Parts: 81 - 82
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
~Part: 81~
“So the bald-headed man with the lisp spends the entire cartoon chasing
after the same evil rabbit?” Anya asked skeptically.
Willow and Xander nodded their confirmation.
“And when he doesn’t manage to catch it, instead of just going home
and being grateful that he’s not stuck with a rabbit, he keeps chasing
after it, coming up with more and more elaborate ways to capture it?”
Again, Willow and Xander nodded.
“And in the end, the rabbit always manages to outsmart him, catching
him in his own traps and usually blowing him up, as well?”
Another double nod.
“Explain to me again why this is funny,” Anya asked.
The look on Anya’s face was so completely serious that Willow couldn’t
help but laugh. “Maybe you should imagine it’s something else *other* than
a rabbit,” she suggested brightly, winking at Xander. “The hunter guy speaks
with a lisp so he never actually says ‘rabbit,’ he just says ‘wabbit.’
Imagine that a ‘wabbit’ is similar in appearance to a rabbit, but less
scary.”
Anya’s face brightened. “I can do that,” she replied happily before
poking Xander in the side with her elbow. “How come you never make helpful
suggestions like that?”
Willow started giggling again as she watched Xander try to placate Anya
(and fail miserably). Life was good. She had cartoons, she had friends,
and most importantly, she had mobility that finally extended beyond Spike’s
room, the bathroom, and the corridor that connected the two.
Yes, Spike had finally relented and allowed her downstairs. He still
wouldn’t allow her out of the house, he wouldn’t let her read anything,
and her schoolbooks remained hidden away, but Willow couldn’t help but
be optimistic about the progress they had made. Every little bit of progress
had to be counted when you were dealing with an incredibly stubborn vampire.
The most liberating new development was that he even let her out of
his sight now for more than a minute, as long as someone was with her,
and he was in earshot to hear if his help was needed. In fact, at that
very moment while Xander and Willow attempted to explain cartoons to Anya,
he was in the kitchen, making her chicken soup, from scratch.
Dawn sat on the counter and watched in semi-fascination as Spike diced
bits of vegetables at superhuman speed while humming along to the oldies
song on the radio. If it weren’t for the superspeed, she would have almost
thought that Spike looked . . . *normal*. In spite of the propaganda she
had been exposed to as the sister of the slayer, Dawn knew that vamps could
be generous. They could be selfless. They could be genuinely helpful, and
demonstrably loyal, and truly in love. She just hadn’t known that they
could be so *domestic*.
“You’re sure I can’t help?” she asked again.
“Nah, Bit, I’ve got it under control,” Spike replied, looking up to
grin at her while his hands continued dicing. “A spot of company’s all
I need; making soup takes a while and can be dull without a pretty girl
around to keep me entertained.” He winked at her and she fought the urge
to blush.
“If it takes so long, why bother?” Dawn couldn’t help but ask. “You
can go to the store and buy fifty different kinds of soup that’ll be ready
in five minutes.”
Spike snorted. “Ever taken a good look at what they put in those canned
soups? The broths aren’t so bad; that’s why it wasn’t really a problem
those first few days; but now that Red can handle something a little more
substantial, I’m not about to give her soup stuffed full of rubbish that
belongs in a chemistry set.” Spike snorted again at the absurdity of the
very thought. “Only the best for my Red,” he murmured under his breath,
barely loud enough for Dawn to hear.
Dawn grinned and fought the urge to bounce a bit in her seat. The pieces
were finally falling into place. She and Anya wouldn’t be needed as match
facilitators for Willow and Spike much longer . . . if they were ever really
needed in the first place. She had always known that Spike and Willow were
perfect for each other, but she had wondered just how long it would take
them to get with the program and realize it for themselves. She still couldn’t
help but shudder when she remembered that awful moment in the hospital
when it sunk in that Willow loved Spike, and the horrible hours that followed
before Spike arrived when the realization struck her with an aching, persistent
pain that their story might not have a happily-ever-after ending after
all.
But that was all in the past now. Willow was out of danger and getting
stronger every day, Spike was devotedly at her side every possible minute,
and from the way he was acting; fussing over *something* Willow-related
every second; Dawn couldn’t help but think that Spike just might be falling
in love as well. The castles in the air had rebuilt themselves in her mind,
and she was starting to believe again that every day brought her friends
that much closer to their happy ending.
The kitchen door swung open as Willow stepped inside, flashing a grin
at both of them as she walked over to the cabinet.
“Are you two almost done in here? You’re missing out on lots of quality
cartoon time,” she informed them as she fished out a cup and opened the
fridge.
“The soup’ll be set to simmer in just a minute or two, and then we’ll
come join you,” Spike promised, watching Willow with a ridiculously soft
smile that faded into a frown as he saw her discreetly grab a bottle of
soda, attempting to keep her body between Spike and the bottle to block
his view. It didn’t work.
“And just what do you think you’ll be doing with that?”
Willow’s eyes went wide and innocent as she hid the bottle of soda behind
her back. “Do with what?” she asked as guilelessly as she could manage.
Spike rolled his eyes. “Do with the soda you’re hiding behind your back,
love. You weren’t planning on *drinking* that, were you?”
“Drinking? No! I . . . well . . . Willow studiously avoided eye contact,
staring instead at the traitorous bottle of Coca Cola Classic. “Yes. Maybe.
For the . . . um . . . nutritional value!”
“Nutritional value?” Spike asked, raising a single eyebrow.
“Each serving has thirteen percent of the daily recommended allowance
of carbohydrates!” Willow pointed out eagerly, showing Spike the nutritional
value panel on the side of the bottle.
“Sure, pet,” Spike replied, not even looking at the nutritional panel.
“I’m sure those carbohydrates, along with all that sugar and caffeine would
be just great for you during your recovery.” He reached for the kettle
and added some water. “I’ll make you some tea,” he announced.
The look on Willow’s face grew pleading. “Soda,” she begged.
“Tea.”
“Caffeine-free soda?”
“Tea.”
“*Diet* caffeine free soda?”
“Tea.”
“Diet caffeine-free soda with lemon added? That’s vitamin C!”
“Tea.”
Willow considered pouting for a minute, but decided against it. It was
quite clear that Spike wouldn’t give in, and if she didn’t come up with
a compromise soon, she’d be stuck with another mug of tea.
“Orange juice?”
Spike paused and gave this a moment’s consideration. “Deal,” he agreed,
watching her like a hawk to make sure she really did pour orange juice
into her cup instead of trying to sneak in the soda again, and grinning
at the exaggerated face of disgust she made at the taste of it.
“If it bothers you that much, I can always go ahead and make that tea
. . .” he teased.
“No, no, no, orange juice good!” Willow insisted. “Orange juice very
good. Yummy. All that . . . orangey goodness, and all.” Cupping her
hand over her mouth she whispered loudly and theatrically in Dawn’s direction.
“Here’s your chance, Dawnie. I’ll get him distracted, and then we can run
for it before he starts drowning you in tea, too!” Pulling her hand away
from her mouth to point it out the window, she opened her eyes wide in
pretend shock as she called out, “What in the world could that be?” before
darting out of the room, giggling.
Dawn could hear the low sound of Spike’s laughter over her own giggles
as the redhead made good on her escape. Turning away from the door, she
opened her mouth to say something to Spike, but stopped herself at the
look on his face as Spike continued to stare at the kitchen door, still
slightly swinging from Willow’s exit. Biting her lip hard, Dawn leaned
forward to fiddle with her shoelaces, letting her hair fall into her face
to hide her triumphant grin from Spike’s view. Not that she really thought
Spike would notice. Apparently it took a minute or so even after her exit
for Spike to come back from Willow-land. The grin on Dawn’s face grew wider.
The happily-ever-after she’d been imagining for Willow and Spike might
be even closer than Dawn had thought.
“She looks like she’s almost back to her old self,” Dawn stated happily
once she had gotten her smile under control. Expecting Spike to be just
as pleased as she was at the signs of Willow’s recovery, she was surprised
to see the smile on Spike’s face fall.
“Yeah, she does,” Spike agreed quietly, turning back to the counter
to chop some vegetables with just a bit more force than he had used before.
Spike’s gut twisted uncomfortably. Dawn was right, of course, Willow
did look better, *much* better. Another day or two, and she’d be back to
one hundred percent, without any trace of the sickness that nearly killed
her. She’d be completely well, completely healed, and completely self-sufficient
once again . . . and he hated the thought of it.
He was an awful friend. Terrible. Horrible. No good. Very bad. Downright
dreadful in fact because . . . he didn’t really want Willow to get better.
He didn’t want to be without an excuse to spend every minute of every day
with her. He felt faintly sick at the thought of not being able to fuss
over her and take care of her and spoil her and love her . . . the way
he had for the past few days. And he absolutely hated the idea of waking
up cold and alone when he’d grown accustomed to waking up to a bedful of
warm Willow curled up in his arms. He hated the thought of giving it up.
He knew that made him selfish, but he couldn’t help it. There were so few
pieces of her that he could truly consider his, and he dreaded the thought
of giving any of them up, just because she would soon be well enough not
to need him anymore.
Clenching his jaw, he forced himself to focus on the soup. Thinking
about could-be and would-be and probably-will-be wouldn’t do anything but
hurt him. For now, he had something concrete he could do to help Willow:
he could finish making the soup. With renewed concentration, the vegetable
bits were chopped and ready in short order.
“Alright, the hard part’s nearly done,” Spike told Dawn, forcing himself
to smile as he put down the chopping knife. “I just need to dump in the
vegetables and add the seasonings, and the whole lot will be ready to sit
and simmer.” Matching his actions to his words, Spike lifted the cutting
board to dump the vegetables into the pot, not realizing how close his
elbow was to the salt shaker.
“Spike, look out for the sa—” Dawn started to call out, a moment too
late as she watched his elbow bump the salt shaker, knocking it off the
counter.
Spike froze in place as he watched the shaker fall toward the floor.
With both hands holding the cutting board, he knew there was nothing he
could do to catch it without causing the vegetables to spill, but also
he knew the glass salt shaker was fragile, and would probably shatter on
impact with the tile floor. Once it crashed, he’d be left with no choice
but to spend at least the next twenty minutes making sure he got every
single granule of glass and salt off of the floor (Willow had the habit
of walking around the house barefoot and Spike wouldn’t take any chances
of missing a bit of glass just to have it turn up in time to hurt her)
which meant that he had that much longer to wait until he was able to go
into the living room and join his Red. His eyes narrowed in a glare at
the salt shaker as he mentally willed it to hold still and stop causing
him problems . . . but his eyes widened in shock when it actually *did*.
“Nibblet?” he asked tentatively.
“Yeah?” she answered in an equally hesitant voice.
“Do you see the salt shaker hanging in mid-air?”
“Uh huh.”
“Oh good,” Spike replied, gently setting down the cutting board with
slightly shaking hands. “S’not just me, then. Any thoughts on how it got
that way?”
“Well, it was falling, and you were looking at it, and your eyes did
this flashy-thing, and then it just kind of . . . stopped?”
“My eyes did a flashy-thing?”
“Yeah.”
“And then the shaker stopped falling?”
“Yeah.”
“Well . . . that was unexpected.”
“*Oh* yeah.”
There was a long moment of silence.
“Um, Spike?”
“Yeah, Bit?”
“Do you think you could . . . um . . . do something about that? It’s
a little creepy just to watch it hanging there in mid-air.”
“Dunno. Reckon it’s worth a try, though.” Reaching out his hand, Spike
stared at the salt shaker, waiting to see if it would rise or fall or .
. . well . . . do anything other than hang motionless in mid-air. It didn’t.
Spike’s annoyance grew the more he stared at the salt shaker. Stupid
little piece of glass; it’s like it was *deliberately* taunting him, demanding
his thoughts and attention, keeping him away from his Red. The more aggravated
he got, the harder he glared until, without his awareness, his eyes *flashed*
again, and the salt shaker moved smoothly and directly into his still-outstretched
hand.
“Well . . .” Spike stammered, clearing his throat. “That was . . . um
. . .”
“Absolutely *amazing*!” Dawn squealed. “Spike, why did you never *tell*
me you could do magic?”
“Because I can’t?” Spike answered, dazedly.
“But you just *did*! I *saw* it! Oh my God, I have to get Willow,” she
continued, scrambling off of the counter. “She’ll be so—”
“No!” Spike yelled out instinctively. “No, you can’t tell Willow.”
“But why not?”
<Because it’s not possible,> Spike thought to himself. <Because
magic comes from a connection with the earth that vamps just don’t have.
Because in over a hundred years, the only vampire I’ve seen who was able
to pull off any type of magic in any kind of circumstances was Dru, and
that’s because she always was wired a bit differently than everyone else.
Because Red will know that it wasn’t possible; my girl always knows these
things; and she’ll worry about me if you tell her. Because she’s still
weak and I can’t stand the thought of her wasting energy worrying over
me.>
“I think it was just a fluke,” Spike answered, working hard to make
his voice sound natural and normal. “It’s what I get for cooking in a witch’s
kitchen, yeah? Might have been a bit of leftover magic in the salt from
one of Red’s spells. I know she uses a circle of salt in a lot of them.”
A lie, of course. The salt Willow used for spells was kept in a different
cabinet, but Spike didn’t bother to bring that up.
“No need to worry Red about it until we know for sure what happened,”
he continued. “I’ll ask Rupes about it later.” Turning back to the counter
before she had a chance to protest, Spike sped through the last steps of
the soup preparation as quickly as he could, dumping in the vegetables
and the seasonings, and putting the lid on the soup so it could simmer.
“There, that’s all done, then!” he announced, smiling with forced heartiness
for Dawn’s benefit. “Let’s go in with the rest now. And remember, we’re
keeping this just between you and me for now, right?”
“I . . . I guess so,” Dawn answered hesitantly. “But are you sure that—”
“Sure I’m sure,” Spike cut her off. “No need to get Red all worked up
over this just yet.”
A trickle of fear ran along his spine as he wondered what, exactly, had happened . . . but he resolutely pushed it away. This wasn’t about him. This was about Willow, and doing what was best for her. Spike would worry about himself later.
~Part: 82~
“Anyone else still hungry?” Xander asked as he put down his spoon, having
swallowed the last drop of chicken soup in his bowl.
Anya and Willow stared at him in shock.
“Xander, you just ate three sandwiches and two bowls of soup,” Willow
reminded him.
“So you think I should have another bowl of soup?” he asked. “Even out
the numbers?”
“I don’t think Spike would let you have another bowl,” Anya answered.
“He’s already annoyed with you for taking seconds; he made the soup for
Willow, not you.”
“But I appreciate it more than Willow does, don’t I, Wills? Haven’t
you been saying for days that you’re sick of soup?”
“You’d be sick of it, too, if it was all you had,” Willow grumbled.
“You know, you’re right,” Xander answered. “No wonder I’m still hungry.
After all that healthy stuff, I could really go for some good, old-fashioned
grease. Hmm, maybe I’ll have some potato chips; I know you still have some
in the cabinet. Or maybe something sweet, like your chocolate chip cookies.
Oh, and that reminds me, I think I saw some chocolate chip cookie dough
ice cream in the freezer . . .”
“Dirty rotten tease,” Willow pouted, sticking her tongue out at him.
“How unfair is it that *you* get to eat my food and I don’t? And if you
even think of touching that chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream . . .”
Xander grinned in reply, leaning over to kiss her forehead. “Think happy
thoughts, Will. You talked him into letting you come downstairs, didn’t
you? At this rate, I’ll bet Spike’ll have you eating ice cream again by
. . . oh . . . maybe as soon as your thirtieth birthday!” Ducking the pillow
Willow threw at him, Xander disappeared into the kitchen.
“Why do we put up with him?” Willow muttered.
“Lots of reasons,” Anya replied, not realizing it was a rhetorical question,
as she picked up the pillow from the floor and brought it back over to
the sofa. “He’s got nice muscles, and he smells good, and I like the way
he looks without a shirt,” she elaborated as she seated herself next to
Willow on the sofa. “He’s very loyal and he likes to take care of the people
who matter to him and even though his jokes aren’t usually funny, I appreciate
the way he tries to cheer everyone up. He makes me feel safe and loved
and very happy to be human, even though I never thought I’d want to be
mortal again. And I love him. A lot. So do you. So I guess that’s why we
put up with him.”
Willow smiled softly, remembering a five-year-old boy with a yellow
crayon who always knew how to make her smile. “Yeah,” she agreed softly.
“Of course, the sex is great, too, but there’s no need for you to find
that out for yourself, even if you aren’t gay anymore,” Anya concluded.
She liked Willow, but it was still important to make it very clear that
whether Willow was gay or straight, Xander was off-limits. Of course, she
didn’t think that would be a problem now that Willow had Spike. After seeing
the devotion so clearly apparent between the two of them, she had no doubt
that they had fully committed themselves to each other. In her pleasure
at the successful conclusion of her first attempt as a match-facilitator,
she didn’t even mind that Willow wasn’t gay anymore. As long as she remembered
that Xander was taken.
“I . . . I’m . . . w-w-what?” Willow stammered.
“Not gay,” Anya answered succinctly. “I don’t know if we can say that
you like men again since Spike isn’t exactly a man, but he’s definitely
not a girl.”
“But Spike and I . . . why would you think . . . I mean, I never said
. . . I mean . . .”
“If you’re afraid I’m going to ask you about the sex, you don’t have
to be,” Anya replied, misinterpreting the cause of Willow’s discomfort.
“I’m learning,” she added proudly. “Xander explained that it makes people
uncomfortable when I ask them about the sex they have.”
“Spike and I are *not* having sex!” Willow managed to gasp out.
“You’re not?” Anya questioned, obviously confused. “But why—” The confusion
gave way to understanding. “Oh, it’s because you’re still recovering, right?
I suppose Spike wants you to rest instead of having sex. Of course, I always
rest better after a couple of orgasms, so I’m not sure I agree with him,
but—”
“Anya, stop!” Willow stated in the most commanding tone she could muster.
“Spike and I aren’t having sex because we aren’t together. As a couple.
At all.”
If Willow thought this would clear up Anya’s confusion, she was wrong.
“But why not? You’re in love with each other, aren’t you?”
“No!”
“You aren’t in love him?”
“He isn’t in love me.”
The response was so utterly and completely unexpected that Anya wasn’t
able to formulate a response right away. For a few moments, the two girls
sat in silence, half-listening to the TV and to the faint sounds coming
from the kitchen as Spike and Dawn cleaned everything up from lunch, and
Xander raided the fridge.
“You think Spike doesn’t love you?” Anya managed at last.
“No, of course Spike loves me, but he loves me as a friend, a *best*
friend. Like Xander loves me.”
“If Xander loves you like Spike does, then I need to have quite a few
words with my fiancé,” Anya muttered in response.
“No, Anya, really,” Willow insisted. “It’s true. Spike isn’t in love
with me. He’s in love with Buffy. You know he’s in love with Buffy. *Everyone*
knows he’s in love with Buffy.”
“Everyone knows he *was* in love with Buffy. But Willow, you didn’t
see him when he came to you in the hospital. I’ve seen people in all kinds
of pain through the years. Hell, I’ve *put* people in all kinds of pain.
I’ve never seen pain like that.”
“Because he felt guilty,” Willow argued. “He felt like it was his fault
that his best friend had gotten hurt. Of course he was upset.”
“No, it was more than that; I’m sure of it. He—”
“*No*, Anya,” Willow interrupted, her voice cracking slightly on the
word. “Just . . . please. No more.”
Willow looked like she was on the verge of tears, and Anya felt a corresponding
sinking feeling in her stomach. Sure, Willow was spectacularly oblivious
to her own charms; that went without saying; but there was more here than
just modesty making her believe that Spike couldn’t be in love with her.
Something had happened. Something big. Something that was conclusive, in
Willow’s mind, as proof that Spike would never love her.
“Willow, what is it? What happened?” Willow’s only answer was to shake
her head, sniffling slightly and blinking hard to keep the tears from falling
as she hunched forward with her hair falling down to hide her face.
Anya scooted over on the couch so she was right next to Willow and pulled
the other girl into a gentle hug. With a soft sigh, Willow let herself
be held and comforted.
“What happened?” Anya asked again, very, very softly, waiting patiently
for a minute or two afterwards until Willow finally began to speak.
“I could feel him, when I was in the hospital. I could feel what Spike
was feeling.”
“I know,” Anya replied. Willow lifted her head off of Anya’s shoulder
to look at her in confusion. “You started describing what was happening
in the fight at the Hyperion when you were delirious,” Anya explained.
“Oh, right,” Willow replied, laying her head back on Anya’s shoulder.
“Did . . . did Xander tell you what I said, right before I slipped into
the coma?”
“You said that Spike wasn’t coming.” Anya could feel Willow nod against
her shoulder. “Why did you think he wasn’t going to come?”
“Because I knew what he was doing.”
“And what was he doing?” Anya questioned patiently.
“Buffy.”
“What!”
The revelation made Anya literally jump in her seat, knocking her shoulder
into Willow’s head and nearly pushing the redhead off the couch.
“Everything alright in here?” Spike asked, poking his head out through
the kitchen door.
“Fine. Girl talk. Go away,” Anya replied, making a shooing motion with
her hands. Throwing his hands up in a gesture of surrender, Spike stepped
back into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind him. Once Anya
heard the sink turn back on, she turned back to Willow.
“He was doing *what*?” she hissed.
“Maybe we should talk about this later . . .” Willow hedged, her eyes
still on the kitchen door, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of continuing
her story after the reminder that Spike was so close by.
“No, no, no,” Anya replied. “You can’t just say something like that
and then not finish the story. That would just be . . . wrong. *Communism*
kind of wrong.”
Willow managed a weak smile before continuing her story.
“I was so tired . . . but I was holding on because I knew he was coming
back. He was anxious to get back; I could feel it. But then he and Buffy
stopped somewhere. A hotel, maybe. It was Buffy’s idea, I think; I could
feel Spike’s surprise. But then I felt,” Willow swallowed, “. . . lips
on his, and I could feel his reaction. It was mostly surprise at first,
but then I could feel him start to get . . . aroused. Something happened,
I don’t know exactly what, but a moment later I could feel how much he
wanted her. It took over everything else and wiped out every other thought
and feeling. And in that moment, I knew she was all he was thinking about
. . . and they wouldn’t be coming back any time soon. That’s why I stopped
holding on.”
“Oh, Willow,” Anya sighed, uncharacteristically lost for words. She
could practically feel the waves of sadness and despair and heartbroken
resignation pouring off the other girl and her own heart clenched in sympathy
pangs at her obvious hopelessness. But on the other hand, Anya’s emotions
never triumphed for long over her common sense. Anya knew what she had
seen, and she knew, she just *knew* that Spike was in love with Willow
and that any feelings he had for Buffy were in the past. There was more
to the story than what Willow had seen; there *had* to be. Something had
happened between that motel room and Spike and Buffy’s arrival at the hospital,
something that closed the door on any feelings of love Spike harbored for
Buffy and sent him running to Willow’s side. But whatever had happened
was between Buffy and Spike, and unless she could get either of them to
open up and share (which Anya knew was unlikely, at best,) she knew that
Willow would remain unconvinced.
Willow was making a valiant effort not to cry, but her voice seemed
to get softer and shakier with every word. “They became lovers then; I’m
sure of it. And they’d still be lovers now if Spike didn’t insist on spending
all of his time taking care of me because he feels so guilty about not
getting here sooner. I’m the reason he can’t be with who he wants. It’s
not fair to him to have him spend all his time with me, and it’s definitely
not fair to Buffy. I should be happy for them that I’m getting better and
that he’ll be going back to her soon. I should be happy about it; I *want*
to be happy about it, but I . . .” In spite of herself, Willow’s voice
broke on a sob.
“I . . . I love him, Anya, I really do. I love him so much, and he .
. .” Her voice trailed off completely as Willow gave in to the sobs that
were choking her throat. Anya felt some tears work their way into her own
eyes as she started to reach for the redhead—but she didn’t get the chance.
The kitchen door flew open so hard that it nearly cracked the paint
of the wall it slammed against as Spike, clearly furious and in full vamp-face,
stormed out of the kitchen to growl at Anya.
“What the bloody hell did you do to her?” he hissed through clenched
fangs. He didn’t wait for her response as he hurried over to the couch.
Anya didn’t even have a chance to open her mouth to answer before she found
Spike seated on the couch with Willow perched on his lap, bound securely
in Spike’s arms as he cuddled her body close to his, pulling her head down
on to rest on his shoulder. “There, there, love,” he crooned gently. “Spike’s
here. Don’t cry, Red, please don’t cry. Just tell me what’s wrong and I’ll
make it better, I swear I will. Won’t let anything hurt you ever again.”
The feel of Spike’s arms cradling her so gently, combined with his soft
words, undid all of Willow’s resolve. She hadn’t let herself cry over the
reality of Spike with Buffy since that single tear before slipping into
the coma, but it felt like the pain of it had been building every day and
she just couldn’t hold it in any longer. Unable to stop herself, she buried
her face against his offered shoulder and full-out sobbed into his shirt,
her arms snaking around his shoulders to hold him tightly.
Spike alternated between soft soothing words to Willow and death glares
at Anya as he tried to figure out what had gotten his love so upset. “If
I find out that you did something or said something to make her cry like
this—” Spike growled in a voice promising death and destruction, and not
necessarily in that order, but he didn’t get a chance to finish his threat
as Willow sat up abruptly, nearly knocking her head with his in her haste
to set the record straight.
“It wasn’t Anya; she didn’t do anything wrong!” Willow insisted, sniffing
hard and wiping hastily at her face in an attempt to clear out her nose
and eyes. The look on Spike’s face made it abundantly clear that he didn’t
believe her. “It was . . . the TV!” Willow insisted in a sudden burst of
inspiration, nodding her head energetically to support her statement.
“The TV made you cry?” Spike asked, his skepticism still clear. “With
*this*?”
Glancing over at the TV, Willow saw that at some point either she or
Anya had jostled the remote and switched the TV from the Cartoon Network
to the Home Shopping Network, which was currently displaying a set of gold
earrings shaped like monkeys.
“Monkeys make me sad?” Willow offered.
Spike’s answer was to raise a single eyebrow. Forgetting for a moment
about her tears still soaking through the material of his shirt, he bit
back the urge to smirk as well. She was so adorable when she tried to lie.
“No, really,” Willow insisted, more firmly this time. “They do!”
“Why would monkeys make you sad?” Spike asked, clearly still doubtful,
his lips twitching against the smirk aching to blossom.
The adorably innocent oh-no-sir-I’d-*never*-tell-a-lie expression faded
into a slight frown and all of Spike’s desire to smirk disappeared as he
saw a shadow of . . . something; he wasn’t sure what; pass through her
eyes. “They make me think of Oz,” Willow answered quietly but with obvious
sincerity.
Spike’s jaw clenched as he grabbed the remote, switched the TV off,
and tossed the remote to the other side of the room, wrapping both arms
around Willow and slipping a hand back into her hair to guide her head
to rest against his chest. She burrowed into his arms with a soft sigh
and let him hold her close.
“You miss him that much, pet?” Spike asked with studied nonchalance
as he continued petting her hair.
“Not him, not really, but I do kind of miss—” the way Oz had looked
at her when he said she had the sweetest smile he’d ever seen; the first
real compliment from a boy she’d ever gotten; and the lovely floaty feeling
that had come with the thought that she might have finally found a boy
she could care about who could care about her, too. After years of pointless,
*painful* pining over Xander, she had been so helplessly pleased that day
to have finally discovered just how much fun it could be to fall *mutually*
in sort-of-kind-of-just-beginning-to love. Willow bit back a grimace as
she recognized the irony of the situation. Three years, two break-ups,
and a handful of apocalypses had passed leaving her older, wiser, far more
experienced, and . . . once again hopelessly and unrequitedly in love with
her best friend.
“Being in love?” Spike finished for her.
“Yeah,” Willow whispered.
“I know,” he replied, planting a soft kiss on her shoulder, rubbing
his cheek briefly against hers. “I know.”
Spike rested his cheek against the top of her head and closed his eyes,
allowing both of them to draw comfort from holding and being held. He didn’t
notice when he started purring, or the way Willow smiled at the feel of
the soft vibrations rumbling through his chest. He didn’t notice Xander
and Dawn standing there and watching them from the kitchen doorway, having
followed Spike into the living room after he all but broke the kitchen
door to get to Willow. He didn’t notice when Anya got up from the couch
to usher Dawn and Xander back into the kitchen to give Willow and Spike
some privacy. And he certainly didn’t notice the last look Anya gave them,
along with a softly smug smile, before disappearing into the kitchen, herself.
No one ever realizes all the small things vengeance demons learn about
love, over a millennium or so. After seeing one broken hearted girl after
another and manipulating them for her own devious purposes, it was impossible
for her *not* to pick up a thing or two about what love *really* was. The
hardest lesson of love she had ever encountered was this: If you find yourself
yelling at your boyfriend because he never treats you like he loves you
. . . it’s because he doesn’t. Those acts of love can’t be forced and can’t
be faked. The proof of that was right there, in Spike’s arms, as he cradled
Willow like she was the only thing of value in the entire world. Anya didn’t
bother trying to hold back her smile at the progress of her match facilitating,
knowing that neither of them would notice her at that moment, wrapped up
as they were in each other. Oh, the two of them had quite a tricky bundle
of issues to work through before they’d let themselves be happy, but the
real core issue; the love at the heart of it all for both of them; was
clearly not a problem.
Anya bit back a snort of laughter as she remembered Willow’s words from
before. <Right, Willow,> Anya thought to herself. <Spike’s in love
with Buffy, and I’ve taken a vow of poverty.>
<And chastity.>
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