(concerned)

You ok there, Plei?

Yerp! (Rewriting some stuff, annoyed that I have to pause for such trivial things as "eating")

It sounded as if you were choking....

Good on the writing and the OK.

Sigh. You write Darla so well, Deb. Little warm in here.

I see Darla as a sexual omnivore....

And now, so do we.

Heh. I'm actually thinking of using this as the pornathology entry, since the first one turned into a completely non-erotic horror story. This one wouild work rather nicely though; Darla's name isn't even mentioned. And it's reasonably erotic.

More, picking up where I left off..

She smiled, and it felt almost real this time. "Good night, Wes. Thank you."

***

Claiming exhaustion had been the obvious excuse for escaping what was, for him, an uncomfortable attempt on her part to make the situation seem almost normal and his poor reaction to it. He shouldn't have snapped, nor should he have told her how little progress he was making, but both had been easier than attempting small talk while he his head was still trying to wrap itself around the problem in some new way that might allow him to see the solution.

What he needed was space. Her constant presence in the house produced a somewhat claustrophobic atmosphere. It wasn't anything she was doing, unless one considered breathing and moving and simply being as conscious actions. It was just the reminder that the peace he'd made with certain things and events came more from distance and less from having dealt with their effects.

Wesley took a book from his bedside table and flipped to a section he'd marked the night before. The Greek translated roughly to "Uninterrupted Serenity", a fairly simple spell intended to provide temporary mobile sanctuary for some sort of annual meditation. It would allow her freedom of movement with far less risk of backfiring than the other temporary measures he'd researched. Its strength was unfortunately balanced by a limited duration, but it would provide them both with a break. He'd gather the necessary ingredients on his lunch hour.

One hand reached up to absently rub the side of his neck. If he was going to attempt any sort of spell, he needed to inform Buffy of it first. He owed her that courtesy, at least, especially considering he needed this as much for himself as for her. Setting down the book, he got out of bed and made his way back downstairs.

She was still seated on the couch, her eyes glued to the television. He glanced at it, wondering what had grabbed her attention so firmly that she hadn't noticed someone else entering the room, then glanced again. Somehow, he'd been expecting it to be a news report on murder or mayhem with supernatural overtones, not a staged talk show with flashing 800 numbers running across the bottom.

"Infomercials, Buffy?" He tried to keep the amusement out of his voice, though it was hard, considering her rapt expression.

She jumped at the sound, but managed to collect herself quickly. "You'd be surprised how addictive they can be. I think this is the third time I've seen this one tonight, but I can't seem to stop watching."

"Actually, I'm well aware of their hypnotic quality. I hope you don't mind turning it off for a while?"

The screen blinked off with a flick of the remote. "Sorry, was I keeping you up?"

"No, I hadn't gone to sleep yet. We have things to discuss."

"At three in the morning?"

He blinked. "Is it that late?"

"Why do you think I was watching infomercials?"

"A certain desire to comfort yourself with the notion that things could be worse, or perhaps a burning need for men's hair growth supplements?"

"Something like that. What's up?"

He wanted her to be comfortable with the idea, so he phrased the suggestion as carefully as he could. "If you're interested, there is a spell which, if performed properly, would allow you a few days' worth of freedom. It's both fairly simple and obscure enough that there isn't a simple counter spell to defeat it. I thought perhaps you would enjoy getting out of the house."

Buffy gave him a strangled smile. "I take it you're that sick of having me underfoot?"

That wasn't quite how he would have put it, even if there was a grain of truth to the words. "It isn't so much that as concern for your well-being. The life you described cannot have been pleasant, and neither, I imagine, is having to rely on me for everything. It might make it easier if you can at least come and go on your own terms."

"I guess there's just one way to find out." The hint of fear was mingled with something almost hopeful. "When?"

"Tomorrow night would be the soonest possible time, assuming I can find everything I need while I'm on my lunch break. If you're certain you're ready, it would give you the weekend."

He breathed a sigh of relief when she nodded her agreement.

• **

She'd forgotten just how much she really didn't like spells. They tended to be stinky, or involve a lot of touching and hand-holding, or lead to weird physical symptoms. This one had all off the above. The acrid smoke rising from the small brass dish filled her nose and throat and made it hard to breathe, and whatever was in the oil Wesley was stroking lightly across her forehead made her skin tingle. At least the oil smelled better than the smoke.

Soft words she couldn't understand filled her ears, throwing off her balance. They rose and fell in time with his touch, choking and smothering her in sensation, until everything blurred and darkened.

A cold washcloth on her face brought her to.

"How do you feel?" Wesley was watching her with an expression of distant concern.

Buffy pushed his hand away and sat up, coughing as she inhaled too much of the smokey air. "Dizzy. Kind of drunk."

The calm detachment didn't waver for a second. "Both of which are to be expected. The side effects should wear off in an hour or so."

Except for the head-spinning, she didn't feel any different. "How will I know if it worked?"

He pressed the cloth against her face again before answering, "I expect you'll have to test it by going out to places you'd be better off avoiding. I can give you a list of them."

"You keep lists of bad parts of town?" Of course, this was Wesley. As much as they'd both changed, she was willing to bet he kept lists about the bad parts of town, the good parts of town, and the parts of town with overly-small parking spaces. He seemed the listy type.

"I keep lists of places where I can meet with contacts. I've been doing so for the last decade; I find it comes in handy."

"I bet."

She struggled to her feet, careful to avoid the still-smouldering bowl and the remaining stubs of the candles. Hanging out where demons go to relax wasn't really something she was looking forward to, but it would be the best test. If the spell hadn't worked, she'd probably find out as soon as she walked through the door. If she lived that long.

Not exactly the most cheerful thought she'd ever had. She watched him gather the various items and place them back in their respective boxes. He probably had a contingency plan set up just in case. She hoped he had a contingency plan. She should probably ask him about it.

"Wes?"

He put one last candle stub in its metal box, then turned to face her. "Yes, Buffy?"

"What if it didn't work?"

He pulled a cellphone out of his belt and tossed it at her. "I won't be more than a block away. Hit 1 and send. Or just say my name."

"When do we leave?"

"As soon as you feel you're ready. I'd recommend changing your clothes first."

• **

Demon bars didn't follow antismoking laws. Or laws against firearms, gambling, or murder, for that matter. Buffy also strongly suspected that health inspectors never bothered with the places.

She'd been in this one for half an hour, and no one had bothered her. Five fights had broken out during that span of time, one of them fatal, and it was all she could do to get the bartender's attention long enough to order a drink. No look of recognition on any of the faces, no threats to her person, surprisingly good music playing, and dollar well drinks.

Heaven smelled worse than she remembered.

Tequila, on the other hand, smelled and tasted a lot better. So did whisky. And rum. And beer. She'd never been much of a drinker, but she was starting to see the appeal. It made everything warm and relaxed. The night wore on, and she kept making up for lost time. When she found herself flirting with the closest-to-human looking guy in the place, she considered cutting herself off, but as the barkeep hadn't, and she was having fun for the first time in forever, she didn't bother.

Instead, she had another shot of something, and asked Mr. Tall, Blue, and Kind of Okay for his phone number. Not that she planned on calling him, she just liked being able to ask for it.

Wesley was waiting on the sidewalk when she staggered out after last call. He didn't look very happy. She frowned, trying to figure out why he'd be unhappy; the magic was doing its thing, and she'd left his house for a few hours. He should be happy.

His fingers bit into her arm as he lead her to the car. Nope. Certainly not happy. The drive back was silent, stripping away her good mood minute by minute; by the time they were home, she was about one step away from angry.

Tripping on the step up from the garage to the hallway didn't help. She swore, catching herself before she could fall and brushing off his efforts to help her.

"I'm fine," she muttered.

"You're drunk." The chill in his voice made her shiver.

"That," Buffy found herself enunciating carefully, "is what you do in a bar. You drink."

"You were there to see if the spell worked, not to see if you could consume half your body weight in alcohol, Buffy."