Rating: PG-13
Warning: This series has dealt with rape and will continue to deal with issues of sex and power dynamics.
Summary: Willow heads to Angel's house to confront him about the claim and runs into trouble.
Feedback: PLEASE! I need it badly!
Distribution: If you have permission to archive the previous stories in this series, you may have this. Otherwise, please ask first.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. It all belongs to Joss and a bunch of other people who are not now and have never been me.
Author's Notes: Thank you, Tonya, for the last-minute read-through to let me know that this was okay to post. And I would like to dedicate this fic to all the people who have told me that this is one of their very favorites of all my stories. You've waited a long time for this update, and I really hope it was worth it!
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Willow made her way purposefully through the treacherous streets of Sunnydale, fully aware of the irony of her situation. Here she was, walking through a demon-filled city late at night, with only the stake in her purse for protection, and yet she felt perfectly safe. And the reason she felt perfectly safe was the very reason she was out at this hour, heading to Angel's mansion to have it out with him once and for all. The claim.
When Willow had left her home, waiting only until she heard the door to her parents' bedroom close for the night before climbing off her balcony and making her way quietly away from the house, she had been filled with righteous indignation. Indignation which had been building to a fever pitch since the near-miss at the library with Oz earlier that day. But now, as she got closer and closer to Angel's home, Willow could feel herself become less certain of her feelings and more confused about what she was going to do about the claim...and about Angel.
She didn't love him, frankly, she wasn't even sure if she liked him, but she needed him. It was only when Angel touched her that she felt comfortable and safe in her own body. The pleasure that he brought her was the only respite from her pervasive self-hate, his touch the only thing that kept her from ripping off her own skin, so desperately did she hate her own flesh.
So caught up had she been in her own needs, her own escape, though, that she had chosen not to think about what Angel was seeking, how he felt about her, what he would expect in return for what he gave. And now she knew. He felt something for her, something that went far beyond the physical, and far beyond what Willow wanted him to feel for her, beyond what she could ever feel for *him*.
She wished she could believe that the story she had spoon-fed to Oz was the truth, that Angel had claimed her to protect her when she was far from Sunnydale and the Slayer, but she knew it was a lie. If Angel had done it for her protection, he would have spoken about it, would have asked her permission, or at least said *something* before biting deeply into her breast and drawing forth her blood. No, the claim meant exactly what it was supposed to mean. It was a statement of possession, of ownership, and of the intended 'gift' of eternity.
Yet, even though she didn't want to belong to Angel, had hoped, in fact, to soon leave him behind forever, she wasn't so sure she could go through with her intended purpose. She had started out tonight fully intending to tell Angel that, claim or no, she never wanted to see him again. She had planned to vent her fury on him in a way that would make him wish he had never so much as held her hand, to hurt him with words that cut so deeply he would stay away from her until the day she died. But now...now she didn't know *what* she was going to do.
Was it a side-effect of the claim, this reluctance to part from her vampire lover? Or would she, as she feared deep inside herself, have been unable to separate from him even if he had never sunk his teeth into her flesh and taken her for his own?
Too late to turn back now, Willow thought as she approached Angel's mansion, the dilapidated stone porch well within her sight; she might as well see him even if she didn't know anymore what she would say or do.
Then, before she could even think to reach for her stake, something came out of the darkness behind her, grabbing her around the waist and covering her mouth.
"'Ello, pet. Did you miss me?"
There it was. The voice she had prayed she would never hear again, the hands she hoped would never again touch her skin. He wasn't gone forever, as she had so ardently wished. Spike was back, and she was at his mercy.
But almost as soon as she had heard his words, silken and menacing despite the alcohol-tinged slur, whispered into her ear, she was shoved forcefully to the ground.
"What the hell have you done, bitch? What the hell did you let him do?"
The End