“Attention all passengers, we’ll be encountering some turbulence. Please fasten your seatbelts and stay alert.”

At first Buffy thought it was the announcement that woke her up; it was certainly loud enough. Then she thought it was the hand shaking her arm roughly.

But when she remembered the dream she’d been having, she sat bolt upright.

Spike looked at her with worried eyes. It had been his shoulder she’d been sleeping on, and his hand that woke her. “You okay, Slayer?”

She stared at him, knowing her eyes were wide and scared-looking and not caring. Remnants of the dream were still flitting through her head—Spike tied up in a bathtub, her taunting Spike, then a human version of the red-haired vampire they were after casting a spell—and then she was kissing Spike, cuddling him, and talking about wedding plans. Buffy barely restrained a shudder at the memory. Spike’s lips on hers, his hands running all over her body—if the Council knew she was having dreams like that, they’d have her killed! And rightly so. Lusting after a vampire was not what a good Slayer did.

And yet—into her mind again came the voice of that damned librarian. We lived in a different world, a world where things were better. Where we were happier. She’d been kissing Spike, but even before the spell she’d been happier than she was now…right?

No. Wrong. This whole thing is wrong!

“Slayer?”

“Huh?” Spike was still looking at her quizzically, waiting for an answer. She scowled. “I didn’t just fall asleep on you, okay? That did not just happen.”

She’d expected him to smirk, to inform her that hell yes, it had happened—maybe to threaten to tell her Watcher—but instead he just raised his eyebrows in amusement and said, “You got it, Slayer. You didn’t just turn me into a cuddly little vamp-pillow and sleep on my shoulder for two hours.”

“Spike!”

“I’m sorry—is there a problem here?”

Buffy looked up. A frumpy woman with thick black frame glasses was staring down at her with a concerned expression. Thinking the woman was a flight attendant, Buffy smiled as perkily as she could, took Spike’s hand, and said, “We’re fine, but thanks for asking!”

As soon as the woman walked away Buffy dropped Spike’s hand like it was poison. “What?” she snapped, noticing the look he was giving her.

“Why the bloody hell did you do that, Slayer?”

“Because—because we need some kind of cover,” Buffy said defensively. “That was just the one that came to mind.”

“That we were sweethearts travelin’ together?” Spike shook his head. “You’re a bit nuts, you know that?”

“And you’ll be a bit dead if you can’t lay off.” Her sharp retort was capped off by her buckling her seatbelt back on and staring straight ahead, determined to ignore him.

What the hell was wrong with her? Was it just remnants of the dream that made that particular cover be the first one to pop into her head? There were a million other scenarios that would have explained their situation—friends, relatives, even siblings—and she chose lovers? Buffy fought not to cover her face in her hands. I’m falling apart, and there’s no one here to help me.

And it was all Spike’s fault. Spike, who even now was treating things with his typical flippantness. “They dropped off food while you were dozin’,” he was telling her, waving a shiny wrapped back and forth. “Honey roasted peanuts.”

“And I’m guessing you ate my share?” That was good. Nice and hostile. Easy.

“Please. That’d be like eatin’ a homeless guy when there was a millionaire beggin’ me to suck her dry. No, you can have both our shares.” He tossed her two bags.

She caught them and yanked one open, eating ravenously. They were just tiny bags of nuts, but she hadn’t eaten in long enough that to her, they were a feast.

Spike watched her with distinct distaste. “I can’t believe you’re actually eating that tripe. Would’ve thought you had better taste.”

She shot him a dirty look and said through mouthfuls of nuts, “Slayers are conditioned to be able to eat anything. The Handbook says that in order to survive, a Slayer must—a Slayer has to—“

“Yeah?” Spike prompted.

“A Slayer has to be able to eat whatever she’s offered,” Buffy finished irritably. The truth was, she didn’t remember exactly what the Handbook had said. She hadn’t forgotten a word of the 75 Rules That Govern A Slayer’s Life since she was 16 and completely green. What was happening to her?

She knew the answer to that. It started with an “S” and ended with a “huge, gigantic pain in my ass”—and it was sitting right next to her.

Well, fine. It was easy enough to correct that problem. Buffy finished the peanuts, put out her tray, and sat rigidly upright, refusing to look at her traveling companion.

She heard him snort. “Fine, Slayer. You wanna play that game, we’ll play.”

She spent the next two hours fighting to ignore her remorse that he hadn’t so much as tried to get her to talk to him.

~*~

She was more than a nuisance. She was worse than a plague. She was a sodding menace.

“For the last time, Slayer, finding the cheapest one doesn’t matter,” Spike said. “’m nearly at the end of my rope, here. Just choose a hotel and be done with it!”

“I have to save money,” Buffy muttered, calling still another fleabag motel to check their rates. “Unlike you, I have to buy my food. And I have limited funds.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “If you’d let me go up to Times Square—“

“You’d find lots of tourists to rob blind.” She finished the sentence with a charming—no, not charming. A bloody annoying—little eyeroll. “Would you just let me make the call?”

Spike reluctantly stayed silent as she punched some numbers into the phone and said, “Hi, is this the New York Junkyard? Ok, I was wondering about your rates?” A pause. “Yes, your rates. As in, how much per night you charge? What? You mean this actually is a junkyard? But it’s listed in the phone book under motels…yes, I understand. Okay. Fine. Bye.”

Buffy hung up, an irritated expression on her face. “Sorry, but it looks like this is as good as it gets,” she said, jumping to the side as a drunk blundered past them.

Spike surveyed the bar with distaste. It was in the middle of the Bronx, a little two-floor establishment that offered drinks, lodging, and probably drugs and whores on the side. “You’re gonna make us stay here for two nights?”

“It’s not my fault all the flights for tomorrow were booked,” Buffy snapped, reaching down to grab her bag. “Now, come on. I’m tired.”

Spike was getting ready to taunt her about her nap on the plane when another large, fat drunk barreled into the Slayer. “Hey, little girl,” the man leered, “Wanna give Moe some fun?” A large, hamlike hand landed on her breast.

A second later he was flying across the room and Spike was shaking his hand, assuaging the pain that always came from hitting a human with about the same force as a small wrecking ball. “Bastard,” he growled, chest heaving angrily. As far as he was concerned, while he was traveling with the Slayer, she was his. There was no way a sleazeball like that was going to be puttin’ his hands on her.

He regretted his move when, ignoring the mayhem around them, Buffy planted her hands on her hips and glared at him angrily. “I can take care of myself, you know!”

Spike decided to do what he did best: lie. If the Slayer knew he’d taken to thinking of her as his, she’d rip his dick off and shove it down his throat like she was always threatening to. “I know that, princess,” he said with a smirk. “Thing is, though, a vamp like me? We like a little spot of violence before bedtime.”

Now she looked completely disgusted with him. “Nice move, Spike,” he muttered to himself, watching her stalk off. He hastened to follow, not bothering to spare a glance at the man he’d attacked. With any luck, the bastard would be dead.

He followed at a leisurely pace, hoping that she wouldn’t stop to try and find him. Disgusting this establishment might be, but a fellow had to eat—and Spike was insanely hungry.

His luck must’ve been in that day, because he had hardly gone two steps before he encountered a man just coming out of his room. Spike unceremoniously wrapped a hand around the man’s throat and broke his neck, shoving the head to the side and sinking his fangs into the tender flesh that protected the jugular.

He took deep, fast pulls, concentrating on just draining the body and being done with it. He needed to be full—it was going to take a hell of a lot of willpower to avoid biting the Slayer tonight.

After the few minutes it took to drain the man, he dropped the body in the hallway and hurried to catch up with the Slayer.

He’d been expecting her to demand to know where he’d been—in fact, he had a little story about checking out the place all prepared. But when he arrived at their door, she didn’t even acknowledge him. She was staring into the room, her eyes unfocused.

“Slayer?”

She didn’t answer.

He waved a hand in front of her face. “Hey, Slayer. Wake up. You knew there was only one bed, what’s with the traumatized act?” She still didn’t respond. “Slayer? Slayer!”

“It’s magic.”

Spike whirled round at the new voice. A girl emerged from the shadows—a girl with brown, almost black hair, with a wide mouth and brilliantly colored eyes. She was human, that much he could tell; her heart beat strongly in his ears. “Who the bloody hell are you?”

She ignored the question, coming closer to Buffy. “She’s in a kind of trance. It’s very complicated magic. I can’t tell much about it, other than the fact that she wasn’t supposed to be caught in it.”

“Well, ‘f she wasn’t supposed to be caught, who was?” Spike asked. He was willing to shelf the fact that he had no idea who she was for the time being, given that of the two of them, she was the only one who had any idea what was happening.

The girl gave him a sardonic look. “You, of course. That’s why she was caught instead of killed. The magic was keyed towards a vampire, not a Slayer.”

He shouldn’t’ve been surprised that she knew about vampires. She knew about magic, right? She was twittering on like she was some kind of witch. But the fact that she knew he was a vamp and wasn’t even the slightest bit afraid of him rankled.

“So, what, she’s gonna be caught like that forever b’cause the magic’s too strong for her?” Spike sneered. He should’ve known the Slayer would end up being a pain in the arse.

The witch rolled her eyes. “No. God, did your brains disappear along with your soul? She’s a Slayer. Her mind is way stronger than yours. If you’d been caught, it would’ve dusted you.”

Spike regarded the Slayer with distaste. Bloody hell, it was bad enough when he’d thought that it was too strong for her. But if she ever found out that springing the little trap had saved his life, she’d be unbearable.

The witch was still staring at him, one thin eyebrow raised. “What?”

“Aren’t you going to, like, ask me how to let her go?”

Spike was about to respond with a firm negative—this whole get the Slayer on his side bit was turning out to be more trouble than it was worth—when the girl in question grabbed her stake, swung around, and, eyes glassy, plunged it towards his heart.

Luckily, he’d survived long enough to be able to avoid surprise stakings. He jumped aside just as the witch yelled something. A spark jumped between them and the stake burst into flames.

As first the Slayer remained in her trance-like state, clutching the flaming stake. Just when Spike was about to rush forward and make her drop it, she let out an animal-like cry and flung it from her.

Spike watched as she slowly shook. The tremors started at her head and extended down her body until her whole frame trembled as she stared down at her burned hand with tear-filled eyes.

A second ago he’d been about to abandon her to her fate—but now Spike found himself running forward and pulling the crying Slayer into his arms. “Buffy—pet—“

“It hurts,” she sobbed, cradling the hand. “Oh God, Spike—“ She drew in a deep, shuddering sob—“make it stop, please make it stop.”

Where was the glee? Where was the bloodlust? Spike should have been laughing at her, kicking her prone form, not leaning against the wall and gently stroking her back. She was the sodding Slayer, for Christ’s sake. He was made to make her suffer.

But when she’d come out from whatever spell had held her—when she’d stared down at her hand with horror, as though disgusted that it was hers—he hadn’t seen the Slayer. He hadn’t seen the legendary hero that vampires both hated and feared.

He’d seen a girl. A tired, broken down, lost little girl. He’d seen a crushed soul standing in a narrow hallway…and it was familiar. It was him.

So he rocked her back and forth, the man beating back the demon in him and showing this girl that some crumb, some tiny speck of humanity was in him. Something in him still knew what being good meant. It wasn’t a beginning for the two of them. It wasn’t even a prologue.

But it was a change, for both of them this time. A passing from enmity into…something. Different, more dangerous—perhaps even deadly. If either of them could have gone back, they would have. But they couldn’t. The change had come, and soon they were both going to have to deal with it.

Just then, though, Spike knew that it wasn’t the time to force her to deal with things. It was time for him to hold her, to try his best to keep the outside world from hurting her. Just for a little while, he thought fiercely, rocking her back and forth. Just for a while.

~*~

“It seems that the vampire has become rather—“ The woman pursed her lips in disgust—“Close to the Slayer. They seemed quite comfortable together on the airplane. The Slayer was sleeping on that thing’s arm.” She shifted the phone to make it more comfortable against her ear.

“I see.” In London, Quentin Travers took a deep breath, attempting to analyze the information his Watcher had just given him calmly. “Continue to keep tabs on them. I shall speak with the Termination Squad should the problem escalate.”

The dirty blonde woman adjuste her thick black-framed glasses. “Of course, sir.”

“And Gertrude?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Kindly don’t make yourself too obvious. You know how astute those monsters are at remembering humans.”

“Yes, sir.” Gertrude fiddled with the stake in her pocket. “I’m well armed. Should there be any trouble, I know what to do.”

“Very well, then. Good-night.” Travers hung up the phone and looked around the room. Sallow, hard-faced men, armed in various ways, looked back at him.

“Gentlemen,” he said, smiling grimly, “Pack your bags. We’re going on a bit of a trip.”

~*~