SWEET SPOT AU

AUTHOR: Rabid/Raeann

RATING: NC-17 overall, this part R

PAIRING: B/S, S/Wes, B/T friendship

SPOILERS: To As You Were, S6 and Angel S3 - Lullaby

BETA BABES: Mary, Kes and Caia

SUMMARY: Oh, just go back and read it. I can’t explain. It is WAAAY too complicated. But to cut a long story short, Spike is a woman and pregnant and he (or she depending on your P.O.V.) left Sunnydale vowing never to return and is about to shag an unsuspecting Wesley. And Buffy, who in a fit of masculinity fathered Spike’s child, is trying to locate Spike with Tara’s help.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: In ENTROPY, Willow asked Tara about life in the dorm and we can assume that Willow knows of what she speaks and that Tara is living in a dorm room as of ENTROPY. But this is like weeks before that. So, for this fic, let’s just say, Tara did NOT go to the dorm when she moved out of Chez Summers.

DISCLAIMER: Joss (along with Mutant Enemy and Fox and UPN and the WB) owns every character. They are slaves to his whim. They dance to his tune. He says, “JUMP”; they don’t even say, “How High?” unless he allows them to speak. I have no papers, no rights and no claim to these characters. But I am giving them NEW LIFE. So, you can consider me, Harriet Tubman on the underground railroad of fanfiction. I am leading the Buffyverse to freedom.

Part 4

The night was mild. Buffy had no need of the leather duster’s warmth but wearing it made her feel closer to Spike. She kept it tightly wrapped around her body as she navigated the twenty blocks to Tara’s place. She’d briefly considered driving but rejected the idea as too risky. In her current state, she was a danger behind the wheel. Or, she privately acknowledged, more of a danger than usual. With any luck, the brisk walk would calm her nerves.

It was her first visit to Tara’s place but Buffy found the warehouse district address easily enough. There were only two apartment complexes by the river. One was a gated community. The other, the ironically named Embassy Arms, was not. As Buffy climbed the rickety iron stairs of the Arms, she could hear a baby wailing plaintively behind one of the doors at the top of the stairs. When she reached the second floor Buffy paused, unsure of her direction. All of the apartments looked alike, windows staring out over the parking area toward a scenic view of the drainage ditch across the street.

The lighting on the second level walkway was dim, a few bare, dirty bulbs flickering against the darkness. Buffy had to squint at the numbers beside each mailbox as she searched for the correct door. Halfway along the landing, something hit the wall behind her with a muted thump. She spun around, all senses on alert. There was nothing to see. An orange curtain with a large brown stain twitched in the nearest window but there was no other sign of movement. The baby continued to cry.

After a moment or two, Buffy relaxed. The noise had probably come from within an apartment. Someone had kicked the wall or thrown a shoe. Her vigilance seemed foolish in light of her surroundings. It was hard to imagine any demon reduced to living at the Embassy Arms would be up to tangling with a Slayer. And, unless they had tapped Tara’s phone, they certainly wouldn’t be expecting her to drop by.

She scanned the area once more. It wasn’t that the place was creepy, she thought. Creepy she could handle. Menacing would be a treat. The Embassy was just insidiously depressing. It rivaled the Harris family basement for dismal. In the parking lot below, a middle-aged couple argued. The woman’s drunken screech was as piercing as a raptor’s call.

Buffy felt a twinge of shame. It was six weeks since Tara had moved out and, as far as Buffy knew, only Dawn had visited. She’d taken the rest of the witch’s things to her when no one else could spare the time. Had Dawn mentioned the oppressive atmosphere? It was possible. Buffy knew she could have shuffled the information to the back of her brain, yet another problem to be avoided.

Like the bills and Dawn’s stealing and my job. Or lack of job, now. Like Willow’s addiction. Why was Tara the one to move out? She didn’t do anything wrong. All she did was love the wrong person.

Buffy thought of Spike. He, too, had been driven away from his home by the one he loved. Was he living in a place like the Embassy Arms, she wondered? In her mind’s eye, she could see the frail figure he’d become huddled in the center of a lumpy bed. Pregnant and alone, he would have no idea where his next meal was coming from. If she didn’t find him, one day their baby might be weeping with nobody to care for it.

No, that won’t happen. Spike won’t let that happen. He’ll take care of our baby..

“Buffy?” Tara called. “Over here.”

The Slayer turned toward the hail and saw her friend framed in the light spilling from a doorway a little further along the landing. Tara looked out of place next to the peeling paint on her front door. She was comfortably but neatly dressed in a green mandarin-cut tunic and velvet slacks. Her dark blonde hair fell loose around her shoulders. Returning her wave, Buffy hurried to her side.

“I was starting to worry,” Tara said as Buffy drew near, “thought maybe you’d gotten lost. Or that there were monsters.”

“No,” Buffy said, ducking around her friend and into the apartment. “No evilness afoot…or in cars even. I just decided to walk. Clear my head. Sorry, I know it’s late…”

Tara waved off the apology. “It’s o-okay. It gave me more time to prepare the spell.”

She pointed to the evidence of her labor. On a table in the tiny dining alcove, candles were burning and packets of herbs lay in readiness. Buffy took in the rest of the paraphernalia, a massive tome, the brass bowl full of water her friend always used for diviniation and a pentagram drawn on the ruby red tablecloth, before casting a critical eye around the rest of the room. Her face must have reflected her surprise. Seeing her expression, Tara teased.

“Not what you were expecting.”

“Hardly,” Buffy admitted, then caught herself and added, “judging by the outside…”

She’d been expecting a Bates’ Motel kitchenette. To her surprise, what she could see of the apartment suited Tara’s personality. The living room was clean and cozy. The walls looked freshly painted. New draperies adorned the windows, the fabric matching the color scheme of the rest of the apartment.

Tara had draped silk scarves over the standard issue lamps, creating pools of multicolored light throughout the room. The indigenous furniture was buried in a sea of embroidered pillows and crocheted throws. Magical texts and other mystical props filled the bookshelves. Candles burned in silver holders on every available surface. Area rugs obscured the dark brown carpet.

“This is…very nice,” Buffy acknowledged as she slipped out of the duster and handed it off to Tara. “I’m sorry I haven’t stopped over. We should have a house warming or something. Isn’t that what normal people do? Shower you with potted plants and hand towels?”

“You’ve been busy,” Tara excused. Her eyes were kind but her shoulder’s were rigid. She took the coat from Buffy and folded it over her crossed arms, hugging it to her belly. “And I have enough hand towels.” As if realizing how abrupt she sounded, Tara softened her tone. “N-not th-hat I don’t w-want you to visit. I do. I-it’s just that…I-I only got settled this week. I didn’t unpack at first. Di-didn’t even…”

Buffy saw the struggle in the other woman’s blue grey eyes. The Slayer, more than most, understood what it was like to be emotionally torn. She knew what it was to want someone who was dangerous and yet, not want the danger. When Tara sighed and left the sentence hanging, she nodded sympathetically.

“You didn’t want to make it official?”

Tara dropped her gaze. “I g-guess.”

“That’s how we feel, too.” Buffy assured. Stepping closer, she placed a soft hand on her friend’s bare elbow. “We all miss you. Anytime you want to move back…”

Eyes still downcast,Tara, quickly shook her head. Buffy let it go. She knew Tara, like Spike, had good reasons for leaving. Willow was abusive. She needed to change before she could ask for forgiveness. And even if Tara could forgive, things might not work out. There were lines a couple should never cross. Buffy’s conscience prodded her.

Like beating each other down…making each other feel…worthless…

The two women stood close together for a moment, each preoccupied with her private thoughts. Mind on her troubled relationship, Buffy shifted slightly so she could see the dining table and the preparations for the spell. She wondered if the magic would work. And if it did, would Spike, like Tara, refuse to come home? Had she finally destroyed his love for her? When Tara cleared her throat softly, Buffy snapped out of her reverie to see the blond witch smiling at her.

“I still rent by the week, you know?”

Buffy flashed a bright grin at this news. “There’s the happy. Maybe if we’re lucky they will toss you out on your brazier?”

“Keep hope alive,” Tara said in a light tone. As she turned away, she added, almost to herself, “Love doesn’t die.”

The Slayer hoped her friend was right. She felt some of the tension ease in her shoulders. Tara had that effect on her. She always knew the right thing to say to soothe. Almost, Buffy thought, as if she could read minds or hearts.

This ability to empathize made Tara the logical choice when it came time for Buffy to confess her sins. Though the witch’s magical talents had come in useful, Buffy valued her unflappable calm even more. Xander and Willow were certain to freak when they found out about the affair with Spike. But Tara took the news in stride, all of it, but especially the first stop-the-presses bulletin.

I do things to him…let him do things to me…

In lieu of judging,Tara had asked the big money question: Do you love him?

It’s okay if you do…and…Buffy…it’s okay, if you don’t…

Was it really all okay? If Tara’s spell worked, Buffy would be out to everyone. The rest of her friends weren’t going to be empathic or supportive. They wouldn’t even be calm. Phrases like, “What the hell were you thinking?” would be bandied about. To take her mind off the inevitable showdown, Buffy watched Tara’s put the final touches on the pending enchantment. The witch folded the duster inside out and placed it on the table next to the pentagram.

“What are you going to do with that? Raise the spirits of bad fashion?”

“There’s a spell,” Tara answered. She gave a graceful sweep of her hand to indicate Buffy should take a seat on the far side of the table. “I found it in Ames’ Arcadius Practiciata.”

“A locator spell?” Buffy asked, pulling out a chair.

“No! More of a soul calling…to find your true love.”

“Uh…”

“I’ll just take a clipping from the coat and,” Tara was saying as she reached for the shears.

“Hey! No cutting,” Buffy yelped. She snatched at the duster, pulling it across the table and letting it spill into her lap.

Tara rolled her eyes and started around the table to retrieve the coat. “I only need a small snip,” she said with more patience than she felt, “from the lining. Spike will never notice.”

Buffy was adamant. “Hasn’t he had enough snipped?”

Aware that nothing short of wrestling would remove the duster from Buffy’s protective custody, Tara sighed. She put the scissors aside and considered the alternatives.

“Well, then, we will just have to bridge the duster in,” she said at last. Seeing Buffy’s puzzled look, she explained, “We can both keep a hand on it as I cast the spell. It will be a little more complicated. But the spell will still work as long as you’re thinking of each other. Is he…well…will he be thinking of you?”

Does he think about anything else?

“He claims he thinks about me all the time…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Don’t think about Buffy…don’t…

Spike tried to concentrate on the soft light in Wesley’s eyes. He wanted to focus on the sensation of strong male fingers gently exploring his face and neck. It made for a refreshing change, he thought, being cherished. The boy had the knack. Buffy would have had him twice over by now and be well on her way to number three. But Wes was taking his time, savoring the experience.

And why not? Got all night, ain’t we? Patience is a virtue. And you can’t deny the Wyndam-Price method is easier on the wardrobe.

Spike released a tiny sigh. He started counting the ceiling tiles, again. This time, he remembered not to hum.

Wes moved in for a kiss, blocking Spike’s view for a minute. They were on the sofa, Watcher on top. Part of the challenge was the occasional need to remember where you were in the whole tile counting thing. Spike didn’t mind. And he rather enjoyed playing passive. The role required nothing more than a moan or twitch every so often. It was, for lack of a better word, liberating.

He sprawled under Wes, in all his pale liberated glory. One of his legs draped over the edge of the couch, toes grazing the floor. His other leg was bent at the knee, the heel braced against the backrest of the sofa. Various articles of clothing were strewn on the floor forming a path from the front door. A silver anklet and a pair of splashy earrings were all that separated Spike from his natural state.

By contrast, Wes, still wearing his glasses and jeans, was way over-dressed. His fly was open, though, offering Spike easier access to the slim bulge in his dark blue underwear. When the moist cotton covered swell pressed into the vampire's bare belly, he considered taking a more aggressive approach to releasing the tension. Something involving a hand job and handcuffs might work.

Need a French Trick, pet? Little decisive wrist action…Someone ought to give you one…would make a man of you in no time…I’d do it…if I wasn’t a lady, mind…which I am…so…

Wes moved out of the way and Spike went on with his count. He determined he would do the holes in the tile just overhead, next.

Blissfully unaware of his date’s inner dialogue, Wes continued his detailed dermatology exam. His hands were patient and sure, tracing over Spike’s nearly translucent skin with incremental precision. He didn’t miss a mole. When, at long last, he stumbled on an erogenous zone, Spike urged him on with word and gesture. Wes let his mouth and tongue follow the example of his fingers.

Okay, now you’re gettin’ it. Suck a bit harder…and jus’ a smidge lower…OWW…not that hard…

Spike bucked, experimentally, wriggling into a more easily accessible position.

Wes gave a smothered mutter of understanding and slithered over the lip of the couch. As he dropped to the floor, his hip collided with the coffee table, shunting it to one side. A decorative vase overbalanced and a pile of metaphysical journals cascaded off the far side, scattering across the floor. Kneeling in the narrow valley between pieces of furniture, Wes leaned in to continue his oral endeavors.

Spike sighed into relaxation. The warm, velvet push into his core left him feeling buoyant. His muscles turned pliant, melting like a chocolate truffle balanced on Buffy's nipple. Sliding the heel of his foot along the back of the sofa, Spike drew the knee toward his ribcage and then extended the leg over his head. The ready flexibility of his new body was astounding.

Wes paused to admire the view.

None of that…you can gawk later…

Spike abandoned his acrobatic efforts, returning his leg to position one. To underscore his need, he gave a throaty moan, twitching his hips in encouragement. Wes didn’t blink at first. But after a short delay, he placed his hands high on Spike’s inner thighs. Then, working his thumbs in a circular pattern, he spread the lips of paradise apart. He seemed spellbound by the glistening pink petals unfolding before his eyes.

Spike was at a loss. He squirmed and panted. It got him nowhere. His left foot still rested between Wes’ legs. He wriggled it about until his toes found Wyndam-Price, Jr. Latching on, he started working up and down the man’s slender length in hopes of jumping off the action again.

The ploy worked like a charm. Wes and his member jerked in response. They returned to business. To Spike’s delight, the former Watcher wasn’t shy about enjoying the taste of a woman. He lapped hungrily, slurping and nuzzling. His stubbly beard scratched at Spike’s delicate quim, the roughess making a sharp contrast to the wet satin of Wes’ busy tongue.

Shame Buffy didn’t have a beard. Don’t think about Buffy.

There ya’ go, Pet. A little to the left and…oh, BUGGER!

Where the bloody hell are you off to NOW?

Casting aside the facade of patience, Spike sat up, grabbed the scruff of Wesley’s neck and forced him back into the fold like a wayward lamb. To his surprise, this show of brute strength seemed to enflame rather than blunt the man’s ardor. There was little doubt Wes wanted more of the same. The scent of masculine need was like a pulse in Spike’s head.

Want it to be my idea, do you? We can play it that way…

“Make me feel good, luv,” Spike ordered, putting his purr in stiletto heels.

He held onto the back of the Wesley’s head, trying to coerce him into service but the man resisted, pulling away. Luckily, he didn’t go far.

“If you insist,” Wes chuckled softly, mischief dancing across his face.

Without breaking eye contact, he locked both hands around Spike’s hip bones, fingers curling into soft flesh. The vampire tried to look fierce and only succeed in looking heart-wrenchingly beautiful.

Wes couldn’t believe his good fortune. He’d found a woman who enjoyed sex and really seemed to want him. When he blew gently into her white curls, glistening so near his mouth, she quivered from her toes to her fingertips.

“You want…this?” Wes asked, a bit rhetorically, Spike thought, as he didn’t wait for an answer before starting in again with the tongue.

Spike lost his grip, in more ways than one. He flopped back onto the sofa, hands plucking impotently at the cushions. To keep Wes close, he wrapped his leg around the man’s narrow shoulders. But it was hardly necessary. Wes appeared to have no intention of stopping.

“AhhhHAaah….yeah…” Spike’s whole body shuddered. He arched up, head pressing back into the arm of the couch.

Oh, now THAT is NOT Buffy. That is so much…

“…WES…ooh…”

Want Buffy…need her…inside…

NO! Bugger Buffy and the horse she rode in on! Selfish, heartless bint! This is what I want…this! And oh, Ducks…you make me feel so good…all hot and nasty and manly… or womanly I reckon… though I would surely bugger you…

…and…and…you’re going to make me…make me…

…right after this we could…OH…

…GOD…I’m going to…I’m…

…SICK!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“He doesn’t seem to be thinking about you,” Tara said as she adjusted the nearest candle. After pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, she stared again at the flickering reflections in the water in her scrying bowl. There was nothing else to see. No image of Spike formed in the fluid.

“That’s odd,” Buffy remarked. She leaned over to peer into the bowl’s liquid mirror as if she might notice something the witch had missed. “Are you sure?”

“He could be asleep.”

“You don’t think he’s…?” Buffy couldn’t bring herself to say it. “I mean…he’s not hurt or…or anything…is he?”

“I can’t tell,” Tara said. She sprinkled another pinch of herbs over the bowl. The falling spice glowed green for a minute, like a miniature firework. All trace of it vanished before it could hit water. Tara frowned. “He could be sick.”

“Right…sick and pregnant and alone,” Buffy chanted, driving the guilt home by hammering at her already broken heart.

“You can’t blame yourself,” Tara said, sitting back in her chair to rest her eyes.

“I can. I do. You don’t know what I’m like. We’re friends so you think I’m all…friendly. But if I was your lover you would see.”

“You’re not that bad,” Tara protested.

“I have a wall,” Buffy announced primly.

“A what?”

“A non-penetrate-y wall,” the Slayer went on to explain, “The kind you find in a castle or a fort…or in something made out of blocks of frozen ice cream. I put it up and it’s game over. Nobody survives the siege. Just ask Riley.” Buffy’s mind went blank as she stared into the past. Distractedly, she used both hands to gather fistfuls of hair. Then, she pulled the fistfuls up and back until she winced. The pain helped her focus. “And Spike? He wasn’t impressed at first. ‘Cause he’s like this relentless horde of penetrators. But I outplayed, witted and lasted him. It’s no wonder men flee from me. I slay their manhood.”

“Spike isn’t technically a man.”

“Not anymore.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Tara puffed in exasperation. “He’s a vampire. Not just an adult but a hundred years older than you. Plus, you told me the weevils were his idea. So, I think he can carry a little of the blame.”

Buffy shook her head. “You don’t know what I did to him…what I said.”

“You don’t think he can forgive you?”

“What does it matter if we can’t even find him?”

Tara leaned over her scrying dish again, concentrating. “Are you thinking about him?”

“Yes.”

The witch sighed. “Then he’s not thinking about you.”

“Could the spell be wonky? Maybe the herbs aren’t fresh. Or you’re tired. You could be tired.”

“No,” Tara’s eyes darted toward her magical source text. She checked the language even though she knew the incantations were correct. “The spell is right. And it’s working. It gets us as far as Los Angeles and then…poof…we break up.”

Buffy chewed her lower lip for a second or two and then spoke hesitantly. “I don’t mean to tell you your bippity-boppity business…but…you know…maybe it’s…”

“What?”

“The love thing.”

Tara’s concentration wavered again. Her gaze darted up to meet and hold on Buffy’s.

The Slayer squirmed under the steady appraisal. She felt exposed. Hastily, she tried to explain her position on her lover.

“Spike is…hot and also…hot. And yeah, okay…he’s my boyfriend. If that can be someone you’ve never dated and have to hide from your friends. We have sex. Lots of sex and maybe occasionally…we talk. He can make me feel better about my life. But that isn’t true love.”

“I was there after, Buffy,” Tara said patiently. “When you fell?” She waited until the Slayer nodded before continuing, “Spike was devastated. And the way he helped us with Dawn…I know it’s crazy but I think he has true feelings for you…not human feelings exactly…but…”

“Not him,” Buffy interrupted. “Me.”

“Oh,” Tara blinked.

“Are you sure about L.A.?” Buffy continued. “Because that makes sense. Angel was my true love, my soulmate. So…my soul is already taken. It can’t go around having random connect-y-ness. And even if it could…why would my soul want to cozy up to Spike? He’s evil. And annoying. Have you even considered that?”

Tara nearly laughed. She would readily admit that she hadn’t considered the spell might pick up Angel vibes and for a very good reason. Buffy was obviously in love with Spike. She might not be willing to admit it, but her body language spoke volumes. She was frantic with worry.

Letting her line of sight drop to where the Slayer’s hands rested on the tabletop, Tara watched Buffy braiding and unbraiding her fingers. Four times, she tugged and twisted from pinkie to thumb. In between each wringing, she plucked nervously at the tablecloth. When she became aware of Tara’s scrutiny, Buffy tried to still her hands but failed. She ended up manipulating a drop of candle wax, rolling it into a ball before smashing the sphere out flat again.

“I thought,” Tara said lightly, “since we were going to all this trouble….”

“We’re going to this trouble because I have to find him.”

“Why?”

“Hello? Baby?”

“So, you want the baby but not Spike?”

“It’s a package deal,” Buffy murmured, avoiding the other woman’s eye. “I don’t have any choice.”

The pat answer sounded rehearsed. Tara hoped Buffy wasn’t planning to stay closeted. In the guise of doing the right thing, she could have her lover back without facing the truth about her feelings. If she played it right, she would never have to deal with her friends’ disapproval. Tara had first hand experience with this kind of twisted thinking. She knew some people could love and still deny the object of their affections. Her first crush, an older woman, led a double life, passionate indoors but chilly in company. It was a hard way to live.

“What about after?” She asked, trying not to let her thoughts color her tone.

“After?”

“When the baby is born?”

“I…I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

No, I can see that you haven’t, Tara thought but she didn’t say anything more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wave of nausea hit without warning. Spike barely had time to flail out of Wes’ arms. They were intertwined, in the small space between the sofa and the coffee table. The former Watcher had been working at the warm fuzzy in his delightfully ‘Not-Buffy’ way when the difference suddenly became stomach turning. Cold bile clawed at the back of Spike’s throat.

With a choking slur of warning, he lurched upright, twisting away from the couch. He kicked out, managing to free himself from the tangle of Watcher limbs, tried to stand and fell forward onto his hands and knees. His mouth filled with bitter fluid. Scrambling across the carpet, he made for the tiled square by the front door. He was nearly there when he lost control.

Thankfully, Wes had relaxed his grip as soon as Spike started thrashing about. Had the former watcher been less of a gentleman, he would have been showered with the remains of Spike’s dinner.

Instead, the ugly puddle of thoroughly masticated crab, hot sauce and partially congealed blood splattered across his champagne-colored carpet. A stench of death permeated the room. It was a revolting odor. And although it had never bothered Spike in the past, he gagged again almost immediately. He put a hand over his mouth but wasn’t able to stem the flood. A second wave of vomit oozed through his fingers.

The vampire was appalled. His kind seldom purged. They had little need. The undead were immune to flu bugs and food poisoning. Even feeding on three-day-old carrion held little horror for Spike. His system was designed to suck the life out of any living thing, no matter how small. Rare indeed was the microscopic entity with the temerity to assault a vampire.

Spike’s digestive process resembled a featureless one-way street. Ingested blood became flesh. The life force of a victim renewed the animating force of his demon. There were no complicated interactions involving enzymes or acids. There was nothing to go wrong.

And yet, something obviously had.

But the explanation eluded him. A moment before he’d felt fine, better than fine, actually. He’d felt horny and on the brink of satisfaction. Naughty images of Wes had filled his head and then suddenly, all the good seemed to leave the world. As he struggled to swallow down his rising gorge, Spike puzzled over the slimy mess on the floor.

He could remember vomiting only three times since he shucked off the mortal coil, twice in response to extreme physical duress of the hallucinogenic kind and once when he thought he would die from a broken heart. The last time had been in the wake of Buffy’s fall from the tower. The surge of emotion that had triggered this bout was similar in nature to that last one. He felt ashamed and bereft. But he didn’t understand what could have triggered such an emotional reaction.

I love her…need her…I can’t just let him in…let him…oh,no…NO! Tell me I haven’t come over all Sister Margaret. I’m not some blushing virgin! I won’t have this!

I mean…yeah, okay…I love Buffy…still! Right…fine, I admit it!

But COME ON! So the boy and I have it off? It’s…sex…fun…no different for women! I want him…he wants me…oh, I’m going to chunder.

“Bloody hell,” Spike coughed, when he could draw breath to speak. “What’s going on?”

It had taken Wesley Wyndam-Price only a moment to process the drastic change in mood and so be able to provide an explanation.

“Morning sickness,” he said. His tone was resigned but not unkind. Spike latched onto the idea, desperate to avoid the alternative of psychosomatic illness. Then, the dreadful implication bore in on his mind.

“Nine soddin’ months of this? I won’t survive it.”

Already he felt hollow. A demonic hunger burned in his chest. He needed blood, craved it. But the very thought of feeding conspired with the disgusting odor in the room to send him into dry heaves. When the spasm passed, Spike’s shaking arms refused to hold him upright any longer. With a groan of despair, he collapsed onto his side, curled protectively around his aching stomach. He let his eyelashes flutter shut.

“Usually doesn’t last much beyond the first trimester,” Wes was saying as he knocked about in the kitchen, first opening a window and then running water. “I expect it was the crab.”

“Don’t say ‘crab,’” Spike whispered hoarsely, gagging on the final word.

His head was swimming. He kept his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of busywork. Cabinets opened and closed. Footsteps retreated and then returned. A strong chemical scent wafted ahead of Wes as he approached. Spike could hear the slosh of water in a plastic bucket, coming closer. He struggled to sit up and failed. Dropping back into a miserable heap, he waited for the end.

He won’t stake me…doesn’t know what I am. And humans are different…they’re funny about sex…he’ll probably just toss me out…leave me in the hall…I can find shelter in a little while…when I’m stronger…

“Now, to take care of you,” Wes said matter-of-factly. He sat the bucket down with a thump and splash.

Despite his positive self-talk, Spike tensed for the boot in the ribs he was certain was forthcoming. Everything in his experience pointed to swift retribution for the sin of leading someone on and then making a stinking spectacle on their posh carpets. He had gutted woman for less. Even Buffy had slapped him around the one time he’d tried to deny her. Spike fully expected a kick.

Instead, he felt the floorboards shift slightly as Wes dropped to one knee beside him. Strong, if somewhat delicate, hands lifted him from the floor, bracing him upright. Unable to support his own weight, Spike leaned heavily into Wes, soiling his clothes. The man didn’t flinch from the messy contact. Shifting his grip slightly to cradle Spike in a more comfortable position, he started bathing the vampire’s face. The warm, wet cloth glided gently over Spike’s skin, wiping away the sticky dribbles of vomit.

“You’ll want a bath, I expect,” Wes was saying as he moved on to Spike’s slimy fingers, washing each in turn. “I’ll draw you one shortly. And find you a toothbrush. We’ll need to have these clothes laundered.”

Spike opened his eyes. He focused for a moment on the scruffy, sweet face so near his own. Wes was intent on his work. Spike hadn’t noticed before but seen up close, the man’s eyes were a startling emerald green behind the rectangular frames of his glasses. Dark stands of hair curled onto his high, aristocratic brow. Spike’s nipples tingled as he breathed in the aroma of Wes and sex. The female scent on the man’s skin wasn’t completely unrecognizable. But it was alien enough to intoxicate.

Spike let his gaze drift down, until he was staring at the flutter of a pulse. As he breathed out, he directed his exhale toward a lock of chocolate silk just below Wes’ ear. The curl of hair shivered against the hard bristles of two-day old beard. A subtle frisson flitted along Wes’ skin. It was almost imperceptible, the lifting of short hairs, the prickling of flesh and the slight tensing of muscles. No human would have noted it. Wes was only marginally aware of his need. But it made Spike’s mouth water.

Despite a sour tummy and aching head, he briefly considered having another go at the man. He longed to swirl his fingers through those short locks and feel that mouth suckle against his throat. He wanted to let Wes drive his exquisitely slender length in to the hilt.

Maybe I could feed on him…nothing vital…don’t want to set off the chip…just a little love bite at the crucial moment...

It was a pleasant fantasy. But Spike knew, now, he wouldn’t be able to finish anything they started. His stomach would see to it.

Because of her…and this baby…Spawn of the Slayer. That’s what you are, my little bit. You’re like her ruddy Moral Majority watchdog. She’s still making me suffer…still sucking the joy out of my afterlife…

Turning his head slightly, Spike looked at the pool of vomit that had spread to soil his discarded jeans and blouse. He would have to get his duffle out of storage. He’d put it in a locker for safe keeping while he dealt with Angel and Company. Unfortunately, while secure, it was miles away. Retrieving it would mean a long hike through the sewers.

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything suitable for you to wear tonight,” Wes said, noting Spike’s returning animation and the direction of his gaze. “But I do have a clean robe. Birthday present…never worn.”

“Robe?”

Spike had been about to remark on the change of clothes he’d squirreled away, but stopped short. Though, he was having trouble processing what, to him, was a completely foreign response to the situation, he was willing to follow Wesley’s lead. If the man wanted to lend him a robe, so be it.

Shifting his shoulders a trifle, Spike got a better view of the former Watcher. Wes seemed sincere. He was holding the vampire like a babe in arms and smiling beneficently. Fine lines crinkled around his slightly narrowed eyes but there was nothing but care and concern in his hawkish features. Taking note of Spike’s appraisal, Wes lifted one hand to push a few damp strands of hair off his pale face. He let his fingers “S” along a fine brow and then trail down, following the curve of a classically arched cheekbone until they rested against lush lips. Green eyes met icy blue ones. Spike swallowed hard.

“I…,” the vampire began. The word met the barrier of Wesley’s fingers. He tried again and the Watcher let him speak. “You…you’re not hacked off at me?”

Wes looked startled. “Why would I be?”

Spike puffed out an impatient breath. His arm fluttered weakly, pointing toward the puddle before falling back across his body. Wes glanced in the direction indicated.

“The carpet? It hardly matters.”

“No, not the carpe…well…yeah, kind of the carpet but also the whole: climb up your person, promise you a shag and then…then…jus’ leave you all…st-storked,” Spike sputtered. Using the leverage of a firm grip on Wes, he struggled up into a more vertical position. “I thought you wanted to get your leg over.”

Wes blushed to the roots of his hair. “I beg your pardon.”

“You’re not ponce-y are you? I mean…you fancy girls, right?”

Surprised by the twisted logic, Wes settled back on his haunches, considering Miss Spivey. What an unusual question, he thought. But, to his credit, he answered it truthfully.

“Most of the time,” he said and a small part of his brain was appalled by this unprecedented honesty.

“But not always…”

It was a leading statement, really. It didn’t even qualify as a question. But there was no judgment in it, only a simple request for the facts.

Wes had no doubt he wanted this woman. She was sexy and smart and she really seemed to enjoy his efforts. Beyond that she had skin like milk and honey. It even tasted sweet. He liked her sense of humor and her dippy world view. She was refreshing and delicious. If she hadn’t gotten sick at exactly the wrong moment, the question of his sexual orientation would never have come up. But she did and it had. He shook his head.

“No! Not always.”

His date seemed to take the news of his bisexuality in stride.

“Well, that’s alright then. Won’t take it personally.”

“Take what personally?”

“The lack of frustration,” Spike explained.

“Well…as to that…I admit to the emotion…but you are sick.”

“Piffle,” Spike said. “If I were a man…”

“No, I’m afraid either way,” Wes insisted with a wry smile. “A gentleman always refrains from ‘putting his leg over’ while his partner is in the throes of dyspepsia. It’s in the code.”

“Not everyone is up to code,” Spike said bitterly.

Wes frowned over this even as he nodded in acknowledgement of the point. He couldn’t help being intrigued by the mystery of Miss Frances Spivey. Seeing she was trying to stand, he scrambled to his feet and offered her a hand. She stared at it, not comprehending for a moment, and then grasped it tightly. Wes was amazed at the strength of her grip. Despite her fragile appearance, she wasn’t a hothouse flower.

He wondered what sort of men she had known in the past. He put them down as cads. She’d obviously been treated roughly. But by whom? Who would hurt such an emotionally open person? Could Angel be responsible for the wary light in her eyes? Wes didn’t want to believe it.

“Where to now?” Spike asked, swaying slightly as he found his feet.

Slipping his arm around his date’s waist, Wes shook off his curiosity and concentrated on her needs. “We should get you into a bath,” he said.

Spike sighed, “Look, Luv. I can’t promise it will help.”

“You’ll feel better, I’m sure of it.”

“Maybe,” Spike conceded, sounding doubtful. “I might manage a hand job…polish your knob…but beyond that…”

Wes tried and failed to suppress a laugh. The woman was positively amazing.

“You know, Frances,” he remarked, giving Spike’s waist an affectionate squeeze, “not counting the one where I nearly died, this is the most extraordinary first date I’ve ever had.”

Spike was strangely comforted by the warm look in Wesley’s eyes. “And the night is young,” he said, almost flirtatiously.

“Indeed it is.”

A wobbly Spike allowed Wes to assist him to the bathroom. The vampire rinsed his mouth out at the sink. Then, sitting quietly on the closed toilet seat, he waited while the man drew a scented bath. When the tub was full, and the temperature of the water had been adjusted to Wes' satisfaction, the former Watcher lifted Spike into it. He settled in for a long soothing soak while Wes toddled off to attend to the mess in the living room. Spike could hear him puttering about, scrubbing floors and, presumably, washing clothes. The domesticity made him smile. He found he enjoyed being pampered.

The water had just cooled to the point of discomfort, when Wes reappeared with the promised robe. He placed it on the vanity and helped Spike from the tub. Once he'd towelled off, the vampire let his new friend bundle him up in terry cloth and carry him through to the bedroom.

They didn’t talk. They didn’t have to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Concentrate,” Tara whispered.

“I am concentrating,” Buffy whispered back.

The spinning colors in the well of the brass bowl were taking firmer shape, forming into a stock shot of earth from space. Slowly, the imaged swelled, filling the still water with a three dimensional view, becoming a continent, a coastline, a city, a street…a house…a bed.

The bed wasn’t empty. Buffy blanched when she saw Spike. He was sleeping, curled up in another man’s arms. Buffy couldn’t see his face from her mystical vantage point and he was all but covered by a blanket. But she knew him by the curve of his back, the fall of his platinum blond hair and by the shards of glass cutting into her heart as she processed the scene. Tears burned in her eyes.

It was a second or two before she recognized her lover’s new companion but when she did, Buffy jerked bolt-upright in her chair.

“Oh, my god!”

Tara started. The image in her scrying bowl broke into meaningless fragments as the spell unraveled. Tara shook her head, trying to clear the post-enchantment cobwebs away. She couldn’t make sense of what she’d seen.

Glancing up, questioningly, at the pasty-faced Slayer she said, “That’s—uh…was that?”

“Wesley Wyndam-Price,” Buffy confirmed with a nod, forgetting, in her outrage, that Tara had never met Wes and couldn’t possibly be asking about him. She pushed away from the table and started pacing up and down the room. “Former Incompetent Watcher and current Man-Skank? No nerdy glasses and apparently he doesn’t own a razor anymore but…yeah that was him!”

“That wasn’t Spike?”

“Oh,” Buffy dragged the syllable through her teeth. “It was Spike, alright.” She made a windmill gesture with her right arm. “With the nakedness. Didn’t take him long to land on his feet...or his back…or his knees or whatever.”

“And the other one,” Tara frowned, working out the puzzle, “the brunette, was a Watcher?”

“Not a Watcher,” Buffy corrected. “My Watcher.”

“But I thought Giles….”

“He is…was…but so was Wesley. You remember when the Council was here? Travers and the rest?” Tara nodded and Buffy went on. “Well, just after my eighteenth birthday when they fired Giles,” She broke off, waving an impatient hand. “You know, it’s a long and mostly boring story of star-crossed Englishmen. The point is Spike did this to get back at me.”

“Buffy, they were just sleeping.”

“And naked,” Buffy countered.

“Y-you can’t kn-know that,” Tara argued. “There were blankets a-and I thought…maybe…pajamas.”

“Spike sleeps in the nude. The Bailey Street Book about him is called Vampires Don’t Own Pajamas. He’s in perpetual nakedness but he is especially naked when he’s hoping to get his own way….”

“I meant, on the man,” Tara interrupted. “The Watcher?”

This reference to Wes set the Slayer off again. “If you can call him a man…or a Watcher. And what kind of Watcher picks a vampire for his one-night stand?”

“Maybe Spike told him about the chip.”

“Maybe Spike picked him up in a karaoke bar and the ‘rogue demon hunter’ was too dense to check for a pulse before issuing an invite.”

“Is he really that clueless?”

“He’s the special edition DVD version of Clueless. Angel told me he’d gone all ‘rogue demon hunter’ but I don’t believe it. He once shot himself in the foot. He knows all the words to The Mikado. He’s a…a…poof. I bet Dawn could take him in a fair fight. What can Spike possibly see in him?”

“From what you’ve told me,” Tara said softly, “I don’t think Spike was looking for a fight.”

A wash of crimson flared in Buffy’s cheeks. She stopped pacing. Tara was right. The last thing Spike needed right now was someone aggressive. He’d made it abundantly clear he’d had enough of that from her. He wanted a change.

…of scenery…of lovers…

Her gaze strayed to the scrying dish, again. She could vividly recall the tender scene it had shown. It hurt to remember. The pain ignited her anger. Bitter jealousy burned in her chest. Part of her wanted to break every bone in Wesley Wyndam-Price’s body, slowly, over a matter of days. But, in all fairness, she had to admit the current situation wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t Spike’s fault either.

“No,” she murmured, avoiding Tara’s eyes. “He wanted information.”

“The kind he might get from a former Watcher?” Tara pressed gently.

“Yeah,” Buffy admitted. She gave a huge sigh and, after a brief hesitation, crossed to the table and resumed her seat. “Stuff about vampires and babies and those weevils.”

Tara nodded. She considered the clear water in the brass bowl as she thought about what to do next. Finally she asked, “Do you have a phone number for the Watcher? Should we call him?”

Buffy brightened as she mulled over the idea. It had definite appeal. Angel could give her Wesley’s home number. She wouldn’t have to tell him why she needed it. She could put a stop to any hanky-panky. Or any further hanky-panky anyway. But thinking things out, she shook her head. Her temporary animation evaporated. This wasn't a situation easily explained over the phone.

“No,” she finally answered. “What would we say? ‘You’re sleeping with a vampire, nimrod…oh, wait…don’t stake him…er…her?’ What do you mean, ‘too late’?”

“Spike can take care of himself,” Tara reminded. “If this—“

“…Wesley,” Buffy supplied to the hesitation.

“If this Wesley guy is as incompetent as you say…”

“I can’t risk it,” Buffy said. “Spike’s helpless with that chip in his head. He can’t fight back.” She cast a pleading look to heaven. “And can you believe I’m actually concerned he might NOT kill someone?”

She propped both elbows on the table and settled her chin in her hands. “I’ll just have to go to L.A. and put a stop to…whatever is going on.” She groaned as a thought struck her. “That means I’ll have to see Angel. I’m not even sure I can look at him, right now. I know I can’t tell him about Spike and then…what if Spike shows up? Or the Rogue Demon Hunter? It would be a farcical love triangle…if a triangle had five sides.”

“Are you going tonight?” Tara asked, glancing at the clock.

Buffy acknowledged the temptation but fought it down. She shook her head.

“No, I can’t just disappear. I am the new, responsible, soon to be a parent, Buffy. But first thing tomorrow…”

Realizing she had no idea how she was going to convince Spike to return with her, the Slayer let her sentence trail off. It hurt to think Spike might prefer to stay in Wesley’s company. But the truth was she’d rejected him so often and so completely that….

“He might refuse to come back with you?”

“You know, that witch-y intuition of yours is starting to give me the wiggins,” Buffy remarked.

“It doesn’t take second sight to see you’ve got a rocky relationship.”

“Rocky?” Buffy snorted. “It’s like…like a really bad movie of the week. I’m the abusive psycho who gets strung out on cheap booze and cocaine and drives her pregnant wife out in the cold.”

“Okay, first,” Tara pointed out. “That sounds like an After-School Special I once saw. And second, Spike isn’t your wife.”

“No,” Buffy groaned, “and the way we’re going he never will be.” She blushed as soon as the words left her mouth. “Not that I want to marry him or anything. I mean, NO!” Letting her head fall, face first, into the nest of her folded arms, she ranted into the tablecloth. “After all, he’s just my undead, almost evil, gender-switching, pregnant lover who has left me to seek comfort in the arms of another man.”

“It’s really more of a break-out country hit, isn’t it?”

Buffy lifted her head off her crossed arms and stared at the other woman for a minute as if she didn’t believe what she’d just heard. A small smile played over Tara’s lips. There was an impish light in her eyes. Buffy couldn’t help snorting out a self-deprecating little laugh.

“Heaven didn’t want me, now I’m raising hell on earth?”

“Something like that,” Tara grinned.

She got up from the table and started clearing away the remains of the spell. The brass bowl was emptied into a potted plant and then tenderly wrapped in silk before being settled into a velvet lined rosewood box. As she broke the pentagram and brushed the scattering of herbs into her palm, a disturbing thought caused Tara to suddenly exclaim.

“Oh…speaking of hell…” She tried to catch Buffy’s eye as she rushed out her concerns. “Do we know the baby isn’t…well…evil?”

The Slayer refused to meet her gaze. “Spike thinks it’s human.”

“What if he got that part wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

Avoiding Tara’s attempt to make eye contact, Buffy stared into the tiny kitchenette as she scowled over the question. It had been in the back of her mind since her last conversation with Spike. Between the ranting and the angry storming off, she remembered experiencing a gut-wrenching thrill at the news of his pregnancy. She was going to be a mother. They both were going to be mothers. It was impossible and beyond inconvenient but it was also a miracle.

“Buffy?” Tara verbally nudged, dipping her chin in quizzical concern.

“I can’t kill it,” Buffy said at last. She sounded slightly apologetic but her gaze, when she finally looked at Tara, was unflinching. “In the beginning, I thought I could…but I can’t.”

“What if it’s something horrific?”

“Like the anti-Christ?” Buffy asked with forced perkiness. “Or a performance artist…or maybe like the guy who thought up computerized telemarketers?”

Tara couldn’t help laughing. She reached across the table to pat her friend’s hand. “Let’s hope it’s not that bad. We can take some precautions. I’ll start researching.”

“Prenatal Care comma Hellmouth,” Buffy suggested, standing up and preparing to take her leave. “Planning for that special delivery.”

She gathered Spike’s duster into her arms. It was late. She needed to get home. Not that she would sleep. Her mind was already in L.A., kicking the stuffing out of Wesley Wyndam-Price. But she’d have to make some excuse to Dawn and arrange for Xander to check-in on her sister while she was gone. Willow was doing much better but it never hurt to have a back-up sitter.

What am I going to tell them? I have to think of something. And then if Spike comes…WHEN Spike comes back with me…

“I have class in the morning,” Tara was saying.

Buffy jerked out of her introspection. “I’m sorry. What?”

“I said I can come with you to L.A., if you want. But I can’t leave until noon. Classes.”

“Oh,” Buffy breathed. Unshed tears glistened in her eyes, blurring her vision. Feeling a nearly overwhelming sense of gratitude, she crossed the short distance to Tara and caught the other woman up in a fierce one-armed hug. “Thank you,” she whispered into the fall of dark blond hair.

Tara awkwardly patted the Slayer’s back. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll bring him home.”

After another quick squeeze, Buffy took a half step away and, before she lost her nerve, rushed out a desperate plea. “When we do, can he stay here?” Tara opened her mouth to protest but Buffy didn’t stop for breath. “It would just be for a day or two. Until I settle a few things. I know it’s a lot to ask. And you’ve already done so much. But things are so chaotic now. I just need a little time to…break the news to Dawn and figure out what I’m going to do next.”

“What about the crypt?”

“I don’t want him staying there. I’ll find him a place and....”

“Buffy,” Tara interrupted. “I don’t mind helping you but…I’m not sure this is a good idea. Spike is pregnant. If he comes back, everyone will find out. You can’t keep something like that a secret.”

“I know but…”

The phone rang. Tara looked annoyed but excused herself to answer.

“Hello?” She snapped and then her tone softened considerably. “Hi, Sweetie! Yes, she’s still here. Hang on.” She covered the mouthpiece and held the receiver out. “It’s Dawn.”

“Dawn?” Buffy said, taking the phone. She spoke into the instrument. “What’s wrong? Why are you up?” Her brow furrowed when her sister cut her off. Tara saw the color drain from her face. “What? When? Why didn’t you…Oh, Great! No! Okay, I’m on my way. No, if he calls back tell him not to do anything. I’m on my way. DAWN! Just stay at the house. I’ll take care of this.”

She banged the receiver into the cradle and turned to Tara.

“Riley’s back,” she informed as she headed for the exit. “Dawn says he left a note on the door. She and Willow found it when they came home. They were going to tell me about when I got back but…Riley just called. He’s got some kind of monster trapped in Spike’s crypt.”

Tara’s eyes widened as she and Buffy had the same thought.

“Clem!”

END OF THIS PART

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