Order Now

Author: sinecure

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~Part: 16~

A single dirty white thread was yanked free of Spike's ugly armchair as he stared at the blank TV, smoking a cigarette and partaking of a little Jack Daniels.  His feet were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, one boot on top of the other.

His Willow bot was lying on her stomach on his sarcophagus, reading one of the spell books the real girl had loaned him.  Had she known who, or what they were for, odds were, she wouldn't have been so accommodating. She wasn't exactly the type to accept something so... difficult.  That, he was learning.

Stretching his arm on the chair arm, he tapped the top of his cigarette, watching the inch-long ash fall to the floor to land softly in the still daytime of his crypt.  An occasional page turn from his robot was all that broke up the deathly silence, or a slosh from his bottle.

And one of those sloshes was exactly what he needed right now.  Tossing back a good swallow, he swished it around in his mouth before swallowing it down.  Dropping his head back, he set the bottle on his thigh, staring up at the cracked ceiling.

Willow, the real Willow, the one he was falling in love with... well, she hated him now, didn't she?  He'd seen the disgust and disappointment in her eyes, all over her face as she glared at him.  Spitting out her disapproval and throwing him out of her bedroom.

He frowned, thinking back to the night before.  That was what happened, wasn't it?  His memories were a little bleary, and a lot fuzzy.  The hazards of drinking.

"Willow," he called loudly, keeping his eyes on the ceiling, not looking at her cute little butt, or the legs that were showing under her tight jeans.  There wasn't even a tiny glance toward her gorgeous face or her luscious red hair.

"Do you want to talk, Spike?  I like to talk."  She sat up, resting the book in her lap over her crossed legs, watching him expectantly.

He knew only because he'd had to glance her way to rid his eyes of the dust that-- okay, he'd looked.  He couldn't help it, she was just so enticing.  And sexy.  That innocent little smile she tossed him, the way her eyes shined every time she looked his way... it was too much for him.  "Talk," he mumbled in consideration before shaking his head. "Eh.  Talk is overrated."

She frowned in disappointment, shutting her book quietly.  "Oh.  Do you... want to have sex then?"  She looked a little less enthusiastic, drawing an incredulous look from him.

"Not if it's gonna be a bother," he mumbled, waving his hand dismissively when she started to protest.  "Never mind, forget it.  I just-- ow!"  He dropped his cigarette, which had burned down to the filter, sizzling his fingers as it went.  Smashing out the butt with a snarl, he closed his eyes and took another drink, raising his head just enough to keep from spilling it all down his chest.

Willow set her book beside her, carefully, like it was a priceless piece of art, and scooted to the end of the sarcophagus.  Her eyes focused curiously on him, her head tilting to the side like a damn robot.

Right, made sense, didn't it?

Before she could open her mouth and ask what he wanted, how she could please him, what she could do, he waved his hand at her.  "Tell me..." he frowned thoughtfully, following the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes, chasing the lines down his wall.  His mind went blank for a minute, then cleared again, with a question he'd been wondering about for some time now.  "Tell me about our first time together."

She kicked her legs out a little, gripping the edge of the coffin with her hands as she considered his question.  Her heels thunked on the stone, then swayed back and forth restlessly.  "The first time I saw you?"

In the middle of taking another drink, he shook his head, not wisely, and ended up with a bit of the liquor dribbling down his chin.  "No." He wiped his chin off with the back of his hand, then wiped his hand on his jeans.  "The first time we had sex."  His lips quirked up, his eyes lighting with amusement.  "The first time we did the deed, got down and dirty, rode the--"

"You don't remember?" she asked, interrupting his thoughtful phrasing. "Are you ill?"  She tensed to jump down and join him, but he waved his hand at her again.

"I'm fine.  Stay there."  She shrugged and nodded, but still looked a little worried.  Like she could worry, he thought bitterly.  "I just want to hear you tell me."

Would she believe that?  It was highly likely, but she shouldn't.  It was a pathetically thrown together excuse.

Her whole face seemed to light up at the prospect of telling him a story; her smile returned, her eyes shone, her breasts heaved... okay, that last one wasn't really relevant, but he noticed it.

"Our first time," she said succinctly, like it was the title of a story-- "by Willow Rosenberg."

Spike snorted with laughter, quickly masking the sound with a cough when she looked his way.

A frown furrowed her brow, but she didn't let his laughter stop her. "It was in a warehouse.  We--"

"Warehouse," he repeated, nodding at that.  It made complete sense. That night he'd kidnaped her was the first time he'd really noticed how biteable she was.  "When I kidnaped you."

She shook her head a few times.  "Not then.  It was before then, Spike. Are you too drunk to remember?"

"Yeah, that," he agreed, latching onto that excuse.  "Definitely too drunk to remember."  Not to mention it had never happened, but hey, they were her memories, and who was he to say they didn't happen?  For her.

She started again, sitting straighter, delivering her story like a teacher at story time.  "Back in 1999, when I was a junior in high school, and you were--"

"Wait, wait, wait."  He sat forward, capping the empty bottle and setting it on the floor beside him.  "That's when I was with Dru.  No way I cheated on her."  Fixing his eyes on the hem of her black blouse, which rose and fell with each breath she took, exposing an inch and then three inches of flesh at a time, he sighed, wanting her even now when he was griping about Dru.  "I never cheated on Dru."

"Of course you did," Willow told him, halting her swaying legs to stare at him.  "She was cheating on you.  With Angelus."

"Angelus.  Bloody... flippin'... Angelus."  Closing his eyes with a sigh, he flopped back against the chair.  He hated Angelus with every fiber of his being.  The vampire was a bastard and a half.  "Stupid poofter.  Always shoving his-- nose in where it doesn't belong."

Willow nodded in agreement, twisting her lips up in distaste.  "Angel is a fem-boy with too much hair gel."

Spike's laughter this time was long and hard, not slowed in the least by Willow's confused smile.  Here then was proof that Willow was the one. The one with his happiness wrapped up in her hand, holding it tightly, daring him to make a grab for it.

His laughter died at that.  The prospect of never being with Willow again, the Willow that he was falling in love with, was sobering.

"Do you want me to continue, my Blonde God?"

Fighting a smirk, he slid his eyes open with a groan.  "Thought I told you not to call me that?"  His words slurred just the smallest bit, making him aware of just how drunk he really was.

She nodded eagerly, smiling more widely.  Again.  Did that smile ever go far?  "I thought it might cheer you up."

"It didn't.  Just tell me about the sex, Willow."  Resting his hands against his stomach, he laced his fingers together, settling more comfortably back against the cushions.

"I was leaving the Bronze one night with Buffy and Xander and Cordelia. You were in the alley, waiting for a meal."  She didn't flinch, didn't shrink away from him, just stated the words as if she'd mentioned buying new curtains.  "Buffy left us to patrol, and Xander and Cordelia went to make out and argue.  You followed me as I passed the warehouses on Birch Street."

That sounded familiar.  He faintly remembered leaving the house late one night in a snit, furious with Angelus and Dru for going at it again. Right under his blasted nose, in his bloody house... practically in front of his face.  But, no, Angelus preferred doing things behind Spike's back.  Playing the innocent while taunting Spike with Dru's obedience and devotion.

After listening to the two of them grunting and groaning in Angelus' bedroom for hours on end, he'd left the house, stomping away.  Ditching his wheelchair behind a bush near the house, he'd headed straight for the Bronze, wanting a quick kill.  A young meal.

As he approached the back entrance, the door opened, emitting Buffy, Xander, Willow, and Cordelia.  They'd chatted as they walked slowly down the alley, paying scant attention to their surroundings.  If Buffy had been paying even the littlest bit of attention, she would've noticed him there, but she didn't, which just angered him more.

It was like he was invisible.

He followed them, but not too closely, keeping his distance as the group reached the street, going their separate ways.  Buffy headed off to patrol, while Willow and the other two started home.  He'd been on the verge of following Buffy, thinking to engage her a bit, but at the last second, he'd gone after the others.

He was still weak, not up to full strength, and it looked like the boy and his girl would be breaking off from Willow pretty soon.  She looked tasty.

"Why'd you go home that way, love?"  He knew the warehouses weren't anywhere near her house.  She lived closer to Buffy and Xander than the business district.  There was no reason for her to go through that area, no reason at all.

"I was unhappy," she said softly, stilling her feet on the sarcophagus. "I wanted to think."

An image of Willow's strained face came to him.  A strained smile as she waved to Xander and Cordelia.  As soon as the two were on their way, her smile slipped, her face fell, and her hand dropped heavily to her side as a sigh left her lips.

But it was her eyes that he'd noticed most.  She'd been hurt and betrayed by the two walking away.  They didn't realize it and she wasn't doing anything to dispel them of the notion that everything was wonderful.

"I remember that night.  Xander and the girl, they flaunted their relationship in front of you, didn't they?" he mumbled, frowning at thoughts that'd gone through his mind.  To follow her and kill her. Spill her blood and leave her behind for Xander and Cordelia to find. Let them feel it the most when they saw her lifeless body.  Lifeless for a day or so, at least, before she rose up and killed them all.

The images were wonderful, just spectacular as she slashed throats and bit through necks, tearing skin and spilling blood to the ground, leaving her friends behind in broken heaps.

She was a pretty girl, could be a beautiful vampire.  He'd thought of following her and having all sorts of ways with her.

But he'd stuck to just following her for the time being.

He followed behind her as she clutched a stake in her hand.  As her head looked from side to side nervously.  As she hurried through the mostly empty buildings, mostly dead and dark.  Followed her as she headed into safer territory.

All the while, not knowing exactly why he was following her.

Her auburn hair, swaying from side to side reminded him of Dru's in the darkness; maybe that was it.  It was long, and straight, and so rich and luscious-looking.  He quietly crept behind her, matching her footsteps with his own, heard her sigh a few times and mutter to herself when she jumped at benign noises.

Street after street they'd gone down, winding their way through town, back into the heart of Sunnydale.  Her stiff posture loosened with each street they went down, her shoulders losing their tension with each corner she turned.

But the sadness that surrounded her remained.

He'd wanted to grab her, pull her back against him as he drained her of blood, fed off of her very essence, but he hadn't.  Drusilla had shoved herself back into his mind, and he'd decided not to turn her just yet. He'd give Dru another chance.

He followed Willow back to her dark house, and even then he'd had a chance to get to her, but he'd continued walking, heading to the park to munch on a few teenagers unlucky enough think the park bench was a romantic place to make out.

"Spike?" Willow called, sounding like she'd called to him a few times without answer.  This was the real one, not from his memories.  No, it was the robotic one.

He cleared his throat, remembering the words he'd intended to have with Dru that night, to show her he was worth waiting for, that he'd always be a stronger and better choice than Angelus, but she wasn't there when he got home that night.  And neither was Angelus.

"I remember that night," he mumbled again, focusing more firmly on Willow.  But his version seemed to differ from hers a bit since she remembered sex, and he didn't.  "Go on," he urged, wanting to find out how she'd given in to him.  What exactly it was that had made her have sex with her best friend's mortal enemy.

She nodded thoughtfully, dismissing his inattention for what it was, woolgathering.  "I was angry and disgusted with Xander and Cordelia. All they did all night was ogle each other and touch under the table," she said distastefully, sticking her tongue out in disgust.  "It was sickening."

"Mm, I can imagine," he chuckled, having seen Xander and Anya do that very thing and more in a room full of people.  His friends.  Xander's friends, not his.  "So you thought you'd take a nice dangerous walk through the warehouse district?"  He patted down his pockets before remembering he'd set his cigarettes on the chair arm a while back. Glancing over the side of the chair, he spotted them on the floor.  "Not very smart under any circumstances."

Reaching over the arm, he grabbed the pack with a crinkle of plastic and a whiff of nicotine.  It was comfortable, familiar.  Smelled just as good as the whiskey decorating his shirt and jeans.

He shook one out, slipping it between his lips with a sigh.  Felt good to have even this minor comfort with him at all times.  Soothes whatever ails ya, he thought, lighting the cigarette and snapping the lighter shut with a metallic clink.

She nodded again, her eyes following his movements.  "You're very sexy when you smoke.  Like the Marlboro Man, all rugged and handsome.  But in a dead way."

Spike grinned at the compliment, acknowledging her words with a regal nod in her direction.  "Thanks, love."

"Maybe I should smoke," she muttered, eyeing the pack of cigarettes on his thigh.  "Would I be sexy if I smoked, Spike?"  Her eyes raised to his face, full of hope and curiosity.  "Would vampires want me then?"

"No."  And what the hell did she want vampires--other than himself, of course--to want her for in the first place?  "You're sexy enough as you are.  Finish the story."

She didn't look entirely convinced that he was telling her the truth, but she couldn't find any reason for him to lie.  Her eyes, stuck once again on the pack of cigarettes, looked to his before landing on his smoking cigarette.  "Oh.  You followed me and grabbed me, ignoring all my efforts to stake you."  She pouted a little, reminding him too much of the real Willow.  "I was overpowered by your strong, muscular arms, and your sexy vampire strength."

"Well, you are just a human," he said kindly.  "That was before the witchy powers and all that.  So, what'd I do?"  His eagerness wasn't being tempered by the fact that none of this had happened.  In fact, since there were no consequences, it only served to feed his eagerness. "Toss you down and have at it?  The biting, I mean.  Not, uh-- not the sex.  I'm a bit more generous a lover than that."

"Yes, you are," she agreed, smiling widely at him.  But then she came to a conclusion and shook her head, frowning at him.  "You don't remember," she accused, jumping down from the coffin and moving closer.  "You..." she darted her eyes down sadly, "you forgot our first time?"

Sighing in annoyance, he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him, moving his cigarettes seconds before she dropped onto his lap with a protesting squeal.

"I didn't forget, Willow.  I just... need a little reminding."  That was mostly the truth.  How could he forget something that hadn't happened? So, he didn't feel guilty for lying to her this once.  Maybe if he'd been less truthful last night, he'd be sober and looking forward to seeing Willow tonight.  As it was, he was drunk and begging his robotic lover to tell him stories.

"Okay," she amended quietly, "you did forget the next morning, after all."  Her eyes, wide and innocent, shone with laughter.  "You shouldn't drink so much.  I thought you'd forgotten all about us until the Initiative--"

"Wait, back up.  Finish the first time, then get to the next time."  How had he gotten involved with this girl in an imaginary world locked in her mind?  She was a robot, true, but someone had given her these memories, and if what Willow said last night was true, or even possibly true, all the blame could lie at Diana's feet.

Not blame exactly, he amended, sliding his hand down Willow's back. More like credit, for his good fortune.

She sat with her back resting on the chair arm, hooking her legs over the other arm, letting them dangle down.  "You pushed me inside and shoved me down on the floor.  You were drunk," she confided, settling further down on his lap.

"Quite the usual occurrence of late," he told her, laying his hand across her stomach as she talked, feeling her warm skin shift and move beneath his hand.  It was very unusual watching it move in and out, and shift and adjust as she talked and moved.  The flesh--fake flesh--was so like human skin that he'd be hard-pressed to tell the difference.  He listened to her as she told him about things that he'd said and done, actions he'd taken.  Things he'd possibly done in an alternate universe.

A universe in which he'd decided to grab her rather than follow her home.  If he'd grabbed her like he wanted to, would he right now be with the real Willow?  Be loved by her?  It was entirely possible that she'd be a vampire.  Would she hate him as Dru sometimes did, because he felt too much?

"So, I paced and ranted and railed?" he said huffily, rolling his eyes at himself.  "How'd the sex come about?  I'd think you'd be scared." She damn well better have been afraid of him.  He was the Big Bad back then, maybe not anymore, but certainly he was back then.  "You should've been running at the first opportunity."

"I tried, twice.  But you caught me and threw me up against the door. The second time, you kissed me."  Her eyes widened, her head turning to him.  "I was confused, but you said that you wanted me--"

"Always," he agreed, threading his hand with hers over her stomach.

"--and that I was beautiful--" she continued, holding their clasped hands up for a second.

"Very much so," he told her, nodding.  Sounds like something he'd tell her to get into her pants.  But he was a bit shocked that it worked so easily on her.

She smiled softly.  "Thank you.  You're beautiful too."  Her unclasped hand raised up, cupping his cheek briefly.  "I find myself attracted to you, but I also feel compelled to fight the attraction.  You're evil, but-- that excites me, and terrifies me... I try so hard to resist you and I can't."

"Yeah?"  He grinned at her as he took her hand and kissed the palm, his eyes lighting with amusement.

She pretended to frown, pouting with a half-smile.  "Darn your sinister attraction."

Though she was teasing, and her mood was light, he had to wonder.  "Are you afraid of me?"  His frown and concerned look went unnoticed by her.

She thought about her answer for a second, then grinned widely.  "Yes."

Well, that didn't make him feel better.  Back then she should've been afraid.  Now, he didn't want her to be.  He wanted her to want him and love him, not be afraid that he'd someday kill her and her friends. Robot, he reminded himself, she's just a robot.

He slid his hand against her stomach, feeling the small ripples of flesh and muscle beneath his palm and fingers.  She felt so real it was sometimes hard to remember that she wasn't.

"You know I can't--" that was a lie.  It was going to take some time getting used to having his bite back again.  "Uh, won't bite you," he finished quietly, his face serious.

"I think you would," she disagreed, not looking too upset about it.  "I think you would if I let you, and I want to let you.  I want you to bite me and devour me until there's no more, but I'm afraid."

"If I bit you," he told her, tightening his fingers around hers, "it'd be a love bite."  He leaned forward, nipping lightly at the flesh of her neck, not enough to break the skin, but enough to make her squirm in his lap.  "Like this," he mumbled, moving a little lower.

She smiled and sighed, tilting her head back.  "Oh, Spike, I want you to devour me--" she moved away quickly, frowning down at him.  "In a non-death kind of way.  Um, with human teeth... no eating.  Just, nibbling."

"That's the only kind I'd be doing, love, but maybe a little later. Tell me more."  He wasn't sure why he was so focused on finding out the details of their imaginary sex encounter, but he was.  Almost as if it was important to his future with the real girl.  "I seduced you right off the bat, huh?  Talked sweet and had you melting in my arms?"

His grin widened when she rolled her eyes at him.  So like Willow.

"I wasn't immediately charmed by you," she said with a scoff.  "You were drunk and angry.  And a vampire.  I thought you were going to kill me." Her forehead furrowed, her mouth dipping down in a frown, her voice becoming lower, almost a whisper.  "When you said you wanted me, and that I was beautiful, I thought you were going to rape me."

Now it was his turn to scoff.  "I'm not a rapist, Willow."

She nodded, agreeing with him wholeheartedly.  "I know.  But I didn't know that then.  You were kissing me, and your breath smelled like alcohol, and I was scared to death."

Okay, that was better.  And here he'd thought she'd fallen into bed with him without a second thought.  His charms were plentiful, but not that plentiful.  "Okay, assuming I don't know what happened next," he bluffed, shifting them so that she was lying with her head against his shoulder, "tell me what happened."

"I shoved you away from me when you kissed me.  But, I also felt a little attracted to you."  She lifted her head from his shoulder, smiling at him.  "You're gorgeous.  And I was a naive little girl, unschooled in the ways of love and sex.  You swept me off my feet--"

"Oh God," he mumbled, resting his forehead against her silky-soft hair, "just tell me I didn't quote poetry to you.  Or worse yet, that I didn't write my own poetry for you."  That'd be bad, so very bad.  Poetry and him did not go together.  He sucked at it, with a vengeance.

She shook her head, dislodging his cheek from the top of her head.  "Of course you didn't," she confirmed, and then repeated, "You swept me off of my feet."

"Uh, yeah, okay... meaning?" he prompted.  "Remember, I've never heard this story before."

She sat up, staring at him in puzzlement.  "You picked me up and carried me over to a crate and set me down on it.  Is this a game?"

"Yes.  It's a game.  I like hearing you talk about it."  His bluff was working again, but he was starting to feel guilty now.  She trusted him wholly and completely, and he was lying to her like a cheap rug.  But she wasn't real.  She was a blasted robot. The real woman was at Buffy's house, staying away from him, and possibly giving him up to her friends.

Again, he tuned in Willow, listening in amusement as she told him about kissing and touching, groping hands and pacing, griping and bitching about Angelus and Dru, complaining and sniping about Xander and Cordelia.

Not to mention the sex that was had.  Quickly and without a lot of tenderness and romance.  Just a ripping off of clothes--clothes that were in the way, not unnecessary clothes--and a melding of bodies.

Hurried kissing, drunken groping, whispered words of encouragement and desperation.  And then he fell asleep on top of her, passed out drunk.

At least they'd both gotten some pleasure before he embarrassed himself.

She'd fallen asleep beside him eventually, afraid to leave and walk home on her own with her ripped clothing and partially bleeding breast.

"Wait, what?" he interrupted, pulling back a little to stare at her.  "I bit you?  Where's the mark?"  That should've given him away, told her that he had no clue about any of this, but she simply lowered the collar of her shirt and showed him the top of her left breast.  Which was smooth and unmarked.  She looked down at it with a small smile, apparently unaware that there was no mark there.

"When you woke up, you forgot what happened."  She sighed when he reached out to touch the smooth flesh of her breast, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the pale skin.  "I told you that you bit me, and that was it.  I was afraid to tell you the rest."

He nodded, understanding her reluctance to tell him he'd cheated on Dru the night before.  "But, I knew.  I could smell it on you.  On me."

"You could?" she asked in surprise, pushing off of his lap to look at him.  "You never told me that.  I thought-- you never said anything, you just let me believe you forgot.  I thought I was safe."

"Safe," he echoed, wondering what in bloody hell she'd been afraid of after sleeping with him.  Then he remembered that she'd only really known him then as the ruthless killer of two slayers, someone without mercy.  No wonder she'd been terrified.  "Sorry, love."

"And when you kidnaped me for the spell to do on Drusilla--" she began, huffing a little, crossing her arms over her chest, "that hurt."  Her voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes dropping to the floor.  "You were drunk again.  And I thought you were going to kill me because of what happened.  You were so angry and hurt by Drusilla cheating on you, I just thought-- I thought you wanted to kill me so you could forget about sleeping with me."

Spike was getting a little confused.  Robots were much more trouble than they were worth.  He had two women, the same woman really, upset and angry with him.  Both were too much.  He needed to stick to one, or the other.  And at the moment, he wasn't exactly sure which one he preferred.

No, that was a lie.  He wanted the real one.  The robotic one was just easier to handle.

"Sorry," he said again, not sure what else to say.  "I was evil then. Well, no, I still am, I just disliked humans more then."

"Well, you could've let me know you remembered," she hmphed, dropping her hands to her sides.  "When you kissed me then, I thought you did remember.  And now, I know you did, but you pretended not to."

Spike fought a groan, but couldn't stop himself from dropping his head back onto the chair with a roll of his eyes.  He was a bloody idiot in this imaginary world of hers.  All that time he'd wasted, traipsing after Dru when he could've taken Willow with him and turned her.  Been with her all this time.  And then the Buffy thing.  God, Harmony was possibly the worst part of it all.

Sex went a long way, but when the body you're having sex with can't keep its mouth shut, it gets old.  Real quick.  It was always, 'buy me this' and 'steal me that' not to mention her all-time favorite, 'take me to Italy, and Paris, oh, and that one place with the big clock that's named after someone called Ben... whoever he is.'

All that time he could've been with Willow.  Damn.

"When I kissed you... again," he said slowly, "uh... I pretended not to remember because I didn't think you wanted to remember?"  That it ended as a question of uncertainty probably wasn't the best way to explain himself.  But it was all he had at the moment, he was flying by the seat of his pants.

"That's what you keep saying," she sighed, sounding irritated, like they'd had this conversation a few times before.  "And I keep saying that you should've said something.  The second time we... had sex, that's all it was, just like the first time.  Sex."

"We had sex..." he inhaled, raising his head to look at her, "when I kidnaped you.  In front of Xander."  It was possible he was going to be sick.  Vampires didn't get sick though.  So what was this nauseous feeling swimming around in his stomach?

"Uh, no," she scoffed, shaking her head with a frown.  "You left Xander at the school.  Are you... sure you haven't forgotten all this?  For real this time?"

"I did," he told her, sighing in defeat.  "I forgot all of it.  I think it's a spell."  That was sure to save him from her anger and hurt, wasn't it?  Warming up to his story, he sat forward, nodding eagerly. "Yeah, a big spell.  Someone made me forget about us.  Someone-- a demon probably, yeah, a big demon, doing a big spell against me."

She walked over to her spell book, picking it up like it was an ancient tome of powerful magick and priceless wisdom.  "Is that all that's been affected?  Your memories of us?"  She flipped the book open, all business now, turning page after page in search of answers.  "I may need some ingredients," she mumbled, smiling at him as she paced away, completely engrossed in her research.  "I'll make a list-- oh!"

"What?"  He frowned, standing up quickly, hoping she hadn't found a spell she wanted to do on him.  But her eyes were wide on him, not the book.

"That's why you won't let me leave.  You think Buffy--" she frowned, tilting her head to the side in puzzlement.  "What do you think Buffy will do?  She's okay with us.  Not jumping up and down in excitement, but she promised not to dust you or interfere in our lives."

"She did?" he asked skeptically, forgetting for a minute that this wasn't real.  Her memories weren't real.  None of this had happened. Bloody hell.  "Yeah," he agreed, shoving his hands through his hair angrily.  "Yeah, that's exactly it.  I was afraid for you, baby." Sighing, he turned away, stalking restlessly across the crypt.

"Thank you," she mumbled, walking across the crypt to peck his cheek before hopping on the sarcophagus.  She didn't use a hand to brace herself as she hopped up, just... jumped up there.  It was weird to see, but not as weird as her flipping through her book trying to find a counter-spell to get rid of the nonexistent spell a nonexistent demon put on him.

A few minutes went by, with him pacing, trying to figure out a way to tell her he'd lied.  That there was no spell on him, and maybe even let her know that she was a robot, but he chickened out.  He couldn't make himself tell her something that would inevitably cause her to become upset.

Maybe even cry.  Did robots cry?

She sat straight on the coffin, quickly reading through each book, searching for a spell, any spell, to help the man she loved.

He sighed for the thirtieth time in ten minutes.  Bloody hell.

A few minutes later, he heard footsteps approaching the crypt, crunching noisily on the leaves and twigs outside.  He rushed over to the trapdoor, yanking it up.  "Willow, you have to go downstairs.  Someone's coming."

She looked up, unconcerned.  "Maybe it's Buffy.  I told you she's okay--"

"No, Willow.  She's not.  I've talked to her recently, and there's something wrong with her too."  Thinking quickly, he added more lies to the ones he'd already heaped on Willow, hoping she bought them in the short time he had left to convince her.  Whoever was coming, they were almost to the crypt.

Not bothering to argue the point, he rushed to the coffin, grabbed Willow, ignoring her protests, and pushed her toward the trapdoor. "Just go, we'll talk about it later.  I don't want her to hurt you, and with her--and everyone else's--memories skewed... it's possible she's forgotten you're friends."

Willow looked about ready to protest, but just nodded, and climbed down the ladder, clutching her books to her chest as she went.  "I'll stay here until--"

"Willow, listen to me."  He bent down, fitting the trapdoor partially into place, holding it open as he peered into the darkness.

She stepped off the ladder and turned to look up at him.  "How long do I--"

"You will not leave there until I say it's okay.  Got that?  No matter how long it takes."

More protesting was on the tip of her tongue, she even opened her mouth, but he shook his head with a glance at the door, which flew open, smacking against the wall before swinging back to close.  A hand stopped its momentum, halting the door as he dropped the trapdoor back into place and stood up.

Bloody hell.

"Uh, excuse me," he said angrily, stalking over to the door, glaring at the figure standing there.  "What do you want?"  Fury roiled through him, but a little fear as well.  There was a calmness in the eyes following his progress across the crypt.

"You," the figure said softly, shooting a fist out.  It caught him in the jaw, throwing him back a few feet.  Luck was the only thing that gave his attacker the upper hand.  He landed on the stone floor with a thump, and his head snapped backward, smacking the corner of the stone sarcophagus and knocking him out.

~Part: 17~

Sunshine shone down through tree limbs, dappling the sidewalks and streets as Willow made her way to the Magic Box.  The usual daytime noises of the town were swirling around in the air.  The laughter and loud voices of people walking by her were drowned out by cars driving down the street.  Exhaust floated up, increasing that huge hole in the ozone, but over that were the smells of cinnamon buns and coffee from the Espresso Pump across the street.

It was a day of warmth and beauty, but there was no song in Willow's heart, no happy smile on her face.  If anyone were to look too closely at her eyes, they'd see that they reflected sadness, not sunlight.

But her eyes stayed fixed on the cracked sidewalks, and the occasional piece of trash that littered the gutters, not allowing anyone to look into her eyes, had they wanted to.  Most of the people passing by didn't try, though, because she was giving off vibes that didn't invite conversation, or even a casual look in her direction.

Her lips were turned down in a frown, her shoulders slumped.  Every step she took brought her closer to the Magic Box, closer to her friends and people who loved her, but it also took her farther away from the man she'd fallen in love with.

His crypt was way across town, hidden in a cemetery, stashed away almost as an afterthought.  Trees crowded the small marble structure, shielding it with a canopy of leaves that covered it in darkness, even in the daytime.

It was dank, and dark, and inhabited by dead things, and it was where she wanted to be.

Sighing heavily, enough to heave her shoulders straight and then droop back down again, she stopped in front of the Magic Box.  Her eyes drifted across the street, the scents drawing her attention to the Espresso Pump.  The sticky buns smelled good.  Heavenly.  It'd been a long time since she'd had one.  At least a month.

And coffee.  She could definitely use some coffee.  Dealing with her friends, much as she loved them, was sometimes hard, even in the best of times.  And this was definitely not the best of times, it was kind of the almost-worst of times.  Not quite, but close.  At least there wasn't an apocalypse, too.

Tossing a quick look over her shoulder, into the window of the Magic Box, she watched the occupants inside for a few seconds.

Anya was inside with Giles; both were bustling behind the counter, attending to customers.  Xander was at the table, watching Anya with somber eyes.  He was acting strange lately, but, she couldn't explain exactly what it was.  It was more a feeling than anything definite she could put her finger on.

He shifted in his seat, staring straight ahead... looking uncharacteristically silent and contemplative.

Buffy was nowhere in sight.  Probably in the training room, working out her aggressions on the punching bag.

She turned away with a sigh, heading across the street.

The coffee shop was empty, but for the single employee behind the counter.  He looked bored as he leaned against the wall on the far side of the counter.  When she walked up to the cash register, he tipped his cap back and straightened up, dropping his white rag to the counter as he joined her.

"Can I help you?" he asked, leaning forward on the counter to gaze up at her in a friendly manner.  He glanced behind him quickly, probably making sure no fellow employees were near enough to chastise him for chatting with a customer.  Using both hands, he tucked his longer-than-Xander's hair behind his ears, and flashed her a wide, handsome smile that was welcoming and friendly, meant to charm and invite conversation.

Willow didn't feel like making conversation.  She didn't even feel like being there, what she wanted was to stay at home, in her bedroom, possibly even in her bed, and brood about the horrible luck she had with love.

Stupid deities showing her a small bit of happiness with Spike and then yanking it away.

But, that wasn't this guy's problem.  He hadn't done anything to her, and he didn't deserve her anger or annoyance.  So, she chose to ignore the gleaming white teeth framed by swarthy skin and dark brown eyes. The strong chin and wavy black hair.  The handsome face and flirting look he was tossing her way.

"Um, yeah, I'll take..." better get enough for everyone, "a dozen sticky buns, two with cinnamon please."  She paused, waiting for him to push off of the counter and ring up the purchase.

He did so slowly, running his eyes over her as if she was a tasty treat as he straightened up and pressed a few buttons, making the register beep electronically, like it was chiding him for being so inappropriate.  His eyes were apparently lazy though, because they stuck somewhere near the vicinity of her chest, where the swell of her breasts was visible at the bodice of her red blouse.

He quirked his lips up in a devastatingly handsome smile.  "Anything else?"

She almost clapped when his eyes managed to move higher, but halted her enthusiastic mental applause when they lowered again, ostensibly to the register.

She rolled her eyes and cleared her throat.  "Um, three coffees.  Two black, one vanilla."  Buffy constantly told them that she needed the extra sugar to stay up late, and hype herself during patrol, but they all knew the truth: Buffy was a frou-frou coffee drinker.

Mr. Stares-A-Lot rang up the rest of the order and reluctantly turned away to fill it.

Relieved to be free of the weight of his stare, she turned around and leaned back against the counter, looking around the shop which wasn't as empty as she'd thought it was.

A girl giggled, followed closely by a male chuckle.  She tried not to listen.  After all, she wasn't happy, so she didn't want to see anyone else happy.  Not that she begrudged them their happiness... but, she just didn't want to see it.

A pang of hurt went through her, seeing the couple interact with each other.  They sat at a table in the back of the room, out of view of anyone who casually glanced around the place, holding hands, smiling and stealing glances at each other.  The boy--a cute blonde with wire-rimmed glasses--leaned forward to brush a fan of black hair from the girl's face.  She ducked her head to the coffee cup in front of her, blushing faintly as she stole another glance at her male companion.

Willow sighed, watching them with a hurting heart.  It wasn't fair.  She never got to be happy with her lovers.  They left her, or lost their happiness when with her, or were evil vampires with suddenly-malfunctioning chips in their heads.

She was pretty sure this gave her a one-up on the saddest love-life scale.

Reigning queen and champion, Willow Rosenberg.

"Miss," the staring-guy called, trying to gain her attention.

Must be feeling deprived of some quality chest-ogling.  She turned with a smile, forcing herself not to give him the 'gay now' speech.  Resisted snarling at the guy and giving him a chest of his own to stare at.

None of those things would serve to relieve her heartache.

Besides, she was magick-less at the moment.  At least, she thought she was.  And she didn't really want to use it on this guy even if she did have some left.

Her coffee and sticky buns were wrapped up, bagged, and ready to go, sitting on the counter in a plain white bag stuffed so full it was barely rolled closed at the top.  The sides of the bag were bulging with sticky sweet goodness.  With cinnamon.

Yum.

She dug into her jean pocket and pulled out a twenty dollar bill, handed it to the ogler, and waited patiently while he made change.

His hand placed the dollars in her hand, dropping the change with extra touching involved.

"Hey," he called as she grabbed the cardboard coffee holder in one hand and the bag in the other and began to turn away.

She stopped, turning back to him with a questioning look.  "Yes?"

"Forgot this."  He held his hand up, waving her receipt a few times, his eyes inviting her to come closer.

She really didn't want to go back for it, but she also didn't want to be blatantly rude.  "Oh, sorry."  She juggled the bag of buns into the hand already holding the coffee and held her hand out, nearly dropping the money to the counter.

"Whoops," he purred, his smile growing as he caught her hand and straightened it, holding it still.  He slowly placed the receipt on top of the bills, his eyes on hers the whole time.  "Careful there."

"Thanks," she mumbled, trying to pull free, but his hand stayed hers, cupping the back of it as he trailed a finger down the inside of her wrist, trailing up the side of her arm.  She cleared her throat uncomfortably, not really used to dealing with flirty men.  Or women for that matter.  It just didn't happen to her often.  Pulling on her arm again, not really enjoying the touch of his warm fingers encircling her wrist, or the tightening of his other hand under hers, she prayed he wouldn't make her do something to draw attention to them.  "I-- I gotta go.  Thanks," she repeated, smiling a strained smile.

"You know," he said softly, his eyes dropping to the finger once again trailing down the inside of her arm, raising goose bumps in its wake, "there's a party tonight on campus.  At Lowell House--"

"Ah," she said, still trying her best not to be rude and mean, though she just wanted free now.  "No, thanks, really.  Um, some other time maybe.  I've--"

He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, the tips of his fingernails digging into her skin, his smile tightening more than his hand.  "Come on," he cajoled, his eyes hardening at her continued resistance to his so called charms.  "I can guarantee a good time."

"Really, thanks, but no."  Her voice was firm, her eyes filled with coolness as she jerked her arm free.  His eyes narrowed on her, his lips twisting into a sneer as he pushed away from the counter.

"Yeah, fine," he said snidely, crossing his arms over his chest.  "Try and take pity on a girl..." he shrugged, turning away to fiddle with the cups and napkins.

She shoved the money and receipt in her back pocket and lifted her eyes to the kid behind the counter.  Stupid jerk.  "Ya know, the parties at Lowell House always seem to end in death or other badness..." she grabbed her bag tighter to her and shrugged thoughtfully.  "You should definitely go."

She turned away from him as he spun around and glared at her, even more tempted now to give him boobs--it'd serve him right--and left the open café, sparing no more looks at the happy couple in the back.

Pausing on the curb, she waited for a car to pass by, spitting out its fair share of exhaust as it pounded and boomed with more speakers than a vehicle needed.  She rolled her eyes and crossed the street, heading toward the Magic Box as the sounds faded to a steady boom-boom.

Her mood had gone from bad to worse and she was rethinking her decision to leave the house at all.  Probably should've stayed in bed and pulled the covers over her head.

But, that solved nothing and she had stuff that needed... if not solving, then discussing.  As she entered the store, she plastered a happy smile on her face.

No time like the present to sit Buffy down and explain things to her. Most likely without the chip coming into the conversation.  It was bad enough that she'd ignored Buffy's advice to stay away from Spike, ignored her concern, and gone ahead and done whatever she wanted, not stopping to think how it might affect others.

Others being her friends.  They certainly didn't have a say in who she dated, normally, but this was different.  This time there was a danger involved.  And hadn't that danger been realized?

The bell above the door tinkled madly, alerting anyone within a twenty decibel radius to her presence.  Anya sighed when she saw her, but Giles, behind the counter with Anya, smiled a welcome.  The smile faded briefly into a concerned look.

"Willow.  What are you doing here?"  He skirted around the counter, coming to join her halfway across the shop floor.  "Are you feeling better then?"

She didn't have to fake the smile that immediately came to her lips at his mothering--strike that, let's call it fathering--attitude.  Like a father hen, he was.  All concerned and gentle as he led her over to the table.

Xander jumped up to help... by taking the bag and the cardboard coffee holder from her.  "Let me get that for ya," he said with a grin, scooping the stuffed bag from her with a big whiff, holding it up to his face.  "Oh, that's the stuff, just what's needed for a long night of research.  Or whatever happens to come up," he added enigmatically.

"Thanks, Xander, such a help," she laughed, watching as he dropped the bag with an almost reverent look and set the coffee down on the table. "And, yes, Giles, I actually feel really good today, gotta be the salve."  And the person applying said salve, she thought with a sigh. "You should sell it here."

Anya sighed and hefted a large cardboard box onto the counter as they approached.  She dropped it down with a whoomp.  Dust kicked up around her, soaring into the air in billowing brown clouds, reminding Willow of Pigpen.  "He is selling it here," she said, her voice filled with irritation.  "And it's heavy."

Xander sighed explosively and spun around on his heel, glaring at Anya. "Ahn, stop complaining," he bit out, shaking his head in annoyance.  "I swear that's all you know how to do."

The three people in the room who weren't Xander stared at his back as he turned to the table and began unwrapping the sticky buns.

Willow made her way over to Xander as Giles headed back behind the counter to help a huffy Anya unpack the jars of familiar-looking salve.

"Hey," she said quietly, darting a look behind her at Anya's glaring face.  "That, uh... that was kind of harsh, don't you think?"  She grabbed the frou-frou coffee, so marked by a grease pen, and lifted it from its cardboard cage.

Xander sighed again, with less force this time, and released the bag. "I know, but it's all I seem to be able to do lately."  He glanced at her, looking sheepish.  "I think I'm turning in to my dad."

"I noticed the resemblance," Willow told him, freeing the other coffee cups and crushing the cardboard holder.  "Are you and Anya fighting?"

"No," he said helplessly, "that's just it.  Aside from when she complains, we're okay.  Good to go.  Not a problem between us."  He pulled out one of the wooden chairs and sat on it, looking like somebody had just killed his puppy.  "But, I'm scared, Will."

She lifted her arm carefully, happy to feel no pain in her back, and slipped it around his shoulders, hugging him to her.  "It's probably just the stress of-- well, everything.  We're all due a little steam-blowing.  Don't worry about it."

Giles, carrying an arm-load of books, moved past them, heading up the ladder to the upstairs.

"Buffy around?" she asked, lifting the coffee she'd gotten for Buffy in one hand, and a sticky bun encased in wax paper, in the other.

Giles' foot halted on the first step of the ladder and he turned around.  His books tilted to the side, the top one sliding off to slam on the floor with a loud whap!  Willow jumped, startled by the noise.

"I'll get her," Giles said, bending quickly to pick the book up.  As he went down, the other books started to slide off as well.  Giles slapped his hand on the top one, and lifted them, shoving them onto the table with one hand while grabbing the lone book on the floor with his other hand.  He stood up, shoving that one on the table beside the others, leaving it where it slid into a sticky bun.

That he didn't immediately yank the beloved book away from the sticky bun had Willow's eyes widening.  When he darted toward the training room with a hurried step, she resorted to raising her eyebrows as well.

She knew this behavior.  Hadn't she just chastised them for it the other day for keeping her out of the loop about the Wickaninnish?  Turning to Xander, she watched him purposely stuff a ripped off piece of bun into his mouth so that he couldn't talk.

"Sorry," he mumbled around the mouthful, shrugging innocently with wide, overly exaggerated movements.

"Anya?" she enquired, knowing Anya wouldn't hold back if she knew anything, not with the angry eyes she kept sending Xander's way.

Anya pushed her hair behind her shoulder with a huff, planting one hand on her hip as she stretched her other arm out to the counter.  There was a ton of attitude in her look and her pose.  "What do I care?" she asked, narrowing her eyes on Xander.  "Buffy's--"

A fist slammed down on the table, forcing Willow to jump yet again.  She turned to Xander with a frown, ready to roll her eyes at him and tell him to be quiet, but the look on his face had her staring at him in surprise.

He was furious.  Standing up, he shoved his chair back, sending it flying back to slam against the wall of the counter.  His hands were planted on the table and he used them to shove himself to his feet.  The mouthful of sticky bun was gone, and the light, teasing mood he'd started to fall into was nowhere in sight.

"Anya!" he bit out, scowling as he turned to his girlfriend.  "Why can't you just shut the hell up?"  He stalked over to the counter, glaring at Anya, who was glaring right back.

She wasn't about to back down, and neither was he.  They were at a standstill.

Willow drew in a breath, wondering what in heck was wrong with everyone.  Giles was being twitch-y, Xander was yelling, something he hardly ever did, and-- well, Anya was her normal, usual self.

"Hey," she called loudly, grabbing everyone's attention, "what's going on?"

"Nothing," Giles said, entering the room with Buffy directly behind him.  "Nothing is going on, we're just... on edge with the Wickaninnish still out there.  Another witch was killed last night, and two women--um, clerks at the grocery store--were killed by... a vampire."

Buffy stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb for a second.  Her faded blue jeans and simple blue top with long sleeves gave her a stern, solemn look.  The stake dangling from the fingers of her right hand, underneath her crossed arms, completed that picture.  Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail which swung from side to side as she entered the room and hopped on the counter.

"Needed me?" she asked, all attentive and curious looking.  "I gotta go pick up Dawn from school soon, but I've got a few minutes."

Willow glanced down at her own jeans, also faded blue, and the maroon top she'd slipped on because of its loose qualities, and wondered how Spike saw them.  One blonde, one red-haired.  One short, one... not tall really, but of medium height.  One physically strong and skillfully capable, the other mentally strong and magickally capable.

Slayer and witch.  Polar opposites, working for the same side.  Best friends.

And said best friend was staring at Willow expectantly, waiting for a response.

Willow started forward, motioning toward the training room.  "Can we talk?  I was thinking about some things, uh, last night, and--"

Buffy jumped down from the counter, her boots clunking dully on the stone floor.  Her hand shot out, grabbing Willow's arm, holding her still.  "Sure, let's talk," she said cheerfully.  "Right here, at the table-- ooo, sticky buns."  She grabbed one, and checked the coffee cups for one marked with a grease pen.

"Um, a-- actually, I sort of wanted to talk to you alone.  Without, you know," she looked around pointedly, "others.  It's private."  Her apologetic smile took the sting out of her words, she hoped.  Judging by all the criss-crossed looks at each other though, she tended to think not.

Xander shrugged, turning away from Anya with one more glare aimed her way, and started toward the training room.  "We can go, you two can stay.  Chat."  He gestured to Willow and Buffy and then the table. "We'll just..." he pointed behind him, into the training room, "be in there.  Come on, Giles," he called jovially.  His eyes strayed past Giles to Anya, and they narrowed when she opened her mouth to protest. "Come.  On."

His tone brooked no argument, but Willow made one anyway.

Something was going on in the training room, something they didn't want her to see.  Why else wouldn't they let her go in there?  Why else was Buffy dragging her away by the sleeve of her blouse?

"Um, no, that's okay, guys," she said in puzzlement, glancing from one to the other as they shifted and tried to look innocent.  Of what? she wondered.  "I think it'd be easier--"

Buffy tugged her sleeve again, smiling and tipping her head toward the front door.  "I need some air, it's stuffy in there.  Let's go out front."

In the silence that fell as Willow considered running past them all to see what was in the back room, she heard the distinctive sound of chair legs scraping on stone.  Her eyes widened.  Someone was back there?  The Wickaninnish maybe?  Did they think she couldn't handle seeing the witch killer without going evil and retaliating, or was someone else back there?

"No," she said slowly, shaking her head and freeing her arm from Buffy's fingers.  "In here is good.  Better yet is in there."  She pointed toward the training room, backing a step away as Buffy reached out to grab her sleeve again.  She kept her eyes on Xander, who looked like he was about to tackle her.  Giles sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily.

Buffy's smile left altogether and she shook her head.  "No.  We're not going in there."  She set her sticky bun down and wiped her hands on her jeans.  "Willow, I started thinking last night and I realized that--"

Willow dashed toward the door, circling around the table, her heart starting to pound in dread.  She heard Buffy yell her name behind her, felt Buffy's hand close over her wrist, but she couldn't stop.  Images of Tara, her body bled dry by a vampire, or burned and singed from the Wickaninnish, flitted through her mind.  She could almost see the long blonde of her hair matted down with blood, her face pale and drawn. Burned and singed.  Oh, God.

Yanking her arm from Buffy's grasp, she ran into the room, coming to a dead halt when she saw the room's sole occupant.

Her friends piled through the door behind her, and if she'd been in a different mood, rather than the stunned one she was in now, there was a chance she'd be laughing at the way they all came to a stop, halting in their tracks, practically falling all over one another.

However, all her attention was on the single, high-backed wooden chair across the room.  A chair that would look normal at any kitchen or dining room table.  A chair that didn't look normal with the person currently occupying it.  With handcuffs.

Spike's eyes raised to hers, but there wasn't an ounce of softness in the blue-gray orbs, no softening on his face.  That same face that'd shown her so much kindness and gentleness a few nights ago.  Those lips that she'd kissed, bitten, felt between her legs, bringing her to orgasm with expertise... right now, they were twisted up in a sneer of hatred.

"What--" she began, looking back to Buffy, the king of them all.  She glanced over her shoulder at Spike, disbelief plain on her face, and in her inability to get out another word in the rush that were trying to shove their way into her brain.

His head was bleeding, blood dripped down the left side of his face from a nasty wound on his temple.  His eye was swollen and bruised, his cheek raw and red like it'd been scraped against something rough.  The blonde hair that she realized she really liked, liked to touch, to look at, to smell, that beautiful hair of his was covered in blood.

His arms were behind him, tied, or handcuffed to the chair back.  His ankles were handcuffed one to each chair leg.  Dried blood covered his black t-shirt, his neck, and-- God, he looked like he'd been beaten nearly to death.

She headed toward him, fully intending to release him, ignoring the scornful look he tossed her for the brief second that his eyes landed on her.  "What the hell did you do to him?  What'd you do, take turns beating him?"  She knelt down by his feet, running her fingers over the cold metal holding his legs to the chair, rattling the handcuffs, which sounded overly loud as they clunked against the wooden chair leg.

"Leave him," Buffy told her, striding over to them.  Her hand gently fisted in Willow's blouse; the warm, thin fingers of her hand twisting in the material, hauling her to her feet.  There was no force behind the move, and no rough-handling, but it still startled Willow.

A common occurrence today.

Spike's voice, muffled through the huge white cloth stuffed in his mouth, sounded furious.  She was sure he spat out more than a few insults and cuss words.  Toward her, or the others? Was his hatred for the others tossing her into the mix as well?

Looking down at him, she shook out of Buffy's grip, yanking the cloth from his mouth.

His eyes, even the swollen one, showed the smallest bit of relief, but that was all he gave away.  Impassiveness clouded his features and he closed his mouth, shifting his jaw a few times, staring straight ahead. He looked at the wall rather than have to look at any of them.  Rather than having to look at her.

Another twinge of pain slipped through her heart, like an icepick being slowly shoved inside.  He hated her now.  He was blaming her along with the rest of them.

"Why is he tied to a chair again?" she asked angrily, turning to fume at the others when all she wanted to do was wail at the unfairness of everything.  When she found a little happiness, something happened to take it away, every damn time.  Never mind that she'd already been miserable from their--whatever had happened the other night.  This was different.  This was outside interference.  "Buffy, you have no right to interfere--"

"I have every right," Buffy ground out, pulling her away.  She dragged Willow across the room by her arm, ignoring Spike's furious glare aimed her way, easily visible even through the blood.  She shoved Willow near Xander, who looked away from her accusing stare.  Giles didn't; he stared her down with Buffy.

"I'm very--" Giles began, looking long-winded and lecture-happy.

Willow sighed, rolling her eyes at the whole lot of them. "--disappointed in me, I know."  She crossed her arms over her chest, glancing at Spike over Buffy's shoulder.  His poor face looked so painful, she hoped it didn't hurt too bad.  "But, I've decided that, believe it or not, it's none of your business.  Any of you."

She saw Spike's eyes widen in surprise before going back to being blank again, but she knew.  Knew he approved of her sudden backbone.  Sticking up for her man.  Go her.

"I'm afraid it's not that easy, Willow," Giles sighed, dropping his overbearing lecturing posture for a more fatherly stance.  "He--"

"Is a vampire," Willow interrupted, knowing exactly what he was going to say.  What they'd all say, because she herself had said the same exact thing to Buffy when they found out about Angel being a vampire.  And to herself when she realized she felt something for Spike.  But, it didn't matter to her.  So, it was none of their business.

She paced around behind Buffy, standing a little away from them as she moved back and forth before them.

"Willow," Xander said forcefully, "listen to them.  This isn't just a bad boyfriend that we don't like.  This is a vampire who kills people."

"Oh, that's original," Spike snorted, sneering at them.  "Think she doesn't know that?  Think it never crossed her mind?"  He shifted in the chair, snarling and jerking against the bonds when he couldn't move enough to get comfortable.  The chair legs scraped against the floor, the same noise Willow had heard earlier.  He turned his angry glare back to them.  "She knows, you bloody twits."

Willow exhaled slowly, warning Spike to keep quiet, because he wasn't getting anywhere but closer to dead with his insults.  "Guys," she sighed, pushing her hands through her hair.  "He's right, I do know.  And--"

"And nothing."  Buffy strode over to Willow, staring into her face, her mouth tightening, her jaw clenching.  "Two checkout girls were killed at the grocery store a few days ago.  The police are looking for a bleach blonde male, about five-ten, dark clothes..." she paused, drawing out the rest of her description slowly, making sure every word cut into Willow's heart.  "Long.  Black.  Coat."  She spun away, throwing her arm out to proudly display Spike in all his glory.  "Sound like anyone we know?"

Willow couldn't believe it was Spike.  He-- yes, she could. And, she did.  The chip was malfunctioning, she knew this, but he hadn't mentioned... well, duh.  What was he supposed to do, you idiot, proudly tell you all about his exploits in murder?

Raising her eyes from the floor, she stared at Spike, daring him to lie to her.  Daring him to tell her it wasn't him.  He stayed silent, staring right back at her, his eyes guilt-free.

Xander and Giles left quietly, leaving the three of them alone.  She wished Buffy would leave too.  Already she was imagining Buffy's gloating eyes cheerfully watching her, her bouncy step as she happily moved toward Spike and dusted him.

But, glancing at her friend, Willow saw no cheer, no gloating, and no happy, bouncy movements.  "I tried to tell you," she said softly, frowning in concern when Willow remained silent.  "Are you okay?"  She moved closer, turning Willow's face away from Spike.  "Let's go into the shop.  We can talk."

"No."  Turning her attention back to Buffy, she shook her head, snapping herself free of the disappointment and hurt, wanting to get answers from Spike.  "Could you...?" she asked, tipping her head in the direction of the shop.  "I just want to-- I need to talk to him.  Okay?"

Buffy glanced at Spike, who was watching Willow, his brows dipped down into a frown.  "Don't free him, Willow."  Her eyes bored into Willow's. "I mean it."  She cleared her throat a little uncomfortably.  "If you need help--" she began, walking toward the doorway.

"I won't," Willow assured her, staying where she was until Buffy disappeared through the doorway.  Her eyes stayed on the rectangle frame, not seeing anything beyond it.  She could hear low voices in the other room, and then Xander's raised in anger.

"There's something wrong with him," she muttered, dragging her eyes free of the door to look at Spike.  He watched her quietly, not saying anything as she walked closer.  The smells of the room permeated her mind as she neared him, the sounds in the other room fading with each step.

Dust, some sweat, a little blood, and above all that was the smell of Spike.  His duster, his skin, his hair.  He smelled so good, so clean, even with the blood and dirt covering him, he smelled nice.  Inviting.

She came to a stop in front of him, looking down on his bloody hair and face, wincing at the purple bruises along his temple and eye.  He looked like hell hadn't been kind to him.  "Was it you?"

"Yes."

She had her mouth open, ready to tell him not to lie to her, not to manipulate her, but when she heard his honest reply, she was left speechless for a second.

He shifted again, rolling his shoulders back a few times and cracking his neck.  "Went there to get some smokes and..." he paused, clearing his throat, "a few other things.  They irritated me--"

They--" she stopped, beyond shocked at his admission.  Her eyes widened on him, unable to believe he'd killed them over something so flimsy. "And if I happen to irritate you, are you going to kill me too?"  She shook her head at herself, angry that she'd allowed herself to get into this position.

"No," he said forcefully, tipping his head back to look her more fully in the eye.  "No, I won't hurt you.  I won't even hurt the others.  I wouldn't do that to you."

Right, she thought.  Just to strange girls he didn't know, and who knew who else.  "You killed two girls because they annoyed you, I can't--"

"It was the first time I was able to kill a human since getting chipped."  His anger rose with every word until he was practically growling.  "I only wanted to scare them, to get them to shut up and stop their incessant giggling.  But, there wasn't any pain.  For the first time in over a year," he said softly, almost reverently, "there was no pain, and I-- I got carried away."

She frowned, not sure if she liked this newest wrinkle.  It was hard to get a grip on anything while it was clear and defined, by the time she reached out for it, something shifted and she was grasping at empty air.

Spike was evil, then semi-evil, then partially good, and now he was evil again.  What was she supposed to believe?

His eyes were sincere, drawing her into his explanation, tempting her with its simplicity.  She could understand the sudden bloodlust, overwhelming in its accessability.  If she'd been kept from eating chocolate cake for a year and then had a slice shoved in front of her face, could she resist?

Probably not.

But chocolate cake didn't live and breathe and die.  It didn't suffer when she ate it.  There was the difference.

She sighed, wondering how she was supposed to deal with this. Understanding didn't lead to acceptance.  She could never accept him killing, and he wouldn't be able to accept not killing, not being able to do what came naturally to him.

Right now she couldn't make any decisions, not while staring down at his bloody and bruised face.  "I'll be right back."

She sighed again and left the room, leaving him to his suspicious looks and glares.  The bathroom off to the right had a stack of clean towels folded in a box by the door for those nights when they returned bloody and filthy.  Or when Buffy worked up a sweat during training.  Who knew she'd have to use one because Buffy had a little too much fun with Spike's face?

Grabbing a hand towel off the rack and a folded blue towel from the box, she shoved the larger one under her arm and pushed the smaller one under the faucet.

Turning on the tap, she wondered how Diana could possibly think her happiness lay with Spike.  He was evil, he killed for pleasure.  This wasn't a good thing in her book, not something that led to happiness and love-filled moments unless you were a vampire or a demon.

It led to blood and death.

An image sprang to mind... of her, dressed in leather, wearing more makeup than she'd ever worn in her life, striding through town in high heels, searching for her next kill.  Her next meal.

Water splashed on her hand, burning her as it soaked into the towel and her skin.  She jerked her hand free, shutting off the faucet with a hiss.  Throwing the dripping towel into the bottom of the stained sink, she cranked the cold water up and stuck her hand under it.

"Stupid idiot," she mumbled, hissing again at the cold water flowing over the red marks on her thumb and forefinger.  Slightly higher up, she caught sight of an emerging bruise, circling her wrist along with a few half-moon marks.  "Hey.  What the heck?"  She rubbed the sore skin with a glare at the partially-opened door, trying to burn scorch marks across the street and singe the man behind the counter at the Espresso Pump.

Wringing out the warm white hand towel, squeezing all the excess water out, she shut off the faucet and went back into the training room with Spike.

He watched her approach, rolling his eyes at the towels she carried.

Kneeling on his right side, she set the big towel on the floor and leaned forward with the damp hand towel.

"Leave it be," he growled, jerking his head away.

"No."  She reached up and grabbed his chin, turning his face toward her.  She settled her left hand on his thigh and wiped his forehead free of blood, being careful not to be gentle.  With every wince and hiss, she gentled her touch a little more, but stopped when she realized what she was doing.

Taking the corner of the red end of the formerly white towel, she swiped it across the wound, feeling no satisfaction at his growl of pain.

"You know," she said thoughtfully, "I get why you did it.  I do.  But, I can't just sit back and watch you kill every night."  She stared in disgust and anger at the gash she'd exposed just under the hairline.  It was three inches long and nasty-looking and if he wasn't a vampire, she was sure he'd need stitches.

Her eyes slid to his, moving away from the blood and cut skin, the bruised and scraped flesh.

"Well, bully for you," he said sarcastically, staring past her at the brick wall.

She ignored him and continued with her train of thought.  "I even understand it.  I'd probably do the same thing, but--"

He hissed in pain again, jerking away from the towel with a glare aimed her way.  "I don't want your bloody sympathy and... 'understanding'," he told her as if they were filthy, disgusting things.  "Look, it was a one-time thing that I don't intend to repeat.  But, I also don't intend to snack on pig's blood for the rest of my non-life."

She continued to wipe at the blood, not letting herself feel her heart hardening.  Her thumb wiped at a clean spot on his cheek, softly caressing the scraped skin.  There was a breath in her chest somewhere, dying to get out, but she held it in, knowing that if she let it out, she'd have to draw in another, and she didn't want to.  She was tired of the constant fight for clarity.

"Let me go, Willow."  His sudden change of tone, from angry and hateful to low and cajoling, drew her attention from his injuries.

She shook her head, returning her attention to his face.   It was a little swollen, and the black and blue bruising was already in an advanced state which meant he'd been here a while.

"I can't.  We just need to figure this thing out.  Couldn't you just..." she shrugged, frowning at the sticky hair slicked with blood by his temple.  She hated this.  Hated that she was losing something that felt right in her life.  Once again, she was losing someone close to her because of something she couldn't control.  Sighing, she resumed wiping his cheek.  "You could get blood from the hospital instead of killing," she suggested.

Seeing his unwavering stare and the scoff he tried not to let out, she nodded.

"Well, I can't just let you go."  Her eyes drifted to his again, softening the slightest bit at the defeat she found there.  "Buffy would probably hunt you down and kill you."

He exhaled explosively, nodding at the reality of her words.  "What I said the other night still goes.  Murderers, rapists... that's what I'll feed on from now on."

She wanted to say yes.  More than anything in that moment, she wanted to smile and nod and let him go, walking off into the sunset with him, though, that probably wasn't a good idea with him liable to burst into flames from it.  But, she wanted to agree and live happily ever after.

She deserved that, didn't she?  Heartache had claimed her more than her fair share of times in her short dating life, so, really she felt like she deserved to be able to just say screw it and go be with the man she cared for.  Half of her was tugging her in that direction, even going so far as to make her slide her hand across to his other cheek, cupping it as she gazed into his eyes with longing.

Longing for everything she wasn't going to get, because the rest of her was rebelling, forcing her to drop her hand and shake her head sadly.

He drew in a deep breath, searching her face for a hint of compromise, looking a little desperate.  When she still didn't give in, he closed his eyes in frustration.  "I won't kill them, how's that?  I'll leave them alive."  His voice was even, his eyes clear and sincere when he opened them again, holding her gaze with his own.  "Let me out of here. Please."

"What's so important that you can't wait a while?" she asked a little suspiciously.

He growled, shaking his arms and rattling the handcuffs against the chair back.  His whole body shook as he rocked back and forth.

When he settled back down, she sighed, watching the fury on his face fade away, replaced by... something she knew all too well.  She'd seen it enough times over the past month or more to know it at first sight. What now? she thought.  And why did everything always get turned back around on her?

His head raised up, his eyes opening slowly to stare at her angrily. "Moved on already, have you?"

"Moved-- what?"  Her eyes darted to his face incredulously, unable to believe he thought... well, okay, she didn't actually know what he thought, but it wasn't something good.  It was all hard stares and accusation.  "Spike," she sighed, trying to heave herself out from under the weight of the world he'd placed on her shoulders sometime before. "I have no idea what you're talking about."  Standing up, she dropped the towel to the floor and stared down at him.

"Oh, right," he laughed scornfully, rolling his eyes as he turned his face away briefly, then turned right back to burn his eyes into hers. "And I suppose the man I smell all over you is 'just a friend'."

She opened her mouth to ask him what kind of drugs Buffy had forced down his throat when she realized what he was talking about.  Rolling her own eyes, she shoved her arm under his nose.  "That smell?" she asked in a low voice, forcing herself not to use that fist to hit him with, or poke him or something.  "The guy at the Espresso-- wait.  You know what?" she asked furiously, having had enough of everything for the moment.  "It's none of your business.  I don't get details about what you do, who you kill, then you don't get details about strange men who decide they want to touch me."

His eyes focused on the bruises ringing her flesh in a mirror of his own bruising the other night and she saw the moment he went from raging jealousy to concerned boyfriend.  He pulled his arms, trying to break the handcuffs or the chair, she wasn't sure which, and only ended up cutting into his own wrists.

"Stop it," she yelled over the clunking and scraping of the chair on the cement floor.  She circled around to the back of the chair and rested her hands on his.  Her fingers slid on the blood wringing his wrists and dripping down his hands.  "Will you stop it?"  Tightening her hand around his, she glanced at the door, expecting one of her friends to come barreling into the room, stake at the ready, but it remained empty.

When he continued straining his arms, about to dislocate both shoulders, she stood up and moved back in front of him.

His head was lowered as he concentrated on his useless attempts.  She stuck her bloody fingers in front of his face, raising his head with her un-bloodied hand.  "This is all you're doing.  There's a magick barrier around you."

"Then free me, damn it."  He rocked the chair back and forth.

"Why?" she said reasonably.  "So you can go kill him?"

His struggles stopped, his head raising so that he could look up at her.  "Yes."  His eyes landed on her fingers, sticky with his blood.  He actually licked his lips, causing just a little bit of queasiness to shoot through her.

It was gross; very, very gross, but it was a part of him.   Part of what made him... him.  So, here now was her chance to see his side of things.  To explore that part of him that scared her so much.  His blood obsession.

"Do you..." she trailed off, unable to think of an appropriate way of asking him if he wanted to lick the blood off of her fingers.  Instead, she held them out with an uncomfortable shrug.

His eyes, still on her fingers, didn't move when he nodded. She did. She closed the small distance between them, stopping only when her knees hit the side of his right thigh.  Fighting the disgust associated with knowing exactly what was on her fingers, and what was about to be licked off, she raised her hand to his mouth and waited, letting him make that final move.

Despite her feelings of nausea, she closed her eyes and let Spike lick her fingers.

His lips opened, his tongue sliding out to circle around the tip of her thumb as his mouth closed around it.  The sensation was odd, reminding her of his own finger in her mouth, keeping her from screaming as she orgasmed.  He sucked on it, drawing it further into his mouth as he let out a low moan from deep in his throat, making her knees go a little weak.

Or maybe it was the images of them in bed that was doing it.  The image of Spike between her legs, sliding his tongue inside her as his finger slid between her lips, stifling the screaming she was doing a piss-poor job of halting.

Her hand tightened on the back of the chair, digging into the wood as her legs tried to give out.  He was still moaning as she slipped her forefinger into his mouth, and he wasn't the only one.  She was doing a fair amount of moaning herself.  She looked down at him, watching his face as he licked her clean-- her fingers.  Licked her fingers clean... not other... oh, boy.  She needed to sit down.

His smile was wicked and predatory, filled with an enormous amount of smugness as he pulled free of her finger for a second.  "Have a seat, love."  The blue of his eyes darkened as he lowered them to his lap before raising them back to her with a wink.

"Yeah, right," she scoffed, rolling her eyes away from him.  And then, feeling that wasn't enough, she scoffed again, just to show him how much she didn't believe his gall.  "Done?"

He shook his head slowly, licking his lips even more slowly, drawing it out as long as he possibly could.  She wasn't positive, but she was pretty sure her insides were quivering, just from that look in his eyes, and the desire written plainly on his face.

"You want more?" she asked, damning her shaking voice for giving her away.  Well, she could do more.  And it wouldn't affect her at all.  She was made of sterner stuff than that.  It was just that she'd already been feeling all gooey toward him, and-- and nothing.  Shoving her middle finger against his lips, she stared at the wall and clinically waited for him to finish.

His lips touched the tip of her finger, his tongue darting out to taste the blood.  The rhythmic sucking motion didn't bring to mind anything other than the extremely sexy man in front of her sucking on her flesh, stimulating her body like a damn porno movie.

As he drew her finger deeper into his mouth, she pressed closer to his thigh, opening her legs a little.  He moaned again, and she could stand it no longer.  She pulled her hand away from him and grabbed the wet towel from the floor, wiping the blood from her hands.  Moving around to stand in front of him, she looked down at him.  He watched her steadily, not letting too much hope shine through, but neither did he let a ton of disappointment show.

She saw it though.  For some reason, she could read him like never before.  Maybe because she was looking now, paying attention.

And that changed her mind.  She'd fully intended to leave him there.  To walk out of the room and go talk her friends into letting him go, hoping they'd agree if he promised to leave town again, and this time stay gone.  But that look in his eyes, the hope and the disappointment... it made her rethink her decision.

Would it really hurt anyone if she gave him--and herself--a little happiness before marching out of the room and pleading with her friends?  Probably.  But, she didn't care anymore.  She wanted something that wasn't right, and wasn't proper.  Something that was wrong and possibly forbidden.

So, casting a quick glance at the doorway, she straddled his thighs, moaning aloud as her jeans stretched tight against her aroused clit.

He chuckled in surprise, but the chuckle died in his throat as she settled down on him.  A strangled gasp escaped him.  "Scoot up," he whispered, groaning when she rubbed against the bulge in his jeans, stretched taut over his erection.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, asking herself what the hell she was doing.  Buffy and the others were in the other room, and she really hoped they didn't catch her doing... well, anything with Spike.  At all.

But she also didn't care.

Tightening her arms around him, she sighed, settling closer against him.  His mouth settled on her neck, kissing lightly against the pulse point.  She didn't immediately pull away, didn't scream and accuse him of trying to bite her, but she did stiffen a little.  She did worry.

"Relax," he said huskily, licking the skin behind her ear, making her shudder against him.  His teeth nipped her earlobe, drawing the flesh into his mouth.

She did relax, contrary to every instinct in her body screaming at her to get up and run away.  She melted into him and moaned at the intense feelings pouring through her.  His hips raised the slightest bit, pressing the bulge in his jeans against her clit in just the right way, making her gasp at the intensity of it.  Lust was one thing, this... oh, this was more.  This was desire mixed with love and a sprinkling of gotta-have-him-now-or-die.

"You do all the right things to me," she whispered in his ear, threading her fingers through his hair.  "How do you do that?"

He chuckled softly, his chest rumbling against hers, sending shivers of delight through her.  "Let me go and see what I can really do," he said huskily, his voice full of promise.  His lips tugged at her skin, creating a hickey with the slow, intense sucking he was applying.  "Last night was just a taste."

She shivered again when his teeth scraped against the sensitive flesh and then his tongue flicked the bruising.  "Mmm," she moaned, sliding her hands down his back, as he lifted his hips again, pressing so nicely against her clit.  She gasped, then gasped again when he repeated the motion, moving faster, pleasing her in more ways than one.  "Nice..." she sighed, settling more firmly against him.

"I'd like to touch that gorgeous body of yours," he mumbled, pressing a necklace of kisses around her throat.  "Run my hands over your back..." his tongue darted out, sucking on the other side of her neck, the fresh, virgin flesh he hadn't touched yet.  "Slide my fingers across your skin, feel you react to my touch."

As if she wasn't reacting to just his voice.  Good, Lord... she was practically coming just from listening to what he wanted to do to her. "Don't stop."

He licked her earlobe and raised his hips again, smiling against her neck.  "Let me go and I'll never stop--"

Her eyes popped open as his words registered.  "What?" she croaked out, sitting up and moving away from him.  Every inch of her screamed again, this time to stay where she was, not to leave his lap no matter what. She ignored her body and climbed off of his lap.  "You--" she ground out, trying to talk past the anger.  Tears swam in her eyes, and she didn't care.  Not anymore.  He'd pushed her too far this time.  "Son of a bitch."

He closed his eyes with a groan, dropping his head back again.  "I need to get out of here.  There's--" he lifted his head again, staring at her, pleading with her.

With her!  He had some nerve.  Stupid... jerk.  Forcing herself to remain calm when all she wanted to do was encourage the magick in her to grow so she could behead him, or something less deadly, she crossed her arms over her chest and waited for an explanation.  "Why are you so anxious to get out of here?"

"It's not important," he told her, looking away.  "I just do."

"Not good enough."  She paced away, then paced back, keeping herself restrained with short, angry movements, that way she wouldn't smack him as she passed by, cold-cocking him like she wanted to.  "Even if I wanted to let you go--which I don't--you screwed up."

"Fine," he sighed, staring straight at her.  "That friend of mine? She's in my crypt, and I need to go... I need to--" he stopped, at a loss as to what lie to feed her.

"Oh.  Oh, your friend."  Smiling in a not-so-friendly manner, she shrugged, watching him struggle for more lies.  "I can go check on her. Make sure she's--"

"No," he said too-loudly, too-quickly as sudden panic lit his eyes.  She saw the struggle it took for him to calm down, to keep her from becoming even more suspicious than she already was.  She also knew that he realized it was too late.

"Yeah, I think I'll definitely be paying her a visit."  She bent down and picked up the towels, tossing them in the box by the door.  "Maybe have a little chat."

"Willow, don't go.  Please.  Just--" he shook his arms, once again trying to free himself.  "Just let me out of here."  He pleaded with her again, and got the same response.  His desperation grew exponentially. "For God's sake, Willow, just let me out of here," he shouted, begging her with his eyes not to go.

She looked into his face one last time before leaving the room.  There was such desperation there that it was beyond her to stop herself from going.  She had to know what was so bad that he was begging her.

She had no idea what it was, she suspected a woman he was involved with, the 'friend' he had assured her was just a friend.  Maybe humans chained inside, bleeding themselves to feed him... or well, him bleeding them since the chip wasn't a problem anymore.  But wouldn't Buffy had spotted them when she grabbed Spike?

And how had she grabbed Spike?  Knocked him out, beat him up and dragged him to the shop?

Spike's eyes dropped to his lap as he sighed, knowing she was going. "I'm--" he paused, chuckling darkly at himself, shaking his head in self-deprecation.  His shoulders lifted in a shrug as his eyes raised to hers, holding her gaze until she turned and left the room.

~Part: 18~

Willow cautiously approached Spike's crypt, not sure what she was going to find inside.  It was still daylight and birds were chirping in the warm afternoon sunlight.  Tree branches swayed to and fro above her and the crypt, alternately shadowing and lighting her way.

Her fear level wasn't too high up there since Spike hadn't warned her about anything that might hurt her and she didn't think he wanted her hurt.  In his own way, she was sure he did care about her, just like she cared about him.  Only a little less strongly.  He loved wholly and completely; she knew that from listening to him cry on her shoulder about Drusilla, but she also knew that until recently, he hadn't even noticed her, so how could he love her?

Maybe he'd decided that since he couldn't have Buffy, he'd try his chances with her.  The best friend of the woman he loved.  Or, maybe she just needed to shut her thought processes off and go inside the crypt she was staring at.

The door was open a little, looking... if not inviting, then at least a little beckoning.  She stretched her arm out and lightly pushed on the heavy metal door.  It creaked loudly, the hinges screeching in an ear-piercing way as it swung open.  Her eyes couldn't quite penetrate the darkness that greeted her, making her nerves jangle with expectation.  What was inside?  What was so all-fire important to Spike?

Drusilla.

That was the only answer that came to mind.  If she was in here, he wouldn't want her found, or hurt.  Then again, it was pretty darn logical that he would've warned her if that was the case.

So, taking a deep breath, she stepped up on the threshold and paused, listening for signs of life.  Or animation at least.  Nothing jumped out at her, no screams met her ears, and not even one bug flew at her.  Good signs all.  Her other foot joined the first one and she was inside the doorway, pausing, once again waiting and listening.

But there was nothing there except the sarcophagus where she'd seen Spike doing... stuff with a woman she hadn't even seen and probably didn't know.  That minute jealousy she'd felt at hearing the other woman talking to Spike flared up into a full-fledged jealousy, raging free inside her.

There'd better not be a woman in here.

Striding confidently into Spike's crypt, she carefully inspected the interior, noting the blood staining the floor, and the lighter lines of concrete, scrapes on the floor caused by something being dragged. Spinning around in confusion, she shrugged to herself, wondering what on earth Spike was so antsy about.  There was nothing here.  A chair, a sarcophagus, a few half-burned candles... a completely bare square spot under her feet.

Looked like something had been there until recently.  Kneeling down, she slid her finger through the dust surrounding the spot, eyeing the chair.  The brown and off-white stripes on the old thing went all the way down to the floor in a sort of dust ruffle thing, hiding the legs. It was square.

Resting her hands on her thighs, she pushed herself to her feet and grabbed hold of the chair.  It was odd because... it still smelled like him.  Like cigarettes and alcohol and something indefinable that was uniquely Spike.  Normally she wasn't a big ole fan of the smelling thing, but at times like these, with pain and hurt involved, she seemed to always find it comforting.  When Oz left her, she'd slept in one of his old t-shirts, surrounded by the smell that was only his.

When Xander was gone for the summer, driving across the country, she'd kept one of his old stuffed animals in her room, hugging it to her when she missed him.

Spike's smell was nice too.  All him.  There was a dark musky scent that made her skin tingle and her fingertips itch to touch him.  Her lower lip slid between her teeth, wanting to taste Spike.

Pushing the chair to its former spot, wincing at the loud scraping sound as it moved across the stone floor, she stared at the trapdoor she'd exposed.

"Aha," she mumbled, not making a move to open it.  "Could be evil things in there.  Could be cute little fluffy bunnies too.  Either or."

One foot slipped forward, the toe of her shoe playing with the handle. The small metallic clinking had her glancing around to make sure no one was near enough to hear.  The need to know pounded through her, making her pulse race and her hands sweat.  Something was down there and she sure as hell needed to know what it was.  This was one of those times in life.  Walk away or continue down the road.

She had no other choice but to continue down the road, even if it held the heartbreak she expected it to hold.  Silly, maybe, but the only thoughts that were spinning in her mind, crashing wildly against her skull were thoughts of another woman being down there.  There was no fear of evil things and bodies piled against the walls like cordwood. No, her entire thought process was stuck in 'he has a girlfriend' mode and no matter how she tried to derail it, her darn brain wouldn't listen.

It didn't care if he had killed or tortured.  It didn't care if people were suffering because he'd left them to die down there... all it cared about was quickly getting over the pain, just ripping that Band-aid off with one pull rather than prolonging the torment with small jerks.

So she knelt by the door, wrapped her hand around the cold handle and yanked the door off.

More darkness.  Oh yay.  What was it with... well, duh.  Fire-issues. She grabbed a candle from the wall, wrapping her fingers around the stick of creamy wax to pull it free of the sconce it was in and touched the tip of her finger to the wick.

She couldn't remember the Latin word for light so she just whispered it in English.  A small flame crackled and flared to life, startling her. She yanked it away from her face and took a deep breath, choking on the acrid smoke.  Waving her hand in front of her face to clear the smoke away, she headed toward the trapdoor.

"Here goes nothing," she muttered, holding the candle over the hole.

There was a wooden ladder leading down about six feet, and a dusty dirt floor.  She stuck her head down inside, trying to get a look around, but all she could see was the floor and walls that used to be earth.  Now they were carved earth with coffins sticking out of them.  Neat.

Her hand wrapped around the top of the ladder before she was even aware that she'd made the decision to go downstairs.  The cool wood in her palm helped to ground her, to keep her from freaking out about going into a dark hole with possible unknown bad things inside.

Like in her dream.  Funny how that kept happening.

Holding the candle in one hand, she stepped down on the first rung of the ladder and slowly descended into... hell?

If there was a woman here, and she was involved with Spike, then yes, this would be her hell.  Her shoes clunked on each rung as she stepped down, her hands, slicked with sweat, nearly dropped the candle, and herself as well.  She kept a tight grip and took the last step down, standing firmly on the dirt floor as she turned to get her first good look around.

The light cast shadows on the walls, making everything waver eerily back and forth.  The yellow light extended all the way to the far side of the cavern, illuminating large rocks with candles placed on them.  There was a mattress against the far wall with a mess of blankets and sheets on it.  To her right, in the small alcove beside the ladder, was an old wooden table with a cardboard box on it.

No one was there.  No woman, no man, no demon.  No dead bodies either. Immense relief poured through her and she let her breath out in a rush.

Spike's bed was tempting her closer, drawing her in with a promise of his scent.  But so too was the box.

Casting a quick glance around, she decided box first, bed second.  Maybe this small cardboard box was what was so important to Spike.  Her mood was lighter than before since... well, she was sure there wasn't a woman hiding inside the box, but she was still cautious as she moved toward the table.  The lone box sat atop it on the far side, pushed to the back, but not completely out of the way.  The flaps were tucked inside or torn off; it was hard to tell in this light.  But the box itself looked rather worn, like it'd seen better days back in the 80's.

Her footsteps were soundless, but kicked up little clouds of dust because she was shuffling her feet.  She couldn't help it.  Being in a strange place while expecting strange things to pop out at her at any moment didn't lend itself to big movements and a careless attitude.  She was the careful one, always had been, always... well, there was nothing wrong with being careful.  Otherwise you could get dead.

She set the candle down on the table, laying it so the lit end hung off the edge, and then moved around it to grab the box.  It slid across the dusty gritty surface with a loud scrape, making more noise than she had since entering his crypt.  She held herself still, half expecting a screeching female vampire to come crashing into her, throwing her to the ground to rip her throat out.

No body flung itself at her, so she stood on tiptoes to peer into the box.  It looked to be filled with pictures and--she dropped back down on her heels with a frown--a wig?

Spike was a cross-dresser?  That's what had him so wigged about her coming over here?  Well that was just stupid.  Spike didn't-- uh-uh.  He was way too into the manly leather thing.  Although, maybe sometimes he liked to sit back and relax in a nice black teddy and a woman's wig.

She burst out laughing, imagining Spike sitting upstairs in his chair, smoking and drinking, wearing nothing but lingerie, high heels and a wig, one leg draped casually over the chair arm.  It was too funny.  And a bit intimidating.

Yanking the box closer, she reached in and pulled out the wig, staring at the red strands that spilled over her arm like water.  It was her hair.  Only, in a wig-way.

Maybe Spike wasn't in love with her; maybe he wanted to *be* her.

"Gah!" she yelled, throwing the offensive wig onto the tabletop.  This was too creepy.

She heard rustling cloth behind her, but put it down to being freaked out and refrained from jumping and spinning with a scream.  Being an accomplished wiccan with a death to her name and a whole heck of a lot of slaying, she had no reason to be a 'fraidy cat.  So she composed herself and turned, staring in shock as the woman previously buried under the blankets sat up and blinked at her.

The woman tilted her head to the side as she pushed free of the blankets.  Her face was blank, her eyes staring straight ahead.  One hand reached behind her and unplugged something from the wall with a strong yank.

Willow's breath left her in a rush and she was unable to draw anymore in for a few seconds.  "Oh my God," she muttered, feeling nauseous.  Her stomach flipped and flopped and rolled itself around.

Her eyes widened as the woman, still silent, not even seeming to see her, sat up straighter, dropping the sheets to her lap, revealing a length of wires planted in the hatch in her stomach.  Tiny blinking lights, alternating between red and green and numerous other colors lit the small area.  She pulled the plug free of her stomach and closed the flap, dropping the cords to the dusty floor, pushing them out of sight.

As soon as she was done, her eyes lit up and her face came to life, her mouth opening in a parody of a yawn, too wide and too breathless to be real.  "Spike--" she began, then halted as she finally caught sight of Willow standing across the room.  Her forehead wrinkled and her brows dipped into a frown, her eyes showing her confusion.

Willow was right there with her.  She opened her mouth to say something, but came up empty, unable to do anything but stare at herself staring at herself.  Her own frown was deep and confused and probably matched the robot's.  Oh God.  Covering her mouth with her hand, she sank to her knees, taking in deep breaths of air and swallowing desperately, trying to keep from upchucking on Spike's dirt floor.

The robot version of her pushed her small black shirt down over her stomach and stood up.  Thankfully she was fully clothed. There was a pair of faded black jeans on her, and-- hey, those were her clothes! How'd Spike get her clothes?

Oh, he was so in trouble!

Using the table to haul herself to her feet, she shoved away the sickness rising in her and concentrated on the robot.

"Who are you and what have you done with Spike?" the robot asked.  Her voice was identical to Willow's, and oddly enough, had the same inflections.  Her red hair, longer than Willow's, swayed back and forth as she came to a stop in front of Willow.  She crossed her arms over her chest and glared, looking mighty angry and threatening.

"I..." Willow whispered, disappointed with herself when all she could get out was a single syllable.  She swallowed and licked her lips, trying again.  "I'm Willow."  She stopped, and couldn't help asking, "Are you and Spike-- do you-- the two of you, do you, um...?"  She couldn't say it, couldn't get it past stiff lips that were holding back curses of the magickal variety and cussing of the language variety.

What right did Spike have to do anything with... her?  In any form or fashion, without her knowledge.  She stared in disgust at the robot version of her.  Spike was a sick, sick man.

The robot smiled at the mention of Spike and nodded eagerly.  "We 'um' quite a lot."  Her smile faded when Willow didn't return hers.  She continued to examine her, even circling around slowly, tilting her head this way and that.  "I'm confused.  There are two of me."  Her voice turned perky, another small smile raising her lips.  "We're pretty." Seconds later, the smile faded and her eyes narrowed suspiciously.  She stopped in front of Willow and raised her hand, almost as if to touch Willow's hair, before drawing back suddenly.  "Are you a robot or a demon?"

Well, okay, hello.  She hadn't just unplugged herself from a wall, so who of the two was actually a robot?  Duh.  Of course, maybe she didn't know that.  Her face had been pretty blank while she pulled the plug from the wall.

How creepy was that?

Too creepy.  Creepy enough that Willow was going to inform her of what she was and then shut her off and go have a nice long chat with Spike. The nausea had passed, but there was a knot in her stomach now, sinking further and further as she stood there.  Spike had been... doing God knew what with that-- thing all the while he was hanging around her, trying to seduce her.  Why?

The nausea was back, keeping up a steady feeling of ickiness.  Crossing her arms over her chest, she stepped back, away from the possible danger standing in front of her.  "You're a robot," she said quietly, "not me."  She felt sorry for the poor little mechanical thingamabobber.  She obviously had no clue she was running on batteries and sucking down motor oil.  And that Spike was using her.

The robot shook her head with a slightly bemused look, scoffing lightly.  "I am flesh and blood, not a..." she paused, staring past Willow at the box on the table and the wig splayed out like a scalped trophy.  Her eyes focused slowly on Willow, her head tilting to the side curiously.  "Spike once asked me if someone had altered my programming... does he believe I'm a robot?  Have you seduced him and convinced him you're the real Willow?"  Her eyes dropped to her hand as she clenched it into a fist.

She looked so devastated that Willow altered her plan to immediately tell her what she was.

And to make things worse, she was about to comfort Spike's disgusting sex-toy.  Stepping closer, she hesitantly patted the bot on her shoulder a few times.  "No.  I didn't seduce him."  Ha.  More like he'd seduced her, and how.

Robot-Willow nodded slowly, lowering her fist to her side and straightening her fingers out.  "Good, because I love him.  Is he alright?"  Her bright eyes peered into Willow's, her lips turning up in a friendly smile.  "Do you know where he is?  I miss him."

"Uh, I think he's at the Magic Box."  Tied to a chair and possibly being abused by Buffy.  No sharing that though.  If Willow-bot was anything like April then she was strong, deadly strong.  "He's helping with, um, there's some..." she thought frantically, wondering if Bot-Girl knew the dynamics of their friendship with Spike.  "Languages.  Needing deciphered.  Yeah," she said importantly, "could be all night.  Big demon in town."

"Ah, with Guy-les," the bot said wisely, nodding her head with a wide smile, making Willow snort with laughter.  "He's my mentor and father-figure."  She stepped up beside Willow, peering at the box with interest.  "Those are Spike's.  He likes to look at them sometimes."

Willow frowned, pulling out handfuls of pictures.  They all contained one single element, one thing that tied them all together, and if she hadn't been freaked before, she certainly was now.  "They're me," she whispered, looking at picture after picture of her, Buffy, and Xander, and still others with just her.  She was posing for the camera in one with her hand on her hip and her other hand behind her head, grinning at Xander, who was behind the camera.

"No, they're me," Robot-Willow corrected, taking one of the pictures from her.

Willow stared at her for a second before returning to her task.  Another one of the pictures was of her and Buffy, arms wrapped around each other.  The photo was folded in half, creased down the middle so that Buffy was no longer beside her.

Had it started out the other way around?  Had he folded her back originally, not Buffy?

Something small and tingly climbed down her spine, forcing a shudder from her.  She tossed the pictures onto the table and yanked the box closer, grabbing the rest of the contents.

Her pink and lilac sweater was there, along with one of her hair scrunchies.  She dropped them to the floor, staring at them in revulsion.  This was sick.  No.  No, this was so far beyond sick.  Spike was seriously ill.  Stalker-ish.  Again.  Buffy wasn't enough?  Now he had to stalk her too?

The robot shifted toward her, setting the picture in her hands on the table.  "He loves me.  He likes to look at me."  She frowned in confusion, her brow wrinkling in a way that Willow knew all-too-well, she'd done it enough times herself.  "Does he look at you too?"

Willow closed her eyes, fighting back the urge to scream and hit things.  The magick inside her was, thankfully, not enough to do more than light a candle these days, otherwise it was possible that Buffy would walk into a training room filled with nothing but smoke and ashes where Spike used to be.  "Yes.  Yes, he looks at me.  He--" seeing the hurt that crossed the robot's face, she took a deep breath and kept herself from mentioning the time they'd been spending together.  Namely, the night before last.  "He's shocked that I look so much like you. Says it's uncanny."

The robot smiled again, relief shining through that sunny look of hers. "Oh.  Good."

Swallowing thickly, Willow paced away, careful not to kick up too much dust with each step.  At the edge of the mattress, she spun around and asked the question that'd been on her mind since seeing the robot.  "How long have you and Spike been..." oh, for God's sake, she thought to herself, you're old enough to say the damn words, so just say them. "How long have the two of you been fu-- in love?"

That smile on the robot grew exponentially, making Willow wonder if it could just keep going higher and higher, splitting her face in two, baring wires and framing for everyone to see as her head dropped back on her neck, bobbing back and forth, or whether it would eventually have to stop creeping up the sides of her face.

"Three years, two months and fifty-five days," creepy robot girl answered.  "I knew I loved him the night he came to my dorm room."  She paused, tilting her head again, observing Willow solemnly.  "Do you have my memories?  Are you a robot?"

"Yes, I do.  I remember being terrified that night.  I thought he was going to kill me.  Or worse."  Worse being turned into a vampire to hurt Buffy and possibly even kill her.  That, more than anything, made her fear vampires.  She didn't want to turn on her best friends.  Ever. Hence the freaking out over the Ben-thing.

"He would never kill us," the bot chided, striding past her to the bed. She bent down, picking up a book to show Willow.  "He loves us.  See? He gave me presents; magick books!"  Her proud smile left a lot to be desired in Willow.

She glanced over at the familiar book, recognizing it as one of the ones she'd given him a few days before for his 'friend'.  "He doesn't love us," she mumbled, focusing her eyes on something, anything, that wasn't a part of this twisted situation.  Something that wouldn't make her think about how much it hurt her to know that she would never be able to be with him again.  Never.  This just wasn't something she could look past and forgive.  "He's using you."  Settling her eyes on the one thing that brought to bear all that hurt she was trying to avoid, she crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

Waited for the artificial being in front of her to deny that she was being used.

The robot's sunny smile slipped a little as she shook her head in denial.  "My blonde god would never use me," she told Willow angrily, her frown deepening.

"Your blonde god," Willow snorted, bursting into bitter gales of laughter.  "Bet he loves that name.  Look, uh, Willow... Spike is evil."  When the robot only continued to stare back at her blankly, she rolled her eyes and clarified.  "He's a vampire. He kills people.  In fact," she said quietly, reminded of how she'd come to be there in the first place, "he killed two girls a few nights ago."

"I know," the robot said solemnly.  "I told him to only kill bad people, and he said he would."

"That was your idea?" Willow said angrily, dropping her arms with a sigh.  "Killing bad people doesn't make it okay.  It's still killing, no matter what light you put on it."

Willow-bot smiled and nodded, looking about as bright as a dim flashlight bulb dying in the night.  "He loves me," she repeated.

Apparently that was her end-all be-all answer to everything.  "Great. Love conquers all, right?"  When the robot nodded enthusiastically, Willow exhaled in disgust.  "No it doesn't.  It makes it wrong and messy."  Seeing the unwavering defense of Spike on the robot's face, she sighed and rolled her eyes.  Deep inside of her, there was a question swimming around, waiting for her to ask it.

Waiting to be acknowledged.

She cleared her throat and damned herself for being so curious.  For wanting to know, and even more, for opening her mouth and actually asking.  "How did you two, you know, get together the first time?"  Did it matter? she asked herself, was it going to change anything?  No.  But it might satisfy a little of her curiosity.

The robot smiled widely--was there any other kind with her?--and dropped down to the bed.  "Spike likes me to tell him about that too.  I mean, you know, when we made love the first time," she clarified, sounding like she was imitating Willow's way of talking.  "I was afraid he was using me.  That he was going to kill me afterwards.  But he didn't." She glanced sideways at Willow, looking sad all of a sudden.  "You don't have my memories."

Willow skirted around the robot and sat on the other edge of the mattress with a shake of her head, trying not to think of what that bed had seen and heard and felt.  Tried not to wonder about it either.  Her hand lowered to the mattress, her thumb rubbing the fabric softly.  "I don't have... no, I don't."  Consciously raising her hands from the mattress, she set them in her lap and focused her attention on the robot.

Her sad look was still there, lamenting the fact that Willow didn't know the touch and feel of Spike.  The taste and the smell of him, the way he-- okay, Willow, enough, she chastised herself.  Concentrate on the robot.  The icky sex-bot beside her.  Okay, that helped.

Suddenly, that sad look fled, replaced by a look of extreme excitement. "Oh!" the bot chirped, holding the book up triumphantly.  "I could do a spell to make you remember.  There's one in here."

"A spell?" Willow choked out, hiding her laughter behind a cough or two.  "Uh, no, really that's okay."  She turned and gestured to her, smiling in a friendly manner.  "Why don't you just tell me?"

The robot's face fell and her hands dropped to her lap.  "I know my magick is unreliable and sketchy at best, and that it always goes wonky, but..." she looked at the book in her lap and shrugged.  "I've been reading a lot."

Willow sighed, staring at the book as well.  She knew the spell the robot wanted to do, and she also knew it wasn't that difficult a spell. And, more importantly, she was pretty damn positive that a robot couldn't do spells.  So would it really hurt her to let the poor... thing have a go at it?  "Okay," she agreed.  "But, if it doesn't work, not on account of your skills or anything," she rushed to assure the robot before her face could fall completely into depression, "then you can just tell me and I'd be okay with that."

The robot grinned and jumped up, shoving the book at Willow.  "I have ingredients for spells here--" she stopped suddenly, biting her lip with a sideways look.  "Don't tell Spike, okay?  He doesn't know I leave here, and... he'll be mad.  So, could you not?"

Willow frowned, curious to know why the robot was sounding more and more human.  She nodded, staying silent as she watched the robot cross to the rock beside the bed and lift the candle carefully before setting it aside with a small smile.  "Spike likes the smell.  He says it reminds him of me," she told Willow, having the grace to look embarrassed as she hefted the rock over on its side and lifted out a bag of herbs.

"Oh, look," Willow mumbled, wrapping her arms around her knees, "we've got herbs and not even the funny kind that gives ya the munchies." Resting her chin in one hand, she watched the robot prepare the spell, not paying much attention to the particulars.  She wasn't too concerned that it would work.  "Is that larkspur?" she asked idly as the robot pulled a few small purple flowers from a stem and dropped them into a pile on a flat part of the rock.

"Uh-huh," she mumbled, dropping something yellow--a dandelion?--into the mix.  Her attention was solely on the spell she was mixing, going from that to the book beside her.  Willow was pretty sure her lips even moved as she traced her finger across the page, reading it closely.  She picked up the candle and looked around for a match.  "I can't light it."

Willow pushed herself to her feet and joined the robot by the rock. Touching her fingertip to the wick, she mumbled, "Light."  The candle lit, the flame flaring up a small bit, nothing like the previous candle she'd lit upstairs, but enough to work.

The robot stared raptly at the flame, her eyes widening.  "You did that without using Latin," she whispered, biting her lip.  "You are a demon."

Willow shook her head and sat cross-legged on the floor by the book. "Nope, flesh and blood-- uh, human flesh and blood.  I just know a lot about magick."

"Oh," the robot said, frowning as she tried to find her place on the page of the book.  She once again traced her finger down to the middle and picked up where she'd left off.  "If you're human, and I'm human... are we sisters?"

Willow grinned and shook her head with a laugh.  "No.  No, we're not sisters.  Just... two people who happen to look a lot like each other. Like doppelgängers."

"Doppelgängers.  I don't know that word."  Her eyes slid away from Willow's, staring at the wall as she accessed her data banks.  "A person exactly like another; a double.  A wraith, especially of a person not yet dead.  Also doubleganger."

"Nope," Willow muttered, watching her, "you're not a robot. Uh-uh.  No way, no how."  Rolling her eyes, she shifted into a more comfortable position and stretched her neck, trying to work out the kinks still remaining.  Mostly her back was healed, with a few twinges and some bruising, but she still got sore when she didn't stretch or work the muscles.

The robot--Willow refused to think of her as Willow--sprinkled a few more flowers onto the small pile and used her thumb to crush them, though... not an easy task since they weren't dried.  Basically, she had a robot version of her with fresh flowers attempting to work a spell to mess with her memories.

Second thoughts were parading through her, making her hands sweat and her fingers twitch.  "Um, maybe we shouldn't do this," she began, biting her lip nervously.

The robot didn't appear to hear her.  She lifted the candle and dripped some wax onto the flowers.  They sizzled and popped, and the smell of burning leaves wafted throughout the cavern.  "Commemini," the robot whispered, closing her eyes as she reached a hand out to touch Willow's forehead.

Willow felt a burning sensation on her skin and then deeper, penetrating into her skull and then her brain.  She jerked back, out of the robot's reach, wondering if this was the Wickanninish, if she was being burned from the inside out.  Shoving herself to her feet, she closed her eyes, swaying a little.  The pain started to subside, then flared back up, blinding her with the pain and the heat and the-- she screamed, holding her hands to her temples as she dropped to her knees on the cold dirt floor.

"What's wrong?" the robot asked anxiously, trying to pry Willow's hands free.  "Oh no, I did it wrong, didn't I?"  She dropped her hands as Willow opened her eyes and looked at her.  Stepping back, the robot's lip began to tremble, her eyes filling with... something liquid-y.  "I'm sorry," she whispered.  "I should've known better."  She stomped her foot, angry at herself.  "I can never do magick right!"

Willow took a deep breath, followed by another, getting a handle on the pain, or trying to, but it wasn't cooperating.  It burned a path in her mind, lighting fires along the way until her whole body felt like mush with a white hot heat fueling it, smelting her into a pile of goo.

Her eyes drifted shut as she slipped into unconsciousness and fell to the floor.

Willow woke up with a headache the size of Canada.  Something soft was underneath her.  And it smelled good too, like Spike.  Her eyes opened slowly, carefully moving so as not to irritate her grumpy head. Wherever she was, there was apparently a mirror across from her because-- no.  That was a robot.

Willow-bot.

She stifled a giggle, wincing when her head sent up warning signals to cut out the funny business.  Rolling onto her other side, she snuggled into the blankets, inhaling Spike's scent and the smell of burning flowers.  Candle wax was in there too, along with vanilla.  Smoothing her hand on the pillow beneath her head, she sighed and held herself still, not wanting to move.  Not wanting to face reality just yet.

An image of Spike standing across a dark warehouse, pacing back and forth, muttering to himself angrily, came to her, startling her with its clarity and unfamiliarity.  She kept her eyes closed, trying to remember when that had happened.  He stopped suddenly, his eyes landing on her, his lips quirking up slowly, sexily.

He paced toward her, his movements slow and stalker-ish, leading him unerringly toward her.  Her heart was beating frantically, her eyes widening as he approached, licking his lips slowly.

"Don't eat me," she whispered, feeling her lips move and hearing her voice speak, but not having any idea how she'd done that, since she hadn't intended to say anything.  At least not anything as loaded as that.

"Oh," he grinned, sliding a hand down his chest absently, "I'll do that and more if you want."

Willow snapped her eyes open, but the images didn't go away.  She was remembering, from the spell.  Remembering things that hadn't happened, but were engraving themselves into her mind, making them her memories. As soon as she saw and heard and smelled something, it was a part of her.  It was *her* memory.

"P-- please," she sobbed, cringing away from Spike as he stopped in front of her, caressing her with his gaze.  Feeding a sensual need in her with his own want and desire.  "I don't want to die."  She dipped her head down, unable to drop her eyes as easily.  They stayed fixed on the monster in front of her.

His eyes softened the smallest bit as he watched her cower from him. One hand lifted to cup her cheek, his thumb caressing her skin tenderly.  "Love, I don't want to kill you."  He leaned forward, pressing his lips to her forehead, and she somehow knew, as she sat there on the wooden crate with Spike touching her and sliding his lips down to her cheek, that this wasn't the first time he'd kissed her.

He'd done so just minutes earlier after she tried to run from him, barreling out the door with a speed she hadn't known she possessed.  He caught her around the waist, his muscular arms halting her steps as quickly as a dog's leash.  She screamed, kicking at him and trying to scratch him, anything to get away.  He carried her back inside the warehouse and slammed the single door shut, cementing her off from the rest of the world.

And possibly life.

Willow moaned on the mattress on Spike's dirt floor, rolling over restlessly as more images came to mind.

Spike kissing her firmly as she tried her best to make herself invisible to his gaze, that hard, penetrating gaze that locked her in place.  His lips pressed against hers, and she wasn't sure who was more startled. Her, or him.

He yanked back, staring at her as if she'd done something to him, then swept her into his arms, carrying her over to the wooden crate and setting her on top of it.

Muttering and pacing followed, and curses aimed at Drusilla and Angelus.  She was sure she heard him call Angelus the great big poofy one, but she couldn't be sure.  She felt a little like she could relate to him, what with Xander and Cordelia flaunting their repulsive relationship in front of her and everyone else at the Bronze.  She ended up muttering to herself as well, and he stalked over to her, joining in, letting her know he'd seen them all lovey-dovey together, and that he understood how she felt.

"Isn't it awful," he'd asked her, sitting beside her on the crate, "that the one person you're most devoted to is the one who ends up ripping your heart out?"

She'd nodded a little hesitantly, then more enthusiastically as their rants got louder.

Suddenly, from out of the blue, she noticed that Spike's hand was on her thigh, rubbing her absently.  He probably didn't even know he was doing it, but when she clammed up, he looked at her, frowning when he noticed where his hand was.  They both stared at it as he went still.  And then he slid it to her knee, squeezing lightly, his eyes on hers, judging her reaction to him.

Her reaction was mixed, equal parts desire and fear.  So when he leaned toward her, turning her head with the fingers of his other hand and pressed his lips to hers, she'd inhaled slowly, fearfully, and waited. She wasn't sure what she wanted more, him to stop, or to continue, but when his lips moved over hers more fully, his tongue darting out to taste her, she knew she didn't want it to stop.  Not for anything.

Willow, in Spike's cavern, gasped aloud as the two of them kissed frantically, using their hands to touch and caress, to slip inside clothing and unhook things.  The mattress underneath her was too soft, nothing like the stone floor she'd had her first sexual experience on. It didn't smell anything like the duster beneath her that night.  But the feelings inside of her, the desire and need, the growing anticipation of each of Spike's touches, and the taste of his kiss... all of that was there, awakening in her as if she was beneath him right now.

As if his hands were under her shirt, holding her hips still as he thrust into her with no care for her virginity.  A strangled cry left her lips as she remembered the pain, felt it all over again.

Everything suddenly sped up and there was pain on the top of her left breast, like knives piercing her flesh, tearing her skin as she bled into Spike's mouth.  The pain was almost too much, her desire was flagging and she was starting to realize what she was doing.  And who she was doing it with.

He must've felt her stiffen, because he went still as well, moving only his lips and tongue on the wound, sucking her blood from her body.  She was getting drowsy, feeling languid as he finally lifted his mouth from her, raising his head to look at her.  He was human, there wasn't one bump or ridge showing, not one yellow eye piercing her with its feral-ness.  His lips had trace amounts of blood on them, and it grossed her out, but his body was warm on top of hers, his hands, callused and rough, trailed along her arms, down her thighs, touching her in all the right places to get her aroused again.

She closed her eyes against the sight of his bloody lips, holding back her disgust when he licked them and kissed her.  The disgust quickly fell by the wayside when there was no taste of blood on his lips.

A flash, and she was lying on his duster, watching him sleep.  She took it all in, felt it all, every inch of Spike was explored while he slept, though he was unaware of her touches.  She watched him sleep, ran her thumb over his lips before kissing him lightly, thanking him for helping her.  He was drunk, passed out beside her.  After she'd shoved him off of her that is.

Willow opened her eyes, thinking the memories over, but suddenly time sped up and she was in another warehouse with Spike, who was drunk again.  There was a bed, and broken bottles being threatened to be shoved into her brain, but no tenderness, no remembrance on his part. Fear for herself was once again on the menu, and pain and death were sure to be the appetizers.

Spike surprised her, though, by leaving Xander at the school and taking only her.  That was different.  She had the full memory of Spike taking both her and Xander with him that night.  But she also now had this newer memory.  Just her and Spike and a big bed that she couldn't seem to stop staring at.

When he saw her gaze slide to the bed once again, he smirked her way, lifting an eyebrow at her.  "You seem preoccupied with that bed, love." He leaned against the side of it, crossing his feet at the ankle and his arms over his chest, pretending to be thinking hard about something.  He gasped dramatically, holding a hand to his mouth as his eyes lit up. "Oh, did you want to get down and naughty with the demon, pet?"

She shook her head frantically, denying the truth, denying the desire she felt for him just from seeing him again after so long.  Even his voice was effecting her, making her shiver the tiniest bit, just enough for him to notice.  She opened her mouth to tell him to go to hell, to get his jollies elsewhere, but that's not what came out.  Not surprising, since it wasn't her actually in the memory.

She shrank back against the bench she was seated on, ducking her head as he moved up behind her.  A familiar tingle went through her when he lifted her face with his fingers, forcing her to look at him.  There wasn't any softening of his features this time, just a cold, detached appraisal of her face and body as he stood looking down at her.

"I-- I'll do the spell," she promised, shaking free of his grip on her chin, pulling back out of his reach.  Her eyes lifted to his, and the Willow in Spike's crypt wanted to cheer for the bravery the other Willow was displaying in the face of such terror.  "But I need..." she looked around surreptitiously, searching for an excuse to get him out of there, any excuse.

His hand touched her hair, stroking down the strands softly.  He was close behind her, so close she could feel him, but he wasn't touching any part of her except her hair.  He was too close for her comfort, caressing her hair with slow, methodical strokes.  As quick as a wink, he was sitting beside her, leaning in to sniff her neck.  When he pulled back, his eyes fastened on her chest as it rose and fell with her frantic breathing.  "What do you need, pet?"  The words, so simple, were filled with innuendo, and she knew he was aware of it.  His hand, still on her hair, threaded into the strands, gently pulling her closer.

Now there was tenderness.  He closed his eyes and inhaled again, sliding his hand to the back of her head, moving her toward him slowly, inexorably toward his kiss.  She wanted it, needed it more than water, more than breath.  Spike was all she was at that moment, the smell of alcohol and leather, cigarettes and man.  Everything in that moment in time was drawing her toward Spike, and she was powerless to stop it, even had she wanted to.

Gasping out as his lips touched hers, she opened her mouth, welcoming his lips and tongue on hers, inviting him to touch her more, doing all but begging him to.  His hands threaded more tightly into her hair, holding her head still as he kissed her.  It was hard and punishing and she didn't mind a bit.  In fact, she preferred it this way; it gave her an excuse.  She was being forcefully seduced, and in that way she wasn't cheating on Oz, not like she was with Xander.

Hussy, her mind whispered to her.

Willow lifted her hands to her head, pressing them to her eyes, willing the pain of the memories to recede, to go away and leave her alone to die in peace.  The robot beside her was softly smoothing the hair back from her forehead, but it wasn't helping.  Nothing was helping except the pleasure from Spike's touch and his sighs against her cheek.

They were on fast forward again, quickly standing up and pressing into each other, trying to crawl inside each other's skin.  Hands pulled and tugged at clothing, shedding more this time than before, and soon, she was standing naked by the bed while he finished undressing and stood up, looking at her.  She could tell by the small smile on his lips that he liked what he saw, and the Willow going through the memories felt pride flow through her.

She knew she had a nice body.  And knew she looked good back then as well.  At the time, she hadn't a clue, but now, when she knew more and had seen more naked bodies... she knew what looked good.  And both Oz and Tara had whispered beautiful things about her body.  Even Spike had--

Her mind shoved thoughts of the Spike from now away, preferring to concentrate on the Spike of then.  The one oblivious to the pain and hardship ahead for both of them.  He took the two steps separating them and stood still, not touching her yet, just looking his fill.  Caressing her body with his eyes again, just like before, and she wondered if he remembered.  He hadn't mentioned it, or referred to it, nor was there a spark of recognition in his eyes.  By all accounts, he was unaware that he'd slept with her once before.

She wasn't as shy as she used to be, nor was the girl in front of Spike, so she was happy when her hand raised and touched his chest.  Her other hand joined the first, her nails scraping against the flesh of his pecs, which were hard and muscle-filled.  His eyes followed her hands as they slid down to his stomach, and then rested on his hips, not daring to go any further.

His lips twitched in amusement when she bit her lip and swallowed, looking away as awkwardness overcame her.  Just as her hands dropped from his hips, he settled his own hands over hers and moved them around behind his back.  Depositing them there, he moved closer and raised his hands to her face, threading his fingers in her hair.  She closed her eyes as his lips descended to hers, drawing her breath into his mouth.

Fast forward again, and they were on the bed.  Spike was lying on his side, running one hand down her stomach, caressing her softly.  The look on his face took her breath away.  There was reverence in his eyes, and in the smile he couldn't seem to hide.  And then she was beneath him, holding his hips tightly as he moved inside her.  Willow felt the girl in the memory closing in on her orgasm, and was unprepared to feel it crash into her, full-force.  She gasped loudly, throwing her head back as pleasure swarmed through her, washing over her skin and curling her insides into a sated mass of goo.  Happy goo that wanted to rest, but the memories wouldn't let her.

She was off again on another one, this time in her dorm room.  It was familiar and comforting.  She knew this memory, knew what was going to happen.  At least in the beginning.  As soon as he was in the door, he closed it and turned around, sliding the lock home before facing her eagerly.

"Miss me, baby?"  His words were followed by a sexy chuckle as he waited for her to run into his arms and commence to sexing him up.  Whatever.

Good for her!  She stayed right where she was, crossing her arms over her chest with an unimpressed look.  "Was I supposed to?"

His smile slipped a little, but didn't disappear completely.  "I missed you," he confided, shrugging out of his duster.  He dropped it to the chair at her desk and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly.  "Dru never..." he sighed, sitting up straighter, shrugging off his melancholy mood.  "Well.  Doesn't matter, does it?"

Willow watched him warily, not quite sure if he remembered this time. Two encounters, two sexual experiences.  She winced inwardly, remembering the awkwardness she'd felt around Oz.  He'd sensed something different about her, and her hemming and hawing hadn't helped matters, especially since he'd broken up with her for a while senior year for believing she was cheating on him.

Lies.  Lies, all lies.  She'd saturated the gang with lie after lie, heaping more on top of the pile of crap she'd already thrown at them. Her... whatever it was with Spike just wasn't something she felt she could tell them about.

Oz had smelled someone on her that night, but since he'd never met Spike, he didn't know his scent and didn't make the connection.

Now Spike was back, wanting to... what?  Sleep with her a third time just so he could forget about it again?  Not likely.

Willow smiled in satisfaction when his eyes dropped to his hands, which were fidgeting in his lap.

"I thought there was..." he paused, frowning at her before abruptly standing up.  "There's something between us, love.  We did shag, didn't we?  Last year?"  His brows dipped down in uncertainty, his eyes leaving hers to land on the floor for a brief second.  As quick as that, the smirk and swagger were back. Spike never was one for wasting a chance at macho bravado.  "Quite right we did.  Well and proper too."  His smile widened, his self-confidence firmly back in place.

"It was a mistake," she told him, standing up to face him, to look him straight in the eye.  "A mistake that won't be happening again."

He grabbed her hips, hauling her to him forcefully enough to take her breath from her.  She immediately tried to free herself, but his hands were on her, touching and caressing, slipping under her blouse, holding her still for his kiss.

"Is that right?" he whispered against her lips.  "Well, let's make another."  He opened his mouth on hers hungrily, his lips devouring hers as she fought to stay firm in her resolve.

But it was no use.  Just his voice alone got to her.  Never mind his touch and his kiss.

She sighed, melting into him, closing her eyes on his smile of satisfaction.  Her chest rose against his, her hands landing firmly on his waist.  It was like she couldn't resist him.

Did she even want to?  Uh, yes!  Hello.  No being used this time.  She was made of much tougher stuff than that.

Willow tried to raise her hands to shove him away, but her younger self was apparently not made of tougher stuff than that. Crap.  He continued to seduce her, working his charming way back into her heart and as he laid her down, pressing his body over hers, fitting perfectly into her embrace, while they were still fully clothed-- that's when she felt it. That's when she knew.

She was in love with Spike.  Her heartbeat sped up, her breathing growing more erratic, and she pulled back to stare at him.  Kept him from kissing her again, from dismissing this moment as anything other than a major revelation.  She looked into his eyes, feeling every inch of his body on top of hers, feeling his exhalation on her cheek as he released a pent-up breath that he didn't even need.

Because of her.  He was breathing because of her, and she just about burst with pride at having affected him so much.

She raised her hand to his cheek, memorizing this moment, trying to etch it in her mind, and the Willow in Spike's crypt was sure she'd done a damn good job on that front because she was feeling everything right along with them.  Her hand felt the smooth skin of his cheek, felt his jaw clench when he swallowed in uncertainty, not sure why she was suddenly staring at him so intensely.  She could smell his leather duster, and Buffy's perfume, but it was the overwhelming scent of Spike that surrounded her, drowning her.  Small sounds out in the hall, distant and familiar, reached her ears, and the taste of him still graced her lips.

Licking them nervously, she took in a deep, steadying breath and opened her mouth to tell him that she loved him, but that's when Riley and his jerk-friends decided to close the building off.  She looked frantically toward the door, hoping they didn't know Spike was here, that they wouldn't find him.  She wanted to help Spike get away, but she could see the suspicion in his eyes as he pushed off of her.

He darted a look toward the door as well, then bored his eyes into hers as she stood up and moved quickly toward it.

"You have to g--" she started to warn him, but he cut her off, grabbing her arm and shoving her back on the bed.

"Keep your bloody mouth shut," he ground out, stalking toward the door, grabbing his duster on the way.  "Don't you go screaming to let them know I'm here.  Got that?"  His eyes were so fierce and furious-looking.  So hard and cold.

He thought she was going to give him away?  She was trying to save him!

Before she had a chance to tell him the truth, the lights went out and he was out the door.  Stupid jerk hadn't even stuck around long enough to let her explain.  Her fear for him warred with the anger, and the fear easily won out.  She was terrified.

Fast forward.  He hadn't pushed her out the door in front of him, hadn't used her as a human shield; he jumped through the doorway, straight into her old memories.  Nothing changed from that part on.

Willow, still on Spike's bed with a robot version of her ineffectually tending to her aches and pains, once again opened her eyes, hoping that was it, that the memories were over.  What else could there be?  But they weren't.

She was in Giles' apartment, standing in front of the bathroom door, working up her nerve to go inside and face Spike.  There was a mug of blood in one hand and a straw in the other.  She bit her lip and dropped the straw into the mug.  Turning the handle, she pushed the door open with her shoulder.

Spike was watching in disinterest, not even batting an eye when she went inside and shut the door behind her.  Although, when she turned to lock the door, his eyes widened minutely.

"'Bout time," he was griping, staring straight ahead as she neared him. "If you're trying to starve me, you're bloody well doing a good job." His left foot kicked at the edge of the tub, his whole body moving around a little, shifting as he tried to get more comfortable.

Willow knew how he felt: the younger version of little Miss Robot-Her wanted to shift and squirm too, but didn't because she thought it might look a little odd on her, being as she was standing up, and not chained.  There was an air of awkwardness between them, and she was feeling extremely nervous.

She suspected he was too, or at least irritated.  She knew he'd ignored her completely since showing up on Giles' doorstep the day before.

And then her feet were moving, taking her closer to him, and the anxiousness she felt was real as she imagined the conversation ahead. Poor Willow-bot had a hard job ahead of her.  Telling Spike how she felt had to be nerve-wracking.  But she knew it had to happen; it had happened.  Just, not to her, to the other Willow.

She was getting confused about what was right, and what was wrong.  What had happened, and what hadn't happened.  Something said flitted through her mind and she wondered if it was something she'd heard or just attained as a new memory.  Two Willows, and neither one actually there. Memories that weren't real, but were there nonetheless.

She wondered as she knelt beside the tub, playing her thumb along the rim of the mug, she wondered if telling Spike was going to help, or hinder.  They ended up together, that much was obvious from the bot's side of things.  But, again, it wasn't real.

She knew that the bot version of her thought it would help, that it would go a long way toward patching things up between her and Spike, but the reaction she'd get from him worried Willow.  She felt the biting fear that he'd laugh at her, or be annoyed, maybe even smirk proudly and brush her off as an amusing pastime.  She felt like her life was either about to end, or begin.  All with a few words aimed at Spike.

Her eyes dropped to him, and she was surprised to find him watching her.  Ah, not as impartial as he'd like Willow to think.

As she continued to stare at him, he turned the curiosity into an annoyed eye roll, then dropped his gaze to the mug of warm pig's blood.

"Swill," he muttered, keeping his eyes trained on it.

"I know," she agreed, tracing her thumb around the rim of the mug.  Her thumb slipped from not paying attention and dipped into the sticky red liquid.  She raised it to her mouth, sucking it off absently.

Willow groaned at the memory, gagging on the acrid taste of the pig's blood.  "Ew," she mumbled, staring at the dirt ceiling above her.

The other Willow made a face and shuddered but pretended like it hadn't happened.

She stopped tracing her thumb along the rim of the yellow mug and swallowed a few times.  "It's all we could get... and you're, you know, sort of not here to live high off the hog."

His eyes, once irritated, were now filled with something she liked seeing on him: desire.  Because of blood?  Ew.  But then he lost the desire and sneered at her.

"Did you practice that?" he said derisively, holding his shackled hands out for the mug.  "Just give it here and go.  I don't feel like company."

Willow rolled over onto her side as the robot continued to stroke her hair gently, whispering words of comfort to her.  Spike was hurt, physically and emotionally.  Because of her.  He thought she'd wanted to give him up to the Initiative that night, and he didn't want to let her know how much it mattered to him.

But she could see it, in his hands fisted in his lap, and his angry glare.

Back on the mattress, Willow sighed and allowed the other Willow's feelings to flow through her, to encompass her.  She wanted to reach out and touch him, to reassure him that she hadn't meant to hurt him.  But she was still stuck inside robo-Willow's mind.

So she held the cup up, as if she had any choice, and started to put the straw near his lips.

And then she was moving quickly.  She pulled the straw out of the cup and threw it in the trash by the sink as she talked, apologizing to him, telling him that she hadn't intended to give him up.  She admitted to having feelings for him and ducked her head as she told him exactly how strong those feelings were.

Willow shifted on the bed, shaking her head as the dizzying images fast forwarded.  She was really getting nauseous from all the sudden shifts in sight and sound.  Spike was gritting out words, angry words aimed at her, and she thought she might be giving as good as she got, felt like she was.  The words whispered through her mind, too fast to grab for the moment, but there for later when she wanted to remember them.

And then she was kissing him, making the first move for once.  He was startled by her actions, and she knew he was chastising Willow for feeling pity for him.  More angry words followed, the images zipping by so quickly now that she couldn't get a fix on any one thing.  Still in the bathroom, but no longer was she on the floor beside him.

She was lying on top of Spike, kissing him hungrily, listening to his grunts of pleasure mixing with her sighs and moans.  Slowing down again, the scene came to almost a complete stop then returned to normal speed. She was naked from the waist down, sitting on Spike, who was fully dressed still, but unzipped.  His pants were undone, his belt buckle cutting into her thigh as she moved up and down on him.

Willow moaned on the mattress, feeling that spectacular pleasure soar through her, spiraling in all directions throughout her body.  Spike's feet were beneath him, giving him leverage to arch into her, thrusting his hips up hard enough to make her gasp.  His hands, still shackled, clunked loudly against the tub as he grabbed her thighs, his nails digging into her flesh.

Willow saw her hands on the edge of the white porcelain tub and focused on them as he slid in and out of her.  She felt her fingers tightening on the cold tub as her body tightened on Spike.  She was trying desperately to hold herself together long enough to give Spike pleasure, to show him that she loved him with her actions if not her words, to imprint her fingers on the surface of the tub.

"Come for me, baby," Spike ground out, thrusting deep inside her, holding himself there as he moved back a little, stimulating her clit. She did as he asked, exploding into a million pieces as he continued to move, thrusting harder and deeper than before, digging his fingers into her flesh.

She moaned as her body and her brain both came crashing down.  Spike caught her, holding her as best he could with his shackled hands, kissing her as she shook, still shuddering against him.

"I love you," she told him, gazing into his eyes as she spoke.  His body reacted to the words, his arms tightening around her, dragging the chains down her arms and scraping her thighs, but she didn't care.  His body shuddered inside hers, his mouth capturing hers for a bruising kiss that answered her words.

At least she thought it did.  She chose to believe so.

Willow closed her eyes and lay still, waiting for more memories to crash into her.  They did, at an alarming rate, too fast to see, too quick to hear, but sealed in her mind as being real.  As they continued to crash against her tired brain, her headache grew and her body aches intensified.  When the pain became too much and she was beginning to pray for a coma, the memories and images slowed down, then came to a screeching halt.

She was lying half on top of Spike, half on his sarcophagus, drifting off to sleep as he caressed her hair.  They were both naked, both sated.  She closed her eyes, sighing as she let herself give in to the pull of sleep, but before she could completely let go, Spike kissed her shoulder softly.

"I love you."  The words were as soft as the kiss, whispered against her sweat-slicked skin.  The words were gentle, but the tone... oh, the tone was so sincere that she felt her heart tighten in her chest.

The other Willow, the one watching and listening, the one feeling and touching... she drew in a hitching breath and curled up on her side.

A soothing hand caressed her cheek, cool to the touch, but not the one person's hand she wanted touching her.

Spike should be here now, not tied up in the training room.  He should be holding her as she hurt, soothing her aches and pains.  Curing what ailed her.

Unconsciousness was beckoning and she heeded it, not seeing any other release for the pain and the influx of memories.

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