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!

He was startled awake.

The small fire had burned out and the room was cold. An intruder? One of his and Dru's minions? A quiet cracking noise floated up the stairwell. Someone was forcing the door to the silver safe. A burglar, then. Human.

Soundlessly, he slipped out of bed, and making sure the bedroom door was closed, he quietly made his way downstairs. The burglar was a teenager, no more than a boy.

Spike clamped a hand over the boy's mouth and turned him around. "Tempting, isn't it? Empty house. Nice stuff. Sorry, mate, can't let you have it. Tell you what, though. Make you a trade. I'll let you live and you give me a...taste." He held the quaking boy's eyes and willed him to be silent. Spike had always disdained Drusilla's use of thrall--thought it unworthy of a "real" vampire. He had been all about the slashing force, not mental trickery. Not that he possessed that skill. He wanted the boy's silence, compliance, and well, blood. He didn't know when he'd be able to feed again, and needed to keep up his strength.

The boy's eyes were glassy with fear. Keeping one hand on his mouth, Spike carefully turned the boy's head to one side and bit him. He took what he needed and kept his promise. Wiping his mouth on his black tee shirt, Spike said briefly, "Thanks. You can let yourself out." He didn't worry about the boy telling anyone. He would not be believed. The stunned boy staggered away, fell out the dining room window he'd pried open, and stumbled away. Spike closed the window and locked it.

When Spike returned to the bedroom, he cautiously parted the curtains and looked at the sky. It was a pale ash color, though the sun had not risen yet. He could make out lighter plumes of smoke coming from neighbors' chimneys and was relieved that their fire had gone out. He could see the burglar reeling down the street, hands clasping his neck. He'll live, Spike thought callously. He needed to put Tara first and stay strong for her. Already he felt stronger, almost warm.

~~~

Tara was stirring. With a gasp, her eyes flew open and she said, "I thought it was a dream!" She sat up and blinked at the over-decorated Victorian bedroom. She hadn't really noticed her surroundings the night before.

"Sorry to disappoint you."

Her mouth drooped. "I don't know what to think. Willow shouldn't have done this. Sent you back... This shouldn't be happening." She whispered, "I don't think I should be alive."

"Stop that! Here you are, alive, and I'm going to see you stay that way! And no backchat from you! It is as it is." Spike fixed her with a stern look.

She lowered her eyes. "You say Willow's...?"

"'Fraid so, pet. I don't want to go into details, but there's no doubt. However, that was then, 2002. Where I came from--or when, she was fine. Crazy to get you back, though."

Her mouth drooped even further. "Crazy is right," she muttered. "I was crazy. I had my doubts about going back to her, but I guess wishful thinking got the better of me. I thought she had changed."

"Well, she did a hell of a job in the last big show-down with the Big Bad. Turned the trick--used some magical slayer-scythe-gizmo to turn the potential slayers into the real thing. Made all the difference. You know, if you're right, if Willow didn't survive, then it's even more important to get you back."

Tara shivered. "That's what you meant. When you said there was a big job for me? Then you don't think she survived."

He sat on the edge of the bed and took her hands in his. "Not saying I know how these things work. I'm here, you're here; someone sent us. Just sayin', I'm going to do my best to get you back. If she's alive, so much the better. No big job for you then, and you get your lover back. Feel better?"

Tara shook her head. Spike didn't know what she was trying to say. With anguish in her voice, she muttered, "You don't understand. I'm not grieving her death, although I will someday. It's terrible." She was silent for a long moment while tears ran down her cheeks, her frustration growing. "I'm grieving the loss of a relationship. Again! I would have broken up with her, this time for good. The magick, she could never leave it alone, even after..." She gave a bark of humorless laughter. "I wonder if there's a 12 Step Program for 'women in love with magick and the women who love them too much'."

"Try someone else." Spike paused. "Try me," he said, striving for a casual tone.

She smiled at him through welling eyes. "I could almost see it. You're so good."

"Hey! No call for insults!"

That raised a lopsided, tremulous half-smile from her.

"I'm not good, love. But I'd be good to you."

The tears threatened to spill over again. "Don't you know that rebound relationships don't work?" She put her head down on her knees. "It's not right," she said in a muffled voice.

"What's not right, sweetness?" he said, stroking her back.

"That the strong one should be killed and the weak one left to do their work."

Spike didn't answer, but only chafed her cold hands.

"You feel warmer," she observed, sounding surprised.

"Do I?" he said lightly. "Wish I could offer you a cooked brekkie, or at least some hot tea, but we can't have a fire now that it's light," he said.

"What about you? You need to eat, too." She wiped her eyes and pulled herself together.

"I'm fine. I don't have to eat every day," he said evasively. "But I'll make you another sandwich if you want."

"Maybe later." For the first time since they arrived in London, she smiled at him.

~~~

Not letting himself be distracted by her, he said briskly, "Then I'm going to change clothes. You change, too. No telling if someone will stop by asking questions, so no jeans, okay? I'd pitch 'em, if I were you."

"Okay."

Before heading to his old room to find something to wear, he looked around his mother's room. He remembered Drusilla rifling the jewel case. She was like a jackdaw with shiny objects. The case stood open upon the dressing table's velvet throw, the odd pieces of amber, jet, and crystal that Drusilla had missed lay scattered on its plush surface and on the floor. It wasn't his mother's good stuff. That was still locked in the silver safe. He decided to go check it for damage.

They met on the stairs, Tara's arms full of clothes. She refused his offer to help carry. Downstairs, he found the silver safe unopened. The burglar hadn't had time to finish the job, but Spike pried the door open easily and removed a second jewel case. His mother had not been mistrustful of banks, but there was a goodish sum of money in the safe, too. That, and what he'd taken from the couple he'd mugged last night, would be enough to see them through for a while.

Stopping in the pantry, he trimmed mold off a round of cheese, found a joint that didn't smell too bad--thank God, it was so cold this time of year--and made Tara another couple of sandwiches. Reasoning that she must have finished dressing by now, he decided to look in on her.

~~~

Tara found that the creases in the skirt had smoothed out of the damp fabric. It was nearly dry. Unable to make out the color in the dim light the night before, she saw that it was dark blue velvet. Her shoes were heeled slippers that didn't show beneath the skirt's voluminous length, but the blue tee shirt she wore would probably not work with the rest of the ensemble. She set about picking out a blouse to wear.

Spike knocked on the bedroom door. "Come in," Tara called.

"That won't do at all. You look too...comfortable. And it's not proper to show your neck during the daytime. That tee shirt will do for underwear, but you need something high-necked for day."

Tara straightened up and threw him a fake-military salute, and modestly held his mother's flowered blouse up to her bosom and neck.

"Let me see your shoes," he said mock-sternly.

She pulled the long blue skirt up to her knees, and gave him a questioning look.

"That's fine. They'll do, but you can't show your legs here, pretty though they are. Not even your ankles. If the street is muddy, you can hoist up your skirt slightly to keep it from trailing in the mud, but that's all."

"I remember that little girl in Titanic. Her mother wouldn't let her back touch the back of the chair. It was a little scene, but made me think of how I was raised. Strict, you know?" She shook her head at the memory.

"Remember that and you'll do fine. I'll dress your hair. Used to do Dru's back in the day. No reflection, know what I mean? Maybe you can give me a trim? Cut off most of the peroxided part?"

"I thought of something else. I can cast a little spell, a glamour, to make your hair appear its natural color."

"Brilliant. I'll go change now. Think about what you need to find others like you."

Her mouth quirked. "Lesbians?"

"Very funny. No, witches. Witchcraft got us here and it's our best hope for getting home."

"All right."

"This weather is not favoring us. Too bloody bright," he said, glancing out the window. "But there's a mass of clouds in the west. If it gets dark enough, I can go out, get you what you need, and we can travel late today or tomorrow. No telling how long we can stay here safely."

"Let me look in the kitchen. Probably most of what I need is right there. Oh, I'll need a crystal. For focusing."

He hefted a crystal paperweight from a side table. "How's this?"

"Perfect!"

"I made you breakfast, too. It's down in the dining room."

~~~

Spike looked at Tara in admiration. His girl was shaping up into a hero in her own right. (Well, not his girl, but a man could dream.) He'd expected more disorientation and grief from her, if last night were any indication. It was only to be expected, but she was stronger than she looked. He gave her an admiring nod. "Right, then."

He gave her the lowdown on the last Sunnydale big bad, told her what Willow had done, and how things might go differently a second time around. They speculated briefly on the wisdom of changing the future, and almost immediately gave it up as fruitless speculation. Tara needed facts, and Spike armed her with them.

~~~

They took a break. Tara found the herbs she needed for her spell, and Spike fetched the crystal and found her the map of England she asked for. "I know there's a coven somewhere in the West Country," he told her. "'Course, that's twenty-first century. No telling if they're there nowadays. Would have been. You know."

"I know." She smiled at him.

Spike felt flustered. "Well. Let me give you some space so you can work your magic. Or do you want me to stay?"

She gave him her crooked smile again. "You can stay. It's not private. I can use your energy."

"Huh. Thought I didn't have any. According to some."

Tara lifted her chin. "You might not be alive, but you have plenty of energy."

"I have, at that," he agreed, and sat down to watch her.

~~~

First, Tara pulled several long threads from the length of red silk at her waist, which she twisted into a rough string and tied to the crystal. She lit candles, burned herbs in a saucer, and murmured unfamiliar words in a soft voice. For long minutes, she was still, eyes closed, casting about in her mind for another mind or minds like hers. Not so much summoning power as trying to pinpoint its location. Sinking into a trance state, she sent out feelers west, and making contact, pulled back her essence so as not to make her presence felt. She just wanted to know where they were. Reaching for the crystal, Spike hastily put the string in her fingers. She lifted the string and held the crystal suspended over the map. The crystal swung gently. Tara made an infinitesimal adjustment to her hand's location over the map, and waiting for the crystal's movement to still, gradually lowered it until one sharp facet touched the map.

"Westbury!" crowed Spike.

Tara shook herself like a swimmer coming out of the ocean and blinked her eyes as though to clear them. "It worked?"

"Bingo," he stated in a triumphant tone. "Westbury it is. Let's pack."

~~~

Spike urged her to make free with whatever she could find that would be appropriate to wear and promised to come fix her hair later. He retrieved the cash from the silver safe, the money pouch from last night's mugging, and packed a basket with bread, cheese, apples, and wine. He made a pile by the back door. No telling when Scotland Yard might come back, or his heirs with a solicitor in tow. He tried to remember who had wound up with the house. Didn't matter. Back then, it was a cast-off chrysalis, after Drusilla set him free to rampage his way through England. Now, it was only a temporary shelter. Didn't fancy getting trapped there with Tara to protect. The sooner they got to the witches, and back to the twenty-first century, the better. He didn't think his chances of playing the proper Victorian gentleman for long were very good.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that the witches might not send them back, might not believe them at all. He felt an unfamiliar helpless sensation as he thought, they must! It was no exaggeration to say that the world would end if they did not.

~~~

Tara packed what little fit her into a small carpetbag. She knew that she needed to adjust her costume, add petticoats, and probably allow Spike to lace her into a corset. She sighed in resignation. Seeing the massing clouds in the west, she made a mental note to add umbrellas to their getaway kit.

Spike knocked. "You decent?"

"Come in." She was frowning at her reflection in the mirror. "All these clothes! If it rains, I'll be as heavy as ten bushels of wet laundry. Can't I pass as a boy? Surely you have something that will fit me."

He only looked at her chest and snorted with laughter.

With an effort, she did not cross her arms over her chest, but stared him down.

"That's a good look on you," he admitted. "If anyone tries anything ungentlemanly, Mrs. Southwood, just give him that look. Now, I know you're not looking forward to this," and he pulled Cook's corset from behind his back, "but you do want to fit in here, don't you?" He smiled wolfishly. "Now get out of those clothes and down to your knickers and tee shirt."

With a sigh, she removed her outer clothes, holding on to the thought that, after all, underpants and tee shirt were more than she'd have on at the beach. This was Spike. No need to feel embarrassed. Oh, hell, what was she thinking? She remembered their kissing last night, and turned even redder.

Based upon the wicked look he gave, Tara suspected he was enjoying her embarrassment. She put her nose in the air and tried to look unflustered. "Do your worst," she said in a credible damsel-in-distress voice.

Spike put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around gently. He helped her step into the loosely laced corset and pulled it up around her middle to just below her breasts. Segueing into Hattie McDaniel's voice, he said, "Now hang onto de bedpost and suck in!"

With a gasp of laughter, the air was forced out of her lungs as he laced her in. She spoke breathlessly between his tugs on the lacing. "I hate this! Can't I just wear it kind of...not-too-tightly, so I look like I have it on, only not so tight?" she begged.

He eased up. "Good thing your waist is naturally small. Don't need to be laced all that tight. You'll find it's easier to get in and out of, now it's laced. It hooks up the front, too, you see. Easier, since you don't have a ladies maid." Spike avoided looking at her and seemed eager to leave. The corset emphasized her breasts, which did not need it.

Before he left, he said, "What you need now is a corset cover and half a dozen petticoats. Oh, and a purse stitched to the bottom of the corset."

"Why?"

"We need to run or get separated, I want to know you have most of the money on you and no worries about Artful Dodger. What we don't need for train fare, I mean. And the jewelry where you can get at it if you need it. Want you to be taken care of, something happens to me."

He left her to finishing dressing.

~~~

The rest of the day passed in conversation and peeking out the window, hoping for a break in the sunny weather. Spike told her why he had left Sunnydale, about getting his soul, about the madness. He told her about the build-up to the Hellmouth and the aftermath, about living in Los Angeles now. He found he could talk about Buffy calmly, almost dispassionately, reassuring himself as much as Tara that, while he still cared about Buffy, the love had faded. He had put aside any thoughts that they might one day be a couple and for the first time he could honestly say he felt good about that.

In the afternoon, Spike reminded her to sew a money pouch to the bottom of the corset. He found his mother's sewing basket and a length of canvas for the purse. When she was through, he made her hike up her skirts while he loaded the purse with jingling coins, currency, and the jewelry, which he had transferred to a soft velvet pouch. She lowered her skirts and smoothed them.

"How is it you know so much about ladies' underclothes?"

"Helped enough of them out of theirs, didn't I? How does it feel?" he asked. "Too heavy?"

"A little, but it's okay. I can walk." She demonstrated by walking up and down.

"You can walk, but can you run?"

~~~

The weather favored them by clouding up, and it began to rain around seven. The time of the year and the lack of moon made Spike willing to chance a fire again, and they cooked slices of joint and had hot sandwiches and hot tea. Spike laced his with whiskey and Tara pushed her cup toward him. "Me, too."

He gave her a dubious look. "Well, okay, but in this time and place, ladies don't partake of spirits."

"Come on, Spike," Tara said coaxingly. "It's just you and me. I'll behave when we get around people."

He obligingly poured a slug into her cup. "If you get too out of hand, I'll just tell 'em it's how my mad American wife normally behaves," he suggested.

"I know if I get tipsy, you'll take care of me." She gave him a conspiratorial smile.

He looked shocked. "Witch, are you flirting with me?"

She only smirked.

~~~

They were both a little uncomfortable as bedtime neared. Tara wanted to confront their unspoken attraction but found herself too shy to bring it up. Perhaps he would just join her in bed? But if he were as attracted to her as she suspected, then maybe she would be teasing him with her nearness. She just didn't want to be alone. They'd been here only twenty-four hours and more had changed than the preposterous fact of time travel, the planet shifting on its axis and dropping them halfway around the world, and Willow's death. Tara also knew she was about to shoulder more responsibility that she'd ever imagined she'd have to. Was it wrong to want to lean on Spike a little?

What if she were using him? She didn't necessarily want to have sex with him, did she? Hoping he didn't notice, she slid frequent glances his way. He was still wearing the old-fashioned brown suit, reasoning that they might need to hastily decamp out the back door if the authorities came in the front. He'd taken off the jacket and loosened the tie, however. It wasn't that absurd-looking, but it made him look oddly vulnerable. He'd filled out in the last 120 years, and his shoulders were bigger than William's must have been. She'd overheard him muttering, "Narrow-chested, pencil-necked little prat," as he pulled at the neckband in a vain attempt to loosen it. He seemed glad to get unbuttoned and let his hair down, as it were.

"Your hair! I just remembered. I was going to do a glamour. What color is it, really?" She reached for his hair and smoothed it, trying to get a look at the roots. "How can it grow, if you're not, you know, alive?" She blushed the moment the question left her mouth, thinking that it sounded pretty personal.

Spike smiled at her, appearing to enjoy being touched. "It grows. Slowly, though. It's sort of a light brown. A little lighter than my eyebrows."

Tara looked away but made herself look back at him. "I'll do it now, but you should stay close to me." She hesitated, looking for confirmation that it was all right with him. "You're the focus of the spell, but I'm the originator, and if we get separated for long, it'll change back."

"Like a pumpkin?" he teased, then sobered. "Staying close sounds fine to me."

She murmured a dozen or so words and then smiled. "Looks good," she said, reaching out to stroke his hair once more.

"I wish I could see. I used to use a Polaroid to see if I'd got the dye right. How does it look?"

"I told you--good. Feels softer, too. It's like it's natural again."

Spike grimaced and raked his hair with his fingers. "That's no good. I was a curly-topped little moppet for far too long. My mum kept me in curls and dresses until I was six." He looked embarrassed by the admission, and changed the subject. "Well, let me clear up and I'll bring up some more coal then, shall I?"

After her offer to help clean up had been declined, Tara climbed the stairs and thought more about what she wanted from him. Strictly speaking, she supposed she was bisexual, leaning more toward women due to unpleasant history with men. Spike had been nothing but good to her, and since they'd come to this strange place, she had come to rely upon him more and more. She trusted him and felt safe with him. Was that enough to base her choice on?

The last thing she wanted was to lead him on, give him false hopes. Spike deserved more. Her own feelings were still too confused to be able to freely give herself to him with any certainty that it was good for her and good for him. She sighed. Borrowing one of Spike's own phrases, she thought, Oh, bugger.

Tara was dying to get out of the corset. Fortunately, it was easier to get out of than into. Ignoring the laced back, she unhooked the front, shed it with a yelp of relief, and changed into her nightdress. She got an extra couple of quilts from the other bedroom. Her mind was made up now; she decided to camp before the fire as he'd suggested the night before. She was sure he'd take this as plausible; it was certainly cold enough. She couldn't imagine him trying to pressure her to share a bed.

Spike returned with a filled coal hod and set it by the hearth. "Dark as Egypt. I checked outside. You can't see your hand in front of your face, let alone smoke from a chimney." He built a fire and said rather flatly, "So you're going to curl up by the fire instead of coming to bed? Good idea; you'll be warmer. I'll take the bed."

Despite her earlier resolution, her heart sank.

Spike left her briefly and returned wearing his jeans and tee shirt. "Much as I think we should be ready for a quick getaway, I can't see sleeping in that sissy suit. I'd sleep raw, but I have too much respect for your sensibilities, Mrs. Southwood." He sounded very much the Victorian gentleman.

When the fire was hissing, Tara said timidly, "Wouldn't you be warmer down here by the fire? I brought lots of quilts."

Spike came straight to the point. "I know you're trying not to lead me on and I appreciate it. I can be close without wanting to--" he interrupted himself, "I really do respect you, Tara."

Blushing hotly, she said, "It's not just you, you know. It's me, too. I don't know what I want from you. I do know I don't want to sleep alone here. Okay?" The words sounded ungracious, almost angry, and she felt she'd just made a fool of herself again, but it couldn't be unsaid.

A muscle jumping in his cheek, Spike said, "That suits me right down to the ground." He took one of the quilts, wrapped up, and spooned up to her back.

She could feel him holding his hips away from her. He did put his arm around her and pulled her back to rest against his chest. His arm was around her waist, his hand inches from her breasts, and she heard him sigh.

Tara was just as uncomfortable. How had they gotten into this? It was almost as though they'd had a fight. But she wasn't mad at him and he'd been nothing but lovely to her. You got what you wanted, she thought. So why this distance and tension? She tilted her head up and pushed the crown of her head under Spike's chin, rubbing herself against him like a cat. He accepted her caress, and resting his jaw on her shining head, pulled her closer.

It was a long time before either of them fell asleep.