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Time after Time by BuffyMeetsSpike
 
A Moment to Herself
 
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Disclaimer: All the characters are Joss Whedon’s. Thanks to SanityFair for the extremely fast beta work!
 
Chapter 5 - A Moment to Herself
 
The sun had been up for a couple hours by the time they awoke the next morning. They had made love again and again, as if each was a drug the other craved. Now Buffy found she was hungry and in need of a bathroom. “Morning,” she said to a sleepy Spike as he stirred next to her.
 
“That it is,” he agreed with a contented smile. He opened one blue eye to look admiringly at her tousled hair before shutting it again and snuggling back into the pillow.
 
“Wonder where the facilities are around here?” Buffy said, sitting up and looking around.
 
Spike grinned at her. “I expect there’s a chamber pot under the bed or the privy out back. That was pretty much standard procedure even in my day.”
 
“Ew.” Buffy looked over the side and noticed that there was indeed a chamber pot under the bed, but she was unable to overcome her twentieth century squeamishness enough to use it in the same room as Spike. “I guess I’ll go scout out the privy then.”
 
“I’ll be here,” Spike murmured, closing his eyes again. Buffy got up and got dressed, doing her best to tame her hair with her fingers into a bun at the back of her head. Throwing her shawl over her head once more she made her way down the stairs. The inn was reasonably quiet, with a few people in the common room and the maid and innkeeper talking in the kitchen. A narrow corridor past the kitchen led to a back door. The sky was gray and overcast as she made her way past a few pecking hens and a small herb garden to the privy. It was dark, but not as terrible as Buffy had imagined, and soon she was back in the hallway, making her way toward the stairs.
 
“Good day, Mistress Pratt,” the landlady called gaily as she came from the kitchen. “Did ye sleep well?”
 
“Yes, thank you,” Buffy responded.
 
“I’ve some tea and porridge prepared if ye’d like.”
 
Suddenly, Buffy realized that she was hungry. “I’d love some. Sp… um, Mr. Pratt is still in bed. I can take something to him later.”
 
“Go on and take a seat, and I’ll be right with ye.” Buffy took her advice and went into the common room. There were a few men having breakfast near the one window that looked out onto the street. The only other occupant was Mother O’ Riordan, who sat at a table near the fire. When Buffy came in, the old woman smiled and beckoned to her. “Sit down with me, child.” Buffy couldn’t think of a good reason to refuse so she sat but not without a feeling of apprehension.
 
The landlady came in with the promised breakfast. “Now then, here we are.”
 
“Thanks so much,” Buffy said with a smile.
 
The innkeeper looked at Buffy curiously. “Forgive me for asking, Mistress, but where do ye hail from? Your manner of speech is strange to me, begging your pardon.”
 
Oh crap, Buffy thought. Trying to think how best to explain she went with, “I’m from America. William – Mr. Pratt – and I met there. He’s from London originally, but he has traveled quite a bit.” Which is not a complete lie.
 
“Aye, that would explain it,” the landlady said, evidently satisfied. “We don’t get many from the colonies to Galway.”
 
“It is a long way,” Buffy answered, hoping that she had gotten away with it.
 
It seemed that was the case, for the innkeeper smiled and said, “Well ye are kindly welcome. Let me know if ye need something else. Mother here will look after you as well, won’t you Mother?”
 
“Of course, Maggie dear.” Turning to Buffy the old woman said, “Maggie looks after me well since my husband and my son Jack died, God rest their souls. My daughter and her husband are off in Dublin town now, and without Maggie I’d be alone on this earth.”
 
“It’s good to have family,” Buffy ventured, tasting the porridge and finding it plain, but tasty.
 
“What are you called, my dear?” asked Mother O’Riordan.
 
“My name is Buffy.” She figured that she’d probably do better with as much truth as possible, given that her breakfast companion had the Sight.
 
“Now that is a name I’ve not heard before,” the old woman commented. “Is it common in America?”
 
Buffy smiled and shook her head. “No, I can’t say it is. My mother said it was a nickname for Elizabeth.”
 
Mother O’Riordan nodded in understanding. “Aye, that’s the way of it. Margaret becomes Maggie or Peg and Patrick becomes Pat or Paddy and so it goes. We Irish seem to never call anyone by the name the priest pronounced at their Christening.” She sipped some tea as Buffy ate more of her breakfast.
 
Stirring her porridge thoughtfully with a spoon Buffy asked slowly, “Why did you say what you said last night? What did you see?” Buffy looked up, nervously but wanting to know all the same.
 
The old lady sighed. “Ahh, ‘tis the curse of the Sight. I see things and I speak what I must, and sometimes the tidings are ill.” She reached across and patted Buffy’s hand gently. “Ye have a power. Fairly glows about you, it does. Your William as well – he’s not quite of this earth somehow. But I had a vision when I saw ye. I saw dark, and shadow, and death. But I saw the shadow pass away as well. And in the midst of all this dark and shadow there ye stood, brokenhearted. I feel ye’ve come here to do a great and terrible thing, you and your William. Ye must destroy something ye love for the sake of the many, and I do not envy ye child.” She rose then, and put her hand on Buffy’s forehead and closed her eyes, murmuring in what had to be Gaelic.
 
“What did you just say?” Buffy asked when the old woman had finished.
 
“’Tis a blessing for you, child. May God go with ye. Now I must go see if my Maggie needs me in the kitchen. She’s a good girl, but she still needs some guidance in the kitchen now and again.” With that Mother O’Riordan moved slowly off to the other room. Buffy stared after her for a moment then pushed the half finished porridge away, her appetite suddenly gone.
 
She asked Maggie for a pot of tea and some bread, ostensibly for her husband, but mostly to keep the landlady from being suspicious of this man who didn’t eat. Lucy followed Buffy up the stairs with the tray, but Buffy took the tray from her at the top, thanked her warmly, and went into the room alone. Spike was still asleep. Buffy quietly put the tray down and took off her shawl, hanging it on a nail on the door. There was a small stool in the corner, and she perched on it, wrapped her arms around herself, and thought about what the old woman had said.
 
Darkness and shadow and death. Well, that pretty much sums up the whole apocalyptic battle thing. What the hell was Angel trying to do? That question in one form or another had come up again and again during this whole last year. When she had showed up after Sunnydale with a gaggle of exhausted, injured Slayers he had let them have the run of the Hyperion but had otherwise been preoccupied with the transition to CEO of Wolfram and Hart. She had tried to talk to him about Spike, but he had spouted some bullshit about how it was good that Spike had finally done something worthwhile, which earned him a bloody nose. After they left they kept hearing through the grapevine about Angel’s seeming descent into, if not outright evil then at least some severely gray areas. Now it seemed like all those gray areas had coalesced into one black mess and the world was in peril, again. Just once could it stay saved for like, a whole two years?
 
She looked over at Spike, his pale skin showing against the dark covers. The previous night had been like being rescued from a desert island. All those months of loneliness, anger and longing were washed away by those hands and lips. But now she felt a dread creeping into her heart. And me in the middle, heartbroken. That’s the way it always is, isn’t it. Well screw that. I’m not leaving him. If he has to go, I’m going with, wherever that is. Fuck these prophesies with a chainsaw. She got up, took a deep breath, and forced back the despair that the old woman’s words had unleashed in her heart. Whatever they were here to do, they were going to figure it out together.
 
TBC
 
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