The Long And Winding Road

By ezagaaikwe

Pairing: Spike/Tara

Rating: up to NC-17.

Warning: character death

Spoilers: Something Blue, Seeing Red, Villains, Two To Go, Grave and well, all BtVS season 7 (although AU by then) and AtS season 5.

Author Notes: Post BtVS and AtS.  This fic's not big with the 'splainy about how Spike got out of the pickle he and Angel's gang were in at the AtS series finale.  You just know it was damn heroic, though.  Big thanks to my betas Calove, Lillianmorgan, Married_n_mich, and especially to MyFeetShowIt for help brainstorming ideas.

Grateful acknowledgement to Appomattoxco for her presidential slur, to Calove and Julia_here for help with horsemanship terms, to Curiouswombat for Victorian attitudes toward capital punishment, to Jeff the Wacky Wiccan, to Kazzy_Cee for her glorious fanart, to Mr Google for help with pagan and Wiccan sources, to M0resoul for help with Chinese, to Speakr2customrs for his "button" idea, to the betas who pinch-hit for me, especially Claudia_yvr, and most especially, to my lovely readers. Blessings on you all! Summary: Spike time-travels on a mission of mercy to rescue Tara, courtesy of Willow.

Disclaimer: The characters in these stories do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes/books, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox. ANGEL ©2001 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The ANGEL trademark is used without express permission from Fox.

Feedback: Yes, please!  To ezagaaikwe@yahoo.com


A hansom never did turn up. After about an hour and a half walking, they found themselves in a neighborhood of substantial brick houses, and Spike stopped in front of one. The house was dark and the windows shrouded. "That's it. That's the old place. Now the question is, 'who's home?'"

He cocked his head, and appeared to listen. "Let's swing around back." They walked around to the alley and he pushed her back into the shadows once more. "Don't come out until I call for you."

Making sure he was not observed, Spike grasped the back doorknob, and with a twist and a hard shove, forced it open. He beckoned to Tara.

She whispered, "I thought you needed an invitation."

"I used to live here, before." He frowned at the memory. "Been here since--me and Drusilla."

He bolted the door behind them. They walked through the dark larder, into the pitch-black back hall and toward the front of the house. "Hang onto me--I know you can't see as well as I can." In the front parlor, he said, "Can't risk lighting the gas. If I open one of the curtains, will the light from the streetlight be enough for you?"

"Who are we hiding from?" she whispered.

"I said me and Dru came back here." He was matter-of-fact, but she sensed pain behind his brusqueness. "Blood got spilt." He shrugged. "Scotland Yard's probably looking for me for the death of the servants and the disappearance of my mother."

She looked at him without comprehension. Her eyes welled with tears.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said with compunction. "It's a lot to take in, isn't it? Your girl, and all this. Why don't you sit and let me find you something to eat and drink?"

"I need a bathroom."

"Then you're in luck. We were very progressive, mum and me. All the modern conveniences." He led her upstairs, saying, "Don't want to risk gaslight--too bright. But I'll light a candle for you in the bathroom. There're no windows in there to give the light away. Blow it out before you come down, will you? Or maybe I should wait and walk you down?"

"I'm fine."

He suspected she wanted some breathing space to have herself little cry. Poor little girl. He walked away, shaking his head.

Tara did not cry but held herself together with grim determination. She did not recognize the hollow-eyed girl in the glass. Avoiding eye contact with her reflection, she ran water in the basin, splashed her face, took care of the necessary, and felt her way back downstairs to the parlor.

Trying to make sense of it all, she asked with an effort, "What happened? Why here? I don't understand. Why not last week? Or 1965? None of this makes sense. Obviously, you're the connection. Your house, around the time of your death, but why?"

"Told you, Willow sent me to fetch you. When the 'pedal got goosed,' we shot back further than three years. She said something about it being easier to transport the living, something about their energy. Not saying I know what she was talking about, but the connection between me and the man I was--maybe that's the pull or focus. Call it 'the Spikean theory of time travel'." He looked absurdly proud, but his smirk turned quickly to consternation at her pallor and lack of focus. "Sorry, love. Promised you something to eat and here I talk your ear off instead of feeding you."

She shook her head. "I'm not hungry. But you mentioned something to drink?"

He became all business. "Let me see what I can find. Meanwhile, if you want, try on the skirt I nicked. I had a hell of a time finding a tall enough woman to mug. You're bigger than most women here--they feed you better in the colonies nowadays. There're waists of my mother's but I don't think they'd fit you unless she kept old ones from her fleshier middle years. She was a little thin thing toward the end." He handed her the rolled-up clothes they had brought with them.

Tara was glad when he left the room. She knew he was trying to see to her needs and distract her from the horror that she still refused to think of, but she desperately needed time alone...to integrate herself. Willow...no, don't think about Willow. Home? No. That was solvable, maybe, but she couldn't think about that right now. I'm like Miss Scarlett, she thought a little hysterically. Maybe we can make clothes from the curtains.

She gave herself a mental shake and told herself firmly to get a grip. She took the opportunity to try on the skirt. It was a long soft garment fastened with hooks, gathered in the back. She couldn't make out the color in the dim light from the street, but she could tell it was a fairly good fit. She practiced walking up and down. It trailed behind her. She tried to smooth the wrinkles out of it, and finally changed back into her jeans and laid the skirt flat along the back of the horsehair sofa.

Tara could hear Spike rummaging around in the kitchen and then upstairs, and he finally came back to her with his arms full. "Here, take the tray. Don't wanna drop it. In spite of what you said, you need to eat. There's cheese and some bread. A bit stale, but it smells okay. I made sandwiches. Take the bottles from under my arm, there." Divested of food and drink, he unrolled bundles of clothing. "My mum did have some bigger waists--"

"What's a waist?"

"Sorry. A blouse. And Cook was a good-sized woman. Her Sunday best included this." With a flourish, he presented a lacy blouse with a fluffy jabot.

Tara shut her eyes briefly. "It's too much. Do I need so much?" She thought it'd be hard wearing a murdered woman's clothes but it seemed tactless to say it.

"We're going to have to 'pass' here, pet. Look at us. You in trousers and me in peroxide. We kind of stand out. And we're an unmarried couple under the same roof without chaperonage." He paused. "How would you feel about passing ourselves off as a married couple, if anyone should ask? No saying how long we're going to be here. Don't know how long we can stay here, even. May be some kind of investigation going on--cops come back to see if they overlooked anything, and find us. Wouldn't be pleasant."

She answered faintly, "Whatever you say."

"Eat now. You can put on a fashion show for me later."

"What's there to drink?"

"I think you should eat first. Don't want you falling down or getting sick."

"Okay." Obediently, she picked up a sandwich and took a bite. They sat on the hearthrug in front of the fire grate filled with dead coals.

Spike talked while she ate. "I might risk a fire later if you're cold. Upstairs, though. Don't want it to be seen from the street."

She did feel better after eating. Physically, anyway. Spike drank whiskey, and when she was done eating, he offered her sherry. She didn't care for it, but drank it down. She wished she hadn't eaten--wished she could get drunk. She could feel herself heading for some kind of an emotional blow-up, but didn't know what shape it would take. If she could have, she would have picked a fight with Spike just for the release. She kept cupping her forehead, holding it as if to comfort a suffering child, or keep an explosion from occurring.

Spike looked at her with sympathy. "You want to talk? You look all pent-up. If you want to talk, or cry, I'm here. I've lost loved ones myself. Know it's no good trying to keep it inside."

"Please don't," she whispered. "I know you're trying to be nice, and you are nice, but I can't talk about it right now." Her mouth wobbled and turned upside down.

"There you go." He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. "I even brought hankies. Knew this was coming. You have yourself a good cry now for your girl." He extracted several hankies from his jeans pocket and pulled her onto his lap while she cried almost silently, his one hand cradling the back of her head, the other making comforting circles on her back.

They sat for a long while, Spike rocking her and making comforting sounds, and Tara enjoying a deliciously empty feeling in her head as her tears slowed and her muscles relaxed. She sighed.

She turned her face into his neck and spoke softly, "Spike, you know what would help?"

"Anything, sweetheart. I can even shut up." He smiled lopsidedly.

"Do you really want to help me feel better?" she whispered, her breath warm against his ear.

Startled, he drew back and looked down at her. Her eyelashes were lowered and he couldn't read her expression. "Yeah. I do." He put a finger under her chin and slowly raised her face to his, her eyes still closed and the lashes wet. He thought he hated a women's tears, but hers were having a positively aphrodisiac effect on him. "Tara?" he whispered, hesitant, not certain he understood what she was asking. "Oh, Tara. Are you sure?"

"I want to." She kissed him, softly at first, but the temperature rose quickly.

Her kisses had a frantic quality that reminded him uncomfortably of l'affaire Buffy. And just like then, he tried to communicate gentleness and comfort with his touch but she would have none of it. He'd always secretly fancied Tara, with her soft eyes and soft mouth, and a favorite fantasy of his involved her, Willow, and himself. He knew this--what she was doing--had nothing to do with love, lust, or even liking, and everything to do with grief and loss. He wanted to help her--God knew he wanted nothing more than to enjoy her, give her pleasure--but this parody of passion was a huge mistake. Wrong for her, and wrong for him. Because holding her like this, feeling her against him, was touching him way beyond the physical. He could see himself falling in love with her, far too easily. And honestly? That wasn't going to help either of them.

What was it with him and emotionally unavailable women?

She reached for his zipper, but he held her hands away from him. "Stop. Hold up, love. No. Earth to Tara. Spike to Tara. Stop it!"

"No!" She struggled with him and he hugged her tight to pinion her arms.

"'No' is right! This is not gonna happen." He could hardly believe it, hearing himself say, "Not gonna do this. You'd hate yourself." He made an appeal to both their common sense. "And me. Not gonna take advantage of you in this state."

She turned miserable, pain-filled eyes toward him and held his eyes. "You said you'd help me."

"I will help you," he said. "I'll be here for you in any way you want. Except that. There's a big job ahead for you and you're going to need help. I'll keep you safe."

~~~

Tara hated herself.

Oh, how could she have? And the look in his eyes, his empathy and his sorrow for her. His pity hurt worse than his refusal. What he must think of her! She felt humiliated. This was a...desecration. She should be dead herself. She had been shoved aside and the bullet meant for her should have killed her, not Willow. She had wanted Spike to do that one thing and allow her to join Willow. Sex with a vampire had to be lethal for someone not imbued with slayer-like powers. He'd probably end up draining her. She was just plain Tara, nothing special. She wished he would drain her. She could give him that and he could give her oblivion. But he refused her!

Her mortification must have shown in her eyes. He took her face in his hands. "Not saying I don't want to. It'd be...heaven, but I'm not going to use you. Not going to let you hurt yourself." He stroked her hair and spoke softly to her. "You've lost so much. It's got to be hard. Just got back together with your girl, only to..."

She couldn't stop the tears that welled in her eyes again and she felt them spill over.

~~~

Well, that went well, Spike thought as he thumbed away her tears. "Shhh," he said, pulling her to him, wrapping his arms around her trembling body. "You're cold. I wish I could keep you warm. Let's go upstairs and I'll build us a fire."

Spike picked her up and carried her as though she were a child. Upstairs, he deposited her on the big bed in his mother's room, pulled the covers back on the other side and said, "Slide in and cover up." He tucked her in, made sure the heavy velvet drapes at the windows were securely closed, and built a small fire in the grate. When it was burning well, he came to bed and lay on top of the covers opposite her. "Would you rather lie by the fire? We could camp there and then you'd be really warm."

She shook her head. After a moment's hesitation, she asked quietly, "Would you get under the covers with me?"

Spike understood her embarrassment and was pleased that she still wanted him close. "Love to," he said, careful to keep his tone casual.

Tara held open the covers and he climbed in next to her. She settled against him and hid her face against his chest.

"I swear to you I'll make this right. I'll get you back home if it's the last thing I do." Spike lulled her to sleep with comforting words, telling her how precious she was, how he felt about her loss, how he would keep her safe.

Spike watched her until finally, sighing like a child, she fell asleep with her head pillowed on his arm.

Fuck, it hurt! And not only lover's balls. Where did this attack of nobility come from? The soul? Damned inconvenient to have a conscience sometimes.

Well, too late now. He'd been on the receiving end of getting used sexually and it wasn't fun. (Well, yes it was, but that was love's bitch talking. He thought far too much of Tara to do that to her.) He looked down at her as she slept. The worry lines in her forehead smoothed out and she looked peaceful.

Spike was not used to sexual frustration. Even in the days after Prague and Drusilla's illness, he'd slip out for a private wank or to relieve himself with a handy minion. This desire to put Tara's best interests ahead of his own meant only one thing. There was nothing in it for him except the desire not to hurt her. He looked at her soft mouth parted in sleep and imagined himself sinking into her. Better not think about that. He gritted his teeth and adjusted his jeans to a slightly less uncomfortable tightness, willing his erection to go down.

She stirred and said sleepily, "I'm sorry I made a fool of myself. Thank you for being so nice to me." She nestled closer, soft and trusting.

"It's my pleasure," he said without irony. "Oh, I forgot, I found you a nightie in Cook's room. It'll be warm and it's bound to be more comfortable than those damp jeans. I'll bring it to you and then get some more coal." He tucked her in and left, returning with a flannel nightgown. "I'll give you a few minutes to change."

He went into the bathroom and lit a candle. Why did a lack of reflection still surprise him? He sighed and turned on the tap to cover any sound he might make, he tried to summon his old fantasy of himself and the two witches, but Mr. Happy was having none of it. Buffy didn't fill the bill, either. The dark little bird from the poetry slam? He couldn't remember her face, let alone her name.

He thought of the disbelieving Tara in the alley, one skeptical eyebrow raised, stunned Tara, fearful eyes pleading with him, begging him to say it wasn't so, anguished Tara asking him to help her forget, her desperate kisses, his pushing her away. Holding her in bed as she slept. Her murmuring in her sleep. The smell of her hair. He stroked himself and thought about making love to her different ways, hard and fast, slowly and languorously, having her in all ways, loving her, being loved back.

Oh, no.

He willed the fantasy off the high road and back to the carnal. Just finish! he thought roughly, pulling even harder. That was some kissing, before he had come to his senses and pushed her away. That mouth. What if he'd given in to her, fucked her senseless on the hearthrug? He imagined the two of them writhing before a blazing fire, their passion hotter still. Finally he came, groaning her name.

He mopped up with one of the hankies. He'd been gone too long. Tara might feel alone and worry. He fetched the coal hod from the parlor and lugged it upstairs.

He found her sitting at his mother's dressing table, brushing her hair. She had put on the voluminous nightdress he'd found her. It flowed over her knees and onto the flowered carpet.

He watched as she smoothed the soft flowery fabric over her knees. "Thanks for this. It's pretty. And warm."

"Um. What?" He couldn't think straight, suddenly embarrassed by his earlier fantasies. "Let me build up the fire."

Tara asked diffidently, "Are you uncomfortable sharing a bed? Because I can sleep by the fire and you can have the bed. I mean, it's your house and your bed. I'm just a guest."

Toying with the notion of telling her the truth: It's torture sharing a bed with you, I want you so much. He said instead, "I don't mind. You're nice and warm."

She smiled, the relief visibly washing over her face.

When the fire was burning well, they went back to bed. Spike was glad he'd taken the edge off his frustration in the bathroom. "Turn away and I'll rub your shoulders." She sighed her approval as he squeezed her shoulder and neck muscles, and finally relaxed back to sleep.

Don't think about the warm fragrant girl in front of you. Think about this fix you're in, you and she. Spike racked his brains about the logistics of time travel--how could Willow have sent him back if she had died in 2002 and therefore didn't live to 2005 to do it in the first place? He gave it up as pure speculation and a waste of time. Time for practical matters when Tara awoke. Clearly, witchcraft was their best hope. Perhaps she could sniff out other witchy types, get their help sending them back. His job was keeping his paws off her and getting her back safely.

Tara turned to him in her sleep, put her arm around him and pulled him close. "You cold, sweetie?" she murmured. "Ooh," she crooned, "let me warm you up," cuddling him against her breasts. He knew it was Willow she was speaking to, before subsiding into deep sleep. With a sinking feeling, he realized what he felt for her was not mere lust.

You're doing this to yourself. Stop it right now! he told himself. You were right--it's never gonna happen, so get it out of your mind.

Spike made plans, then went over them again looking for flaws and trying to tighten them up. His usual fist and fangs approach wouldn't work where they were going. Finally, satisfied he had a workable plan, he allowed himself to drift off.