Rating: R
Pairing: Willow/Spike
Feedback: PLEASE!!!!
Summary: Willow and Spike share a night of passion. But it doesn't mean the same thing to both of them. Willow POV.
Distribution: If you have permission to archive my previous fics, 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: This fic was written for the Winter of Spillow Live Journal Community. Oh, and it's my birthday today (January 14th).
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She would never forget the way he had felt inside her. Cold, hard, and unyielding. So very different from Oz's warm, living flesh. And cold, hard, and unyielding described everything about the way Spike took her, the way he was in bed, when he looked in her eyes, and the way he was forever after, as well.
She had thought it would take away the pain, a night of meaningless sex with an attractive, agreeable, and discreet partner. He had offered, she had accepted gladly. And when they had gotten back to his crypt, they hadn't been able to keep their hands off each other. He had nearly ripped her clothes off, and she had torn some buttons from his shirt in her eagerness to touch his bare flesh. At the time, she had thought it was passion. Now she thought to herself that it had been nothing more than a desperate attempt to create heat and banish the cold loneliness that threatened each day to consume her. What Spike had been feeling, she wasn't able to tell.
Willow would never be able to call what had passed between them 'making love'; they had touched, but no deeper than physically. She had looked into his eyes as she climaxed and had not even known who he was. She wondered if the same was true for him, but she wouldn't dream of presuming to know what their night meant in his eyes or how he remembered it. In fact, she had left his bed knowing him so much less than she had before that it made her feel smaller, sadder, and older than she ever had or ever wanted to feel again. She had never realized that a night of mutually consensual sex could be so degrading, so diminishing, so capable of leaving scars.
Willow had even considered, in a wild moment of panic after it was over, using magick again and trying 'that' spell to erase Spike's memory. But the memory she really wanted to erase was her own.
It wasn't that the sex had been horrible; it hadn't, though, being purely physical, it had been hollow and ultimately unfulfilling. It was that it felt dirty and wrong. After all, despite Tara's rejection, she still loved the shy, blonde witch and wanted her back desperately.
At first, she had been afraid that Spike would reveal what had happened between them to hurt her. After all, he was a demon and causing pain was the chief joy of his existence. But he didn't, and he didn't seem to be trying to make her squirm or take pleasure in her paranoia either. In fact, he was avoiding her, the same as everyone else.
A part of Willow was slightly insulted that he was so easily able to cast her aside when he had been so eager to be inside her that night. Was she so terrible in bed? But then, her rational side reasserted itself and reminded her that, after all, she didn't want Spike to want her again. His bed was nowhere she ever wanted to return to. And she had more important things to think about, like staying away from magick and winning back the woman she desperately loved. She could hardly wait to hold Tara again, to look into her eyes and know that she was loved, and cherished, and wonderful. And to banish the chill Spike had left in her soul in the warmth of Tara's soft arms.
The End