Chapter Forty-Seven




“Okay, home pregnancy test I know. What’s a PPD?”

Xander looked around the Magic Box’s reading table, clearly hoping for an explanation from one of his friends. However, they all looked as confused as he felt.

Willow had waited an admirable four days before finally telling the others about her conversation with Angel. Like any good friend, she had wanted to talk to Buffy before she mentioned it to anyone else, in order to get the story firsthand. For all Willow knew, Angel might have been mistaken. Or, maybe he was just speaking out of annoyance or concern. It was impossible to tell, and Willow certainly hadn’t wanted to alarm the others until she had all the facts. The only problem was that she couldn’t talk to Buffy about it, because Buffy refused to talk.

Since the afternoon she smashed the hall mirror, Buffy had become even more reclusive, keeping to her room most of the day and emerging only when she knew no one else was home. She’d turned avoidance into something of an art form, and Willow hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of her for days. She kept her bedroom door locked, and refused to admit anyone who knocked on it. By now at her wit’s end, Willow didn’t know what else to do besides tell the others. Now, they were all just as bewildered as she was.

After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Giles suddenly stepped out of his office. He moved awkwardly, because his arms were laden with a number of antique books that threatened to slip from his grasp. Xander hurried across the room to help him.

“A PPD is a test used to determine if a person is suffering from tuberculosis,” he explained as they walked to the table. He was looking at Xander, but addressing them all. His voice sounded weary.

“Okay…so Angel is saying that Buffy has TB?” Anya asked. “I thought slayers can’t get sick.”

“They can,” answered Giles, as he dumped his books onto the tabletop. “Though it is highly unlikely, given their superior immune systems. No, I think Angel was using it as an indication of where Buffy has been, rather than an expression of genuine concern.”

“We know where she’s been,” argued Willow. “She was sent to another dimension.”

“I think not.”

Giles opened one of the worn leather volumes and turned its brittle yellow pages until he found what he was looking for. Then, he shoved the book to the middle of the table so they could all see the faded picture that accompanied the text—a sepia image of an unfamiliar, dark-haired woman wearing an old-fashioned dress.

“Does this look familiar?”

Xander, Willow, and Anya looked at each other, clearly not seeing the connection. But Tara drew in her breath and spoke for the first time that evening.

“It looks like the dress Buffy was wearing when she came back.”

“They are remarkably similar,” Giles agreed with a nod. “This one is slightly less ornate, darker in color; but they are a very good match. And—” he stabbed his finger at the tiny line of letters below the picture “—note the caption.”

All eyes fell to it, and Xander read aloud, “Margaret Sewell. May, 1880.” He looked up sharply. “I don’t get it. What’s this got to do with Buffy?”

“The book is a chronicle of the Victorian era,” the Watcher replied. “Specifically, that of London—a town plagued by disease during the latter part of the century. Typhus, influenza…and tuberculosis.”

“And probably with unwanted pregnancy, as well,” Tara added. “I mean, without birth control—”

“Oh, they had birth control,” Anya said complacently. “There were condoms made of animal intestines. Only, they were expensive and didn’t work too well. You had to tie them on with string and the smell was—”

“Okay, let’s say she was sent back to the past,” Willow interrupted quickly. “Why would that mean she needs a pregnancy test? I mean, TB I get…she could probably catch that from anywhere during that time. But Buffy would never have—uh—she’d never—”

“You mean have sex,” finished Anya. “I don’t see why she wouldn’t—they did do that back then, you know. It’s not exactly a new concept.”

“No, Willow is right,” Xander hastened to say. “Buffy isn’t the kind of person who’d do that…have an affair with some unwashed stranger during a time-warp.”

“Unless she had to,” Tara pointed out. The others looked at her in surprise, and she added even more softly, “What I mean is…what if she needed to do that in order to survive? She did end up in a strange place, in a strange time. She had no money and no means of getting any. Most women didn’t really work back then, right? And the ones who did were bakers and seamstresses, or maids. Buffy wouldn’t know how to do a lot of that stuff…she wouldn’t know where to go…”

“Are you implying she was a prostitute?” Xander sounded outraged, but his girlfriend piped up:

“Well, it is the world’s oldest profession.”

“I’m not saying she was a prostitute! It’s just…suppose she did get a job as a maid. A lot of men back then would take advantage of their hired help. If Buffy didn’t go along with it, she probably would have been thrown out. Without a job, a home, or references, where would she go? So, maybe she just went with it…maybe she didn’t have a choice.”

Xander and Willow looked stricken by the thought, but Giles’ eyes were thoughtful, almost hard.

“She had a choice,” he said grimly.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




Buffy pressed her ear against the slick wood surface of her bedroom door and listened intently. It had become routine for her, the careful reconnaissance before she dared to venture downstairs. She wasn’t avoiding her friends so much as their questions and their curious eyes, the gentle, probing way they attempted to extract information from her. And, most of all, their clumsy offers of solace. They thought she had been somewhere horrible; they thought it had scarred her. She couldn’t very well tell them otherwise; yet maintaining the façade was exhausting and almost too painful to bear. It was easier not to see them at all.

Earlier, she’d overheard Tara and Willow talking about meeting the others at the Magic Box. Dawn (who, despite the recent strain on their relationship, was the only person Buffy would allow into her room) had confirmed that the two witches had left just after dinner. From the silence downstairs, Buffy assumed that Dawn must also have gone. That wasn’t much of a surprise. She had been sneaking away almost every evening, forgoing the normal teenage revelries with her friends in order to visit Spike. Buffy never asked about these visits, and Dawn didn’t volunteer any information; it was, they found, the easiest way to avoid having an argument.

With a sigh of relief, Buffy pulled open the door. She hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch (Willow didn’t have classes and had been home all day), and hunger hastened her footsteps. At the end of the hallway, she ran into Dawn, who for some reason was crouching in the middle of the staircase. Buffy eased down the steps to stand beside her.

“Dawn, what’re you…” Her voice trailed away as the low murmur of voices reached her ears. Peering between the staircase railings, she had a good view of the living room—and the people inside it.

They were standing in a circle, all five of them, their heads bent together in what seemed to Buffy to be an absurd caricature of a football huddle. All of them were whispering rapidly, and Xander was waving his hands around for emphasis. However, their voices were so low Buffy couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. She looked at Dawn, who raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

“I thought they were at the Magic Box tonight.” Buffy’s mouth shaped the words without making a sound, but Dawn understood. She nodded, whispering, “They were. Just got back. I couldn’t hear much, but I think they came back to talk to you.”

At that, Buffy immediately stood up. A hushed conference and a determination to talk to her didn’t bode well, and she was absolutely certain she wanted no part of what was to follow. She began backing slowly up the stairs, hoping to escape before they noticed her. However, as luck would have it, she had only gone two steps when her foot hit a loose plank, and the resulting creak sounded (to Buffy at least) almost as loud as a rifle shot. Immediately, the five in the living room turned to look at her. She froze.

“Buffy, you’re…uh...out of your room,” Xander stammered. He attempted a smile, but failed miserably.

Her eyes darted from one sober face to another. “What’s going on?”

“We were just—we’ve been kind of worried about you—” Willow began. Giles shushed her with a subtle gesture of one hand.

“What Willow means,” he said calmly, “is that we know you’ve been through a lot, Buffy. In fact, we have all done our very best to ensure your comfort and the ease of your readjustment. However—” He hesitated.

“Angel said you got knocked up,” Anya interrupted when Giles’ words failed him. “And we were just wondering if it’s true.”

Buffy gaped at them. “What?”

“He—he didn’t exactly say that,” Tara intervened quickly. “What he said was—what he told Willow—” She stopped, clearly too embarrassed to continue.

“He insinuated that it might be a possibility,” Giles finished for her.

“That and tuberculosis,” Anya added.

“I am not pregnant!” Buffy exclaimed, flabbergasted by the very idea. “And I don’t have tuberculosis.”

“Buff, it’s all right. Don’t get upset.” Xander took a step forward as if to comfort her, but his courage failed him before he even reached the bottom of the stairs.

“We’re not judging,” added Willow. “Whatever happened to you there, we know it wasn’t your fault. We’re just worried. If you need a doctor…”

“Thanks for the concern, but I’m just fine,” Buffy answered. She turned to escape back to the safety of her bedroom, but Giles’ voice stopped her.

“You can leave if you wish, Buffy,” he said quietly. “But you cannot avoid this forever. We need to discuss it, whether you are willing to do so or not. Problems like this don’t go away on their own.”

“What?” Buffy asked sarcastically. “Are you saying you’ll just sit here until I have no choice but to talk to you?”

“If that is what it takes, yes.”

His sanctimonious tone aggravated her, and she snapped back: “You know what? That’s fine. That’s just great. You do that.”

She pushed her way past Dawn and stormed down the stairs to the front door.

“Buffy, wait,” Willow called in alarm. “Where are you going?”

The only response she got was the slam of the door.

After a moment of stunned silence, Giles cleared his throat. “I would really like to know how she came by this determination to avoid civilized discussions about her future.”

“It must be something in the water around here,” Dawn said snidely, and went upstairs.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




She wandered the streets without any clear destination in mind. The Bronze was within easy walking distance, as were several coffeehouses and bars; but Buffy didn’t want crowds or noise tonight. She didn’t know what she wanted, except that she didn’t want to go home.

Angel said you got knocked up.

She kicked at the leaves that littered the sidewalk. Why would Angel say something like that? Aside from the fact that it was a horrible betrayal of confidence, it was also not a betrayal of confidence. Because she hadn’t confided in him. She hadn’t told him anything beyond the fact that she’d been sent to 1880. She hadn’t told him where she had lived or with whom—she certainly hadn’t told him about William. So, where had he gotten the idea that she had slept with someone?

Unpleasant as it was, the answer to that question sprang to mind almost immediately. Spike. Who else could it be? No one else could possibly know about her time with William, and it was so like Spike to do something like that. No doubt, he’d hidden in the bushes outside her house, waiting for Angel to leave so that he could spill all the details of her relationship with William. Probably, he had gloated over it, made it into something sordid so that it would hurt his grandsire that much more. It certainly would explain why Angel had left town so abruptly.

The thought should have enraged her, sent her flying back to her weapons chest for a freshly hewn stake. Instead, it seemed that every time she tried to summon Spike’s image in her brain—every time she tried to become angry—all she could picture was William.

Of course, Spike wasn’t William. Buffy knew that; she knew he wasn’t a man. He was a demon. He was the thing that ripped and tore, the thing that killed. He was what Drusilla had left behind when she murdered William, and he was nothing to her.

The sharp scent of newly cut grass reached her nostrils, and Buffy looked around in surprise. She’d been so dazed that she had walked into the cemetery without even realizing it. Or, so she told herself. Just like she told herself that this would be a prime opportunity to patrol, to release her frustrations on the unfortunate vampires who lived here. To grab whatever bit of wood was convenient and then slay them with it.

She passed a rising fledgling without paying him any mind at all.

Because, whether she was willing to admit to herself or not, the truth was that she didn’t give a damn about slaying. She was going to see him.

She just couldn’t stop herself.


~*~ ~*~ ~*~




After four days, Spike’s hands had mended considerably. True, they were still very stiff, which made it difficult to grasp things and to pick them up. But the pain was gone, and so were the abrasions. He figured that another day or so of rest and blood would set him right. The Nibblet had kept him well stocked up on the latter, and he was making it a point to drink as much as possible in order to speed up the healing process. In fact, he was well into his third glass of the evening when Buffy showed up.

He was down in the crypt’s lower level when he heard her footsteps. He knew that someone was approaching long before she arrived, but he didn’t think much about it. Due to the Slayer’s recent absence, demonic activity in Sunnydale had increased tenfold. It wasn’t unusual to hear some nasty thing taking a stroll by his window in the evenings, and while Spike wasn’t exactly pleased with all the foot traffic outside his door, he’d grown accustomed to it. When his hands were better, he figured he’d thin out the herd a bit; but until then, he had little choice but to ignore it.

Still, when the footsteps drew closer, he became uneasy. He hadn’t been able to repair the crypt door yet; his hands still weren’t strong enough. And while he wasn’t overly concerned about claim-jumpers, he wasn’t looking for a fight either. The last thing he needed was to re-injure the bones of his hands just as they were healing. He grabbed the nearest weapon—a curved dagger that rested on the same battered table as his glass of blood—and headed upstairs.

When he reached the top of the ladder, he froze.

It was her.

At first, he couldn’t quite believe it. Given the way their last encounter ended, he couldn’t imagine she would pay him a friendly call. And it certainly wouldn’t be the first time his mind played tricks on him in regards to Buffy. But she looked—

Beautiful

—so real.

His eyes followed her as she circled the room slowly, finally coming to a standstill near his sagging, dusty sofa. A stack of books lay beside it, and she stooped down to read the titles, most of which he knew she’d probably recognize, because his tastes hadn’t changed much in the last one hundred and twenty-one years. She looked calm, but her heartbeat was thready to his ears. He could detect the scent of fresh sweat on her skin, and he knew she was nervous.

Spike eased his way through the trapdoor. She was opening one of the books now, and she didn’t hear him approach. He stopped a dozen feet away from her and quietly cleared his throat.

“You should be careful.” She turned around in surprise, and, holding up his blade, Spike added, “You never know what kind of villain’s got a knife at your back.”

The words might have sounded threatening—perhaps, in a way, he had even meant for them to. But they came out softer than he had intended and almost conversational, far calmer than he actually felt. Dropping the book, Buffy swallowed and looked down, and he had the odd sense that she would have felt more comfortable if he had screamed and cursed her.

“Your hands look better.”

His eyes followed her gaze, and he turned his hands over as if he had never seen them before.

“Yeah, well. For the most part. Think I’ve still got some mending left to do though.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the knife slipped from his clumsy grasp and fell to the floor with a clatter. He shook his head and smiled bitterly. “Yeah…guess so.”

She didn’t answer, and Spike sighed heavily.

“Why are you here, Buffy?”

Buffy looked confused by the question, her forehead wrinkling slightly as she struggled to find an answer. “I just…I guess I came to…I thought that I should apologize for hitting you the other night.” Her voice was barely even a whisper, and there was a false note in it. Spike realized that while she might have been sorry (and he had his doubts that she actually was), that wasn’t the reason she was here.

So…why was she here?

“’s okay,” he said awkwardly, after a moment of puzzled silence. “I’m not going to cast any stones over a bit of a wallop. Wouldn’t be the first one between us, after all.”

She nodded and looked relieved. He tilted his head at her, carefully scrutinizing her eyes as he added: “Can’t say I’m inclined to be so forgiving about the rest of it, though.”

“The rest of it?” She said it as softly as an echo, and he felt a curious mix of concern and anger. She was bloody well going to deny it. Again.

“The lying.” He hated himself for the quiver in his voice, for the way his throat ached when he looked at her.

She met his gaze squarely, but her tone was much gentler than the last time as she said, “I didn’t lie to you, Spike.”

He could have beaten her for that. For refusing to admit who he was and what he had been to her. He wanted to beat her. Chip or no chip, he wanted to hit her; but he didn’t. Instead, he grabbed her upper arms in his clumsy grasp and shoved her up against the crypt wall.

“Buffy, you bloody know that I—”

The words died in his throat when she touched him.

There was no threat in the way her hand rested against his chest, but though his eyes searched hers, he couldn’t read her expression. His every nerve ending was suddenly shivering, and his hands dropped away from her arms. He had no idea what her game might be…if it was a game…and his astonishment kept him motionless, momentarily speechless.

The one hand slid along his chest while the other came to rest against his cheek. It was warm and soft, and there was a faint smell of lavender. Spike closed his eyes and a shaky breath escaped him. On its out rush, the single, husky word: “Buffy…”

“It’s all I think about,” she whispered back. “God, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

He felt her mouth grazing his, and he’d forgotten how gentle she could be. How smooth her skin was. His stiff hand would not flex well, but he stroked her hair anyway, the softness of it slipping through his fingers like warm water. When her lips parted to catch his own, and when the tip of her tongue dipped inside, he moaned softly. Because it had been so long, and he’d almost forgotten how good it felt.

Both hands on his shoulders now, she began to pull at his duster, trying to drag it off him. The leather was stiff and she fumbled with it; he shrugged a bit to help her get it down his arms. “Hate that,” she murmured when the coat fell to the floor. “Hate it…”

Spike didn’t ask her what she meant. He knew. His prized possession; he would have burned it if she had asked him to.

“…I just want to pretend for a while,” she sighed, as she kicked the coat away.

Spike opened his eyes.

She wants to…Jesus, that doesn’t sound right.

He felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought. Before he could give voice to it, however, her mouth found his again, and everything else fled his mind.

Earlier, she had set the pace and pressure, and he had let her. But whatever self-control he possessed (and he didn’t possess much) had left him, and suddenly he had her in a crushing grip around her shoulders, his mouth hungrily seeking hers. It wasn’t rough, just frenzied, and she didn’t attempt to change that. But she pushed herself off the wall, crowding him with her body so that he staggered backward, fell into the seat of the ragged armchair. She went with him, straddled his lap in a way that seemed vaguely familiar, like something from a very pleasant dream.

“Tell me you love me,” she whispered around the frantic motion of their mouths. “Tell me you do…”

Love was too feeble a word to describe what he felt for her, but he had no other. He murmured it over and over, unable to stop himself once he had begun. It was awkward and fumbled, muffled by his desperate assault on her mouth. It seemed as if she had, in the span of just a few minutes, reduced him to the stammering moron he had once been. Or, at least, that he had perceived himself to be.

He couldn’t even bring himself to care.

When her mouth broke from his, Spike’s eyes flew open. Her own were just inches away, staring at him as if she were searching for something. Whatever she found, it made her smile slightly, and she raised one hand to stroke his hair.

The other hand fell to his belt.

He could feel her fumbling with it, sliding the leather tongue from the buckle and pulling it apart. He looked down, watched in disbelief as she unfastened the button of his jeans, then took hold of the zipper-slide and dragged it down. When she dipped her hand inside the opening and caressed him, he groaned. Muttered in a strangled tone: “Buffy, God. I—”

“Shh”—she kissed him—“You don’t have to say anything.”

So, he didn’t.

Bleeding Christ, he thought as she slid down his body, dropping onto the floor at his feet. On her knees, in between his legs, lowering her head—

She’s not really going to—

But she did. And he couldn’t think at all after that.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~