Disclaimer: All the characters belong to Joss Whedon et .al. Thanks to SanityFair for her excellent beta work, yet again.
 
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Chapter 4 – Nighttime
 
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Spike held Buffy while she cried out all her stress and pent up loneliness until she quieted. She started to drowse against his chest and he laid them both down side by side in the hay. He kissed her then, and it was a slower, sweeter kiss than they had ever shared, full of wonder. Then the exhaustion of the battle and the emotions caught up with them and they curled up together and slept, Buffy’s head resting on Spike’s black covered chest, her arms wrapped possessively around him.
 
When they woke it was pitch black in the loft, and Spike managed to whack his head on the thatched roof as he sat up. He swore silently and then noticed Buffy stirring in the darkness. “How are you then, love?” he inquired.
 
“Seems like the Slayer healing has kicked in a bit, which is of the good. And you?”
 
“Slightly less battered than I was this morning,” Spike replied. “Think we should go exploring?”
 
“Probably,” Buffy agreed, picking hay out of her hair. “Um, can you use those vampire eyes to help me not fall down the trapdoor? I can’t see a thing.”
 
Spike chuckled, but doubling over, he led her carefully to the hole in the floor. Hearing nothing below, he climbed down the ladder, reaching up to guide her down. The stable door was closed, and the only sounds were the animals moving in the darkness. Spike took her hand and found the door. Cautiously they peered out then made their way into the barnyard. The earth was packed down in front of the stable. The sheep had been corralled nearer the barn for the night, and they bleated nervously as the two strangers walked by. A low farmhouse came into view with candlelight flickering in one of the windows. The two dark figures crept to the window and peered in. A middle aged woman sat on a rocker near the fireplace knitting while the maid, Kathleen seemed to be busying herself around the fire. The older woman was dressed in slightly finer stuff than the maid but definitely still of a bygone era.
 
They made a circuit of the house. It seemed that a lean-to sort of addition had been put on at some point, and Spike could hear a heartbeat inside. From the scent he guessed that the male servant probably bedded down out here. Owner’s probably a widow, Spike guessed. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in the house. Buffy elbowed Spike and pointed across the yard. There on a clothesline were several dresses, aprons, trousers, and shirts. Nodding, Spike led the way. They each had grabbed sufficient clothes to be able to blend in when they heard a growl. Turning they saw a mean-looking farm dog on a long rope that clearly saw they were up to no good. Gathering the clothes Spike and Buffy backed away slowly as the dog advanced on them, snarling. They made their way around the corner of the house and then broke into a sprint as the dog started barking behind him. They managed to vault over a stone wall and duck by the time the dog reached the end of his tether and the servant Sean came dashing out to see what was happening. “Shit,” said Buffy.
 
Spike looked around. Some ways away was a small wooded area. “Come on,” he urged. They bent low, keeping below the stone wall as they headed for the woods. They reached the end of the field and waited for a moment while a cloud covered the moon. There was a small stream coming out of the wood, and they ran along it for a while, hoping to throw off any scent if Sean and the dog gave chase. Finally, they were deep enough in the woods that they felt they could take a breather. The dog was still barking, but it seemed very far off. “Didn’t notice the dog,” he said a little guiltily.
 
“Well, neither did I,” panted Buffy. “Maybe we should find a way to leave them some money or something. I feel guilty taking clothes from the servants.”
 
“Nothing we have is going to be legal tender here I’m thinking,” Spike said, and Buffy had to concede that he was right.
 
“Well, we should probably change and stash our clothes here somewhere. At least then we won’t be so conspicuous.” Buffy started pulling off her jeans, and Spike grinned. “What?”
 
“Here we’ve been back together for five hours and I’ve already gotten you to take your clothes off. Haven’t lost my touch after all.” In reply he got a pair of jeans tossed at his face. “I deserved that,” he joked. Then he started changing as well.
 
“Is this what you used to wear?” Buffy asked as she struggled to figure out which side of the dress was the front.
 
“This stuff seems from before my time. Haven’t wore knee britches since I was a little lad.” He realized he had grabbed stockings, but no shoes. “I may have to go barefoot for a while though. The Doc Martens are going to clash.”
 
“Well I guess my black boots will work well enough under this. The thing is pretty much dragging on the ground anyway.” She fiddled with the strings, which laced up the front then tried to figure out what to do with her hair. She had grabbed a shawl and decided that for now she would have to throw that over her bleached hair. “How do I look?”
 
“Like a California girl playing dress up,” Spike quipped. “How about me?”
 
“Like a vampire playing dress up,” she shot back. On looking him over again she said, “Actually, it looks better than that tweed suit you wore that one time, Randy.”
 
“Let us never speak of that again, all right?” The memory of having been Randy Giles was one he would just as soon repress.
 
“Well, now where do we go?” Buffy asked as she gathered up her modern clothes. Spike wrapped her clothes and his well in his leather coat, which he tucked under his arm.
 
Spike sniffed the air for a moment. “Seems like there’s a fair amount of wood smoke in that direction. Maybe there’s a town. With lots of people around we might be able to find me some shoes, and we’d be less conspicuous.”
 
“Sounds like a plan,” Buffy agreed. They picked their way through the woods. At the edge of the woods was another stone wall, and they concealed the clothes on the forest side of it. On the other side of the wall was a dirt road, and they headed toward the source of the wood smoke. They passed a number of small farms and stone walled fields, which seemed to get denser as they went on. The night was cool but not cold, and it seemed to be still relatively early in the evening. When the moon peeped out from behind the scattered clouds it gleamed in Spike’s white hair, which looked a bit incongruous in contrast to the homespun shirt and vest he had acquired. “You look like Billy Idol and Sam Adams had a bastard son.”
 
“Quiet, you,” Spike growled playfully. Their hands found their way to each other and they walked along like old lovers on a date. Despite their emotional reunion, they still felt somehow shy and unsure in each other’s presence, and they weren’t sure precisely what should happen next. They were content to just amble on together for a while until they reached a small rise. As they reached the top of the hill they saw that the road was coming to a large city with a medieval looking stone wall around much of it. There seemed to still be a number of people out and about, and suddenly Spike felt conscious of his bare feet and out of place hairstyle. With the shawl over her head, Buffy was less conspicuous, but he realized something else. “You’d better let me do most of the talking.”
 
“Why?”
 
“Your accent might lead to some uncomfortable questions. If we’re right and we’re back in the 1700’s or something then California doesn’t exist yet.”
 
“Good point,” Buffy agreed. They made their way down the hill, keeping to the shadows and side streets as much as possible. Spike put his arm around her, not only to attempt to look casual but also to camouflage his bare legs behind her skirts somewhat. The first person who passed them was hauling a heavy cart full of wood and barely gave them a glance, which reassured them somewhat. They made their way into a dark, poky little alley behind a row of houses and shops. Buffy wrinkled her nose at a pile of horse manure and commented, “I will never complain about Roman alleys again.”
 
“Ever wonder why I like cars and motorcycles so much?” Despite the stench, Spike found that the dark alley held a faint nostalgia for him. It was an alley not too different from this one where he encountered Drusilla and changed his fate from pathetic poet to master vampire. As they picked their way down the alley, they came across a drunk passed out in a doorway with an empty bottle of whiskey near to hand. Spike stopped and regarded the snoring man for a moment before saying, “Sorry about this, mate,” and relieving him of his hat and shoes. The drunk didn’t even pause in his stupor. Spike jammed the hat on his head and found a clean spot to sit and don hose and shoes. “There. I look a little less like a vagabond now.”
 
“Wait a minute.” Buffy went back down the alley to the drunk, hesitated a minute, then carefully pulled a small purse off of a string at his waist. The man stirred and mumbled, but then sunk back into oblivion. Buffy extracted half the coins and left them in a small pile next to him. Spike raised both eyebrows as Buffy returned and said, “Let’s go before he wakes up.” They headed out of the alley and into the street. Buffy was aware that Spike was staring at her still and said, “Okay, I know that was a bad thing. But it occurred to me that we’re likely to need a bit of cash, and as you said, we don’t have anything that’s legal tender around here.”
 
“Not saying a word, Slayer,” Spike said, holding his hands up as his eyes mocked her. She gave him a dirty look but softened it with a smile after a moment. As they walked on they looked at stores and other buildings trying to figure out where they were. Finally they noticed a sign in a shop proclaiming “The Finest Hats in Galway.” Spike frowned. “Galway. That’s odd.”
 
“Why would we end up Galway, Ireland?” Buffy wondered. “Wonder what year it is?”
 
“Hand me that coin purse you pilfered, thief,” he said. Buffy elbowed him in annoyance and passed it over and Spike tipped the contents into his hand. A number of gold sovereigns fell out, and he started to look at the dates.  “The newest looking ones say 1753.”
 
“Okay, so we’re almost 300 years before my time. Why?”
 
“No idea.” Something was bugging Spike. This time and place were significant, but he couldn’t remember why exactly. Galway. 1753. What the hell happened in Galway in 1753? Troubled, he said, “Come on. Maybe we can find somewhere to get some food for you and some information.” They walked on until they came to an inn called The Rose and Thorn. It seemed relatively quiet, with the large common room about half full of people sitting around tables eating and drinking. A fire was roaring in the fireplace at the end of the dimly lit room, and a harried yet friendly looking woman made her way from the fireside to greet them.
 
“Good evening! What can I do for ye?”
 
“Good evening, madam. My wife and I have traveled far today, and we are in need of some supper and lodgings for a few nights. Would you be able to accommodate us?” It was all Buffy could do to keep from goggling at him in astonishment. Spike had dropped the street brawler accent for cultured, softer, gentlemanly tones that Buffy wasn’t aware he was capable of. She wasn’t sure how she felt about being his ‘wife’ all of a sudden either, but it was probably less suspicious that way.
 
The proprietor frowned slightly. “A meal is no trouble at all, but our only available lodging is in the garret. There’s no fire there, and I fear your good lady will suffer from the cold.”
 
Buffy smiled at her and said softly, trying to hide her accent a bit, “I won’t mind.”
 
Spike put an arm around her shoulder and beamed down at her. “My good lady is strong. If you have some good warm coverlets we’ll be quite all right. Isn’t that right, my love?”
 
“Of course,” Buffy said, smiling back at him, playing the devoted wife.
 
“Well, then, let me get the register and then get ye something to fill your stomachs.” They followed her over to a counter along one wall, where she pulled a large book down from a shelf. She produced pen and ink, and Spike took it signing “Mr. and Mrs. William Pratt” in a flowing old fashioned script. The innkeeper looked over what he had written, gave a satisfied nod then said, “Follow me, Mr. Pratt. The cook has some wonderful sav’ry stew tonight, if that will suit.”
 
“That will do nicely, thank you.” They followed her through the room, noticing several sets of eyes following them curiously. A small table in the corner near the hearth was hastily cleared of empty mugs of ale and they sat down. The innkeeper bustled off to get their meal as the two of them surveyed the room. The few people near them were in deep conversation and paying them little mind, which reassured them that they were safe for a moment. An elderly woman sat in a rocking chair next to the fire opposite them, and she looked up from the knitting in her lap and smiled before going back to her work.
 
“Mr. and Mrs. Pratt?” Buffy asked with an amused smile. “That’s our alias?”
 
“It’s not an alias, it’s the name my father gave me,” Spike replied, slightly chagrined. “Never was keen for you lot to find out about it.”
 
“Why not?”
 
“Didn’t need you digging up my past and finding out what a git I was as a human,” he said, a trifle embarrassed. “Besides, it has to be one of the worst last names on earth. ‘S a bloody insult.”
 
“It could be worse,” Buffy reassured him. “I won’t tell anyone my married name, I promise.”
 
Spike raised his eyebrow at her and she giggled. “Look, missy. In this time and place, an unattached woman wandering around at night by herself was more likely than not a lady of the evening. I was making you respectable. Show a little gratitude.”
 
“Yes, dear,” Buffy said, grinning. They kept their voices low, but Buffy noticed that the old woman was staring at them. It made her feel a bit nervous, but the next time their eyes met the woman smiled again encouragingly which allayed Buffy’s fears somewhat. The innkeeper came soon with two bowls of steaming stew, bread and butter, and two mugs of ale.
 
“Not sure I should be drinking,” Buffy said after the woman had left. “It hasn’t gone well the last few times.”
 
Spike took a sip of the ale. “You might as well. Doesn’t seem to be all that potent, and sometimes water quality was a bit questionable in ye olde days. At least the alcohol kills the bacteria.” Buffy thought about it, shrugged, and drank. The stew was filling and Buffy finished all of hers and half of Spike’s.
 
“So are we really going to stay here tonight?” Buffy asked.
 
“Might be good to have a base closer to town,” Spike said. “More sources of information, more possibilities for finding out what the hell we’re doing here. Besides, we don’t want to end up getting chased out of a barn in the middle of the day or something. Well, at least I don’t want that.”
 
“Neither do I.” Buffy’s tone was serious, and it made Spike look up at her curiously. “I just got you back. I’m not sure what we’re going to do about it, but I don’t want to lose you again.” Her voice choked up a bit at the end, and Spike clasped her hand reassuringly.
 
“All finished then?” The landlady had reappeared to clear the table.
 
“Yes, thank you. Quite refreshing,” Spike answered. “Would you please show us to our quarters now?”
 
“Of course. I’ll have Lucy show you up. Lucy!” A young serving girl popped around a corner in response. “Did ye take those extra quilts up to the garret?”
 
“Yes, ma’am,” Lucy replied.
 
“Then please show Mr. and Mrs. Pratt to their room. Good night to ye,” she said, bustling back into the kitchen.
 
Spike and Buffy rose to follow Lucy. As they passed by the old woman’s hand shot out and grabbed Buffy’s wrist, startling her. “Ye’ve come a long way, dear girl.”
 
Something about this woman’s tone startled them, and her aged blue eyes seemed to look right through Buffy. “That… that’s true,” Buffy stammered.
 
“Ye’ve power to put things to rights.” The old woman’s voice was shaky but insistent. “But the cost ye will pay is high.” She smiled a sad smile, released Buffy’s hand and returned to her knitting. Buffy stared at her, stunned until Spike led her gently away to follow the servant who was waiting for them at the foot of the stair. They climbed up two narrow flights of stairs to a small landing.
 
“Here ye are. There’s plenty o’ warm clothes on the bed, and the night is fair, so ye should be fine.”
 
“Thank you,” Spike began, but Buffy interrupted. “Who was that woman? By the fire I mean.”
 
Lucy wrinkled her brow a bit at Buffy’s strange accent but answered, “That be old mother O’Riordan. My mistress is her son’s widow. She has the sight.”
 
“The sight?” Buffy asked.
 
“Aye,” Lucy said, nodding emphatically. “She can see what’s to come. Runs in her family, it does, from mother to daughter. All the women of that clan have the sight, her more than most. Did she say something to ye?” Buffy nodded. “Well, whatever it was, ye can be sure it will be so.”
 
“Lucy!” came a voice from the lower floors. “Ach, it’s the mistress. If ye be needing anything more just let me know. Good night.” Lucy dropped a quick curtsey before hurrying down to answer her mistress’ summons.
 
The door off the landing opened into a small, low ceilinged room with a double bed and a small table with a pitcher and bowl and a candle burning. It was a bit chilly, as promised, but the bed was covered in thick quilts. A small window at the end of the garret was covered by shutters, which made it a perfect room for a vampire. “It’s not the Ritz-Carlton, but it’s better than a hayloft,” Spike commented.
 
Buffy didn’t answer but sat down on the bed, biting her lip. “What do you think she meant?”
 
“Who? Mother O’ Riordan? Probably says similar things to all the strangers in town,” Spike said, trying to sound unconcerned.
 
Buffy wasn’t buying it though. “She knew I didn’t belong. These sort of things don’t just happen to me.”
 
Spike sighed and sat down next to her. “I know, pet. I know. Guess we’re meant to save the world again, for something new and different.”
 
“And I get to pay a price. Again.” All of a sudden Buffy turned and buried her face in Spike’s chest, distressed and once more on the verge of tears. “What’s going to happen this time? Am I going to die again? Are you? Are we stuck here? Why do we have to keep doing this?”
 
“Shh, shh,” Spike soothed her, rocking her gently back and forth. After a moment he lifted her face to meet his gaze. “Look at me, Buffy. Remember what I said back in Sunnydale? Still true. You’re still a hell of a woman. You’re still the one.”
 
In reply Buffy pulled his head down into a desperate kiss, her hands tangling in his hair, knocking the stolen hat to the floor. In what seemed at first like a throwback to their violent couplings after Buffy’s return from heaven she pulled him down on the bed with her, hands flying over his body, needing to know he was solid, he was here and for the moment at least nothing was going to change that. Spike returned the kiss but his hands moved slowly, exploring each inch of this body he had always loved and desired. He willed her to slow down, murmuring soothing nothings to her until at last she came up for air, gasping. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you, and I don’t ever want to lose you again.”
 
“Love you, Buffy,” he whispered back, stroking her cheek with his thumb while he kissed her eyes, her forehead.
 
“Make love to me, Spike. Please,” she begged, and Spike needed no further urging. He slowly, tenderly untied the lacings on her dress, sliding it down her shoulders and kissing each newly exposed inch of white skin. He freed her breasts, sucking gently on her nipples as she moaned softly. He rose and slid the dress off of her before removing his own clothes, keeping his eyes focused on hers as he stripped naked, presenting himself to her. She pulled back the covers and climbed under them, stretching out her hand to him. He slid in beside her and they spent a long moment drinking each other in. Then their lips met again and they came together, hands roving and limbs tangling. When he entered her it was like fire and ice, and they both shuddered and groaned in ecstasy. They moved together, taking the time to explore every inch, to revel in the sensations they had taken for granted before. The fever built and built until at last Buffy pleaded, “Drink. Please, Spike, take all of me. Please.” Spike searched her face for a long moment, then vamped and met her green eyes with the golden eyes of his demon. “Yes, Spike. I love you. Take it. Please.” She closed her eyes and he bent to her neck, never slowing his thrusts. He pierced her skin as gently as he could and drank. The sudden pain gave way to a climax like none Buffy had ever experienced, and she arched her back and writhed under him. He drank and the taste of Slayer rushed through his body like a drug, heightening his arousal even further. Crying out her name he came and came, and he had to force himself to stop drinking as he emptied himself into her.
 
Demon ridges melting back into his human form, Spike put his forehead against hers, shuddering with the aftershocks. “Buffy… love… oh, my God…” They were unable to speak for a long moment, until finally Spike moved off of her, drawing her close to his side and covering her warmly. She nestled against him, clinging to him as he said her name over and over.
 
TBC