"Sorry, pet. Don't make sudden moves for a bit. No permanent damage, though."
"How would you know?" spat Willow, keeping her face straight ahead.
"Practice. Lots of it. We both know I don't want you dead -- not this year. "
"And if I vanish from Sunnydale, they'll think I'm dead."
"Doubt it, luv. Not with the long chatty letters you'll be writing, telling your friends -- and your lawyer -- about how you decided to make a clean break from the memories of that ex-boyfriend of yours."
Ouch. That was my lie, not his. "And why will I write these letters?" Spike glanced at her. "Use that clever brain, pet. You're alone. No rescuer coming. The chip's gone. Need I go on?"
Willow swallowed. Change the subject. "My head hurts."
"That's what punches do, ducks. You'll get better."
"Can we stop so I can get some aspirin?"
"At a friendly, human-infested store where you can get help? Don't think so. Points for trying."
"Where are we going?" Willow looked sidelong at the vampire.
Spike's right hand flashed out, grabbed her wrist, and twisted.
"Ouch!" His hand automatically flew up to his head, then he pulled it back and smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile.
"Let's get this clear, witch. I'll ask the questions. We're going where the Slayer won't look for you, and that's all the information you'll get."
Willow made one last try. "But why?"
"Call it a whim. No more questions."
Willow closed her eyes and slumped, only to have her cheek slapped once. "No more sleep. Not smart after a head injury."
Willow sat up and flashed a glare that should have incinerated Spike. He met it with a chipper grin.
If looks could kill, pet, this world would be a desert.
Willow peered through the gaps in the window, seeing nothing she recognized. Maybe I can find some aspirin in my pack. She looked on the floor. No pack. She twisted her head to the back. Ouch! No pack.
"Spike? I think I have some aspirin in my pack. Where is it?"
"In the trunk. You can have it when we stop."
"But my head hurts now."
"Having spent five months with the Instant Migraine Machine, somehow I can't get terribly concerned. You'll get your pack when it's safe to stop."
Willow fell silent and watched the road whip past. It was a deserted two-lane road, too small even for signs. The moon rode high in the sky.
After a long silent while, the road widened and intersected a state road. At the crossroads, there was a dilapidated '30s cottage-style motel and a combination convenience store and gas station. Spike pulled up to the motel, cut the engine, and turned to her.
"Let's be clear, pet. Try to get help from the staff, and I'll kill them all. Your life is safe for now, but I'm really looking forward to a spot of bloodshed. Stay silent, and I kill only what I eat. One word, one move, and their blood is on your head. Understood?"
Willow bit her lip.
"Understood, witch?"
"Yes. I understand."
"Wait here." Spike got out, rang the night bell, and negotiated with the sleepy desk clerk. Then he reentered the car, jingling a key, and drove to the most secluded cabin. "End of the line, pet. All out."
He got out, walked around the back, and opened the door for her in a parody of courtesy. When she stood up, he grabbed her wrist hard in his right hand and pulled her back to the trunk. He released her, opened the trunk, grabbed her pack, and slung it over a shoulder.
"Ladies first." Willow silently walked to the cottage door. Spike followed her, dropped the pack, unlocked the door, and waved her inside. After she had gone in, Spike shut the door, locked it, stalked over to the only chair, sat down, and unzipped her pack.
"Hey, that's mine! And it's private!"
Spike looked up at her. "Red, as of several hundred miles ago, you lost the ability to command." He began to rummage through the pack. He threw her Book of Shadows on the floor Arrgh!, snickered at and discarded her copy of Jane Eyre, and tossed her Java book atop them. Moving on, he confiscated her Swiss Army knife, spare stake, and laptop, and stacked them on the floor beside him. Then he rezipped the pack and tossed it to her.
Willow found her aspirin, put the pack down, and headed to the bathroom. When she returned, Spike had draped the windows with the coverlet, and was lying on the bed with his hands behind his head and his feet crossed at the ankles.
"Come here, pet."
Her heart sank. This had always been a possibility. "No."
"We both know I can make you."
"We both know I'm not making it easy for you."
He heaved an airless sigh. "Have it your way, then."
He sprang up, crossed the room, grabbed Willow by the waist, threw her down on the bed, pulled handcuffs from his hip jeans pocket, and handcuffed her to the bed frame.
Oh, God, it's October all over again. And I destroyed the one thing that kept me safe.
Spike smiled down at her and said "Pressing business, Red. Back soon." He dropped a kiss on the pulse in her throat, then rose, picked up the laptop and other contraband, and strode out whistling. The door locked behind him, and Willow was alone with her thoughts.
What a mess I've made. As she began to cry, a small, calm, practical part of her noted, Bloodlust is stronger than any other need. I must remember that.
Willow took a deep breath and began the conversation she had planned. "I set you free. Why did you pay me back like this?"
"Because I can. Because, for the first time in months, I can do anything I bloody well want to." His eyes sparkled. "And, oh, yes, because you're a trusting fool and I am not."
Keep him distracted. "Where are we going?"
"Sorry, it's not Question Time." Spike sauntered over and sat down next to her on the bed. "And now, luv..." he placed pale hands on either side of her head and leaned in.
Now or never. "Wait."
Spike paused an inch from her lips, his own lips curling in amusement. "Red, I don't think the cavalry are coming this time."
"I don't need cavalry." Willow rushed onward, tripping over words, desperate to finish while she still had space and air! to talk. "One year from today I'm meeting my lawyer at noon in the park in Sunnydale. Alone. If I tell Joanie I'm okay, she throws the tape in the incinerator. If I don't show up, or I'm not alone, or I say I'm not okay..."
Spike pursed his lips, bringing them even closer, and looked thoughtfully into her eyes. Bloody Hell. Left her time to think again. "I see."
It's working! "So if you'll just let me go, I'll call Buffy to come get me, and we're back where we started."
Willow smiled, hoping she looked firm, in control, and not to be trifled with. Unfortunately, she looked like what she was: a woman dancing on the edge of a cliff and hoping it wouldn't crumble.
Spike met her hopeful smile with his usual shark grin. "Not quite, Red. I am not letting you loose while that tape exists."
He held up a finger and traced the curve of her cheek to her ear. "You could trip over a shoelace and die."
Two fingers, down the line of the cheekbone to the jaw. "You could blame me for one of your little friends' getting a hangnail."
Three fingers, lifting her chin. "You could get bored." He caught her chin in a bruising grip. "While that tape exists, you remain under my eye."
Salvage what I can. Willow looked Spike in the eye and put on her best Resolve Face. "All right. But if you lay a hand on me again, you won't like what happens in a year."
"Truce, then." Spike released Willow's face and sat up. "I admit, that does take some of the thrill out of the evening. If you'll excuse me..." He stood up, turned away, and strode toward the door.
"Let me go!" Willow began to thrash.
Without turning or slackening stride, Spike responded, "Not likely, pet. Not before time."
"If you don't unchain me, you'll be sorry!"
Then Spike did turn, presenting a completely expressionless face. "Willow." His voice was soft and deadly. "Don't tell me I have nothing to lose by killing you now."
Willow met Spike's eyes. There was no court there to which she could appeal. Willow saw no gratitude, no mercy, not even humor.
Last try. "My arms hurt. If I promise I won't try to escape, will you please let me loose?"
"No, pet. But we can probably find a more comfortable position for you to be restrained in. Unless you'd prefer Plan A." The glint in his eyes explained Plan A all too clearly.
"No, thank you."
Spike returned to the bed and unlocked the handcuffs. When Willow sat up and rubbed her wrists, he waited, then tied her wrists and ankles, this time with cord. He travels with a complete set of restraints? Ick. After tying her, Spike stood and strode again to the door.
"Lights on, pet?"
"Off, please."
"As you like. You'll be keeping vampire hours from here on, though. Best get accustomed quickly." And he left her alone with her regrets.
"Wha..." Willow tried to rub her aching head, then realized she was still bound.
Before Willow knew what was happening, Spike picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, sending pangs and nausea through her body, carried her out to the car, and forced her in. Willow gasped out, "My books! My pack!"
Spike hopped in and started the engine. "No time."
As the car began to roll forward, Willow had an inspiration. "It has my name and address in it!" The car stopped, and Willow was thrown against the dashboard. Spike glared, reached over, and threw her back against the seat.
"Stay!" He leapt from the car, disappeared into the motel room, returned carrying Willow's pack, and threw it atop her. "Be a bloody Girl Scout and be prepared next time!" Then he slammed the car into gear and spun out of the motel parking lot.
As the car gained speed, Willow suddenly realized why Spike was in such a hurry. Oh, God, he's killed somebody else. And it's my fault. Without moving her aching head, she looked sidelong for bloodstains, but found none. I guess he's a tidy eater.
Spike grinned. "What a smart little girl. Quite right, too. That town would have been a trifle hot by dawn."
Willow spun to face him, ignoring the pain. "You killed someone! And you're laughing about it!"
Spike, unmoved, continued accelerating. "I'm a vampire, Red. Remember, 'wolves should be wolves'?"
"Oh, God."
"Not a factor here."
Willow sank back into the seat and looked out at the sky, which was still dark. She looked reflexively for her watch, but it wasn't there. Probably got lost during the Bondage-O-Rama. "How far are we going?"
Spike reached across and caressed her throat. "When I want a conversation ... which I don't at the moment ... I'll start it myself." Willow swallowed involuntarily, and he laughed and removed the hand. "Actions have consequences, pet." He lit a cigarette and drove on.
Willow began to cough, intercepted a glare, and stifled it. Not only have I been kidnapped, I'm going to die of secondhand smoke. If Spike doesn't just eat me first. He doesn't HAVE to go back to Sunnydale, after all. Better not remind him of that. But what happens when he figures it out himself? Oh, God, what have I done? She sank into a morass of guilt and regret.
After a couple of cigarettes, Spike interrupted her musings. "So, pet, time for some ground rules. As from now, you keep my hours. Move when I do. Don't bother unpacking, I don't plan to stay anywhere long. Understood?"
Willow tried to answer, but her throat was tight with tears.
"Do you understand? I expect answers when I do talk."
Willow swallowed hard and quavered "Yes."
"Don't snivel. It's boring. I hear enough of it from the soon-to-be-deceased, and you don't want me confusing you with them. Right?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I'm not supposed to c-cry." Willow bit off the last word, feeling her voice betraying her.
After a few moments of silence, Willow found a reservoir of courage. "And my rules--"
"Sorry, pet, doesn't work that way. Don't bore me, and don't annoy me, and you may yet survive to retrieve that tape."
Before her nerve vanished entirely, Willow said, "I thought you'd sworn off kidnapping?"
Spike gave her a self-satisfied smirk. "Hardly. I did swear off telling the truth to enemies. Some years ago, in fact."
The sky was beginning to lighten; the stars closest to the horizon were hard to see. Maybe he'll drive into the sunrise!
As it happened, Spike recognized dawn as well as did Willow -- somewhat better, being both more motivated and more experienced -- and pulled into a small motel well before the sky began to turn pink. He checked in, drove up to an end unit, carried Willow in (this time against his chest, cradled like a new bride), dumped her on the bed, returned to the car for her pack and a duffel, and set them on the floor. Then he began checking the curtains and preparing the room for the day.
Willow looked up at Spike from the double bed. "Spike? My hands and feet hurt. I still have a circulation, you know."
He turned from the window and quirked an eyebrow. "That could be remedied..."
"Not if --"
Spike strode over to the bed and grabbed her shoulders, hard enough to bruise. "Last warning, Red. Don't wear that threat out. You may need it." He took one of her hands, which was indeed somewhat cold. He sighed dramatically, then untied her wrists. Willow rubbed her hands, while Spike freed her ankles. He looked up. "Off with your clothes."
"WHAT?" She scooted back against the headboard, eyes wide.
He smirked. "Pet, if you don't want to be tied all day, I need some other form of restraint. Hand me your outer clothes, and you can be free. Otherwise, it's back to the ropes. I understand they make quite good prosthetics nowadays..."
Under Spike's sardonic eye, Willow kicked off her shoes, dived under the covers, removed her sweater and skirt, handed them over, then pretended to be asleep. Oh, God, what if he joins me?
"Very convincing." There was more than a hint of laughter in his voice.
Willow burrowed deeper, not wanting to meet his eyes. I don't know which would be worse: having him laugh at my underwear, or having him laugh at my body. Let's not find out. She heard Spike striding around the room for a few more moments, then felt his body land -- on top of the cover, thank Whoever -- next to her. She waited until she thought he must be asleep, then scurried to the bathroom. When she returned, he was sitting up in bed laughing at her.
"Have you considered a career as a secret agent?"
Willow felt a tide of color rising to her ears. She slipped under the covers and turned her back on the vampire. He flicked the back of her head with a fingertip. "Get some sleep. You'll need it." Trying hard not to think of unpleasant interpretations of that last, Willow drifted to sleep.
Willow slipped out of bed and looked nervously over her shoulder. This time, the vampire didn't stir. She turned to the nightstand, and slowly and gently lifted the phone headset. It was dead. She searched for a cause, and found it: the wall cord had been removed, and was nowhere in sight. She lowered the headset agonizingly slowly, and resettled it without making a sound. So much for easy answers. She scanned the room for other options, and saw her pack next to the door.
Willow paced silently to her pack, knelt, opened it, and sighed again. Spike had been quite thorough in removing all possible weapons, and to add insult to injury, had apparently left all her books behind in the first motel. Willow rocked back on her heels to think. There was no clock in the room; judging by the light filtering through the window, it was late afternoon.
Hey! I could open the blinds, he'd flame out, and I could go home! She judged the distance between the window and the bed. It was about three feet, and Willow didn't know exactly where the sun was in the sky. It takes time for vampires to catch fire. If he didn't burn up immediately, I'd be alone with a very angry Spike. I think I've done that enough for one lifetime.
I could prove he's wrong about me. I could walk right out there in my underwear and ask the motel clerk for help. Willow shriveled at the thought. And what would I say? Help, I've been kidnapped by a vampire, don't go in there unless you've got a stake? Nobody would believe me. Even if they believed the crazy half-naked woman, somebody would go into the room to check the story out ... and get killed. Only Buffy could cope with this mess. Oh, God, someday I'm going to have to explain this to Buffy, and she is not going to be one little tiny bit happy. And Giles. Oh, Giles is worse. Much much worse. Time to stop thinking.
While the vampire was -- asleep? dead? -- Willow could preserve the illusion of free will. Good time for a shower. Life always looks better in the shower. Although I'll have to put two-day-old clothes back on afterwards. Yuck. Vampires have it easy. They can wear the same clothes forever. She grabbed her hairbrush, padded to the bathroom, closed and locked the door, and looked in the mirror. Her own pale face peered back at her, dark circles under the eyes and a deep black bruise on the point of the chin. Still visible; I suppose that's something.
Willow turned away from the mirror, undressed, and piled her underwear on the sink. She stepped into the shower, pulled the curtain closed, and ran the water full force, hot as it would come. Then she closed her eyes and let the water stream down her face. I'm back in the dorm. Any moment now, Buffy's going to barge in and ask if she can borrow my eyeliner...
The door burst open, but it wasn't Buffy. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"
Willow stuck her head around the curtain, too angry to be afraid. "What do you think? Go. Away." Oh God, he's still naked. She pulled her head back in.
"You are not to lock the door again. Do you understand?"
Willow yelled back, "What do you think I'm going to do, climb through the ceiling? People lock bathroom doors for a reason."
"I'm not people, pet."
"Will you please GO AWAY? The door isn't locked any more, and I'd like to shower in peace!"
Much to Willow's surprise, Spike left. She closed her eyes and leaned back into the shower, but couldn't recapture the mood. She washed up, dried herself, dressed, combed her hair, brushed her teeth with a finger, and sighed. Can't put it off any longer. Time to face a new day --make that night-- and the same old vampire.
Willow opened the door a crack and peered through it. The room was now dark, lit only by the flickering of the television set. Spike had dressed, piled her pack and the duffel next to the door, and was sprawled on the bed, one foot tapping. Her clothes were piled next to him.
I am not putting on another floor show. "Could you please hand me my clothes?"
Spike grinned. "I've already seen your undies, pet."
Resolve Face."Come on, Spike. Hand me my clothes, and we can go. I'm sure you have places to be, people to betray, evil things to do?"
Spike stood up, all expression gone. "I am not your servant. I am leaving in one minute. So are you, in whatever you're wearing -- or not -- at that time."
Willow scurried out, grabbed her skirt and sweater, and pulled them on. She had just tied her second sneaker when the time was up, and Spike grabbed her elbow. "I can walk perfectly well!"
"Then do. Next to me. With that pretty mouth closed, thank you."
Willow bit her lower lip, walked out to the car, and got in. The road unrolled ahead, a ribbon dividing her from her friends and her life.
After that first night of celebration and freedom for Spike, regret and captivity for Willow, they settled into a pattern of driving all night and sleeping all day. For the rest of her life, Willow remembered the drive with Spike as a jumble box filled with inconsistent and incongruous incidents. A few sharp vignettes stood out from the blurred background of endless roads and motels. The second evening, for instance, when Willow found out how vampires solved the clothing problems she thought they didn't have.
"TARGET?"
Spike raised an eyebrow at her. "Bloodstains, luv. Wear and tear. Unsightly holes caused by bullets, knives, and poorly-aimed stakes. Can't depend on dinner to be wearing the right size and color. And your higher-class boutiques close before sundown."
Willow fought back a grin. If Cordelia only knew... Although she doubted Drusilla's wardrobe said "Merona" on the hang tag. Black jeans and T-shirts, on the other hand, could be found pretty much anywhere. After making his own selections, Spike steered her to the women's department, one hand in an apparently affectionate grasp around her arm. She walked toward a rack of ponchos, and was yanked away.
"I am not going to spend the next twelve months squiring Annie Hall around the underworld. Ah, this is more like it."
"This" proved to be a rack of baby-blue crop tops.
"I am not a fourteen-year-old hooker!"
"No, they generally have some flair. Taste, too. Quite tasty, in fact."
Willow gave Spike a dirty look, which was answered with a reminiscent grin. She turned away hastily and grabbed the closest piece of clothing, which turned out to be a navy-blue sweatshirt.
"You just lost your vote, Red." Ignoring all Willow's protests and arguments, Spike picked out a green velour minidress, a violet silk blouse --"With MY hair?"--, a couple of low-necked T-shirts, and a pair of black jeans. He headed toward the lingerie section, and Willow flamed up to her hairline.
"Please, please, let me do this alone. I promise I won't run away. I vow. I'll take an oath!"
Spike's face lost all humor. "If you learn anything from this little trek, witch, learn this. Trust is NOT a virtue. If you've a brass farthing in one hand and a promise in the other, take the farthing every time. I don't accept apologies, IOUs, or promises."
"I'm going to die of embarrassment--"
"Not possible, luv. Ask your President."
Spike did allow Willow to make her own selections, although he cheerfully offered advice and editorial comments along the way.
"Sure you wouldn't prefer leopard?"
"Drop DEAD!"
"Too late."
After a brief stop to pick up toiletries and envelopes and paper Oh, I so hoped he'd forgotten that part, they checked out. Spike paid in cash; with a gasp, Willow suddenly realized where it must have come from. A renewed grip on her arm kept her from saying anything in the store.
In the parking lot, Willow spat "You stole that! From a corpse!"
Spike grabbed Willow's free arm and spun her to face him.
"Enough. If I want moral lectures, I'll go to the Salvation Bloody Army. I'm a vampire. I like being a vampire. I'm not interested in your opinions on my morals, my manners, or any other subject. You won't convince me, and you just might bore me to death -- yours."
Willow glared at Spike, but kept her mouth shut. She climbed into the car and stared straight ahead as he turned back on to the road. They were heading north, but Willow knew she wouldn't get answers if she asked where. She wondered what Buffy was doing, and wished she were doing it, too. As usual, Spike interrupted her thoughts.
"Time to make contact, luv. Write a lovely chatty letter to the Slayer, explaining that you just can't stand being reminded of Dog-Boy, and you're taking some time away to clear your head. In your own words, of course. Don't bother sealing the envelope. When you've finished that, you can make copies for the Watcher and your lawyer."
"I mostly send E-mail nowadays."
"And I prefer naked virgins delivered to my doorstep in chains. Nice try. God only knows what you could do with that computer, and I have no intention of finding out. Try the old-fashioned way, on paper."
Willow sighed, and wrote brief notes to Buffy, Giles, and her lawyer. Spike checked the wording, made her rewrite the note to Giles, and dropped them off at an all-night copy shop to be mailed. One more hope of rescue closed off. Spike's right, the cavalry aren't coming. It's going to be up to me to rescue myself.
They drove north and east, crossing the Canadian border by stealth. Willow watched the scenery change from seacoast to mountains to plains, and the road signs change from miles to kilometers, and then from English to French. Those changes, and the occasional shopping trips, were the only evidence she had to prove that she wasn't simply living the same day over and over again.
Which made it all the more surprising when the routine abruptly ended. They reached Montreal in the early evening, and checked into yet another tiny motel. Willow had settled back to watch television when Spike returned, hours early, jingling a key. She gave him a startled look.
"Back to the car, pet. Now." She stood up, dressed, grabbed her pack, and followed him to the car. Now what?
Spike pulled out of the motel and began weaving his way through the back streets. Much to Willow's surprise, he volunteered an explanation. "End of the road."
"Huh?"
"We stop here. For now."
Willow raised a skeptical eyebrow of her own. "In Montreal? Why? What's so thrilling about it? Unlesss you're a big hockey fan... or you like cheese on your french fries?"
"It has its advantages, Pet. For one thing, you don't speak the language. Cuts down on the escape attempts."
Willow bit her lip to keep from pointing out that it was only her tutoring that had dragged Buffy through French at Sunnydale High.
Unfortunately, Spike saw her expression, interpreted it correctly, and laughed. "Trust me, luv, schoolgirl 'parlez-vous' has damn all to do with Quebecois."
"Which you learned how?"
"The usual way. Practice. Chin up, after a year, you should be able to say 'Help, I've been kidnapped by a vampire.' and be understood by the locals. Making them believe you may take another year or so, though..." He nosed the De Soto into a back street and parked it. "At last. Stick close; this neighborhood isn't exactly hospitable."
Willow followed Spike out of the car to a street-level door, which he unlocked and held open for her. He waited for her to enter, relocked the door, then ran up the stairs, which were lit by a single dim bulb. Puzzled, she followed. Six flights up was another heavy door, which Spike also unlocked. He waved her inside. "Home sweet home."
Willow looked around by the light from the hall. It was a tiny place, with an irregular roof up under the eaves. She stood in a hallway that opened into a single room; off her right was a small bathroom, and what looked like a kitchen. She walked in and flicked the wall switch. Nothing happened. She opened the tap. Again, nothing.
She walked into the sitting room. The windows were covered by wooden shutters, which were nailed shut. By the thin line of light from the staircase, she could barely see a chair and the posts of a bed. Spike was looking disgustedly at the floor, which was covered in dust and rodent droppings. "This won't do."
He took the words right out of my mouth. "What is this?"
"Pied-a-terre. Set it up years ago. Haven't been back since."
Willow snorted. "I can see."
His head snapped up. "Stubble it. You'll be here for the next year, best get used to it." He grabbed her wrist and yanked her over to the chair. "Sit. I'll be back soon." He pushed her into the chair and began tying her down.
"Spike... I'm scared." Willow tried to catch his eye.
He snorted, and kept tying. "You're supposed to be. You're alone with a vampire, remember?"
"No, I mean I'm afraid of this place. I don't want to be alone here. There's no light. Anybody could come in. It's creepy."
"Sorry, luv." He didn't look terribly moved. "Where I'm going, you wouldn't be welcome... or you'd be all too welcome. Briefly."
"But it's scary here! There are rats!" Willow's voice quavered alarmingly.
Spike grabbed her chin. "Don't crack now. You can't afford it." He saw tears welling in her eyes, and sighed. "Have to hunt. I'll be back as soon as I can. You're perfectly safe; there's a deadbolt on the door." He turned and left, the duster swirling behind him. Willow heard the locks snick on the door, and she was alone in the darkness.
#####
Not nearly soon enough, Spike returned. He was carrying a lit Coleman lantern in one hand. He crossed to the chair and set Willow free, not commenting on the tear streaks. "Come along, we've got stuff to shift before dawn."
She followed him down to the car. The trunk was packed with camping supplies: a portable stove, some freeze-dried food, a couple of jugs of water. There were also pillows and bedclothes. Black. It figures. Willow carried them upstairs; Spike followed with the lantern. When the last load was inside, he set the lantern on the floor, then shot the bolts home and pocketed the key.
Working together, they made the bed up. Willow reached up to rub her tired eyes, and brought her hand back black with dust. I must look like a coal miner. She sighed, sat down on the bed, and toed her shoes off. Suddenly, all the horrors of the last week caught up with her at once, and she buried her face in the bed and began sobbing.
Surprisingly, Spike didn't make a snide comment; he quietly continued setting the room to rights, then sat down on the bed beside her. When she continued to sob, he said quietly, "Go to sleep, Red. It will all look better when you wake up." She cried on. Eventually, a cool hand began stroking her hair, then her shoulder. The sobs grew slower and quieter, and eventually she fell asleep.
#####
The next few nights assumed their own routine. Spike rose, chained Willow's ankle to the bed, and left to do whatever vampires did in their spare time. She never heard any sounds that would indicate the building had other residents, living or otherwise. After the first night, he got the heat, water, and electricity turned on. The light made the dirt and decay all too visible. It also revealed the furnishings: typical vampire gothic Where do they shop? Gargoyle Barn? Crate And Bondage? with one modern addition, a small television set.
On the nights when Spike returned early, he released Willow and set her to cleaning the apartment. Even though she loathed housework, it was something to do. Besides, the room was even more depressing dirty than clean. Before long, she'd done everything possible without paint, spackle, or a sledgehammer, which she privately thought was the best solution.
When Spike returned after a particularly long night, Willow reopened an old argument.
"Can I PLEASE have my laptop?"
"No."
"I won't hook up to the Net, I promise."
"What did I say about promises?"
"This apartment doesn't even have a phone jack."
"And you know that because? No."
"Spike, if I don't have something to do for the next year, I will go crazy."
Spike quirked an eyebrow. "I could offer some suggestions..."
"I meant, something to think about. Besides that I'm flunking all my classes because of you. Books. Computers. Magick."
"What, no bungee jumping?"
"Spike...."
Another airless sigh. "Go to sleep, luv."
Willow sighed and rolled over. I'm going to flunk out of college, and I have to spend the next year watching Passions in French with a vampire. Could my life get any worse?
When evening came, Spike went through the usual routine of chaining Willow, handing her the remote, locking her in, and leaving. When he returned, much earlier than usual, he had a small box in one hand, and a large bag, which he left in the hall. He switched the TV off, strolled to the bed, and sat down beside Willow.
"Just how badly do you want to get some air?"
Willow scanned his face. For once, it was completely serious, even solemn. "What's the catch?"
"Answer the question, pet."
What am I getting into? Willow swallowed several times, but her throat was too tight to speak.
"I suppose that's your answer, then." Spike rose, and Willow gasped "Wait!".
Spike suppressed a grin. "Yes, Red?"
"I want out very badly, and you know it. What do I have to do?"
He sat down again. "I'm not hunting tonight. Going to meet some old... acquaintances. You can come... if..." He watched her face.
"If ...?"
"It's a vampire bar. Humans enter only as food or as toys. If you don't want to be the first, you'll have to be the second." He flipped open the box. Inside was a fine black chain. The clasp was a tiny padlock, supporting a polished garnet teardrop.
Willow shrank back. "Ick."
Spike snapped the package shut and pocketed it. "As you like." He rose, locked the door, and left.
Willow slumped back against the bed and thought. Getting some fresh air... but being a toy? Yuck. Bleah. Possessive vampires, ptooey!
Nothing further was said on that subject for a week. Every evening, Spike rose, restrained Willow, locked the doors, and left. Willow paced (within the limits of the chain), watched television, and recited all the Shakespeare she could remember. One evening, she could stand it no longer. As Spike stood to leave, Willow said, "Just what does that necklace mean?"
Spike froze, with that preternatural vampire stillness. "Two things. You're under my protection and under my authority." He grabbed her chin and held it. "Which means that, in public, you do exactly what I tell you. Cross me or mouth off, and you may not live to regret it."
Willow sighed and met his gaze. "Okay. In public, I obey." She put on her best Resolve Face. "In private, I'm a free agent. Or as free as I ever get, which isn't very. Now what?"
Spike took both her hands and raised her to her feet, then pulled the box from his pocket. "This is generally a lifetime commitment, although..." his mouth quirked, "the lifetime is frequently shorter than the mortal imagines. Call it a year, in this case; when I get the tape, you can go free. There's a lot of ritual folderol, but why bother."
"Kneel."
Willow knelt, and Spike fastened the chain around her neck. Her hands flew up and tugged; it was thin but strong.
He looked down at her. "Go change. There are clothes in the bag in the hall."
"What am I, some sort of vampire fashion accessory? I HATE this!"
Spike's smile did not reach his eyes. "Payback's a bitch, pet. Wear what I chose, or stay here."
Willow carried the bag into the bathroom. The clothes echoed Spike's colors: long black velvet skirt, crimson long-sleeved silk top, tight to the body and low in the neck. However, the shoes, black stiletto-heeled pumps, were pure Drusilla. Buffy can walk in these, because she's the Slayer. I'm going to break an ankle! Grumbling to herself, Willow dressed, then looked in the mirror to fix her hair.
Same old Willow, dressed as a Goth. Or a vampire 'toy'. How nice. She drew herself up to her full height, opened the bathroom door, and walked out, fighting to keep her balance.
Spike scanned her head to toe, face expressionless. "You'll do. Stay close. And don't speak unless you're spoken to." She followed him out the door.
"If I were independent, I wouldn't be wearing these heels. I can't walk in them."
"Like anything else, it takes practice. Keep wearing sneakers, and you'll never learn."
"How would you know? How many hours have you spent trying to walk in spikes?"
His mouth twitched. "Watched Drusilla practising, back when they first came in. She wasn't going to miss out on the latest, even if it did take a bit of effort. Wasn't long before she could take down a football player without turning a hair -- or an ankle."
That's the first time he's mentioned her. Willow glanced at Spike's face, but saw only a reminiscent grin. She stayed silent, hoping not to disturb the mood; she remembered Drusilla's effect on his emotions all too clearly.
After a block or so, they turned into another apparently-abandoned house. In the basement of this one was a tunnel. I should have known. They followed its twists in silence, moving steadily downward.
Surprisingly, the tunnel did not end in the sewers. Instead, it led to an underground street, full, even at this hour, of pedestrians of all flavors, from punk to professional.
Willow was startled. "Is Montreal on a Hellmouth, too?"
"Next best thing, pet. It's got weather that even a polar bear couldn't love. The locals decided to move some of the city underground. Nicest present the vampire community ever got. You can spend months in Montreal without ever seeing the light of day. Very popular spot for undead vacations."
They walked through the underground city. It was more like a mall than a city, really; every square foot was devoted to selling something, and most of the stores seemed to cater to insomniacs ... or vampires. Periodically a tunnel would open out into a multistory atrium, which gave Willow a brief stab of homesickness for Sunnydale, and the mall where she had helped Buffy pick up pieces of Judge, a lifetime ago. Ick. Depressing choice of phrase. She briefly considered running, then discarded the idea; in those shoes, she wouldn't make it more than a step or two away. And I don't think that's an coincidence...
As they left the wider thoroughfares behind and turned into a side tunnel, Willow realized that fewer and fewer of their fellow pedestrians could pass the cross test. Her heartbeat sped up, and she tried to slow Spike's rapid pace. She succeeded only in turning her ankle again.
Spike glanced over. "Trying to become dinner, luv?"
"I'm not really sure what you're talking about."
"Fear attracts predators. You're screaming 'Come eat me'. Not smart."
Willow stopped cold. "I am scared. I don't think that's going to change."
Spike grabbed her arm and turned to face her. "Change it. Now."
Willow tried unsuccessfully to shake his hand off. "That's what my parents said about bullies. Just ignore them, reacting gets their attention. Hah."
"They were right."
"I can't stop being scared just because I know I should."
"Let's try this another way. You're afraid of me, right?"
Willow snorted. In a heartbeat, Spike vamped out, grabbed her shoulders, and raked his fangs over her carotid artery, just below the ear. "Do you need a demonstration?"
Willow tried, unsuccessfully, to shrink away. "N-Nope. Not at all. I'm totally scared. Honest."
Spike traced a path with his tongue down the artery to her collarbone, released her, and resumed the human mask. "Good. Then believe me when I say I will kill anything that interferes between you and me. Worry about me; anything else is taken care of."
Willow swallowed, then quavered "Okay." This is his idea of reassuring?
Spike offered his arm, and she took it and resumed walking. Oddly enough, she did feel better. Oh no, now his logic's starting to make sense. Before you know it, I'll be turning evil. Buffy will be so ashamed of me. I hope she gets the chance to be ashamed of me.
A few more blocks brought them to their destination. There was no sign, just an iron door with a grille at eye level. Spike flicked a glance at her.
"Mind your manners."
He dropped her arm and knocked. A peephole opened; Spike flashed into demon face, and the door swung wide. Spike walked in, resuming his human mask. Willow followed, wondering if boredom was really such a bad thing.
She hadn't known what to expect from a vampire bar. Willy's place, perhaps, or something halfway between Willy's and the Bronze, with a side order of the old factory. Instead, she saw a fairly conventional space: forest green walls, wooden floor, a long wooden bar, and a scattering of bar tables and stools. Oh, and wall-to-wall vampires.
Spike walked up to the bartender and said something Willow couldn't catch; he received a beer in return, and paid. Without glancing at her, he strode on to a vacant side table; Willow scurried to keep up, fighting to keep her balance. He sat with his back to the wall, and nodded at the chair beside him. She sat, took a deep breath, and released it slowly. Then she looked around, under her lashes.
The bar was full of vampires. Big surprise. Some, like Spike, in jeans; others in business suits, from Armani to polyester, or dresses, ranging again from strictly business to "Hello, Sailor". No sign of the Bela Lugosi look, of course.
She didn't see any other humans, which was a relief in a way; she didn't think she could sit silently while somebody else got eaten. The noise level was about like the Bronze on a typical evening, which meant that she could probably hear conversations at her own table, if she listened hard. The few snippets she did overhear seemed to be in French; unfortunately, none seemed to involve hippos, the pen of her aunt, or Josette and her mobylette.
She looked back up at Spike; he was ignoring her, scanning the crowd and the doorway. She went back to investigating the bar. It really wasn't that bad at all... it even had a little stage in one corner. Then the bottom dropped out of her stomach. Instead of amplifiers and speakers, the stage had chains, stocks, a rack, and a nasty set of stains. And hanging on the wall... She gasped, and heard Spike's chuckle. She whipped her head back to Spike in horror. He was watching her face with amusement.
"Relax. It's Tuesday. Shows are on the weekend."
"That's--"
"Save it." And he looked back to the crowd.
This time, he spotted somebody, and raised one hand. A pair of male vampires began to work through the crowd toward the table. One had long black hair, a broken nose, and was wearing jeans with holes in the knees; the other was bald and wearing leather pants and a royal blue shirt. Spike hissed "Stay", then left the table, strode toward the pair, grabbed the black-haired vampire and pounded his shoulder.
"Martin, it's been too damned long."
"Whose fault is that?"
They headed back to the table, Spike in the lead. Martin saw Willow and grinned nastily. "Who's the bint?"
"On trial. So, what's happened since Croatia?"
"Not much. Bland, Spike; not your usual style. Where's Dru?"
"Elsewhere. Who's with you?"
"Sorry, forgot you hadn't met Clive. Spike, Clive. Clive, Spike." The bald vampire nodded to Spike and ignored Willow. I like being ignored, under the circumstances. Being ignored by vampires is good. If I'd ignored vampires, I wouldn't be here now.
Martin couldn't resist one more dig. He leaned into Willow's face and said "So, pretty, what tricks can you do? There must be more to you than meets the eye."
Willow bit her lip. "Speak when spoken to," Spike had said, but she didn't know what to say. The silence lengthened, and Spike stepped in. "Since when do you take an interest in the living, Martin? I thought your tastes ran more to lanky blondes with triple-jointed hips."
Martin laughed and replied in kind, and Willow shrank thankfully back against the wall. The conversation moved on to war stories -- literally, since Spike and Martin had last seen one another when they were running on the outskirts of the Ustashi. Willow tuned out of the conversation and went back to vampire-watching. If you ignored the stage -- something she was trying very hard to do -- vampires acted a lot like anybody else in a club. They flirted, moved in and out of groups, and table-hopped.
Willow was trying to decide if a petite blonde liked a tall Angel-ish guy, or was just using him to make the vampire behind him jealous, when she was recalled to reality by a cold and bruising grip on one wrist. She looked at Spike, who was glaring at her. Martin and Clive seemed to have moved on.
"Speak when spoken to, remember? Pay attention, Pet." He emphasized the last with a hard squeeze.
Willow swam back to reality. "What...?"
"I said, that was pathetic. If you're going to imitate a blancmange, you can stay in the apartment for the duration. If you want out, grow a backbone."
Willow straightened up unconsciously. "I thought I wasn't supposed to speak until spoken to?"
"You're supposed to bloody have something to say when spoken to. Which means something witty, intelligent, or insightful. Act like something more than a meal."
"But I thought if I mouthed off, I died?"
He grinned, "That's what makes it interesting, luv. Walking that fine line. You'll learn. You don't have a choice."
"B-but I'm terrible with people! Or vampires! I clam up! I'm stupid!"
Spike lost all humor. "You don't have that luxury. I've seen you cut the Watcher six new orifices. Be that girl. She's in there somewhere."
They were interrupted by the sound system's coming to life, full of thrashing guitars. Willow could only make out snatches of the lyric, something about "I gotta full moon\A smaller room than I need\A candy store a sexy whore\Yes I bleed" Spike's face got the wicked expression that always made Willow's heart sink. He grabbed her hand, yanked her up, and began dancing.
Unfortunately, Spike's idea of dancing involved frequent collisions with the other inhabitants: first Willow, then other vampires. Willow simply went down in a heap; the vampires reacted less favorably. One came up swinging, and Spike happily swung back. The bartender appeared, grabbed Willow, and threw her out the door. Somewhat later, Spike followed.
He got up, dusted himself off, and headed back toward the shopping area. Willow ran to catch up with him, twisting her ankle once along the way.
As they passed through one of the multistory atriums, Spike's attention was caught by a chain bookstore. He turned to Willow.
"Want to stop, pet?"
Willow looked up, startled. She'd assumed Spike would be in a foul mood, but he radiated cheer. "Please."
They walked into the bookstore. Spike paid no attention to the merchandise, but kept a watchful eye on Willow, staying a few casual steps away. She made a beeline for the science fiction section. Yay, Iain Banks! No Steven Brust. Hey! There's a Laurell K. Hamilton ... but Spike would laugh. No new Neal Stephenson.
She cast a wary glance at Spike; he still looked amused, not annoyed. Emboldened, she moved to the computer section, and loaded up. When she had both arms full, he began laughing. "Some women can't leave a jewelry store. Some can't leave a playground. You're the only one I've met who can't leave a bookstore. Enough for now, pet; you've got more than you can carry in those shoes." He escorted her to the counter, paid for her purchases, and offered her an arm. He did not offer to carry the parcel. They retraced their steps through the underground.
When they returned to the apartment, Willow slipped into the bathroom, changed, then decided to risk a question. "Spike?"
"Yes?"
"Why aren't you upset about the fight? I mean, getting thrown out?"
He laughed. "Haven't had a good fight in ages. Loosens up the muscles something wonderful."
"But won't you miss that bar?"
"Who says I'm not coming back?"
"But..."
"Think, luv. Rafe doesn't want the place to turn into a sodding fern bar for the undead. The odd fistfight keeps the tone where he wants it -- not too rough, not too smooth. He doesn't play The Damned unless he wants a fight. He and I go back a ways."
Willow's mouth fell open. "You did that on purpose?"
He gave her a cocky grin. "I live to serve, pet."
She tried, as usual, to slip out of bed without awakening her companion. As usual, a cold hand reached out and grabbed her wrist. Without opening his eyes, Spike drawled, "That trick never works."
"It's still me, I'm still not going anywhere, let go!" Spike released her wrist, and she stalked off to the bathroom with as much dignity as she could muster. After she'd showered, combed her hair, and changed into jeans and a red T-shirt, she walked out of the bathroom and looked for the parcel of books, but it wasn't on the floor where she'd dropped it the night before.
"Looking for something?" Spike was lounging, cigarette in hand, on the bed, with the books beside him. He'd pulled on a pair of jeans. Small mercies. His chest is distracting enou-- Bad thoughts. Stopping now.
Willow walked toward the bed. "Can I have those, please?"
Spike stubbed the cigarette on the bedpost, dropped it to the floor, then gave her one of his patented non-friendly smiles. "You can earn them."
Willow took a step back. "How?"
"Hand-to-hand backchat. Score a point, win a book. The reverse also applies."
"Oh. Okay. I'll try." She perched on the edge of the bed.
Spike lunged into her face. "So, pretty, what tricks can you do? There must be more to you than meets the eye."
Willow reflexively jerked back, overbalanced, fell flat on her back, and started giggling from nervousness. Spike grabbed the top book and hit her lightly on the head. Unfortunately for Willow, it was The Art of Computing, volume 1. She couldn't stop giggling. Spike lost patience, grabbed her arm, and yanked her upright.
"You're not twelve years old, that isn't adorable, and you will stop it now, if you don't want me to drop these into the nearest dumpster." He dropped Knuth on the floor to emphasize the point. Willow sat up and wiped the smile off her face.
"Try again." This time, she was prepared for the lunge; however, with Spike so far inside her personal space, she couldn't think of any effective answer. "Uh..."
"Time's up." And he dropped Excession on the floor.
"That's stupid. What could I say? He's being a jerk."
"And you're letting him get away with it."
"And my alternative is?"
Spike heaved an Oscar-worthy sigh. "I'll demonstrate. You be Martin."
Willow leaned a millimeter toward Spike, then said "So, pretty, what tricks can you do--"
He leaned forward, forcing her back, and said, "Nothing you're prepared to handle."
"I can't do that!"
Spike sighed. "He's in your face. If you flinch, it's a sign of weakness. If you push back, he flinches, and he looks a wanker instead of you."
"But what if he stands still?"
"Then you're no worse off than you were, and I'll step in. You're not alone. Your job is to defend your honor until the cavalry arrive.
"Again." He leaned in. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
Willow leaned forward, misjudged the distance, and bumped lips with Spike. He smirked, but retreated. She blushed up to the eyelids and began to stammer. Spike dropped Programming Perl to the floor, then lit another cigarette.
"You're not giving me time!"
"This is life, Red, not a videotape. There is no Pause."
"You're making me nervous! I can't think when I'm this nervous!"
Spike gripped her shoulders. "You don't have a bloody choice. If you want to leave this room again, you will grow a spine. Credible threat, remember? If you offer yourself as an easy victim, someone will be more than happy to oblige." He released her, but did not back off.
"I'm surrounded by vampires, and I'm supposed to have a credible threat? What is it, 'Watch out, or I'll bleed on you?'"
"Red, you can play a bad hand better than that. I've seen you. Remember 'There will be no bottle in face'?"
Willow froze.
Spike followed up his advantage. "You're the smart one. Use those brains, and defend yourself."
"If you wanted a fight, you should have kidnapped Buffy! She's the brave one!"
"The Slayer isn't here, pet. You're the brave one, you're the smart one, you're the only one you've got. Last chance. Fluff this, and I leave for the dumpster." He leaned back, drew in some smoke, and looked at her.
Willow took a deep breath, exhaled, and met his eyes. "Okay."
Spike blew out a stream of smoke, then drawled "Not your usual style. Isn't she a bit ... bland?"
I think I can I think I can. "Some people LIKE vanilla!"
"Weak. First, don't put yourself down. Second, you're defending instead of attacking. Don't give ground, take it. Again.
"Aren't you a bit... bland?"
"Only to jaded tastebuds."
"Better. 'What's a pretty thing like you doing with this wanker?'"
"Um..." she caught his eye and rushed on "Playing croquet, mostly."
"Bit random, but it'll do."
After about an hour, Willow had 'won' all her books. Spike stretched and put out his last cigarette. "Not that this hasn't been a little slice of heaven, pet, but I must go. Reach me an ankle."
Willow glumly stretched out her foot. Spike pushed up the jeans leg, then hissed. The ankle was bright red and swollen. "What happened?"
Willow tried to pull her leg back, but Spike wouldn't let go. "Ouch! I think I landed wrong in those stupid heels."
"If we keep chaining you, you're going to lose a foot. Hmm." He released her, stood, pulled on a shirt and his duster, and walked to the door. Then he paced back and looked down at her.
"Witch, I'm going to leave you loose. If you aren't here when I come back, or if you make any attempt of any sort to attack me, I'm going to kill an entire troop of Girl Guides and FedEx their hearts to the Watcher. Do I make myself clear?"
Willow met his eyes; he was smiling, but there was no warmth in the smile. "Yes, perfectly clear. I promise "-- he arched an eyebrow -- "I mean, I won't try to escape. Or attack you."
"Good. Oh, write another set of letters while I'm gone; I'll check them when I get back."
He turned on his heel and left; the deadbolt shot home.
"Um. I wrote the letters. See. Here they are." She held up one stack of paper, looking rather like a puppy hoping for a treat.
Spike's eyes narrowed. "So I see." He closed the door, locked it, and strode to the bed. "What are these?" He snatched up the papers she wasn't offering and stared at them. Complete gibberish.
"Perl code. See? I don't have my laptop, so I thought I could work out the examples in longhand, then test them later."
Spike studied the papers again. They contained a weird mix of letters, numbers, and symbols. They could be Perl, Hindu, or Fyarl for all of him. He looked at the witch again. She looked embarrassed. Was this her usual shyness, or was she hiding something? His first impulse was to confiscate the lot; then again, this would involve admitting that he didn't know what she'd done. Damn.
He scanned her face again. She looked back, eyes wide and innocent. She was up to something.
Spike racked his brains, but couldn't think of any serious damage she could do using paper alone. He was more certain than ever that handing over the much-desired computer would be a mistake. Possibly even his last.
The witch wasn't herself dangerous -- at the moment -- but the Slayer and the Watcher were in a different league entirely. They would certainly come running if he gave the girl half a chance to call.
Which was why her letters would carry a Los Angeles postmark, not Montreal. Let the busybodies comb Angel's back yard for the girl. Let the Poof waste his time on a cold trail. He'd have a merry old chase; might even muss that artfully dishevelled hair.
Spike gave back the stack of papers and accepted the letters in return, then sat in the armchair and read.
Dear Buffy, I miss you, but I'm glad I left town for awhile. I've been doing a lot of thinking, mostly about you. I hope you're making your usual dent in the undead population.Very funny, Red.
I was in the underground mall the other day ...Spike looked up. "Nice try, pet." He threw the letters back in her face. Unfortunately, being flat, they flew into the air instead of hitting her, but at least he'd made the gesture. He stood up.
"Write those again, without all the lovely local detail. The Slayer doesn't care what you think of Montreal. In fact, she doesn't much care what you're doing, does she?"
The witch flared red. "Buffy cares a lot about me!"
Ah. That smarted. "Yes. So much that she didn't notice when you wasted nearly to a thread over the wolf, or became so desperate that you cast half-baked spells to get him back."
The witch took a deep breath, then spoke. "Unlike you, the Dr. Laura of the vampire set?"
Much better. "I see you've taken our lessons to heart, pet. Save the defiance, and write me a nice chatty letter that could have come from anywhere. Iowa. Vienna. Tibet. Then do it again. Three times, in fact."
The redhead gave him another would-be lethal glare. There's fire there, no doubt. The trick is to channel it. Spike smiled sweetly and sat down to wait.
"The faster you finish, Red, the more time you get out of your cage."
The second set of letters passed inspection. He stood, folded them, tucked them into a duster pocket, and offered the girl his arm. "Will you walk?"
She scowled. "Do I have a choice?"
"Now and again, luv. Are you choosing to stay here?" He made as if to turn, and was, as he expected, interrupted.
"No. I'm coming."
#####
From the diary of Willow Rosenberg (decrypted)
perl -pi.dos -e 's/\cM$//' index.html
I'm not sure who I am any more. I can't be Research
Girl, or Net Girl, or even Witch Girl -- Spike saw to
that when he left my Book of Shadows behind. Buffy
could kick some ass, Giles could think his way out,
but I'm useless here.
Hence this diary. It's based on a lot of assumptions
-- that Spike lets me live, that he sets me free after
a year, that he doesn't suspect what I'm up to, that
he lets me keep these papers -- which puts it out on
the pretty thin end of the probability tree. But it's
the best I can do for now.
I'm going to write down everything I can find out
about vampires. If I can ever get these notes into
Giles's hands -- I don't trust the Council any more --
they might save some future Slayer's life. Which
isn't useless at all. Spike says everybody needs a
credible threat, and I suppose this is mine.
Spike can't read this, I'm pretty sure. He thinks
it's a Perl script. The first couple of lines are
valid Perl, just in case. The rest is rot13, with
random characters thrown in for confusion. I do have
to be brief. Even Spike won't believe a 5-page Perl
script.
perl -0777 -pe 's{/\*.*?\*/}{}gs' foo.c
Last note I complained about all the girls I wasn't.
Apparently Spike has the same perception; he seems to
be trying to turn me into Vampire Girl. Not
literally, so far anyway.
I suppose it's a compliment, in a left-handed
Hellmouthy sort of way.
So, VG is supposed to mouth off. Not mouthing off is
a sign of weakness. Weakness gets you attacked.
Note: If this is true for real vampires as well, then
Buffy's sarcasm may actually be part of what makes her
so effective.
They walked back down to the tunnels and merged into the late-evening crowds. This time, Spike didn't seem to have any destination in mind. They were drifting with the crowds.
They passed a small cafe. "Want something to eat, Pet?"
"Please."
They sat down and accepted menus. They were the only customers, being too early for the club crowd, too late for the pre-movie crowd.
"I'll have an ale. You?"
"Mmm. A Diet Coke and the salade aux crevettes, please."
Spike repeated the order in French. When the waitress had gone, he cocked an eyebrow. "What, not milk? You could have had something stronger, you know."
"I'm under age."
"Not in Quebec."
Willow bit her lip. Then she decided to say what she was thinking for once. "Thank you, I only drink with friends." Oh, God, what if he gets mad?
Spike merely said "Very sensible. Does rather limit the opportunities, though. Especially for the next few months."
The food came quickly, and Willow happily tucked into her salad. She looked up to see Spike watching her and hastily returned her gaze to her plate. She could feel the blood rushing into her face. This is really weird.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice from behind her. "Good evening, William. What brings you to our city?"
Willow looked up. Spike's face had lost all expression. If he weren't a vampire, I'd say he'd gone white. "Good evening, François."
"I asked a question."
"Sorry, thought you were making small talk. Missed poutine, of course. How are you?"
"I am well. Some of my friends are ... less than amused. You haven't introduced me. American manners, no doubt."
She felt a cold hand grab her wrist hard under the table. He let that slide? What's up? "Didn't think you'd be interested."
The voice moved into Willow's line of sight, between her and Spike. As she'd suspected, it belonged to a vampire. This one had jet-black hair and was tall, slender, and wearing an exquisitely tailored gray suit. He leaned toward Willow, cutting off her view of Spike, and traced the line of her necklace with one cold finger. "This makes her of great interest. Her name is?"
Spike's fingers made a deeper dent in her wrist. Oh, God, now I have to be rude. I think polite would be smarter... "My name is Willow. And I'll thank you to keep your hands to yourself."
The next instant, she was yanked to the floor, and one hard hand was on the back of her neck, forcing her face downward.
"Apologize. Now." Spike emphasized each word with a push to her head.
She stammered out "I'm sorry", then was silenced by a second hand clamped across her mouth. "As you can see, François, she's not ready for public appearances. I would not have brought her to your attention, given the choice. I apologize humbly for her indiscretion. She will suffer for it."
Spike being humble? I'm going to faint. Wait a minute... suffer? "I shall not interrupt you, then." Willow watched his polished black loafers stride away. A hard yank on her hair collected her thoughts.
"We're leaving. Now." Spike pulled her to her feet with another yank on her hair, flung a handful of cash on the table, grabbed her wrist, and dragged her to the door. Willow followed, running to keep up with him.
When they were outside, she said "What was that all--"
"Silence."
"But..."
"Shut up NOW." And he grabbed the chain and twisted it. She gasped for air, and he let go.
They walked to the Metro stop in silence, boarded the train, and sat down. Willow stole a sideways glance at Spike's face; he glared back at her. How dare he? I was doing what he taught me to do!
They left the train at their stop, then walked silently through the tunnels and back to the apartment. Spike preceded Willow up the stairs, keeping that iron grasp on her wrist.
After he opened the door, Spike threw Willow across the room, then stalked up to where she was lying against the wall. He had dropped his human mask, and his soft, emotionless voice was colder than her fear.
"I suggest that you give me a very good reason why I shouldn't kill you now, then send your head to François as a partial apology. And DON'T mention that bloody tape." His control cracked a moment, then returned.
Willow, white as death, lifted her chin and spat out one sentence. "I. did. what. you. told. me. to. do."
Spike slapped her hard across the face. "I didn't tell you to mouth off to the Master's right hand!"
Willow rubbed her cheek. "What did you tell me, then?"
He grabbed both of her shoulders. "Why did you bloody think I grabbed your wrist?"
"Because I wasn't being rude enough."
Spike raised both hands to his head. "What have I done to deserve this?" He slammed a fist into the wall next to Willow's head; she flinched away.
Spike froze, eyes flaming golden. Then he whirled and left the room, locking the deadbolt behind him.
Willow stayed next to the wall, breathing deeply, until she heard his footsteps fade. Then she slowly pulled herself to her feet and went to the bathroom. Her cheek was a brilliant red, and her wrists were beginning to swell. She bathed her face and wrists in cold water.
I nearly died. Again.
##### Diary of Willow Rosenberg (decrypted)
perl -i.bak -p \ -e 's#<title>#<title>WR: #i' *.html My last note was based on partial information. There are some vampires to whom one must be rude. Other vampires demand politeness. No, I have no idea how to tell them apart. And I found this out the hard way. And I was doing what I was supposed to do, damn it. There is also somebody called "The Master" in Montreal. I don't think it can be the same Master as in Sunnydale -- Buffy pulverized him. I can't be sure about that, though. I wish I were a real anthropologist. No. I wish I were at home, coping only with drunken fraternity boys and weekly Apocalypses.Just as Willow finished the last line, the door swung open. It was Spike. He had resumed his human facade, but there was a splash of blood on his shirt. He killed somebody else because he was mad at me. One more stain on my soul.
"It seems I have a toy to correct."
Willow sat up straight in the armchair. "That was in public, remember?"
"Your behavior in public was not acceptable. There are consequences."
"But..."
"Come here."
Willow froze, not intending defiance, but too frightened to move.
Spike grabbed her arm and dragged her over to the bed. "That wasn't a request."
Willow tried to yank her arm free, and found herself flat on her back, with a golden-eyed vampire straddling her hips with his knees and holding her shoulders down. Oh, my God. She lay perfectly still. Fear attracts predators. Calm.
Golden eyes stared into green. Willow held her breath; Spike stayed still as ice, as still as his own heart. Spike's eyes drifted down from Willow's face to her throat. The moment stretched on long past bearing.
Spike released Willow's shoulders and sat back. Willow slowly let the air out of her lungs. It seemed she'd get to take that next breath after all. Breathing was nice.
Spike leaned back into Willow's face, hands gripping the bedclothes beside her shoulders, the gold of his eyes slowly drowning in blue.
"Don't. Push."
Willow swallowed. "I wasn't--"
He leaned even closer, nose an inch from hers. "I said, 'Come here'."
Willow nodded. "Sorry. I'm really sorry. I thought---"
"Don't."
She lay still. More time passed. Spike stayed in her face. Let him do the talking.
An expression she couldn't read flickered across his face. Suddenly the tension drained from his shoulders and body. He sat back, still resting his weight on her hips, and broke the silence.
"I did teach you to bloody mouth off. I also told you there was a fine line to walk, and you bloody crossed it by furlongs. And you could not possibly have picked a worse person to do it with."
Willow looked back into his eyes and let the silence linger, afraid to say the wrong thing.
Spike sighed. "And you had no way of knowing that. Which doesn't change the consequences one damned bit."
Willow bit her lip.
"Don't do that, it's distracting. Sometimes it pays to be pushy. Sometimes it pays to be polite. It always pays to know the difference between the two."
Willow swallowed. "How do I know?"
He sighed again. "Follow my lead. I'll kick you if you should get in somebody's face; otherwise, assume you're on what passes for your best behavior." He rose from the bed, releasing Willow.
"It's been one Hell of a night. Turn in, Red." He flicked off the light, undressed, and lay down beside her. Willow stayed awake, staring into the dark.
It was the witch, of course. He let go, and she gasped for air.
"Not smart, Red. Next time, try talking. What's the rush? Couldn't wait to see my face?"
She took a deep breath, exhaled, calmed herself, and met his eyes. For a moment, Spike caught a glimpse of the woman she would become, if she survived long enough. She rushed on, pausing only to gulp breaths of air.
"Listen, and don't interrupt. Because if you do... I probably won't get to start again, and this is important. For you, not just me.
She gulped a breath and continued, staring through Spike rather than at him. "This isn't working. Twice so far, you've told me what to do, I've done it, and then you've exploded. First in the bar, when I didn't speak until spoken to, and then last night, when I was rude against my own better judgment.
Her voice rose as her anger gathered force. "Each time, you gave me a simple baby rule. 'Mind your manners.' 'Be rude.' And each time the baby rule made me do the wrong thing. And now you have a new baby rule: 'Don't be rude, unless I kick you.'
"That won't work. Because the next time I'm in public, I'll probably be polite, then you'll kick me, then I'll be too rude, then the next thing I know I have fangs in my face. Again.
"I'm not a baby, and this isn't a baby world. Tell me the real rules, or just leave me here to rot."
After finishing her speech, the girl took another deep breath, then met his eyes again, looking anxious.
He let a small smile escape him. Not bad. There is a backbone there, after all. If I pushed just a bit, she'd collapse. But that would be boring. He stood up and stretched, to give himself time to think. Willow blushed and turned away.
"The problem, luv, is that I've been a vampire for 126 years, and that doesn't exactly lend itself to explanation. I can't give you those years. I could give you the fangs "-- she shuddered -- "but the rest comes from experience.
"Go take your shower, and I'll think."
Willow grabbed her green minidress, shoes, and underwear and scurried off to the bathroom.
#####
I didn't think I could confront Spike, but I did. And he listened. After he stopped strangling me, anyway. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her cheek was yellow; she raised a hand to touch it, and gasped. The flesh of the wrist was ringed by a deep black bruise where Spike had grabbed her. Another injury for her collection. She rotated her hand cautiously, and decided nothing was actually broken. She sighed and began undressing. Hot water wouldn't cure all ills, but it was the best medicine she had available.
After showering, Willow pulled her underwear and dress on. She frowned at the stilettos. If I hadn't picked a dress, I might have been able to slip the sneakers by him. If he hadn't insisted on a mini, my shoes wouldn't show. Oh, and if my grandmother had a PCMCIA slot, she'd be a laptop. She left the bathroom, barefoot.
Spike had dressed in jeans and a clean T-shirt and was sitting on the bed, lighting a cigarette.
"Have a seat, pet." He patted the bed beside him.
She sat in the armchair, facing him. He quirked an eyebrow, but didn't argue.
"The simplest way to put this is that there's a generation gap. Not based on age, but on attitude." He paused and took a long pull from the cigarette, then exhaled.
"The only vampires you've really met -- socially, anyway -- are Peaches and me, right?"
Willow nodded. I am NOT mentioning vamp-me. "And Harmony, I guess."
Spike snorted. "Leave her out of it. Anyway, the vampires you know made our peace with change a long time ago. You ask me, the 1890s were dark and smelly, and the music sucked. The Poof would say much the same about the 1700s."
He leaned a little toward her; she forced herself not to retreat. "Vampires like us -- or the ones you'd meet at the bar -- don't much care about age. Oh, we don't pay a lot of heed to fledglings, but anybody who's lasted more than a couple of decades probably has some sense. Good company matters, not when you joined the party. Weaklings and cowards are boring. Fools die young."
"Then there's the other set, the traditionalists. They think the world's gone steadily downhill since their time, whenever that was. All that matters to the trads is age -- the older the vampire, the more worthy of respect. Some cobwebby old fossil can have never had an idea since 1659, and be a very big cheese in their world. They wear modern dress to blend in, but they don't like it."
Spike took another drag on the cigarette, then ground it out on the floor. "Sunnydale is pretty much my kind of town. Charleston is for trads. Montreal is split. The two sets of us ignore each other as much as possible. I hadn't planned on introducing you to the trads. It was bloody appalling luck that threw one in your way."
He waited until she looked at him, then held her gaze. "So. With my lot, act intelligent, a bit cheeky, but bear in mind that you're mortal, which makes you both bottom dog and disposable." His face became grim. "With the trads, and I hope to Hell you won't need this information, grovel. They expect it."
Willow absorbed this. "How do I tell the difference?"
Spike shrugged. "You can't. Follow me. If I start talking like a bloody toff, you do the same. Got it?"
She nodded.
Spike chucked her under the chin. "If you want to go out, best go cover up that bruise. Makes you conspicuous."
I suppose an apology would have been too much to hope for. She walked back to the bathroom and made herself up. After that, feeling daring, she put on socks and her sneakers. Spike said nothing, but simply offered his arm, which she took, and they left the apartment.
After locking the outside door, Spike turned to her.
"Red?"
"Yes?"
"What do you want to do this evening?"
Willow raised her head in shock. "I get to pick?"
His face seemed serious. "Yes. Within reason."
Willow thought. "Are there any touristy parts of Montreal? Non-vampiry touristy parts that are open at night, I mean? Because I spend enough time with vampires -- oh, dear, I shouldn't have said that, but you know what I mean..."
Spike was amused. "You don't want to go shopping? Or to a movie?"
"If I get to pick, I want to see something about Montreal that I haven't seen yet; make it more like a visit, and less like... well, less like what it is."
Spike pursed his lips and thought. "We could go to the Boulevard St-Laurent -- that stays open later than almost any other part of town. Or there's the Parc du Mont-Royal, which has a pretty good view of the city. Can't promise there'll be no vampires, though; late hours, you know..."
Why is he being so nice? "Let's go to the park; I've been indoors forever."
They headed for the Metro. After riding a few stops, they got off and began walking toward the park. The neighborhood around it was funky and fun, full of well-kept old houses and interesting stores. When they reached the park proper, they entered the gates and sauntered up the dirt walking path leading to the top. The path was not well-lit; there were dark patches between the lit areas. For once, Willow was glad to be accompanied by a vampire. At least the scariest thing in the park is on my side... sort of. In one clearing, signs stapled to the trees advertised a drum jam; Willow thought wistfully of Oz, then suppressed the thought and walked on.
About halfway up the plateau there was a viewing area, complete with coin-operated telescopes. They stopped and looked out over the city. It was a clear, moonless night; the city lights below echoed the stars above, with the moving lights on the highways weaving a counterpoint.
Willow turned to Spike. "Wow! Gorgeous, isn't it!"
He looked down at her upturned face, smiling slightly. "Yes."
Willow crimsoned. He's putting me on! "You don't have to butter me up. I know I'm not gorgeous."
He frowned. "What utter rot. I know what a beautiful woman looks like -- and tastes like, for that matter -- and I know what I see."
Willow turned away. I am not falling for this. "Don't bother."
He gripped her shoulders. "Willow."
Oh, my God, he used my name. She kept her face averted. "Yes?"
"If you won't believe the bare truth, believe this." He stressed each word. "I have a reputation to keep up. I took you to meet my friends. If I didn't think you'd be a credit to me, you'd have rotted in the apartment. You did me proud."
Her shoulders relaxed, and she stole a glance backward. "Really?"
"Really. Martin wanted to take you off my hands."
She whirled. "You wouldn't!"
He smiled. "Nope. Don't owe Martin any favors, for one thing."
I am SO not going there. She pointed. "What's that building over there, the one with the searchlight?"
Spike followed her arm, then shrugged. "I have no idea. Don't really spend a lot of time here; you wanted a non-vampiry part of Montreal, remember?"
They looked out over the city in a surprisingly companionable silence. Willow shivered; the night was cold, and she didn't have a jacket.
Spike broke the spell. "Well, that's Montreal by night. What next?"
"Can we go to the Boulevard St-Laurent? That sounded like fun."
"As you wish."
She flashed him a startled look. Has he seen The Princess Bride? His face, as so often, was unreadable.
They set off down the path, Willow deep in thought. Why is he being so nice this evening? There's got to be a mean reason for it. A group of happy college students came up, arguing enthusiastically in French. Willow's eyes swam with unshed tears. The park seemed determined to confront her with reminders of the life she ought to be living.
A little later, a pale-powdered girl with dyed black hair, dripping black chiffon and silver jewelry, walked up alone, disdaining their glances. Willow looked anxiously back.
"I wish I could warn her. It isn't safe to go out alone!"
Spike's lips twitched. "Shouldn't worry, luv."
"Well, I know you won't worry, but I do. Not that it does any good..." She looked angrily at Spike. "What are you laughing at?"
"You, pet."
"What?!?" Then it hit her. "Ohhhh..."
"Bit tacky, really, but surprisingly effective. Wouldn't recommend she go to Rafe's tarted up like that, though."
Goth vampires. Now I've seen everything.
#####
They reached the Metro stop, caught the train, and sat down. They had the car to themselves. Spike leaned back against the seat and drifted off into a brown (red?) study. He was interrupted by an elbow nudging his ribs.
Without opening his eyes, he said, "Don't. What is it?"
"What's your sneaky plan?"
"Which one?"
"Why are you being so nice?"
He smiled, eyes still closed. "If I told you, it wouldn't be sneaky, would it?"
She sighed. "I mean, since Sunnydale, you've been treating me like a dog. Do this, go there, sit, go to sleep. Today you're letting me make choices. Why?"
He opened his eyes and watched her face. Let her think again, damn it. "Hadn't anything better to do? Don't need to hunt, thought you could use an airing, why not? Unless you dislike freedom, even in small doses?"
Red hair flew as she shook her head vigorously. "No, no, please don't stop."
Not quite the context I'd hoped for, but definite progress. He kept his face grave. "So, what are your plans?"
"Let's just wander."
The car reached their stop, and they climbed up to the surface street. The girl gasped at the spectacle. Not much like Sunnydale, is it, pet?
The Boulevard St-Laurent was a kaleidoscope of storefronts, all eagerly patronized by exquisitely-dressed insomniacs. The street was full of revelers, shoppers, and sightseers. The redhead began walking, and Spike kept step. Suddenly, the witch spotted a magic and occult goods store.
"Oh, look!" She dropped Spike's arm and sprinted toward the window.
"Wow, a real orichalcum chalice! I've only read about those! And mandrake! That's hard to grow!" She started for the door, only to be brought up short by a hand around her bruised wrist.
"Ouch!" She tried to free herself, but the grip intensified.
"No."
The witch whirled. "Oh, please?" The green eyes were wide and pleading.
"No."
"I prom-"
"Within reason, I said. This is bloody far beyond it. I'd sooner hand you a pint of nitroglycerine."
The animation vanished from her face. The happy, unselfconscious girl had been replaced by the prisoner.
"Oh, bloody hell." I'm going to regret this. "We can look. But we are NOT shopping, and you are not to open a single book, do you hear me?"
She nodded, face still stricken. She walked into the store, paced once around the shelves, and paced out again.
Broke the spell. Sod. She walked politely beside Spike, nodded when he pointed out a mime being mugged, and said "Ooh" when he indicated a fire juggler.
This won't do. Ah, there's a diversion. "Want to look for shoes, pet?" He indicated a store half a block ahead.
"More stilettos? No, thank you." She didn't look at him, just kept walking.
"I was thinking of a compromise, actually. Something between Kitten With A Whip and Apprentice Nun."
"Okay."
They went in. Spike pointed out a pair of T-strap pumps. The girl nodded politely. If she insists, I suppose I can live with flats. He indicated a pair, and she said "Ah." Growing suspicious, Spike pointed out some marabou mules, and she said "Very nice."
Fine. If she won't choose, I will. "Do you have these " -- indicating some kitten-heeled patent-leather pumps -- "in a size 6?" The salesman returned. Willow tried the shoes on, agreed that they fit, and waited while he paid.
They left the store and walked on in silence. Finally, Spike lost his temper.
"What the Hell is your problem?"
Without looking at him, she said, in a flat voice, "Nothing. I'm fine."
"Don't give me that. You're acting like I killed your bloody puppy."
Still staring ahead, the girl said wistfully, "I never had a puppy. Even Angel only killed my fish. But it wasn't really him, it was the bad him, and I try not to remind him about it, because he's depressed enough already."
The logic train just left the station again. He seized desperately on the only part of the comment that made any sense. "Do you want a puppy?" What the Hell am I saying?
"No, thank you." Again, she did not meet his eyes, just kept walking.
"Then what do you want?" He grabbed her shoulders and turned her toward him.
She raised her eyes. "I want to go home."
The bitch set me up. He dropped her shoulders as if he'd embraced a crucifix. "Not an option, luv."
"I know." She began walking again.
I will not be played.
They walked together in silence, ignoring the swirl of club-hoppers around them.
"Spike?"
"Yes?" His voice was cold.
Her voice was quavering, as if near tears. "Are you planning on ever letting me go home?"
That was the last straw. "No. I am sodding keeping you alive because it amuses me to nursemaid a skinny child when I could be a very happy lone wolf. How damned many times do I have to remind you that if I wanted you dead, you would be?"
She nodded. "Okay. I just wondered."
After another silent block, they reached a drugstore. Spike turned in, and Willow followed. He cocked an eyebrow. "I expect you've purchases of your own." He handed her a ten and wandered off to the First Aid section. Willow blushed, then hurried off to make the purchases he'd hinted at. He made his own selections, then waited for her at the door.
"Anything else?"
"No. But thank you."
"Your most obedient, madam." And he swept her a mock bow.
When he straightened, Willow looked anxious again. "Spike? I'm starving."
"Nothing easier. Indian, Chinese, French, Serbo-Croatian?"
"Whatever's closest."
"Whatever" turned out to be a small pizza place. The waitress seated them, handed them menus, and wandered off.
Spike scanned the beer list, then looked at the girl. "Well, witch?"
"I'd like a small cheese pizza and a diet Coke."
"Oh, for Hell's sake, have what you'd like."
She raised her chin. "I like diet Coke."
The waitress returned. "Une St-Ambrose, un cidre, un Diet-Coke, et une pizza margarita, s'il vous plait."
"Right away, sir." Smart-ass.
She was as good as her word, returning swiftly bearing Coke, beer, pizza, and another glass full of something foamy.
Willow looked suspiciously at the extra glass. "What's that?"
"Hard cider. I expect you'd like it. Unless you're too busy defending your virtue."
When she thought he wasn't looking, she took a small sip. The verdict must have been positive, since she alternated sips of cider and Coke, and had finished half the glass before she announced that she was ready to go.
Spike made no comment, but merely settled the bill and stood. "And now?"
"I'm really pooped. Could we go back now?"
"Certainly."
They retraced their steps to the Metro, boarded an empty car, and sat. The witch's head drooped, then rose again, then fell onto her shoulder. Before long, her entire body began to slide sideways on the seats. She'll slip onto the floor any moment. Spike reached out his right arm and pulled her to him, nestling her head into his shoulder. She murmured sleepily, then subsided.
The stops ticked by until they reached theirs. He shook Willow gently. "End of the line, pet."
She did not move. He shook harder, then sighed. No head for alcohol, these modern women. He picked up the carrier bags from the shoe shop and drugstore, then gathered Willow into his arms and carried her off the train, grateful there were no witnesses he need kill. She lay boneless and trusting against his shoulder as he carried her through the tunnels to the street and back to the apartment. She never awoke, even when he shifted her to free his hands and unlock the door.
He carried the girl in, then deposited her on the bed. She sighed, then curled into a ball. He gently tugged her sneakers off and dropped them on the floor. Spike locked the door, then looked down at the exhausted girl. What the Hell was I thinking? Sod that; what am I thinking now?
Finding no acceptable answer, he undressed and got into bed beside her.
Something was missing, though: Spike. There was no sign of him. Probably out 'hunting'. Now there's a euphemism. She stretched. Eww. Unbrushed teeth. She grabbed jeans and a T-shirt, then headed off to sanitize herself.
When she came out of the bathroom, Spike was sitting in the armchair, lighting yet another cigarette. He shook out the match, then looked up at her. "Good evening."
"Hi."
He waved his cigarette at the closet. "Go change; we're going to Rafe's."
Well, so much for my turn. She took the velvet skirt and silk blouse off their hangers. As she was bending to collect the new shoes, Spike's voice interrupted her.
"You'll need these as well." He tossed something, scoring a bulls-eye on the small of her back. The something bounced to the floor and turned out to be the second drugstore bag. She opened it, to discover Ace bandages and packages of blue, black, and purple eye shadow.
Willow looked over her shoulder. "Huh?"
Spike shrugged. "I told François I'd be punishing you. You need to look the part. Bandage that ankle and play up the bruises on your wrist and cheek. That should do for public consumption."
Willow stood. "Okay. And, this is really embarrassing but I think I should say it anyway, thank you."
"For what?"
She could feel her face flushing. "You didn't ... um ... take advantage of me."
He gave her the eyebrow. "Popular fiction aside, luv, I can think of few things more boring than shagging an unconscious woman. I'm holding out for enthusiastic participation."
She blushed even deeper. "Thank you anyway."
"Go dress." She scurried to the bathroom, glad to have the conversation over.
When she returned, suitably dressed and bruised, Spike had already shrugged his coat on and was pacing next to the door. "Let's go." She took his arm and they left.
As they neared the club, Willow felt herself growing colder and more frightened. Chin up. I can do this. I've faced worse... and probably will again.
After flashing vampface at the gatekeeper, Spike caught her eye; she nodded, the door swung wide, and they entered.
This time, the bar was packed; Spike reached out, grabbed Willow's uninjured hand, and dragged her through the mob to a table where Martin was arguing vehemently with another of what Willow mentally tagged as post-punk vampires. This one sported pink hair, an eyebrow piercing, and an Armani suit, black of course.
"Evening, Martin, Lew. Watch the skirt. Another Molson?" And without even glancing at her, Spike dropped Willow's hand and headed off to the bar, leaving Willow standing alone next to the table. I am going to die. No. I am going to kill Spike. Then I am going to die happy.
She glanced around for a seat, but none was available. She leaned against the table and tried to avoid making eye contact. No. I am the New Willow. She tried to make eye contact, only to find that she was invisible; Martin and his colleague had apparently written her off. Stuck-up vampires.
Spike reappeared, three longnecks in one hand, a chair in the other. A vampire two tables over was picking himself off the floor and giving Spike an extremely dirty look, which he cheerfully ignored. Spike handed beers to Martin and Lew, shouldered Willow aside, dropped the chair where she had been standing, and sat in it. Willow glared at him. He grinned back at her and took a pull from his beer.
Martin saluted Spike with his bottle. "Still hanging out with the fragile silent type, I see."
Willow switched glare targets. "I'm silent when I don't have anything to say. You might try it." Shocked at her own boldness, she backed up a step and bumped into Spike's free hand. He patted her bottom. She hastily moved forward.
Martin laughed and toasted her, then turned to Spike. Yay, me. "So, Spike, maybe you can settle this. Lew thinks Darla sired Valerie; I don't think she goes back that far. You heard either way?"
"Don't know, don't care. Whoever sired Valerie picked beauty over brains. The bint's careless as hell -- she's bound to meet up with the business end of a stake some time or other. Seen anything of Elena?"
"Not since Havana."
Boy, this is just as boring as a human party. I hate listening to stories about people -- vampires -- I haven't met. Willow pasted on her polite listening smile and kept just enough track of the conversation to make sure nobody was addressing her directly.
Suddenly a drum roll sounded. The lights dimmed and a spotlight played over the stage, moving from a rack to whips to things Willow didn't want to recognize. Over the sound system, a voice announced "And now.... our Master of Ceremonies!"
Willow froze. Oh, God, what day is it? She counted hastily on her fingers. It's a weekend. Spike warned me about weekends. Get me out of here.
A cold hand grabbed hers under the table. She turned her head to meet Spike's eyes, her own wide. His face was stone. She opened her mouth, but Spike shook his head once, emphasizing the gesture with a hard squeeze of her hand. She tried to pull her hand away, but Spike tightened his grip until she gasped.
The vampires were applauding the Master of Ceremonies. Willow had been half-expecting Joel Grey; instead, the MC was a fat, balding vampire in a too-tight tuxedo, set off by a ruffled green shirt. I guess they can't all be Spike or Angel.
Spike stood, dragging Willow with him. The spotlight flashed to them. "What, leaving so soon?" purred the MC.
"I'm going to play the home version!" Spike flashed his best carefree grin and yanked Willow into his arms. Bewildered, she looked at his face for guidance, but his gaze was focused on the stage.
In a scornful voice, the MC asked, "Afraid you might learn something new? Afraid she might?"
Spike snorted. "Not bloody likely, mate."
"We wouldn't dream of your leaving so soon." He looked at the back of the room and raised a finger.
A quartet of bouncers began converging on them; Spike met their eyes, scanned the room, then sat again, dragging Willow onto his lap. Cold lips brushed her ear.
"Sorry, pet. Change of plans."
She shuddered and tried to slip down, and an arm pinioned her in place. "Stay put and calm down."
The spotlight returned to the MC and Willow let out a long breath. Now what do I do?
###
The first act began; nothing terribly novel, a pair of teenage boys and a lamia. She'd wrapped her snaky tail around one boy and was focusing her attention on his twin. Spike flicked a glance down at the redhead. The girl was whiter than he was, and trembling on the edge of some outburst, whether of tears, outrage, or nausea, he couldn't guess. Not that it mattered; any would be equally dangerous.
He shifted beneath the girl's warm weight. As if I needed the distraction. He had to find some way of getting her out of the place before she became the center of attention. She was radiating nearly as much fear as the boys onstage.
One word, one touch, and she'd go over the edge for sure...
which just might be a solution. Of sorts.
As a plan, it sucked. Even so, it beat the Hell out of waiting.
Show time. He stood up, threw the girl to the floor, and yelled "Bitch!"
The damned spotlight picked her out, a huddled red-and-black heap looking up at him, green eyes wide, mouth open in shock.
The MC purred, "You disliked the performance so much you wish to offer an alternative?"
You just joined the superfluous list. "Sorry. Unexpected interruption."
"Do you -- expect -- any more?"
"No. If you'll excuse us ..." Don't plan to stay on the list long, ponce.
"Having interrupted the planned entertainment, the least you can do is provide a replacement."
Fuck. He swept an arm toward the lamia. "Can't interrupt a lady..."
"Oh, we insist." The MC shooed the lamia and her prey offstage, leaving the floor open.
Spike risked another quick glance; the room was with the ponce, not with him. If he tried anything now, Rafe wouldn't be backing him up.
Out of options. He strode to the girl, picked her up by the injured arm, ignoring her gasp of pain, twisted it behind her back, and marched her up to the stage.
He turned to the MC. "I assume I have free run?"
"Of course."
Spike dropped the girl to the stage floor; she cradled her wrist in one hand and stared up at him, eyes pleading for rescue. Not this time, Red.
He ran an eye over the equipment, sorted by size on chrome racks. Bloody theatrical amateurs. The tamest thing on offer was a riding crop. Spike took it, walked up to the human, turned her around, and tore her shirt and bra down the back. "Don't move."
Then he hit her with the crop. She flinched.
After the third blow, she began to cry.
After the tenth, she was screaming.
When he had finished, she made no sound at all, except to gasp for breath.
He swept a challenging glance over the audience. Was it good for you, too? They seemed satisfied enough. He replaced the crop, lifted the girl by her shoulders, dragged her offstage, and made for the exit. This time, nobody attempted to stop him.
Once they were safely outside the club, he checked the girl, who had remained blessedly silent. She was shaking, white except for the remaining smudges of eyeshadow, and wouldn't meet his eyes. He turned away to collect himself.
When he was sure his face was blank again, he shrugged off his duster, then wrapped it around the girl, touching her back as little as possible. He arched an arm around her, avoiding her back, and half-led, half-carried her up to the street. Fortunately, there were still cabs free at that hour; he flagged one, gave the driver the street address in a voice that didn't permit argument, and bundled the girl in. She shrank against the door, as far from him as the cab seat allowed. They rode to the apartment in silence.
Spike paid, lifted Willow out, and got her up the stairs and into the apartment. He turned away to lock the door.
###
Willow waited till the door was closed and hit Spike hard across the face. Or tried to. Demon reflexes, and her back wasn't letting her move very fast.
"You enjoyed that, you bastard."
He leaned against the door and folded his arms. "And your point is? I'm a demon, luv."
"I am going to hate you for the rest of my life." She struggled out of his coat and threw it at him.
"Witch." His voice and face could have frozen helium. "Did you want to spend the rest of the evening watching? I promise you, nobody else on that stage is going to get off as easily as you did. You survived. You shouldn't even be marked."
"This isn't just about me. Those vampires were torturing people. For fun. And you enjoyed it, too."
"I am a vampire." The words fell like drops of molten lead.
"That's not an excuse."
Spike straightened, all pretense of unconcern gone. "I don't need an excuse. If you had the self-control of a fledgling, I wouldn't have had to get you out of there before you caused a scene."
"I am not a vampire!"
Spike dropped his voice. "That could be corrected."
Willow stepped into his face. "You're wearing that threat out, Spike."
His eyes glowed golden, and he leaned forward. "Don't throw my words back at me!"
"If I had something else to throw, I would. Excuse me." She spun, walked into the bathroom, and closed -- and locked -- the door.
###
Spike stared in disbelief and fury at the door. If he broke it down, he doubted he'd stop there. He looked around for something to throw, and spotted Willow's pile of books.
When he had finished, a snowstorm of pages littered the floor. It wasn't enough. He picked up his coat, slammed the door, and locked it. And now, Mr. Green-brings-out-my-dewlaps, let's have a chat about audience participation.
When he returned, a little before dawn, the witch wasn't in the room, either in the chair or the bed. He doubted she'd had the strength to go far.
The bathroom lock didn't deserve the name; when he opened the door, she was curled up in the bathtub, still dressed in the rags of her blouse, arms cradling her head. She didn't move when the door opened, and her breathing was slow and even. He closed the door again and retreated to the bed.
What a world-class cock-up.
Spike didn't open his eyes. "What?"
"What day is it?"
"I have no sodding idea, and I care less. Leave me alone!"
The girl let out a long sigh.
Spike opened his eyes and sat up. "What is it? Last night was so much fun you want a repeat?"
The witch was sitting on the edge of the bed, still wearing the torn clothes from the night before; her face was pale and serious, with deep rings around the eyes. "You don't know what day of the week it is? Really, truly?"
"No. And I don't know who's Prime Minister, and I don't have a concussion, I just don't give a rat's arse!"
She nodded. "Okay. I just needed to know." And she rose, stiffly, and began to walk away.
He grabbed her hips and sat her down.
"Ouch!"
"Not so fast. You have your bloody answer. Why the question?"
"I needed to know." She stared into her lap, avoiding his eyes.
"Don't beat around the bush. No, I had no idea there'd be a show, I would have left you home if I had."
She looked at him unhappily. "But you'd still have gone yourself."
He met her eyes. "I believe we've covered that. How's your back?"
She straightened, then winced. "I'm not discussing that with you."
"You're right, no point, really. Stay." He stood up, pulled on his jeans, walked to his duster, and rummaged in the pockets. He returned with a small jar. "Arnica. Turn your back."
Willow shrank back. "I don't want you to touch me."
"You don't have a choice. Turn around, or I'll turn you."
She met his eyes, recognized that he wasn't bluffing, and turned, movements slow and careful.
He stripped the rags of her blouse from her shoulders, then sucked in unneeded breath. Enthusiastic participation, remember? Remember ?? The Boxer Rebellion was in -- ask me if I bloody care --, six nines are -- completely irrelevant to my unlife, thank Whoever -- an Imperial pint is -- barely a mouthful ...
When he'd regained some semblance of control, he began spreading the ointment over her back. She flinched, which didn't help. The jeans were definitely a good idea. When he finished, he left the bed and retrieved a black T-shirt.
"Arms up."
She tried to obey, but cried out and dropped her arms again.
Spike sat back and thought. I didn't exactly plan for this situation when shopping. He looked at the blouse remnants, but he doubted she'd want to touch them again. He tore the T-shirt down the front, eased the sleeves over her arms, and tied the front halves in a knot between her breasts. That contact was entirely accidental. Soft accidental skin she's got, too.
He stood. "Take it easy. I'll be back in a bit."
She turned and glared at him. "Don't hurry."
She'll live.
###
When Willow was sure Spike was really gone, she stood up from the bed. Then she screamed. It hurt.
Moving hurt.
Breathing hurt.
Thinking hurt worst of all.
Willow started looking for something to read, then froze. When she'd left the bathroom, she'd been looking straight ahead, at the sleeping vampire. She'd missed the drifts of torn pages on the floor. She dropped to her knees, gathered the remains to her chest, and cried as if her heart would break.
When she ran out of tears, she sat up. Her head hurt. Her back hurt. Her heart hurt. Aspirin and time would probably repair the first two. She went back into the bathrom and took some aspirin. Time she apparently had in abundance; Spike usually returned quickly, if he planned on returning at all.
I've screamed. I've cried. Now what do I do?
She looked around the apartment. The door was still locked, and Spike's threats about the consequences of escape seemed uncomfortably real today. Her torn blouse was still on the bed. The floor was covered with the remnants of books. Both reminded her of things she'd rather forget. She began gathering up the pieces and throwing them away.
For some reason, her 'Perl scripts' had escaped the carnage, and were still lying where she'd left them; she picked them up, stacked them, and slipped them under the mattress. She removed the velvet skirt, but couldn't raise her arms to hang it; she draped it across the foot of the bed.
It didn't take nearly long enough to restore the apartment to its usual bleak Gothitude. Willow thought about a hot bath. Her back didn't veto the idea, which was something. She fixed herself a sandwich, then went back into the bathroom, locked the door, ran a very hot bath, and eased herself into the water, agonizingly slowly. After some squirming, she figured out that lying on her stomach, supported by her forearms, seemed to cause the least amount of pain.
I started trusting a vampire. Knowing what happened to Buffy, knowing what happened to Drusilla, knowing what happened to Kendra, I trusted a vampire. How could I have been so stupid? And why am I so surprised?
No answers came, or at least none she was willing to acknowledge.
Not getting anywhere with this line of thought. She groaned, and tried to shift to her side. It hurt. She inched herself back upright, let out the lukewarm water, ran hot back in, and then lay down again.
Okay. I can't trust Spike. I can trust Willow. What can I do to get some good out of the rest of this year? I suppose there's always the diary ... She flinched. That hurt, but not as much as the thought of recording the previous evening. "Vampires like to hurt people." Everybody knows that already. Everybody except stupid Willow.
"Witch?"
Oh, God, he's back.
"I'm in the bathtub. " A horrid thought struck her. "Don't come in, I-I'll be right out. "
"Take your time."
I see we're back to Mr. Nice Vampire. Sorry, I won't get fooled that way again. She pulled out the plug with her toe, clambered out as fast as her back would allow, towelled off, and dressed in clean underpants, jeans, and the modified T-shirt. She looked at the door wistfully. I wish I could stay in here for the rest of my life. In my sense of the word, not in Spike's. She sighed and turned the knob. The door opened far too fast, and she walked out into the room.
Spike was lying on the bed, watching the television. He jerked his head at the table, then returned his gaze to the TV. "There's some stuff you might need over there."
Willow glared at him, which was pointless since he wasn't looking at her, then stalked over to the table. It held several shopping bags. One she recognized as coming from the same bookstore they'd visited originally. She opened it.
It contained COBOL For Dummies, Visual BASIC Certification, and three Harlequin romances. Willow fell into the chair, dropped her head into her hands, and started laughing uncontrollably. Her laugh grew louder and wilder until it turned into sobs, and she couldn't stop those either. Suddenly Spike was beside her.
"Stop it. I thought you liked computers. Stop it."
She kept sobbing, and he pounded the table. "What the Hell is wrong with you?"
Willow sniffed, tried to speak, then went back to crying.
He squatted down and lifted her chin. "What is it?"
Willow sucked in a breath, swallowed, and waited. For a wonder, Spike let her collect her thoughts. She raised her eyes to his.
"You really don't understand me any better than I understand you, do you?"
One corner of his mouth twitched up. "If you think I make about as much sense as a chocolate-covered fire hydrant, then I'd say we're even." He grew serious again. "What are you on about?"
Willow tried to turn away, but he held her chin and wouldn't let go. "Let go of me and let me get something to blow my nose with."
He stuffed his free hand into his pocket, passed her a crumpled napkin, then raised an eyebrow. "Answer the question."
Willow wiped her eyes, then blew her nose. "It's kind of hard to explain. You don't understand why those books aren't the same as the books you ruined, because you don't know anything about the things I care about. Which means you also don't understand that t-torturing people for fun upsets me; you think I'm just upset because it was me. And I didn't understand why you couldn't understand that." She rushed on. "It hurt a lot when you hit me, but that's not the really awful part. The awful part is knowing that you'd have killed anybody else without a pang of conscience, and you only care that you hurt me because it's me."
Spike met her eyes. "Can't help you with that, luv. It's the truth."
Willow sighed. "I know it's the truth. Reality really bites sometimes, though."
Spike jerked his head at the table. "You haven't looked at the rest of them."
"Can I have another tissue first?"
"Sorry, I don't actually need them myself. Hang on a sec." And Spike walked over to the bed and retrieved the box Willow kept on the floor. Willow mopped her eyes, then blew her nose vigorously.
She looked at him. "Presents don't really change anything, Spike."
"They pass the time, though."
She sighed. "Fair enough." She reached out a hand and opened the nearest bag. It revealed three button-front silk shirts in violet, royal blue, and deep green. Without thinking, she said, "What is it with vampires and dark colors anyway?"
Spike smiled and draped a white hand against the material. "High contrast, luv. What is it with humans and pastels?"
She shrugged, then winced. "Low visibility?"
"You glow against deep colors. I've never understood why you feel the need to play fluffy bunny instead."
Willow reached hastily for another bag. To break the silence, she said, "This better not be a puppy!"
Spike looked sheepish.
"Oh, God, it isn't a puppy, is it? Because it isn't moving, and a dead puppy would be very bad, and even a live puppy would be pretty bad, because this isn't a very big apartment, and I couldn't walk it, and anyway I'm having a major responsibility problem as it is..."
"Open it."
She did, gingerly. It proved to contain a takeout container, the kind used for Chinese food. She looked at Spike, who was back in You-Can't-Tell-What-I'm-Thinking face. She pulled the container toward her and opened it.
It contained a baggie of water, with a scarlet Siamese fighting fish.
"Oooh, it's gorgeous!"
"Think you can handle the responsibility problem?"
She grinned. "Probably. As long as you don't go all grr."
"If I do, I promise to concentrate on you rather than the fish."
Willow shivered. I think that wasn't a threat. Or not meant as one, anyway.
The last bag contained a bowl, gravel, and food for the fish. She took a few minutes to tuck the fish into its new home. It swam around, looking elegant and self-assured. Lucky fish. Willow smiled at it. "Thank you."
Spike shrugged, then stretched elaborately. "Bedtime. And if you'll be advised by me, you could use another dose of arnica."
Willow blushed. "What is arnica, anyway?"
"And you the witch. It's an herb. Heals bruising. "
"Okay. Let me get something loose to sleep in. " She rummaged through her clothes and found an oversized T-shirt. Then she crossed to the bed, turned her back to Spike, sat, and untied and removed the black T-shirt. God, this is embarrassing.
Spike remained almost clinically detached; he smoothed the ointment into her back, then lifted the T-shirt over her head. She managed to get her arms into it.
Spike's voice was matter-of-fact. "Had trouble brushing your hair?"
Back still turned, Willow nodded.
"Where's the brush?"
"In the bathroom."
Spike rose, got the brush, and ran it carefully through her hair, working it through the tangles without yanking her scalp. Willow felt herself slowly relaxing, and despised herself for it. When he had finished, he returned the brush, turned out the light, and lay down beside her.
"Good night, Spike. Thanks for the fish."
"Good night, witch."
A sardonic voice followed her. "What are you running away from?"
"I hear there are vampires in the area." She started running water in the sink, effectively cutting off the conversation.
Unfortunately, when she came out of the bathroom, Spike had not, as she'd hoped, vanished to 'hunt'. Kill people. He kills people. Hunting is what you do to deer. Which is also bad. But not as bad. Spike was sitting on the bed, dressed, watching her with an unfathomable expression.
Spike patted the bed. "Come get your back seen to."
She stayed where she was. "Thanks, but I'll just let nature take its course."
He sighed dramatically, heaving his shoulders. "Afraid you'll succumb to the irresistible sexual tension?"
"No. I just think it's creepy."
Spike stood up abruptly and walked to the door.
I think I hurt his feelings. Good. She addressed his back. "You made those bruises, Spike. What's the point of healing them? "
"As you like." He didn't turn around. "I should be back shortly." He shrugged on his coat, left, and locked the door.
Willow looked at the door. I did hurt his feelings. But he's a bad guy. You're supposed to be mean to bad guys. He's mean to me, after all. Then a tiny honest voice said And trying to help you get better is mean how?
Willow told the tiny honest voice to shut up. Then she fed the fish. It blew a bubble at her.
Willow started looking for clothes, bending as little as possible. Like it or not, the braless look was going to be with her for awhile. She took off her T-shirt, put on the violet shirt, and buttoned it. These jeans are about ready to walk by themselves. We're way overdue for laundry. She started to pick up a discarded sock, then groaned. I am not going to be Miss Clean-Up today. It hurts too much to bend.
She crossed to the table, retrieved a piece of paper, and began to write.
True to his word, Spike returned within ten minutes, ebullient. He strolled up to her chair wearing his best cocky smile. "Miss me, pet?"
Willow looked up. "No, I was busy making up a list."
"Ah. Rubies, raspberries, black lace negligee?"
"Actually, 'Buy calendar. Do laundry. Find decent reading lamp. Argue about computer.'"
Spike's face froze into an alabaster mask. "Save the argument. No computer."
"Look. My laptop has a PCMCIA modem. If you pull the modem, it's a standalone machine. I can't possibly do anything with it that communicates with anything. It might as well be a pencil and a piece of paper."
"No."
Willow sighed. "Okay, then let's do laundry."
That earned half a smile. "Again, no. You're not fit to carry anything, and I'm not lugging dirty clothes through Montreal."
"What, your status would suffer?"
His face went opaque again.
Weird. "Well, you may not sweat, but I do, and I'm going to be pretty disgusting unless we wash these clothes somehow."
Spike shrugged. "That's easily solved. Toss them and buy new."
Willow winced. "Do you know what the environmental consequences--"
"Look at it this way. I'm doing my bit for Zero Population Growth. I'm sure that makes up for tossing the occasional pair of jeans."
"You would have to remind me of that."
Spike grabbed Willow's list, crumpled it, and tossed it on the floor. "Enough with the social responsibility. One of the great joys of being a vampire is having no sense of responsibility whatsoever. Try it, you might like it."
Willow looked up at him. "And your plans were?"
"Not to make plans. Let's get out of here."
Willow tried to stand up, then winced again. "I don't think I'm up to walking. You go on."
"That does it. Off with that damned shirt, on with the arnica. You are not sulking here for another day. Satan only knows what lists you'd come up with. 'Overthrow government. Convert wolves to vegetarianism. Recycle corpses.' "
Willow didn't move. Spike raised his eyebrows. "Are you going to take off that shirt, pet, or do I have to do it for you?"
"Bully." Spike's expression wasn't encouraging. Sighing, Willow turned her back, unbuttoned the shirt, and let it slip down to her elbows.
"Hold still." His hands were surprisingly gentle, if cold. He hit me with those hands. More than once. His fingertips brushed the side of a breast, and she tensed; the intrusion was not repeated. She felt the color rising to the back of her neck.
"All done."
She pulled up her shirt and buttoned it.
"Up and out." She stood and followed him out the door.
###
"Spike, I am NOT a leather kind of girl."
"How do you know until you've tried?"
"Do you have any idea what the dry cleaning costs are like? No. Probably not. And it attracts entirely the wrong kind of guy. Don't give me that eyebrow again! Couldn't you get a new facial expression? Maybe by mail order?"
He smirked. "Bored already?"
Willow sighed. "No, never that. Onward. Preferably to a store that carries something besides biker-chick clothes. Like a calendar. And did I mention a reading lamp? And some real books?"
Arguing, they strode down the disused corridor. At the end of the corridor their way was blocked by a couple of sawhorses and a plywood wall. Spike frowned. "I thought this connected to the Place Ville-Marie. Oh, well, let's backtrack." They turned.
The way back was blocked by three very pale men, one of whom Willow remembered vividly from two evenings ago. She'd last seen him lying on the floor staring at the vampire who'd stolen his chair.
Spike dropped the shopping bag he was carrying, thrust Willow behind him, and hissed "Stay."
The lead vamp smiled. "Don't worry about her. We'll take good care of her afterward. Find out if she's a natural --"
His speech was broken off by Spike's kicking him in the face.
The fight that followed was nasty, and obviously not following any rules other than "Kill them. Kill them a LOT." Spike held his own, but while he was keeping two of the vamps at bay, the third was slowly circling to his back. Willow watched as long as she dared, then took action.
The vampire behind Spike's back exploded into dust just as Spike broke the neck of the lead vampire. Spike did a spin-kick to the groin of the remaining vampire, and continued the motion to discover empty space behind him. He looked startled, but completed the spin and disposed of the remaining vampire in short order. When both remaining vampires were disabled, he ripped their heads off and they exploded into dust.
Still in vamp face, Spike closed on Willow. "What the HELL did you do?"
She jerked her chin at the hallway behind him. "Is this really the place to discuss it?"
"Damn you." He resumed the human mask. "We are going home now, and then you are going to explain yourself."
Boy, he's sure good at gratitude.
###
Spike locked the door, then turned, jaw tight and eyes dark. "Spill."
The girl straightened her back. "You always said I needed a credible threat. Well, I have one now. I just decided to skip the actual threatening part."
"And?" He could feel his cheek beginning to twitch.
She lifted her chin. "I'm a witch, remember? You took away my spellbooks, but you didn't take away me. I staked him."
Spike snorted. "How? With what? You were nine feet away."
"With a piece of wood. And I levitated it."
Spike looked at her in disbelief. "How long have you been able to do this?"
"About a year now."
Spike absorbed this in silence. Then he asked the crucial question, keeping his voice level. "And why am I still here?"
She met his eyes and matched his even tone. "The first few nights after you kidnapped me, I didn't have the stake. Then you kept waking up before I did. And now ... I'm not as coldblooded as I wish I were. I'm a rotten person. I should have staked you in your sleep to prevent your killing other people, but when it came to the point, I couldn't do it unless..." Her voice trailed off.
"Unless..." he prompted.
"Unless I was furious. Or unless I had to."
Spike thought back. "Yesterday morning?"
Willow nodded, face grave. "I came really, really close. If I'd been sure you'd taken me there on purpose..."
Spike felt himself slipping into his true face as he grabbed Willow's shoulders. "You're telling me my life is in your hands?"
Willow didn't flinch. "Yes. Just as mine is in yours. Mutually Assured Destruction, it used to be called. If you push me too far, you die. If I push you too far, I die. Fun, isn't it?"
"I could keep you locked in the apartment all day, every day."
She half-smiled. "It's full of wood, Spike."
"Tied to the bed."
"I don't need my hands or feet to levitate."
Spike stared at her for a very long minute.
Then he dropped her shoulders and began to laugh. Morphing back to human, Spike reached down, took Willow's hand, and kissed it. "Mutually Assured Destruction it is, then."
"What's the occasion?"
Spike arched an eyebrow. "The coffee's poisoned, luv. You get to guess which cup."
Willow played along. "Wouldn't that make my blood all poisonous?"
He smirked. "Vampires can't be poisoned."
She smirked back. "Well, I only drink decaf, so you get to drink both of them."
He pursed his lips. "Hardly worth poisoning decaf, is it? Arsenic'd be the only flavor in the cup."
"Arsenic? How old-fashioned. You couldn't use botulin toxin, or thallium?"
"The old ways still work, pet. As it happens, the cup closest to you is decaf."
Willow smiled at him and took a sip. It tasted ... not like much, being decaf, but at least it was hot. "Thank you."
He sipped from his cup, then grinned. "You really shouldn't take drinks from strange men, luv."
Willow stopped smiling. "There isn't really something in it, is there? Because that's cheating."
"Yet another lovely feature of being a vampire. We cheat." As Willow surged to her feet, he grabbed the wrist holding the cup, narrowly preventing a spill. "I lied. It's coffee, nothing more."
Willow sat and glared at him. "Does everything have to be such a big I-Am-Evil production number? You were being nice, then you ruined it."
Spike sneered. "'Nice' isn't on the menu."
Oh. Then I suppose that fish is a figment of my imagination. She had the sense not to say it out loud. I think he's ashamed when he does something kind. I am never going to understand vampires.
She finished the cup, rose, and began looking for clean clothes.
"You're not dressing before I've seen your back."
Without turning, she retorted, "I'll leave it to your imagination."
"That wasn't a request."
She sighed and returned to the bed. "When are you going to let me alone?"
"When I see you move without wincing." He scooped the arnica from his duster pocket, then stripped the shirt from her back. He was silent for a long moment; when he spoke, his voice was deeper than usual. "Quite the sunset you've got there."
"Luckily, I can't see it, and nobody else will."
Spike ran a fingernail up her back. She jumped.
"Ouch! What was that for?"
"I'm not 'nobody', pet."
Willow sighed. "No. I said 'nobody else'. That leaves out me and you." Touchy, isn't he? "Where are we going, anyway?"
"There's always Rafe's."
Willow whirled, hastily grabbing the sheet to her chest. "That is NOT funny. And if you're serious, then I'm invoking the Mutually Assured Destruction clause. I don't ever want to go there again, and I mean it."
Spike held her gaze in silence for a long, uncomfortable minute. "Don't threaten, luv. It only warns your opponent. Strike, or be silent."
She lifted her chin defiantly. "You threaten me all the time."
He shrugged. "Didn't consider you dangerous."
Willow beamed. "That's changed?"
Spike didn't. "Yes."
"Wow. I've never been dangerous before." She bounced happily on the bed, then paused, struck by a thought. "Hey, wait a minute. You threatened Buffy."
"Do as I say, not as I do." He dropped his gaze to her sheet-draped body. "Dress, and we'll go."
Willow gave him her resolve face. "Not to Rafe's."
He met it. "No."
Willow turned away, then grabbed the green silk shirt, clean underwear, and jeans, and headed for the bathroom to change. After she was dressed, she started to brush her hair, then winced. It still hurt to raise her arms. She came out.
"Spike?"
"Yes?" He'd dressed, and was having a cigarette on the edge of the bed. It's a wonder he hasn't burnt the place down by now.
"Would you do my hair again?"
He smiled. For once, it wasn't a smirk. "If you insist."
###
That evening, Spike was restless. They moved from place to place, never staying more than a few minutes. After he'd visited and rejected most of the underground city, Spike growled in disgust and began retracing their steps. To Willow's surprise, instead of returning to the apartment, Spike led her to the car.
"I'd forgotten all about that."
"Can't find parking in the city. Thought we might get away for a bit."
Willow gasped, "What about my fish? And a toothbrush?"
"You really do have a responsibility problem, pet. Fine, fetch the bloody fish, it won't take up much room."
They made a hasty visit to the apartment, threw together a suitcase for Willow, tucked the fishbowl into a Baggie, and settled into the car. Spike concentrated on navigating out of the city; after a long quiet while, Willow broke the silence.
"Spike?"
"Hmm?" He flicked a glance sideways.
"If you hadn't kidnapped me, what would you be doing?"
"Sorry, pet, pretty much what I am doing. Haven't been letting you cramp my style."
"You wouldn't be looking for Drusilla?"
His face shut. Oops. "Let's call that subject closed, shall we?"
Willow sighed. Talking to Spike was a bit like waltzing through a minefield, except that half the mines were hers. What with topics she didn't want to talk about (death, dismemberment, torture) and topics he didn't want to talk about (Drusilla, his plans for the future, why evil was a bad thing), silence seemed by far the easiest solution.
###
"Pet?"
The redhead gave him a wary glance. "Yes?"
"What are your plans after the year?"
The girl winced. "That's too far away to think about."
He laughed. "Had you picked for the plan-everything-out-five-years-in-advance type."
Her voice was flat. "There doesn't seem to be much point in that any more."
"What, no dreams? The wolf rides in on a white horse -- "
"Stop it." Her voice was tight. "If I don't poke your wounds, you don't get to poke mine."
"My car, my rules, pet."
"Fine. I'm planning on becoming Miss America, after which I launch a nationwide campaign to stamp out illiteracy. Then I restart the Moon landing program, and take the first flight myself."
"Aren't you a bit small for an astronaut?"
"Yes, and I'm a bit plain for Miss America. So why don't we talk about the weather?"
Spike pulled to the side of the road and cut the engine. "What is your problem tonight?"
She turned to look at him. "I'm a thousand miles from my friends, you're probably going to kill me, and I can't even check my Perl scripts. Is that enough, or do you want the whole list?"
"Bloody hell, girl, if I wanted to kill you you'd be dead. What do I have to do, tattoo that on the back of your hand?"
"Why should I believe you? You're so proud of lying all the time, why should you tell the truth about this?"
"Because I can think of better things to do with your body." He leaned over, grabbed her chin, and gave her a hard kiss. She opened her mouth, probably to protest, and he took advantage.
Her mouth was warm, sweet, and uncooperative. Which was fine -- he had more than enough time to convince her of the error of her ways. He finished a leisurely exploration of her mouth, then released her and looked into her green eyes. Instead of the rapture that he was hoping for, or even acquiescence, he saw fury. Well, so much for the easy way...
"This is an improvement? You're not going to murder me, you're going to rape me instead?" She spat the words.
"I'm not trying to rape you, I'm bloody well trying to seduce you!"
She glared. "And the difference is?"
"In one case, you're enjoying yourself."
"We can rule that case right out."
"Can we?" He recaptured her mouth. This time, she tried to bite him. He bit back. She flinched. Oh, sod, human rules. He let go.
"Spike. I don't love you. Right now, I don't even like you. I am not willing, and this is not going anywhere unless you force me." Her eyes made the rest of the threat plain.
"Fine." He threw the car back into gear and sped off down the road.
Willow pinched herself. Reality refused to cooperate.
Uh-oh. I am awake. I am sitting in a very beaten up car with a vampire who wants to seduce me. She glanced sideward; Spike was staring straight ahead with a "Bother me, and I'll rip your head off and use it as a bowling ball" expression. Wanted to seduce me. Now wants to turn me into sushi.
I thought he thought I was just a thing. I thought he was just teasing me. I didn't think he was serious. People don't get serious about me. Even Oz didn't stay serious about me.
Oh, God, he's seen me naked. Nearly.
And he didn't seem to mind...
####
Could I possibly become more pathetic? 'I'm trying to seduce you', indeed. Next it'll be 'Can't you think of me as a friend?' Wanker.
I am not going to look at the little tease. She's probably red to her eyebrows. Or giggling. Can't hear her giggling.
He stole a glance sideward. The girl was staring straight ahead with a "Please Do Not Resuscitate" expression.
What am I supposed to do? Torture her till she loves me? Yeah, right. That was such a great success she nearly staked me.
Why the fuck can't I keep my mouth shut?
####
The drive continued in an awkward and stony silence. After an hour or so had passed, Willow found the courage to speak.
"Spike?"
"What?" He didn't look at her.
"I haven't eaten yet."
He replied in a soft, even voice, "Neither have I."
Willow bit her lip. The silence stretched on.
They reached a resort town, and Spike pulled into yet another motel. Willow shrank against the car door, jarring her back. Their fragile camaraderie had been shattered. Once more she was acutely aware that she was alone with a demon.
Spike looked at her for the first time since That Conversation. He flicked an eyebrow. "Road rules, pet. If you aren't here when I get back..."
She nodded, not wanting the threat spelled out. He continued looking at her, seemingly expecting an answer.
"I'll be here."
He left the car and stalked into the lobby, duster swirling. When he returned, they walked silently to the room, Willow with the fishbowl and her bag, Spike with a nearly visible chip on his shoulder.
After Spike left, Willow turned to the fighting fish, which seemed undistressed by its change in surroundings. She put it next the dresser mirror to admire itself; it briefly displayed its fins, then grew bored. She tapped some flakes of fish food into the bowl, and it pecked casually at them.
Willow realized that she had never named the fish. Hmm. Garnet? Her hand flew up to the choker. No. Blood? No, no, no. Red... this shouldn't be so difficult. What's wrong with me? What's wrong with my thoughts? Where did I put my words? The fish flirted its tail at the mirror. Vanity. Too much like vain hopes... I think 'fish' will do fine for now.
She sighed and turned away. She didn't much feel like watching TV, she still didn't have any decent books, which left brooding. Boy, when I get back -- if I get back -- I'll have to stop people making jokes about Angel. I know just how he feels.
She sat on the bed, kicked off her shoes, and dropped her head in her hands. Just when I think I've sorted out the rules, they change. I thought we were on the I-won't-kill-you-if-you-don't-kill-me plan. Then it turns out there's the kissing plan. And I guess there's probably another plan under that, although I can't imagine what. But the kissing plan is hard enough to deal with. I'd stopped noticing that I was alone with a guy, and he has to remind me of it.
Maybe he didn't like that I'd stopped noticing, and he just wanted to remind me. She sighed. How do you tell a "Stop ignoring me" kiss from a serious kiss? It isn't as though I have enough kisses to build a sample database from. Although, if I did, that kiss wouldn't be in the bottom quartile...
Just the facts. I am not in love with Spike. Check? Check. So that makes it easy. I don't kiss people I don't love. Fact one.
I don't want to kill Spike. Even though I should. He hasn't killed me, even though he probably should, too. It can't be good for his reputation, dragging a human everywhere. So, why didn't he kill me, and why didn't I kill him, and why do I think the answer may be the same, and I am so not continuing this thought.
I suppose I could start the diary again...
#### [Uncrumpled and decrypted from the Diary of Willow Rosenberg]
perl -pe 's:\$(\w+):$ENV{$1}:eg'
I feel like a moron. I am so stupid. I don't know anything about
anybody, so I don't know why I am pretending to know something about
vampires.
Bloody hell.
####
Bloody hell.
Isn't there anything under 65 here?. I can't expect veal, but is there no chance of chicken? Ah. Much better.
"I hate to bother you, but I'm new in town. Could you suggest where I should take my girlfriend for dinner this late?"
The chubby redhead smiled. "Well, there's Chez Marie, but it's a bit hard to get to. Let me walk you there."
I'm sweet, harmless, and trustworthy. "Oh, I really couldn't trouble you."
She laughed and shook her head. "No, no, no trouble at all. Come on, there's a shortcut through this alley."
He returned her smile. "You're too kind."
####
The door opened and Willow looked up from the TV. Let him do the talking. I don't have anything to say.
"Come along, witch; Chez Marie is still serving dinner."
She rose and followed him.
Chez Marie turned out to cater to the apres-ski crowd; this late in the year, it was doing a desultory business among sightseers. The waitress seated Spike and Willow in a quiet booth in the back of the restaurant.
"Would you like to see the wine list?"
Deadpan, Spike responded "I never drink ... wine."
Willow burst into giggles, just a shade too high-pitched. The waitress was not amused. Willow hastily said "No, thanks."
She ordered fettuccine; Spike ordered an espresso. The waitress left.
Oh, God, there's going to be one of those awkward silences. I hate this.
Spike caught her eye and said, matter-of-factly, "So, any bits of Quebec you've been pining to see?"
Relieved that he'd started a neutral subject, she replied, "I don't know anything about Quebec. I thought you must have something in mind."
He shook his head. "Nope, just got tired of staying in one place."
"Where are we?"
He shrugged. "On the road. Wouldn't be hard to reach Quebec City, if you fancied."
Willow shrugged back. "Let me guess. It's full of vampires?"
He smirked. "City. Been there three centuries. You do the math."
"Well, you've been here before. What's fun?" Catching his expression, she hastily added, "For non-vampires I mean?"
"Wouldn't know. Haven't been here with non-vampires."
Willow glowered. "Are you enjoying this? Because I'm not."
He tilted his head. "Lighten up, luv. What's life without conflict?"
Willow sighed. "Calm. Peaceful. Serene. Those are nice words. At least, I like reading about them. I don't remember what they feel like."
He half-smiled. "They're synonyms for 'dead', pet. And not in the good sense."
The waitress arrived with their orders, cutting off that line of conversation, or so Willow hoped.
After she'd departed, Spike said, "Seriously, what's your idea of fun?"
Willow thought. "Reading. Reading is good. Learning new things. Making things that weren't there before, like programs. Witchcraft." Her face fell. "Almost everything else has to do with Buffy and Xander and Giles."
He chuckled. "Nothing from the neck down?"
Willow shook her head. "I'm not good from the neck down."
His gaze swept her body. "I beg to differ."
She blushed. "That's not what I meant. I'm not good with people, I'm not much of a dancer, I'm just a really good thinker. Except I shouldn't say that, it's -- it's bragging, and it makes people mad at you."
"And you care because?" He leaned back against the booth, face shadowed.
"What?"
Spike steepled his hands. "Why do you care what other people think?"
"Because people are mean when they're mad."
Spike shrugged and leaned forward. "So be mean right back. Can't live life without an enemies list." His smile became vulpine. "Though it's fun crossing names off..."
"No!" Willow shook her head vigorously. "I'm a nice person. I don't keep track of my enemies."
He raised his eyebrows. "Pretty stupid, luv. You can be sure they're keeping track of you. Take Harmony."
"I think you did that." Score one for me!
He winced. "Touche. You know what Harmony wanted me to do to you?"
"No, and please don't tell me, I'm sure I don't want to know. Anyway, she's a vampire. Vampires are evil. They're supposed to do evil things."
He bowed, smiling. "Why, thank you. And Harmony was your friend when she was alive?"
Willow dropped her eyes. "Uh... no."
"But you liked her?"
"Nooooo," she admitted unhappily.
"Which makes her your...?" He held out a hand and gave her the teacher-waiting-for-the-obvious-answer look.
"Enemy." Willow said glumly.
"And this is bad because?" He rotated his hand, as if drawing out the answer.
This is ridiculous. "Since when are you Sigmund Freud?"
He shrugged, "I find lying about how nice you are rather silly."
Willow sat ruler-straight. "I am nice!"
Spike snorted. "Not as nice as you pretend to be. Mother Teresa wasn't that nice."
"And you're the expert?"
"I don't pretend to be anything but what I am. You might consider it. If people don't like it, sod them."
Willow looked down at her plate and took a bite of fettuccine, hoping to end the conversation.
Spike couldn't let well enough alone. "Just who do you think you're fooling?"
Willow blew up. "Spike, I am so sick of the vampire makeover! If you wanted a vampire, you should have kidnapped a vampire! I am Willow Anne Rosenberg, and I won't let you turn me into some fifth-generation photocopy of you!"
"Much better, pet," purred Spike. "That, I believe."
Willow groaned in frustration. "How do you DO that? Even when I win an argument, I lose."
He grinned. "Practice."
####
When the girl had finished dinner and dessert, Spike paid the check, then rose and offered her an arm. She took it. Perhaps the day wasn't a total wash after all.
They walked back to the motel under a cold and cloudless sky. The moon was full; Spike pointed it out to the girl, who winced. Sod. Everything reminds her of that wolf. Hard to compete with a rival who isn't here. Christ, not bleeding again!
When they returned to the motel, Spike satisfied himself that no light would escape the curtains. After that, they watched TV for awhile, then the girl busied herself with her usual nighttime rituals. When she lay down and turned out the light, Spike undressed, then draped an arm across her.
The witch froze, then scooted away. He followed her. She sat bolt upright.
"Spike, I said No, and I meant it." Her voice held anger, barely masking fear. He kept his own calm and reasonable.
"I'm making sure I know where you are, witch. "
The anger won out. "Where do you expect me to be? Sunnydale?"
He casually pulled her back down. "I expect you to be in this bed when I wake up. Unarmed. And I'm taking steps to make sure my expectations are met. If you'd prefer, I could chain you again."
She sighed, but made no further protest. She lay, tense, in silence; slowly, the tension left her body, her breathing became even and regular, and he allowed himself to relax. It should be safe to let down his own guards for awhile. She's not going to yield easily. However, time is on my side. By definition.
####
"Don't. Don't. Come back. Don't. Please."
Spike glanced over. Nightmare. He shook her gently. She snuggled into him, murmuring "Oz?"
He let go. She rolled over and opened her eyes. "Oz?... Oh. Sorry."
He kept his face blank. "Go back to sleep."
She protested, "Don't I have time for a shower?"
"No. We're off." Willow's eyes flew open, but Spike didn't look angry; far from it, he was exhilarated, practically glowing. He was fully dressed, including his coat.
She threw back the covers and bent to pull fresh clothes from her bag. Spike stopped her. "No time." Knowing protests would be useless, she grabbed the bag, the fish, and its baggie, and headed for the door.
They settled into the car and Spike drove off, at his usual frenetic pace. "Don't you ever check out?"
Spike grinned. "When someone's alive to handle the paperwork."
I am so sorry I asked that question. She settled back against the seat, then winced and sat forward. I wonder how long before I can sit without thinking?
Spike glanced over. "We'll see to your back presently."
Willow glared at him, sat back pointedly, and regretted it.
He grinned, "On the other hand, it's doing wonders for your posture."
Willow snorted. "And if you cut off my head, I wouldn't have to worry about bad hair days, either."
He pursed his lips. "It's a thought. But I'd never get the mess out of the upholstery."
She played along. "If I'd only known; stay in Spike's car and I'm safe."
"At least until I got a good spot remover."
Willow's train of thought picked up speed, careening past the station. "You must have a lot of practice removing blood from fabric by now... you could probably write a book! You could be the vampire Martha Stewart!"
He grinned. "I'm rather better at removing blood from humans, pet."
Willow sobered instantly. "Why do you keep DOING that?"
He flicked her a glance. "Doing what?"
"Just when I start getting comfortable, you remind me that you kill people."
He shrugged. "I do kill people."
She rolled her eyes. "Spike. Trust me. I live in Sunnydale. I know you're a vampire. I can do the math."
He shrugged again. "Habit, I guess. Can't let a mortal get too comfortable."
This time I'm not backing down. "Do I talk about holy water all the time? Or stakes?"
He kept his eyes on the road. "You don't live by intimidation."
"I'm as intimidated as I'm going to get. Care to knock it off now?" The anger was starting to show in her voice.
"Doubt it. It's an old habit, and demons don't change."
"Oh, for pity's sake, Spike. You want to tell me they had peroxide and punk rock in Edwardian London? Go ahead, I'm all ears."
His voice acquired an edge. "Bit pushy tonight, luv."
Tough. "Spike. You dragged me to Montreal. You dressed me up like some vampire Barbie. You made me learn to be a smart-ass. You didn't want pushy, you could have stuck with the old Willow. Who, I might add, was perfectly happy where she was."
"Well, the new Willow is a pain in the arse!"
"You asked for it, you got it, Spike."
He glared. She let the conversation drop.
#####
A roadside sign indicated a rest stop ahead. Spike looked at the girl, hair still tousled from their hasty departure. "Want to stop?"
"Please."
He pulled off the road into the parking lot and cut the engine. The rest stop was the usual faux-rustic hut sheltering restrooms, a large map, and an assortment of cola machines.
The witch reached for the door handle. He grabbed her shoulder. "Ouch!" She frowned at him.
"Road rules, pet."
She sighed. "Yes, Mom, I know, I'll be home before dark, and call if I'm going to be late." She turned away.
He spun her back. "I'm serious, witch. Any appeals for help to friendly passersby will mean their deaths."
"I know. You've told me." She looked pointedly at his hand, and he released her.
She opened the car door and walked to the ladies' room. Spike got out, leaned against the wall, and lit a cigarette.
####
Spike watched the smoke rise from his third cigarette. She's taking bloody forever. Showering in the sink?
He heard something from the bathroom. It was hard to make out through the usual background sounds, but something sounded ... odd. She's not the sort to dawdle over her appearance this long ...
He gave it a second more, then slammed the door open.
A couple of women in dungarees had bent Willow back against the sink; one had a knife to her throat. The other was using a fistful of red hair to bang the girl's head against the faucet.
He grabbed the knife hand and twisted hard, hearing the satisfying crunch of snapping bones. The other bitch had started to say something; he crushed her throat and listened to her gargle.
Willow staggered to her feet, face paper-white and covered in blood. He spotted a small cut in her scalp, bleeding like a slaughtered sheep.
Glad I ate before we left. He forced his instincts down and said harshly "Lean over the sink." He rinsed with the cold water, splashed until he could see all her face, then ran his fingers over the rest of her head. The scalp wound seemed the worst of the visible damage.
"Probably ought to have stitches, luv, but I've no idea where to find a doctor at this time of night." He tugged her hair.
"Oww!"
"Don't fuss." He tied the wound together with her hair. "That should hold."
He glanced around. The former knife woman was still moving. He released the witch, then snapped the bitch's neck. The witch said nothing. He dragged her off to the car and threw it into gear.
When they were back on the road, he let her have it. "Why the bloody Hell didn't you call for help?"
She stared straight ahead, and her voice was very soft. "At first I didn't think it was a problem -- those were women, like me, and I figured they wouldn't bother me. By the time I realized I was in trouble, she had the knife out." Her hands flew to her neck. "She didn't even say what she wanted."
"What do I have to to do teach you to take care of yourself?" He slammed his hands against the wheel.
She was silent. Not good enough.
"Do you have any idea what you'd have done if I hadn't been there?"
Her voice, when it came, was tiny. "Died."
"That's not a plan, Willow."
Instead of answering, she started to cry. He glanced around, then pulled the car off into the next side road. There were no lights for miles in any direction.
He turned off the ignition, grabbed the girl, and said, "What's your problem? You survived, damn it!"
She sobbed again, then paused, gulped, and released a torrent of words. "I just can't do this any more! I've used up all the brave I had, and just when I was relaxing, somebody who wasn't even a vampire turned out to be evil! There isn't any such thing as safety, and I haven't felt safe in forever!"
In a soft voice, he said, "I can't cure that, pet. Haven't felt safe myself in 125 years."
She glared. "Yes, that's because you put other people into danger."
Better anger than despair. He smirked. "Safety's an illusion, pet. And a boring one at that."
"You.. you... vampire!"
"Guilty as charged." She started to cry again. He gathered her into his arms, and she sobbed as if the world were coming to an end. Time for another distraction. He lifted her chin and began kissing her.
To his shock, she returned the kiss. With interest. Adrenaline is a wonderful thing. Or so I hear the humans say. Her mouth was as he remembered it, warm and sweet. This time, he was more kissed against than kissing. He corrected the imbalance. He kept expecting the inner good girl to surface, but apparently she'd gone on holiday. Don't hurry back. Her eyes were closed, and she paused to sniffle now and again.
She broke the kiss. Sod, here comes the 'I'm not that kind of girl' speech. Instead, she began nibbling down the line of his throat. He shivered. The green eyes flew open and she pulled back.
"Oh, I'm sorry, was that wrong? I didn't mean to..."
"Quite the opposite, pet. Do try again." He lifted his chin. but she was frozen, staring at something only she could see. He kissed the corner of one eye, tracing the line of tears down her face with his lips. She sighed, then captured his mouth and kissed it frantically. He recognized the symptoms all too well: she was seeking oblivion rather than intimacy.
This is the moment when the Poof would pull back and say 'You're not thinking clearly, little girl. I couldn't take advantage of your confusion.' Wanker.
He began caressing her, careful not to touch her back, lightly tracing the lines of her ribs through the thin T-shirt. No brassiere. How handy. He slipped a hand up and under the shirt; she shivered, but did not protest.
Avoiding the old cold-hands-warm-heart problem's always tricky. Especially minus the heart. He caressed her side a little longer, until he was sure his hands had warmed from friction. He shifted his left hand a trifle. Her breast was warm, velvet-soft, and heavy in his hand, the nipple hard against his palm.
He broke the kiss and waited until she opened her eyes. "Witch. Fair warning. The Slayer shagged the soul out of the Poof. It doesn't work in reverse." What the bloody hell am I saying? Since when do I give warnings, fair or otherwise?
She met his gaze, face grave. "I know." Then she slipped his coat from his shoulders and returned to the kiss. He ran his hands up to her shoulders; she lifted her arms to let her shirt slip over her head, then tugged at the hem of his.
He removed his own shirt, then glanced around. The road was deserted. If he interrupted her to suggest a more comfortable venue, odds were good she'd think better of the whole thing. Oh, well, I've done far less enjoyable things in this car. He returned his attention to the warm girl in his arms. She never spoke a word; moaned or sighed occasionally, but nothing more intelligible. Avoids that pesky name problem, I suppose. At least she's not pretending I'm the wolf.
Their shoes were easily discarded. Removing her jeans took somewhat greater concentration, since he was nibbling her shoulder at the time, and she was doing wicked things to one of his nipples. His own jeans shrugged off with the ease of long practice.
For so outwardly modest and shy a girl, she knew exactly what she was about. Still waters indeed. She adapted readily to his needs, swiftly abandoning gentleness. She herself was far less fragile than her tiny physique would suggest; she was fierce rather than timid, forceful, not shrinking. And her face, the whole time, revealed only desire, concentration, and occasionally surprised pleasure; never tenderness, never joy. Certainly not love.
####
She collapsed forward on him, gasping for breath. He brought one hand up and stroked her hair. They lay quietly for a few minutes, then she sucked in a deep breath. He braced himself. Here comes the tearful self-reproach.
She said quietly, "Thank you. Hadn't we better get inside before sunrise?"
He cocked his head to peer at her face. It was serious, somewhat withdrawn. She wasn't giving anything further away. He brushed a kiss across her widow's peak. "Suppose you're right." He ran a regretful hand down her body, then sat up, carrying her with him. She slipped off him, turned away, and grabbed her shirt from the floor of the car, exposing her back.
Spike tilted his head. "Will you stake me if I see to your back?"
She glanced up. With forced lightness, she replied, "Will you drain me if I say yes?"
"No."
"Also no." She sat up, turned away, and rested her palms on the door.
He scuffled through the pile of discarded clothes, found the duster, and located the arnica. He rubbed it into her back, allowing himself the luxury of a couple of casual brushes against her breast. She didn't move away, but she didn't lean into him, either. When he finished, she pulled the T-shirt on, then wriggled back into her jeans.
After he finished dressing, Spike restarted the engine and pulled back onto the road. When he glanced over at the girl, she had fallen asleep.
This in itself was routine, but she couldn't remember going to bed. She racked her brains, then stopped cold when she remembered... what she did remember.
I think I just forfeited my Good Conduct badge.
Oh, boy, am I ever not in Kansas any more.
She rechecked reality. She lay beside Spike in yet another motel room bed. He was sleeping naked, as usual; she was fully dressed.
Not that that really mattered much under the circumstances.
Moving as stealthily as possible, she slid out of bed. She glanced back; Spike was apparently still dead to the world. Not going there. She ran to the bathroom.
###
Behind her, Spike opened his eyes. No hysterics, good. No reproaches, also good. Fleeing in terror, not good at all. Match remains scoreless. Likely to remain so, worse luck.
###
Willow turned the shower on full hot, then slumped against the wall.
As if my life wasn't complicated enough. I knew what I was doing. I knew exactly what I was doing. And I did it anyway.
She soaped her whole body, then rinsed thoroughly.
And I enjoyed it.
She rinsed the dried blood out of her hair, lathered it, wincing as the soap hit her cut, washed the remaining blood off her forehead, then worked soap all the way around the hairline to her neck.
Have I always been this kind of person, and never knew it before? Am I going to start wearing tight leather and talking about puppies any moment?
She decided not to rewash her breasts, as this would be giving them entirely the wrong message.
Buffy slept with a vampire.
She rinsed until her hair squeaked for mercy.
Nice try. Buffy slept with a reformed vampire. Do you think the gorgeous bleached guy in the next room qualifies?
More lather, followed by an attempt at a spiky hairstyle using suds, hastily rethought into a Bride of Frankenstein arrangement.
You're the sensible me. You aren't supposed to be noticing how distractingly good-looking he is.
She rinsed the shampoo out of her hair, then absent-mindedly washed her neck again.
Oops. Exemption for very recent near-death experience? She scrubbed thoroughly under her fingernails.
Okay. Recent near-death exemption. But that means I am NOT doing it again. Because he is a vampire, and he kills people for fun.
She began to wash between her toes.
I wonder if you survive jilting a vampire?
She washed her hair again, just to make sure the blood was all gone.
And if not, does that mean that the near-death exemption comes back into play?
Even a seriously broody witch turns pruny eventually. Willow turned off the shower, stepped out, dried herself, then froze. In her haste to get out of the bedroom, she'd forgotten to pick up clean clothes. The clothes she'd removed had been on her for two days straight, thanks to Spike's latest clerkicide, and furthermore were marinated in her own blood.
But if I go out there wrapped in a towel to get more clothes, he'll think it's an invitation. Maybe I'll just stay in here forever.
A cool voice derailed her brood. "Witch... are you quite finished?"
Arrrgh.
She combed out her hair, carefully working around the knot holding her scalp together, wrapped her hips in one towel and her torso in a second, then peered out the door.
Spike was lying on the bed fully dressed, hands behind his head and an evil glint in his eye. When he saw her, he snorted. "Luv, it's a good hundred miles to the nearest Turkish bath."
"Umm. I needed clean clothes. Which I don't have. Or I wouldn't be wearing towels. " She looked around. "Where's my bag?"
"Had my hands full carrying you in." He smirked.
"Oh, no, I forgot my fish!" She started for the door, only to be stopped by Spike's hand on her wrist.
"You aren't dressed for it, pet."
She shook his hand off angrily. Unfortunately, that wasn't all she shook off. As Willow grabbed desperately for southbound towels, her wet feet slipped and skidded out from under her, and she landed hard on the floor. With the towels, unfortunately, beneath her.
Spike looked down at her, then burst out laughing. Willow looked up in outrage. "It isn't funny!" She began scrabbling her way back into the towels.
Spike assumed a sober face, although his lips twitched. "Of course not." He reached down, pulled her to her feet by one arm, and swatted her on the flank. "Off to the bathroom with you and your modesty. I'll have your maid ring with clean clothes presently."
Clutching her towels and scarlet to the eyebrows, Willow fled, pursued by chuckles.
Not much later, Spike knocked on the bathroom door. When Willow, hastily re-toweled, opened it, he was holding the green minidress in his left hand. His head was thrown back, and he'd draped the back of his right hand over his eyes in a pose straight out of Victorian melodrama. He was smirking.
Willow grabbed the clothes. "This isn't funny, Spike."
He dropped the hand and the smirk and looked at her. "No, it's bloody ridiculous. I've seen every inch of that pretty body, so there's very little point in your hiding it now. As far as I know, there's no such thing as retroactive virginity, not that it would apply in this case."
"Bastard."
He sniffed. "Coward."
Willow's mouth fell open. "WHAT?"
He shrugged. "Witch. You shagged me. Thoroughly. Willingly. Admit it."
How DARE he. "Well, it's not going to happen again!"
He arched an eyebrow. "I don't recall suggesting it."
"You..." Once again running short on epithets, Willow slammed the bathroom door in his face. I need some really, really mean words. Words that I'm not supposed to know. Words that would shock him. And show him how mad I am. Where's my bloody dictionary?
####
The witch emerged from the bathroom in clean clothes, head high, avoiding his gaze.
Fine. Play it that way if you like. "Ready to leave?"
She nodded. They walked to the car in silence. This time, he checked out at the front desk.
The witch sat in stony silence. The road unrolled ahead, leading nowhere of interest.
###
Abandoning her sulk, the girl gasped, "Oh! I forgot my fish again!"
He waved her off. "I fed it. It's in the trunk, safe and sound. I do hope you recycled your dirty clothes?"
She sniffed. "As if you cared."
"I'd hate to see you abandoning your principles because of a little blood."
She tried to hit him. He deflected the blow and laughed. "Stick to conversation, luv. That's your long suit."
"Thank you so much," she spat. "What's yours, meanness?"
"Hmm." He cocked his head, pretending to think. "Evildoing? Mayhem? Shagging?"
The witch blushed crimson, dropped her eyes to her lap, and said nothing.
Another silence dragged on. He decided to wait her out.
More silence.
And silence yet again.
Spike, never a patient vampire, got tired of waiting. He pulled the car over, cut the engine, and turned to the girl. She shivered, but kept her eyes averted. He grabbed her chin, lifted it, and held it. Eventually, she lifted resentful green eyes to meet his.
"Look. I am not going to spend the next six months pretending that I didn't shag you, or that I didn't enjoy it, or that I don't have every intention of doing it again." He released her chin. "That's your little fantasy world, fine. I frankly find it boring. But drop the bashful virgin schoolgirl act. It doesn't suit you, and I don't buy it."
She opened her mouth to speak, then bit her lip instead.
He lowered his voice. "If you bite that lip again, I'm going to do it for you."
She released the lip, turned an even deeper red, struggled for breath, and found it. "Fine. I'm not pretending we didn't do what we did. I am not going to do it again. And I really, really don't want to talk about it."
He gave her a come-hither look. "And enjoying it?"
She looked away. "I'm not going to talk about that either."
"You're very unlikely to embarrass me," he cooed.
She whipped her head back to glare at him. "Stop it. You know who's embarrassed, and you know why, and you're enjoying it. I'm not."
"You seemed to be at the time..."
"STOP IT!" Her voice was cracking -- whether from rage or tears, he couldn't guess.
She fumbled for the door handle; he grabbed her wrist. "You can't run away from this."
She looked at him bitterly. "No. But I would if I could. And I'd run away from you if I could. And I'm not a bit surprised that Drusilla --"
He tried to keep the fury out of his voice. "Don't you dare mention that name."
She arched an eyebrow. "Lay off me, and I'll lay off her."
He froze. That was deliberate.
After another long silence, he laughed mirthlessly. "Truce?"
She gave him a half-smile. "Truce." He reached past her and shut the door again, then started the engine.
####
Willow looked out the window; the scenery looked familiar, although she couldn't quite place it. "Where are we going, anyway? Have you gotten lost?"
Spike shrugged. "Back to Montreal, I suppose. Seen one bit of farmland, seen them all. Can't say I've much appetite for corn-fed yokels anyway."
She lapsed back into silence.
####
The sky was still dark when Spike nosed the car back into its accustomed parking space. He turned to the redhead. "Home again." She winced. Well, my home, anyway.
He got her bag and handed it to her, then gave her the fish, still safe in its watery world. They trudged up the stairs without speaking.
When he got to the door, he sucked in needless breath. There were fresh footmarks in the dust. Somebody either very stupid or completely uninterested in stealth had entered the apartment. The locks seemed untouched, which meant nothing. He pushed the girl down several stairs and whispered "Wait!" in a tone that did not admit argument.
He unlocked the well-oiled deadbolts, waited a moment, then kicked the door open. The apartment was empty. He checked carefully for traps, but found none.
There was a cream envelope in the center of the table.
"Fuck."
He ripped open the envelope and yanked out the enclosure.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
Soft footsteps came up the stairs. "Four Weddings and a Funeral?"
Spike ignored her. "Fuck."
Willow closed the door behind her and turned on the light. "What is it?"
He still ignored her. "Fuck. "
Willow walked up and stood tip-toe to peek over Spike's shoulder. He was holding an invitation.
The Master of Montreal
commands your presence
Solstice
at ten o' clock
Tenebrae
Dancing
"Shut up, witch." He thrust the invitation into his pocket.
Willow walked to the bed and picked up a book. She knew better than to argue with Spike in this mood. He left, locking the door.
###
When Spike returned, he sat down beside the girl on the bed. She closed the book she'd been reading -- or pretending to; he noticed that she didn't bother keeping her place -- and looked at him, puzzled.
"What's the problem? Don't tell me you can't say 'No', because I've heard it. Often."
"It's not an invitation, pet. Not one I can decline, at any rate. More of a command."
She shrugged. "So? How much trouble can we get into at a dance?"
Spike scowled. "That question demonstrates why you shouldn't be allowed within a hundred miles of this. It's a solstice dance. For vampires."
She raised an eyebrow, intrigued in spite of herself. "You celebrate the shortest night of the year?"
"You lot celebrate the nights getting shorter. We like the nights getting longer."
The witch returned to the main point. "So what's the problem? You've taken me to vampfests before."
Spike pursed his lips. If he told her the full truth, she'd be too terrified to play her part. If he told her part of the truth, she might give offense unknowingly... or knowingly, following his lessons. He steered between the shoals and the whirlpool.
"Montreal is an old city, luv. Some of the trad vampires are even older. This do is for the trads. They don't allow much slack for younger vampires, and none at all for mortals. Offend the wrong trad, and the consequences are ... nasty." That's putting it mildly. In fact, you're dead before you know what you did wrong. If he's feeling merciful.
She shrugged again. "Okay. So I put on my best vampire manners. No problem."
Spike winced. "Forget everything I've told you about my lot. Behave as if you're being called before the throne of God." Because it just might happen, if you aren't careful.
Willow looked at him, puzzled. "Fine. We show up, we dance, we leave."
He growled, "First, we shop. Bloody hell."
She gasped. "Tonight? It must be nearly dawn, and I'm ready to drop."
"First thing tomorrow, then." He walked to the table and began making a list.
Willow changed into her sleep shirt, brushed her teeth, and lay down to sleep.
Spike did not. After he thought she had fallen asleep, he began to pace the floor.
####
To Willow's surprise, Spike fussed over her clothes like a nervous mother. Actually, he's paying more attention than Mom ever did. They strode from boutique to boutique, never finding something that met his requirements. One frock was too sexy, another too demure, a third made her look too mortal.
After the latest saleswoman left with an armful of rejected gowns, Willow turned to Spike in disgust.
"We have a problem, Spike. I AM a mortal. I can't fake being a vampire." Well, I can, but not for long, and I don't particularly want to.
He gave her a cool stare. "If you want to stay mortal, you won't be too obvious about it."
Just when Willow was getting so frustrated she was considering pulling out her stake, the saleswoman returned with one last dress that had been laid aside but never picked up. It was a strapless black silk taffeta ballgown, tight to the waist, then billowing to full skirts.
Spike approved. "The less color, the better."
Although Spike didn't solicit her opinion, Willow liked the dress, too. The bodice did expose the top of her nearly-faded bruises, but neither the saleswoman nor Spike commented. She probably thinks I'm his mistress. Ick.
Spike turned back to the saleswoman. "She'll need high-heeled dancing slippers. Do you have anything suitable?"
The saleswoman nodded and scurried off to fetch them.
Willow turned to Spike. "Do I HAVE to? Remember the Stilettos of Doom?"
He looked grim. "Yes. You need every inch of height you can steal." Willow sighed and turned back to the three-way mirror. She twirled experimentally. Wow. Full skirts are fun!
She heard Spike's voice behind her. "Witch?"
"Yes?" I will never get used to this no-reflection thing. She stopped and watched the skirt wrap around her legs.
"Can you dance?"
She shrugged, "Well, I'm no Buffy, but I do okay."
"No, I mean can you waltz? Schottische? Minuet?" Spike's voice sounded slightly irritated.
Willow turned to face the vampire and looked him up and down. "Since when has Mr. 'Sid Vicious lives!' called that dancing?"
His jaw was tight. "I don't. Others do. There won't be any slamdancing, thanks very much. Bloody hell. Right, we'll pick up some tapes and I'll have to teach you."
He's turning into Miss Manners. What has gotten into the man?
The saleswoman returned with several pairs of shoes. One black satin pair met both Spike's requirements (height) and Willow's (walkability). The saleswoman pinned the hem to match the new shoes and promised to have the dress ready to be picked up the next day. The saleswoman suggested an assortment of underpinnings for the dress; Willow blushed crimson, but acquiesced. They paid for their purchases, then left, Willow, as usual, holding the bag.
Spike barreled on to a music store, where he picked out a small boom box and an assortment of Strauss, Lehar, and English country dance music.
Willow frowned and put a hand to his forehead. "Are you sure you're feeling well?"
He slapped her hand away. "That isn't funny. As from now, no more jokes. They could prove fatal."
Willow's frown deepened. "What has come over you?"
He glared at her but did not reply. Willow, wondering, followed him as he paid and left the store.
When they were outside, he grabbed her wrist and spun her to face him. "This isn't a game. If you crack smart to the wrong person, you could die for it."
Willow's free hand flew to her throat. "But the necklace..."
He rolled his eyes. "It's not a bloody 'Get Out of Jail Free' card, witch. It means that anybody who harms you answers to me. Some blokes don't give a toss about that." He handed her the bag of CDs and began walking; she followed.
Willow looked sideways at Spike, who had assumed his favorite expressionless expression. He didn't give away weakness if he had any alternative. He must really be worried. Anything that worried Spike was not good at all. And was well past worrisome for her. She shivered.
He smirked. "Cold?"
She curled her lip. "Goose walked over my grave."
He raised his eyebrows. "I trust it's not a Canada goose."
She shook her head, red hair flying. "Nope, absolutely not. It's a - a French goose. I haven't even been to Paris yet." She was struck by an idea. "Did you have a grave in England? Did you visit it? After you weren't dead any more, I mean? Well, I guess you were dead, but --"
Spike cut her off, face bleak again. "Keep that sort of thought to yourself from here on. Don't ask personal questions. Don't ask questions, period."
He sped up before she had a chance to reply. Oh, great, more contradictory rules. I am so not letting him get away with this. But.... let's try giving him what he says he wants. She caught up with the vampire, then matched his stride, saying nothing.
Sure enough, after a very few minutes, he turned to her in disgust and snarled "Stop sulking!" She smiled sweetly and said "I'm not sulking." And that was all.
They reached a cafe and Willow followed Spike inside. After the waitress took their orders, Willow smiled at Spike, but kept her peace.
As she'd expected, it wasn't hard to outwait him. After a very few minutes of silence, Spike turned and spat, "What the HELL is it with you?"
Willow looked at him innocently. "Why, nothing. I'm not asking questions. I'm not making jokes. In fact, I'm speaking when I'm spoken to. That's what you wanted, right?"
He glared at her, then buried his face in his hands. "What did I do to deserve this?"
Willow grinned. "Kidnapped a helpless female."
He lifted his head and gave her a genuine smile. "You are about as helpless as a barracuda. A fluffy pink barracuda."
Willow looked down at her vampire-imposed wardrobe. "Nope. No fluffy. No pink. And no pointy teeth, either. Oops. Not that I want any, because I certainly don't."
He grinned, then turned serious. "So, would you care to explain why I'm getting the silent treatment?"
She looked at him. "You spent all the time since we left Sunnydale teaching me to stand up for myself and be pushy. Now all of a sudden you want pushover-Willow back. I'm not sure I do. It seemed simpler just to shut up."
Spike sighed, or made the equivalent noise for a vampire. "What I want, and what will get you through the Solstice dance unharmed, are completely different issues. If you're rude to a trad there, you'll die -- and that's the best-case scenario. If you mouth off to me, I'll have to punish you, and it would make what happened at Rafe's look like a Maypole dance. Best break bad habits now, before they cost you something you don't want to lose."
Willow frowned. "I really don't understand why you're going, then. You don't like these people. They don't like you. Why not phone in sick, or whatever the vampire equivalent is?"
His hand crashed on to the table. "Stop asking so bloody many questions."
"I'm sorry. I've been curious all my life, and it's hard to stop." I think Spike's afraid. Weird. Scary. Very, very scary.
He snorted. "You may find yourself stopping permanently."
"Spike, I know I should be afraid. Trust me, I am. But, based on everything you've said, walking in there vibrating from fear isn't a brilliant idea either. Want to try working with me instead of trying to play me like a puppet?"
Half under his breath, he muttered, "Damned twentieth-century women. Should have stuck to proper ladies who did what they were told."
She smiled. "I'm sure the dance will be full of them. Pick one."
He reached out and stroked her cheek. "I'm suited."
Willow froze. Oh, my God.
The waitress arrived with Willow's meal and Spike's drink; Willow busied herself with eating. She had a forkful of food halfway to her mouth when a soft voice behind her said "Hello, Spike." She forced herself not to turn around and looked at Spike's face instead. It was impassive. Uh-oh. She hastily dropped her eyes to her lap.
"Hello, François." Spike's voice, like his face, was carefully expressionless.
"Don't bother getting up." Willow felt a hand on her shoulder and forced herself not to look. "I see you still have your ill-mannered little playmate."
Spike ground out, "I take it I have you to thank for the invitation?"
The soft voice replied, "Not at all. The Master always takes an interest in his distinguished visitors. How wise of you to choose Chez Liane, incidentally; I'm sure she will look charming in black."
Spike's eyes blazed, but he replied only "Thank you."
The hand on her shoulder squeezed. "What's the matter, little one? Cat got your tongue?"
Willow whispered, "I only speak when spoken to," eyes still downcast.
"Very good. Perhaps she's salvageable after all, Spike. We'll look forward to seeing you. Don't disappoint us." The hand released her shoulder.
Willow let out a long slow breath. She looked at Spike's face. He was obviously struggling with his temper. It was a good time to say nothing, so Willow did just that.
When Willow couldn't force herself to eat any more, she laid her fork aside and glanced up. Spike was staring at her, brows drawn down and mouth set. When she met his eyes, he snapped "Done?", then called for the check without waiting for her to reply. She followed him out to the street, trying out to make some sense of what had just happened.
What had set Spike off? Nothing she'd done, she was pretty sure; for one thing, she hadn't wound up on the floor. That meant it was something François had said. He'd insulted her manners -- as if Spike cared -- he'd said something about distinguished guests, and he'd mentioned Chez Liane and her new dress.
Oh.
They hadn't seen any of Spike's vampire friends that night, nor had there been anybody in Chez Liane except herself, Spike, and the saleswomen.
Which meant that François shouldn't have known about her new dress.
Which meant they were being spied on.
Ick. If there was a camera -- or another vampire -- in the dressing room I am going to die right here and now and save Spike the bother.
She stole a sideward glance at the vampire. He was striding on at his usual brisk clip, staring straight ahead. She didn't want to provoke him, or even attract his attention, since that generally amounted to the same thing.
In unbroken silence they retraced their steps through the tunnels to the street. The DeSoto wasn't in its usual space. Willow was shocked into asking, "What happened to the car?"
"Moved it." His tone of voice didn't encourage further discussion.
They walked past the empty space, then up the dark stairs to the apartment. Spike ushered her in, then turned on his heel and made for the door.
Willow's long-held patience snapped. "Spike!"
He whirled back and grabbed her. "What the HELL do you want?"
"Information."
"Read a book. It's what you're good at." He pushed her away and sneered.
Willow stumbled back a step, then grabbed her courage and stepped forward again. "I can't help if I don't know what's going on."
"And you think I want your help because...?"
"Spike. I can guarantee that I'll do the wrong thing if I don't know what the right thing is. So François is spying on us. What's he spying for, and what should I be trying not to give away?"
He turned away without answering.
Willow grabbed his arm. "Spike, I am really really tired of the strong silent act. Don't go all broody and slam out the door. It's almost as irritating as Angel--"
Spike turned on her, eyes golden. "I am NOT the poof! "
She fought to keep her voice calm. "No. I know that. So be not Angel, and tell me what the Hell you're thinking!"
He morphed into demon face and spoke in a soft, even voice. "I am thinking that unless I hunt within the next ten minutes I may do something I would later regret."
Willow backed up. "Are you using that as an excuse to shut me up?"
"If I am, I recommend you take it." He slammed the door behind him; Willow heard the bolts clicking home.
Willow stared at the door. She had survived standing up to Spike, but she wasn't any closer to knowing what was up. She sank down on the bed and dropped her head into her hands.
####
Decrypted from the Diary of Willow Rosenberg
print "\L\u$word"; There is a Master of Montreal. I don't know who he is, or what makes him a Master, or what his authority is, but Spike is taking his orders. This isn't like Spike. The traditionalists are holding a Solstice party, and Spike's going, and taking me. And he's scared. And he won't admit it, or admit why. I wonder if anybody will ever read this.####
I don't care if that toffee-nosed ponce is the Master's right hand. He could be the Master's left testicle for all I care, he can't give me orders. And I bleeding knew I was being watched, I didn't need any oh-so-subtle hints in front of the girl. It's my decision what she needs to know, nobody else's.
She's got a lot of gall demanding explanations. I don't explain myself to anybody. She can damned well take orders and like it.
How the Hell am I going to drag a mortal through Solstice? Why the Hell did he invite a mortal? It isn't as if she's on the menu.
Sod this for a game of soldiers. Time for a drink. And a dust-up chaser, with any luck.
####
Willow sat on the bed pretending to herself that she was reading. She'd been staring through the same page of a Harlequin romance for about an hour.
The door swung wide. Spike stomped in, slammed and locked the door, then began pacing. He had a cut over one eye. Usually killing somebody calmed him down; this time, it seemed to have wound him even tighter.
Beneath her lashes, Willow watched the pacing vampire. He's really afraid. And I don't think he's afraid for himself.
Vampires didn't show weakness, they didn't acknowledge favors, and they didn't want pity. If Willow showed any sign of concern, Spike would certainly take offense and close up. As usual, she'd have to be the one to sacrifice dignity.
"Spike ..."
He snapped "Yes?" and continued pacing.
"I'm scared."
It wasn't entirely a lie, but it certainly wasn't the full truth. She was worried about him, and she only knew one way of expressing that worry that he could tolerate.
He snarled, "Shows you've got some sense after all," and kept pacing.
He's not going to make this easy. Surprise, surprise. She stood and closed the distance between them. "Spike, I'm scared, and you're scaring me worse, and I think that's setting you off. This is a feedback loop. If you don't calm down -- "
He whirled on her, eyes blazing. "You have no idea what you're dealing with. You're a baby, and you think Mama can make it safe. Well, Mama isn't here, and she can't, and if you don't like that, you can shove it -- "
She put a hand on his chest. "Off-topic, Spike. I'm not a baby, and you're not my mother."
He slapped her hand away and sneered. "Can't say much for her. Turned a bright, beautiful girl into somebody who thinks she's cool because her ex-boyfriend plays guitar."
"You're not going to sidetrack me that easily. What on Earth is going on?"
He grabbed her shoulders and leaned in. "I am, for my considerable sins, attempting to turn you into somebody who can survive the evening of the Solstice. Although frankly I'd have better luck pushing an oiled eel up Mount Everest."
Willow met his eyes without flinching. "And you're making it harder for yourself by witholding information. If you think I'm so bright, then give me the data I need. I make a lousy puppet. I make a pretty good partner."
His fingers tightened on her shoulders. "I. Don't. Want. A. Partner."
Willow sighed. "Fine. Let me go, and you can go back to pacing again." She couldn't resist adding, "But do let me know when you're ready to blame me again."
She knew as soon as the words left her mouth that she'd made a very bad mistake.
Spike growled, fangs sliding against her skin, "I could solve every single problem I've got right now."
Willow bit her lip to keep from saying anything else stupid. She knew that the wrong word could push Spike over the edge.
She had no idea what the right word might be.
Time dragged on. Why isn't he biting me?
As her initial panic ebbed, Willow gradually became aware of Spike's hard body pressed against hers. Perhaps bloodlust isn't the strongest possible need after all.
Slowly, carefully, she raised a hand and stroked down the line of his spine. Was she imagining it, or did his grip loosen a trifle? She caressed the muscles at the small of his back. God, he's wound tight. Talking it out didn't work ... The next moment, the hand tangled in her hair released her. She turned her head and brushed her lips across Spike's ridged brow. He growled again, but still didn't bite. She traced the line of his scar with her tongue.
Before she could breathe, she was lying on the bed beneath Spike, who was ripping the clothes from her body. I liked that blouse. Shut up, irrelevant thoughts. She raised her hands to help him remove his own shirt; he growled and slapped her hands away. She contented herself with caressing his muscular chest while he stripped off his jeans and shoes. He grabbed her wrists with one hand, pinned them above her head, and leaned in to kiss her.
I am so not going to tell Buffy about this. Or Giles. Or anybody.
Then she stopped thinking entirely and focused on Spike, matching his desperate ardor with her own.
######
Willow lay cradled against Spike's chest, feeling his fingers stroke the hair at the nape of her neck. I wonder if I could ask any questions now? Probably a mistake. She frowned.
He chuckled, bouncing her head. "You're thinking again, Red."
She nodded. "I do that."
He patted her shoulder. "Noted. Go ahead, I'm braced."
"Are you not going to bite me if I say something you don't like?"
"Not just now." His cool fingers slipped along the line of her collarbone.
"Then why don't we just leave? If you hate this dance so much, why be there? Why not go someplace else? Quebec, maybe?"
The muscles under her cheek tensed. Spike stayed silent for an endless moment, then replied, "Can't, luv. We're being watched. François didn't seek us out to compliment your frock. He was sending a message. Trying to escape would be a direct challenge to those who sent him. I don't fancy those odds myself, and I'm rather tougher than you are."
Willow sighed. "It was a thought."
"Not a good one." He sat up, carrying her with him. "On your feet, luv, we need to get you dancing. And dressed, more's the pity. Put your petticoats on. You'd best practice managing long skirts."
######
"One-two-three, one-two-three, STOP BLOODY TRYING TO LEAD!"
"You were about to crash me into the wall!" Willow retorted, trying to pull out of his arms.
"That's the whole point. You have to trust me. You let me direct you here -- " he squeezed her waist with his right hand -- " and you don't bloody push back. If you do, we WILL crash into another couple, and things will go straight into the bloody sewer from there. Again."
They began waltzing again, but after a few moments, Spike released her, turned away, and began scanning the room. After a few seconds, he picked up the remnants of her blouse. "Stand still." He ripped the blouse into a rag, then blindfolded her.
She raised her hands to her face. "What on earth?"
"If you can't see, you'll have to learn to follow." He hit a switch and "Wiener Blut" began yet again. Spike pulled her back into waltz position, his grip detached and impersonal. "Again!"
Blind trust again. Literally. Spike won't give it to me, why does he think he can demand it? Sigh. Because he's stronger than I am. Male chauvinist vampire.
######
Willow collapsed into the chair and tore off the blindfold. "I don't think I can move."
Spike sat on the bed and looked pensive. "Suggests possibilities..."
Willow pretended to glare. "Only if you prefer passive women. Extremely passive women."
The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Tomorrow we'll work on country dancing. Properly it's done with other couples; I can't teach you most of the figures alone. Bloody Hell." He stood and began pacing again.
Willow grinned. "What about François? Does he have a girlfriend?"
Spike threw her a disgusted look, never stopping his restless circuit. "I am trying to avoid becoming the laughingstock of Montreal, not to advertise your shortcomings. No, we'll have to leave the country dances. Damn. No minuet, you'd never learn it in time, no country dances, I'm afraid you're going to be a wallflower."
Willow smiled. "Like Jo. I'll just remember to keep the burned breadth against the wall."
He groaned, "Another bloody book, right," and strode on without waiting for her answer. Suddenly he halted, struck by an idea. "Actually, I do know somebody who has a girlfriend. But there's a catch."
Willow looked at him suspiciously. "What's the catch?"
"You'd have to go back to Rafe's." He tilted his head, awaiting her answer.
Willow sat bolt upright. "Over my dead body. And I mean that literally, Spike. Not only 'No', but 'Hell, no.'"
"Such language." He pursed his lips reprovingly.
Willow glared, meaning it this time. "You're in no position to talk, Spike. And don't try to change the subject."
"If you don't learn to country dance, you're going to spend most of the ball on the sidelines."
Willow set her jaw. "Fine by me. It'll be just like high school."
Spike threw up a hand. "As you like. Stand up, let's try a mazurka."
Willow groaned and dragged herself to her feet.
######
The remaining weeks before the dance slipped by like silk ribbon from a spool. Spike and Willow left the lair only for food and the occasional shopping trip, then returned to the endless drill on dancing and vampire etiquette.
##### Decrypted from the Diary of Willow Rosenberg
$parser = XML::Parser::PerlSAX->new ( Handler => $grove_builder ); I now know more about forgotten Victorian dances than any non-historian human needs to know. Whee. I also know that traditional vampires consider humans prey, not worthy of social notice. Which does rather raise the question of why they invited a human to the biggest party of the year, doesn't it? Spike won't answer that question. Spike won't answer any questions that don't directly relate to (1) which foot to put in front of the other and (2) how I should behave in public. I won't bother with question (1) here. I can summarize (2) in one word: "Grovel". I am to speak only when spoken to, say "Sir" or "Ma'am" every other word, never volunteer information, and keep my eyes downcast unless I am ordered otherwise. I think somebody took the Gor novels seriously. Ewww. On the other hand, if I survived nearly three years of Principal Snyder without telling him exactly what I thought of him, I can probably get through this. And Principal Snyder got eaten by a giant snake, so there's hope, right? Maybe I'll spend the evening visualizing vampires getting eaten by giant snakes. Except Spike, who has been rather sweet in a left-handed vampiry sort of way. I am editing these notes before I let anybody else see them. Or maybe I'll just leave them sealed until 50 years after my death. Make that 100.####
The evening of Solstice arrived. Willow collected her clothes and went into the bathroom to prepare herself. She slipped on her black strapless brassiere, tap pants,and satin shoes, then looked in the mirror. As short as her hair was, there wasn't much she could do to make it look formal. (Spike had made some acerbic comments about defacing her crowning glory, which Willow thought privately was a case of the pot and the kettle.) She did what she could with her hair, then made herself up according to Spike's instructions (minimal color, lipstick, yes, blush, no).
She turned away from her reflection and pulled on her petticoat. Then she took the black taffeta ballgown from its hanger, stepped into it, and zipped it up the side. She tugged at the strapless bodice, swayed back and forth to feel the bell skirt swishing, then turned back to the mirror. < Still me. > The black material exaggerated her natural pallor; the garnet drop of Spike's necklace glowed against her skin. She put up a hand and traced the chain, wondering again what it really stood for. Suddenly she realized that she had forgotten her evening gloves. She hastily pulled them on, smoothing the wrinkles above her elbows, then buttoning the wrists with clumsy fingers.
When she left the bathroom, Spike was pacing again. At the sound of her footsteps, he stopped, took something she couldn't see from the table, and turned to her. He was dressed in full white tie and tails, complete with patent-leather dancing pumps.
Goodness, he cleans up nicely.
Willow straightened her back and walked to Spike. He was wearing his expressionless face again. He scanned her from head to foot, said "Good enough," and held out the thing he had taken from the table.
It was a clear plastic box. Inside, nestled into green tissue paper, was a single white gardenia. Willow buried her nose in the waxy petals.
"It smells wonderful. Thank you." She raised her eyes to meet his and felt a flush rising to her eyebrows.
"It goes in your hair. Let me." He took the flower from her hands, leaned forward, and pinned it into her hair over one ear. Cool fingers traced the skin behind her ear down to the pulse point. He paused as if to say something, then shrugged, released her, and stepped back, face a mask of disinterest. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
He turned away to the table, where lay a silk top hat lay on the table, white gloves stuffed carelessly into it. Spike picked up the hat, then bowed and offered Willow his right arm. She took it and they set out.
Spike handed her into the carriage, grim-faced; she managed not to catch her skirt on the step or the door. She started to sink into the forward-facing seat, intercepted a frown and head-shake from Spike, and sat down with her back to the driver, settling her skirts around her. Spike sat facing her, his eyes on the driver, who clucked to his horses and started off. She scanned his face.
Willow had thought she had all Spike's moods catalogued by now: his natural sardonic volatility, the manic gaiety that meant somebody was about to die, the surface stillness that meant he didn't want to betray emotion. This was new. For the first time since she'd met him, Spike betrayed no expression at all, not even the attempt to conceal expression. His face was as empty as the corpse he wore. She shivered. Stop that. Fear attracts predators.
During the drive, Spike said nothing; he sat still as a statue, hands clenched on his knees. When she opened her mouth to speak, he glared at her. After that, Willow kept her eyes dutifully lowered. She did steal the occasional glance to see if passers-by were impressed by the vehicle, but apparently horse-drawn carriages were routine in this quarter. The cobblestones made for a very bumpy ride. Eventually the carriage pulled up into a scrum of similar carriages waiting in front of a grey stone mansion. I guess traditionalists don't like the internal combustion engine.
Spike took one look at the tie-up and called to the driver, "We'll get off here. No need for you to waste your time."
The driver responded over his shoulder, "No problem, sir, I'm paid for the entire evening; doesn't matter to me if I wait here or elsewhere."
Spike's impatience broke free. "I said we're getting off. Now do you stop the carriage so the lady can get down, or do I have to break your sodding neck?"
The driver stopped. He didn't offer to let down the step; Spike put his hat on at a rakish angle, opened the door, vaulted to the street, and held up his arms. "Down you come, luv."
Willow stood, walked to the door, and stepped out into the air. Spike caught her easily and set her on her feet. He met her eyes. "Company manners from here, pet. Stick next to me."
She cast her eyes down. "Yes, sir."
He offered his arm. She took it. They walked together up the black stone steps, over which someone had scattered crimson rose petals. The petals looked uncomfortably like drops of blood. Willow suspected that wasn't an accident.
When they passed inside, Willow gasped. The entry hall was floored in black marble; a single broad staircase spiraled unsupported to a balcony. Candles blazed on the walls, casting a warmer, yellower light than electricity. She and Spike took their place in the line proceeding up the stairs. She looked around under her lashes.
It was almost like a costume party. The vampires around her were dressed in a kaleidoscope of historical fashions -- everything from knee breeches to hoopskirts to modern clothes like hers and Spike's. However, unlike any costume party she'd ever attended, the vampires looked completely comfortable in their alien clothes. She shivered, realizing that those clothes weren't alien at all to their wearers. The weight of changeless age stopped her breath.
At long last they reached the top of the stairs and passed through the archway into the ballroom. A powdered servant flicked a disdainful look over them and announced "Spike," and they were free to enter the ballroom.
Willow felt as if she'd stepped into a movie. They stood on a balcony that continued around the sides of the ballroom; before her was another staircase leading down to the dance floor. The ballroom itself was at least forty feet high. The floor was intricate wood parquet, forming a pattern Willow couldn't make out, but that smacked of magic to her. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling. Tall French windows on each side of the floor opened onto a stone balcony overlooking the city. The vampires were doing some dance Willow didn't recognize. Willow scanned the ballroom in vain for musicians. She wondered if the traditionalists had stooped to using recordings; eventually she spotted a curtained gallery from which the sound seemed to come.
A tug on her arm reminded her of her companion; she hastily lowered her eyes and walked down the stairs with him. When they reached the dance floor, Spike nudged her with an elbow; she looked at him. "That --" he nodded toward an archway underneath the staircase "-- is the supper room. Don't go there under any circumstances."
Willow thought about what -- or who -- was likely to be served for supper and nodded emphatically. Then a thought struck her, and she scanned the partygoers. As far as she could judge, she was the only human present. That's weird. They don't like Spike, and they don't like humans -- so why did they invite the pair of us?
Willow had always thought 'My dance card is full' was a metaphor. Now she had one. Or, rather, Spike did. People -- vampires -- didn't ask her to dance; they asked Spike, and he consented, or made excuses. The card itself was plain white, with silver letters and a small silver pencil attached by a twisted cord. The card listed each dance by name; Spike wrote down the partner's name beside each. She kept her eyes modestly down and watched Spike's hands. She'd noticed that they sometimes gave away more than his face, especially when he was trying to appear calm.
To Willow's surprise, Spike's friends Martin and Lew appeared, immaculate in white tie. Martin claimed a polka; Lew demanded something called a redowa, and settled for a schottische. Spike reserved most of the waltzes for himself. Doesn't trust me out alone, does he?
Willow slowly realized that the only vampires taking any notice of Spike or herself wore modern evening dress; those in frock coats, panniers, and hoops stayed aloof, scorning even to look at them. After a little while, Willow and Spike stood alone, an island among the mingling partygoers. Spike occupied himself with doodling along the edge of the dance card.
Willow took advantage of the lull to whisper "What's a b-r-a-n-s-l-e? And why didn't you teach me a pavane?"
"Before my time. Or the Poof's. Or anyone's here, for that matter. Pretentious bastards." He drew a firm line through the bransle, the pavane, a minuet, the cotillion, and a Lancers.
"I thought that was a kind of wine?"
"It's a kind of soldier, luv. Hence the wine, and the dance. Enough talking."
A vampire Willow didn't recognize strolled up to Spike. He was straight out of Gainsborough in a blue satin suit finely embroidered with silver frost-flowers, his white hair drawn back into a queue. "My dear cousin, how's the hunt?"
In a bland and chilly voice, Spike replied, "Tolerable. And yours?"
"Never better. In fact, I've just spotted an hors d'oeuvre escaped from the supper room. You won't mind if I collect it?" He grabbed Willow's wrist, yanked her toward him, and twisted her arm behind her back, straining the material of her bodice. She met Spike's eyes in a silent plea for rescue.
Spike grabbed both Willow's shoulders and spoke over her head. "Release her this instant."
The intruder growled; the two vampires leaned into one another's faces, trapping Willow between them.
An arctic, and all-too-familiar, voice broke in. "The truce of the Hall, gentlemen."
Willow hastily returned her eyes to the floor.
Spike glared at François. "I didn't break it."
"How wise of you." The voice dropped another couple of degrees. "Raoul, your presence here is no longer required. Indeed, your presence in the City becomes wearisome. Be gone before dawn."
Raoul snarled, then released Willow's wrist and strode for the doors. She let out a long breath, then returned to Spike's side. Boy, traditionalists may be sticklers, but they're just as rude as regular vampires. They're just rude politely.
François did not, as Willow had hoped, vanish. "May I have the next dance?" She froze, staring at François's diamond-buckled shoes.
"Unfortunately, she is unfamiliar with it. I am devastated to be forced to decline." Spike sounded anything but devastated.
"The next waltz, then. No, no, I insist. Until then, mademoiselle." He took Willow's hand, brushed his lips over the back of her glove, then left.
Willow turned to Spike for an explanation. His hand was clenched around the card, which meant no answers would be forthcoming. She sighed and held her tongue.
The next dance proved to be a minuet. Willow watched in wonder as the vampires solemnly bowed, curtsied, and orbited one another, poised as perfectly as ballet dancers, the ladies gliding as if their full skirts hid wheels rather than legs. She noticed that the dance floor was at least half-empty; a hasty glance around the perimeter showed that most of the vampires in modern dress were standing this one out.
It's a bit like West Side Story -- the Jets hate the Sharks. In this case, the Jets hate the Carriages. I wonder why the non-traditionalists even bother to come? Are they all under threat of death?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a cheerful voice saying, "I believe this next one's mine." Spike put her hand into Martin's. Willow dropped him a curtsey then followed him to the dance floor as the minuet ended and Mozart was replaced by Strauss.
To her surprise, Martin was a wonderful dancer, steering her expertly through shoals of vampires while maintaining an amiable flow of chatter. After the third "Yes, sir", he said, "Drop the act, chicken. Save it for the trads." After that, the conversation flowed somewhat more easily. Martin talked blandly of the conveniences offered by a city with a well-stocked underground, with Willow contributing an occasional comment. Spike's lessons had paid off. Willow could follow both the conversation and the dance.
Willow was glowing when the dance ended; she looked up at Martin, laughed, and said "Thank you!" Martin arched an eyebrow, said "My pleasure," and returned her to Spike.
The next dance was a waltz. Willow looked sidelong at Spike, hoping that François had found another partner. No such luck; he appeared, bowed to Spike, and said "May I?" Spike nodded, face blank. Willow curtsied to François, then sailed off into the dance.
######
Sod. François would rather drain her dry than exchange two words with her. What the hell game is he playing?
Spike maintained his façade, even chatting with Martin about something, he had no idea what. All the time, he watched the girl. She started out well enough, eyes down, lashes dark against her cheek, lips set in a social smile. Then François said something or other, and she burst into spontaneous laughter. He's playing charming. The ninny's falling for it. Before long she was chattering along as happily as she had with Martin.
That girl has no discrimination at all. She'd cuddle the first lame puppy that came along, never caring whether it was a pug or a wolf. Martin said something; Spike shrugged.
Martin punched his shoulder. "I said, Manchester United are a bunch of bloody tossers who couldn't hit the goal if it were surrounded by hair. Pay attention, man! Take your mind off your pretty little bedwarmer for five whole minutes."
Spike grimly pretended to care what Martin thought about football, covertly watching the redhead whirl around the room with the vampire who was the Master's eyes and ears. She shouldn't be enjoying herself -- certainly not that much.
When the music ended, Willow swept François a graceful curtsey, then took his arm to return to Spike's side. François said nothing, simply bowed and returned her arm to Spike's. Willow smiled up at Spike; when he did not return her smile, she hastily looked down and composed her face to a social blank. Slamming the barn door a trifle late, pet.
####
The next dance was a cotillion. Spike led Willow off the dance floor and up to the balcony, where he and Martin argued the respective virtues of the Clash and Patti Smith. Willow stood to one side, silent, and watched the dancers below.
To Willow's eyes, the cotillion was more of a mixer than a proper dance. A master of ceremonies announced figures, then the dancers walked through complicated patterns in time to the music, or sometimes played games to determine who danced with whom. In the first figure, "The Cushion," a tall, graceful woman in brilliant blue carried a red velvet pillow; she offered it to a gentleman, then pulled it back when he tried to take it. She swayed two steps away, offered it again, then pulled it back, while the rejected vampire feigned sorrow. She dropped the pillow before a third gentleman; he knelt on it, she kissed him, and they danced a few steps before she left him. He then picked up the cushion and the figure continued.
One of the waiters came up to Spike. "Your presence is requested." Spike turned to Willow; before he could speak, the waiter said, "Alone."
Spike growled, "I'm not leaving her unattended."
"She will be safe until you return."
To Willow's shock, Spike didn't argue further. The waiter escorted her to a gilt-backed chair. She sat and watched the dance, the waiter a silent sentry behind her.
The master of ceremonies announced the next figure, "Mocking The Hunt." Willow froze. A servant walked out, escorting a human woman dressed in scarlet, mouth gagged, eyes wide in terror, wrists tied behind her. Oh, my God. She began to stand, but a cold hand clamped down on her shoulder.
"You will stay until called for."
She sank back into the chair, dropped her eyes to her lap, and concentrated on breathing. The hand was removed. The music tinkled on as if nothing horrible were happening.
#####
Spike walked into the presence chamber. The decor was predictable: high vaulted ceiling hung with banners, tapestries on the walls, a flagstone floor. What, no rushes? He bowed, then sank to one knee. The servant who had escorted him left, closing the door behind him.
"Rise."
Spike obeyed. The Master was sitting in a high-backed carved walnut chair. Playactor. François was posted just behind him. Like most ancient vampires, the Master could no longer pass for human; his mouth was scarred and distorted, and his black velvet robes hid bulges that hinted at joints in unusual locations. His voice was cold. "You brought a mortal."
Spike shrugged. "You invited a mortal."
"You brought a mortal into my domain."
"Last I checked, Montreal's full of them."
The Master ignored his flippancy. "Enough. You brought a mortal among my people. You have allowed her to see what she should not have seen. François says that she is not blind, nor yet stupid."
Spike clenched his hands. "François can mind his own bloody--"
"She has seen too much. Kill her. What you do afterward is up to you." He raised a hand. "The audience is over."
Spike bowed, turned, and left the room. Fuck.
Willow felt a cold hand close on her bare shoulder and spun to face the new threat. Oh, thank God. It was Spike, face expressionless but for a muscle twitching in his cheek. They stared at one another in frozen silence.
After a lifetime or two, the invisible orchestra struck up a schottische. Spike said, "I believe this dance is mine," emphasizing the last word as if daring her to disagree.
Willow didn't even consider reminding him of the dance card. She followed Spike down the stairs to the dance floor, curtseyed, stepped into his arms, and found herself whirled once around the floor, then through the French windows onto the terrace. They were alone for the first time since they'd left the carriage.
In a low, tense voice, Spike said, "We're leaving. Now. Wait until I land, then follow me." He took three steps to the edge of the terrace, then vaulted over the balustrade.
Willow ran after him. When she looked down, Spike was standing, unhurt, twenty feet below, upturned face bone-white in the light spilling from the ballroom windows. "Spike, I can't!"
"Jump. I'll catch you." His voice was matter-of-fact, as if she shared his immortality.
The choice between the vampires behind her and the vampire in front of her was easy. She sat on the balustrade, swung her legs over the side, and slipped down, skirts billowing. True to his word, Spike caught her, sagging nearly to his knees from the impact. He set her on her feet and held out a hand. "Run!"
"I can't -- these shoes --"
He snapped, "Lose them. You're running for your life. Act like it."
Willow kicked off her evening slippers, took his hand, and ran, zigzagging to miss some broken glass on the pavement. "Where --"
"Save your breath. This way." They dove into yet another alley, skirting trash cans, and threaded their way to a Metro entrance. Spike hastily bought two passes, then dragged her into an empty car just as the doors slid shut. They subsided into the seats.
Willow gasped for breath and fought to calm herself. When she thought she had herself mastered, she turned to Spike and pleaded, "What is going on?" in a voice that was still shamefully shaky.
Spike gave her an icy stare. "I've been told to kill you."
Willow recoiled. "WHAT?"
"Remember dancing with François?"
Baffled, she replied, "Of course. He was charming, a bit flirtatious, even."
Spike's voice could have cut glass. "He's four hundred years old, he has a lot of practice being charming, and he doesn't like mortals. Especially observant mortals. He wasn't flirting, he was pumping you. Successfully."
"W-what did I say?" She could feel herself sliding into a whine.
"I expect you were showing off how much you'd learned about vampires. Not smart, Red. The Master wants you dead."
Willow swallowed her automatic defense. Then, dreading the answer, she asked the crucial question. "Why am I still alive?"
Spike's eyes flared. "I. Don't. Take. Orders."
Willow looked at his furious face. That's not the whole answer. But I think it's the only answer I'm going to get.
The train stopped.
"Off. Now."
Spike dragged her out of the train and up to the street, where he flagged down a taxi and got in. He tapped the glass partition and said, "Dorval." The driver nodded, slid the panel shut, and drove off.
Willow looked at Spike's implacable face. She was bubbling over with questions, most of which she knew he would never answer. Eventually she settled for the simplest. "Now what?"
"I'm taking you to the airport and putting you on the next plane out. If you like breathing, you won't come back. Ever. Vampires have very long memories."
"But..." She wasn't sure herself what she meant to say next. Fortunately, Spike cut her off.
"Forget the fucking tape. If I ever do come back to Sunnyhell, which is on my list of things I hope never to do again, I'll kill anybody who laughs."
Willow scanned Spike's face. As usual, he meant to give nothing away. She flicked a glance at his hands. He was drumming the fingers of the left into the palm of the right. "What about you?"
Spike shrugged. "I'll leave myself, by a different route. By the time I come back to Montreal, a hundred-odd years on, I'll be able to say truthfully that you're dead. François plays everything deep; there's a good chance that all he really wanted was you out of town fast. He doesn't give a toss what happens outside this domain. He won't bother to send anyone after you as long as you don't make yourself conspicuous." He gave her another long stare. "Don't start writing vampire novels."
Willow shuddered, then hastily said "No fear."
They rode in silence for another century or two. When they got to the airport, "the first flight out" turned out to be a red-eye leaving in an hour.
Spike dragged her up to the reservations desk. "My wife needs a ticket to Los Angeles. Lucinda Brooke." His glare forbade her to disown the name.
The ticket agent did the usual mysterious things to the computer, then asked for photo ID. Willow opened her mouth to explain, intercepted another glare, and shut it. Spike reached into his inside breast pocket, handed across a very authentic-looking passport, accepted it back, and handed it to Willow. She peeked inside; it was in Lucinda's name, had her picture, and looked valid enough.
What has he been planning? And for how long?
After buying the ticket, Spike grabbed Willow's arm and pulled her toward the security zone. They walked unchallenged through the scanners, then ran for the gate. A stewardess was announcing that boarding was open for passengers needing assistance.
Willow looked at the open jetway and let out a deep sigh. I guess it's over.
"All passengers, all rows."
Before Willow could step forward, Spike grabbed her shoulders and spun her into a hard kiss. She put her arms around him and returned the kiss, putting all her confusion and desperation into it. When Spike at last released her lips, he pulled back and looked down into her eyes.
"Willow. Do you remember what I told Martin about you, that first night at the bar?"
She looked up into his customary mask. "You said I was on trial. On trial as what?"
"I made you an offer once, in your room in Sunnydale."
She stared blankly at him. Then a sentence floated to the top of her memory. "Or I could bring you back ... to be like me." Oh, my God. Both hands flew up to the necklace; by an act of will she kept herself from stepping back. "You made me a threat."
"If you prefer."
Drawing on Spike's own lessons, she kept her voice level. "Whichever it is, the answer is still No."
"That's two, Red." He turned to go.
Willow reached out and touched his left arm; he shook her off angrily. "Spike... Thank you."
He glanced over his shoulder, face still as death. "Au revoir, witch." Then he strode away.
Willow watched his back until he turned the corner. Only when he was lost to sight did she begin walking toward the jetway and home.
Willow sighed. "It's a very, very long story. Let me save it till I'm conscious?" She climbed into the front seat of the convertible and promptly fell asleep. Cordelia rolled her eyes and turned the Angelmobile toward home.
####
"Angel? It's Cordelia. Make with the vampire muscles. I can't get Princess Diana out of the car by myself." Angel put down his cellphone and headed the garage. Willow was slumped against the car door in a cloud of crumpled taffeta.
Angel slipped an arm behind Willow's shoulders, then froze as her head lolled sideways, exposing the necklace. "Oh, my God."
"Yes, I know, that's no way to treat a de la Renta."
Angel shot Cordelia a grim look but said nothing. He slid his free hand under Willow's knees, picked her up, carried her into his room, and settled her into his bed. That girl has some explaining to do.
####
"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. We're fresh out of princes."
Willow threw an arm over her eyes. Which motel is this? Something seemed out of place. That's not Spike's voice! She scrambled to the far side of the bed and stood up.
Cordelia stared at her in disbelief, half a mug of coffee in one hand. The remainder of the mug had been deposited all over a box of doughnuts and the bedclothes. Willow looked around; she was in some sort of rehabilitated warehouse, decorated in what Willow had come to think of as Vampire Moderne. Angel's place, I guess. As the silence dragged on, Cordelia's stare grew more pointed.
"I'm sorry, Cordelia. I haven't been sleeping well, and I was startled."
"So I see." Cordelia gave her an up-and-down look, reminding Willow of her disheveled finery. Willow raised one hand to her hair; the gardenia was gone. "Cordelia -- can I borrow some sweats or -- something? Because I've had it with the Oscar look."
Cordelia shot her a Look. "Come on, Willow, dish. Where have you been? We've all been worried sick."
"Cordy... I was away. I'm home now. I really don't want to talk about it."
"Got tired of being kept?" She nodded toward the foot of the bed. "There's a FedEx package for you, by the way. Who knows you're here?"
Willow sprang back, colliding with a brick wall. "God only knows what's in it... has it been checked?"
Cordelia gave her another odd look. "Who've you been hanging out with, the PLO? No, it hasn't been checked, but it was opened at Customs, and I'm sure they'd have mentioned sudden explosions."
Well, that rules out Girl Scout hearts, I'm pretty sure. Willow picked up the package and opened it. It contained her laptop ... and her stack of 'Perl scripts'. There was no note.
She sat down on the bed and stared at the package, oblivious to Cordelia's demands for an explanation.
A voice interrupted her reverie. "Willow, we need to talk. Cordelia, out." Willow looked at Angel's face -- Stoic Vampire Mask 101. I guess I know where Spike learned it. -- and waited for Cordelia to argue with Angel. To Willow's great surprise, Cordelia left without a word. Angel locked the door behind her, then turned to Willow.
"Willow. What does that necklace mean?"
Willow met his eyes defiantly. "I think you know that better than I do."
"Almost certainly. Did you put yourself into a vampire's hands voluntarily? How could you be so stupid?"
"How can you even think that? Do you really believe that after four years helping Buffy I'd run off--"
"I don't know what to think. You left with Spike--"
"I didn't even mention Spike! And I didn't leave with Spike! He kidnapped...." Her voice trailed off. "That was mean, Angel."
He gave her a half-smile. "It worked. Did he hurt you?"
That was a hard question to answer. "Noooo. Not really."
Angel looked grimmer. "Is that the same as 'Yes'? He can't hurt you here. He's under my authority --"
Willow flinched violently. Angel misread her. "I'll hunt him down. I promise, Willow. He's dust."
"No. He didn't hurt me, Angel. We had a deal. He didn't hurt me, I didn't hurt him. It's over now."
"Then you can take off that necklace."
Willow's hands flew up. The necklace weighed heavy, in years if not in kilos. But.... "No, Angel. We had a deal. It's not over yet."
"Then I need to ask you again, do you know what that means?"
Willow gulped. "I used to think I did. But I think I was wrong. To know what it meant. I think I thought it meant something completely different. Which would have been better that what it did mean, really. But I'm babbling again. I thought I'd outgrown that, but I guess I was wrong." She looked hopefully at Angel.
Stone-faced, he repeated, "What does it mean, Willow?"
She sighed. "It means he's planning on turning me into a vampire. And, no, that isn't my plan. And I wouldn't have put it on if I'd known what it meant, but a deal's a deal."
"Don't do it, Willow. Eternal life isn't--"
Much to her own surprise, Willow exploded. "Don't be an idiot, Angel! I spent the last few months living in vampire society. I probably know more about what it's like today than you do, what with the whole lone brooding thing. I have no desire to become vampire-me, and I'm making my own plans to make sure it doesn't happen. But don't treat me like some stupid child, because I wouldn't be alive today if I were stupid or a child."
Angel made that weird noise that passed for a vampire sigh. "True enough. But come to me if you need help. I'll do anything in my power."
"Thank you, Angel."
###
Willow returned to Sunnydale with a partial explanation of her adventures. Spike had kidnapped her, she'd escaped, she was fine now, and yes, she wanted to get back into college life. The story satisfied nobody, but she repeated it often enough to persuade even Giles and Buffy that it was the only explanation she intended to offer.
The remainder of the year passed peacefully enough. Willow joined a Wicca group, assisted in world-saveage as needed, and made the Dean's List. She still woke at night sometimes, reaching for a cold body that was never there.
On the appointed day she met her lawyer in the park at noon. Joanie, face grave, said "Everything okay now?" Willow forced a smile and said, "Yes, he's long gone." Joanie smiled and handed over the tape. Willow offered the lawyer a coffee, which she declined, then took the parcel back to her dorm room.
Willow sat on her bed and looked at the tape. It seemed so small to have guarded her life for months. If it had; Spike's comment had reinforced her own suspicion that the tape was more of a pretext than a real threat. If he'd ever truly wanted her dead, the tape wouldn't have stopped him. He was a man of the moment, not much concerned with long-term consequences.
She tossed the tape from hand to hand. She had no way to contact Spike. The FedEx package had carried a false return address. God only knew where he was unliving now. It didn't seem right to destroy the thing, forcing him to trust her word. Until she could return it, she needed to put it in a safe place. She opened her laptop case, slipped the tape into it, and closed the top.
That was two, he said. Which means, one of these days, there'll be
a three...
read the sequal 'Something In Between'