Xander sat up slowly. His ass hurt, and he shifted to his side, resting
his weight on one hip. His ribs had been taped. He shuddered to think by
whose hands. His nose felt the size of a basketball. All things
considered, he'd rather be dead.

"Xander," the familiar voice drifted through the dimly-lit basement.
"Are you okay?"

He raised his head as she stepped into the light.

"What the hell do you care?" he snapped. "Willow, go back to your
British bastard, and leave me alone."

Willow sighed and shook her head, "If you hadn't thrown me against that
wall--"

"Don't make excuses for him!" Xander winced as a spasm of pain shot
through his side. "Did he tell you what he did to me?"

"No, but I found out anyway."

"I see. You're in tight with his lifeless ghouls, too," Xander spat.

"I didn't start this, Xander," she reminded him. "If all of you had left
us alone, none of this would've happened."

"You bitch! Don't you blame this on me!"

"How many times did you tell me I knew what he is? You knew, too. You
chose to cross him," she argued.

"He dragged me out of the fucking cemetary!"

"Actually, that was me. And I didn't drag you; you followed me," she
reasoned calmly.

"We all thought Spike was ashes! We had no idea where you were or what
had happened to you! I was trying to help you!"

"Again," she said. "It was your damned interference that forced us to go
into hiding in the first place."

"I am not having this conversation with you," he said coldly. "Just
leave me alone."

"Pet," Spike appeared behind Willow. "What are you doing down here?"

"Wasting my time," she answered.

"No doubt," he said, eyeing Xander briefly before returning his
attention to Willow. "How are you feeling, luv?"

"I'm all right. A little sore," she answered.

He took her hand and squeezed it, "Not as sore as he is."

"Spike, please, don't--"

"Come on, baby. Let's get out of here," he tugged her towards the
stairs.
***
"Willow, what's wrong?" Spike asked as she toyed with the food on her
plate.

"I don't know," she sighed. "I feel badly about Xander."

"I know you do. When I saw what he'd done to you, I was furious. He
could very well have killed you, pet. I'm not going to apologize," he
said.

"I understand that. It's just--I don't know--he's hurting."

"Well, what the hell has he been doing to you for weeks? I've watched
him jerk you around on a short line long enough. If you want out, baby,
you tell me now," he demanded.

"I don't know what I want," she admitted. "I just know I'm miserable
right now."

"Because of me," he added. "You were as much into this as I was,
remember? Make up your mind, Willow. Do you want your sad little life
back, or do you want me?"

"You really can be a bastard, you know that?" she told him.

"Never seemed to bother you up to this point. Why don't you go plant
yourself under a street light? I'm sure the slayer or Angel will be more
than happy to drag you back into their world. They've certainly had
enough practice at it," Spike shoved back his chair and left the room.

Willow watched wordlessly as he walked away.
***
Willow paced the living room in silent frustration. The events of the
past week played through her mind. Was Spike right? Did she want the old
Willow back? Her mind kicked up memories and rolled them around in her
brain like dust rolling off a thirsty road. Xander, shoving her aside
for a date with, well, anyone. Buffy, pleading with her for help on a
life-or-death exam. Giles, impatiently prodding her to ferret out some
obscure bit of information. And Oz--sweet, loyal Oz--and his look of
disappointment when he'd broken in on the kiss she'd shared with Xander
during the confusion of trauma.

She'd tried so hard to be everything they needed her to be. Her needs
had been of no importance, either to herself or to them. That wasn't
right, was it? A bit of selflessness was good for the soul, but constant
self-denial, how character-building could that be?

After all these years, the person she was, the person she wanted to be,
had been encouraged to assert itself. Spike reveled in her intelligence,
her wit, the courage she'd never even known she possessed. Buffy, Angel,
Xander, all of them, had done their utmost to squash this blossoming
confidence. They'd shackled her, dragged her away, admonished her
repeatedly, in an all-out battle to slap Willow back into the good
little mouse they knew and used. She couldn't go back to that. She just
couldn't.

She found Spike lying across the bed, hands behind his head, staring at
the ceiling.

"I'm sorry," she whispered softly.

He turned his head to her, "What?"

"I'm sorry. I was wrong."

His icy anger melted, and he reached out a hand to her. She took it and
climbed onto the bed to sit beside him.

"I've never liked to see people hurting. I know you did what you did
because you were protecting me. I don't want to be that old Willow
again. I've never liked her very much.

Tears blurred Willow's eyes and slipped slowly down her face. Spike
groaned and pulled her down to him, kissing them away.

"I'm sorry, Spike," she repeated.

"It's all right, baby," he smiled. "I've made a discovery of my own
while I've been lying here."

"You have? What is it?" curiosity rang in her voice.

"I don't like fighting with you. That's pretty amazing coming from
someone who's spent his entire unexistence winning a reputation for
fighting," he confessed.

"That isn't all you've won a reputation for," she told him as her hands
unfastened his pants and drew out his cock.

"Care to elaborate, pet?" his eyes danced with amusement, and his cock
twitched in anticipation at her touch.

"Nope. You know what they say about actions and words," she said before
his mouth dropped down to hers and stopped all thoughts of conversation.

End.

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