Spirits of the Earth

For someone in her line of work, the week had been peaceful.

Of course there were the usual little hauntings. There always were. But none had been particularly complex. Ah, days like this were nice. Fang loved her work, she truly did, but she would be lying if she said didn't also love a chance to be a little lazy for a change especially after an earlier string of troublesome hauntings and, in one case, a possession.

No, she took her downtime when she could get it. No one called for her, she saw nothing more than the usual nature spirits that were always there. This area was, surprisingly, rather clean for the time being. At least right now during the day; that could always change.

And so Fang saw fit to treat herself, stopping by a small, cozy teahouse that sold a wide array of flavored teas and dainty pastries. It was quiet inside save for the conversations of the other guests with dimmed lighting to give it an intimate feel--the perfect place to relax and be with one's thoughts. And goddess but it smelled amazing, all the many warm spices coming together in a way that made her mouth water.

She ordered a spicy blend of chai and settled down at a corner table to write in her journal. Nothing fancy, just a quick letter that she would tear out and send home to her mother whenever she got a chance, because it had been a while and she should. Except, she didn't get much written before she noticed him.

Or, not even really him. But what was around him.

There was another person sitting solo, a foreigner by the looks of his hair and dress and skin and sheer height even sitting, and sweet Inima, how had she not felt him when she walked through the door? There were specters attached to him, black and angry like a stormy cloud; she had to adjust her eyes to focus on physical sight versus spiritual, just to be able to see the man beneath.

Fang tensed, quickly putting her brush and ink away into her satchel on the floor and blowing carefully on the wet ink on the page, giving herself time to think. Ohhh dear...oh goodness...

Mmm...right. How exactly did she go about this, now??

The man wasn't Thanati. At least, he certainly didn't look it. And in her (very limited) experience with foreigners, they didn't tend to understand, or react well, to all the spirit stuff at the best of times. Telling someone they had a spectral cling-on was...yikes. It was going to require a level of tact and, perhaps, cultural sensitivity that she just didn't have. Fang chewed her lip and glanced around at the other patrons sipping their tea or engaged in quiet conversation amongst themselves and, after a moment of internal debate, decided the only way was to be direct and blunt. There was no magic formula that would prevent a freakout if someone was predisposed to them, so may as well get it out of the way fast so they could move onto solutions!

This wasn't about her, it was about him, and he deserved to know.

Downing the rest of her tea in several quick gulps like a man chugging booze for that liquid courage, she rose from her table and made her way toward him, rehearsing her delivery in her head. While she was fluent in Common, had been a long time since she'd spoken it and she feared she'd be a bit rusty. Not enough to cause misunderstandings, though, she was certain. Now to just get his attention and...

She reached out and gently touched his shoulder.

"Excuse me," she said in thickly accented Common, leaning in close so she could speak to him discreetly. "You have dead person on you."

Nailed it.

In the secluded corner of the tea house, Spike Sinclair sipped his green tea, feeling the weight of unseen eyes upon him. A haunting presence lingered beside him, imperceptible to all but Spike. The ghostly figure of Lawrence, once a companion turned victim, silently bore witness.

As Spike gazed into the steam rising from his tea, a subtle whisper filled the air, a spectral voice echoing through the corridors of Spike's conscience. "Life has a curious way of intertwining our fates, doesn't it, Spike?"

Spike shifted uncomfortably in his seat, acutely aware that the voice belonged to Lawrence. "You can't let go, can you?"

The ghost chuckled, the sound ethereal and chilling. "Death tends to have that effect, my friend. Especially when it's at the hands of someone you trusted."

Spike's eyes flickered with a hint of remorse, but he feigned irritation. "Not this again."

Lawrence's spectral form shimmered with an otherworldly glow. "You were always good at keeping secrets, Spike. But some secrets refuse to stay buried."

Spike's grip on the teacup tightened as the temperature in the corner dropped perceptibly. "Just get to the point so I can enjoy my drink. You always go away for a bit after you've done your spiel."

"Ah, the direct approach—typical Spike," Lawrence mused. "Do you remember the night you chose to silence me?"

A shadow crossed Spike's face as he avoided eye contact. "That's in the past."

"The past, Spike, is a ghost that never truly fades," Lawrence continued, his words laden with an eerie gravity. "The poison you poured into my cup, the sting of betrayal... they're etched into the fabric of your soul."

As the tea house hummed with oblivious chatter, Spike's secret, concealed for so long, began to unravel. The weight of Lawrence's gaze bore down on him, and the haunting revelation loomed like a ghostly specter between them.

"Excuse me," a peculiar voice disrupted the ambient hum of Spike's existence. "You have dead person on you."

Lawrence's spectral smile widened, a haunting acknowledgment of his presence. Spike's brow furrowed in bewilderment as he looked up to meet the woman's eyes.

Could she see...?

He cleared his throat, trying to find the words.

"Pardon?"

Well, he wasn't running away! That was a good sign, right? Though perhaps the delivery could use some...work. Dead person? He had dead person on him? Really? Augh! What was the word again? Dead person, dead person, but not just person, immaterial person...ah!

Fang winced, looked from the man's spectral friend and back again, and gestured emphatically at the spirit.

"Ah...you have...spirits?" It then occurred to her that maybe he understood her meaning just fine and that his reaction was more of a "what the hell, woman, what kind of crazy are you babbling?" reaction than a "I don't understand what on earth you're trying to say" reaction. Clearing her throat as she shook of the second language rust, she continued quickly.

"You're possessed. Ah! I mean, apologies, you're haunted. Er, that is, you have...an entity attached to you." Solid recovery. "Are you aware of that?"

Because that specter seemed aware of her.

Spike took a deliberate sip of his tea, his gaze lingering on her. Real hair, eyes that held life, a natural nose, skin untouched by an otherworldly glow. She had the form of a genuine woman, a presence that didn't emanate darkness, and a voice confined to their immediate space.

Ah.

She was a real person.

It had been quite some time since he engaged in conversation with one of those. He wasn't entirely sure how to carry himself in their presence, despite also being a.. real person.

Just to confirm...

"Are you talking to me?" he asked, his voice low and hushed.

Fang felt her confidence dent. Was she using the correct words after all? Or maybe this was part of some social dance that people from his home did? Or was this a polite way of telling her to sod off? Because she was fairly certain she couldn't be more direct without literally getting in his face. Just to be sure, she gave a quick glance around them to check if there was anyone else nearby that could have caused the confusion.

Nope. Just them. Them and the spirit.

Smiling, trying very hard to hide the pain of embarrassment that was surely showing in her eyes, she tucked some hair behind her ear and nodded. "...Attempting to, yes."

Spike, realizing his potential rudeness, quickly flashed her an apologetic smile. He heard her words, but they didn't quite register. Could this girl actually see Lawrence? How was that possible? To Spike, Lawrence was a haunting manifestation of the lives he had taken, but this seemed like no ordinary ordeal. Was she haunted by her past mistakes too? She certainly didn't look like the type to—

"She's waiting on you to say something, dumbass," Lawrence echoed into his ear, his spectral presence beginning to dwindle.

"I'm sorry," Spike stammered, feeling the need to clear his throat. "You said... I mean, you can see him too?"

He was looking at her, but it was almost like he wasn't seeing her, or was looking past her. Distracted, maybe? Could the spirit be taking a physical toll on him? It was possible, though she had really only seen that with demonic creatures, but just because she hadn't yet encountered it didn't mean it didn't exist.

The silence stretched. Just when Fang was about to clear her throat and prompt him again, he spoke—and her eyes widened.

"Wait, what? You can see him?" she blurted, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Realizing she had spoken a bit too loudly in her surprise, she ducked her head apologetically and lowered her voice again. "Oof, sorry. Yes! Yes, I can see him. You just surprised me—other people usually can't."

This changed matters a bit. Her heart beat a little faster with a strange surge of excitement. What an unusual case! Usually those who were aware had the means to banish them themselves, but this man...

She slipped into the seat across from him, eyes bright with curiosity, and leaned in to speak in a whisper.

"How long has he been with you? Do you know who he is? Oh! I'm so sorry, I'm getting way ahead of myself! I swear I'm not trying to be creepy! I'm Fang, Fang Ruan," she said with a quick seated bow. "This is sort of what I do. Deal with spirits, that is."

"I swear I'm not trying to be creepy!"

Her words managed to coax a small, genuine smile from Spike—more authentic than the guarded expressions he had grown accustomed to. If she only knew the relentless specters of his past that haunted him daily, she might reconsider deeming herself creepy in comparison.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment, taking in her dark skin, green eyes, and the optimistic smile that exuded an aura of naivety. She seemed like a genuinely good person, someone who would be better off steering clear of individuals like Spike.

Moreover, she spoke of spirits. The ability to see and, it seemed, deal with them caught Spike's attention. It was intriguing enough to maintain his focus.

"I'm Lawrence Theodis," he lied smoothly, extending a hand towards hers.

The real Lawrence rolled his eyes at the audacious deception before fading from view, providing a brief respite from the ever-tightening weight on Spike's chest.

"What do you mean by.. deal with spirits?"

Ohhhh good, so he didn't think she was a total loon! The smile was reassuring enough that Fang let out a slow breath, and with it a great deal of tension, and offered up a smile of her own. Inima help her, this was what she got for spending so much time interacting with mostly priestesses and the dead!

"Lawrence Theodis," she repeated slowly, working out the pronunciation. "Lawrence. It's a pleasure!"

His hand was there, hanging in the space between them. Fang stared at it, and it was several long beats before it clicked. Oh! Right, right, of course. The foreigners often greeted each other that way. 

Not wanting to be rude, she took his hand and then just held it, not quite sure how this went (how long was appropriate? Was she supposed to move her hand a certain way?) but certain he would complete the ritual.

"Hmm...perhaps deal is not the correct word. I don't make deals with them. I mean to say I help them—I help them move on so they may be reborn. So many of them are stuck here because of trauma or unfinished works. That's not all of them, of course, but for the most part they're just afraid or hurt. The small minority that don't fall into that category..." She trailed off, frowning. "Well, some of them are more troublesome."

She tilted her head curiously. "Would you have use of my services?"

Fang (was it?), with her innocent grace, met his hand with her own and... just held it. A bit unconventional, but he well understood that he was a stranger in a strange land, and not her. Caught off guard, Spike attempted to guide her through the customary handshake, his fingers fumbling in the process. He couldn't help but find her eccentricity both endearing and perplexing.

And then, her offer.

The air in the room quickly grew heavy and cold after Fang's words. The restless spirits, all shadows of unresolved emotions, surrounded him like a brooding storm. Their spectral forms seemed to pulse with resentment, clinging to Spike as if bound by an unbreakable curse.

"Would you have use of my services?"

As she spoke, the spirits, full of anger and bitterness, materialized in silent protest. Their faces contorted with torment, their ethereal forms dark and foreboding. Their collective presence loomed like a shroud of discontent, a stark opposition to Fang's benevolent offer.

Spike, caught between the girl and the vengeful spirits, hesitated. The room seemed to pulsate with the weight of unresolved grievances as the spirits silently resisted the possibility of release.

He could feel their eyes collectively on him.

"I, uh—" he stammered, retracting his hand from hers and nervously tucking it under his arm. "I mean... what exactly would these services entail?"

Oh. His spirits did not like that.

They reacted instantly, returning full force not as one man, but as many entities, so dark and plentiful they blotted out Lawrence's form.

Even some of the customers noticed the fresh chill in the air, commenting on a sudden draft.

This was...going to be a complicated case, she could just feel it. She didn't think she'd ever seen so many spirits attached to one person--and this angry, on top of it.

Free of his hand, and blissfully unaware of his own fumbling (for she really didn't know what was normal), Fang folded both of hers on the table and chewed her lip in thought, thinking how best to answer him.

"Hm...different things; each case is unique. Sometimes all I need to do is talk to the spirit a little. Most of them are really just confused and upset and need to be heard. Sometimes I need to perform a full banishment ritual--those can be quite complex and don't happen often, just in extreme cases when someone really, really doesn't want to let go and it's actively causing harm. Sometimes it requires traveling to a place of significance, or finding an item or person of significance, to help sever the roots of their attachment. Sometimes it requires helping them settle matters they feel are unfinished or, if not that, helping them accept that there will always be unfinished business at the end no matter how much extra time we get. It all depends on why your spirits won't let go and what's tethering them here--what's tethering them to you."

She studied the roiling spirits as she spoke, their angry, anguished faces speaking of so much pain, so much suffering and bitterness--but of a human kind, not a demonic sort. Her chest ached for them; what must they have gone through in life to have gotten to this point?

"I don't charge for my services, if that's a concern," she added, fixing her eyes back on his strange crimson ones. Red eyes. He had red eyes. She had never met someone with such eyes and her belly did a strange flip. Red hair was a bad omen, a sign of one destined for pain and misfortune. There was nothing mentioned about red eyes--but she had to imagine it worked the same, and it certainly fit here.

"The first step would be trying to figure out what connections they may have to you, if any--or if you're just sadly prone to picking up strays. That happens, you know. I don't know why, but there are certain people who attract spirits like moths to torchlight."

He hoped the shame and regret he had felt in that moment weren't visible on his face for her to see. Just talk to the spirits? Sure, that would work great if she wanted to run as far away from him as possible—not that it wouldn't be the right move on her part.

He was afraid. He didn't know this girl, but there was a flicker of hope that she could help him. Yet, he was too scared to reveal the truth about these men and women that haunted him, both for her sake and his own regret.

Well, I killed them. I took everything away from their families for a few bucks. Anyway, want to help a guy out?

Like that would work.

A full banishment ritual? That sounded more appealing, but what did it involve?

He took a few moments after she finished explaining everything to him, sipping his tea before speaking again.

"I must just be lucky," he said in a hushed tone, as if the entire cafe was eavesdropping. "I don't know who or what these things are."

Taking another sip almost immediately after, his last words sparked a sensation as if he were physically being choked by the spirits.

Once it subsided, he spoke again. "I'd like to learn more about the banishment ritual," he said, his fingers on his mug trembling slightly. "But first... why? Why do you want to help me?"

Why help him? Fang smiled at that, a sad, sympathetic one.

"Because I know what it's like to be haunted," she said. "When I was little, before I understood my gift or how to use it, I...had spirits attached to me, too. It was scary to say the least. Looking back, I think they truly were harmless, that they just knew I could see them so they latched into me for attention, but it was still disturbing. Someone like me helped take care of them, and taught me how to use my gift. It never stops, either. I'm rarely ever alone and—ah, I digress!"

Fang waved her hand as though to wave away the thought, trying to get back on track. "Anyway, it's just what I was born to do, I think. Use this gift for the greater good. Help people, living and dead. You all deserve peace."

She reached out to touch his arm in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. "It's not easy asking for help. I understand that. But living like this is even harder, no?"

Her unexpected touch on his arm took him by surprise, but it wasn't entirely unwelcome. She exuded kindness with a unique presence, a stark contrast to the individuals he typically associated with. Despite his instincts urging him to pull away, he resisted, allowing the offered comfort to blend seamlessly with the cafe's cheerful ambiance.

"Thanks," he managed to utter, his gaze momentarily fixed on the remnants of tea in his mug. When he looked up again, his face appeared visibly pale. The spirits still encircled him like a swarm, and Lawrence, the real Lawrence, had returned. However, something had changed. The friend he once knew wasn't hovering nearby as usual but sitting casually at a table on the other end of the cafe. His face, tainted by the poison that had claimed him, wore a wicked grin.

Blinking to dispel the haunting image, he refocused on the girl before him. "So, the ritual," he said softly, his eyes scanning the patrons. "Here? Or...?"

"Here? Oh, goodness no!" Fang said, pressing a hand to her mouth to hide her surprised laugh. It wasn't a laugh at his expense—he wouldn't know these things; how could he?—but more a laugh at the idea of it, the visual image that painted. Performing a banishment ritual right here at the table in front of all these patrons...?

Her eyes widened, suddenly realizing how rude she might look, and her face flushed as waved a hand quickly in apology. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh, it's just...no. That won't be necessary unless this place holds some sort of significance to them. For example, if they died here. But they're swarming you, not this building, so I'd imagine that's not the case, is it?"

Her eyes flicked toward the spirit she'd seen before, who was now sitting alone and watching them with an expression that made the hairs prickle along her arms and neck.

That was one was going to be difficult, she could just feel it.

"They've attached themselves to you perhaps because, like me, you can see them. They do that sometimes, they want to be seen. The key now is to find out what they want. If we want to send them off for good, we'll have to break their tether to this world." She cocked her head curiously. "I imagine you've spent some time around them. Do you have any idea when or where you picked them up? Have they given you any clues about themselves?"

He offered a quiet smile in response to her apology, finding it unnecessary yet endearing. His attention then honed in on her words.

The place where they died... ?

——

Spike's memory unfolded like a dark tapestry, revealing the chilling details of a cold night on the outskirts of Kunata. The half-full moon cast an ominous glow, accentuating the shadows that concealed his intentions. The man, unknowingly the catalyst for a shattered marriage, had a name: Oliver Tatum.

In the dimly lit corners of his mind, Spike recalled the specifics—the desolate stretch of land where Oliver met his untimely fate. The bitter wind whispered secrets as Spike, cloaked in the shadows, executed the grim task that had earned Oliver a hit on his head.

As Spike retraced the haunting steps of that night, a relentless sense of his employer's justice for a betrayed union fueled his actions, while his actions were fueled solely on a pay day. The moon bore witness to the darkness, and Oliver Tatum's name echoed in Spike's consciousness.

——

In the midst of his swirling thoughts, he recognized he hadn't responded to the peculiar girl who offered her assistance. Blushing, a sensation he hadn't felt in a while, tinged his cheeks with embarrassment.

Clearing his throat, he finally spoke, "Oliver," he began, pondering how to convey the details without revealing too much. "One of the incidents involves a man named Oliver. He died not far from here, in the woods on the outskirts of the city. I'm certain of it."

Oh...oh dear. Fang shifted awkwardly in her seat as the silence stretched between them and she couldn't help but feel a small spike of anxiety that she had somehow offended him. She wasn't sure how, but anything was possible when cultural differences existed! Or maybe she had actually upset him when she'd laughed—it was rather rude, even if she hadn't meant it!

She was just about to apologize again when, finally, he spoke, his face curiously flushed. Fang perked up with interest at his words, eyes lighting up at that name.

"Then we must go there!" she said, then paused, wincing at her own enthusiasm, and quickly corrected herself. "That is, if you'd like my help, I mean. But this just confirms my suspicions, Lawrence—these spirits chose you for a reason. That you can understand them so clearly..." 

She smiled up at him. "I don't believe our meeting here was random chance."

Regardless of any cultural differences that might have existed, Spike was not adept at social interactions. Anyone acquainted with him could affirm that fact. In his mind, his existence was tailored for combat, set loose for the sole purpose of eliminating adversaries. That was his entire life. That was all he had ever known. Consequently, his commitment to this solitary path left little room for the development of interpersonal skills beyond what his profession demanded.

Given this background, it wouldn't have surprised those who knew him how clumsily he handled the situation.

Upon accepting her offer, he abruptly rose from the table, seizing her hand and nearly yanking her out of her chair as he guided them towards the exit. "Let's go," he urged, the sensation of a thousand shadows closing in hastening his steps.

"Whoa!"

Hauled from her seat, Fang nearly lost a sandal as she scrambled to keep her feet--and keep up with his much longer strides. Goddess! It seemed once he got past his hesitation, he was go, go, go! Which, she could hardly blame him when a cure for his ailments was just within reach.

"Oh, goodness, you're tall!" she remarked as she almost had to half-jog to keep steady with him. Of course she could tell he was when he was seated, but standing was a different experience. "Where do you hail from again?"

They passed the table she had sat at originally, and she stretched and snatched up her belongings as they walked by, throwing her satchel over her shoulder and grabbing her sword in its scabbard. She carried it awkwardly, politely waiting for her hand to be freed so she could reattach it to her belt.

Stepping out of the bustling cafe, Spike suddenly sensed an awkward tension in the air. Glancing down, he noticed the woman beside him struggling with an armful of supplies – something he'd missed her grabbing on their way out. The realization hit him that he was still holding onto her hand, an unintentional gesture that made him feel oddly invasive of her space.

In a moment of self-awareness, Spike slowly and awkwardly released her hand, allowing the connection to fade like a phantom touch. His lips curved into an apologetic smile as he said, "Sorry about that. Seems like I got a bit carried away there."

Surveying the lively streets, he pinpointed the direction they should take. Turning back to her, he met her gaze with his head tilting down. "Serendipity," he said simply. "You're short."

"No, no, I'm fairly certain you're just tall," Fang said with a shake of her head, but there was amusement in her voice. What a strange but interesting person! Were all Serenians like this? The only interactions Fang had ever had with any outsiders was...well...here in Thanatos, and only then very infrequently. She had never left the island; it was all she knew. She had been Temple educated and knew Common and a little of the other cultures, but seeing it in practice versus learning about it were very different things.

As she kept pace with him, she wrestled with her belt, reattaching her scabbard--which was made of metal and looked shiny and new. It practically was; she had only ever drawn her sword to polish it.

"Anyway, you're fine, really! Didn't I also get a little carried away earlier? Besides, I imagine it's hard being in a place like this, far away from home. I understand your customs must be very different from ours, no?"

She realized she was sure yapping a lot--but she couldn't help it. She was raised amongst scholars who nurtured a natural thirst for knowledge and curiosity, and here he was: a curiosity.

He set off with the assumption that she would keep pace, his long, brisk strides posing a challenge to match. "I don't have a home," he replied, the gravity of his words contrasting with the casual tone he adopted. "And, in my view, there isn't much difference between people deep down, beyond appearances. You're attractive, I'm the opposite. You're short, I'm the opposite."

Spike's explanation lacked any real emphasis as they navigated through the crowds – a matter-of-fact perspective that defined his worldview. It became evident that tact was a trait not particularly present in his conversational approach.

——

Through blustering streets filled with the rhythmic hustle of the city, Spike guided Fang to the outskirts of town. The ambient noise of urban life slowly faded as they navigated the winding paths leading to a spot entrenched in Spike's history – the place where he had concluded a significant chapter years before.

As they walked, the city's chaotic energy gave way to a more subdued atmosphere. The distant hum of traffic was replaced by the rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of crickets. Spike's gaze held a hint of nostalgia, memories echoing through the quietude of the outskirts.

Finally, they arrived at the designated spot, a place where shadows whispered of past actions. "Here," he said definitively

Wait. He thought she was attractive?

Fang blinked at that, taken fully off guard, but kept her face firmly turned toward the road ahead. Ahaha, silly biglanders and their blunt, direct talk! Her face warmed with a tinge of embarrassment, but his tone said he didn't mean anything by it. It sounded only as if he were making casual observations about the world around him, especially when followed up by their height comparison. Why, he may as well have been commenting on a pretty rug, right? But Fang had never paid much mind to her looks and had been bullied enough as a child for being strange that her confidence had long ago taken a hit.

It seemed so had his.

She felt the impulse to reassure him, feeling a strong pulse of empathy and a little anger for whoever had made him feel that way--but bit her tongue. There was no way 'oh no don't worry, you're perfectly aesthetically pleasing!' wouldn't sound weird.

And so she fell silent, deciding that maybe the most sociably acceptable way to navigate this was to shut up. She'd already made a fool of herself; she should look somewhat competent while helping him with such a serious undertaking!



Soon enough, they reached their destination. Perhaps a more savvy person would feel uneasy being lead out into the middle of nowhere, beyond the city, where no people were, while alone with a stranger...but Fang trusted him. And when Lawrence announced that they'd arrived, she had no reason not to believe him, especially not when she could feel it herself. She could feel the tingle of energy as the hair along her neck and arms rose, the air cool despite the jungle's warmth.

It was not a pleasant sensation. This was not a peaceful death. Her belly twisted but she steeled herself; this might not be pretty, or easy.

"Yes...I can feel it," she murmured as she turned in a slow circle, examining the space. "Oh, Oliver. Something horrible happened to you here, didn't it?"

Looking up at Lawrence, expression solemn, she sucked in a breath and hugged herself, rubbing at the goosebumps on her arms. "Call him. We need to talk to him. He's chosen you, so see if he'll come to you."

In the days leading up to the inevitable confrontation, Spike meticulously observed Oliver, gathering every detail needed to orchestrate the perfect strike on behalf of his employer. The city's outskirts, shrouded in a somber gray, set the stage for their eventual meeting.

On that fateful day, isolated from the urban bustle, Spike finally confronted Oliver. The air hung heavy with tension as the two figures faced each other, the weight of impending decisions palpable. Spike's eyes, sharp and calculating, betrayed neither sympathy nor remorse. It was a moment frozen in time, a precursor to the unfolding events that would alter the course of their lives.

Oliver's desperate pleas echoed through the stillness, fear and tears intertwining in a haunting symphony. His voice trembled with the raw intensity of desperation, each word a plea for mercy that hung heavily in the air. Spike, unmoved and silent, observed the unfolding scene with a stoic expression, his features betraying nothing.

The weight of Oliver's terror permeated the atmosphere, the silence accentuating the gravity of the moment. Spike's cold, unyielding demeanor offered no solace, no hint of reprieve. It was a stark tableau, where the only audible sounds were Oliver's anguished cries, punctuating the quietude like a heart-wrenching lament.

And then: the job was complete. Spike struck him down without a second thought, leaving Oliver morning more than a corpse in the dirt.

——

"I'm here, Oliver."

In the eerie stillness of the scene, Spike's voice cut through the air as he attempted to beckon Oliver, the haunting spirit that lingered in the shadows of his consciousness. The atmosphere shifted, becoming charged with an unsettling energy as Spike called upon the ghost that had been a spectral specter haunting his existence.

A palpable tension filled the air, creating an otherworldly ambiance that hung like a heavy fog. As Spike's invocation lingered, an ominous shadow gradually manifested, casting a foreboding presence upon the surroundings. The figure materialized, bathed in an ethereal glow that outlined the haunting silhouette of Oliver.

There he stood, frozen in the state Spike had left him in – the echo of a past act etched in the spectral realm. Blood stained his neck, a macabre reminder of the fatal wound inflicted upon him. The air grew thick with the weight of unresolved anguish as Oliver's ghostly figure manifested, a haunting testament to the consequences that lingered in the wake of Spike's actions.

This never really got easier.

She just grew more prepared.

When Oliver began to manifest, Fang waited patiently as he took form and filled in. And then...

Her breath caught as her eyes flicked to the gaping wound on his throat, spectral gore shining on his skin. These cases were never easy, the ones where someone was taken before their time in violence and fear. Such an act left a wound on the land as deep as the killing blow, the energy, the memory of the act staining the space like blood. These were the spirits she had the hardest time with. They were the ones that had the hardest time letting go—because they weren't ready, because it wasn't fair, because they were frozen in their pain and trauma.

It was as she suspected.

"Hi, Oliver," she said at last, taking a step toward him and meeting his eyes with a sad smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Fang, and this is Lawrence. We're here for you, to listen if you're ready to talk. I know you're hurting and afraid—but you don't have to be anymore."

She looked to Lawrence briefly, then back to the spirit. "What's keeping you here, Oliver?"

The air seemed to thicken with an eerie anticipation, and an otherworldly chill enveloped the surroundings. As Fang began to address the spirit, an invisible force stirred, and the wind whispered ominous secrets through the trees.

Oliver's features emerged more clearly from the ethereal glow, his wounds manifesting with stark realism. His spectral form contorted with a mixture of anger and despair, caught in an unending loop of pleading for his life. "He killed me," echoed through the spectral plane, a haunting mantra that seemed eternally bound to Oliver's tortured existence.

"He killed me," Oliver repeated, his voice a tortured wail that cut through the night. His translucent eyes bore into Fang, accusing and desperate. "Why do you call him Lawrence?"

"It's okay, Oliver," Spike blurted out, a hint of panic tainting his voice as he scrambled to conceal his secret. "It's Lawrence. We're here."

A shiver ran through Oliver's incorporeal form, a subtle admission that the name held a deeper significance. "He killed me," he whispered again, his words carrying a weight of anguish that echoed through the ghostly realm. "I begged him. He killed me. I cried. He killed me."

The wind intensified, swirling around Fang and Oliver, their confrontation reaching a crescendo. Oliver's spectral form contorted further, caught between the torment of his past and the enigmatic puzzle presented by Fang's words.

Dread settled within Spike's gut. He sensed that the inevitable moment of revealing the truth, and confronting the ensuing consequences, loomed on the horizon. The weight of anticipation pressed down on him, a certainty that the reckoning he sought to avoid would soon become unavoidable.

Amidst the unfolding chaos, the real Lawrence perched on a tree limb, assuming the role of a bemused spectator. A devilish grin adorned his face as he observed the events with a wicked satisfaction.

He killed me, the specter said, frozen in time. That was common. That was expected. Many spirits got stuck like that, trapped in the moment of their death, doomed to experience that horrific moment again and again in a twisted, never-ending loop. One had to shock them out of it and bring them back to the present and—

Why do you call him Lawrence?

Fang felt her back go rigid in surprise, a sharp chill going down her spine. No, she realized as she looked slowly from Oliver to Lawrence and back again. No, this wasn't a loop—he was reacting to them, responding to them...

He killed me.

No...no, surely not...

The wind whirled around her, whipping about her hair and loose leaves, and slowly, slowly Fang turned to look at Lawrence. Or..."Lawrence". He killed me. No, Oliver had to be confused, maybe trapped halfway between reality and the nightmare of his death. He was looking at Lawrence, but perhaps he was seeing someone else.

Because there was no way. It didn't make sense. Why would Lawrence bring her here, why would he agree to this at all, if he had murdered this man? Why would he confess his crime in such a blatant way?

I begged him. He killed me. I cried.

It didn't make sense. 

Unless he means to kill you, too, a voice whispered unbidden.

Fang felt her blood run cold but she curled her hands into fists, swallowed, and lifted her chin to peer up at Lawrence, hoping to put a little of her mother's regality into her posture. It was a feat she had never successfully accomplished.

"What happened, Lawrence?" she said quietly, and watched his face for his reaction, her eyes on his, looking for signs of guilt and hoping she found none. It didn't make sense at all; she couldn't for the life of her match him to this act, the bloodied throat and pitiless violence. Of course she had barely known him for what...a couple hours, maybe? But he didn't look capable. 

She could not picture him slashing a begging man's throat.

As horror and remorse gripped Spike, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the unfolding scene of Oliver's spirit behind his gaze. Yet, amid the haunting images, a nagging realization clawed at the edges of his consciousness—this wasn't how it happened.

In the recesses of his mind, a truth emerged. Spike had never engaged in conversations with his victims before the fatal act. There was no room for pleading, no opportunity for his victims to understand their fate. Something was distorting his memories, twisting the reality of those final moments.

Despite the revelation, the damage had been done. Oliver's spirit had spoken enough to spark a cascade of understanding in Fang. The woman, Spike's unlikely confidante, started to piece together the fragments of truth - he could tell by quickly glancing over to her. Spike knew that the look on his face would reveal more than he could conceal—it told her everything she needed to know.

As reality started to untangle, Spike felt an oppressive sensation, as if the very walls around him were narrowing, accompanied by an ominous buzzing that reverberated in the air. Then, an abrupt silence descended, leaving only the sound of the wind rustling through the trees in that profound moment of quiet.

"He's right," Spike admitted, his voice measured and composed. "I killed him."

Fang had been praying for a different outcome. 

It wasn't the one she would receive.

Lawrence confirmed the awful truth and Fang felt her breath catch, her eyes locked on his face. He was so composed and calm in the face of such a hideous truth. Cold. And suddenly she realized...no, he was fully capable.

His words left her rooted to the spot, her own words stuck in her throat, and she reached up slowly to grasp the small white stone hanging from a chain around her neck—a talisman, a symbol of Inima. Beneath it, she could feel her heart beating wildly, betraying her fear.

Deep breaths. Slow and steady, in and out through her nose. Calm down. Think this through. But it was beyond anything she had ever dealt with. She was used to dealing with the dead; it was always the living that perplexed her. 

Nothing in her life had ever prepared her to stare a murderer directly in the eye.

No. Not necessarily murder, she thought desperately, not wanting to believe it. There had to be a logical reason—

I begged. He killed me.

Goddess give her strength. 

"Why?" she asked at last, just loud enough to carry over the wind, but it wasn't directed only at Lawrence. She looked to Oliver, too, addressing them both.

After Spike revealed the unsettling truth to Fang about being the one who killed Oliver, Lawrence materialized with a malevolent glow accentuating his twisted features. A wicked smile adorned his face as he positioned himself beside Fang, a sinister presence in the air.

His voice, tainted with a poisonous resonance, cut through the silence as he addressed Spike with a taunting tone. "Yes, Lawrence, tell her who you really are. Tell her your real name. Let her know the monster she's helping," Lawrence sneered, his words dripping with malice.

The atmosphere thickened as Lawrence continued to goad Spike, pushing him toward the revelation Fang awaited. "Tell her," he insisted, the repetition of the phrase growing deeper and more unnerving with each utterance. "Tell her!" it continued to say, its voice beginning to sound less like a man or more like something not of this world.

Amidst the addition of Lawrence, Oliver's sobs reverberated through the eerie surroundings still. "I begged. He killed me."

"No," Spike muttered in a hushed tone, his gaze trained on the spectral figure. "You never knew. You're ly-"

"I BEGGED!" Oliver's tormented voice echoed through the desolate trees, resonating like a chilling requiem. Suddenly, the ghostly apparition glided through Spike in a swift and violent motion.

A surge of sudden pain pierced Spike's head, accompanied by an unsettling blur in his vision. With one final glance at Fang, he crumpled to the cold, unforgiving dirt, unconscious.

That other spirit was beside her then, the one Fang had seen in the tea house. The one with the ugly look on his face. He joined in the shaming, calling Lawrence monster, validating Oliver's claim that it wasn't even his real name, and Fang felt lost for the first time in years. Suddenly she was a stupid child all over again who didn't know her gift or how to use it--

Oh Goddess, she had been warned about this, warned to slow down and come home before she bit off more than she could chew, but she had felt stubborn, felt ready, maybe even let her success get to her head.

This had never happened before. Not just confronting a killer, not just the chaos, but the type of chaos, dripping with wrongness that she couldn't place.

Something wasn't right.

The pieces didn't match, like two puzzles tossed together and her not knowing where anything belonged. He'd confessed, but why? If he was a cold-blooded killer, wouldn't he try to cover his confession and silence her, too? Oliver never knew what? Her head ached, Oliver's cries and the specter's unearthly voice blending together in discordant harmony until--

Oliver moved--and Lawrence crumpled.

"Lawrence!" It was the jolt she needed to snap out of her freeze, and it suddenly didn't matter what he'd done or hadn't done. At the end of the day, it was never her job to judge--and whatever he had done, he was human before all else. She crossed the space between them in seconds and slid onto the ground beside him, muddying her knees, and gave him a firm shake. "Lawrence! Lawrence! What did you do to him?"

She snapped a look to the taunting specter, the one that didn't belong; why was he here with Oliver? And...wait...was Oliver even...?

Spirits didn't hurt people.

"What did you do?" she repeated, a sickening realization squirming in her gut. Lawrence had been about to call the spirit a liar when he had been silenced; that couldn't be an accident. She cradled the man's head in her lap, keeping his face out of the dirt. "Who are you? Where is the real Oliver? Show me who you are!"

In the realm of unconsciousness, Spike found himself immersed in a vivid memory, a stark contrast to the distorted versions he had been shown. Contrary to the lies portrayed, he never confronted Oliver; Spike's method was always discreet, sparing them from pain. As these dreams unfolded, the real Oliver emerged in a ghostly apparition, showing the true state he was in before his demise.

Oliver sat in silence, unsuspecting and unafraid, unaware of what lay ahead. He had no tears, he did not beg, he was not afraid, and he knew not of what was to come.

As Spike awoke, his head resting in Fang's lap, a surge of instinct propelled him to draw his dagger, pressing it against her throat. His eyes, once calculating and reminiscent of a seasoned assassin, conveyed a cold determination. In a moment of realization, he dropped the blade to his side, his gaze softening with remorse. A single tear slid down his cheek, mirroring the weight of the memories and the burden he carried.

As the realization gripped Spike, Lawrence's face contorted with anger, his eyes morphing into a bottomless black hue, only to dissipate into the frigid air.

There! There he was.

Oliver manifested then, and it was a different Oliver now. This one was calm, not the anguished, angry one of before. It was like he had no awareness of what had happened—and that was likely why he was stuck, because he had never even had a chance to process his death. Fang watched him, heart still racing as the gravity of what she was dealing with sank in; it was not the first time she had encountered a lying demon, but they usually pretended to be a lost spirit in need of help. She had never encountered one that actually manipulated reality in this way.

No matter. One step after the next. First releasing Oliver, and then...then the demon.

She started to to move, ready to slide Lawrence off her so she could rise, but everything came to a screeching halt when she felt the cold press of steel against her throat.

Her breath caught and she froze, not daring even to swallow, not daring to breathe. The gaping wound, Lawrence's confession, oh goddess, she really was a fool. That voice in the back of her head telling her he'd kill her for knowing...she should have listened, she should have done a thousand things differently that were fantastic now in hindsight, and really, Fang, traipsing off into the jungle alone with a strange foreigner?? Really? No, no, calm, this had to be a mistake—the demon! If it could change what they saw of Oliver, surely it could change what Lawrence saw of her, too?

Maybe it changed what she saw of him, as well—had it really been his confession or just the demon's illusion?

She clung to that possibility like a lifeline.

"Lawrence!" she gasped, unable to keep the high note of fear from her voice. But just as quickly as it had happened, the knife fell away,

It was an effort not to sag in relief.

Instead, she stared down at him, her hand flying to her throat as though to check for damage as she met his tortured eyes with her own. Was...was he crying? Was that what was shining on his cheek? "I-I knew that wasn't you," she said at last, her voice a little shaky, her palms slick with sweat. "It's...it's the demon. It was making us, ah, see things." Another deep breath. "It's okay. We're okay. I'm sorry I scared you."

What had he seen when he awoke to her looming over him?

"Here. I'm going to take care of Oliver, okay? The demon's gone for now; I can't feel it anymore. Just stay here. I think this Oliver will be more receptive."

She flashed him a reassuring smile, concern in her eyes. But even as she said it, there was an unspoken we'll talk later in her tone.

Spike, overwhelmed by remorse and unease, gently disentangled himself from Fang, moving away with a newfound weight in the air. The oppressive illusions of Lawrence and the nonexistent Oliver ceased, and a sense of clarity beginning to creep in.

He looked back to Fang as he moved to his knees. Despite confessing to being a killer, Fang still extended a helping hand. Perplexed by her unwavering support, he chose not to question her motives at the moment, grateful for the aid she offered in dealing with the haunting presence.

Slowly regaining his footing, he discerned the actual Oliver's presence, pointing towards him as the truth unveiled itself.

"Yes," he said quietly but full of determination. "That's him."

Yes, it was all just a misunderstanding. An illusion, Fang thought as Lawrence moved off of her and slowly climbed to his feet. There was no way this calm, quiet man could be a killer.

It all made sense. It was just the demon, but for a moment she had doubted and it had nearly won. Sure he had drawn a knife on her, but who could blame him for being startled? And what traveler didn't carry a weapon?

With Lawrence off of her, Fang rose to her feet and adjusted her sarong, brushing mud off her knees which only smeared it more, but she didn't seem to notice. She gave Lawrence one last look, concerned over his condition after the demon's attack, but he seemed well enough for now. Time to end this, then.

With a nod of understanding, she turned from him. Clearing her mind, Fang crossed over to Oliver quietly. This would be easy; no need for anything elaborate. From a pouch at her hip, she withdrew a handful of fragrant dried flower petals of a brilliant violet hue, and from another pouch she withdrew a handful of ash, the remains of parchment upon which she had written sacred burial rites.

She crushed them together in her hand as she paused before the spirit, watching him a moment, before she murmured a Thanati prayer into the breeze, no longer a violent wind. There was no need to get his attention, no need to potentially upset him when he had no awareness.

"Go with Inima, Oliver; you're free," she told him at last as she lifted the ash and flowers over his head and let them shower upon him. He had never had his burial rites, and so she gave them to him then. It wasn't a proper funeral, but there was no body to burn; this was the next best thing to send him on his way.

In the midst of the ritual, a profound silence settled over the area, broken only by the faint hum of the magical energies intertwining. Fang's focused demeanor hinted at the complexity of the undertaking, and Spike couldn't help but feel a sense of awe for the ancient knowledge she wielded.

As the ritual reached its crescendo, Oliver's form began to dissipate into scattering balls of light - almost like flies flying off into the night sky. The room area to hold its breath, and Spike watched in awe as the essence of his spectral companion ascended, carried away by the luminous orbs. A profound stillness lingered in the aftermath, leaving Spike in contemplation of the power that Fang possessed. The experience had opened a door to a world beyond his understanding, and he couldn't shake the sense of wonder that clung to the air.

In that extraordinary moment, an ordinary man might have expressed gratitude, marveling at the spectacular display before him. Words like "Thank you" and "That was amazing" would naturally find their way into the conversation, accompanied by an earnest inquiry about how to reciprocate the awe-inspiring feat. However, Spike, being far from ordinary, stood in silence, his face wearing an inscrutable expression.

Caught in the aftermath of the mystical ritual, he grappled with the unfamiliar terrain of gratitude and appreciation. The usual script of polite acknowledgment eluded him, leaving him in an awkward stillness. Eventually, as if compelled to break the quietude, he posed a question that reflected the lingering wonderment in his eyes: "Did you see that?"

It was always so beautiful, watching them move on. But just as few could peek beyond the mortal veil, few ever got to witness the dissipation of energy and spirit and magic as she did. No matter how many times she had ushered someone to the other side, she never got used to it; like a sunset, it was different every time with every soul and no less breathtaking.

Fang was still standing there quietly even after the lights faded, grounding herself, when a familiar voice broke the silence and startled her back to this world.

She jumped a little, mostly just a twitch of her shoulders, and whirled around toward Lawrence—then let out a breath as her eyes refocused and the events of the day came rushing back to her. The knife, the confession, the demon, the—

Slow down.

Cocking her head curiously, she mustered up a tired smile at his awe. "I did. I can see a lot of things most cannot. I'm surprise that you can. It's one thing to see spirits, but another to witness—oh!"

Her eyes widened and without explanation, she went to him then and reached up, taking his face in her hands and pressing fingers to his temples as though searching for something. "I'm so sorry! That demon hurt you, didn't it? How do you feel? Do you feel strange at all? Any pain? Hear voices? Let me see your eyes."

Okay. That was different. She wasn't retreating or distant after witnessing and hearing his earlier confession.

As her hands touched his face, an unexpected connection intensified his guilt. She radiated sweetness and kindness, traits he couldn't match. She deserved the truth. Using her for her abilities, knowing fully well what he was, felt wrong.

"I'm okay," he replied softly, locking eyes with her, a mix of remorse and determination in his gaze. "Listen," he continued abruptly, hands resting on her shoulders. Unsure of how else to anchor her attention, he added, "We need to talk. Will you listen?"

His hands on her shoulders got her attention and cut off any other questions she might have fired his way. But Fang was pleased nonetheless when he locked eyes with her, and she peered intently into them as he spoke, her own eyes squinting. Yes, she was absolutely using that as an opportunity to study him for any signs of demonic possession, just in case. 

"Hmm...? Talk? Oh, yes. Right." He looked clean. Satisfied, she released him, and then realizing he was holding onto her, too, she cleared her throat awkwardly and took a step back. Oops. 

"Sorry. I didn't mean to invade your space, it's just—ah, never mind. Of course I'll listen. I, um, I have a few questions myself. It's nothing, probably! It's just, you know, everything that happened..."

She trailed off, glancing off toward an old, rotting tree trunk that was laying on its side. She nodded toward it as she turned to go sit, patting the space beside her. "Do you want to go first?"

Spike regarded Fang with wariness, a conflicted expression playing on his face. Attempting a smile felt out of place, and he accepted her offer to sit beside her with a cautious distance, mindful of Fang's comfort.

As he unraveled the truth, Spike spoke with a weighty admission, "You see, I *did* kill Oliver," his voice hushed, eyes fixed on the expansive sky above. "Everyone that haunts me—I killed them. I was an assassin, Fang. It's what I was born into and what I was set free to do. I've never known anything else. I guess I..." He trailed off, the heaviness in his chest evident as he navigated the delicate explanation. "I was afraid to tell you," he confessed, "I wanted them gone, but I feared you might not help me if you knew the truth."

A pregnant silence lingered before he spoke again, "You and I should probably go our separate ways."

A long silence followed his confession—and then a soft, mirthless laugh, more to herself than anything. How desperate had she been to deny the truth...she truly was a fool.

And yet even as the words spilled from his own lips for a second time, she could not for the life of her see a heartless killer in his eyes, and his behavior didn't match the confession, either. His remorse after pulling a knife on her, his respecting of her space, his politeness—in his own way. If he had wanted to hurt her he would have already done it, and even now he was giving her the opportunity to leave.

She watched him in silence, weighing his words, feeling her belly tighten with nerves. Was she doing the right thing? What was the right thing? Lawfully, she should turn him in, but...

Fang drew a deep breath, fussing absently with a strand of hair. "I offered to help you," she said at last, "and so I will keep my word, if you still want my help. This is bigger than just you and I, Lawrence. You need my help, but so do they."

She met his eyes. "You say you're a killer, but that's not who I see before me now. And...maybe I'm truly a fool here, I don't know you, but..." She rolled her shoulders back, straightening. "We can't change the past. What you were born into, what you did, it's not right. But I believe in rebirth, and I don't think you need to die to get there."

Her mother would kill her if she knew she was entertaining something this insane. Or rather, lock her up and marry her off as she had wanted to all these years.

She paused, considering, and then asked, "Do you regret it?"

As Spike settled beside Fang, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow on the surroundings. His mind was a tempest of conflicting emotions, each one battling for dominance within him.

Regret, like an ever-present shadow, loomed over him. The pain of his past deeds, the lives he had taken for profit, gnawed at his conscience. The weight of guilt bore down on him, and in the fading light, he could see the ghosts of those he had killed haunting the edges of his vision - despite rather or not the spirit were actually present at that moment.

Yet, amidst this sea of remorse, another emotion swelled within him—an overwhelming gratitude toward Fang. She had offered him help, extended understanding without judgment. A warmth emanated from her presence that he couldn't quite articulate.

Spike sat in the silence of the setting sun, the conflicting emotions painting an intricate canvas across his face. Then, he finally answered her. "Yes," he said. "I regret everything. No one-" he cut off, as if he swallowed his words. "No one deserves what I've done to them. But still I.."

He let out a shuddering breath, as if a weight had been momentarily lifted. Then, he turned to her, and told one more truth. "My real name is Spike," he extended his hand, a second chance for the greeting.

He regretted it.

Good.

Fang watched his face a moment as though searching for the lie, but she saw only sincerity there. Alright, Fang. This was crazy, right? She was actually going to do this, help an admitted murderer? What he had done, taking all those lives...there was no coming back from that. That was a wrong that 'sorry' could never right. Those people, their families, all that pain...there was no undoing it.

Right?

And then there came another confession. At this point, she couldn't say she was surprised.

"Spike, hm?" she repeated, looking down at his hand—and then taking it, much more successfully this time. She gave his hand a shake, obviously unpracticed, and then let go. "Nice to meet you, Spike. I'm, well...I'm still Fang."

She flashed him a smile, a little amusement in her eyes, before she sobered. Goddess, it was so hard to believe she was speaking to an assassin.

"Anyway, Spike, I believe you. And maybe I'm crazy—goddess know I've been lectured enough—but I think this is even more proof that our meeting wasn't just random happenstance. I think there's an opportunity here—an opportunity to do good, to balance out the wrongs. Ah...hmm...how do I put this...?"

She frowned, tapping her chin with a finger. "It's complicated. You can't undo what you've done; the dead are dead with or without you in this world. But you know that, and I truly believe you regret it. If it's like you say and you were never given the chance to do good to begin with, if you were born into a life where that was all you knew...how could you do anything else but what you were taught was true? But now here you are, seeking a different path."

Peering up at him, she gave his arm a gentle pat. "I'd be a terrible priestess if I helped only the dead and abandoned the living, right?"

Fang's words resonated with Spike, stirring emotions that he seldom allowed to surface. His stoic exterior cracked, revealing a vulnerability he wasn't accustomed to expressing. In that moment, his eyes softened, mirroring the genuine touch of gratitude he felt. Uncertain of how to articulate his emotions verbally, Spike offered a subtle nod, a silent acknowledgment that spoke volumes.

His hand, calloused from a lifetime of challenges, reached out hesitantly towards Fang's. The simple act of taking her hand conveyed a depth of understanding and appreciation that words struggled to capture.

And then, an after thought surfaced. "You're a priestess?" he asked from genuine curiosity. "How did that happen?"

Fang blinked at his question. "Hmm. I'm not sure it really happened so much as it was just always meant to be. My mother's the Maha—ah, she's Temple caste, and her mother before was also Temple Caste, and so on, so I was just born into it. But even if I was born elsewhere, it would have happened all the same—I would have been given to the Temple once my gift manifested."

He was holding her hand, but Fang didn't withdraw, instead lightly squeezing it before covering it with her other. He no doubt needed reassurance and simple human connection after everything that had happened.

"Of course, it's not just priests and priestesses in the Temple, but I like this kind of active service. I feel it's a good use of this gift." 

There was a pause, and she added in a mutter, "And it, ah...keeps me out and about and away from the Temple itself."

A faint smile graced his lips in response to her last comment, and he nodded subtly, conveying his genuine interest in her narrative. Despite the seemingly impassive nature of his mostly blank face, his body language spoke of attentiveness. Eager to reciprocate the exchange of personal details, he shifted on the ground, folding his legs over one another and positioning himself directly in front of her.

"I don't recall my parents," he shared unexpectedly, the revelation offered willingly. "My early memories are dominated by training for combat. In my community, it was the expected path. It took years before I grasped the weight of taking a human life, and even then, I didn't fully grasp it."

A fleeting thought crossed his mind before he resumed, "Oh, I promise not to kill you," he added casually, as if it were a customary assurance. Extending his pinky, a gesture he had observed children in his community perform, he offered it to her.

He had never known the value of a human life. No parents, born to kill. It was a disturbing idea—and she thanked Inima he was from Serendipity, because surely that meant his group wasn't here. Brainwashed. Indoctrinated. What she wanted to know most was what changed for him? It took strength to break a generational curse like that. But before she could ask, he threw in a curveball.

I promise not to kill you.

It was so unexpected, and the gesture so childish, that Fang had to bite her lip to stifle her laugh. The air still escaped out her nose, and she clapped a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. Oh goddess, with all the adrenaline and shock of the night slowly draining out of her (for she had not experienced such emotional whiplash in ages!) she was left feeling strangely giddy beneath the outward calm—but it seemed even that was starting to crack.

"I...I actually wasn't worried..." she managed to say as she bit back her giggles. "Not until you said that!" Reaching out, she hooked her pinky with his.

"But I've been told this is as good as binding, no? My life is literally in your hand. Or pinky, as it were." 

The pregnant pause that followed spoke volumes, as Spike's reaction—or rather, the lack thereof—echoed through the charged air. His gaze shifted downward, lingering on the entwined pinkies, a momentary contemplation etched on his features. When his eyes ascended, meeting the woman's gaze once more, an air of uncertainty seemed to shroud him. Was there something funny about what he said? Spike wasn't known for humor; perhaps it was just the woman's nerves getting the better of her.

"It's getting late," he interjected, his words breaking through the contemplative silence, seemingly at odds with the current conversation. "Do you have some place to go? We can meet at the cafe again tomorrow.. well, if you'd like to."

Oh. Was he serious? His expression was unwavering, not a crack of a smile to be found. 

Maybe for his people it wasn't a childish thing at all but actually was binding. And here she'd just laughed at his customs! Fang's cheeks heated and she cleared her throat, quickly withdrawing her hand and folding it in her lap. Oops.

His question saved her. Perking up, desperate for a subject change after that fumble, she nodded and waved a hand. "Oh yes, my own lodging isn't a problem. I don't have a place in mind yet, but I'm sure it won't be difficult to find an inn." She paused.

"Unless you know a place? Where are you staying?"

Where are you staying?

The unexpected question lingered in the air, catching Spike off guard. No one had ever asked about his lodging before, leaving him uncertain about the appropriateness of his response. "Here's good," he offered simply, his eyes scanning the surroundings for a secluded spot. A clearing not far away seemed suitable for the night.

Returning his gaze to Fang, Spike noted the unmistakable flush of red on her cheeks under the moonlit sky. Tilting his head slightly, he studied her with a curious intensity before gently placing a delicate hand against her skin. "You don't look so well," he observed in a hushed tone. "Are you running a fever?" The concern in his voice conveyed a genuine worry, a departure from the usual guarded demeanor he presented to the world.

"Here?" Fang repeated, and threw an incredulous look around the area. Was there a building here she had somehow missed? Because surely he couldn't mean... "Here as in...right here? Oh no, no, I don't think that's—"

But whatever she had been about to say was cut off by a cool hand on her skin and his concerned question—and neither helped with her flush. How strange that she had no issues with contact when she was playing her role, and yet suddenly such a simple touch threw her.

And ahh! He'd noticed, when she had been hoping it was too dark. She did not want to explain the reason behind it!

The heat spread down her neck and she gave a nervous laugh, gently shooing away his hand. "No, no, no, I'm fine, really! I'm not sick, I'm just...um...maybe a little tired? Ah, it's nothing! Anyway, as I was saying, you're not sleeping out in the dirt. Is money the issue? Because I can help!"

A furrow creased his brow in surprise. "Oh no," he quickly reassured her, a confident tone in his voice. "Money is not an issue for me. I've got plenty. Besides, sleeping in isolation like this reduces the likelihood of someone killing me in my sleep."

His words, darkly tinted, were paired with what he hoped passed as an innocent smile and a knowing chuckle, as if that was a normal thing to say. However, almost instantly, a sense of unease crept over him. Realizing that his comment may have sounded anything but normal, he hastened to correct himself.

"I'm sorry," he admitted, a touch of self-awareness in his tone. "I'm not great at banter. But really, don't worry about me. I'll be fine. Just make sure you get that fever checked out by a doctor."

"...Pardon?"

Kill him in his sleep?? Was that a genuine issue he had to worry about?!

That settled it! Bad joke or no bad joke, she just wasn't so sure she should believe that was only banter after everything else. From what she'd seen so far, even when he was joking there was a layer of truth.

"Oh no, absolutely not!" she said, rising to her feet and offering her hand. "Come now, we'll find an inn together. And sleep in a room. In a bed. I can't imagine being alone out here would be safer than a room with four walls and a roof over your head!"

Spike bestowed upon her a modest smile, then gracefully took her hand, ascending to his feet. The noticeable contrast in their heights became evident as he stood upright. "You're sweet," he uttered softly, locking eyes with her, oblivious to the implications such a gesture might hold in her people's customs.. or just in general.

After a brief contemplation of her offer, he conceded with a nod. "Sure," he agreed, a thoughtful expression on his face. "But perhaps it's a tad early for us to share a bed, don't you think?"

Spike was really winning today.

...huh?

Share a bed...why would they need to share...?

Too early for...what...?

Wait...what?

Fang stared up at him, head tilted and expression blank as his words echoed in her mind, tumbling around but not quite registering—and then they slammed into place with a resounding crash. Her eyes went saucer-wide, her dark skin turning a deeper shade, and she practically flew backward from him, holding up both hands and waving them frantically.

"Ah! No, no, wait! That's not what I—oh goddess, what did I say?! I'm sorry, Common isn't my first language so I'm bound to make some mistakes, some words sound an awful lot alike and ahhhh!" She rubbed her face with both hands, laughing helplessly into them. What a thing to mess up!

She sucked in a wheezing breath. "Oh Inima. What I meant to say was...we can sleep in beds. In rooms. Separately. Our own beds! Not..not...together."

He must think her such a floozy!

There's that fever again. This girl really was strange.

Nevertheless, Spike found himself swiftly developing an affinity for her. Uncertain about his feelings regarding staying at an inn, he chose to indulge her whims for her sake. She was extending help to him in ways he may not fully comprehend, and their limited interactions had already provided a rare sense of humanity he hadn't experienced in a long time. A selfish part of him wanted to cling to that feeling.

"I see," he responded calmly, his unwavering gaze fixed on her. "That makes sense. Let's go then."

Without hesitation, he reached for her hand, pulling her along as he set a determined stride toward town.

For all her flustered panic, he was calm as usual, accepting her explanation with ease.

And running with it.

There he went, grabbing her hand again and pulling her along the same way he had back at the tea house, and Fang had no time to even be startled as she jogged beside him to keep up. The man was on a mission!

"Short legs!" she panted. "Slow down, we're not all giants!"

With the pace he set, it wasn't long before they reached town, Fang breathless and a little sweaty—Inima, she really should get back to practicing her swordplay, was she that out of shape already? The streets were dark save for the flicker of hanging lanterns and empty save for a lone carouser or two.

Fang scanned the buildings as they walked, spotting the tea house they had met at. She could swear she had seen a tavern near it, but she couldn't quite remember where—ah!

"There," she said, pointing. "We can see if they have any rooms available."

And then it was her turn to drag him as she crossed the road.

Once they walk into the tavern, the atmosphere shifts dramatically. The air becomes heavy with the scent of smoke and booze, and the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses surrounds them. The dimly lit space reveals a diverse crowd – from rough-looking adventurers nursing their drinks to gamblers huddled around tables.

Spike found himself in familiar yet uncomfortable surroundings, the tavern's atmosphere thick with the scent of ale and the cacophony of drunken revelry. Though he had often lurked in the shadows of such establishments, gathering information discreetly, being a part of the lively scene was a foreign experience. He nearly had forgotten that they would sometimes have room for overnight as well.

The rowdy patrons, well into their cups, cast lingering, inebriated glances at Fang. Unsettled by the attention, Spike whispered, "Stay close," and draped an arm casually around her shoulders, a strategic move to deflect the more probing looks and create a facade that hinted at a connection beyond mere friendship.

This was not the usual place Fang stayed at, for as they entered the establishment, she was immediately aware that it was a bit...rougher than she was used to. From the thick scent of booze and alcohol to the shady-looking gamblers loudly arguing to the drinkers whose eyes lingered just a bit too long...

Indeed, Fang looked—and felt—painfully out of place. And though she had a sword on her hip, she didn't have the look of a Khan. Almost everyone of her caste carried a sword after all; it didn't mean everyone could use it.

Spike on the other hand appeared to be well in his element. No surprise there, she supposed, but hmm...perhaps they should try somewhere else—oh!

An arm slid around her shoulders and Fang let out a quiet squeak and jolted before she saw it was him, having not realized how tense she was until that moment. Instant relief replaced the shock and the tightness in her muscles eased. Stay close, right. No, there was nothing to worry about, she shouldn't judge these people. After all, look at Spike! People were people, and all anyone craved was understanding. 

"Got it," she whispered back, and nodded toward the bar where a scarred, irritated-looking woman in her middle years was wiping down glasses. "Think we can ask her?"

She seemed their best bet; Fang couldn't pick out any other workers and wouldn't have been able to pick out even the barkeep if she wasn't behind the counter! Putting her hand on Spike's arm, she turned them toward the bar. The older woman arched a brow as they approached, flicking her eyes between them—though her narrowed eyes lingered longest on Spike.

Foreigner.

"Whatcha gettin'?" she asked in Thanati, addressing Fang.

"Oh, um, we were just seeing if you had any rooms available. I know it's late, but—"

"We have one," the woman replied, cutting her off. She named her price—an inflated one, no doubt because it was late, Fang imagined, not realizing it was more likely because the woman knew she was Temple caste and had the money—and held out her hand impatiently.

"Er...just one?"

"Yeah. That gonna be a problem?" the woman asked, eyebrow lifting as she pointedly looked between them again. 

Fang flushed, shaking her head quickly. "No, it's no problem, it's not—" She winced, looking up at Spike, and then back to the woman. With a sigh, she dug around in her coin purse and handed her the coin, receiving a key and directions in exchange.

As the woman went back to her cleaning, Fang held up the key and flashed Spike a sheepish look. "They just have the one room."

Spike observed with admiration as Fang seemed to skillfully barter in her common tongue. Although he had picked up a few words and phrases during his brief time in this land, it was not enough for a fluent conversation. Usually, he relied on gestures like holding up a sack of gold and pointing, but Fang's approach appeared more effective.

After the transaction, he caught Fang's eyes, and she seemed a bit embarrassed. With a reassuring smile, Spike commented, "One room sounds perfect. Let's go."

As they ascended the stairs, he wondered if his choice of words conveyed the right sentiment. Was perfect too strong a word? He certainly didn't want to scare the poor girl off.

"Uh, it does?" Fang managed to get out before Spike was ushering them along again, up the stairs without a moment's hesitation. Perfect? Perfect how? And that smile! Oh no, he hadn't gotten the wrong idea, had he? Had she done it again?

Into the room they went. It was tiny, and of course there was only one bed—because that was about all that would fit. Oh goddess, well, this was 100% on her. She'd offered—insisted, in fact!—and now she was reaping the awkward consequences. It all made sense now. The arm around her shoulders, his sudden eagerness when before he'd been hesitant—but hadn't he said it was too soon, too?! 

Where had the communication broken down this time? What had she said? It would be rude to kick him out now after offering him shelter and making such a big deal about him sleeping outside. Ahh!

Hold on. Calm down, this was an easy fix!

As soon as they were inside, she ducked out of his arm and took several steps back until her knees hit the bed's edge—and then blushed harder. 

"I'll take the floor!" she quickly announced. "You can have the bed."

He couldn't help but smile a little. Were all Thanati women this strange? Or just Fang?

While he wasn't exactly ordinary himself, and he was more vessel than human emotion, her sudden nerves and embarrassment were not lost on him. His mention of her fever earlier now made him feel silly, as he now understood she was merely blushing. Understanding the potential implications of a man and a woman sharing a bedroom, he sought to diffuse the tension.

"No thanks," he gently declined, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. He settled onto the floor on the opposite side of the bed, stretching out comfortably. "I'll take the floor. You, bed," he gestured with a playful wave of his finger, suggesting she claim the bed for herself.

Oh thank the goddess! He understood and wasn't weird about it, either! It must been a misunderstanding. Maybe she was reading into things that weren't even there!

Feeling silly in addition to embarrassed now, she sagged with relief. "Oh...okay. If you're sure? I'm really okay sleeping on the floor! I dragged you here, after all. Um, I guess just...let me know if you change your mind?"

Secretly, though, she was grateful—because she was lying. She couldn't recall a time she'd slept anywhere but in a bed. Watching Spike get settled on the floor, proving himself a gentleman, she unbuckled her belt and sword and propped both beside the bed near her bag. Next came her headscarf, which she used to wipe the dried mud off her knees as she sat on the bed's edge, sighing at how soft the mattress felt beneath her. It was a horrible mattress, really, lumpy and too soft, but her body appreciated it nonetheless after the long day. Goddess she was tired, and she hadn't realized just how exhausted she was until she was off her feet.

Fang kicked her sandals off, tossed the scarf into her bag, and curled her legs beneath her as she began to fuss with her hair, weaving it into a messy braid. It was partially for practicality's sake; she had a lot of hair and would wake up with a matted mess if she slept with it unbound. But it also kept her jittery hands busy.

Because while one problem had been solved, they were still sleeping in the same room. Call her sheltered, having lived cloistered away in holy servitude for most of her life, but she had never been alone with a man like this—never mind a former assassin she had only met that day!

"Sooo..." she said as she worked, eager to break the silence. "What made you give it up? Your old life, I mean."

Spike's smile widened as he heard Fang settling onto the bed. Offering her that small comfort meant a lot to him, considering all she had done and still had ahead.

In that moment, a sense of comfort and peace enveloped him. Usually, when Spike prepared for sleep, spirits would flood his mind, tormenting and haunting him, making rest an elusive prospect. The constant noise within his head was overwhelming. However, tonight was different. The only sounds he registered were the distant murmurs from the tavern below and Fang's soothing voice. It felt serene.

Then came the inevitable question. Fortunately, he was on the floor, concealing any discomfort that may have surfaced on his face. Discussing the topic was never easy for him, but he recognized the need to open up someday. Choosing Fang as a confidant, he pushed past his reluctance and began to share.

"It's a long story," he began, releasing a gentle exhale. "You know that one spirit who appears more... assertive than the rest? His name is Lawrence." He lightly stroked his chin, pondering how best to convey the story. "I admit, not the most imaginative choice for a name, especially considering it's his and not mine. Yet, there's significance in it. Lawrence is the reason I left behind my old life. Would you like to know why?"

With her hair finally braided, Fang tossed it over her shoulder and stretched out sideways across the bed, rolling onto her belly. She rested her chin on her hands, her knees bent so her legs were propped against the wall the bed was nestled against, crossed at the ankles. It was clear she was settling in for the "long story"; he had her full attention.

Her eyebrows raised at the mention of Lawrence. So that's where the alias came from. The angry one—no, more than anger, malevolent. He made her feel uneasy in a way few spirits had.

At Spike's question she nodded. "Of course I do. We have all night. Anything you tell me could be significant to solving this, any details you give could be helpful. I promise this stays between us."

There was a pause. Then she held out her pinky.

He released shuddering breath, conceding, "You're right," as he gathered the courage to share his story. "Contrary to what you or others might believe, I'm not entirely devoid of human emotion. My childhood was markedly different from others, but that doesn't mean I didn't have friends and relationships. Lawrence, the spirit you've encountered, was my closest friend. He chose to escape that life long before I could—never quite fit into it. Against my orders, we stayed in touch. For the longest time, he was the sole person I felt I could truly open up to. And then... it happened."

---

The moon hung low in the night sky, casting an eerie glow over the mansion where Spike had been assigned his task. The air was thick with tension as he stalked through the shadows, the weight of the dark arts concealing the true identity of his target. An order had come through the clandestine channels, demanding the elimination of someone unknown, someone deemed a threat. The employer named him "Tate."

Spike moved silently, his every step masked by the magical cloak that shrouded his surroundings. His heart pounded in his chest as he approached the unsuspecting figure, unknowingly obscured by the enchantments that distorted reality. The air grew colder, and Spike could sense the gravity of the moment as he prepared to carry out the assassination.

In a swift and discreet motion, he administered the poison, the lethal substance taking effect almost instantly. The mysterious figure convulsed, hands grasping at the unseen threat closing in on them. Spike watched, detached, as the person struggled for breath, unaware of the deep connection they shared.

As the poison tightened its grip, an unsettling realization crept over Spike. The dark arts that veiled the identity of his victim began to waver, and the illusion shattered like fragile glass. Horror struck him as he witnessed the features of his oldest friend, Lawrence, contorted in agony. The shock paralyzed Spike momentarily, his eyes widening in disbelief.

He stumbled backward, the weight of the revelation crashing down upon him. Lawrence's gaze met Spike's, a silent showing of shock and betrayal. In those agonizing moments, the truth became clear, and Spike felt the profound loss of a friendship severed by the cruel hand of fate. As Lawrence's life slipped away, the echoes of betrayal and sorrow lingered in the air, forever staining the memory of that fateful night.

---

Spike recounted the events of that night. His mission: eliminate a formidable target by the name of "Tate." Unusually, he had scant information about this individual and was denied the customary time to study his subject beforehand—a privilege he was often allowed. However, the order included precise details regarding Tate's location and specified the method of assassination, leaving Spike little room to question the sudden change in protocol. Only later did he discover that dark arts had been employed to conceal his surroundings and the true identity of the person.

"That's the gist of it," he concluded with another heavy breath. "Following that, I... well, I was lost for a while. And then, I ran."

Fang listened quietly as he told his tale, watching his face, her own expression unreadable. No, he was wrong about one thing—the last thing she thought was that he was emotionless, and he was certainly far from heartless. 

Maybe she was a fool and he was faking it all—but he would have to be a phenomenal actor for those subtle flashes of emotion she'd seen to be fake. What would be the point of deceiving her now anyway? He was a former assassin; assassins did the job and were done. Playing the long con didn't make sense, and if this was all some elaborate ploy to kidnap the Maharani's most useless daughter, he'd already had more than ample opportunity.

When he finished, she flashed him a sympathetic look. "So you were set up," she said softly, "and that was the shock that set your new path, your awakening." She let out a sigh, shaking her head sadly. "I'm sorry that happened to you—and especially to Lawrence. I'm sorry it took a personal tragedy to get you out. But I'm glad you made the connection, that you realized the weight of your actions, and that you had the strength to leave."

She looked away. "I've never talked to someone with a situation like yours. I've counseled some who suffered abuse from their families, though, and I've seen how it warps their perspective and their worldview. It's not the same thing, of course, but...people can do and believe a lot of awful things when they're taught it's normal. And they can suffer a lot when they think they deserve it. Ah, but I'm rambling."

Looking back at him, she cocked her head. "I do think you're wrong about one thing, though. I never thought you were emotionless—you wear your emotions on your face quite plainly if you know what to look for. Mostly remorse. You're hardly an empty husk, you're just...hurting."

She met his eyes. "Am I wrong?"

She was right, and it felt like a gut punch. He was taught never to show emotion, and it was trained, and beat into him, not to have them entirely. But he was still human. It took him a long time to learn that, and no matter how much you suppressed, things will eventually resurface.

He had known he was human for a long time now, with raw emotions, and that just made the pain of his sins worse.

"I guess I..." he trailed off, a light pink flushing into his face, the sensation of tears held back. Turning his head to peer up at the bed, he admitted, "I'm afraid." A weak smile appeared, surprising even himself for confessing such vulnerability. "You know, someone like me, there isn't any coming back from all of this. I just need them to have closure," he said softly, his gaze returning to the ceiling. "I don't know why I'm telling you all of this. You're... you're a good person, Fang. But me? Well, I'm just a killer."

"No," Fang said abruptly, sitting up suddenly. "That's...that not really true. I mean, it is true that you can't undo what you've done. There's no going back—but you can still go forward."

She cleared her throat, looking down at her hands, gathering her thoughts. It was a heavy subject, so different from what she was used to dealing with. But between her religious studies, listening to the troubles of the common folk, and dealings with the dead she had grown a perhaps unorthodox perspective—and deep sense of empathy. Some might be quick to condemn him, but that just wasn't how she saw it.

How to put this...? "As I said before, the dead are still dead and their stories are over with or without you in the world, but you can do good as long as you're still in it. We're not born with knowledge and foresight, we're all born innocent blank slates. And we all get born to different parents in different places with different circumstances and opportunities. That's not your fault. And it's not your fault that the people that raised you, the people that are supposed to nurture you and keep you safe, the people you trusted and loved, molded a child who knew no better into a killer."

She looked at him then, studying his face, the reddening in his cheeks and glassiness of his eyes. Was he...? Her chest squeezed and instinct kicked in; she could not sit above him while he was at such a low point. Sliding off the bed, she knelt in front of him and with a light touch of her hand, turned his face toward her. 

"You were a child, were you not? When they raised you and taught you how little life's worth, when most would be playing with dolls and sticks? Would you have been a killer if you were born into my world?" Her expression softened. "Would I be a killer if I was born into yours?"

Fang's gesture of sliding off the bed to offer comfort didn't surprise Spike; it resonated with the essence of who Fang was, at least from what he had gleaned so far. As her hand gently cradled his cheek, he felt a raw vulnerability, an unexpected connection forming in that quiet moment. "You might be right," he admitted quietly, acknowledging the truth in her words.

Closing his eyes, he sought solace in reaching for her hand, yearning for that connection amid the emotional turmoil. In the midst of this vulnerable exchange, he humorously added, "You could never be a killer though," his eyes still closed. "Little legs."

Spike's comment—was that a joke?—cut straight through the heaviness like a hot knife, all the more surprising because it came from him. It caught Fang so off guard that she laughed—and quickly drew her hand from his face to cover her giggles, her face flushing. It felt wholly inappropriate to laugh at a time like this, but...it was also, admittedly, a nice release of tension.

"Hey now! Shorter legs give a lower center of gravity. That can be quite lethal in combat!" She grinned at him, giving his hand a squeeze. 

She'd just leave out the part where she'd cried the last time she'd accidentally killed a spider.

That can be quite lethal in combat!

Spike chuckled, a genuine and amused laughter that lifted his spirits almost instantly. She truly was something.

"I'll take your word on that," he said playfully, reaching for her hand and taking hold of it once more. Unsure if this was the right way to express his feelings, it felt right in the present moment. "You're fortunate I wasn't born into your world. I'd likely dedicate more time to pursuing you than pursuing ghosts."

Fang blinked at him, confusion flickering across her face. Pursue her...? Huh?

But after a moment, she just smiled, giving a little shake of her head and patting his hand with her free one.

"Oh, well I'm afraid it wouldn't be much of a chase! I can hardly keep up with you when you're walking!" she said with a laugh, his point soaring cleanly over her head.

His broad smile gradually softened, and his gaze drifted downward as he gently withdrew his hand from hers. Did he he say something wrong? Banter and, well, personality were never his strong suits - he likely said something wrong.

"Well, it's been a long day," he eventually remarked, lowering his back to the ground. He placed his hands behind his head, creating a makeshift pillow. "How about we get some sleep, hm?"

Spike's expression changed and then he was retreating—and it was Fang's turn to wonder what had happened and if she'd somehow said the wrong thing, or missed something. As he laid back and settled in, promptly ending the conversation, she rose to her feet and sank back down onto the bed.

Well. It had been a heavy conversation, putting it lightly; no doubt it had taken its toll even if he didn't show it. He was right, in any case—it was late and for all that she was keeping it together, she was exhausted, emotionally and physically, and the moment she laid down she knew she wouldn't be getting back up.

As she pulled back the blankets and slipped under, she gave him another look. "Do you want a blanket or pillow at least? That can't be comfortable."

With his eyes closed, he mustered another slight grin. "I couldn't," he replied, attempting to embody the concept of being a gentleman that he had heard about. "Just being under a roof is enough for me. Promise."

---

In the quiet stillness of the night, as Spike and Fang succumb to the embrace of sleep, an eerie presence returned. Unseen by the waking world, spirits materialized around Spike, casting an ominous atmosphere that hung heavily in the air. Their spectral gazes fixated on Spike with an intensity that would send shivers down the spine.

As Spike descended into slumber, the spirits' malevolent influence took hold. His nightmares intensify, turning the peaceful slumber into a chaotic battlefield. In his restless state, Spike tossed and turned as though locked in a fierce struggle against an unseen giant, the weight of an unseen adversary pressing upon him.

During his dreams, a particular image lingered prominently in Spike's mind. It was that of Maya, a woman from his earliest days of carrying out hit jobs. In stark contrast to the other spirits who assailed him relentlessly, Maya's apparition was distinct. He could vividly perceive her mouthing the words, "Me next," as if pleading for a release.

Amidst the ghostly congregation, one spirit deviated – Lawrence. Unlike the others, he chose not to loom over Spike but instead positioned himself on a spectral chair in the corner of the small room. His eyes, dark and vacant, dart maliciously between Spike and Fang. An amused and malevolent smile creeps across his ghostly lips, hinting at a sinister satisfaction derived from the plans he may have had brewing.

Unlike Spike, Fang's sleep was restful and dreamless, a sleep of pure exhaustion that was more emotional than physical. That had taken...a lot of mental labor, and . She passed out mere minutes after her head hit the pillow--but unlike Spike, she usually had to go looking for spirits rather than them latching onto her.

But though she fell asleep fast, she had always been a light sleeper, and Spike was sleeping on a wooden floor that thumped and rustled with his tossing. She slept maybe a couple of hours before the sound woke her.

Stirring awake, her vision blurred with sleep, she yawned and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms as she sat up, blinking in momentary confusion as her mind struggled to wake just behind her body. As her vision cleared in the darkness, she saw Spike turning restlessly--

And the real Lawrence in the corner, watching.

A chill raised the hairs on the back of her neck, but Fang ignored it for the moment, instead sliding off the bed and settling in a crouch beside Spike. "Spike," she whispered, reaching for him--and hesitated. Mmm. Maybe...that wasn't a good idea. She wanted to wake him, wanted to bring Lawrence to his attention and snap him out of whatever was plaguing him, but the last time she'd touched him when he'd been out, he'd put a knife to her throat.

She bit her lip, hand hovering over him, then gently touched his shoulder. "Spike, it's me. It's Fang. You're having a bad dream, I think."

She hoped, that is. Hopefully his spirits didn't follow him into sleep.

In the grip of his turbulent dreams, Spike tossed and turned more, haunted by the relentless assault of the spirits. As Fang moved to wake him, his instincts kicked in once more. This time, instead of reaching for his knife, he grabbed her, rolling over to pin her to the ground with an intense, tortured expression.

Caught in the grip of his subconscious struggle, he hovered over her, his grip firm but not aggressive. Slowly, as he came to his senses, the realization dawned on him, and he softenened his hold, his face perfectly portraying "oops."

"Oh," he whispered, though his position unchanged. "Sorry, Fang."

"A-ah!" Fang had time only to yelp before the world went topsy-turvy and her back hit the floor, forcing the air from her lungs in a whoosh. Spike was on her before she could react--not that it would have done much good either way--and she stared up at him in wide-eyed panic as he pinned her to the floor, his body heavy on hers.

She should have known better! She knew it was a bad idea! Yet here she was, staring up into his not-all-there expression and struggling to find her words as her throat constricted. But then his eyes seemed to clear, recognition sparking, and his grip eased.

Fang let out a relieved breath and closed her eyes.

"No, no...that...that was my fault, I think," she breathed, chest heaving as she struggled to calm down after the scare, her pulse thunderous in her ears. "I'm sorry. I knew better but...but I couldn't just...you sounded like you were having a hard time," she finished lamely, wincing, and peered up at him with a shaky smile. "Lesson learned this time for certain, promise! No more poking the bear! Or, um, rather...perhaps next time I'll use a stick. A really, really long stick. Yeah, that sounds..."

She trailed off. As the shock died down and she no longer feared being strangled or something, she became more aware of his position. And hers. And, ah...how drafty it was.

Her face went red, her body going rigid. Her sarong reached to just above her knees--and it seemed when he'd rolled them both over, it had gotten hiked up in the process.

Throughout Fang's speech, Spike remained nearly motionless atop her, growing more concerned when she ceased speaking and her face flushed beet red.

"Are you okay? Did I hurt you?" he finally asked, his expression filled with concern as he studied her face at a near nonexistent distance. His gaze then drifted downward, closely examine the rest of her.

...Did she always wear her clothes this revealing?

Oh, his face was so close--when had that happened?! Too close, and yet close enough now that she could see with uncomfortable, unfiltered clarity that he was very much lying when he claimed to be unattractive, even as a non-Thanati--and the thought sent a flush of shame rushing through her, making her chest squeeze. It was a forbidden thought--and she had no idea where on earth it had even come from as she stared up at him. It wasn't like she hadn't noticed before, but it had been in the way one noticed an attractive painting: objective without any real feeling attached to it.

Now her belly twisted with a different kind of anxiety. Oh Goddess forgive her.

Fang swallowed hard, shaking her head vigorously. At least he hadn't noticed her predicament. She squirmed a little beneath him, trying to reach down to adjust herself. "No, no! I'm fine, I'm--h-hey!"

Of course, that was when his eyes traveled downward and her breath hitched at the way he unabashedly stared. Without thinking, her hands shot up, burying themselves in his hair, and she tugged his head back up. "Eyes up!"

He couldn't discern any noticeable signs of injury on her, but her labored breathing suggested something was amiss—Ow! A sudden and unforgiving yank of his scalp snapped his attention back to her, their eyes locking.

Huh...

She appeared unusually flustered for some reason. Frantic eyes and a flushed complexion. It was just legs, he reasoned. Just... nice, impressive woman legs...

Oh great, now it was his turn to blush and become flustered. He began to apologize, still not budging from his newfound, seemingly permanent spot on top of her, when a sudden realization dawned in his eyes.

"Fang! I need to tell you something important!"

His voice, an uncommonly raised tone for him, carried urgency as he gently cradled her cheeks with delicate fingertips. Drawing closer, it seemed as if they were about to share the most intimate of moments.

"I know who the next spirit is."

Was he blushing? Why was he blushing?! He wasn't the one with his sarong nearly pushed high enough to flash his undergarments! And then, with further horror, she realized she was still clinging to his hair and quickly released him, though she didn't know what to do with her hands after. They fluttered there in indecision before she grabbed his shoulders--as if she would be strong enough to shove him off. (Yeah, right!)

She was still trying to find her words when his expression changed. Tell her something??

Ahhhh!

Another time and she wouldn't have thought anything of it. But right then her panic only spiked higher and her pulse became a thundering warning. His sudden urgency, with his weight pinning her and his hands cupping her face to bring his lips close...? Oh no, oh no, oh no, was he--? He couldn't! He'd said so himself! It was too soon! They had only just met! She barely knew him at all! And yet here she was, tangled up with him, and as much as she wanted to push and wriggle free, all she could do was freeze. Her muscles locked into place and she stared stupidly up at him.

Nononono, wait, this wasn't how she wanted things to go! This was a serious misunderstanding!

I know who the next spirit is.

"HUH?" It came out less as a word and more as a rush of breath. Her hands trembled on his shoulders, eyes blinking rapidly up at him. "Wh...wha...? Spirit? What are...?" It took a moment for her foggy mind to clear. Spirit. Next spirit. Right. That was the important thing.

She swallowed audibly. Okay. Yes. This was a misunderstanding. Okay, Fang. Get it together. Just a mistake. An awkward one, but he was a kind of awkward guy, right? Not that she had room to talk there, but...

"Right. The next spirit. Yes. That's good. Yes, very good, that. U-um...maybe...maybe we can talk about that? Perhaps in a different position?" Hrk. Her face might as well have been made of flame. She twitched. "As in sitting, with you not on me?"

Oh.

Oh, right.

Of course.

"Yep," he said with a hint of embarrassment, placing his hands on either side of her to hoist himself up. "Sorry about that."

However, as Spike began to shift off of her, an unwitting tragedy unfolded. Unbeknownst to him, his belt buckle had somehow caught hold of Fang's sarong during the shuffle. As he lifted himself up, it became apparent that he unintentionally became the unwilling accomplice to a wardrobe malfunction, taking a bit of Fang's attire with him.

He stood swiftly, his back to her as he recalled the moment in his dream, completely oblivious as to what may have just happened.

"Maya," he said, his words heavy with thought. "She came to me in my dreams. She said me next."

Just when Fang began to breathe a sigh of relief as Spike lifted off of her, her world came crashing down all over again. There was a tug, a rush of air hitting her legs, and she shot her hands down to tug her sarong back into place--

Except her hands only found the bare skin of her thighs.

What. No!

She felt at herself frantically, the blood draining from her face, then propped up on her elbows to look, and yep, that sarong was gone. No, wait, not gone--oh.

Oh NO.

Spike was talking and saying things, probably very important things, but Fang only heard every other word as her entire focus was the colorful cloth peeking out from his front, and thank Inima his back was to her! Except he was also facing the bed, and he was between her and anything she could use to cover herself with, like the sheets on the bed or the spare clothes in her satchel. Biting back a squeak, she scrambled back against the wall and hugged her knees to her chest right as Spike was finishing up.

"Uh, h-hey Spike? Wait, don't look!" she yelped quickly, and all the blood came rushing back to her cheeks. "Just...don't turn around. Okay? Um. So, yeah, you uh...I believe you have something of mine?" She cringed as she said it, shoulders hunching up around her ears.

Oh Goddess, she knew it wasn't a big deal, really! It was nothing to get worked up over, it was just bodies being bodies! There was nothing shameful about it! But knowing was one thing, and feeling was another.

The path of his thoughts were abruptly halted by the sound of Fang's frantic plea. Slowly, he looked down and saw... Oh no.

Spike's eyes widened in horror as he noticed the vibrant fabric of Fang's attire wedged into his own belt buckle, the two seemingly entangled in a cosmic dance of misfortune. Panic surged through him like a lightning bolt.

Without a second thought, Spike frantically attempted to free the cloth, fearing that any sudden move might result in irreparable damage. He tugged, twisted, and pulled, all while imagining the worst-case scenario of tearing Fang's clothes.

In a burst of impulsive desperation, Spike made a split-second decision and decided to unbuckle his belt, thinking it was the quickest route to liberation. However, the universe had a different plan. As the belt snapped open, Spike's pants promptly surrendered to the forces of gravity, descending to gather around his ankles like a pair of fallen soldiers.

...And now his bare ass was visible for Fang, and the spirits (if they were even still there), to see.

Bless him. To his credit, Spike didn't look. He understood the assignment and got to it quickly, wrestling with the fabric while Fang waited awkwardly, her chin resting on her knees. This was so dumb. How had that even happened?! And why was she so flustered?

It was taking him a while. It must have really gotten snagged, which was a shame, because she loved that sarong—

She heard the clicking of metal as he fumbled with something, and that was all the warning she got before his pants dropped—and she was staring at his white bottom.

A rather nice bottom, pale though it was.

Her eyes went saucer-wide, the heat spreading down her neck and to the tips of her ears, and she sucked in a breath and found she couldn't look away. How. What. WHAT. What was he DOING?!

"S-Spike!" she got out, voice a little strangled—but then, suddenly, it turned into a wheeze...

...of laughter.

Fang sank her face into her hands, suddenly seized with a fit of helpless giggling, and she just gave up. She was done. Inima take her, this was SO beyond ridiculous! She was being tested, she had to be, and she didn't know if she was failing or winning! Laughing uncontrollably, she felt herself go boneless as she folded forward onto her knees, clutching her stomach.

With his pants now embarrassingly pooled around his ankles, panic set in. Swiftly, before he could react or succumb to further embarrassment, he attempted to toss the caught cloth back to Fang. Instead of the expected reaction, her response caught him off guard—hysterical laughter echoed in the air.

Heat rushed to his face; was she laughing at him? Ignoring the awkward state of undress, he urgently turned around to face her, fully exposing himself in the process. Trying to get to the bottom of the situation, he blurted out, "What's the matter?" his tone a mix of confusion and urgency.

The sarong landed on her head as she sat curled up in laughter, obscuring her view and making her laugh even harder because this was so beyond ridiculous, but only for a moment. Heaving for air, she pulled the sarong off her face as Spike asked what was wrong—and found herself face to face with more of him than she could have ever anticipated.

Fang had met Spike not even 24 hours ago, and yet she knew more about him now than she did some of her closest friend: his full backstory and now...his anatomy.

Fang's laughter cut off with a choked sound as his everything was suddenly just there, more detailed than anything in the anatomy texts she had read, and after a moment of wide-eyed horror, she buried her face back in the sarong and prayed the ground would eat her.

"SPIKE!" she yelped, unable to articulate anything more than that as her mind shut down. She waved one hand blindly at him, urgently motioning him to turn. "Your—your—your PANTS!"

...Pants?

As Fang's words resonated in the air, Spike instinctively took control of his breathing. However, the realization struck him like a sudden jolt, and he frantically glanced downward, only to find himself fully exposed in all of his pale glory. His eyes shot back up to Fang, a mixture of embarrassment and urgency evident in his expression.

A quick sequence of glances followed—down, up, down again—as he swiftly set to work collecting his scattered pants. With hurried motions, he slid back into them, a determined effort to cover himself up and salvage the situation. Tightening his belt extra snug, Spike restored a sense of modesty, though the remnants of embarrassment lingered in the air.

As if to do damage control, he pointed at her with his finger as his face felt like fire. "Like I said," he said with an apologetic look in his eyes, "it's too soon for this."

Well, that was the wrong thing to say.

Fang heard a lot of rustling that must be his clothing, followed by a metallic clicking that she assumed was his belt. Still she kept her face covered just in case, because at the rate they were going he'd somehow be magically fully nude the next time she looked!

It was only when all the rustling stopped and he spoke that Fang snapped a look up at him—and yes, blessedly, he was clothed.

"W-what?!" she blurted when, once again, he said that infamous line. "Too soon for—?!"

Well. They had both somehow lost their lower garments in under 24 hours while sharing a room and she'd been pinned beneath him for a little extra kick. Wait. Oh dear. Did he think...did he think she'd crept up on him in his sleep because she was coming onto him?

Horror spread across her face, the fire still in full bloom. "What do you mean by this?" she blurted, her voice a little high with panic. She threw her sarong over her legs, suddenly very aware she was still mostly undressed. 

Spike's gaze lingered on Fang's legs and figure, momentarily captivated. "Too soon for..." His words trailed off as she covered herself up, and the weight of reality began to pull him back down.

"Nothing," he quickly added, though his expression betrayed his thoughts. "It's still late; you should get some more sleep. I'll keep watch."

He blinked, a realization dawning, and mentally chided himself. "For spirits and intruders," he added, perhaps a bit too belatedly.

A mistake. A misunderstanding. That's all this had to be. Still Fang was all too aware of how he'd stared—and how she was just as guilty.

Spike offered her a way out of the discussion, though, seemingly eager to drop it, and Fang latched onto that escape. Hands fumbling, she quickly tied her sarong back around her waist and tugged it down into place, but it would still be a while before her face cooled.

Maybe something just got lost in translation. Maybe by "too soon for this" he meant "too early for this." As in too early in the day for these sorts of shenanigans. Yes, that must be it! Day hadn't even broken yet and this morning was a disaster.

"Right, yes! Good idea, keeping watch! For the spirits," she agreed, sucking in a deep breath and willing her heart rate to normalize. Rising to her feet, she slunk awkwardly to the bed, climbed in, and buried herself in the blankets up to her nose. And yet as she laid there, staring up at the ceiling...goddess, she couldn't help it. It was still bothering her!

"Um, so, Spike...?" she started, still not looking at him. "Just so you know, speaking of spirits and all...I wasn't trying to be creepy or anything. When I woke you, I mean." Her voice was mumbled as she pulled the covers up to just below her eyes. "I saw Lawrence watching you."

"I think I'd prefer it if you watched me," he muttered inaudibly, his words accompanied by a heavy sigh.

"Yeah, he does that," he added simply, as if it were just one of those things. Seating himself, knees slightly propped near his chest, his back leaning on the edge of the bed and facing away from Fang, he continued, "Maybe it was because of our connection. I don't know. Have you come across any spirits like him before?"

Okay, now this? This Fang could do. As the conversation edged back over into safe, familiar territory, Fang perked up a little and rolled onto her side, propping up on an elbow.

Spirits were her expertise. She could do spirits. It was people, the social dance, that were perplexing and a little scary, like everyone else was reading from a script that she had never received a copy of.

"Oh, no, I've honestly never met a spirit quite like him," she admitted, expression thoughtful. "He's a little more...hmm...how do I put this. I've encountered a lot of angry spirits, but he seems more...spiteful about it."

She shook her head, fingers tapping her cheek. She sounded calmer now, the topic giving her mind something familiar to latch onto. "There's a lot I still don't know and still haven't encountered. That demon posing as Oliver for example—that was new, too. It makes sense, though. Lawrence isn't Thanati and neither was Oliver. Cultural differences are bound to manifest in death just as they do in life. Oh!"

Peering down at him, a thought striking her, she said, "What were you trying to tell me earlier? About the next spirit? I'm afraid I was a little..." She cleared her throat. "...distracted."

Spike didn't fully grasp Fang's last remark, but the context grounded him, prompting memories of the woman from his dream. Leaning on the bed's edge, still with his back turned, he uttered, "Me next. That's what she said."

With a gentle exhale, he glanced back, his face now less flushed like a tomato, meeting her eyes. "Her name was Maya. I think... she might want your help next."

"Then we help Maya next," Fang said, covering her mouth as a yawn crept up on her. "That's good. She wants it, so she'll be an easy one. That'll be nice after Oliver, I must admit."

Another yawn, and she let herself flop back down onto the pillow. "Tell me more in the morning, and don't let me sleep too long past sunup," she said as she rolled onto her back, throwing an arm across her eyes.

"Sweet dreams, Fang."

As Fang slipped back into slumber, Spike maintained his position, positioned towards the door as if serving as her guardian from the outside. Restless spirits lingered, casting watchful glances from behind, yet Lawrence's absence was palpable. Respecting her need for additional rest, he allowed her a more extended sleep than requested.

Upon leaving, a tavern worker approached Fang, speaking in their native tongue, "Heard quite a commotion last night. You two love birds have a good time? We charge for stains."

Spike, unaware of their conversation, peeked over at his companion. "Coffee first? We can go to the cafe."

"What? Stains?" Fang repeated, brow furrowed in sleepy confusion. She had slept longer than she'd planned, but even the extra sleep wouldn't save her; she was just never quite herself until she'd had her morning tea. She rubbed her left temple. "We didn't spill anything or—" 

Oh. The woman's meaning clicked a second later as she connected it to the weird comment about love birds and having a good time. She stiffened, her face heating, and waved her hands emphatically.

"No, no, we're not—! We're not together like that or anything, we're just—!"

The worker cut her off with a scoff, eyebrow arched as she looked pointedly at Fang's sword—the item that marked her as Temple caste. It was that simple look that made her wilt, her face burning hotter with shame. "You don't have to justify yourself to me. You serve a higher power, do you not? You answer to them." And then she held out her hand. "Pay."

Ouch. Fang winced, her belly twisting with a spike of anxiety and guilt, and she quickly dug into her coin purse and paid, just to escape the situation. Head down, she scurried away to join Spike while the woman shook her head, mumbling something under her breath.

She couldn't get out of that building fast enough. 

"Tea," she said quietly as they walked, her own pace brisk as she lead the way, not looking at him.

With tea for Fang, coffee for Spike, and the next spirit awaiting, his lengthy strides nearly kept pace with Fang, who hurried down the road faster than usual as they made their way to the cafe.

Matching her speed and raising a brow, he inquired, "Didn't you settle the bill last night?"

Fang felt her shoulders twitch. Oh goddess, she did not want to talk about it.

"I did..." she said slowly, eyes still averted.

"That was remarkably generous of you," he remarked with a mix of quiet admiration and evident misunderstanding. Retrieving gold from his pocket, he pressed it into her hand as they strolled. "For your graciousness."

Arriving at the cafe, the enticing aroma of tea, coffee, and baked goods greeted Spike, prompting a subtle smile. The appreciation for life's simple pleasures lingered.

"Have a seat," he instructed Fang. "I recall your order from yesterday."

Without awaiting a response, he headed to the counter to place an order for both of them.

Noooooo...she wasn't being gracious at all, though! Spike's words and the gold coin in her hand only made her feel guiltier, but she held it in. 

For now. 

It was a bridge that would have to be crossed sooner rather than later, but...maybe once she got a little tea in her first and got her head working properly. It wasn't a good idea to make any decisions without a full belly and caffeine, right?

Sitting at the table, head in her hands, she watched Spike at the counter from the corner of her eye. Not because she didn't trust him not to get her order right, but because the interaction at the tavern had jolted her back to an acute awareness of...certain things. Grounded her back in the living world, so to speak. It was so easy to get caught up in the excitement of her mission—and lose sight of everything else.

Ah. There it was.

It was a different worker that day, and as he turned around to face Spike, his expression soured—just a touch, just enough that if you blinked you missed it, because a second later and he'd smoothed it back out into a friendly, customer service smile.

"Ah, I'm so sorry, but I don't speak Common. Do you speak Thanati?" 

Spike, attempting to order drinks for both himself and Fang, found himself hindered by the unfamiliarity of the common language spoken at the establishment. Resorting to using expressive hand gestures and imagery in the hope of conveying his request, he faced continued confusion from the server.

After several futile attempts, he glanced back at Fang, a defeated expression in his eyes, silently seeking her assistance to bridge the linguistic gap.

"Sir, if you're not going to order, I'd request you move out of line. I have other drinks to serve today."

Spike had no idea what the man said, but it sounded friendly enough.

The man was likely lying. A large chunk of people in Kunata knew at least basic Common—but many also selectively chose not to speak it, at least not until the foreigner had made a basic effort. And sometimes even if they had.

Still Fang stayed out of it, letting Spike try, not wanting to embarrass him by rushing to his aid. It wasn't until he looked to her for help that she rose from her seat to join him. 

"I'm so sorry, my friend is still learning and not yet confident," she told the man, and gave him their order. When it was done and paid for, she ushered Spike back over to their table and took a seat while their beverages were prepared.

"Sorry about that," she whispered to him with an apologetic wince. "I'm sure I'm not the first to tell you that not everyone here likes Serenians."

Observing the barista's subtle social cues and mannerisms during their interaction, Spike discerned that the barista did, in fact, understand him well enough to take his order. However, a deliberate choice to withhold acknowledgment lingered beneath the surface, leaving Spike with the distinct impression that his requests were being purposefully ignored. Regardless, Fang stepped in, and he was grateful for it.

Back at their table, he savored a slow sip of his beverage—hot coffee infused with cream and cinnamon. The irony didn't escape him that a seasoned killer found solace in the sweetness rather than the bitterness of black coffee. After relishing the warmth, he met Fang's eyes.

"It's alright," he reassured with a simple smile. Noticing the apologetic look on her face, coupled with the remnants of the previous night's disarray, he felt compelled to lift her spirits. The first thing that came to mind spilled out, "You look pretty today."

That's what people said to each other, right?

Ehh?

Fang blinked, stared, and then barked a nervous laugh and looked away, his comment hitting a little harder than it might have otherwise after the confrontation in the tavern.

"Oh, you don't have to do that!" she laughed, lowering her eyes to peer down into her teacup at the swirling spices. She stirred it with a stick of cinnamon, though the coconut milk in it was already perfectly mixed in. "My hair's an oily mess and I could definitely use a long soak after playing in the dirt yesterday, but I'd imagine there's no time for that yet. I can hold out a little longer."

Clearing her throat, still not eager to broach a subject she knew would be awkward no matter how she phrased it, she looked up and cleared her throat. "So...where is Maya?"

Spike furrowed his brow slightly, taking another sip as he pondered how to convey the news that his other spirits were a bit distant.

"Nonsense," he declared, his gaze unwavering on her. "If you're in need of a bath, I'll give you a bath." Completely oblivious of the implications his statement carried, he continued, "Maya is.. she, and most of the others,  were in Serendipity. It might be wise to enjoy a soak before embarking on that journey... if you're still up for it."

He...would give her a bath?

Surely another language error.

But before she could wrestle with that, he came in with the double whammy: Maya wasn't even in Thanatos.

She was in Serendipity. Along with most of the others.

Fang's eyes widened, her head snapping up to stare at him, and her mouth dropped open. Oh no, that—that she couldn't do! She couldn't leave. Her mother had given up on her and given her some degree of freedom, but leaving Thanatos? No way. And even if she could, did she want to? She didn't know what was out there, except that the Serenians were a cruel people who hated Thanati—well...

Her eyes slid to Spike. There were some exceptions, of course, just as not all Thanati hated Serenians. They were both proof of that. People were still just people after all, but...could she really go to a country that had forcibly driven her people out? She didn't know the customs, the land, anything! 

...except that she had agreed to help. Could she honestly just...ignore and say no to a spirit that was actively begging for help? 

Surely the Serenians had people who could take care of such things. Except, she realized with a sinking realization, people with her gift were part of the reason Thanati we're driven out in the first place.

She swallowed, nervously turning the cup in her hands. "It...it may be difficult but...ah. Yes. I think maybe a bath is in order. I'll need to think about this." And she did some of her best thinking while relaxing and soaking. She grimaced. "I'm not saying I won't go. I'm just saying I...I need to think about the how. I would never be allowed to leave without clearance, and that...may be something I can't easily get."

Spike's eyes revealed a subtle disappointment as Fang explained the challenges of accompanying him to Serendipity. He took a sip of his coffee, letting the warmth wash away the complex thoughts lingering in his mind. He couldn't fault her; he understood that it was asking a lot. Part of him was driven to continue helping the spirits move on, but another part resisted bidding farewell to Fang.

"I understand," he said quietly before another sip. "It's okay. You don't have to. Let's just.. get you a bath, for now."

——

Deciding on a visit to the bathhouses, Fang mentioned one in the lower class district that would accept "someone like him." Despite her being the native, Spike, in his customary way, took her hand, and with his long strides, nearly whisked her the entire way. Upon arriving, their anticipation turned into disappointment when they inquired about separate sections for men and women, only to be informed that they would have to use the community shared space.

As they entered the modest bathhouse, the air was thick with steam and the sound of splashing water. A middle-aged man, likely the owner, approached them, wiping his hands on a towel.

"Welcome, friends. Looking to enjoy our baths?" he greeted them.

Finally. Someone Spike could understand other than Fang.

Spike nodded, "Yes, we were wondering about separate sections for men and women."

The owner scratched his head, "Ah, you see, we don't have that luxury here. Everyone uses the communal area. Keeps things simple."

Spike exchanged a glance with Fang, and he nodded in acceptance. "Alright, communal it is," Spike said with a nod. He realized immediately after that he should have gotten more approval from Fang, but they already shared a room and have seen.. each other. This couldn't be too bad.

The owner grinned, "Good choice. Enjoy your soak," he said with a hearty grin, handing over two towels. "You can undress in the room just outside the bath area."

Undress. How did this keep happening?

Why did she agree to this.

Honestly, Fang hadn't been thinking. The tea hadn't fully kicked in, she was still tired from a hectic night, and quite frankly...her mind was just elsewhere, busy weighing the pros and cons and ethics of going or not going—and the logistics of it all. That, and she had simply not spent much time on the port-side of town where foreign merchants gathered, along with businesses set up to cater to tourists. She was used to fancier bathhouses, not...

Whatever this one was.

Once more she was thrust into an uncomfortably exposed position, in more than one way: anyone with half a brain would recognize her by her sword and know she was a priestess about to strip down with a foreigner, in communal baths that catered to exactly that population. It was unheard of. It was just not done. Fortunately, it wasn't busy.

Fang closed her eyes, holding her towel like a lifeline and drawing a deep breath. She should decline. Let him take his bath and just...not. He didn't seem to see a single thing wrong with this! But, okay, it wasn't that big a deal, was it? And he was paying because she'd brought it up in the first place, so she didn't want to be rude when he was trying to be nice. Fine. It would be fine just this once.

"Okay," she said at last, opening her eyes and willing herself not to blush. It was a losing battle. "I'll wait here while you, um, undress and get in. Tell me when you're in and I'll follow."

Because bathing in steamy water that obscured everything was one thing. Undressing in the same room together? That was quite another thing.

In the midst of Fang's sentence, there was a slight hiccup in communication, and Spike had already begun removing his shirt. The fabric gracefully fell to the floor, unveiling the intricate tapestry of scars that adorned his back—a testament to the experiences etched into the canvas of his years. Completing the motion, he turned to meet Fang's eyes, revealing a matching array of scars on his chest. "Sorry," he uttered quietly. "Got ahead of myself."

Pausing for a moment, Spike contemplated, his red eyes resembling soft, flickering flames in that introspective instance. "You don't have to if it makes you uncomfortable," he added gently. "I'll be quick, and then I can take you somewhere more suited to your preferences."

Spike made his way to the dressing room, shedding the remaining layers of his clothing in anticipation of the soothing bath. As he stepped into the bathhouse, the air thick with steam embraced him, creating an ethereal atmosphere. Slowly, he immersed himself, the warm water enveloping him as it reached up to his waist, offering a moment of serene relaxation amid the billowing clouds of steam.

It's not a big deal, it's not a big deal, it's not a big deal...

That's what Fang told herself as she worked herself up to the task ahead—but then suddenly she was staring at Spike's bare back, absolutely covered in scars, and when he turned toward her his chest was no better. Whatever awkwardness she might have felt vanished in the face of the shock that gave her.

That looked...painful. Her expression softened as she watched, brow knitting with concern, but before she could say anything he was speaking, jerking her back to their predicament.

And goddess. She should be afraid of him. She should be wary. She knew it was early to trust him, she knew his past, and by all accounts she should turn him in. But, she reasoned, if she went with him then she was getting him off the island anyway, right?

And perhaps less logically...she did trust him. Once more, he gave her no reason not to, and his offer then only sealed it.

She let out a breath, some of the tension flowing out of her. No, she thought as he went to the dressing room. It would be fine. No sense wasting a perfectly good bath and wasting time looking for another just because she was picky.

Fang waited a couple minutes just to be sure. When she was certain he'd had enough time, she slipped into the room and undressed, folding her clothes and leaving them on a bench. Then she wrapped the towel around herself and headed out into the bathing area, carrying her satchel over her shoulder and her sword and sword belt in the other hand, and set both within eyesight of the bath, just to be safe. 

For a moment she just stared at Spike soaking in the steamy water, her nerves spiking again, but it wasn't like she'd never bathed with company before—it had just been other women. This was the same idea, right? With a deep breath, she dropped her towel onto her satchel, fully revealing the egret tattoo that had only peeked through her clothing before, then folded her arms over her breasts and quickly sank down into the water, submerging herself to her shoulders in one quick go.

"...Hi," she said quietly, the red in her cheeks definitely from the heat of the bath. 

As Spike luxuriated in the soothing waters of the bathhouse, uncertainty lingered in the air about whether Fang would join him. The moment she did, however, a subtle shift occurred – an unexpected, almost breath-stealing transformation.

Caught off guard, Spike found himself momentarily captivated by Fang's presence. Unintentionally, his gaze locked onto her, and he caught a glimpse of the unique tattoo gracing her skin just before she submerged into the hot water. The sight left him momentarily breathless, and his face mirrored the vibrant shade of red that now adorned hers - definitely from the heat of the bath.

"..Hi," he said back quietly.

Fang met his eyes briefly as he greeted her—and then quickly sank beneath the water, wetting her face and her hair and using it as a brief excuse to escape for just a second. This was so silly...and yet...

She resurfaced, slicking her hair back and wiping water out of her eyes. "Sorry if I seemed ungrateful," she said. "I was just...surprised. I didn't know such places existed, if I'm being honest, but there's no sense in wasting more daylight."

She ran her fingers through her hair, focusing intently on the task of hair care so she didn't focus on anything else, like the fact that they were very much naked together, and—

"It's just...it's kind of funny, really," she said, still not looking at him. "Men and women don't really bathe together like this except on the morning of their wedding. That's why it surprised me. I mean, the water's all wrong for it, but goodness, you would never see this anywhere else in city. It makes sense, though, considering where we are..."

Foreign merchants likely did not have the same customs, after all.

Spike immersed himself in the hot waters of the bath, his attention fixed on Fang's words. As he listened intently, the tension and grime of the day seemed to melt away, a rare sense of relaxation taking hold. Participating in such indulgence was not his usual practice; he often opted for a simpler cleansing ritual in the river when needed. Yet, the warmth of the bathwater offered a unique respite, and he found himself slowly moving his limbs through the comforting embrace of the hot waters, allowing the day's weariness to dissipate.

He didn't perceive her as ungrateful and fully comprehended her unease at this juncture. In the brief time they had spent together, he had gleaned several insights about her, witnessing more vulnerability than he was accustomed to from a woman. Fang, he observed, possessed kindness, modesty, and a touch of shyness. For her sake, he aimed to be mindful of these qualities as their partnership unfolded, unsure of its future.

"Wedding," he softly echoed her words, shooting his gaze to her with a thoughtful expression. "Do you want to get married, Fang?" he inquired gently, adding with a quick reassurance, "Someday, with someone."

"Do you want to get married, Fang?"

Uhhh...? Fang blinked owlishly up up him, her mind freezing as she tried to wrap her head around just what he was asking—but fortunately, he was quick to clarify. She laughed, a slightly relieved sound, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

"Oh, well, it's not exactly about what I want," she said, leaning back against the wall of the bath and letting herself just soak before she tackled the task of soaping up her hair. Then, realizing he may not know what she meant, being Serenian and all, she slid a look over at him and shrugged. 

"I'm a priestess and so my service is to the Temple. We don't marry, so I've never really thought about it, even hypothetically. That's part of why this is so amusing to me," she added with a sheepish smile. Well, funny, as well as embarrassing, certainly, but she was trying not to think about that.

"What about you? I've read a little about your culture. You...do things a bit differently there, correct?"

Spike, with a thoughtful gaze, began to explain to Fang the cultural significance of marriage. "I know a little," he started, "marriage is regarded as a sacred bond between a man and a woman. It's a union where two hearts intertwine in a commitment that goes beyond the surface of mere companionship."

He continued, the air carrying warmth of the steam as he delved into the topic. "In our society, public displays of affection are often viewed with a certain level of reserve. The sanctity of marriage is revered, and the expression of love is often reserved for more intimate and private moments."

Allowing his shoulders to sink further into the bath until the waters delicately soaked the tips of his hair, he mused, "Past that, I don't know. I've observed that not everyone takes it as seriously, and I am not exactly husband material to know otherwise."

Before she could interject, he gracefully submerged himself completely. Upon resurfacing, his once-disheveled brown hair now lay flat and nearly black, water holding it in place. A few strands swept across his face as he continued, "And with all due respect, it is about what you want. You should have the freedom to choose how and with whom you spend your life."

Expressing this bit of honesty felt liberating after his internal struggle to maintain composure in her presence.

Fang listened as he described the Serenian way of things, waiting to hear any mention of arranged marriage or betrothals and hearing none, which aligned with her understanding. And then—ah, there it was! His remark. That wasn't surprising—just as she had always found the Serenian way odd, he no doubt found their ways strange as well.

It is about what you want...

She actually laughed, not derisively but in genuine shocked amusement, because the idea was so...so...well, alien to her. "Ah, I've heard Serenians are rather...whimsical in their ways," she said, grinning. "It's not that simple, Spike. I'm a priestess. What I want is what's best for my people. That means devoting my time to service, preserving our ways and living in line with Inima's wishes. Those two things always come first, in life and in love—not just for me, but for everyone. Even those that marry don't just wed the first person to make their heart flutter; matches are carefully planned and considered to ensure they'll last. Romance comes and goes; strong bonds endure, and with them our people endure."

She had gathered up some soap and begin to lather it into her hair as she spoke, and as she finished, she dunked beneath the water to rinse it. Resurfacing, she shook it out of her eyes, then cleared her throat awkwardly and turned her back to Spike. She was in a shallower part than Spike so that when she stood, the water came to her waist.

She started to scrub at her shoulders and arms.

"But none of it really applies to me, so it's really okay! I'm happy. I get to spend my time with people—helping them, listening to them. There's no greater honor."

Spike's initial soft frown at her response transformed into an expression of intrigue. "There's no greater honor," she had said, a peculiar statement that resonated differently with him. Honor was an unfamiliar concept in his life; most interactions were transactional, driven by personal gain. Romance, too, held a messy and jarring quality for him, given the prevalent infidelity that fueled his line of work. However, Fang defied his expectations that other people had set for him, embodying warmth, honesty, and genuine care for others – qualities he found both strange and comforting.

As he observed her soak and scrub, her back turned to him while his eyes rested on her, he decided to steer the conversation in a different direction. "Did you know they prevented us from having contact and interaction with women?" he shared, recounting his past experiences. "Women make you soft, they would say, or they cloud your judgment. Only recently have I had any sort of interaction with a woman that wasn't a part of the job." He paused for a moment before adding, "You're basically my first girlfriend."

"What? Really?" Fang laughed, twisting to look at him from over her shoulder, her eyebrows raised. "They think women make you soft? Goodness, they'd sing a different song if they ever met a Khan! What a ridiculous thing to think!"

She shook her head, looking away again. "Well, you're away from them now, and that's what matters," she said, scrubbing her front and then awkwardly reaching to soap up her back to the best of her ability. It was easier to do this when she wasn't looking at him, easy to pretend he wasn't naked with her. "And for what it's worth, you're one of my only boy friends. It's a pleasure to be your first girl friend!"

Clearly she had misunderstood. Her people did not have boyfriends or girlfriends in that sense, as they did not date in that manner; they had their betrothed. She simply believed he meant she was his first female friend.

"So," she said with a playful note to her voice, "have you found any truth to their words? Have I 'clouded your judgement'?"

The moment the word "girlfriend" escaped his lips, he felt an immediate twinge of regret. The term was somewhat foreign to him, as he'd mainly heard it used by younger people in his homeland to refer to someone they were fond of or intimately involved with before marriage. Her response, however, hinted that she too was unfamiliar with the term. Relief washed over him, prompting a reassuring smile as he addressed her.

"No, you don't exactly cloud my judgment," he explained, leaning his head back on the edge as his shoulders protruded from the water. "I just find myself a bit distracted when I look at you. Maybe that's what they were referring to, because I've heard of plenty of women that could tear me apart."

Come to think of it, when Fang was around, the spirits were... less active.

"Distracted...?" Fang repeated, and peeked back at him curiously. "Ah...I suppose I do talk a lot. I've been told a much..." But even as she said it, she felt the heat start to creep up her neck, suddenly hyper-aware that she had almost her entire backside exposed to him.

...Right!

With a soft clearing of her throat, she submerged herself again, then waded to sit on a low step where the water rose high enough to cover her breasts. It was awkward, but she managed to lift one leg at a time and scrub them down, trying very hard not to look over at him as she did.

But a question had been nagging at her, and the sight of him lounging there, shoulders out of the water and a bit of his scarred chest peeking out, made her remember. 

She focused hard on the scars. She did not want her thoughts to wander back to the muscle she had seen stretched across said chest.

"What happened, by the way?" she asked, risking a quick glance over at him. "Your scars, I mean. If you don't mind my asking?"

Spike's eyes drifted to the water's surface, a distant look in his gaze as he began to speak. "They aren't from the jobs, not directly at least. They go way back, to my childhood and young adulthood."

A heavy sigh escaped him, and he continued, "The ones who trained me, they believed in desensitizing us, making us resilient. Every day, they'd whip and cut us, teaching us to ignore pain and shut out emotions. It was brutal, but it got me where I am."

His fingers traced over the scars as if reliving the memories. "And if they ever messed up, if I messed up, they'd toss me into an isolated room for a week. Alone with nothing but my thoughts."

He met Fang's eyes, the weight of his past reflected in his gaze. "Don't worry, they don't hurt anymore. I've grown mostly immune to physical pain."

"Oh..." Fang murmured, staring at Spike in wide-eyed horror. She had finished washing herself and had listened to him in silence—and every part of her recoiled at his description while he recalled abject abuse and torture so casually. It was beyond what she had anticipated; the scars had looked so systematic she had thought they might be scarification as some cultures practiced. She couldn't have been more wrong.

For a few seconds, she didn't even know how to respond. How did one respond to something that raw and horrible? And here he said don't worry!

"So you were a slave," she said quietly, new realization blooming. The childhood indoctrination had been one thing and already beyond disgusting, but this...? "I'm so sorry, Spike."

Finished with her washing, she slid off the step and waded closer to him, head tilted as she peered at the scars. "Not that it would change anything, but if you wanted to erase the physical reminder, a Flesh Sculptor could do that for you. It can't be easy reliving that every time you look in a mirror."

As if guided by an unspoken connection, he found himself naturally drawn closer to her as she waded through the water. Initially submerged in a deeper section, he gradually moved toward her until he stood tall, his height nearly looming over her as water cascaded down his chest, revealing the intricate history etched onto his skin.

"Thanks," he murmured, locking eyes with her. "But... I'd like them to stay. They serve as a reminder of the life I left behind, so I don't ever return to it."

Sensing the weight his words carried, he swiftly pivoted to a lighter topic. "You've got tattoos," he observed casually. "Can I see them?"

Fang flicked her eyes over his scars, biting the inside of her cheek as she tried hard not to wince at the sight of them—goddess, how much pain had he endured? And to be so young, a child getting whipped and cut and isolated when the only pain he should have felt was scraped knees from running and climbing trees. Finally, she sucked in a breath and looked back up at him, nodding.

"I understand," she said. "That's...respectable. Brave, too." Though perhaps the deepest scars were internal. "I don't think you'll have trouble avoiding that 'temptation', though, if you can even call it that."

It took strength to leave, and he'd had a taste of what life was outside it. How could he ever go back?

His question about her tattoos threw her a little—but only because it was such a light topic after the heavy: pain of abuse versus pain she had chosen. But if he didn't want to dwell, she didn't want to press him; he could talk about it at his own pace.

"Ah, yes! Well, I only have a couple so far, just this one here—" She pointed to the flight feathers on her collarbone that stretched along her shoulder. "And then there's...well, you can't really see it in the water, but...hmm."

She backed up toward the step she'd used earlier, covered her chest with her arms, and rose out of the water enough that he could see the large in-flight egret inked from just below her hip and up her ribs, reaching the side of her breast. It was done in black so it stood out vividly against her brown skin, stylized so it looked as though it was painted onto her with brushstrokes. 

"It's only about a year old," she said, seeming to forget her own shyness in the face of discussing an art piece she was proud of. "It took a couple sessions to complete because sweet Inima the area's tender! But I thought I'd get the bad one out of the way first so everything else is easier, you know? Anyway, it doesn't mean anything, really. I just really like egrets."

As Fang gracefully rose from the soothing waters, revealing the intricate tattoos adorning her skin, Spike's eyes fixed on the captivating artwork. The intricate patterns told a story about her, despite her explaining the work itself not meaning anything. However, as his gaze lingered, he found himself distracted by the details that went beyond the ink on her skin—the water cascading off her tanned complexion, the subtle curves and lines that accentuated her form, her cleavage held together by her arm.

Unintentionally, a faint blush tinted Spike's cheeks, and he felt a surprising acceleration of his heartbeat. It was a moment of unexpected admiration, caught off guard by the sheer beauty before him. Clearing his throat, he tried to shift his focus back to the conversation, but, unsurprising to no one, failed. "You're so beautiful, Fang," he croaked, before his eyes widened slightly and he added, "your tattoos are so beautiful."

Stepping back, a rare hint of embarrassment in his expression, Spike took a step down, glancing towards the dressing room. Clearing his throat, he suggested, "We should probably get moving. Have you given more thought to... Serendipity?"

"You're so beautiful, Fang."

Everything came rushing back to her with a swiftness, and suddenly she remembered where she was: naked in a bathhouse with a Serenian man. Color rushed to her face and she splashed back down into the water even as he corrected himself, just a little too late.

"A-ah, yes, thank you! My artist is very talented, quite well-known in his field! Amazing to think he's only been doing this for around ten years!" she said quickly, trying and failing to hide the fluster in her voice. "If you ever want any work done, I can always put in a word!"

Stripping down a little so an artist could work on your body, discussing technicalities like placement and style and any adjustments to the design, with the pain of the needle and the rush of adrenaline distracting from all else, was one thing, same as showing that art piece off to an admirer. It was platonic and it wasn't even about her, it was just about good craftsmanship. But when that attention then turned to her? Oh goddess, she was an idiot.

She splashed water into her face, pretending to wash it, when the topic came back around to Serendipity.

Oh. Right.

She peeked over at him, letting out a sigh. "I haven't really, if I'm being honest," she admitted. "But...I also know that I probably shouldn't give much thought to it at all or I'll talk myself out of it—and then I'll regret it. If Maya specifically asked for help..."

With a deep breath, she started wading for the steps. "Well, what's the point of my gift if not to help? Zhaobin travel the world to gather knowledge," she murmured, mostly to herself as she ran through her justification. "I don't see why a Soul Speaker shouldn't travel to help the dead outside our borders, too."

A genuine, warm smile spread across Spike's face, a sight Fang hadn't witnessed often in the time they'd known each other. In those brief moments, he had grown fond of her presence, and the prospect of parting ways wasn't something he was ready to face. The warmth in his smile spoke volumes, revealing a connection that extended beyond their shared encounters with spirits. It was a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had formed between them, making the idea of separation a touch bittersweet.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "If you need to make arrangements, or change your mind, that's okay too. Could you meet me by the docks tonight? I know of a ship that will take us there."

Without waiting for a reply, Spike moved to the edge of the bath, his bare ass and all of its glory on full display – a sight Fang was familiar with by now. With a casual grace, he grabbed his towel and made his way to the dressing room.

That smile looked good on him.

It changed the way he looked entirely, brightening his features and taking years away from him until he looked like the man he might have been if he hadn't been born into his cult. For that brief flash, he was just a young man like any other, one that had never known the cold of death or killing, only his red eyes speaking to the extra luck Inima had blessed him with in anticipation of his struggles.

Fang only realized she was staring when he rose from the water—and she got another eyeful. With a jolt, she shielded her eyes with a hand and looked away, but it was too late; she had already seen it all, but now it was freshly imprinted in her brain.

"O-okay! Right! Yes, the docks. I can be there." That night. That left plenty of time to change her mind...

Because this was crazy, right? Absolutely insane. Her mother would have a fit—

But she also didn't have to know.

As soon as Spike was gone and a few minutes had passed, she rose and dressed in the empty room, taking a little extra time to gather her thoughts.

Was she really doing this?

The answer was yes.

Shortly after nightfall, Fang found herself waiting at the docks, in a clean set of clothes: a sarong that went to her ankles this time, a top that left her arms and midriff bare, and sandals. Over it all she wore a dark blue robe tied off with a black sash and decorated with splashes of emerald green. She didn't own any clothes suited for cooler weather, so that was about the best she could do.

She wore her hair braided and twisted into a crown atop her head, keeping it up and out of the way, and she wore her sword on her back now. Her satchel was over her other shoulder, packed with some necessities—clothing changes and toiletries—and she leaned against a fence as she waited for Spike so she wouldn't bounce on her toes anxiously.

She could not believe she was doing this.

The crisp air at the docks carried a sense of foreboding as Spike stepped onto the creaking wooden planks, a harbinger of the clandestine journey that lay ahead. Clad in attire that merged stealth with comfort, he donned a dark ensemble, choosing practicality over ostentation. A sleek coat, designed to fend off the impending chill, billowed slightly in the wind. The fabric, though unassuming, hinted at the hidden layers beneath – tools of his covert trade concealed for swift, unseen maneuvers. Additionally, a leather bag slung over his shoulder with the few belongings he chose to bring, with the addition of medicine to give Fang if she were to get sea sick - like he did the first time he was on a boat.

As Spike approached the ship, its silhouette emerged from the murky waters, a vessel cloaked in shadows and secrets. The timeworn planks of the gangplank echoed beneath his boots as he ventured aboard, and the scent of salty air mingled with an undercurrent of uncertainty. The patrons of this floating den of iniquity bore the marks of their unsavory affiliations – scars, tattoos nowhere near as interesting as Fang's, and hardened expressions that spoke volumes of their rugged experiences.

Amidst the ensemble of rogues and ne'er-do-wells, the ship itself seemed a relic of a bygone era – a vessel shrouded in an air of mysterious intent. The dimly lit deck concealed the dubious transactions that transpired under the watchful gaze of the moon. The rustling of rigged sails overhead hinted at a journey fraught with peril, a clandestine expedition across waters toward the land of Serendipity.

It was an illegal operations ship, with not-so-nice people, but Spike, ever determined, would keep Fang safe.

As Spike's gaze fell upon Fang, a subtle catch in his breath betrayed the affection that welled within him. She had changed her look, a blend of subtle alterations that hinted at a meticulous reimagining. Her attire had undergone a rearrangement, and her sword, Fang's sword, once secured in familiar fashion, now found a new resting place. Even her hair was styled differently.

It wasn't uncommon for someone to change their clothes or modify how they present themselves, but still.. she looked stunning.

"You came," he said with a soft genuine smile. "It's nice to see you."

"Whoa!" Fang gasped, jumping a little; she hadn't seen Spike's approach, too busy people-watching—the wrong people, apparently, since he had managed to sneak up on her without even trying! His dark coat and hair blended well with the night, and she hadn't even heard his footsteps.

"Oh! Spike! Sorry about that, I didn't see you," she said with a breathless laugh, one hand pressed to her chest. "Of course I came. I said I would, did I not?"

But her jumpiness betrayed her, hinting at the tension just under the surface, her muscles just a bit too stiff and heart beating just a bit too fast. She felt jittery, not quite able to keep still, because this was insane—and despite putting on a brave face, she was nervous beyond belief. She had never left Thanatos.

What if the ship sank? 

What if she got kidnapped and couldn't get back home?

What if the Serenians burned her as a demon or something?

Those were the wilder thoughts among the more basic anxieties, like the homesickness already churning in her belly even though she hadn't yet left. It would be fine, though. She wouldn't even be gone that long, right?

Taking a deep breath, she looked toward the docks. There was one sketchy looking ship docked there, and she could see a few others out in the distance, their lights flickering through the foggy marine layer. 

Their ship must be one of the ones waiting out at sea.

"Hmm, we're a little early, huh?" she asked, pointing out to the ships in the distance. "Which one of those is ours?"

Had he of taken the opportunity, he may have told her the truth: he was worried she wouldn't come. After all, there were people and spirits she could help here. Why him? It made him happy, sure, but why him?

Spike's expression then shifted, revealing a mix of concern and uncertainty as he prepared to share the news with Fang: they weren't early, and the ship he mentioned earlier, with its questionable reputation, was the one they were set to board.

"We're on time," he said while pointing to the sketchy ship. "That's ours."

He walked a few steps ahead, glancing back to sense her unease. Offering a reassuring smile, he extended his hand for her to take. "Don't worry," he assured, "I won't let anything happen to you, even if it sinks."

...He had to be joking.

Fang actually laughed, covering her mouth with her hand, but when Spike didn't join in...her laughter quickly died and her smile faded, her eyebrows rising with incredulity. Oh. He was serious.

Of course he was serious. He was usually serious!

The ship looked ancient! Like a good breeze would have it crumbling into tinder! But worse still was the crew loading supplies; she became suddenly hyper aware of how much she stood out compared to them and even Spike. They all looked like they—

No! Fang cut the thought off short. No, no, she knew better than to be judgmental. She had learned years ago that people were full of surprises and never quite what they seemed. Look at Spike for example! No, just because someone looked like they crushed boulders with their bare hands for fun or cracked skulls for a laugh, it didn't mean they didn't have dreams, or a wife back home that they missed, or a rough childhood! Why, that rough-looking man over there picking his teeth with a knife might have a cat named Fluffy that he loved to cuddle.

Still she couldn't quite hide the concern in her eyes as she slowly took Spike's hand and followed after him, swallowing hard.

"Right. Excellent! Well, I'm sure it's a very sturdy ship run by a stand-up crew. I'm sure we'll make lots of friends along the—"

Someone wolf-whistled as they passed and she turned to look, confused, as a man made a strange motion at her with his tongue wagging between two fingers held in a V. She lifted an eyebrow, unfamiliar with both catcall and gesture.

"Is...that a Serenian greeting I'm unaware of?" she whispered to Spike.

If Fang had not been there, that man would be dead.

Spike suppressed a surge of anger, recognizing the unsavory glances aimed at Fang. He tightened his free hand into a fist, struggling to contain his silent rage. Casting a protective gaze down at Fang, he hesitated before responding, "No, it's... not worth it. Don't worry about them." The inner turmoil lingered, the desire to shield Fang from filth clashing with the need to avoid unnecessary conflict.

The ship's deck groaned beneath their feet as Spike guided Fang towards their quarters. The salty sea breeze carried the unmistakable scent of the whiskeys and beers on board, mixed with the grit of a sailors' toil. The dim light of a flickering lantern barely illuminated the narrow passageways leading below deck. Stained walls, marked by the wear and tear of countless journeys with little upkeep, told stories of a ship that had weathered both storms and time.

As they descended into the belly of the vessel, the air grew thick with the mingling scents of saltwater and sweat. The shadows played tricks on the eye, casting mysterious shapes that seemed to shift with the rhythmic sway of the ship. Rough-looking individuals, sailors and passengers hardened by the unforgiving sea, and criminals, eyed Fang with a mix of judgment and lust. Their coarse whispers and leering glances followed the duo as they navigated the maze-like corridors.

The air buzzed with an unspoken tension as Spike maintained a protective stance, steering Fang through the halls. Once they arrived at their quarters, he stopped. They both had a room, but now he was second guessing himself. Could he really leave her alone in this ship?

"We have a room each," he said hesitantly and quiet, "but.. I can stay with you.. if you want."

Judging by Spike's reaction, that had not been a nice thing. Considering the expression on the man's face, Fang had suspected as much—but had also hoped to be proven wrong.

Her shoulders sagged. "Alright," she agreed, letting the subject drop, and followed along after him.




The living weren't alone on the ship.

Fang was a little distracted as they walked. The sights, sounds, and smells were all new to her: the smell of sweat and unwashed bodies, the swaying beneath her feet, the cramped spaces, the booze, and the not-so-friendly faces. It was a lot to take in while still paying attention to where they were going, and all the while she couldn't hell but fear she'd made a terrible mistake.

But among all the usual ruckus, like a whisper only she could hear, she was hyper-aware of the presence of spirits—and here and there she caught glimpses sight of their emaciated bodies and gaunt faces. It told a story frozen in time: a sickness had swept through the ship some time in the past, and these unfortunate souls had never let go. These were not the reactive kind like Spike had; they seemed to be going through the motions, through the rituals of their life before they died, completely unaware that she—or anyone else—was there.

She made a vow to visit them as soon as she'd gotten settled.

The other major thing she noticed as they walked was more of a slow, creeping realization. 

Like a spirit's gaze, something sensed rather than seen, she could feel eyes on her. Sometimes she even caught the stares. At first she didn't understand it; yes she knew she was Thanati, but shouldn't merchants who frequented the isles be accustomed to her people? Then, as they went deeper into the belly of the ship, it clicked.

Spike announced that they had two rooms and made his offer, drawing her out of her thoughts. "Hmm? Oh, that's sweet, but it's okay, really! I'm sure you'll want to sleep in a bed for once, not to mention have your privacy. But, ah, question..."

She cast a look around, then leaned in and pitched her voice low. "I've mostly seen just men here. Where are all the women?"

It was a good question.

Occasionally, women found themselves aboard this vessel, often as commodities up for sale or, regrettably, engaged in transactions alongside some of the less reputable passengers. However, on this particular night, there were no such individuals, only Fang.

This could be a problem, prompting concern upon Spike's face in response to her offer for privacy, as sweet as it may have been.

"I haven't seen any," he confessed sincerely. "Do you want uh.. Actually, I'm willing to keep watch outside your door tonight."

Fang frowned at that, brow creasing. "That's strange," she said slowly, but she wasn't alarmed for the same reasons Spike was. In Thanatos, women were involved in all areas of society and active leaders in most, as well. On an average Thanati merchant vessel, there would be as many, if not more, women aboard than men, and the captain would likely be a woman as well.

It was strange to see a large chunk of the population just...not there.

"Huh," she said at last, and then looked back at Spike as he spoke, her confusion only growing. "Keep watch? Why would you need to keep watch?"

Amidst the grime-stained walls and the leering gazes of rough passengers, Spike began to question the validity of his unease. Rational thoughts whispered that maybe he was overthinking, allowing preconceived judgments to cloud his perception of the ship's inhabitants. A subtle realization dawned on him – Fang was just a room away, protected by the thin walls of the ship.

In this moment of introspection, Spike acknowledged the possibility of misjudging those around him. The rough exterior of the passengers might not necessarily match their intentions. Perhaps, deep down, he desired the proximity to Fang, and his protective instincts were manifesting in these subtle anxieties.

This realization, along with her question, caused him to blush. Great. Was blushing just something he did now?

"Oh I don't know," he said while clearing his throat. I thought you might want.. shut up," he managed embarrassingly. Without a moment's notice, he turned to enter his room as if running away.

What was happening to him?

Wh...what??

Spike cut himself off--told himself to shut up, in fact!--and then just...fled toward his room, leaving Fang even more confused. What...had she said something wrong? Done something wrong? With a start, she followed after him, lightly touching his shoulder.

"Wait! Is something wrong? Did I upset you? I'm sorry, I'm a little out of my element right now, this is all really new to me!"

Paused in the doorway, he felt her hand gently resting on his shoulder. Turning to face her with his now beet red complexion, he swallowed nervously before conjuring up an excuse for his abrupt behavior. "You didn't do or say anything wrong, sorry... I'm just feeling a bit seasick." With a sheepish smile, he retreated into his room and hastily closed the door behind him, leaving an air of confusion lingering in the wake of his swift escape.

...Seasick already?

Well she supposed he did look ill, with his face such a bright shade of red, but the ship was hardly moving yet!

Oh well...guess there was nothing left to do but get settled in her own space and try to get some sleep.

Retreating, she went to her own room and shut the door behind her, and spent a moment tucking her sword safely beneath the bed and changing into a nightgown. She only had a few changes of clothes and they would have to last the trip; she didn't imagine they would stay fresh long in this environment. Without much else to do with herself, she tucked herself away into bed. As much as she wanted to visit the local spirits, she was not going to do that on a strange ship in the middle of the night among Serenians who might not understand the whole "talking with the dead" thing.

So she slept, and hoped the ship's movement wouldn't wake her. She had never been on one before, but she had heard the horror stories about seasickness (poor Spike) and she was not too excited to learn if she was susceptible or not.

Spike was not seasick.

He was embarrassed.

Why was he embarrassed?

It didn't make any sense.

Spike, settled on the bed with hands behind his head, gazed at the ceiling as he felt the gentle swaying of the waves transform into the motion of the ship departing. His thoughts raced about Serendipity – a place he couldn't believe he was returning to, especially with someone this time.

It's been a long time.
 
Extra precautions would be necessary to avoid his old employers, especially for Fang's sake. If anything happened to her because of him

As his mind whirred with these thoughts, he began to pick up on noises outside the room – whispers, chatter, and the soft padding of footsteps. Suppressing any concerning assumptions, he remained alert.

Outside Fang's door, the ship's dimly lit corridor served as a shadowed stage for the sinister gathering. The flickering light from a single, feeble lantern cast eerie shadows on the faces of the men, giving them an ominous appearance.

Their expressions told stories of dubious intent, each face etched with a mix of lust, greed, and a predatory hunger. Whispers, like ghostly tendrils, slithered through the air as they exchanged words that hinted at unsavory intentions.

And then, the turning of her doorknob.

Fang's sleep was restless and anxious, filled with strange dreams that woke her a few times in a panic before she remembered where she was. Eventually, though, she fell back asleep, still tired from the previous night.

She didn't hear the noises outside her door, nor the slow, soft sound of the doorknob turning. She didn't hear the footsteps quietly padding into her room.

It was the hand pressing over her mouth and the weight on her body that woke her with a jerk, her eyes flying open--and staring up into a face she didn't recognize. A face with lips twisted into a cruel smile.

Fang screamed, or tried to, but the sound was muffled by his hand, and when she tried to shove at him she found she couldn't; another man stood at the head of her bed and had her arms pinned above her head in a bruising grip, and still another stood at her bedside, twirling a knife between his fingers as he watched. Her heart lodged itself into her throat, her breath hitching in terror. They were going to kill her, oh goddess, they were going to--! She screamed again, Spike!, pulling at her arms and twisting desperately, but the man holding her only tightened his grip until her scream cut off with a sharp gasp of pain.

"Shut yer mouth before we snap yer arms!" the man atop her growled into her ear, and she suddenly felt his free hand fumbling down between them, grabbing at her nightgown and yanking it up. "Fuckin' whore." Fang froze, the blood draining from her face as he slid a knee between her thighs and pushed her legs apart, and then came the familiar metallic sound of a belt. Realization bloomed with it, and a different kind of horror seized her, completely alien to her but instinctual. No, no, no...

"Wait. Why're you goin' first? This was my fuckin' idea," the one standing to the side suddenly whispered. "You're supposed to just hold 'er."

"Fuck that, I ain't takin' sloppy seconds."

"Would you both just shut up? We don't got all night," the one holding her arms hissed, rolling his eyes.

But their bickering was the bought time she needed. Her bed was against the wall she and Spike shared, and though her arms were trapped, her legs were free, if limited in their movement. With a final desperate burst, she bucked hard to try to dislodge him, and kicked hard at the wall. She might not be able to call for him, but Inima, she hoped he would hear.

Spike was on the cusp of sleep, a light sleeper attuned to every subtle creak and murmur of the ship. In the midst of near-silence, his ears caught a faint undercurrent of muffled commotion emanating from the adjacent room. The muted voices and Fang's suppressed cry ignited a spark in his eyes, dispelling the drowsiness that clung to him. The following kick to the wall told him everything he needed to know. Reacting with instinctive swiftness, Spike seized his knife, a sleek and deadly extension of his being, before moving quickly out of his room. The door to Fang's room met the brunt of his fury, kicked open to reveal Fang surrounded by assailants.

The splintering sound of the kicked door echoed through the narrow corridor as Spike burst into Fang's room, a storm of wrath incarnate. His features, once softened by the prospect of Serendipity's reunion, now transformed into a chilling visage, reminiscent of a predator about to unleash its fury.

The three assailants, caught off guard, pivoted to face the intruder, only to be met with Spike's cold and calculated gaze. It was a look that spoke volumes—a hardened killer driven by the instinct to protect what was important to him.

"Who the fu-"

As the closest assailant attempted to utter a futile protest, Spike's hand shot out like a viper, seizing the man's face with an unyielding grip. The bones in his cheeks yielded under the crushing pressure, the muffled snap lost in the room's strained atmosphere. Spike released his grasp, and the man crumpled to the floor like a broken marionette, a testament to the lethal force that lay beneath Spike's seemingly calm exterior.

With an explosive burst of movement, the second assailant lunged towards Spike, driven by a volatile mix of rage and desperation. Yet, in a uncatchable display of speed and precision, Spike seamlessly extracted a concealed knife from his shirt sleeve. The glint of steel caught the dim light as Spike expertly wielded the blade, slashing it across the assailant's throat with ruthless efficiency.

Blood sprayed in crimson arcs, painting Spike's pale face with an eerie pattern, the gruesome aftermath of a swift and calculated strike. The assailant staggered backward, hands instinctively clutching his grievous wound as he gasped for breath, before collapsing onto his side.

The third man, realizing the dire situation, frantically fumbled with his dagger, attempting to assert control by pressing the blade against Fang's neck. "Don't you fuckin' move!" he growled, his trembling hand revealing the desperation underlying his threat.

In response, Spike's low voice cut through the tension like a blade. "You have my friend." With an almost imperceptible movement, Spike's arm executed a precise motion, and his knife sailed through the air with deadly accuracy. The blade found its mark, connecting directly with the man's skull, a lethal strike that brought him to an abrupt, lifeless collapse.

In the aftermath, the room echoed with a deafening silence, broken only by the soft cadence of Spike's controlled breaths. His eyes, once a calculated fire, now held a vacant emptiness.. like a monster.

And his spirits surrounded him to bear witness.

Fang's thrashing was short-lived when the man wrenched her arms until her shoulders felt like they would tear, the pain bursting like bright white flashes behind her clenched eyes—but it had been enough. It had been enough to make the man atop her fumble his belt and that had bought her time.

For not seconds later, the door came crashing open and there was Spike, barely looking like Spike at all.

Maybe that was because everything had begun to take on a surreal quality, like she was watching the scene as a spectator rather than experiencing it in her own body, like she was floating somewhere outside it. Even the pain began to register as distant, distinctly her pain but also like it somehow belonged to someone else. But perhaps that was because she felt like she couldn't breathe despite breathing, the air moving through her lungs in short, panicked bursts, her heart racing, her body going strangely numb. Spike was there, she realized in a daze. He'd come.

And her assailants were dropping.

Cries of pain. Sickly crunches. The smell of blood. The room was buzzing with a strange energy and Fang could do nothing but watch, dizzy, as Spike downed two men without breaking his stride. The man atop her tried a different tactic; Fang's breath caught when she felt cold, sharp metal against her neck, an all too familiar sensation—but just as quickly she felt the man's body spasm, then felt him deflate.

He folded forward onto Fang like a sack of meat, trapping her in place, his head falling next to hers face first into her pillow and soaking it with blood—and that was enough to break her out of her freeze. With a gasp, she shoved desperately at his body, clawing at him to try to get free, but he was a large man and his limbs were all tangled up with hers. 

In the aftermath, Spike stood motionless, the echoes of the spirits' reminders reverberating through his consciousness. The buzzing in his ears drowned out the immediate reality, his gaze fixed on the ground as he grappled with the internal storm. The spirits, the relentless echoes of his past, clawed at the edges of his sanity, urging him to acknowledge the darkness within.

A few moments later, he snapped back to awareness, a glint of recognition flickering in his eyes. The fallen assailant lay slumped over Fang, and he looked far too heavy for her to move. With a surge of instinct, Spike seized the back of the man's shirt, yanking him away from Fang with a swift, almost mechanical motion. The man crumpled to the ground, a harsh thud resonating through the room, and Spike's expression remained an enigma of suppressed emotions as he ensured Fang's safety.

Are you okay? is what he wanted to ask.

No, of course she was not okay.

...but she can't stay here.

Spike, still enveloped in the aftermath of the encounter, proceeded with a silent determination. With Fang's belongings slung over his shoulder, her sword in his left hand, he said a soft "come here" before he gently scooped her up into his arms, a protective but slightly awkward way to carry her by guiding her arms over his shoulder and her legs around his waist. Before closing the door, he discreetly glanced around, ensuring the coast was clear.

Once inside, he laid Fang on the bed with utmost delicacy, his eyes avoiding hers. Sitting on the ground beside her, his expression was a canvas of complex emotions — a mix of concern, turmoil, and a lingering emptiness. Silence hung heavily in the room, a profound stillness broken only by the echoes of their shared ordeal. The unspoken weight of the moment lingered, leaving Spike grappling with the aftermath of violence.

He faced away from her, eyes on the door. There were no words, and he couldn't bare to look at her.

He was a monster, and she saw it all.

The man rolled off of her then—no, was pulled off—and Fang sucked in deep, heaving breaths as her chest was no longer being squeezed. Then her eyes landed on Spike, and for one brief flash they widened in fear at the sight of his bloody face before clearing in recognition.

For that small second, she had thought he might be another one of them.

But it was just Spike. Just Spike. He'd come. He swam in her vision, her eyes going blurry and stinging, but she would recognize him anywhere and right then he stood there fierce and protective as any Khan. She wanted to sit up, wanted to thank him, but when she opened her mouth no sound came out as her throat tightened, and her body was trembling too hard for her to move, limbs heavy and wobbly.

Luckily, she didn't have to move.

He scooped her up and she clung hard to him, hands curled tightly in his shirt and face pressed against his shoulder, too shocked and relieved to be embarrassed that she was being carried like a child to bed. She soon found herself in his bed, letting go of him reluctantly, and curled into a defensive ball with her nightgown wrapped tight around her legs and arms curled against her chest. Her heart was still racing and so was her mind, trying and failing to process what had happened and almost happened, and goddess, those men were gone but she was still on this ship—and Spike had killed crew. What happened when the bodies were found? Would it matter to them if it was self-defense? What if more of them tried to—?

She shuddered, her stomach flipping, and shot a hand down to touch Spike's shoulder, needing the contact. The reminder he was there, that she wasn't alone.

"Stay with me," she managed to rasp out, and swallowed hard against the dryness in her mouth. 

Spike's eyes remained fixated on the door with a hallow gaze, haunted by the ghosts of his past. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him, the burden of the life he led and the consequences it brought. This would have never happened to Fang if it weren't for him. Fang's touch on his shoulder, unexpected and gentle, momentarily pierced through the shadows that clouded his thoughts. Her simple yet poignant request resonated with him.

A shuddering breath escaped him as he nodded in silent acknowledgment. "I'm not going anywhere," he assured her, his voice carrying soft reassurance. Slowly, he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, still reluctant to meet her eyes. His internal struggle painted an unspoken narrative of remorse and the desire to shield her from the darkness that lurked within him.

I'm so sorry, Fang.

People feared spirits. The faceless spirits of the Unknown, the hungry spirits that moved about the jungles at night...they were the subject of many cautionary tales. But the thing about them was they were generally predictable and easy to read. People weren't.

But even so, she had never feared people until now. She'd never had a reason to. Crime was low and harshly punished in Thanatos and her caste was respected, revered even.

She hadn't even made it a whole night on a Serenian ship before they--

Spike spoke, and then Fang felt the bed creak and bow where he sat. Her eyes fluttered open, eyelashes spiked together by unshed tears, and she sucked in a shuddering breath and looked away. What was she supposed to do now? Goddess, she should have known better, she shouldn't have come, but she'd had no idea--and there was no going back now, was there? The men were dead, she was trapped on a floating prison in the ocean, and she suddenly understood what all those stares had meant. Her mother had always called her foolish, always making questionable choices and trusting too easily and perhaps tampering with forces she might not be ready to handle. Maybe she was right. She was no Zhaobin.

She rubbed her face against the bed, shivering still. What if...what if they came for Spike after what had happened? He was justified, he'd only defended her, but what if they didn't believe him--or her? Thanati whore, that one had called her. Was that all she was to them? What if they killed him and then...and then...

Before she realized she was doing it, she scooted closer and wrapped an arm tightly around his waist, hand fisted in his shirt.

Spike, sitting on the edge of the bed, acted as a silent guardian, a mixture of protection and comfort. As he absorbed the residual echoes of the recent chaos, he felt Fang inching closer to him. Initially, he paid it no mind, but soon, her arms enveloped him from behind, her fingers clasping his waist tightly.

Caught off guard by the unexpected gesture, Spike hesitated momentarily. Uncertain of how to navigate such vulnerable moments, he allowed his guard to lower, acting solely on instinct. Shifting around to face her, he reciprocated, enfolding her within his arms. Gently, he cradled her face into the shelter of his chest, his fingers moving almost instinctively to massage her scalp and hair, offering a comforting touch.

His words felt inadequate, but Spike tried anyway, breaking the silence with a repeated whisper, "I'm not going anywhere."

As he held her, he repeated the words once more. He didn't know what else to say; didn't know what else to do. All he could do in that moment was hold her.

Pulled into his embrace, Fang didn't resist. She curled into him and buried her face against chest and clung tight, focusing on her breathing and trying hard to slow the rapid hammering in her chest. Keep it together, keep it together, she told herself. She had done a good job of it so far, all things considered, she thought. Deep breaths, in and out, focusing on the way Spike smelled--clean, but with a tangy hint of copper that brought it all flooding back even as she tried to push it out.

And then came his hand in her hair and voice in her ears, a soothing juxtaposition to the memory of violence--but it wasn't his violence that had her palms sweaty and pulse racing despite the cold that had settled around her. And it wasn't fear of him that had her trembling, even as the touch on her scalp drew pleasant goosebumps across her skin.

She clenched her eyes shut, fighting against the breaking dam, but the simple gesture, the comfort and gentleness after the violence, broke her. Her breath hiccuped and her shoulders jerked as she cried, soaking his shirt, not daring to look at him as she kept her face firmly hidden. It wasn't a pretty cry and she knew it, and felt bad about ruining his shirt with tears and snot, but she couldn't stop it until it had run its course.

"They...they tried to..." She couldn't get out the words, didn't even know the words for it in Common. Sucking in deep, congested breaths, she held him tighter. "Is all Serendipity like that? Do they all just...hate us?" And then, fresh realization blooming, she pulled back enough to look up at Spike, face flushed and eyes watery. "What...what are we gonna do? My room, it's..."

Filled with bodies and blood.

As Fang's sobs reverberated against his chest, Spike tightened his embrace, swaying gently with the rhythmic motion of the ship. The raw emotion emanating from her stirred a mix of anger and a protective instinct within him. It was a surge of emotions he had witnessed in others but never experienced so intimately. The desire to dismantle the ship for what those men attempted fueled a fiery anger within him. He absorbed her tears through the fabric of his shirt, silently vowing to shield her from any further harm.

"Here. Your room is right here," he interjected firmly.

Locking eyes with Fang, Spike tenderly placed his hands on her cheeks, feeling the warmth of her skin against his palms—a lingering sensation from the tears and earlier distress.

"There are bad people in this world," he assured, his gaze unwaveringly. "But not all, and not all where we're going. Even if they were, they'll have to go through me first."

The thought of the room next door lingered in Spike's mind, the weight of the impending discovery of the bodies on this long trip pressing on him. With a quick glance at the wall, he quietly added, "I'll take care of it."

Fang thought it best not to ask how Spike planned to take care of it. Instead, she chose to just trust that he could. She didn't argue, either, with his assertion that her room was now here. After what had just happened, the thought of being alone made her stomach twist, and even with company she didn't know how she was ever going to sleep again.

She closed her eyes, letting her breath out slowly, one hand coming up to cover one of Spike's as it rested on her cheek. "I know," she said quietly. "I know there's, ah, good and bad. It's just...back home...well, the worst I ever had to fear was pickpockets."

She gave a soft, bitter laugh, and sat back so she could scrub at her face with her nightgown's sleeve, but more tears welled up even though the worst of it had calmed. "Did I do something wrong? They called me a...a whore. I must have given them the idea somehow, I..." More deep breaths as she brushed more tears away. "Do I just hide in this room the whole trip?"

Spike's voice came soft but stern. "No, Fang. You did nothing wrong. Don't even think that," he started, wiping away one of her tears with a delicate touch. "You're not-"

He paused, a surge of anger bubbling within him. His gaze drifted away from her, flames flickering in his eyes, and his lips contorted with frustration.

"I'm sorry, Fang. It's my fault," he said suddenly, looking back up. "But we will not hide."

"What? No!" Fang said suddenly, snapping a look up at him. "It's not your fault. What other people choose to do--how were you supposed to know?"

Drained, both emotionally and physically and with a headache blooming behind her eyes from her cry, she slumped against him again, but this time it was to curl up with her head in his lap. He felt...good. Safe, even after the carnage she had seen him inflict.

"I know you wouldn't put me in danger on purpose," she said quietly, closing her eyes. "And...you stopped them. You shouldn't be apologizing, I should be thanking you. I owe you my life."

Spike couldn't shake the weight of responsibility that clung to him like a haunting shadow, despite Fang's words. His mind traced the steps that led to this moment, each one a link in a chain of events he couldn't escape. His old life led the spirits to him, the spirits led Fang to him, his initial lie convinced Fang to help him, the trio to Serendipity was his idea, and he booked this ship. Everything. Everything seemed to be a reaction to what he had done.

Speaking of the spirits, where the hells were they now? They were usually a constant presence, but now they seemed distant - in and out as occasional spectators. Was the torture he felt seeing Fang's pain enough for them to be at ease? He didn't understand!

He let out a breath. His mind was racing too much, but Fang nestling into his lap brought him back. There were words he wanted to say, to offer solace or assurance, but they remained trapped in the silence.

"You don't owe me anything!" or "everything will be okay", or even "No, I owe you mine."

Or, "You mean a lot to me, Fang."

Instead, he opted for a simple, comforting gesture – stroking her hair gently. Finally, he spoke with a soft sincerity, "I know it'll be hard, but try to get some rest. I'll stay up for us."

Fang nodded at his words, leaning a little into his caress as she stayed where she was and was in no hurry to leave. Right then, Spike was her one safe space in a literal ocean, his touch against her hair soothing her nerves at least a little. It was okay. She was okay. And whatever happened in the coming hours...they would be okay, somehow. She just had to trust he knew what he was doing--and that Inima did, too.

"Okay," she said. "I'll try. Just don't leave me, alright?"

Goddess, she hated how she sounded even as the words left her mouth. She had always thought herself brave even when she was afraid--but right then she was just afraid. It was a foreign, vulnerable feeling, for she had never in her life been in real danger. Talking down a thief with a knife who had no intention of harming anyone was one thing, and being at the end of Spike's blade had been unnerving but not terrifying; even then she had known he hadn't meant it. Fang had encountered demons before that had chilled her blood--and she couldn't even remember their faces.

Their faces swam behind her closed eyes, though.

The night went on. She tried and failed to sleep, drifting off restlessly before jerking awake again with a start, like waking from a falling dream, but once she calmed she tried again. And again.

Until, finally, sheer exhaustion won out and she slept.

As the gentle cadence of Fang's breath signaled her eventual sleep, Spike meticulously arranged her on a soft pillow, draping a comforting sheet over her form.

Upon rising, a familiar specter coalesced near the door. It was Lawrence, the eerie entity within the ensemble of spirits. At first, his gaze bore into the scene with eyes devoid of emotion, but gradually, a malevolent grin crept across his spectral countenance. He spoke in whispers, taunting Spike with questions that echoed in the silent room.

"Oh, you like her," Lawrence sneered, his voice echoing eerily. "Can you truly keep her safe?"

Spike, though quiet, responded to the spectral provocations with a steadfast determination. "I'll keep her safe."

"You couldn't even keep her safe tonight!"

That struck a chord. Spike took a step forward, ready to confront him. Yet, as he swung, Lawrence dissipated into an ephemeral wisp of darkness, leaving behind nothing but the swirling thoughts in Spike's mind.

Spike turned his attention back to Fang, an unconscious need to ensure her well-being. He settled beside her on the bed, his original intention to remain vigilant throughout the night.

As the night unfolded, however, fatigue overcame him. Unbeknownst to him, his defenses gradually waned, and he found himself succumbing to the gentle lull of sleep. In the hushed stillness, he unconsciously draped an arm over Fang, a gesture of both protection and an unforeseen vulnerability.

When Fang woke, she found herself enveloped in warmth.

It was...nice, this feeling of being embraced by strong arms; safe, familiar, loving. It felt like home when she had been little and snuck into bed with her favorite father after a bad nightmare, where he cuddled her and assured her that there were no actual monsters under her bed--never realizing that, actually, there were and she could see them. But in those moments she could believe him because they never seemed to be around him, and by the time he put her back into her own bed and made a show of checking all the corners, they were gone as if by magic.

Sighing, Fang nuzzled in closer, breathing in deep and contentedly. But...something was off. Instead of smelling citrus and vetiver, there was a new scent that she couldn't quite place that was equally familiar. Her brow furrowed sleepily as she was drawn more and more out of sleep, suddenly aware of the swaying beneath her, the creak of wood, and...

...Huh...?

She cracked her eyes open slowly. Her face was nestled up against a shirt...a chest...and her arm was thrown over said body, who also had an arm over her. Her breath caught, her heart lunging into her throat with dawning realization and remembered fear and slowly, slowly, she looked up and saw a man's face.

Pure primal terror kicked in before her half-awake brain could assign a person to the image and she let out a strangled yelp and jerked back, smacking the back of her head against the wall. But she didn't care and it didn't stop her from kicking and shoving him wildly--right off the edge of the bed.

Contrary to his usual light sleeping habits, Spike had unexpectedly fallen into a deep, restful slumber that night. Unbeknownst to him, his subconscious sought solace in the warmth of Fang's embrace, a comforting presence that shielded him from the usual worries of spirits and the unsettling events of the previous day. The world outside of this cocoon of comfort seemed to fade away as sleep wrapped its gentle tendrils around him.

However, the tranquility of his dreams was abruptly shattered by a chaotic jolt. Dazed and disoriented, Spike found himself entangled in a bizarre struggle against unseen forces.

He was under attack!

A sudden kick to the stomach disrupted the peaceful reverie, followed by another blow to his jaw that sent him tumbling off the bed.

Crashing onto the floor with an audible thud, Spike felt the disorienting effects of the unexpected assault. The room spun in a whirlwind of confusion as he attempted to make sense of what just happened.

He peered up to see..

"Fang! It's me!"

Fang's breath came out in shaky bursts as she scrambled to her knees on the bed, eyes wide with panic as she darted a look around for Spike or an escape route, whichever she found first. 

...She found Spike first, his voice coming to her from the floor.

Realization slowly sank in and and a new kind of horror grew as she peered down over the edge of the bed at his crumpled form, his jaw red where she'd struck him. For a moment she just stared, half awake and freaked and not quite completely understanding—and then she gasped with hands clapped over her mouth, her body going rigid.

"OhmygoddessI'msosorry!"

Sliding off the bed and onto the floor next to him, her face flushed in mortification, she tried her best to help to sit up, wincing. "I'm sorry, I'm  sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to! I don't know what happened, did I...did I do that?!"

Fang's torrent of apologies echoed in Spike's ears, each attempt to interject drowned out by her frantic stream of words. He gestured, raised his eyebrows, even opened his mouth to speak, but Fang's verbal barrage showed no mercy. It was like trying to catch a breath in a wordy hurricane.

He had to get this under control.

He decided on a different approach. With a gentle touch, he placed a finger to Fang's lips, hushing her with a soft, "Shush."

Fang shushed, mouth slamming shut with a soft click of teeth. She grimaced, looking away guiltily. 

"Sorry," she whispered.

Her apology.. that.. she.. was cute.

Spike's smile was warm and lit his face as he took his hand away and scratched the back of his head, lightening the mood. "You have a pretty mean kick. You might have what it takes to be an assassin, and I could be the priestess," he quipped. "It's fine, really. Don't beat yourself, or me, up over it."

Spike's comment was a much-needed touch of levity. Fang laughed, more of a breathy exhalation, and some of the tension left her with it. Her heart was still racing, but she was calming if slowly.

"Ahh, jeez..." she murmured, rubbing the back of her head where she'd bumped it. "I could never. But you, you could be a Soul Speaker if you nurtured your ability, maybe." Another deep breath and she let herself slouch. "Whew. I didn't know I could kick so hard myself, you're kinda the first person I've done that to. Congrats?"

She offered up a sheepish smile, then tilted her head to peer at his face. "Um, your jaw...you okay?"

Spike theatrically rubbed his jaw, making a show out of the injury he had sustained, though in reality, it didn't faze him in the slightest. With an exaggerated wince, he played up the moment, he said, "I think I might cry."

His performance was short-lived, swiftly replaced by a subtle yet coy smile, followed by a warm chuckle.

The moment was was, but also short-lived. Their time was abruptly shattered by a loud and forceful knock on the door, jolting them.

"Open up or I'll break the door in!"

That got a genuine laugh out of Fang; she couldn't imagine him crying at all, much less over something so relatively small after what they had endured so far. He was so stoic! 

Or...was.

Because even in the short time she'd known him, already he had opened up, showing more warmth and playfulness than she would have ever expected from him two days ago—and compassion. Maybe that was a strange thing to think after seeing him effortlessly kill three men, but he had only done it to save her...and she couldn't find it in her to feel upset about that.

Inima forgive her.

Shaking her head, she gave his arm a playful swat. "Oh, stop," she said.

And then nearly jumped out of her skin at the banging on the door, grabbing onto Spike's arm hard.

They knew. Of course they did. Three crew suddenly went missing, of course they would go looking. And, Fang thought with a chill, maybe they knew where to start looking in the first place if they knew of their plans.

Three men was one thing, but there was no way Spike could protect them all from an entire crew. But he'd said he would handle it, hadn't he? He had to have a plan. "Spike...?"

Spike didn't have a plan. He had fallen asleep when he should have been making a plan. Shit. Too late now.

"Don't worry," he whispered in response to Fang, knowing that his words likely held little weight.

Spike approached the cabin door with caution, unsure of what, or who, awaited him on the other side. As he slowly opened it, two men came into view, their expressions twisted with fury. The first man, unmistakably a Serenian rogue, fixed Spike with a cold and hostile stare. His eyes bore into Spike's with a venomous intensity that kept his guard up.

However, it was the second man who caught Spike off guard. A mix of Serenian and Thanati, his appearance was an intriguing blend of two worlds. Dark-skinned with striking white hair, he carried other subtle features that hinted at a dual heritage. The shock and confusion in his eyes were palpable, his gaze fixed on Spike and the Thanati woman sitting behind him. The unexpected presence of the Serenian man and Thanati woman seemed to puzzle him, momentarily breaking his composure.

The crew member's eyes darted between Spike and Fang, registering the unusual pairing. A sense of dread hung in the air, intensified by the cracked door leading to Fang's original room.

"What's that whore doing in here?" the Serenian man asked gruffly, gripping his blade. "What's-"

Without missing a beat, Spike's arm launched up, and his hand closed around the rogue's throat with a vice-like grip. The Serenian found himself lifted off the ground effortlessly, the force of Spike's actions showcasing both strength and a controlled, deadly precision. "If you call my wife that again," Spike hissed, using the term 'wife' to play off of the other man's evident mixed heritage. "I'll break your face."

That gamble seemed to work. For now.

The second man raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, silently pleading for Spike to release his crewmate. However, Spike's grip held firm, an unyielding testament to his resolve. In a composed and measured tone, the mixed man spoke, attempting to diffuse the tension. "We just want to talk," he said, his voice carrying a quiet authority. "What happened?" He subtly nodded towards the partially opened door, directing Spike's attention to the other room, his eyes scrutinizing Spike's expression for unspoken answers.

Icy dread gripped Fang as Spike answered the door, but it was followed by an unexpected surge of hope at the sight of the Thanati man. She had not expected to see a potential ally behind that door, and though he was dressed like a Serenian and seemed to be mixed heritage, surely his Thanati parent would have taught him their ways.

Her eyes found his, and he seemed just as surprised to see her. Thankfully her sword was hidden, otherwise this could have gotten quite awkward to explain.

The Serenian, on the other hand...

Fang didn't have time to feel the sting of his words before Spike was up and at his throat, literally. And then—

Wait, she was his WHAT now?!

Fang's eyebrows shot to her hairline, her face heating. What! Wife?! Why would he—?! But then her eyes darted to the Thanati man and it clicked; if he was mixed, he might have more sympathy toward a similar dynamic...and it would explain them sharing a room. Not that any of that mattered if they got tossed into the ocean for what lay in the other room—but at least he wanted to hear them out, and she noticed he also wasn't in any real hurry to rescue his partner.

Fang rubbed her palms over her nightdress stretched over her knees, wiping away some of the clamminess. She didn't really want to recall everything that had happened, but she took a deep breath and met the Thanati's eyes.

"The three men in that room," she said, pointing in its direction, "they came into my room while I was sleeping. They held me down. And they tried to, ah...to violate me..." She saw the man's expression stiffen, the muscles in his jaw tightening. She swallowed and looked away, wringing the hem of her nightgown in her hands. "My...husband...heard, and he came in and...he stopped them. They all had knives. I'm afraid they would have killed us both if he wasn't the better fighter."

"I see..." the Thanati said, and she wondered if the same thought was going through his mind as hers, wondered if he had been taught enough to know. Death was the easy way out for such a heinous crime; had they been in Thanatos they would have been banished, but not before all evidence of their existence was erased along with their very faces—quite literally.

But then he frowned, expression sharpening. "Why were you in a different room?"

Good question, them being married and all.

Fang looked at Spike, expression apologetic, and smiled sheepishly at the Thanati. "He snores. SO loud," she said, scratching the back of her neck. "And when he eats tofu...ah, he is not quite adjusted to our foods. Sometimes I need my own space."

The man snorted, clearly trying to keep a neutral face, but seemed to accept the explanation. "And why didn't you tell anyone what had happened when it did?"

...oof. Fang had nothing for that one.

Spike, still gripping the rogue by the throat, cast a discerning gaze at the other man. Feeling the tension in the air, he eventually released his hold on the rogue, who landed with a thud, gasping for air as he clutched his neck.

As the Thanati man spoke, his voice held a mix of curiosity and suspicion. "I've never seen something like that before. It looked like a massive struggle, but you barely have a scratch. I'll ask again, why not say anything?"

Spike, maintaining a calm demeanor, met the man's gaze. "Would you have said something in our shoes?" he replied evenly, but made an effort to let his voice rise in anger for the performance. "Surely you know how it is for people like my wife and me. Plus, this was a traumatizing event for her. I couldn't well parade her through the ship. She needed me, and after what happened, how can I even trust anyone on this ship?!"

The man of Thanati origin, after hearing Spike's explanation, let out a sigh that carried a sense of defeat and understanding, though not fully convinced. "Okay. Okay, I hear you," he conceded, "but I can't let this go unreported. Stay here, don't leave this room." He then motioned for the other man to follow and briskly walked away. The other man hesitated for a moment, shooting a hateful glare at Spike. "You better sleep with your eyes open," he spat out before Spike swiftly and intimidatingly responded, "And you're going to sleep with your chest open if you're not careful, boy."

The rogue's venomous eyes momentarily betrayed a flicker of fear before he abruptly turned on his heel and followed the mixed man's lead.

As the door closed, Spike allowed the rhythm of his chest to steady. Turning to face Fang, he attempted to offer her a comforting smile, recognizing that the situation had surpassed mere reassurance. If the ship tried to take action against them, he...

He cleared his throat, took a seat beside her, and broke the tension with a light-hearted question. "Snoring, eh?"

Even after the men were gone, Fang remained tense and anxious, her eyes down as she focused on calming her heart. They had spoken their truth, and now all they could hope for was that the Thanati man put in a good word—and that the rest of the crew accepted it. Between the two of them, he seemed to have the most authority, but that didn't necessarily mean anything.

They weren't out of danger just yet.

Spike broke the tension first in typical Spike fashion, and Fang let out a snort.

"Wife, eh?" she returned with a raised eyebrow and a tired smile. "Hmm. Did you know in Thanatos, the wife is the head of the household?"

He responded to her tired smile with one of his own, exhaling softly. "I don't know much about all that, the whole wife-husband thing and how it works," he admitted, following up with a nonchalant shrug. "But I did pick up on the authority women seem to wield in my brief time in Thanatos, so it makes sense."

As he spoke, he unconsciously reached for her hand, fingers intertwining with hers. "Look," he began, redirecting the conversation, "I noticed lifeboats attached to the ship. We might..."

He halted, realizing she probably grasped the implications. Though the Thanati man's demeanor had softened momentarily regarding Fang and their fabricated relationship, he couldn't predict how far that leniency would extend. Even if he managed to persuade the crew or the captains, the other man left him uneasy. "Just stay close to me, okay? Just in case."

Oh, no...Fang did not like where this was going. Not at all.

Too anxious to care about the contact—and, in fact, needing it to ground herself more than anything—Fang squeezed his hand tightly and nodded. "I have zero plans of leaving your side and I think I'd have to be insane to entertain it. Not to mention we're not allowed to leave in the first place. But, um, let's back to this lifeboat thing...have you ever sailed?"

It had been calm so far, it seemed, the rocking of the ship noticeable but not too terrible. But that would feel an awful lot different in a tiny boat. Not to mention the bigger problems.

"Because I haven't! I don't know the slightest bit about seafaring. And isn't is still a long way to Serendipity? Oh goddess, I can't even swim very well! I mean, I can, but not in big waves! And what if there's sharks? Ahh, not that we don't have bigger problems, I'm sorry, this is just all a lot."

Shush.

Actually, perhaps not this time. Perhaps just listen, Spike.

He patiently waited for her to finish, his hand taking on a light shade of blue as she squeezed it. Delicately attempting to slip out of the connection, he spoke, "I don't think it will come to that. And I... know enough, if it did."

While it was true that Spike had undergone extensive survival training for various situations, he wasn't exactly an expert sailor. He could swim his way out of a dire circumstance, but having someone accompany him presented an entirely different challenge. That didn't mean he wouldn't try, especially for her sake.

Restless, he stood. "I'm sorry; this probably doesn't make you feel better," he acknowledged before leaning down to kiss the top of her head. Turning to face the door, he braced—

...

Wait.

Wait.

Why did he just do that?

Why did he just kiss her?!

...should he ignore it? Act like it didn't happen?

"I'll make sure that you'll be okay," he then said, utterly and completely acting like that didn't just happen. "Trust me."

It was, indeed, very difficult not to get worked up. And maybe she would have flat out panicked if she didn't feel so emotionally drained. As Spike withdrew his hand, she pressed her own hands, which had gone cold with nerves, to the sides of her face and massaged her temples as he spoke. He sounded so confident. He knew enough. Things would work out. But she couldn't help the spiraling thought that she was such a fool for agreeing to this. She hadn't made it a day before she was attacked! Oh Inima, she was an idiot. Her mother had put her into the priesthood and barred her from being Zhaobin for a reason. Maybe she should have listened more.

Maybe she wasn't cut out for this.

Her blood was cold, the anxiety building—and then her thoughts cut off when she felt Spike's lips against her hair. She jumped a little, looking up just in time to see him straighten up and walk away.

Wait.

Wait.

Had he just...had he just kissed her?!

Why did he kiss her!

...should she ignore it? Act like it didn't happen? Because he was, facing the door and talking like nothing was out of the ordinary. Maybe it was a Serenian thing? Uhhh...

"I trust you," she managed to croak, ducking her head to try to hide her blush. She was, perhaps, a bit less convincing than Spike at the pretend-it-didn't-happen game. "I've trusted you this whole time, right? I trusted you wouldn't hurt me with your knife, and I think I've been trusting you with my life ever since."

Suddenly needing something to do with her hands, she undid her hair from the crown she'd put it in the first night, letting it down and finger-combing it. Don't say anything, don't say anything, don't say anything...

"So is that a Serenian thing, too?" she blurted. "I've heard Connlaothians kiss in greeting. Or maybe it was Essyrni. Well, someone does it! Do Serenians do things like that as well?"

Spike, facing away from Fang with his eyes fixed on the door, felt his face flush with a bright blush. A sense of dread crept over him, not expecting her to call him out on the impulsive kiss. Internally, he kicked himself for acting without thinking, the realization settling heavily in his mind.

Should be ignore her question?

Act like he didn't hear her?

No, they were beyond that, and she sort of gave him an out with his explanation.

"Y-Yes" he stammered quietly, uncertain whether it was indeed a customary practice. "It's custom when you like someone," no Spike, "I mean care about," Spike no, "to show support for someone."

That should do.

Why did he suddenly long for the crew's return? This felt... awkward. Seeking to break the tension, a habit he found himself doing frequently lately, he cleared his throat and asked, "Do you like kissing people, Fang?"

Oh for gods' sake, Spike.

Did she...like...?

It must be a phrasing thing.

Her hands moved faster through her hair, catching snags that made her wince, but she barely noticed.

"Uhhh, well, we ah, we don't exactly have that as a particularly common custom? I mean my parents kissed my head as a kid I guess, but like do I like...kissing?" Oh goddess. She was so tired and anxious she was starting to come back around the other side from terrified to just plain loopy. Another time and she might have been flustered, and he almost got her there as he stumbled over the whole "liking" and "caring" thing! But instead she just found it...kind of hilarious? Maybe even a little weirdly charming? He said such off the cuff things sometimes, but she was starting to realize it was just how he was and that it was harmless—and maybe they had more in common than she first realized, because goddess help help her, she was a social failure in her own culture, too.

Also, maybe she was just losing it. 

She laughed, rubbing her face with her hands, shoulders shaking with mirth. "Oh goddess, I wouldn't know one way or the other! A boy kissed me when I was like six and he was trying to gross me out, and it worked! And that's about it," she said, shaking her head in amusement. "Aside from that, I'm a priestess. We're not exactly allowed something so distracting as relationships. Well, it's more complicated than that, some have children but it's not like they raise them—but where do you even find the time for any of that?"

As Spike grappled with his internal conflict, the revelation that priestesses weren't allowed to have relationships struck him like a bolt of unexpected lightning. The realization was a sharp pang of surprise, prompting him to reevaluate the complex emotions swirling within him. It wasn't that he was oblivious to the reasons behind his feelings for Fang, but the speed at which they had evolved and the intensity they carried took him aback.

After a moment of introspection, Spike swallowed, a nervous flutter in his stomach accompanying the revelation. His thoughts echoed in the quiet of the room, a self-awareness that questioned why he hesitated to openly acknowledge what he felt. The anticipation of being vulnerable, of admitting the depth of his emotions to Fang, lingered in the air.

Summoning the courage to face her once more, Spike's face retained a faint trace of the blush that betrayed his internal turmoil. "Fang, listen, I..." he began, ready to bare his feelings, but the potential vulnerability was abruptly shattered by an untimely knock at the door.

The crew had returned.

The knock on the door shattered the moment, jerking Fang back to horrifying reality. For a moment she'd been distracted enough to breathe again and think of something other than the downward spiral of increasingly terrible "what ifs",  but the reprieve looked to be unfortunately short.

Stomach sinking, she rose to her feet and stepped back away from the door, and suddenly she was very aware that she was still in her nightgown. She tugged it all into place as far down as it would go desperately wished she'd thought to change, even if it meant changing in front of Spike. She wasn't shy about showing skin in the name of fashion, but the thought of it here on this ship around men who viewed her as meat...

No, it would be okay. Spike said he would handle it. And if not, they would find a way, right? Except what if they didn't. What if they died and ended up stuck on this ship like the other lost souls she'd seen? What if they threw them in the ocean—would their souls sink to the bottom, forever trapped in a watery eternity? 

...What if they didn't kill them at all, but took them as slaves as she heard the Le'raanans did.

She looked to Spike, arms folded over her chest defensively, and sucked in a shaky breath. "I trust you," she mouthed at him.

Please, please, please let them believe them.

Spike nodded at her words, a silent reassurance. He approached the door with a subtle sense of caution, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his blade. As he cracked the door open, a narrow slice of his face became visible in the doorframe. This time, he chose to remain within the confines of the cabin, allowing Fang to stay concealed behind him.

On the other side of the door stood the man with the mixed Serenian and Thanati heritage. The absence of his companion from earlier was something Spike noted. His eyes held a strange mix of sternness and relief as he locked gazes with Spike.

"We deemed it self-defense," he stated, a small exhale accompanying his words. A momentary relief washed over Spike, but before he could respond, the man pressed on. "The captain is already uneasy due to the crew. He's been striving to improve the ship's reputation. However," he paused, determination in his eyes as he opened the door a bit wider, "not everyone agrees. Echen, the man with me earlier, opposed the decision. Your safety here is not guaranteed. I proposed placing you in the brig until we reach land, and I'll hold onto the key until then."

Spike's eased tension returned as suspicion crept in. Was this a genuine concern for their safety or a cleverly set trap? He glanced briefly at Fang, hoping to discern her thoughts.

The man, however, noticed Fang's sword, and his stern tone interrupted their contemplation. "Hold," he commanded, swiftly entering the room and closing the door behind him. His gaze fixed on Fang, and a question lingered unspoken in the air. "Are you...?"

Self-defense. They believed them.

Fang practically melted with relief, letting out held breath and sitting heavily on the bed with her hands on her knees. Thank Inima, they believed them. Of course, there was the catch—nothing could be so simple, it seemed—and she cut a look at Spike.

That was alarming, to say the least, the idea of being locked somewhere in a cage and one man had the key. But on the other hand, they were already stuck on this ship in the middle of the ocean, so was there much of a difference? If it was a trick, it seemed like an unnecessary amount of extra work when they were already at the crew's mercy.

And these rooms definitely weren't secure. If there was a safer option, however much she hated it, it was probably wise to take it.

But before she could voice her thoughts, the crewman swept into the room, and she realized too late he had spotted her sword propped up near the bed. She stiffened, taking a step to block it even though it was far too late to hide it, and winced at his question. Oh goddess, think, think!

Her first instinct was to come clean with the truth, as always—but she thought better of it. This was no low stakes gamble, this was literally life or death and the lie may have been what saved them in the first place; after all, he of all people should understand their struggles, and if they came clean now he might resent them. 

So instead, she went a different route. The truth...but tweaked.

Lowering her eyes, Fang looked away in shame. She didn't have to pretend, there. "I...I am," she said quietly. "A priestess, yes. And he is my husband."

Looking up at him, she met his eyes imploringly. "They forbade it, of course. He's a foreigner, I'm a priestess, but...I just couldn't. I love him. So I gave up everything. We fled. And, well, you know the rest."

Oh, it felt so wrong, lying through her teeth like that—and such a horrible lie at that, denouncing her faith and caste and holy service! But hopefully Inima would forgive her and understand; she couldn't well serve her goddess if she was dead.

Love?

Spike found himself taken aback by Fang's sudden act, a mixture of surprise and a deep blush coloring his features. Getting caught off guard and blushing seemed to be new additions to his repertoire of emotions.

Playing along, he managed a weak smile and approached her, enveloping her in a tender embrace, positioning himself with his back turned to the observing Thanati man. In a moment of spontaneity, he pressed a quick kiss on her lips, the heat in his face escalating as he gently parted from the kiss and tenderly stroked her face, channeling the demeanor of a comforting husband.

Maintaining an arm around her, Spike turned back to address the crew man, his tone soft and vulnerable. "It hasn't been easy for us," he confessed. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

The man seemed to contemplate deeply before finally sharing a personal revelation. "My mother was Thanati," he admitted, a visible release of tension transforming his stern expression into one of concern or perhaps sympathy. "My father was Serenian. No one on my father's side of the family approved of the relationship, and I was quickly deemed an impure bastard child of a Thanati whore. They killed both of them, and they would have killed me too, if not for the captain giving me a second chance at life."

A brief silence ensued, during which the man's gaze appeared contemplative. "I'm Taion," he eventually disclosed, his tone assuring. "Rest assured, I'll keep you two safe." He paused briefly to look at Spike, wondering if they even needed the protection after what he saw in the other room. "Do me a favor: make your way to the brig. It's a more secure location, and the Lady Priestess can keep hold of the key, just as an added precaution in case anything happens to me. Deal?"

Ohhh, she'd begin her next life as a worm, she just knew it! Telling a lie like that was bound to have consequences.

In the meantime, it did have more immediate and unforeseen consequences.

Before Fang knew what was happening, Spike wrapped her up in his arms, and she had time only for a brief jolt of surprise before he was kissing her.

Actually kissing her. Properly kissing her, not just a peck on the head and definitely not the slobbery gross-out of childhood. It was quick and relatively chaste, but it still made her breath catch, her face heat, and her heart pound as she stared wide-eyed at him in utter disbelief. And then it was over as he pulled away, his arm still around her, the feeling of his lips still lingering, and she let out a gasp and started to pull away with a "What are you—?!" but froze. Right. They were "married"!

Stopping herself short, she corrected herself fast. "N-not in front of people!" she whisper-yelled, playfully smacking his arm. And then she stood there, trying her hardest to play it cool while everything inside her wanted to freak out—over probably nothing, since it was just an act!

It was difficult to focus on much else, having been thrust from one crisis to the next and then—her first real kiss. Oh goddess. But she still heard Taion, and his story didn't inspire much confidence in this Serendipity trip, what with all the murder. At least they had a lower chance of being murdered here because of him, though. 

"I'm sorry about your family, Taion. Truly," Fang said, and meant it. "And I'm truly sorry that you had to relive that grief for us. I appreciate everything you've done for us, you've gone above and beyond. It's a deal." She bowed low to him—lower than someone of her caste should, her hair falling over her shoulder and brushing the floor. He had saved them, though; it felt right. "If there's any way we can repay you...? We don't have much, but I don't know how to express my—our—appreciation. You saved us."

Spike found himself lost in a haze, the resonance of Fang's taste lingering on his lips, rendering him almost oblivious to the man's words. His heart drummed with an intoxicating rhythm as the world around him blurred, the man's mouth moving in a distant murmur while Fang gracefully bowed beside him.

Why is she bowing?

Nevertheless, he can't believe he did that. What compelled him to act that way? The embrace alone would have sufficed, or even just holding her hand! No, Spike, just focus on the situation at hand. It was part of the act, and the gamble played off. It was just an act.

...Then why did he want to do it again?

Meanwhile, Taion studied them with a keen eye, a subtle smile playing on his lips. Fang's response to Spike's kiss intrigued him, though he tried not to reveal it. There was a familiarity, a resonance that struck a chord within him, reminiscent of his own parents. However, her subsequent bow perplexed him. If anything, he felt a sense of indebtedness, an urge to bow in return for who she was. Hastily, he dismissed the formality. "Think nothing of it," he uttered, his voice breaking the momentary silence. Gesturing toward Fang, still clad in her nightgown, he added, "If you wish to change, I can wait outside the door and then escort you to the brig."

Opting not to wait for a response, he slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Spike stood there, momentarily frozen. It took a few moments of a blank and motionless stare into the void before he managed to meet Fang's eyes apologetically. "Sorry."

"It's quite alright!" Fang said quickly. Perhaps too quickly, spinning around fast so her back was to Spike to hide the creeping, flustered panic that was rapidly growing now that they were alone. It was easy to keep it at bay with an audience acting as a buffer, but now that they were alone it meant actually acknowledging what had happened. 

And suddenly, the idea of being alone with her fake-husband had her all jittery.

"You did what you had to do, and it saved us," she continued, proud of how calm her voice was as she bent and started to dig her clothes from her satchel. "It was smart! Quick thinking! Observant, even! It just took me by surprise is all, I couldn't have predicted that would be how I got my first kiss, or that I'd even get one at all, even a fake one! What a day!"

Pulling out her ankle-length sarong and her sleeveless top, she managed to pull on the sarong and tie it off under the gown without taking it off. There was a moment of hesitation, but goddess, Spike had seen more than just her bare back, so after a moment she peeled the gown off and tossed it into her bag. She tied her top on with one tie around her neck and the other around her middle, and after she'd adjusted herself so everything was where it ought to be, she spun back around to face Spike. Her face had cooled a bit by then, but not much.

"I suppose there's no better time than when you don't know if you're going to live or die, right?"

Spike's face retained its persistent shade of red, like a beacon of embarrassment, amplifying with each passing moment. Fang's swift change added a layer of awkwardness to the room, and Spike, unsure where to direct his gaze, dramatically turned away. His thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion. "That was your first kiss?" he queried, genuine surprise blending with embarrassment, "I'm sorry; it's just that I... well, I was hoping it could have been more special."

The words hung in the air, and Spike felt the weight of their awkwardness settle between them. The room seemed to hold its breath, amplifying the tension. He dared a quick glance over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of Fang as she swiftly dressed. Regret washed over him, realizing the unintentional implications of his comment. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the soft rustle of fabric.

"Okay, ready?" Spike suddenly announced, perhaps a bit too loudly, as if trying to drown out the awkwardness. He opened the door with a sense of urgency, eager to escape the confines of that moment. "You look ready. Let's go," he added hastily, hoping to move past the awkward encounter and redirect their focus to the task at hand.

As he took a step out the door, a realization struck him like a sudden gust of wind. With a swift about-face, Spike reentered the room, wearing an expression that screamed forgetfulness. "Forgot my things," he announced, the nonchalant tone masking the embarrassment as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

More...special?? But it wasn't real! Was it? Oh goddess, what was happening.

But Spike was a whirlwind, and it was probably best not to voice her thoughts within earshot of Taion, and her thoughts halted altogether with his abrupt announcement that it was time to go. Aaaand there he went!

Not wanting to get left behind, not here of all places, Fang twirled and grabbed up her bag and sword and started to run after him—only to collide full force into him when he whipped around to stride back inside.

The collision knocked the wind from her lungs with an audible "oof!", much like colliding with a stone wall, and she threw her arms around him so she didn't topple over. 

"Oof!" indeed.

The sudden impact caught him off guard, almost stealing his breath, particularly because he was already flustered and didn't see it coming. A near stumble backward was averted as he managed to regain his footing. Gradually coming back to his senses, a realization struck him - Fang had her arms around him, embracing deeply.

Did her actions reveal reciprocated feelings?

Was it the lingering effect of the kiss that prompted such an open display?

Uncertain of what else to convey, he softly uttered, "I feel the same," while cupping her cheeks in his hands and studying her face. However, a sudden thought crossed his mind - perhaps, she merely collided with him by accident.

Interrupting the moment, Taion's impatient voice broke the silence, "You two coming?"

"Lead the way," Spike responded, clearing his throat before gently taking her hand, guiding them behind Taion.

Despite any embarrassment, flustered emotions, or uncertainty about their feelings, Spike was resolute in his need to protect Fang. While Taion shielded them with the captain's orders, Spike remained mindful that not everyone on board approved of their decision.

And he felt their glares on them as they passed.

Before Fang could orient herself and step away, Spike cupped her face and stared into her face. It caught her off guard and she froze, her pulse skipping a beat as for one long second she thought, stupidly, that he looked about to kiss her again. 

It must be part of the act! He was really falling into this husband role, really getting in character, and she hardly had to act at all to play the part of the shy wife. Which made sense with Taion right there, gotta be convincing and all that, but when he said he felt the same, her tongue got all tied up and all she could stutter out was, "You feel, uhh, clumsy?"

Nailed it.

Taion saved the day unwittingly, and as had become almost routine for the two, Spike grabbed her hand and lead her along while her head was still reeling.

Passing by other crew was a good, cold splash to the face, though, and Fang ducked her head to avoid their eyes. Maybe she should have been paying more attention to her surroundings and the route they were taking, but she chose instead to try to make herself as small as she could. Don't make waves, don't make eye contact, don't give them anymore reasons to hate her—and them. They had enough already. 

Still, it felt like an eternity before they finally reached the brig.

As Spike and Fang trailed closely behind Taion, a sense of dread crept through the air like a chilling mist. The crew and passengers weren't the sole onlookers; the spirits, forgotten momentarily by Spike, clung to him like an insidious curse. Their whispers, a ghastly symphony of hatred and pleads, layered and haunting, intensified as they descended the stairs toward the brig.

Within the confined space, the crew's leering gazes mirrored the spectral disapproval. Some eyes fixated disgustingly on Fang, eliciting a visceral response from Spike. His fist clenched, and his other hand tightened protectively around Fang as they navigated through the watchful crowd. A few cautious glances were directed at Spike, adding to the unsettling atmosphere.

Upon reaching the brig, Taion swung open the cell door, revealing an empty space adorned only with a small bed and a utilitarian pot for basic necessities. The cold, damp walls seemed to close in, and the air hung heavy with the oppressive weight of confinement. Taion, in a show of trust, displayed the key, explaining its use for locking and unlocking the cell. "When you're ready, you'll need to turn it like this," he would explain. "Here."He attempted to hand the key to Fang as a gesture of good faith.

Yet, in the midst of this moment, Echen, with a disarming and unexpected move, seized the opportunity. With a sudden, malicious force, he struck Taion over the head, rendering him unconscious. The key slipped from Taion's grasp, skidding painfully out of reach on the cold floor. Echen, a twisted smile playing on his lips, picked up the key, before turning his eyes on Spike and Fang.

"Well, well," he spat with a venomous disdain. "What do we have here?" His hate-filled gaze landed on Fang, his accusatory finger pointing deliberately, "a no-good, filthy whore," before shifting to Spike, "and a killer."

His eyes bore into Spike with a searing intensity as he casually tossed the keys up and down, their metallic jingle and clatter echoing in his palm. "You two ain't married," he persisted. "I don't buy that for a gods damn second."

Spike's jaw clenched but he kept his composure, eyes trained on the man as he stood in front of Fang. He felt foolish for being so careless, but it was too late for regrets now. Stepping closer to the cells, he growled, "Give me the key. Now."

Fang could see the spirits, too. Spike's, and the crew's past dead. They grew more and more restless as they descended, and Fang couldn't help but think it felt like a warning. But of what? The plan was sound. They would have the key; they wouldn't be trapped. It provided the safety of locked doors. There would be no reason for this to be a trick unless they were really into extra theatrics, but the crew didn't seem the sort.

She frowned as she passed the dead, mouthing, "I'm sorry." She wanted to help them—but it wasn't looking like she'd get the chance.

Inside the brig, standing before the cell that would be their temporary home, Fang wrinkled her nose at the single bed and damp air, but she would just have to be humble. It was only a few days, right? Assuming they made it out alive?

Because that was once again the big question as Echen intervened.

Fang yelped as Taion crumpled, and though her first instinct was to rush to him and check on him...she froze instead, staying behind Spike. Think, don't be foolish. Don't get within grabbing range. The man was deranged; there was no telling what he was capable of as he stared them down with blood-curdling malice that made her shrink back against Spike.

And then...there it was.

That again. The same word she'd heard when they—

Fang's hands curled into fists, a knot of tension growing between her shoulders. That word! And for what? Why? What had she ever done to them but exist?! This had all happened because they tried to hurt her because...why?!

Heart thundering in her ears, Fang didn't realize she was approaching her limit until she slammed right into it, her jaw clenched. She was tired of the looks, tired of the accusations, tired of being afraid—and just tired on top of it all, which was probably half of what lowered her inhibition here. And now he'd hurt Taion on top of it all!  Peeking around Spike, she glared at the man. "Whore this, whore that! Is that the only word you know? Whores get paid, you jerk!"

Her own words surprised her, but she was so beyond done, and her fear only fueled her anger. It wasn't fair, none of this was fair, for either of them! "I'm with this man for free! Because we're married! Or gonna be! Not that it's any of your business how we spend our time! Now leave us alone already! He didn't want to hurt anyone until they tried to hurt me!"

In that singular moment, Spike found himself more attracted to Fang than ever before. Gradually, he had grown to appreciate Fang for all that she was, embracing her qualities and principles, her kindness, her awkwardness, all of it. Yet, her reaching a breaking point and standing up not just for herself but for him as well was the ultimate revelation, the proverbial icing on the cake of his admiration.

And it fueled him.

"Fuck you, you stupid-"

"Don't you dare talk to her like that." Spike's voice cut through the stifling air of the brig, a low but commanding tone. "Apologize to her. Now."

Echen's derisive laughter filled the confined space. "You must be joking! Why the hells would I do that?" he retorted, his arrogance seeping through.

With a small, ominous smile, Spike approached the cell. His gaze, as sharp as a blade, bore into Echen. Gently, he pushed the jail cell open, the rusty hinges creaking in protest. The sound echoed in the chamber, a harbinger of a turning tide.

And the look on Echen's face was priceless.

"You could have at least waited for Taion to lock the cell," Spike remarked, his words laced with a chilling calmness.

With laser precision, Spike's hand darted forward, ripping the keys out of the man's grasp in a swift motion before tossing them behind to Fang. In the blink of an eye, his open palm seized the side of Echen's face, slamming him with a resounding thud against the unforgiving wall of the brig. The echo reverberated through the confined space.

But Spike didn't stop there. With an intimidating display of strength and speed, he effortlessly whipped Echen around and ensnared him in a formidable lock. Spike's arm coiled around the man's waist from behind, the sharp glint of a knife pressed threateningly against his throat.

"Now, apologize," he said again, his voice menacing in Echen's ear. "You think you could do that, Echen? Or should I do us all a favor, and slit your throat? And then I'll apologize to her on your behalf."

THE DOOR WASN'T EVEN LOCKED?!

Somehow, in all the stress and exhaustion, Fang had missed that detail. So when Spike oh-so-smoothly showed his hand, her expression nearly mirrored Echen's—but for an entirely different reason.

Oooohhhhhhh!

She caught the keys out of the air right as a sick thud echoed through the closed space—and goddess, Fang did not support violence, she truly didn't, but even she had to admit that was satisfying. She still winced and kept her eyes averted, but even the sound was cathartic.

But then Spike had him pinned with a knife to his throat, giving him his options to apologize or die, and she felt her chest swell with a strange mix of admiration and sobering realization.

He was doing this for her.

But also...he was doing this for her. And she couldn't ask that of him; he had already stained his hands for her three times too many. He had no choice back then; they came for him, too, and no doubt they would have killed him if they could. But this man, this Echen...

Fang came up behind Spike and lightly touched his arm.

"You're too good for this, Spike," she said softly, squeezing him gently. "Don't dirty your hands. It's not worth it. Not him. Not a coward like him."

For wasn't that what he truly was? An opportunistic rat?

She frowned at Echen as she stepped around the two of them to face him, twirling the keys on their ring as her thoughts whirled. Her anger had calmed a little but only because she feared what Spike might do; he didn't need that on his soul. With a deep breath, she moved a little closer.

"You don't have to apologize, Echen. I don't want it if you don't mean it," she said, and closed her hand around the keys. She tilted her head back to look up at him, no longer afraid to meet his gaze.

She was a priestess before all else, was she not?

"You want to blame me because it's easier to blame a stranger you feel is lesser, than to think your friends were sick. Am I close?" she asked, and sighed. "Please try to believe me, neither of us wanted any of this. I wish your friends hadn't tried what they did. I truly wish they were still alive and that I'd never..." Her voice wavered. Deep breath. "...that I'd never known that kind of...ugliness. I wish my...husband—" Her eyes slid to Spike's. "—didn't have to carry the burden of life and death just to keep us safe. This could have been a very different trip for all of us. I'm truly sorry it turned out this way instead."

As Spike held Echen hostage, a maelstrom of thoughts whirled through his mind, each thread connecting to Fang's kindness. He gripped Echen tighter, a silent promise to protect her etched in the intensity of his gaze. But amidst this selfless act, a shadow of selfishness lingered. Was he truly doing this solely for her, or was there a part of him seeking retribution, a need to deliver justice for the threat Echen posed? Was he.. addicted? To killing?

Fang's words echoed in his ears, her plea for mercy resonating with a gentleness that seemed at odds with the charged atmosphere. Spike felt torn, caught in the conflict between the desire to honor Fang's wishes and the pulsating need to make Echen pay for the danger he possessed, a punishment on behalf of his comrades that tried to hurt and have their way with Fang.

Maybe he was addicted. Maybe it was all he really knew how to do, and he was acting purely on instinct.

But he wouldn't let Fang down here.

"I-It was just a little game!" Echen stammered frantically in response to Fang, his eyes wide with fear, fixated primarily on the glint of Spike's blade. Spike remained skeptical, but at that point, it didn't matter – Fang had made her choice.

A deep breath escaped Spike's lips, the manifestation of an internal struggle evident in the release of tension. Fang's influence softened the edges of his resolve. Finally, he spoke with stern authority, "You heard her – we didn't want this, so don't make the mistake of continuing it. Go on, get out of here." Spike released his grip, giving Echen a forceful shove toward the door, steering him clear away from Fang. His gaze lingered on the man as he hastily made his exit, a warning etched in his eyes.

It was done, and blessedly without more bloodshed. Fang heaved a sigh and leaned forward with her hands braced on her knees, needing a moment to regain her composure. It had taken every inch of willpower to stand tall without trembling, though it had still come out in her voice at points. Inima help her, this was so beyond what she had ever dealt with; she had never had to look into the eyes of someone who very much wanted her dead and viewed all this as "just a little game". And in this case, it wasn't just her life on the line.

She didn't think she saw a lick of remorse in those eyes. He was only sorry he got caught. Hopefully she had made the right call—no, she had.

"Thank you," she said, peering up at Spike. "I don't believe him, of course, but I also don't think hurting him would help our situation, either. Nor would it help you." Her expression softened with concern, hoping he understood her meaning. 

"But more to the point, if the crew finds another body..." She shook her head, repressing a shudder at the idea. "Besides, he attacked—ah!"

With sudden realization, she shot up and bolted to Taion's crumpled form, kneeling beside him and checking his breathing. She looked up at Spike, concern in her eyes. "I don't know the first thing about medicine or anything like that, he got hit pretty hard, is he...gonna wake?" 

Spike approached Taion quickly. He knelt down beside him, checking for signs of life. Placing two fingers on Taion's wrist to feel for a pulse, Spike then leaned close to listen for the subtle sounds of breathing.

Relief washed over Spike as he confirmed, "He's alive. Pulse is steady, and he's breathing." He carefully adjusted Taion's position, ensuring he was lying comfortably. "He took a hard hit, but I think he'll be fine," Spike assured Fang, his tone steady and authoritative.

Spike tore a piece of cloth from his own shirt to fashion a makeshift compress, placing it gently against the injury on Taion's head. "We need to keep an eye on him, but for now, let him rest. He should come to soon," Spike advised before meeting Fang's eyes. "Thank you, Fang."

"Thank goodness," Fang breathed, and managed a tired smile up at him. "I think we'll be okay now, Spike. Echen went too far this time; he attacked one of his own. You may have let him go, but I think between Taion and the captain he'll be sorted out."

Hopefully.

She realized she was holding the look a little too long, studying the angles of his face, the shadows and highlights in his eyes, with fresh a fresh perspective. What was it he had said before? About caring about someone or something like that? She cleared her throat and looked away, licking her lips which were dry from the briny air. "Anyway, don't thank me. I should be thanking you, so...thank you."

And in a moment of impulsivity, she rose up and pressed a quick kiss to his hair in the Serenian way.

A soft smile graced Spike's lips as he felt Fang peck him in the Serenian way. This time, Spike didn't feel the usual embarrassment; instead, a warmth settled within him. "Thank you," he said anyway, the words carrying genuine appreciation as he watched over Taion and Fang.

---

The remaining days aboard the ship unfolded in a serenity that seemed to heal the lingering wounds of the tumultuous events. As Taion gradually recovered, a palpable sense of gratitude hung in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the camaraderie forged amidst adversity. The ship captain, revealing Echen's fate, relayed that he would be dismissed from the crew upon reaching land. Spike couldn't help but feel a subtle satisfaction at the news, knowing that justice, in its own peculiar way, had been served.

The other passengers and crewmen maintained their distance, still wary of Spike and Fang. The once stand-offish glances spoke volumes, creating a space of solitude that, although isolating, offered an odd comfort. Even Spike's spirits, usually a source of chaos, seemed to have granted them a moment of respite, their ethereal presence a quiet companion in the shadows.

Days at sea were spent within the confines of the brig, a makeshift sanctuary that, while lacking in comfort, provided a shield against the unknown threats that lurked beyond its metallic bars. Spike's unwavering commitment to Fang's safety turned the austere space into a haven.

Finally, as the ship docked in Serendipity, Taion bid them a farewell filled with gratitude and well-wishes. Stepping onto the docks, Spike and Fang found themselves standing beneath the vast night sky, the chill of the air delicately kissing their faces. The distant lights of the city shimmered, creating a serene backdrop to their newfound freedom. With each step on the solid ground, the echoes of the ship's creaking timbers faded away, leaving them in the quiet embrace of the tranquil night, ready to face Serendipity.

It hadn't changed at all.

It was difficult to make sense of the passing of time down in the brig where there were no windows to tell night from day, and the next few days came with their own unique challenges. But the worst was behind them, and slowly the big anxieties were replaced with mundane anxieties: her first experience with seasickness during one rougher day (thank goddess for Spike's medicine!), the struggles of maintaining modesty in quarters that did not allow it (oh, how she had struggled to hold her bladder until her body made the decision for her, and it was either suck it up and use the pot or embarrass herself even more), and then the more simple challenge of staying entertained within a space with only four walls and a cot.

That part wasn't so hard, though. She talked to Spike when she wasn't feeling ill or resting--and she even, at one point, got to speak with a spirit that appeared down there with them, and gently send them on their way.

But through even the small, awkward challenges, as strange as it was, she came out of it trusting Spike all the more and feeling more comfortable around him, like she could lower her guard and truly relax. It was strange how four plain walls and a cot became a place of security and safety rather than ever feeling like a prison. But even if it was a prison, Spike made for a wonderful cellmate, and she even found herself offering to share the cot with him so he wouldn't have to lay on the floorboards.

Fortunately for the both of them, while she did have more nightmares, she only had one where she thrashed.

But suddenly, right when things had settled into an odd sort of familiar routine, it was over. They landed in Serendipity--

And the future, once more, became a giant question mark.

Walking beside Spike, a robe pulled over her clothes to take off some of the chill, Fang stared at the town stretching out ahead of them with wide eyes, the many buildings with architecture she had only seen in books. It was a beautiful night with clear skies and different stars than she was used to, the smells, the plants, the trees...none of them were familiar at all, all of them new species. Even the insect she swatted off her neck was new!

She stared at the crushed creature in her hand, wincing at the smear of her own blood in her hand and whispering an apology, and quickly brushed it off. Then she squeezed in closer to Spike, hooking an arm around his. "Well," she said wryly, hiding her nerves as best as she could behind a laugh. "At least our nations have that in common. All the bugs want to eat you."

Stepping off the docks into the labyrinthine streets of Serendipity, Spike instinctively drew the hood of his coat over his head, a subtle shield against prying eyes from a past he wished to keep concealed. The night sky above Serendipity unfolded like an expansive canvas, stars shimmering with a muted brilliance, casting an ethereal glow upon the city's diverse architecture.

The buildings, each with its own unique design, stood as silent witnesses to countless stories. Their facades painted an intricate tapestry against the inky darkness, a testament to the city's rich history and vibrant present. The distant sound of waves crashing against the docks provided a rhythmic backdrop, a soothing melody that echoed through the narrow cobblestone streets.

As they traversed the winding pathways, a certain warmth enveloped Spike, both from the layers of his coat and the comforting presence of Fang. Against the chilly night air, her figure pressed against his, offering a shared shield against the wind. It felt like a good start to what waited on them in the foreign land for Fang.

And then she squashed a bug. And then she apologized to it. And he smiled. "You're so cute," he said without thinking of the weight, and then pointed in the direction of an inn - something he knew from experience was a little more private than the tavern they stayed at previously. "Let's stay there tonight, I'll take you to Maya in the morning."

She was...cute?

Fang laughed at that, leaning her head against him as they walked. "You're too kind, but I'm a complete and total wreck!" she said. Another time and she have been more flustered, but over the past week (oh goddess, had it really been so long) she had grown a little more used to it, a little more comfortable, and right then she found it more funny than anything with her hair all greasy and skin salty. She had managed to wash herself a little on board the ship, with cold salt water, but that left much to be desired when she valued proper daily baths.

And then Spike said the most beautiful words she had ever heard uttered, pointing ahead at a quaint building out of storybook.

"Oh Inima, that sounds wonderful! I was certain we'd have to walk a lot more!" Fang sighed, perking up hopefully. "Do they have baths there? I am SO crusty and I'm sure I smell like seaweed! But, ahem, less selfishly...good idea, Spike. We owe it to Maya to be mentally fresh for her. She deserves our full attention and I'm not sure I could give that to her right now."

Spike's brow furrowed in confusion at Fang's response. "Crusty?" he muttered to himself, unintentionally voicing his puzzlement.

He leaned in with caution and gave her a curious sniff. Perhaps a bit crusty. Feeling it a tad unfair, Spike hesitated before reluctantly taking a brief whiff of his own scent. The face he made revealed that, indeed, personal hygiene was a shared concern.

"There are baths, yes," he said, just as much for himself as it was for her. "They are attached to the rooms at this inn."

"H-hey!" Fang laughed, swatting lightly at his arm when he SNIFFED her! Her face went red with embarrassment, but then...he sniffed himself, too.

She snorted, biting her lip to hold in some of her mirth. "Yes, crusty! It's been days!" she said, perhaps a bit dramatically. "And you're no fresher!" she added with a teasing smile and a playful nudge. 

"I hardly feel human anymore, I feel like...like...oh! Like a whale. You know how whales get all covered in barnacles, have you ever seen that? That's how I feel. It must drive them crazy, poor things, and them with no arms to scratch."

She was walking faster now, nearly dragging Spike along for once. The goal was in sight, though, and she simply could not wait.

Fang was saying some strange things this evening, but Spike found himself enjoying it nonetheless.

"Whales?" Spike asked, his voice soft, as he found himself practically being dragged behind Fang. Observing her figure from behind, his eyes traced her form more liberally than he would readily admit. After a moment of contemplation, he couldn't help but comment, "But you don't look like a whale..."

They arrived at the inn soon after, the jingle of a bell announcing their entrance as they opened the door. The cozy ambiance enveloped them, a welcoming retreat from the chilly night outside. The desk clerk greeted them with a warm smile, his eyes, however, lingering on Fang with subtle speculation. After a few moments of observation, he cleared his throat, determined to cast aside any biases he may have harbored toward a foreigner.

"Staying the night?" he asked, his tone shifting to a neutral professionalism as he extended the offer.

Spike fished around in his coat until he found the crumpled bills, which he then slid across the counter toward the desk clerk. "Yes, one room, please," he said with a nod, the transaction sealing their temporary refuge for the night. The clerk efficiently processed the payment and the room key exchanged hands.

Fang sputtered, choking on a laugh. She didn't look like a whale?! Oh Inima. "I should hope not! Why would I look like a whale?"

Her confidence only wavered when they actually reached the inn, her pace slowing as she once more let Spike take the lead from here. Because as they entered the building, she quickly realized a few obvious things: she had zero idea of how things worked here. Simple, basic things. The currency in her coin purse was Thanati. Would they even accept that here? The greetings were different, maybe even the way you asked for a room was different. She didn't want to offend anyone—and as her eyes fell on the clerk, a fresh wave of insecurity washed over her, the trauma of the ride over still so fresh.

What if he was judging her? Thinking she was just a...a...

She lowered her eyes and looked at the ground as Spike secured them a room. Wait, A room? Singular? She snapped a look up at him, but said nothing because...well, it made sense. They'd shared a room this long already so why not save money?

And, admittedly, the idea of being in a room alone after the last time...it made her stomach twist with an unexpected wave of anxiety.

No, no, it made sense.

Up the stairs they went and into a room that, like the tavern, had only one bed. Because of course it did. But unlike the one at the sketchy tavern, the bed was bigger, the room was much larger, had there was another door inside it that lead somewhere. Everything also looked to be of a much better quality as well. The bedding looked plush, the pillows fluffy and new, and there was even a set of chairs and a table to sit at near a window.

With a sigh of relief, Fang carefully laid her sword atop the table and slung her bag down into a chair. "Sweet Inima," she breathed. "It's almost like I'm back home. This is fancy!" she said, swinging around to beam up at Spike.

Spike carefully arranged his belongings in the chair opposite Fang's, offering her a gentle smile in response to her use of the term "fancy."

"It's not bad. Knox would often put me up here when..." He halted, avoiding delving into the details of his past. "Well, you know."

As he scanned the room, he noticed the bathroom door slightly ajar and gestured towards it. "Why don't you take a bath first? I can wait."

"Oh, I hope you don't mind the one room," he added quickly, "I didn't want to.. well, you know."

Did she know? He seemed to mention it frequently. He resolved to use the time while she was in the tub to work on improving every aspect of himself. That should be doable, right?

The first "you know" she understood. Knox, then? Was that a friend or employer? She chose not to ask; the "you know" seemed to imply he didn't want to go there.

Fang slipped into the room Spike indicated when he mentioned "bath", quite happy to take him up on his generosity. From the other side of the door, she was still able to hear him clearly as he spoke—and it was the second "you know" that she actually didn't know.

"Oh?" she said as she started to undress, nose wrinkling as she flung the grungy clothes to the floor. "I do? What do I know?"

Turning toward the tub, more than ready to enjoy a soak and scrub off days of ick, she suddenly froze, staring blankly at what she saw.

"Uhhh...well...I can tell you one thing I don't know," she started, stepping into the tub to get a better look at the knobs staring right back at her. "How...how do you...? What are all these things?" 

Reaching forward, she twisted one curiously—and then shrieked in surprise when icy water came blasting out full force, pouring onto her feet and splashing up her legs. She squealed again, jumping back and nearly slipping, grabbing onto the wall for support. "SPIKE! WHAT DID I DO?! How do I make it STOP?!"

I do? What do I know?

In another life Spike might have been good with his words, but not this life. He hadn't even had the proper time to "improve" himself before she was already bringing attention to it - something he decided to pretend he would hear.

But then she screamed.

A wave of frantic concern surged through him, fearing something terrible had transpired in the bathroom. Without a second thought, he rushed in to "rescue" Fang, only to encounter an unexpected obstacle – a slippery pile of dirty clothes she had casually discarded to the floor. His urgency collided with the laws of physics as he promptly slipped on the laundry-induced hazard.

In a spectacular display of misfortune, Spike found himself careening toward the tub. Desperate to regain balance, he reflexively grabbed for the wall, but his flailing attempt at support went awry. Instead of the wall, his hand inadvertently found Fang's shoulder, the intimate contact leading to an unintended, gravity-fueled tango.

The scene unfolded in a whirl of chaos – Spike's back collided with the cold porcelain surface of the tub, his hands grab from something - anything - which lead to Fang being brought down on top of him.

With a wince, he leaned his head back in the tub, eyes closed, completely given up on the situation, and said breathlessly, "turn the other knob."

It all happened so fast, and yet somehow also in slow motion.

The door burst open and in came Spike, practically flying toward her, and Fang yelped for a reason that had nothing to do with cold water.

She didn't have time to react, no time to duck or cover herself before he grabbed her. The world spun, there was a crash as Spike collided with the wall, and then suddenly they were falling, falling, and—thud! Sometime during the chaos she had clenched her eyes shut tight and tensed up, quite prepared for this to end badly, but as she laid there in stunned silence, she realized she was still in one piece, nothing hurt, and she was sprawled upon something soft and yielding instead of cold, hard porcelain.

And still the icy water was rushing into the tub, which was now slowly filling because sometime during the tussle one of them had kicked the stopper.

Disoriented and cold, goosebumps pebbling her skin as she shivered, Fang cracked her eyes open as the cushion beneath her spoke.

A cushion named Spike.

A jolt went through her and she gasped.

"Spike!" Eyes wide with horror, she sat up quickly and looked him over, hands rushing to cup his face and check his head for blood. "Oh no, oh no, are you okay?! Are you hurt? What in Inima's name happened?!" she got out in a rush, for the moment, at least, too distracted to realize...she was kind of straddling him. Naked. With everything on display and all physical signs pointing to the fact that she was freezing.

Spike found himself lost in a daze, the embarrassment of what just happened, paired with the ache in his back, stuck firmly in his mind. "I'm fine," he said, disoriented, "I'm-" he cut off, reality crashing in. Her hands gently cradled his face, and as his focus sharpened, he realized the position they were in. Fang was straddling him, her skin reacting to the cold water but still exuding a smooth and teasing allure. The curves of her hips and figure hovered above him, and her full breasts, now just above his chest, cast a spell of mesmerizing proximity.

Spike's expression morphed into a mix of surprise, vulnerability, and desire. Caught in the spellbinding allure, he couldn't restrain himself any longer. "Fang, you... I..." he began to say, but the words dissolved as he abruptly placed a hand on her cheek and initiated a hungry kiss.

What.

What.

WHAT?

One moment, Fang was peering at him in concern, hoping to Inima he hadn't given himself a concussion.

The next, his mouth was on hers—and it was not the chaste kiss of before when they were playing husband and wife. It was needy, hungry, stealing the air from her lungs as the moment hung frozen in time and she forgot what breathing even was.

Her heart raced, a strange flutter made her belly tighten, and the blood rushed to her face despite the freezing cold—a cold she had forgotten even existed.

Oh my goddess, oh my goddess, oh my goddess, Spike was kissing her.

And then...

She was kissing him.

She didn't know when exactly she had started to feel it. She had spent a lifetime ignoring those kinds of feelings because they weren't for her, and she hadn't really been the object of them, cloistered away in the Temple around people she saw as family. Don't get attached, she always told herself, and though sex wasn't forbidden to her if it produced a child, she didn't see the draw. When had she started to see Spike as...more? She had started to look at him more, started to subtly invite his touch more and not shirk it when he got too close, but this? This? Really?

She cupped his face and leaned into him, her own lips soft and uncertain against his own as she really didn't know what she was doing. She was, as she'd admitted before, woefully inexperienced. Finally, though, she pulled away with a shiver, her cheeks flushed as she stared at him with wide green eyes as though surprised at herself.

"Wh...what...what was that for...?" she finally got out breathlessly, a tremble in her voice.

Spike found himself in uncharted territory, navigating the complexities of romance, intimacy, sex, and the sheer presence of a woman. A lifetime of training had conditioned him to steer clear of such distractions, deeming them a potential weakness. It was a creed he never questioned, never truly comprehended until now. In Fang's company, he faced a vulnerability that defied his past convictions. Her influence stirred unfamiliar feelings, and he found himself embracing this newfound weakness with a desire to cherish it. The realization dawned on him that the strength of connection and the depth of emotion could be a force more profound than any training could prepare him for.

And then, the kiss was interrupted, and it seemed that Fang was just as "new" at this, just as vulnerable, as he was. His face was hot, but his body was soaking wet from the cold rising water, and his chest was heaving in and out as his heart beat like a drum.

"Because," he whispered, shifting to a more upright position, his chest pressed against hers, "you make me weak." Another breath punctuated the admission, and a hand delicately traced her cheek. "And I can't hold myself back any longer."

Spike reignited the kiss with unrestrained passion, oblivious to the fact that the neglected bathtub, now filled to the brim, spilled over onto the floor in a cascade of water.

The water sloshed over the edge as Spike sat up, but the only thing Fang noticed was his eyes as she peered into them, searching them in wonder and confusion alike as his hand traced her cheek. She made him...weak? Oh. That sounded familiar, she thought as she threw her arms around his neck and melted into him, one hand loosely curling into the hair at his nape.

But before the pieces could click into place, his mouth was on hers again—and goddess, suddenly nothing else mattered. The world stopped as an electric thrill went through her, a little sound of pleasure escaping her that made her face burn all the hotter. This was different, new, unexplored territory that was as scary as it was thrilling—

And yet there was no one she would rather explore it with.

"You...you make me feel things I shouldn't," she murmured against his lips when she came up for air, before giving them an experimental nibble; goddess, why did he taste so good? "We...we shouldn't...I shouldn't..."

It was as though she were trying to convince herself—and she was losing the battle, the protests unconvincing to her own ears, as though she was only saying them just to say she'd tried. 

Inima forgive her, she'd tried.

Her shivering grew a little more violent, the heat building in her core warring with the ice of the tub. She leaned into him, pressed her lips against his ear. "But...I don't care," she whispered. "I...I want this. I—oh!"

She jerked back, staring at the watery mess growing in the room. "The water!" 

As Fang's pleading whispers danced into Spike's ears, an electric surge coursed through his body, compelling him to trace the delicate curve of her neck with his lips. Sensation rippled through him, and he felt a noticeable reaction, a sudden stiffness inside his pants. The intoxication continued until her mention of the water snapped him back to reality, prompting a breathy laugh into the warmth of her neck. "The," a kiss on her neck, "water," another on her ear, "right," and he reached behind her to turn off the flow by twisting the knob.

Ever determined, Spike bent his knees, propping himself up, and gracefully rose to his feet. Scooping Fang up in his arms, he carefully stepped out of the tub, water droplets glistening on their entwined bodies. The bedroom welcomed them back, and he gently laid her down on the bed, the plushness providing a luxurious backdrop. With fluidity, Spike removed his shirt, revealing the sculpted contours of his physique in the dim glow of the room, rejoining her on the bed as he began working on his belt.

"I want this too," he whispered into her ear, his hand exploring the wet contours of her naked form. "I want you," he confessed with a breath, and suddenly his pants were kicked to the floor.

Fang's head was a buzz of frantic excitement and nerves all tumbling together, but Spike's lips quieted some of it. A pleasant chill followed the path of his mouth along her neck and she arched into him as his warm breath tickled her skin, her own gasp catching on a whimper when she felt something stiffen and strain between her legs where she was straddling him. Only his clothes separated them, and only the bath water hid the slick heat building between her thighs.

Oh goddess, was this really happening? Were they really doing this?

It hardly felt real.

But it was real enough when he scooped her up, her arms flying around his neck to cling to him, her heart beating so hard it almost hurt. And soon he had laid her on the bed, her hair a wet and disheveled mess, the water soaking into the blankets, but like so many other things that detail had faded into background noise. She watched Spike as he peeled off his shirt, revealing scar and skin she ached to caress, before she trailed a look down his body as he worked his belt—and her breath hitched. Suddenly she felt too vulnerable, too exposed, laying there like that. For some reason it had been easier to forget her own nudity with Spike's body shielding her, as strange as that was, and with a bright blush she started to grab for the covers, ready to shimmy underneath.

Spike was quicker, joining her on the bed, and soon his heat was covering her as his whisper and his hand caressed her skin. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold went through her, making her squirm, and she swallowed hard when she heard the rustle of fabric and the thump as they hit the floor. Instinctively she looked—and got an eyeful of what those pants had been hiding and what biology texts failed to show.

Gasping, she snapped her eyes back up to his face, her own cheeks flushed, and she desperately sought to hide the small rush of embarrassed panic and insecurity behind a fierce, needy kiss, her hand on the back of his neck to pull him in, her breasts brushing against his bare chest and making the fire within her burn ever brighter.

Oh Inima, what was she doing?! No amount of dirty poetry read in secret or skimmed biology texts had prepared her for flesh and blood reality. Trembling with nerves and desire alike—for this, for him—she broke the kiss to meet his eyes.

"T-tell me what to do," she whispered. "I, um...I'm sorry, I'm not really sure what...I mean, I'm not completely dumb, I've read, er, things, but I've never—" Deep breath, calm down, don't overthink. "I want this to be good for you, too, and I know I won't be the best, but I'd like to try of course!"

Spike's face burned with intensity as he leaned over her, fervently seeking solace in her lips, tracing the delicate contours of her neck, and tenderly caressing and kissing her breasts. In the midst of this passionate exchange, he adeptly positioned himself over her, ready to deepen the connection between them. Ready to take her.

"You've read things?" he asked teasingly, his smile carrying a mix of warmth and nerves. "I've read things too. But this? This is.. new.. for me too. Let's do this together."

Drawing close for one final kiss, he eased himself into her, sensing her envelop him with a tight, wet warmth that ignited a yearning ache within him. Acting on instinct, he initiated a rhythmic thrusting motion, one hand on her hip for guidance while the other cradled the side of her face. As the gradual tempo gained momentum, the resounding echo of their skin colliding reverberated against the walls. The intoxicating scent of her and her sex lingering on him heightened his arousal, sending him into a frenzy of desire. His head arched back with a pant, and as his gaze fixed onto hers, a thumb traced her lip, a silent plea for the connection, the intimacy, the present moment that he craved and yearned for.

Was he doing this right? He didn't know. It certainly felt right, and it certainly felt good.

Little whimpers escaped her as he kissed her, first her lips and then her neck and breasts, the feeling lingering like fire even when he withdrew. She was so distracted, so overwhelmed with new sensations and mounting desire, that she hardly noticed him shift his body over hers, her legs spreading instinctively to let him in, until he was speaking.

Fang's breath hitched as she felt his cock settle against her, body tensing with nerves. Her hands caressed up his scarred back to settle tightly on his shoulders, and for a moment she thought he meant to take her right then. Should she tell him to slow down? Her heart was ready, but was her body? But the growing ache between her legs and her racing heart had different ideas, so she only laughed softly, breathlessly at his tease, only pulled him in tighter at his confession. It was surprising to her; he could have had anyone he wanted, but...

In some ways, it was also reassuring that he was just as clueless as she was. "Okay," she murmured, lips brushing against his—right before he locked their mouths together.

And took her.

Fang's sharp cry was muffled against his mouth as he slowly filled her, her body stretching to accommodate him, and she bucked up against him in surprise and dug her nails into his back, which only helped him slide in deeper.

Oh goddess, it hurt. She was slick with arousal, but her tension and smaller body weren't helping—and at the end of the day, it was her first time, and his, with neither of them really knowing what they were doing beyond a surface level. She cried out against him as he began to move, slowly at first, then quicker, harder, and she buried her face against his neck as her moans and whimpers filled the room, some pained, some coming with surprising spikes of pleasure mixed in with the discomfort. Oh Inima, she knew it could be like this, she'd heard from other women that the first time could be painful, but even though she knew that, even though she anticipated it even, she couldn't help but worry—

Was Inima punishing her for wanting him?

No, no, no, it was normal, it was nothing, and what did they say? It got better after that? But even knowing that, it still surprised her, still threw her, but she didn't want Spike to know—he was doing nothing wrong, and she wanted him. For a little bit, she was able to hide it with her face pressed against his shoulder and her mouth muffled against his skin, but then he pulled back.

And traced her lip so tenderly.

And she felt like an utter failure.

She stared up at him, biting her lip hard to keep from whimpering, then turned her face away when she felt her eyes burn with tears.

As Spike moved over her, within her, his hands ventured across her body, uncertain yet driven by an unyielding desire to persist. Exploring her legs, hips, stomach, and breasts, his touch lingered.

Mesmerized, he pondered the allure of the human form. What was it about her breasts? Just skin - just big, soft, bouncy skin, yet an irresistible fascination beckoned him to explore further. As an overwhelming urge to taste them took hold, he leaned in, contemplating burying his face in her cleavage. However, his gaze met hers, a sudden realization arresting his movements. His other hand, cradling her face, continued its tender exploration, fingers tracing her lips. The subtle turn of her face beneath his touch signaled his attention as he felt it beneath his palm and..

Was she crying?

Was she in pain?!

Spike jolted off her like a cat on a hot tin roof, somersaulting to the floor in a slapstick display of agility. Bouncing back up, he dashed to the side of the bed, where her teary gaze was fixed. Somewhere in his hurried stride, he managed to trip over something but recovered with flourish, resuming his worried stance.

"Fang! Are you okay? Any you injured?" he blurted out, his hands cupping her cheeks in a way that screamed 'overly dramatic concern.' "What happened? Did I hurt you? Was I bad at it?!"

Spike literally bolted off of her, and for a moment Fang just lay there, shakily catching her breath and trying to get a hold of herself. Oh goddess, she was an idiot! Had she scared him off? She started to lift up onto her elbows when he was at her side, cupping her face and--oh dear. Saying quite a lot of things, including a worrisome one that just wasn't true. Was he bad at it?! Did he think--?

Oh...oh right.

Hadn't he said he'd not really been around women in any meaningful sort of way?

Maybe he legitimately didn't know how things worked.

Covering his one of his hands with her own, Fang used her other to help her sit up, if a bit gingerly.

"No, no, you were...Spike, you are wonderful. I'm just a little...overwhelmed, I think," she said with a wince, and scrubbed a hand over her eyes before adding quickly, "It's okay, really! I, ah, I should have told you to slow down. But I think we were both a little, well, lost in the moment and...and I didn't want it to be disappointing..." 

Another deep breath and she reached out to stroke his face, thumb brushing along his jaw. "It's okay, though, honestly. It can be, um, kinda painful for some women at first, so I heard from my friends, and you're a little..." She cleared her throat, looking away with a flush. "Big. To me." Another steadying breath. "I think I just got nervous."

Her shoulders hunched as she sat awkwardly on her knees, sore, flustered, and despite everything--still desperately craving him. She wanted this to go right. And even though it had hurt, there had been those little sparks of pleasure, a teasing taste of what could be. She chewed her lip, looking away. "We could try again," she said quietly. "Maybe in a different way?"

A wave of relief washed over Spike as Fang's words assured him he hadn't disappointed her. A subtle blush, barely discernible on his already heated face, graced his features as she complimented him, though the term "big" went clean over his head.

Despite his genuine happiness, Spike couldn't shake a sense of uncertainty – he knew little about the female body, and sex, other than what he could see and what he could touch. He was unaware it could be painful for some women, which was in stark contrast to how he was feeling. It felt incredible to him.

"You could never disappoint me, Fang," he replied sincerely, his fingers gently caressing her hair.

As she suggested trying again, he echoed her words, his expression filled with curiosity. "In a different way?" he inquired. "How so?"

Fang leaned into his caress, waves of relief washed over her as he reassured her. She let out a breath, some of the tension easing out of her--except of course she'd opened her mouth with her idea, and now she actually had to explain it.

She swallowed, folding her arms over her chest with sudden insecurity. "Right, so, um. About that," she said, ducking her head and staring at the blankets. Why was saying it so much more difficult than doing it had been?! Probably because at a certain point, she stopped thinking with her head so much as instinct and need took over.

"So those things I read. In one of them the, uh...the woman, she...she was on top? So maybe...?"

Spike's grin held a blend of playful teasing and being genuinely impressed. "You've certainly read quite a few things," he remarked before settling onto the bed beside her. "I had no clue you were such an aficionado of... literature."

With a mischievous spark in his eyes, he gently pulled her into his embrace, reclining on his back and granting her the reins of control.

"Shush," Fang said to his teasing, a finger against his lips--but the way she shifted her eyes away guiltily ruined the effect. "I had some extra time on my hands and a priestess gets curious. That, um...that stays between you and me."

And then she found herself in a fresh new pickle: the fact that this had been her idea and she had stage-fright already. Why? For all things holy, he'd already seen everything--he'd been inside her. She'd even had to use a goddess-forsaken chamber pot in his presence. At this point, there were no secrets between them.

But as she met his eyes with a "deer in torchlight" sort of look that screamed now what?!, she suddenly understood, perhaps, how he felt. She was in control.

And that was intimidating in a whole new way.

Spike certainly seemed to be enjoying this, from the glint in his eye!

"R-right," she breathed, meeting his eyes, hesitating. "Just...just kiss me." And then, summoning her courage, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his, hard and demanding, and as she did she shifted her body until she was straddling his hips. But she didn't take him. Instead, still gently exploring his mouth with her lips and gentle flicks of her tongue, she settled against him and let his cock rest against the lips of her sex--and then she just stayed like that, not quite ready to go further. She kissed him--his lips, his jaw, his neck, remembering the way his mouth spread goosebumps over her skin and hoping he could feel it, too.

And as she kissed him and that restless heat within her rose, it soon became impossible to sit still. Slowly, gingerly, she began to rock her hips on instinct, grinding herself against him, slicking him up--and then letting out a sharp whimper against his neck when he rubbed against her clit. That was new. So she did it again, shuddering, chasing the fresh new sensation as she focused on just feeling instead of thinking for once.

"Spike..." she breathed, trembling, her hands braced against his chest as she adjusted herself so she could sit up more. Eyes closed, she rode him without even taking him inside her, feeling a fresh new sensation building, tightening, growing until--

She got a little too enthusiastic, and when she slid back--he slid in.

Fang cried out sharply, clapping a hand over her mouth as her body went taut with surprise, but it was not a cry of pain. She was still sore, yes, but this time...

Oh goddess, he was perfect.

Who am I going to tell? Lawrence?

Spike could be oblivious, but thankfully he had enough tact not to say that out loud. Still, he found her comment cute in more ways than one.

But somewhere along the line Fang became more than cute. Sure, she maintained that endearing, awkward charm that mirrored his own, but there was an undeniable allure to her. It wasn't just about the cute fumbles; she embodied a stunning woman beneath the quirks. Her curves, the way her body moved, and the lingering looks she shared — it all awakened a sense of desire in Spike. Fang had become more than just cute; she was undeniably sexy in a way that went beyond the initial awkward charm, creating a magnetic pull that intrigued and captivated him.

And she was full of surprises. His body tingled with goosebumps as her lips gently explored him, waves of pleasure rippling through him. The ache of his cock intensified as she sensually moved her hips, teasingly grinding against him in what felt like torturously slow movements. A muffled groan escaped him, captured by the softness of her skin, and another erupted when he felt the intimate connection between them once more.

The overwhelming sensation triggered a primal urge within him, a desperate desire to be intimate with her even more, to lose himself in the relentless passion, to fuck her relentlessly. However, he resisted the intensity, maintaining a pace he believed she found comfortable. Guiding her with gentle hands on her hips, he let her take the lead, respecting the rhythm they had established.

"Fang," he gasped in pleasurable agony, lifting himself to press their chests together, "you've read some damn good books."

"Poetry," Fang managed to gasp out between her fingers, her hand still over her mouth to cover the sounds that wanted to escape her as they moved. "I-it's poetry. From The Egret's—a-ah!"

She looped her arms around Spike's neck and crushed her body against his, breasts pressed to his chest and mouth finding his again to muffle her cry of pleasure. Goddess, it was perfect; she had been nervous, but this was working. She was slow and ginger at first as her body adjusted and the tenderness eased, rocking with shallow strokes that slid him just a little further each time, but with his hands on her hips guiding her and his cock hitting new, sensitive spots that made her shiver and tighten around him...well, she wasn't sure when exactly it happened, but soon enough she had taken him as deeply as he would go, their bodies flush together.

Inima must have forgiven her as quickly as She had punished her—perhaps because she was soon singing Her praises.

"Spike...oh goddess, you feel so—!" She cut off with a trembling whimper and cling to him tighter, rocking against him harder, needing more. With their pelvises flush together he was also grinding against her clit with each stroke, and it was getting harder to breathe, harder to think, as that tight coil of pleasure and tension only grew. She chased the sensation desperately, pressing her lips to his neck as her gasping cries took on an almost pleading pitch, and soon she was begging him, though she didn't know for what, slipping into Thanati as thinking became impossible—

"Oh goddess, Spike, I—!" Words failed her as the pleasure mounted, crested, and she let out a cry that was close to a scream. Her nails dug into him as she trembled all around him and lightly bit his neck to muffle it, and she couldn't move, couldn't think, as for a moment nothing else existed.

As she increased her tempo, the sensations enveloping Spike bordered on ecstasy. He sensed a rise in his testicles, a warmth spreading around his crotch and throughout his body. His heart rate accelerated, blood surged through his veins, breath quickened, and his entire body tensed with an escalating pressure building relentlessly within him.

In the culmination of their pleasure, she cried out, her nails digging into him while her body trembled. Her slowdowns teased and tortured Spike, fueling a selfish desire for more. Recognizing her pleasure in this position, he maintained it, succumbing to primal urges. Elevating his waist, carrying her with him, he tightly gripped her ass to keep her afloat before plunging into her with an unrelenting pursuit. Driven by a wild, almost animalistic fervor, he claimed her repeatedly until the familiar ache and pressure built up in his cock, and their skin collided in electrifying union.

A soft moan slipped past his lips, followed by another.

"F-Fang," he managed to breathe out, pulling her head into him, a desperate need for the feel of her breath on his skin and her teeth biting into him. "A-Ah, s-something, ah! Oh no! Something is about to happen!"

Of course, as a man, Spike was well aware of what was about to occur. It wasn't a revelation that eluded him; rather, expressing it verbally seemed challenging, and he grappled with whether he even wanted to. I'm about to cum, Fang! just didn't feel right to say in front of her. Yet, he also recognized that remaining inside her during this moment might not be the best idea for them right now. It might not be what Fang would want at all.

With one last surge through the insatiable cravings, his body tightened like a coiled spring, back arching akin to a drawn bowstring. His cock slipped out of her, pounding against her backside in tandem with an explosive release. A stream of his fervent and white-hot passion cascaded onto her skin as he groaned loudly and unabashedly.

Then, he sank back onto the bed, his body relinquishing all tension in a state of blissful disorientation.

Fang never had a chance to come down from her release, for Spike kept her locked right in it when he took over—and then he truly claimed her.  

She was so high on pleasure, so lightheaded from holding her breath as her body shook, that when he gripped her and truly began to plunge up into her—oh goddess, she really did scream then. There was no pain, no discomfort; there was only heightened ecstasy as his wild pounding kept her going, as it drew out her bliss until she swore she couldn't feel her legs. Fang was powerless to do much more than cling to him hard as her sharp, desperate cries and pleading moans filled the room, punctuated by the wet slap of skin on skin. She would never in a million years have thought herself loud (and never in a million years would have thought she'd be in this position at all), but with Spike she found she just lost all control.

Hopefully no one was trying to sleep next door.

One release rolled into the next as his powerful thrusting brought on a fresh wave of gasping trembles, and goddess she loved it, and could have never predicted something so rough, so wicked, could feel so good. She bit his neck hard enough to leave a mark and arched into his thrusts, begging with him with her body for everything he had to give.

And then he breathed out that something was going to happen, and she didn't have long to be curious. She got her answer quite quickly when he abruptly pulled out, and she felt something hot splash against her skin.

Panting for breath, Fang fell forward onto him as he collapsed backward, limp and boneless and utterly drained. Her body was still absolutely thrumming, tingling clear down to her toes, and she couldn't have moved if Inima Herself commanded her. Chest heaving, she turned her face enough to press a lazy kiss against his skin before she nuzzled into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. Salt, sweat, the heady scent of sex. It felt...unreal.

But as she traced her fingers along the scars on his chest, she knew it very much was not a dream.

A loud and rapid knocking echoed against the side of the wall.

"Would you two shut up?! Kia's name! I'm trying to sleep!" came the voice from the other side, followed by a grumble that sounded something like "haven't gotten laid in months."

Spike couldn't help but laugh—a breathy sound, one of delirious bliss as he descended from the intense high. "That... was... amazing," he finally managed between heavy pants. "You... are amazing."

He meant it, not just about the sex but her as a whole. Everything about her—the personality, the smile, the selflessness—was special. Though Spike had never known love or its intricacies, he felt a burgeoning sense of it. Maybe he... He swallowed those thoughts, choosing to keep them to himself, much like he opted out of announcing his sticky surprise from earlier. Instead, he kissed the top of her head and gently massaged her scalp with his fingers. Being with her just felt right.

As his senses slowly returned, he caught a whiff of something pungent in the air. His eyes glazed over their sweaty bodies and the mess he had left on Fang's backside. With another satisfied exhale, he asked, "How about that bath?"

The knocking on the wall and yelling jolted Fang back to reality. She went rigid, her face lighting up like a flame, and quickly buried her face against Spike to hide as a full-body cringe went through her.

Ohmygoddesstheyheardeverything.

Spike laughed, but she wanted to die, and she was already starting to wonder how on earth they were going to leave this room now when everyone would know. But Spike's breathy compliments calmed her a little, making her chest squeeze with affection, and she pressed a kiss to his neck.

"No, you are."

And it was true. He might not realize it, for if she had noticed one thing it was how little he seemed to think about himself. But she could see past the self-loathing; there was genuine kindness there, kindness she had felt from day one, a drive to be better and do better—even if he didn't realize it yet. Because why else would he have left everything that was safe and familiar, everything he knew, to start all over the moment he realized it was wrong? It took strength to escape indoctrination like that.

And he had been nothing but respectful toward her, and considerate of her needs. Even his panic earlier over hurting her in the midst of his own pleasure—he could have been selfish, he could have pretended not to notice—or even genuinely not noticed at all. But he was attentive to her needs, noticing the little cues when things were off. And he always had. Those were not the actions of someone who lacked a moral compass, and the only violence he'd committed was to protect her from violence.

And then there was the laughter, the teasing, the awkward charm that made her...

Her thoughts trailed off as he brought up the bath, and Fang couldn't help but laugh against his skin. "Oh...oh no...that room's probably such a mess," she said, and she started to lift herself—only to flop back down.

"O-oh Inima...this is all your fault," she breathed. "My legs aren't working."

He wrinkled his nose at her, finding her expression cute. "I guess I better carry you then," he replied, a soft and proud smile gracing his lips. This added a whole new dimension to the phrase "not being able to feel their legs" — something he was genuinely proud of this time around.

Spike cradled Fang in his arms, carrying her back into the bathroom with a sense of gentle determination. The room was indeed in disarray, but he seemed unfazed, choosing to focus on the more immediate need at hand. Demonstrating with a flourish, he adjusted the faucets with practiced precision, ensuring a perfect blend of hot and cold water to create a comfortably warm bath.

Maintaining his hold on her, he carefully lowered Fang into the tub, the soothing water enveloping her form. The sound of the flowing water created a serene ambiance in the room, providing a brief respite from the intensity of their earlier activities. Spike decided to join her in the bath, carefully maneuvering to find his spot opposite her. The warmth of the water brought a welcomed sense of relaxation, and he couldn't help but exhale a contented sigh.

Once settled, Spike reached for some towels from the open cabinet, strategically placing them to absorb any lingering moisture and water on the floor. The towels also served as a makeshift rug, offering a non-slip surface for when they eventually emerged from the bath. The steam rose around them, creating an intimate atmosphere as they shared the soothing waters, finding solace in the quiet comfort of each other's presence.

"So..."

Now that it was over, what was there to say? Would this alter the relationship they had built together so far? Could it possibly strengthen it? Was it a one-time thing, or could he have another go at it? His mind swam with these thoughts, and he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. "Should I meet your parents?"

It was nice, really, being carried like this. Something about it made her feel safe and cherished, and it felt...right. He'd carried her from the bath to bed, and now they were going in reverse. Fortunately, this time Spike showed how to work the knobs and when he lowered her into the tub, it was warm and soothing instead of an icy deathtrap. She sank down into the water, sighing gratefully, wincing only a little as she realized how sore she was. And not just the obvious place; her legs ached and even her butt was sore. How, she had no idea.

Spike joined her, settling in across from her, and she stretched her legs out so they were on either side of as she sank down to her chin. This was almost as good as the sex. Almost. And she had just started to close her eyes, content and warm, when Spike opened his mouth.

Cold hard reality struck her like a slap to the face and her entire body recoiled, spilling water over the sides of the tub as she jerked upright. 

"NO!" she said, and clapped a hand to her mouth as she realized how forcefully she'd exclaimed it. Sucking in a breath, she hunched her shoulders and cleared her throat, looking down into the water. "Ah, ahem, I mean...no. That wouldn't be a good idea. At all."

Now her heart was pounding for a new reason altogether, anxiety creeping in and chilling her blood. Everything came rushing back in: she had broken so many rules already. She was supposed to stay close to the Temple, but her mother had given her leeway to explore Kunata to help the local spirits after a long, passionate argument: how was she supposed to use her gift by staying in one place? Yiroa was skeptical; she knew her daughter and her questionable decision-making, and she had nearly gotten herself stabbed once already. But she had relented, giving her a chance, on the condition that she was to write her weekly so she knew she was still alive and hadn't done anything stupid.

Her last letter had been sent just before they boarded the ship. A ship she was very much not supposed to board, and she had been assaulted and nearly killed not a day in.

And now she was in Serendipity.

Naked.

In a bath, washing off the evidence of what she'd just done with a Serenian man. Wait. Evidence. Oh. Oh goddess.

Her thoughts spiraled, her eyes going wide as she replayed what they had done. He had spilled his seed, wasted Inima's gift. Their sex had been for fun—which was all she wanted from it, she certainly wasn't prepared to carry a child! But in that moment it was just one more transgression in a growing list of them and she pressed a hand to her mouth in realization, guilt spreading through the euphoria. 

"I would be in so much trouble if they knew," she said, and sank down into the water again. "They...they're not...it's complicated."

Fang's unexpected response left Spike in a state of bewilderment, his confusion palpable in the furrow of his brows and the subtle crease on his forehead. Beneath the surface, however, a tinge of hurt lingered in his expression, not because of the rejection itself, but rather the uncertainty of having inadvertently caused discomfort.

Had he said something wrong? Did he do something wrong?

It was because of who he was, right? An ex-assassin?

"Oh, I'm sorry," he muttered, the words carrying a weight of regret as he allowed himself to sink a little lower into the tub. His attempt to articulate his feelings stumbled, "It's just that... I thought, when you do this, it's customary for..." He hesitated, his voice trailing off as embarrassment overcame him. "Well," a little deeper, "you know." Finally, he surrendered to the water, submerging himself completely, a physical manifestation of his discomfort and desire to escape the awkwardness that had enveloped the moment.

"Hey!" 

Fang lunged forward which, in the small space, soon had her straddling him again. She wasn't sure what had just happened or what this customary stuff he was talking about was, but she had a feeling it was another cultural thing she just wasn't savvy to.

Hooking her hands under his armpits, she tugged at him, trying to pull him back up before he committed some sort of ritual suicide because...who knew why!

"Hey, wait, come back!"

Fang might not have been strong enough to pull him up on his own, but her touch regardless prompted him to rise. As she grabbed hold of him, he emerged from the bathwater, a cascade of liquid streaming from his hair, dripping around his face, and trickling onto his shoulder. His flushed face revealed a blend of embarrassment and vulnerability.

And she was straddling him again.

His expression underwent a gradual transformation—slight hurt, vulnerability, off-guard surprise, followed by curiosity and a hint of excitement. In spite of this emotional rollercoaster, he managed a smile, gesturing toward his waist before locking eyes with her once more. "I'm sorry, it is a bit sore. Could we perhaps revisit that in the morning instead?"

He resurfaced, thank Inima, and Fang watched in confusion as so many expressions played out across his face until. She opened her mouth, about ready to ask for an explanation because what had gotten into him?!

But he spoke first.

"It"?

Fang glanced downward—and more water sloshed over the edge as she moved off of him, splashing back down into the water on her side of the tub. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't—I wasn't trying to—!" she sputtered out, and her blush only grew when the full weight of his words hit her: revisit this in the morning? He...he wanted to do it again? Well, obviously! And it wasn't like she wasn't hoping to try it out again, but saying it out loud was a different thing altogether!

It was her turn to sink into the water until it was to her chin, but warm water couldn't exactly cool a hot face. "R-right. Yes. Tomorrow. But, um, that wasn't actually what I—wait. Sore? It's sore?" Concern flashed in her eyes. "Did I hurt you?"

Her reaction was cute. Her concern was cute. Why was everything she did so cute to him? However, it did create an opening for a bit of playful banter, a much-needed mood lifter.

"Oh very much so" he teased, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Maybe you could massage it a little?"

His hands hovered above the water, a preemptive gesture of surrender. "Kidding! I'm fine! I think that's a good thing in this case."

Refocusing, Spike addressed the earlier subject with a bit of hesitation. "You know, you don't have to introduce me to your parents or anything. I just, well, heard somewhere that when people... you know, make love, it's kind of customary to meet each other's families afterward. Or was it before?"

Shut up, Spike.

"I m-mean, I will if you want me too!"

Spike, shut it!

"Oh! And I didn't mean making love like.. making love.. I meant it more like," he let out an exasperated breath. "Making love."

Boy was he tired. He decided to bathe quickly.

Spike was like a whirlwind in that tub—blink, and you'd miss it. Before Fang could even untangle the mess of his words, he was out, dried, dressed for a slumber party with himself, and lying on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Next door, a symphony of sniffles played out. Amidst the tears, a voice lamented, "Why does the man next door have to flaunt it? Us single folks are suffering here!"

Massage—?!

Despite their previous intimacy, the visual that induced made Fang sputter, blowing bubbles in the water in the process. Spike was quick to clarify it as a joke, but Fang still sank her face into her hands and rubbed her temples as though trying to purge the wickedness from her brain.

Because, well...it wasn't like she was opposed...

He held his hands up in surrender and she let out a nervous laugh, dunking beneath the water briefly for even considering it—but perhaps that topic would have been much safer to explore, and kept his mouth shut better, than everything that came right after.

Because oh boy.

What followed was a cacophony of words, an outright landslide that started out as a pebble before taking the entire cliff and all the houses with it. Wiping the hair and water out of her face, Fang stared at him, opening her mouth to interject before closing it when he just kept going, getting more and more bewildering by the second. People...people introduced their families when they had sex?! W-what in the Serenian insanity—?! And...making love...but not like making love...? Her head spun. She understood the euphemism as a polite way of saying sex—or so she thought she did. But Spike's emphasis on the words kept changing and it seemed like they meant different things despite being the same words!

And then he was gone, and she was alone in the bath with a dull headache throbbing behind her eyes.

What had she gotten herself into...? Thank the goddess Spike didn't have parents because she would not enjoy showing up on their doorstep to announce their bedroom business! How did that conversation even go?! "Hi mom, dads, this is Spike, we just had sex."

What a nightmare.

She finished up her bathing routine, taking longer than Spike with all her hair, but when she finally stepped from the room her wet hair was combed and braided and she was wrapped in her towel. She gave Spike an awkward sidelong look—he was dressed, she noticed, and she did not plan to be because what was the point?—before she draped her towel over the chair and dove beneath the covers, wrenching them up to her chin.

"So...um..." She stared up at the ceiling.

"Wanna try again?" She blinked, paused, and decided to reframe. "What you said. The conversation. Want to start over?"

Spike was never one to sleep in the nude. The idea never really crossed his mind. The comfort of clothes during sleep provided a sense of readiness, a precautionary measure for unexpected situations that might demand quick action. Whether it was the need for immediate response or the instinct to stay prepared, he found solace in the familiarity of clothed slumber. That, and better a knife to the throat than a knife to some other part if he was in a deep cycle. Spike knew well how much of a force he could be - nobody wanted to get their ass kicked from a man with his dong out.

So when Fang entered the room without clothes, and showing no sign of requiring them, it made him second guess his decision.

Was he doing this wrong too?

"Wanna try again?" she had asked.

A hint of confusion furrowed his brow, but amidst the uncertainty, a spark of excitement couldn't be denied. He sat up just a bit and..

"The conversation. Want to start over?

Oh, right.

"Hm?" he responded with a soft tone, feigning ignorance.

Fang rolled over onto her side to face him, propping herself up onto an elbow. No way he'd already forgotten after all that! 

"You know, that stuff you were talking about," she gently prompted, lifting her eyebrows meaningfully.

"The, um...customary things?" She cleared her throat and looked away, fidgeting with the covers as she spoke. "I just want to make sure I'm understanding this correctly. It's customary in Serendipity to let your parents know when you've...had intercourse?"

Spike shifted onto his side, propping his head up with an elbow on the pillow, meeting Fang's gaze. The defeated expression on his face betrayed the complexity of his feelings. "No," he admitted with a sigh, "forget I said that. That's not what I meant."

His eyes, usually sharp and focused, now seemed lost in thought. As if he was navigating through a maze of uncertainties, he hesitated. "What I mean to say is, well... I've also read things. You know, when you like someone, you might introduce them to your family."

He rolled back onto his back, gazing up at the ceiling as if seeking solace there. "I'm sorry," he confessed, his tone a mix of genuine remorse and pure awkwardness. "I'm not good at this."

"Oh." Fang blinked owlishly at that. That made significantly more sense and sounded way less creepy and invasive than the original version. With a relieved sigh, she nodded at his explanation. "That makes more sense, I think. Especially with what I understand of this country."

Scooting a little closer to him, she cuddled against his side with an arm thrown over him, her head resting against his shoulder. "You're fine, Spike. I'm sorry if I...if I was insensitive. I'm not very good at this, either...like at all. Not even a little bit," she said with a soft laugh. "So you're not alone there. It's just..."

Hmm. How to explain.

"Back home, it's different. We don't introduce our partner to our parents because they already know them—because they were the ones that arranged the betrothal in the first place and vetted everyone. I understand it's mostly nobility that does that here? That everyone else just...somehow...finds someone on their own?" Her brow furrowed a little, hoping she got it right; for her it was a foreign concept.

"Priests and priestesses don't do that. Our service is to Inima and the people we serve. We don't have betrothals, we don't marry, we don't have relationships like that. They're distractions. I...suppose I can see the truth in that." She squeezed him tighter. "What I'm saying is, my mother would be rightfully livid if she knew, and it would reflect badly on her. And...it would just be bad. Really bad." She swallowed, looking away. "Considering she's the Maharani."

The warmth of Fang's body pressed against him, and Spike instinctively wrapped an arm around her as they lay in bed. Despite the recent intimacy, the comfort of her presence was a grounding force, offering solace in the wake of their tangled circumstances. As Fang inquired about Serenian courtship and nobility, Spike took a moment to ponder. His knowledge of the outside world was limited, but her observations seemed accurate – free choices for most, except for the nobility shackled by arranged marriages.

"Yeah," he admitted aloud, his thoughts whispering in the background, "noble marriages, all prim and proper on the surface, but beneath..." His mind trailed off as he contemplated the clandestine affairs and betrayals that often unfolded within the aristocratic circles, usually leading to becoming a name on his list.

However, Fang's next revelation caught him off guard. As she mentioned her mother being the Maharani, a shock of horror briefly crossed Spike's face, though he swiftly masked it with a composed demeanor. Holding Fang closer, he averted his gaze toward the ceiling, and held it there, his silence belying the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind. The realization that Fang hailed from such lineage brought an unforeseen complication, injecting a dose of uncertainty into the already complex tapestry of their connection.

Had he really just had sex with the daughter of the Maharani?

Had he truly fallen in love with Fang, the daughter of the leader of Thanatos?

...Was it love?

"Yeah, I don't need to meet your parents," he managed, kissing the top of her head. "Let's just.. enjoy each other, for the moment."

His quick agreement and total about-face got a laugh out of Fang, and she gave him another warm squeeze. 

"A wise choice," she said with a nod even as that familiar guilt tapped at her brain, but she pushed it away stubbornly. Her limbs felt heavy and relaxed, and while she had stopped feeling trembly and wobbly in the bath, goodness was she sore. And tired. Who knew  "making love" could be such a workout?

Nuzzling against him, eyes closed, she let out a quiet sigh. "It'll be fine. I'm here now, so I'll just do as the Serenians do, same as we expect of travelers to my country. If there's anyone you'd want to introduce me to, if that's your custom and your preference, I'm okay with that. Obviously you can't tell them my station, but I doubt anyone would recognize me. Fang's not an uncommon Thanati name, unless you give my full name. And I'm not really, um..." She shrugged. "Talked about, I suppose?"

Spike lay sprawled across the bed, the aftermath of their passionate encounter evident in the slightly sore muscles that protested every movement. A satisfied fatigue had settled over him, the intensity of their connection leaving his limbs pleasantly heavy, his bones sinking into the soft mattress as if they were becoming one with it. The gentle hum of contentment echoed through his body, a harmonious blend of exhaustion and fulfillment.

The scent of a freshly bathed Fang lingered in the air, enveloping him in a cocoon of comfort. It was a fragrance that intertwined with the warmth of her skin as she nuzzled into him, creating an intimate symphony of sensations. The tender touch of her body against his own served as a soothing balm, a reminder of the shared vulnerability that had brought them together.

"If there's anyone you'd want to introduce me to, if that's your custom and your preference, I'm okay with that."

Spike's soft laughter carried a tinge of melancholy, a bitter acknowledgment of the void that existed where traditional introductions would have taken place. As Fang spoke of the possibility of introductions, he felt a pang of sadness deep within him, recognizing the absence of the familial bonds he had never experienced.

"Introductions, huh?" Spike mused, his tone reflective. "That's a tough one. I don't really have anyone to introduce you to. No family that I know of, and the folks from my past are the kind you'd want to keep a safe distance from, believe me."

His gaze wandered across the room, a fleeting glance into the solitude that defined his existence. The thought of familiar faces brought with it a shiver of trepidation, a reminder of the dangers lurking in the shadows of his past - dangers that they now had the possibility of walking back into. Despite the somber undertones, he met Fang's eyes with a faint smile, and let his lips find hers for a few cherished moments.

"Hush," he whispered, cradling her face. "I'd talk about you to anyone that would listen. You're perfect. Just.. I don't have anyone to tell."

Goddess, he was so...

Cute?

Maybe that was a strange thing to think about a grown man and former assassin, a man who had taken out three men for her without breaking a sweat, a man who made her tremble all over until she couldn't breathe, but...he was. He was sweet, awkward, and surprisingly candid and vulnerable despite what he'd been through. Some people protected their hearts with stone when they'd been hurt as he had, but it seemed the layers had been thin and crumbly.

Fang smiled at that, eyes still closed, leaning her head into his hand. "That's okay," she murmured. "It can be our thing alone. Our secret. We're the only ones who need to know."

Well, them and the entire inn, but she wasn't thinking about that right then as her body grew heavier, her breathing soft and even. She was fighting sleep and failing—and it wasn't long before she lost the battle entirely.

Not that she'd fought very hard.

As the night unfolded its velvety embrace, Spike pulled Fang even closer into his arms. The world around them faded into a symphony of hushed whispers, as the gentle rustling of leaves outside the window became a lullaby, and the distant hum of the city softened to a distant murmur. The warmth of their entwined bodies radiated between them. Spike's heartbeat played a gentle rhythm, synchronized with the quiet cadence of his breath. The scent of Fang's hair, still carrying a trace of the bath's fragrance, mingled with the subtle aroma of the room. Sleep, like a soft velvet curtain, descended upon them, embracing them in its tranquil hold as dreams beckoned on the horizon.

---

Spike stirred awake with the gradual return of consciousness, the remnants of sleep clinging to his senses like cobwebs. As he blinked away the remnants of dreams, his surroundings gradually materialized. The room, now painted in the muted hues of pre-dawn, offered a peaceful ambiance. His arms instinctively tightened around Fang, who still nestled in the crook of his embrace.

The realization of their intimate closeness slowly seeped into his groggy mind. His gaze trailed over Fang's form, memory nudging him. The blanket of sleep momentarily lifted, revealing the warmth of their connection. The room's tranquility cocooned them, and the flickering shadows cast by the early morning light played upon Fang's relaxed and naked features.

A hint of a smile touched Spike's lips, accompanied by a gentle, lingering admiration for the woman still cradled in his arms. And then, that smile became a touch mischievous, as their closeness and her soft, exposed body pressed into him, began to stiffen him again. However, he had really given her all of him the night before, and he surmised she might be too sore for a repeat performance. Given this, he opted for a more delicate approach. Softly, he frees his arms from the embrace, starting with a tender kiss on her neck. A deliberate descent under the covers follows, as his lips explore various parts of her body, ultimately leading him to between her legs to explore her sex with his tongue.

Fang's sleep had been deep and dreamless, the sleep of sheer and utter exhaustion—if a pleasant sort of exhaustion. The stress of many long days of travel followed by their bout of vigorous exercise didn't really leave much energy left over for thoughts, even unconscious ones, and it was the first time in days that they'd slept in a real bed. Needless to say, she was out for the count, and she barely stirred when he rose.

The kiss on the neck got a soft murmur from her, her head tilting to the side, but she still didn't wake. And though her body responded to his slow descent beneath the covers, she barely responded at all. Her nipples rose to taut peaks beneath his caresses, her skin shivered subtly, and a soft sigh left her as he moved ever lower, belly sucking in when it tickled. The veil of sleep began to lift but it still felt like dreaming to her sleep-addled mind.

This...was nice, she thought. These kisses and caresses were lovely. It had been a while since she'd had a dream that wasn't the violent one, but this...this was the complete opposite. Her breath came out a shivery sigh as she sleepily spread her legs to let him in because oh goddess, already that familiar hot, needy ache was growing—and not because she was sore. Would he take her again?

But then she felt something different moving against her, hot and wet, caressing over that part of her that made her body light up, and her eyes fluttered open with a little whimper. She stared up at the blurry ceiling as her vision adjusted, mind struggling to process everything, and realized only after several disorienting seconds that she was not dreaming.

Gasping, her hands shot down and curled in Spike's hair, her thighs closing against his head in surprise, and her face flooded with heat. "S-Spike?! W...what...what are you—?"

Ohmygoddessohmygoddessohmygoddess! Was that..if she was gripping his head, was he—?! Was that his mouth?! There?!

Her skin burned hotter with embarrassment, but then his tongue moved against that small, sensitive spot just right and she let out a sharp moan, her hips involuntarily jerking up against his mouth. "Spike!"

She was wide awake now.

It was a certainly an acquired taste, unfamiliar to him until now, and not something he actively sought. Unlike the taste of food or drink, it fell into a category of its own. Yet, an inexplicable urge led him to explore this new sensation. She compelled him, her happiness and her pleasure. He wanted to taste it. He wanted to taste her.

The adorable sounds she produced—moans, whimpers, even a ticklish giggle—didn't deter him; if anything, they fueled his passion. Spirited by the sensations, he enveloped her soft, slightly trembling legs with his arms, drawing her even closer as he dove in with the zeal of a fearless adventurer. One hand ventured up her body just enough to find her hand, fingers intertwining with hers.

"Good morning," he greeted between breaths and explorations. "Did you sleep well?"

"Wh-what?!" Fang managed to gasp out, still half trying to process that this was happening. Because while she had definitely read some things, enough to know some of the basics and even a few different ones mentioned in the scandalous poetry she'd read, quite a few were still a mystery to her. This was one of them. Well, up until that moment.

It was difficult to think; did he expect a coherent answer out of her?! Crying out, she squeezed his hand tightly and arched into him, her other hand grabbing at the sheets so she didn't pull at his hair; she didn't want to hurt him, and oh goddess it was intense. His arms around her legs, tense and trembling with pleasure, controlled some of her wild squirming and kept her in place. Which was probably a good thing, because she felt herself rapidly losing control.

"I-I...I slept..." She cut off with a moan and clapped the hand that had been clutching the sheets to her mouth, biting her finger. "I slept...oh goddess, Spike, I don't know!" she cried out, the sound edging close to a sob as she threw her head back. "Spike, oh goddess, please!"

Spike's lips curled into a smile, his tongue working tirelessly. He persisted, unwilling to cease until he sensed she had absorbed every ounce of effort he poured into his task. Fragmented responses punctuated the atmosphere – her hand clenching his with a strained grip, the tremors coursing through her bones, the prickling sensation on her skin, and the imminent release of a near scream.

That may have done it.

Coming to a stop, he gazed up at her with a contented smile, his breathing slightly more pronounced but still controlled. With an almost youthful enthusiasm, he locked eyes with her. "Did that feel good?"

Did that feel good, he asked.

Face flushed, lips parted, chest heaving with gasping breaths, Fang peered at Spike through her lashes, slightly incredulous. She was still shivering and she had cried out loud enough to wake the dead and he asks if it felt good?

She nodded weakly, swallowing hard. "I think you can tell? Maybe?" she ventured with a sheepish laugh, scrubbing a hand over her hot face. "Sweet goddess, where did you even learn that?"

And yet, even though her body was awash with heat and pleasure and tingling to her toes, that strange, deep ache remained, a need for something more despite the satisfaction. If anything, her release only made her more hyper aware of it, made her craving more intense—and she realized it was him. He was the missing piece. She wanted to feel that again, but she wanted him filling her while she did, wanted to feel him plunging in deep until she could take no more with his body hot against her own.

But. There was no way she could say that. Despite their intimacy, the idea of initiating or asking something so...so dirty...was intimidating beyond belief. And besides, it wasn't fair after he had made her feel so amazing. She wanted him to feel that good, too.

Lifting up onto her elbows, she took a deep breath. "It was so good, I can't even...no, not good—it was amazing, Spike," she said softly, and lowered her eyes, biting her lip. "But, ah...what about you? Is there, um, anything I can...?" She trailed off, losing the nerve.

Spike's wide grin persisted as Fang expressed her satisfaction with his work. Her happiness seemed to fuel his own, adding a spark of excitement to the air. She made him feel.. so happy. Not only that, but something else - naughty. When she offered to return the favor, in her own shy and awkward way, his heart nearly melted.

"No, I just wanted to make you feel good," Spike replied sincerely. He took her hands, guiding her out of the bed with a gentle touch. After releasing her, he turned to undress out of his night clothes, the room filling with a sense of casual intimacy. Spike began rummaging through his bag, selecting clothes for the day as he continued the conversation.

But that was only half the truth, wasn't it?

With his pants now off, the revealing scene below his waist spoke volumes - Spike was unmistakably aroused, aching with desire. As he cast a glance over his shoulder, Fang's exposed backside, adorned with smooth skin and her intricate tattoos visible, intensified the throbbing sensation. In that charged moment, he found there was something she could do, and he decided to surprise her once more.

Feeling his heartbeat quicken, Spike approached Fang from behind, gently grasping her shoulders before guiding her towards the wall. With a firm grip on his cock, he positioned himself to tease the lips of her sex from behind, the soft contact of her ass against his waist awakening something urgent within him.

In an instant, Spike found himself fully immersed in her, the encounter unfolding with unbridled intensity. It was passionate, raw, unrelenting, merciless, fueled by primal instincts that surged through his core. He cradled her face, his hands explored the curves of her breasts, his lips danced along her neck, and he savored the taste of her lips, and their skin slapped together and the cries and moans of their wet sex reverberated off of the walls. He didn't care who all heard, or how many people heard, as he completely lost himself in her.

...Really?

Pulled to her feet, Fang peered curiously up at Spike, surprised—and touched—by his answer. He just wanted to make her feel good? That was it? It was such a sweet, selfless act that she felt herself melt with a strange fluttering in her belly. It didn't change the fact that she still really, really wanted him, but...

There would be other opportunities, right? They had come here with a goal, and they owed it to Maya to commit. They couldn't just stay in bed all day exploring each others' bodies. Responsibility! Diligence! She was a priestess, for Inima's sake, and she needed to pull herself together!

Ugh, but she supposed she could see why such things were discouraged. Spike had become very...distracting, she thought as she watched him turn to undress, her eyes wandering over the contours of his scarred back all the way down to his shapely rear...

Nope! She jerked her eyes away, turned, and went to dig into her bag for her clothes, sucking in a bracing breath. She would have to clean up a bit first for obvious reasons, but she could be fast. 

She had just grabbed out a top and long sarong when she felt Spike's hands in her shoulders. She startled, opening her mouth to ask what he was doing, but soon she had her answer. Pushed up against the wall, she braced herself so her forearms were rested against it—and then drew in a sharp breath when she felt his cock sliding against her sex. Oh. Oh. Wait. Like this?! 

Desire, need, and a little embarrassment swept through her in a breathless rush as she pressed her cheek against the wall to peek back at him in question.

And then he gave her exactly what she wanted.

The first thrust took her breath away, and she didn't think she caught it again after that. The position had him sliding deeper than before, hitting sensitive spots and new spots altogether at brand new angles. Goddess, she had thought he'd taken her roughly that first time but here she felt truly claimed. Perhaps it was the fierceness, the primal urgency, or perhaps it was that she felt truly at his mercy pinned like this and barely able to see him. Yet through it all, with a strange thrill, she realized she liked the sound of being his, of belonging to him—which were all thoughts to deconstruct later.

Fang's screams of pleasure echoed through the room, and someone banged on the wall from the other side, but their shouts were drowned out by her cries and for the moment, at least, she just didn't care. She arched back into his pounding and clawed at the wall for purchase, for as his body slapped against hers, rocking her forward, she started to feel herself slipping. It didn't help, either, that between the primal rutting and the exploration of his hands and lips, she felt that aching pressure begin to build anew—and her legs were going weak. It was getting harder and harder to keep upright, and she gasped out to Spike, "I-I'm gonna fall!"

His own moans harmonized with hers, the symphony of pleasure echoing in the room. Fang's passionate screams fueled his desire, each one igniting a primal hunger within him. Gripping her hips for balance, he emitted a low, hungry growl, a sound that betrayed the intensity of the moment. With unbridled greed, he claimed her as his own, an insatiable cycle of taking her time and time again. His hands, possessive and demanding, guided her to his liking — at times on her waist, then her back, and occasionally entwined in her hair.

"Oh, f-fuck," escaped him in a guttural moan, the phrase slipping out more than once when...

"I-I'm going to fall!"

Reacting on pure instinct, he withdrew from her, a deep breath escaping him as he swiftly turned her around, before lifting her up with his arms under her legs. He felt her arms get thrown around his neck for support as he reentered her. Against the wall, she hung suspended in the air, and he went deeper into her. Pleasure and a sense of control surged through him, causing his entire body to tense in the most satisfying ways. Pressing her his forehead against her own, he locked eyes with her, craving eye contact, and groaned, "It's about to happen again!"

Yep, still couldn't say it appropriately.

It was wild how easily he moved her about, handling her like she was weightless. Fang barely had time to register him leaving her before the world spun and her back was to the wall, and suddenly he was hoisting her up, her arms around his neck and her legs over his arms. She yelped in surprise as she clung to him, blushing hotly, searching his face with wide eyes as she hung there for what felt like eternity...and felt incredibly exposed. In truth, he didn't keep her waiting long.

Soon he was slamming into her again, her screams turning into sobs of pleasure as he took her with an intensity that rode almost to the edge of pain, but never quite crossed it. She felt powerless in his arms, unable to move, unable to do anything but just take it, but goddess, she was surprised at how much she loved it. And even more—she trusted him. She trusted with her pleasure and her safety even as he took complete and utter control, and perhaps it was that trust that made her love the surrender.

And so she gave herself to him completely, meeting his eyes even though she shyly wanted to look away, lips parted as her cries blended with his and echoed off the walls. Something was, indeed, happening, that tight, heated pressure building between her legs as she clenched around his cock, legs stiffening, her breathing becoming more ragged. Her hands tangled in his hair like she was holding on for her life—and then he said those familiar words.

"M-me too," she gasped, and clutched him harder, desperately. "Stay," she whimpered. "Please stay. Inside me. Please, please...!"

But her pleading cut off with sobbing scream as she tipped over the edge, trembling uncontrollably—and she kept her eyes on his as she did.

Spike's pleasure became somewhat selfish. While his initial goal was to bring happiness and pleasure to Fang, he found himself increasingly focused on his own desires during the height of their passion. Experimenting with a balance between intensity and caution, he explored various positions guided by his cock. His movements became assertive, driven by an instinctive desire to claim her entirely as his own.

Despite the twinge of selfishness, when she pleaded and begged for him to stay inside her, Spike found himself surprised. In that moment, he acted on instinct, without contemplating the consequences or reasoning. His primary focus was on ensuring her pleasure and savoring the intimate connection, driven by an overwhelming desire for both of them to experience pleasure and fulfillment. And now? He wanted to fill her.

His body tensed in excruciating pleasure, his head thrown back, and he nearly growled as his cock exploded white and hot inside of her.

His body tensed in excruciating pleasure, head thrown back, and a guttural sound escaped him as his cock exploded inside of her.

"Oh, fuck!" he screamed this time. "Fang!"

Reality slowly seeped back in, trailing along with the juices of their love. Breathing heavily, barely in control, he fervently kissed her, his weight nearly pinning her suspended in the moment. Gradually descending from the heights of ecstasy, he summoned the last of his morning strength to carry her back to the bed, delicately laying her down. Then, he collapsed next to her.

Spike followed close behind her while she was still in the throes of climax, and the sensation of his own release, the way he pulsed and spasmed and filled her with heat, the way he yelled her name at his peak, only helped to draw it out. He kissed her and her own mouth was hungry against his, one hand sliding to cup his cheek and keep him there as she breathed him in and tasted him—and even tasted herself still on his lips.

Nothing else mattered in that moment. Nothing else existed. Just the two of them and this room, sharing in each other and learning their bodies.

Carried to the bed once more, which seemed now to be a trend, Fang sprawled out as Spike laid her there, boneless and content. Her chest heaved as she gulped in air, her skin was deliciously sensitive all over, and soon Spike was collapsed against her. With a slow stretch like a lazy cat, Fang rolled onto her side and nestled into him.

Reality, and clarity, slowly crept back in. As she nuzzled her cheek against his chest, eyes closed, a thought occurred to her. Probably not the important one, but it was a start.

"I don't think I've ever heard you curse before," she murmured sleepily.

That was the first thing that came to her mind?

Really? That?

Spike couldn't help but laugh, a breathless and cheerful sound that began softly and escalated into a delirious state. His hand involuntarily started playing with Fang's hair, caught in the bliss of the moment.

He wasn't one to curse often, but caught in the moment, it slipped effortlessly from his lips. Perhaps he hadn't cursed in front of her before. His guard was typically up, a combination of his natural awkwardness, a desire to protect her, and a shield for himself. However, in that moment, all defenses crumbled, and there was no caution, just him—raw and completely exposed.

"We should.. probably.. get ready," he managed, his breathing gradually coming under control. "Before.. the maids.. show up."

Fang didn't really know what was so funny—it was just something she'd noticed! But Spike's laughter was contagious and no matter how she resisted it, she soon fell into a fit of giggles, laughing all the harder because she wasn't sure why she was laughing. She just felt...giddy, a little high and pleasantly tired after what they'd done with the sensations still lingering.

It was Spike's words that sobered her again. Maids?

Well. Of course. They couldn't just stay here forever and someone had to clean the rooms between stays. But...

The angry pounding on the walls. The sounds they'd made. The state of the bed. Fang glanced down at the sheets—white, of course they were white—and realized with slow-building horror just how messy they were, stained with a small smear of red she hadn't noticed before in the nighttime and—

Well, and her own current mess slowly leaking from between her legs.

With a groan, she buried her face against Spike, mumbling against his skin, "...everyone's gonna know."

Despite the disarray of the room, Spike's concern about discretion lingered like a shadow. The white sheets bore the evidence of their intimate encounter, stains marking the intensity of their passion. A few toppled items scattered about, remnants of their shared moments. The faint scent of their union hung in the air, a lingering testament to their connection. While the room bore witness to their intimate escapade, Spike felt a subtle reassurance that their secret was safe in the anonymity of the unfamiliar inn, far removed from the prying eyes of home.

"It's alright," he reassured her gently. "Here, we're just strangers passing through. What they think doesn't matter. I only care about how I feel about you."

With a tender lift, he cradled her head against his chest. "If you want to leave discreetly, we can," he suggested. "How about a cup of tea to kickstart our day? There's a little shop nearby."

Leave discreetly? 

That got Fang's attention and she craned her neck to look up at him hopefully. Sure, she knew he was right, no one knew them here, she knew on an objective level that it didn't matter and they'd never see these folks again, but the idea of making eye contact with anyone in that inn after everything was...

Quite mortifying.

"How would we do that?" she asked slowly, shifting a look toward the window. They were on the second floor, after all. Her eyebrows climbed. "You're not suggesting...?"

Spike observed Fang, his brow furrowed in bemusement, as her gaze fixated on the window. Her mind, an enigma he often struggled to unravel, seemed to be concocting scenarios that danced on the edge of the outrageous. As her eyes remained glued to the window, Spike couldn't help but wonder about the possibilities swirling in her imagination. Did she envision a daring escape, catapulting them out the window and navigating a perilous parkour descent? Was she secretly harboring the ability to fly, contemplating the logistics of managing his weight mid-air? Or perhaps, in the whimsical tapestry of her thoughts, had she momentarily forgotten they were on the second floor and would nearly plunge to her death?

Well, Spike certainly couldn't let that happen. He gracefully disentangled himself from her, retaining the lingering warmth of her warmth on his skin as he ambled around the room in his unabashed nakedness. Retrieving his coat – a large garment with a hood that would dwarf Fang upon descent – he laid it beside her, something she could wear to obscure her face. That should work well enough.

"We are not going through the window," he said firmly. "Wear this, we'll walk out the front door. I'm sure they innkeepers are used to... this sort of thing?"

Fang openly watched Spike as he walked about the room, able to appreciate his form even more now, but when he returned with his coat she couldn't help but give it a skeptical frown. She didn't have to try it on to know she'd be absolutely swimming in it and that it would keep her nice and hidden.

But.

She was also pretty sure anyone with half a brain could deduce who the short person under the big man-coat was, and also...

Unable to help it, she sank her face into her hands with a soft fit of laughter. "Oh, I should think that'll make me look even more conspicuous and ashamed! I may as well wear a tabard announcing my 'crime' and stand in the village square!" Lifting her head from her hands, still grinning, she reached out and caught Spike's arm, tugging him in closer.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh," she said, and leaned up to kiss him. "You're so sweet to consider my comfort here, but..." A deep breath. "You're probably right. Maybe I should just...try not to care so much? Walk out with my head held high? It's not like we did anything unnatural. I'm not ashamed of you or what we shared. Truly."

She pushed up off the bed, rising to her feet—and then made a face when, as though on cue, gravity did its thing and his...evidence...trickled down her thigh. 

Spike observed Fang rising, his attention instinctively captured by the subtle play of light tracing her legs and other things, and...

Oh my goddesses, he wanted her again. A primal desire surged within him, a magnetic pull drawing him toward her once more. He wanted to pin her to the bed, explore every inch of her, and fill her. They could be quick, quiet, and...

Nope! No time. Get it together, Spike.

Spike moved rather quickly to hide the swelling evidence below his waistline. He began with a pair of form-fitting, midnight-black pants that clung to their legs with a seamless grace. Following the pants, he adorned themselves with a sleek, long-sleeved shirt that seamlessly blended into the shadows. The tailored fit accentuated his agile frame, ensuring both comfort and a discreet silhouette.

"So no coat, then?" he asked with a coy smile, turning to her once he was prepared for the day.

Fang was so distracted with the mess that she didn't notice Spike's staring, nor the effect it had on him. She was too busy waddling to the washroom, her clothes bundled in her arms, where she cleaned herself up as quickly as she could—while simultaneously trying not to panic.

Was she absolutely out of her mind?

She'd told him to do it. Begged him to, really, riding the high of pleasure and more than a little lingering religious guilt. But now that it was done and she was wiping away the consequences, she couldn't help but regret it. It was such an incredibly stupid thing to do when she was in no way prepared, equipped, or willing to carry a child. Children had always been a "maybe one day, maybe" that had leaned heavily on the "no" side of "maybe" and that hadn't magically changed—but goddess she couldn't help the gnawing guilt that she should just enjoy this just for the sake of enjoying it.

And now...goddess, the last thing she wanted was to deal with a bigger consequence when she wasn't even in her home country.

She stayed in the room a little longer than she needed just to calm down and wash her face with cold water, and when she felt decent enough she dressed and stepped back into the room. Her sarong reached her ankles, and her top was sleeveless and bared her midriff and pierced navel, tying around her neck. Not exactly Serendipity appropriate, but she imagined they could do something about that while they were here. She pulled her hair free of its braid, letting it fall around her shoulders in waves, courtesy of the overnight braid.

Spike was also dressed when she returned, and then he made that coy little quip at her that made her smile sheepishly.

"We'll see. I think maybe you have the right idea, though. It's not a big deal, right? So if we just act casual and normal, it'll be fine."

Right?

Fang was in the bathroom for what felt like an eternity to Spike. The questions swirled in his mind – another leisurely bath, a meticulous cleanup, or perhaps something else entirely? When she finally emerged, responding to his earlier remark, Fang's sarong cascaded gracefully to her ankles, accentuating the curves that Spike had grown rather fond of. Her hair tumbled effortlessly around her face, and in that moment, she looked utterly stunning. For a heartbeat, Spike found himself momentarily at a loss for words. After a discreet throat-clearing and a mental pep talk, he finally managed to break the silence.

"Right," he said softly. "Should be fine.."

What Spike did next was anything but low-profile. Gathering their belongings, he flashed a unexpectedly playful grin and said, "Come along, lover," before effortlessly scooping her up from under her legs. Carrying her as if she weighed nothing, he sauntered out of the room with unapologetic confidence. The maid, already stationed outside, eyed the scene with a mixture of surprise and discreet amusement as Spike descended the stairs with determined strides. Passing the reception desk, Spike tossed an extra set of coins carelessly onto it, the metallic clink punctuating their triumphant exit. With a polite grin, he declared, "Best night ever," leaving the establishment in their wake, turning heads and leaving an indelible mark on the place.

Should be fine, Spike said. 

They could leave discreetly, he said.

Except the next words he said were, "Come along, lover," and then she was swept up into his arms like a bride.

Fang let out a yelp of surprise, threw her arms around his neck to hold on, and her eyes went saucer-wide as he marched toward the door. Face flushing with heat, she squirmed in his grip and let out a strangled whisper-yell of, "What'reyoudoing?"

It was very clear what he was doing. 

Out the room they went and down the stairs, and this was sort of how she'd pictured them escaping out the window except that had been OUT THE WINDOW. Not down into the very occupied main room where several patrons we're taking meals. And while Fang had spoken of leaving with her head high and unashamed, that was very much not what happened. Absolutely mortified, she let out a groan and buried her face in the crook of his neck...and that did not help matters. Somehow, she managed to do a walk of shame without walking while Spike looked like the cat that got the canary and the cream.

And then... "Best night ever."

Noooooooo...

And had he thrown extra money on the counter?!

WAIT JUST A MINUTE.

Soon they were outside, and for several long minutes Fang could say nothing, lost for words entirely, her face still buried. When she finally found the words to speak, it came out a gritted, "Put me down, Spike."

Once outside the inn, Spike's playful high began to dissolve, and the weight of reality came crashing down. He suddenly found himself awkwardly holding Fang in his arms, his expression shifting from carefree to a mix of embarrassment and realization.

With an embarrassed grin, Spike gently lowered Fang to the ground, struggling to meet her eyes. "Uh, sorry about that," he mumbled, his voice almost apologetic. His unexpected bravado seemed to have taken a sudden vacation.

Spike scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish. "I got a bit carried away there," he admitted, his grin now more apologetic than mischievous.

Fang was quiet as he set her down, and was quiet as she straightened out her clothes and her hair, using that to buy time to collect her thoughts. She didn't look at Spike as he apologized; more like she looked at anything else but him.

Breathe, breathe, just breathe.

Finally she rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin to look up at him, eyes filled with hurt.

"Do you..." She swallowed down the lump in her throat and pressed on before she lost her courage, or before she choked on her words as her chest squeezed. "Do you really see me that way? As a whore?"

Spike's face went noticeably pale as a wave of intense regret and fear washed over him. Fang's suggestion, misinformed as it may have been, struck a chord deep within him. He didn't fully comprehend what had compelled him to act in such a way, but it certainly wasn't aligned with the reason Fang had just hinted at.

A flurry of thoughts raced through Spike's mind. Was he really that bad at just being a person? He thought she might enjoy it, believed he was living in the moment, letting go of the inhibitions that had clung to him since childhood. Maybe, just maybe, for that fleeting moment, he had allowed himself to act in a way that felt like the married couple they pretended to be back on the ship. Is that not what they would do? Was it because he carried her? He carried her all of the time!

His eyes betrayed the turmoil within as he looked at Fang, a mix of vulnerability and confusion, realizing that his impulsive actions might have blurred the lines between their playful charade and the reality of their dynamic. The weight of his own misjudgment hung in the air, and Spike wondered if he had inadvertently breached a boundary that shouldn't have been crossed.

"No, Fang, I love-"

He halted, grappling with his words, uncertain if he could articulate what needed to be said, especially to a Thanati priestess. The notion of expressing sentiments that might not align with her beliefs weighed heavily on him.

"I would never, and have never, viewed you in that way," he attempted to explain, the sincerity in his voice underscoring his struggle. "I guess I.. I'm not what you'd consider a proper person, I suppose. Will you..."

Spike's face, still bearing the traces of regret, shifted as he impulsively got down on one knee. He gently took Fang's hand, the gesture bearing an uncanny resemblance to a proposal. His eyes, filled with a mixture of sincerity and misunderstanding, met hers.

"Will you forgive me?"

The change in his expression was instantaneous—and it gave her the answer before his words did. The regret, the fear, the confusion. He would have had to be a spectacular actor to pull off so many expressions in such a short time, and so convincingly on top of it—and while he was very skilled in a number of areas, Fang somehow doubted his skill there.

Did he...really not understand?

She had desperately hoped she was reading the situation wrong. Hadn't he defended her when Echen had thrown that word in her face? He had nearly slit his throat for that! And there was not one instance, not a single moment in time, when he had ever made her feel lesser. There was not a single moment where he made her feel disrespected or unsafe. When she looked at Spike she saw, and felt, security and affection—and that was why it hurt so, so much.

And yet, deep down, as much as Fang tried to ignore it...insecurity had taken root. The words had stung. The looks had stung. She had been assaulted for it. And though she had made a noble effort to hide it, she was afraid of what people thought of her, and always had been, especially here in a foreign land where she knew she would be judged.

And then...last night happened. And this morning. She indulged in pleasure for pleasure's sake with a Serenian man. More insecurity. More guilt. It all compounded, bubbling under the surface, and no matter how hard she pressed the lid down...eventually the pressure made it boil over.

The coin on the counter had done it. But. His eyes and words were telling a different story?

"No, Fang, I love—"

He cut off. What? He loved what? But then he continued, clarifying...and Fang visibly relaxed, some of the tension easing out of her shoulders as the hurt softened to hope. And then, taking her by surprise once more, he dropped to one knee and took her hand as he begged forgiveness.

That drew the attention of several onlookers who gasped and turned to watch the "proposal", some scandalized, some vibrating with excitement or jealousy or wistfulness over such a romantic display. If they had been nearer, however, they might have noticed that the couple's facial expressions did not match the scene.

Fortunately for Spike, Fang was completely oblivious to the cultural significance. She startled, but only because she hadn't expected him to practically prostrate himself. She gave a quick glance around, hyper-aware of the stares, and gave his hand a little upward tug.

"Of course I forgive you," she whispered. "I...I believe you. I'm just...I'm sorry, I'm a little confused. Ah, get up, Spike, people are staring..."

Biting her lip, gathering her thoughts, she let out a sigh and worried at a lock of her hair, twisting and untwisting it around her finger anxiously. "Why did you throw money on the counter as we left, then? You'd already paid for the room the night before." She shifted her eyes away. "It...it made me think you were paying for...having me."

As Spike glanced around, he noticed the diverse array of reactions from the onlookers, ranging from excitement to disdain, curiosity to jealousy. His eyes locked with a woman who shot her companion an expectant look, transforming into one of anger when he chose to ignore the situation entirely. It dawned on Spike that the scene might be misconstrued - the way he was on one knee, holding Fang's hand, had an unmistakable air of a proposal. While the prospect of that future wasn't entirely unwelcome, the timing was all wrong.

Feeling the weight of the unintentional misdirection, Spike cleared his throat with a less-than-subtle signal, drawing attention back to reality. Regaining his footing, he chuckled nervously, attempting to diffuse the awkward atmosphere. "
They think I'm proposing marriage," he mumbled, exchanging a glance with Fang that held embarrassment. "Thank you.. for forgiving me."

Because that's what people said in times like this, right? "You're forgiven," "Thanks!"

In the aftermath of the unexpected commotion, he kept her hand intertwined with his as they navigated through the streets on their way to the cafe - desperately trying to get her away from prying eyes after he caused so much unwanted attention. Her inquiry about the money caught him off-guard, prompting him to respond with clear puzzlement. "Paying for... having you?" he questioned, genuine confusion underlying his words. "But you don't work there. You're a Priestess. Aren't you supposed to leave a tip for a pleasant stay? After all, the bed was quite comfortable, and it might contribute to covering the water damage we caused."

They thought he was proposing marriage?! What?! How?! Was that how it was done in Serenian culture? That's what it looked like? Fang's head spun, and she couldn't be more relieved to get away from the onlookers as he guided her along.

So this was what it felt like from the other side, then. Like any innocuous gesture could be unintentionally offensive or scandalous. Yikes.

But soon enough they were out of range, and Spike picked back up where they left off. And what he said sent another pang of guilt through her. He...he thought he was tipping them for good service and to help cover the damage. She thought he was paying for her. 

Ohhhh dear...well now she just felt like a jerk.

She stole a sidelong glance up at him and then looked away, giving his hand a squeeze. "I see..." she said slowly, regret in her voice. "That...makes sense. I...oh goddess, Spike, I should have known better, with you of all people. And I didn't want to think that. But...well, in Thanatos, sometimes they work the streets, and someone might bring them to a certain establishment, shall we say, and pay the establishment for giving them a place to, you know. I'm not sure of all the specifics but I thought...maybe that was..."

She trailed off, biting the inside of her cheek, and finally turned to face him. "I'm sorry. I think I'm just a little..." She waved her free hand, trying to think of the phrasing. "Unbalanced right now. After everything that happened on the ship. I know I've been acting like I'm okay. I'm really trying to be."

Spike's expression shifted gradually from confusion to a deeper sense of hurt. It wasn't a hurt caused by Fang's words, but rather a self-inflicted pain fueled by the realization of the impact of his own actions on her. His foolish assumption that she was okay, despite the events on the ship, and everything else, left him feeling vulnerable and powerless, like a little boy grappling with emotions beyond his understanding.

As these thoughts raced through his mind, Spike came to a sudden stop and turned to face Fang. Without a word, he wrapped her in an abrupt yet sincere embrace. The vulnerability in his eyes was mirrored by the vulnerability of his apology. "I'm sorry," he managed to utter, the weight of his regret palpable in the quiet sincerity of his voice.

Spike pulled her into an embrace, and Fang just...melted. There was nothing really that needed to be said, no words that could magically heal everything—only time could do that. But sometimes words weren't needed at all, as Spike was soon to learn; sometimes just listening and being present was enough.

And in this case—sometimes one just also really, really needed a hug.

Fang wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, nestling against him with her cheek against his chest and eyes closed as she just breathed him in. She hadn't realized how much she needed this, this simple human contact, these arms that were filled with warmth and safety, and through it she poured in her forgiveness and her own silent apologies and hoped he would feel it, too. 

Taking a deep breath, hands lightly curled in his shirt, she nodded. "It's okay," she said quietly. "It's not your fault. You can't control the actions of others." 

Another squeeze, her body flush against his, and she finally let go of him reluctantly and gave him a soft smile. "Thank you for that. I...I honestly think I needed that."

Spike's embrace lingered, offering Fang the solace she needed. As they parted, he attempted a comforting smile, planting a gentle kiss on her cheek. "Come on, let's get your tea," he suggested, guiding her through the vibrant streets of Serendipity.

In this city of free thinkers, their presence garnered a mix of reactions. Some onlookers admired the couple, seeing the beauty in the diverse pairing. Yet, disapproving glances, particularly from certain women, lingered in the air, reminiscent of the judgment Spike had faced in Thanatos.

Reaching the cafe, the atmosphere shifted.

Ghosts liked cafes, apparently.

The ethereal presence of Spike's spectral companions filled the space, their incorporeal forms swirling in anticipation. Yet amidst the gathering, the conspicuous absence of Maya was something he had taken note of. Lawrence, his sinister countenance twisted into a malevolent grin, loomed behind the shop clerk like a shadowy specter, his presence suffused with an eerie aura that set Spike on edge.

Despite the disquieting sight, Spike clung to Fang's hand with unwavering resolve, a steadfast anchor amidst the spectral maelstrom. With determination etched into his features, he guided them forward...

To third in line. They were relatively busy today.

Now that it was light out and their little hiccup was addressed, Fang took to actually looking around as they walked—and felt a little foolish, because she knew she must be gawking. Everything was different here; of course it was, it was another country. It was much colder than she was used to, and she thought that maybe she should have taken him up on the offer of the coat as goosebumps pebbled along her exposed skin—or at least worn her robes. Yet she had felt that both of those things would somehow make her stand out more than bare skin...and now she was second-guessing that entirely, as everyone here seemed to show barely any skin at all.

Which figured, considering the temperature.

Was this how Spike felt in Thanatos? Completely over his head with no idea where anything was or what the proper etiquette was with people giving him looks all the time?

At least she had the benefit of speaking the Trader's Tongue, thank Inima. He hadn't even had that. It must have been rough...

And as they entered the cafe, she flashed back to how he'd been treated, and how she had had to come to the rescue. Oh goddess. Suppose it served her right, seeing and feeling things from the other side. But what a great lesson in humility, right? In fact, the whole experience was a little strangely nostalgic. His spirits were active again, Lawrence standing in plain view behind the counter. 

It was like going back in time.

Squeezing Spike's hand tightly, she turned her eyes away from Lawrence and to the tea selection on the back wall—and saw many old faces, but also a dozen new blends. New teas? Yes, please! 

Raising up onto her toes, she leaned up to speak into Spike's ear. "Any recommendations?"

The line at the cafe snaked around the corner, but Spike paid it no mind as he stood beside Fang, his attention solely focused on her. His soft smile conveyed warmth and affection as he regarded her, taking in the delicate features of her face illuminated by the soft glow of the cafe windows. Despite the bustling crowd and the cacophony of voices around them, she seemed to be the only thing that mattered in that moment.

As his gaze traveled downward, Spike's heart skipped a beat at the sight of goosebumps trailing down Fang's skin, a telltale sign of her discomfort. Without hesitation, he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, the fabric providing a shield against the cool weather that permeated the air.

With a sheepish grin, Spike answered Fang's question about tea recommendations, his voice tinged with honesty and vulnerability. "I'm more of a coffee guy," he admitted, his tone laced with a hint of self-deprecation. "But I hear the Spice Chai-der is good. Sort of a spiced cider and tea mix." His words were accompanied by a gentle squeeze of her hand, a silent reassurance of his presence by her side.

Just as they were almost up next to order, a chill ran down Spike's spine as Lawrence materialized behind them. "Or, a cup of poison is always good," he sneered, the weight of his hands on their shoulders like an invisible vice, suffocating and oppressive. Spike's jaw clenched in frustration, every fiber of his being itching to confront the specter that haunted their every move.

But he held himself back, swallowing down the surge of anger and resentment that threatened to consume him. With a subtle shift of his shoulder, Spike gave Lawrence a silent warning. That, and if Spike were to lunge at him now, that would look rather silly to the others in the establishment.

Spike removed his coat with sudden urgency and laid it around Fang's shoulders before she had time to wonder about it, the fabric still warm from his body heat and smelling, pleasantly, like him. A little shiver went through her as the heat seeped into her skin, and she realized then just how chilled she'd been and just how stubbornly she'd been ignoring it.

Absolutely swimming in the coat, Fang shimmied her arms through the sleeves and felt a little silly for how it draped around her like a dress with floppy arms, but...you know what? She was not going to fight this. She rolled the sleeves up to her elbows to free up her hands before sliding her hand back into Spike's, flashing him a grateful smile. "Thank you."

As for his suggestions? Oh yes, she remembered him taking coffee last time, and while it smelled nice, she could never get past the bitterness. The chai concoction on the other hand sounded...interesting.

"Spice...chai-der...?" she repeated slowly, trying to wrap her head around the idea. She did love chai (and the spicier the better), but apples? Hmm...

Well, what was the point of being in a new country if not to try new things?

"Why not? That sounds like it could be fun," she said at last. "What kind of coffee are you—"

She cut off, because that was when a weight on her shoulder sent a cold chill up her spine despite the coat's warmth.

It wasn't really a weight so much as an oppressive...energy. Lawrence was there, mocking Spike, and Fang shot Spike a look, eyebrows raised. Even in Thanatos she knew better than to react publicly when she encountered a spirit, at least not without explaining herself, lest she looked like she was talking to herself. But in Serendipity? The country that drove her people out for speaking with the dead, deeming it necromancy? She didn't dare. So she smiled at Spike, a smile that said she saw what he saw, and stepped up to the counter with him when it was their turn, her hand firmly gripping his.

The man behind the counter hid a yawn behind his hand as they approached, his expression bored and eyes shadowed with sleep deprivation. "Welcome, what can I get for--"

He flicked a look at Fang, a quick up and down look with an arched brow, and then at Spike. "What can I get for ya?" he finished, and it didn't escape Fang's notice that he was focused entirely on Spike rather than addressing them together.

As Spike and Fang stood before the counter, Spike couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in the man behind the counter's demeanor. His eyes bore a hint of skepticism, disapproval, and even a touch of discrimination as they glanced over Fang and settled on himself. Determined to address the situation head-on, Spike made a deliberate show of wrapping his arm around Fang's waist, pulling her close to his side. Clearing his throat, he met the man's gaze with a steely resolve.

"You can take my wife's order," Spike declared firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument, and his tone a bit more intimidating than he wanted it to be.

He had no real motive to introduce Fang as his wife in this situation. They weren't facing any trouble or scrutiny that warranted such a disguise. But in a spontaneous moment of defiance, Spike decided to go with it anyway. It just felt like the right thing to say in the moment.

Aaaaaand they were married again.

Spike pulled her in close and announced her as his wife, and Fang felt her cheeks turn to flame. W-what? This again?! Despite the fact that they had been smashing body parts together not hours earlier, it was this that never failed to fluster her. Well, it was the other thing too, certainly, but this? And to do it so publicly?

She hadn't been about to speak up, prepared to let this slide under the rug so they could move on from the uncomfortable situation fast, but Spike had other ideas. While her typical way of dealing with these situations was to not make waves, Spike on the other hand refused to let such disrespect fly.

The man's eyes widened at Spike's announcement, eyebrows climbing to his hairline, and he raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean--right! Yeah! Of course. What can I get you...ma'am?"

"Uhh, it's okay, really!" Fang said quickly, shrinking against Spike's side. It felt like too many people were looking now and she just desperately wanted out of this line! "It's fine, it's...right! I'll just, um, I'll have...what was it? The Spider? Yes, may I have the Spider Chai, please?"

The man stared, blinking slowly. "Pardon? The...what chai?"

Fang shot Spike a panicked look. "The Spider, right? The chai with the apples and...stuff...?"

It was at that exact moment Spike knew he had fallen in love with Fang.

Yet, despite his outward display of confidence and the pride he felt in openly referring to her as his wife, holding her close for all to see, the facade crumbled with just two simple words.

Spider Chai.

He resisted the urge to facepalm, opting instead for a small, muffled laugh as he glanced downward briefly. "Um... Spice Chai-Der," he corrected the barista, "and a cinnamon spice mocha, please."

"Oh!" The barista's response was genuinely and surprisingly warm, the correction eliciting a smile from him. "Of course. Coming right up! Take a seat, we'll bring it out when it's ready."

Spike quickly paid for their drinks before gently taking Fang's hand, leading her to their seats with an amused grin. As they walked, he leaned in close and whispered, "Okay, let's sit here, my spider wife."

...Spice Chai-Der.

Spice Chai-Der.

Not Spider Chai.

It was in that moment, as Spike gently corrected the barista and what she'd said sank in, that Fang wanted to die. 

Her face was burning and she was aggressively NOT making eye contact with anyone as Spike lead her to the table—and then Spike leaned in and whispered to her. Spider wife. With a soft groan, she slid into the seat and deflated forward onto the table with her face buried in her arms, her shoulders shaking with horrified laughter.

"I can never come here again," she said, voice muffled against her arms. "They must think me an absolute imbecile!"

Spike settled into the seat across from Fang, a playful glint dancing in his eyes as he extended his leg under the table to gently touch hers. With a warm smile, he reached out and clasped her arm, his touch reassuring and affectionate. Despite the lingering stares of the spirits around them, Spike was completely absorbed in the moment.

The tantalizing aroma of their order, a blend of spiced chai, cider, and mocha, wafted through the air, enveloping them in its comforting embrace. Spike couldn't help but inhale deeply, savoring the rich scent that teased his senses.

With a teasing tone, Spike leaned in closer to Fang, his voice laced with humor. "Oh, I don't know," he began. "It was an honest mistake... and pretty cute, if you ask me. Maybe the next time we come here, they'll have a 'Spider Chai' on the menu just for you.

He just wouldn't tell her about the actual spider he just saw skitter across the floor.

Fang finally lifted her head enough to peek up over her arms when Spike gently touched her and reassured her. It was an honest mistake, he said, and...cute? Her cheeks were still hot, but they were cooling after sitting there in her shame for a bit, and she couldn't help but give a soft, sheepish laugh.

Which turned into another groan at his suggestion that they might name a drink after her flub, her hand rubbing at her face. "Noooo...oh that would be the worst. What would that even taste like? Who would order that? I wouldn't order that!"

At least the beverages brought to their table smelled nice. But as she glanced over at them, sitting up a little straighter, her head tilted in curiosity. There was something creamy on top of both of theirs, swirled up into a peak.

Scooting her mug closer to her, she blinked down at it. "What's that on top?" she whispered to Spike, still trying not to make a complete fool of herself.

Fang barely had time to finish her sentence before Spike took a sip of his drink, the rich mocha gliding down his throat and enveloping him in a comforting warmth. Nothing like pairing a tough exterior with a cozy beverage. Unintentionally (and unnoticed), he missed the topping, leaving a dollop of cream lingering on his nose as he turned his attention back to her.

"It's whipped cream," he said, taking another sip, the creamy topping still on full display on his nose. "It's made from..."

Right, how to best explain this?

"Whipped cream."

Whipped...cream?

On an impulse, Fang reached out and rubbed her thumb over the tip Spike's nose, wiping away the dollop with an amused smile. Speaking of cute, it was hard not to giggle outright at the sight of how messy he was, but she didn't want to be rude and bit her lip to keep it in. 

"Sorry, you had some..." She motioned to her own face and wiped her thumb off on a cloth napkin.

Flicking her eyes back down to her own beverage, she gave it a curious look. "Oh, so like coconut cream?" she asked, and took a little sip.

Well. That was definitely not coconut.

It was sweet but strange, almost sour beneath the sweetness and stuck to her tongue and throat, and suddenly she recognized the flavor. She had only had dairy once before that, also by accident; it wasn't common in Thanatos at all, and while most Thanati were pescatarian or vegetarian, some chose not to consume animal ingredients at all. Like her. She made a face, wiping her mouth on a napkin, and shot Spike an awkward look as she tried to figure out how exactly to navigate this, suddenly realizing...well, duh. They were in Serendipity. But she hadn't even had time to think about how on earth she was going to handle the whole food thing!

"Umm...you want my whipped cream?" she asked, picking up a spoon that she could use to scoop it up.

Spike offered Fang a gracious grin, though a hint of embarrassment tinged his expression as she wiped the whipped cream off his face. "Thanks," he said sheepishly.

But then his brow furrowed slightly as he observed her reaction to the whipped cream topping on her drink. Did she not enjoy it? Was it bad? Sour? He took a moment to taste his own, ensuring it hadn't spoiled, and found it still deliciously sweet. Despite his efforts to avoid it, another dollop of whipped cream found its way to his nose, once again unnoticed by him.

"You don't like it?" Spike asked, a hint of concern creeping into his voice. He couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment, worried that he might have chosen the wrong drink for her.

Ah! Fang waved her hands quickly, shaking her head.

"No, no! The, ah, the spider part--I mean, chai? Cider? That part! The drink itself tastes lovely!" she said quickly, picking up on his concern--and disappointment. After all, he had recommended it to her, and suddenly she felt a small pang of concern herself. She didn't want him to feel bad! He'd done nothing wrong!

Shifting in her seat, she cleared her throat. "It's just, mm...how do I put this? It's...animal milk, yes?" Her shoulders hunched, realizing she was probably not doing a very good job of phrasing this, but then again, she'd never had to explain herself in Thanatos! She winced. "I don't...um...I've never..."

She played with the spoon, searching for the right phrasing: honesty without being offensive to his own culture.

"I don't eat animal things...?"

Spike listened attentively to Fang's explanation, a tinge of guilt washing over him as he realized he hadn't considered her dietary preferences before suggesting the cafe. He mentally chided himself for not asking beforehand, wishing he could turn back time and avoid this awkward situation altogether.

"I see. I'm sorry-" he began, ready to apologize, but before he could finish his sentence, a blood-curdling scream pierced the air. "SPIKE!"

The scream seemed to echo in his very soul, sending a chill down his spine. His heart pounding, Spike turned abruptly to see Maya's ghostly apparition materialize right next to him, her spectral form leaning in close, her anguished face inches from his own.

"Maya..." he whispered, his voice barely audible over the roar of his own heartbeat.

Maya's appearance was hauntingly tragic. Her ghostly figure bore the marks of her torment, with cuts marring her neck and tears streaming down her translucent cheeks. The anguish in her eyes mirrored the agony of her voice, and Spike felt the tension in the air build around her tortured spirit.

For a moment, his guard slipped, and some of his own coffee spilled over the edge of his cup as he recoiled in shock. Despite the chaos unfolding around him, he couldn't tear his gaze away from Maya's haunting form, his mind swirling with guilt.

Maya's spectral voice pierced the air like a mournful wail, her words echoing with an intensity that sent shivers down Spike's spine.

"I loved you, Spike!" she cried out, her voice filled with anguish and betrayal. "I loved you with all my heart, and you... you killed me! Why, Spike? Why did you do it? Why did you betray me?"

Her words cut through the air like a knife, each accusation striking Spike's heart with a force that threatened to overwhelm him. The pain in Maya's voice was agonizing, her ghostly form trembling with the weight of her sorrow.

"I trusted you, Spike," she continued, her voice cracking with emotion. "I believed in you, and you... you destroyed me. How could you? How could you do this to me?"

As Spike began to open his mouth to respond to Maya's accusations, a wave of confusion swept over him. This wasn't right. He didn't know Maya outside of his contract, and Maya had certainly never laid eyes on him before. Yet here she was, accusing him of betrayal and professing her love for him as if they shared a history together.

The memories flooded into Spike's mind, vivid and disorienting. Scenes of laughter and intimacy intertwined with moments of anger and betrayal, all playing out in his mind's eye with a clarity that left him reeling. But how could these memories be real? It didn't make sense.

Frustration gnawed at Spike's insides as he struggled to make sense of the situation. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real. And yet, her presence was undeniable, her anguish cutting through him like a knife.

With a heavy heart, Spike forced himself to push aside the confusion and focus on the present. There would be time to unravel the mystery later. For now, he had to deal with the ghostly apparition before him and find a way to put an end to Maya's torment.

He turned to Fang. "We should go."

Ahhh! Was he apologizing? Fang waved her hands, about to try to cut him off (it was okay! He didn't know! She should have realized! And really it was just the topping, she could drink the rest!) but that blood-curdling scream made her jump, and all other thoughts fled.

It was one heart-pounding moment before she realized the scream came from a dead woman, not anyone living.

It was always such an experienced encountering a situation like this while surrounded by living people in a busy place. It was always surreal and a little difficult—because she had to pretend not to notice or react. That seemed doubly critical here in Serendipity, because you know doing the thing that got your people chased off the continent was just a fabulous idea! So Fang listened, idly scraping whipped cream off her drink and putting it into Spike's mug—but then the woman said something that made her freeze.

What...?

She loved him?

Fang stared at Maya in blank-faced confusion, because none of it made an ounce of sense. Hadn't Spike said he wasn't allowed to have contact with women? When they were intimate, hadn't he said she was his first? Well...no...wait. That wasn't exactly what he'd said. Fang had assumed they were both virgins, but his exact words were that he was new to it. Which could mean their particular situation, not sex as a whole...maybe.

But that would be such a strange thing to lie about—what would be the point? Fang certainly didn't care either way. And it just didn't seem like Spike to lie, anyway.

Speaking of Spike, he looked just as perplexed as she felt...

Something wasn't right.

Taking a final sip of her spider—chai-der!—Fang nodded and rose to her feet, holding her hand out to Spike. "I suppose so," she said, selfishly not quite ready to leave, but knowing they needed to.

"You'll have to tell me about Maya as we walk."

Spike finished his drink with a hurried gulp, oblivious to the fact that Fang had added whipped cream to his cup. As he stood up, he took her offered hand, and tried to offer a smile through all the noise. However, as he took one last look around, he noticed a few amused glances directed his way. Confused, he reached up to scratch his nose and felt the telltale stickiness of whipped cream. He quickly wiped away the creamy residue, but missed a few stray specks, inadvertently giving himself a makeshift whipped cream mustache.

He couldn't help it. He was distracted.

As Spike and Fang made their way towards the exit, the noise in the cafe became excruciating. Maya's tormented screams reverberated through Spike's skull, each one piercing deeper than the last. Her protests of a lover's scorn escalated into violent outbursts, filling the air with a chilling intensity. Alongside Maya's cries, the buzz of other spirits grew louder, their restless energy palpable in the air. Adding to the cacophony was the haunting laughter of Lawrence, echoing with a manic fervor that could have sent Spike into a blind rage.

With each step towards the exit, the noise seemed to amplify, drowning out anything and everything else. The relentless onslaught of sound felt suffocating, overwhelming his senses and clouding his thoughts. Spike gritted his teeth, trying to block out the haunting symphony assaulting his ears, but it was futile.

Finally, they reached the door leading out into the city streets. As they stepped through, the bustling noise of the city greeted them, but something strange happened. The moment the door closed behind them, everything fell eerily quiet. The abrupt silence was deafening after the cacophony he had just endured, leaving him standing in stunned disbelief. It was as if the chaos of the cafe had been left behind, sealed away in that small, ghostly realm they had just escaped.

Spike just needed a moment. He needed to breathe.

It was a strange experience going from shrieking chaos to...quiet. It was nothing quite like anything Fang had experienced; spirits ignored the physical laws of the real world, so you couldn't just shut a door in their face and be done with it. And yet that was exactly what happened: as soon as they crossed through the door, it was as though they had crossed over both the physical threshold...but also a spiritual one, as well.

Silence. Just the usual clamor of a busy city, but nothing supernatural.

That's was...new.

Outside, Fang heaved a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and rubbed at her temples. No matter how much practice she'd had, some things you just never really got used to, even if it you learned how to cope with it better. Not reacting was one of those things, and once they were outside it felt like a tight band around her chest had been loosened.

Drawing in another deep breath, she looked up at Spike and squeezed his hand. "You okay?" she asked—and on an impulse she reached up and wiped at his lip where more whipped cream was smeared. 

Spike's face flushed slightly as Fang wiped near his lip, feeling a little silly and overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotions and confusion. "Yes, I... actually, no. I'm not. I don't understand," he stammered, his mind racing with a whirlwind of thoughts and doubts.

Why was he suddenly experiencing vivid visions of a past life with Maya, as if they were lovers deeply connected? He had never been with a woman before Fang... or had he? The walls of doubt closed in around him, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was losing a grip on his own reality.

In Spike's mind, the visions of Maya unfolded like scenes from a forgotten dream. He saw them together in a cozy cottage, nestled in the embrace of a lush forest. Maya stood by the hearth, stirring a pot of stew as the aroma of savory herbs filled the air. They laughed together, sharing tender moments over dinner as they discussed their hopes and dreams for the future. Later, they sat by the fire, the warmth of their bodies drawing them closer as they whispered secrets and promises to each other in the flickering light. In these visions, Spike felt a deep sense of love and contentment, as if he had found his true home in Maya's arms. Yet, even as the memories faded, a lingering sense of confusion and longing remained, leaving Spike to grapple with the unsettling question of whether these visions were real or merely figments of his imagination.

"Maya was just another contract, nothing more," he tried to explain, though his voice was very uncertain. "I don't think I was ever given a reason as to why... so, why do I suddenly remember a life with her?"

Feeling almost ashamed, Spike couldn't bring himself to meet Fang's gaze. Instead, he held onto Fang's band, the contact grounding him amidst the swirling doubts in his mind. With a determined yet hesitant grip, he led the way toward the place where he had carried out the job.

Fang could hear the lie as soon as he said he was okay, but thankfully he was quick to correct himself. No, he definitely wasn't okay—and she honestly couldn't remember a time she had seen him so frazzled. He was usually so calm under pressure, even life and death situations, yet here he was so visibly shaken.

Reaching out, Fang took his other hand in hers and faced him, peering up at him with a worried frown. Just a contract, and yet...he remembered a life with her? She could still hear the dead woman's screams ringing in her ears, but...no, something wasn't right. Certainly one couldn't just forget something like that? Unless...

"Spike," Fang said suddenly, peeking up and giving his hands a squeeze to get his attention. "Do you remember what happened with Oliver? That it wasn't right? That there were two Olivers, and one was false? Demonic?"

But even as she said it, her brow furrowed in deeper confusion.

What were the chances of that? And why?

And even then Spike had known. He'd yelled back at "Oliver" that it was a lie. So if it was the same trickery, why was there doubt in his eyes?

Spike's mind was a whirlwind of confusion and uncertainty as Fang's words echoed in his ears. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong, that his memories were being tampered with in ways he couldn't comprehend. As Fang reached out to him, her touch grounding him in the present moment, he felt a flicker of reassurance amidst the chaos.

"You're probably right," Spike admitted with a heavy sigh, his gaze drifting away momentarily before returning to meet Fang's concerned eyes. "I'm not sure what's going on but... Let's just go to Maya. Maybe it'll help figure things out."

As they made their way towards Maya's location, Spike couldn't shake the nagging feeling of unease that lingered in the back of his mind.

---

Lawrence stood in the shadows, his gaze fixed on Spike and Fang as they conversed. His lips curled into a sneer of disdain as he listened to Fang's words, her interference threatening to unravel the carefully constructed web of deception he had woven around Spike.

From his vantage point, Lawrence observed their interaction with a mixture of frustration and malice. He had spent countless hours manipulating Spike's memories, planting seeds of doubt and confusion to torment him. Each false memory, each distorted vision, had been carefully crafted to serve Lawrence's dark purposes. And now, here was Fang, daring to disrupt his carefully laid plans.

But Lawrence was not one to be thwarted so easily. As he watched Fang, a sinister glint gleamed in his eyes, a silent promise of retribution. She would pay for her interference, he vowed silently to himself.

For now, Lawrence remained hidden in the shadows, biding his time and plotting his next move. He would deal with Fang in due course, but for now, he would continue to watch and wait, his mind already calculating the most effective means of neutralizing this new threat.