you guys sure do play rough, don’t you?”

There was another dry chuckle at that. The vampire’s eyes never left the tumbler in his hand. “You don’ know the Slayer,” he replied simply. “She’s a bit unpredictable.”

“Yeah, I hate that in a woman.”

Spike gave him a look; Josh grinned and shrugged, making himself comfortable and motioning for the barkeep to serve him a share of whatever his makeshift drinking pal was indulging.

“We don’ get chocolates an’ kittens,” he said a minute later after they had toasted to nothing. “’S not easy when you’re undead an’ your girl’s the one chosen to end the lot of your kind.”

“Yeah, that would put a hamper on things.”

“An’ she’s been doin’ a right job of muckin’ with my head from the bloody start. She knows what she wants, she jus’ doesn’ want to want it.”

Josh snickered. “I don’t think that’s Slayers. I think that’s women.”

Spike grinned and toasted to that. They drank, refilled, and drank again.

“So why are you here, mate?” the vampire asked a minute later. “Decide to become a recluse like that bloke that decided he was better suited for outta sight, outta mind?”

“Toby doesn’t deal with being out of charge very well.”

“Yeh, an’ you got a right knack for it.”

Josh’s brows arched. “I can hold my own with the best of them.”

“Wouldn’t last two seconds in my circle.”

“Well, that’s because your circle is—oh right—demonic.”

Spike threw his hands up in the air. “You’re the politician, here.”

“Right. All politicians are bloodsucking fiends. How stunningly original.”

“You said it, mate.” The Cockney tossed him a careless grin and motioned to the bartender for another round. “So why’re you really here?” he asked. “Rupes ‘s doin’ all the research. Haven’t seen the whelp or his bird in an age, though I reckon Anya’s bein’ kept by the Watchers to make sure they don’ misinterpret demontalk for somethin’ else. Prissy an’ Red are still hittin’ it off, right?”

“Yeah. And when in God’s name did this trip become a matchmaking game for the freaks and geeks?” Josh collapsed his head tiredly into his waiting arms. “I’m still trying to grasp onto the reality that I was actually here to do something that made sense. Well, 197 didn’t make sense, but the reason behind it did. It was supposed to be a minimal thing, and now it’s gotten so fucking far out of control that I don’t know what’s real or not anymore.”

There was a self-righteous chortle. “Welcome to the jungle,” Spike retorted, lifting his glass to his lips.

“That Giles guy keeps saying this thing is bad. Well, what the hell are we doing just waiting around?”

“Can’t go anywhere, can we?” The vampire shook his head. “You don’ know the way the Scoobs work, mate. They complain, they tire, they waste time, they shag the wrong blokes, the world starts to end, an’ they save it in the knick of everythin’. Rupert’s gettin’ as much info as he can. He jus’ seems to have forgotten that he can’t speak demon an’ that he’s not on the Watcher’s payroll anymore. Meanwhile, you got that bloody Faith bird out there, doin’ god-knows-what to god-knows-who.” There was a long, agitated sigh. “All I’ve got outta this deal is knowin’ that we’re dealin’ with the god Quirinias, an’ that I had to wheedle outta Donna.”

Josh snapped to attention at the mention of his assistant. “Donna?”

“Went out for provisions this mornin’.” Spike paused and rolled his eyes. “Don’ gimme that look. I din’t touch her, an’ you bloody well know it. She’s cute, I’ll grant you, but she doesn’ hold a candle to the Slayer.”

“Yes she does! She holds many…candles!”

The vampire’s eyes twinkled at that, and he cooed condescendingly. “What’s this?”

“Nothing.”

“Somebody is jealous,” he singsonged.

“I am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not!” Josh held up a hand. “Donna can sleep with whoever she wants.”

Spike’s brows perked. “’S that so?”

“Absolutely.” There was another pause. “She just has to give me fair warning so I can do everything I can to sabotage it.”

“Right. An’ that’s in no way a sign of jealousy.”

“I swear to you, jealousy is not a factor in this. I just happen to know Donna and the way she is with whatever Republican gomer she’s decided to indulge in a relationship that will go nowhere.” He paused. “She has a history of leaving me without an assistant just so she can come back in a few months because it didn’t work out.”

“With as much of a wanker as he is, I really don’ think you can call Messy Wes a Republican,” Spike retorted. “An’ let’s take a look at that, shall we? You’re not jealous, but you’re afraid of the bird leavin’ you for some other bloke. You must have an interestin’ way of definin’ words, Curly.”

“Donna’s irreplaceable.” He shrugged. “I don’t want to go through the process of trying to find someone who could do the job half as well as she does if she decided to leave, for whatever reason.”

The vampire’s eyes narrowed. “An’ she really has a habit of jus’ walkin’ out ‘cause her current flame tells her to?”

“Just the once, and I don’t wanna chance it again.”

“Right. An’ I s’pose you’re bein’ here, drinkin’ your sorrows away, has nothin’ to do with the fact that your irreplaceable assistant got her brains shagged out by one of our sideshow attractions.” Spike snickered and shook his head. “You give denial a whole other meanin’.”

“And you’re here, why?”

“’Cause of Buffy an’ her endless game of fucking with my head.” Off the look he received, the vampire chuckled dryly and reached for his cigarettes. “Hey, at leas’ I’ll admit to bein’ love’s bitch. I keep fallin’ for the birds that’ll never love me back. So why’re you here, then? Your assistant got shagged by someone who wasn’ you, an’ now you’ve decided to get pissed over it.”

Josh stared at him incredulously. “Believe me, if I got drunk every time Donna hooked up with some joke that she has no future with, I wouldn’t have a job.” He paused. “How’d you even know she’d slept with Wes?”

Spike pointed deftly to his nose. “Vamps have heightened senses all across the board, mate,” he retorted. “How’d you know?”

“’Cause I know Donna, and I know the way she acts the morning after. There being only four guys in the Wensel House, myself excluded, enforcing the process of elimination wasn’t exactly difficult. Besides, they were gone all day together yesterday and Wes is the only one of us with a room to himself.”

The vampire batted off another grin and tapped his cigarette against the provided ashtray. “Wish you could hear yourself talkin’,” he said. “It’d be bloody amusin’.”

“This is not a jealousy thing.”

His hands came up. “All right, all right. ‘F you say so.”

“I do.”

“Then by God, it must be true.” Spike purposefully ignored the heated look he received in turn and motioned for the barkeep to refill their drinks. “Keep it comin’, Charlie. The night’s still young.”

*~*~*

If she tore her eyes away from the page, she was nearly convinced the words would melt away as though they never were.

It was one of those moments that Buffy was sure was not her own—a moment that belonged to someone else. A moment that she had stolen by mistake. Looking at the worn page from a book that did not look like it should have any wear. It wasn’t an anthology or anything—she hadn’t spent a ridiculous amount of money on something for Spike so early in their relationship. This was a book bought for less than ten dollars. It was meant to be nothing.

The Diary of Julia Nutt, paperback edition. Something only the residents of this town would want. Would need. And yet, something so personal involved. Her mind raced; trying to decipher if, perhaps, this could tie in with the overbearing reason they had been drawn to Natchez. But no—she couldn’t think of anything. And it didn’t feel like anything more. It felt natural, if not a little off.

A keeper for the family during times of war, the diary read. A man from England that had arrived with a freighter from New Orleans. A man with a family back home that he would never see. A man that died of yellow fever.

William Sinclair Bennet.

And in her hand—her hand—she held a documentation of his last words.

It was a moment that did not belong to her.

*~*~*

Amazing what retrospect a few shots of liquor and the comfort of apathetic company could bring to the table.

Really, as long as they didn’t remember this in the morning, it would be fine. Somehow, the conversation had gone from jealousy, to demons, to famous demons, to demons in movies, to movies, and finally landed on a recitation of the greatest movies of all time.

Tie that in with the atmosphere of a drunken country bar, and it brought them in a roundabout way to where they were now.

“Rollin' rollin' rollin',” Spike sang heartily. “Though the streams are swollin'. Keep them doggies rollin', rawhide!”

“Rain and wind and weather,” Josh answered, just as inebriated. “Hell bent for leather.”

The vampire toasted his glass. “Wishing...my girl was by my side. All the things I'm missin'—”

“Good bulls, love and kissin',” the other man added drunkenly. “Are waiting at the end of my ride.”

Spike slammed his mugful—having gone from shots to mugs—onto the table heartily. “Move ‘em on.”

“Head ‘em up,” Josh answered.

“Head ‘em up.”

“Move ‘em on.”

“Move ‘em on, head ‘em up—Rawhide.” The vampire shook his head. “Cut ‘em out.”

“Ride ‘em in,” came the reply.

“Ride ‘em in.”

“Cut ‘em out.”

And then, finally, together as a lasting toast to drunken stupor, they clinked their glasses together and concluded, “Cut 'em out, ride 'em in, rawhide! Rawhide!”

Spike and Josh had not made any friends in their drunken stints—especially from the local brutes whose eyes were trained studiously on the small television that had three channels to speak of: sports, sporting, and football—but for all the world, they did not care. When the bartender told them to keep it down, the vampire had replied, “Oh, bite me!” and initiated a new round of drinks and jokes.

When there was nothing else in the world to laugh at, drinks were all that was needed. A liquid pain-reliever for all the reality that surrounded them now.

Something that kept them from going back.

It seemed everyone had something to drink about nowadays.

“Barkeep,” Spike grumbled, motioning for another round. “Whassat I told you ‘bout the bottom of this glass?”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Josh said randomly, eyes fixated on the liquid as it pooled in the Cockney’s mug.

“Hold on there, mate. Gettin’ you another drink.”

“It was probably the Rawhide,” a local sneered, jousted by his friends in support.

The vampire smirked, but reached over to help the other man anyway. “Don’ be passin’ out yet,” he said, finishing off his drink with the other hand. “We’re gonna do shots now, right?”

“The room’s spinning.” He peeked an eye open. “Did I mention I have a very sensitive system?”

That was the last Josh Lyman got out for the evening. He toppled over the barstool and landed on the ground, oblivious to the world around him.

Spike looked at him dumbly for a long minute, then raised his eyes back to the bartender.

“’ll have another,” he said.

Anything was better than the alternative. Waiting here as though the world did not exist. His hazed mind did not want to consider the petite blonde waiting for him at the townhouse. Not with her drunken stint the last night and his answer to her encore.

No. Much better to stay here. The Deputy Chief of Staff for the President of the United States passed out at his feet. Himself perched on a stool, eyeing a glass of liquid poison.

Drowning away in misery.


TBC

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chapter 28

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