Title: In The Company Of Wolves
Author: Jonquil
Email: serpyllum@yahoo.com
Distribution: Just ask.
Rating: R (strong language, violence, sexual references)
Spoilers: Fourth season, post-Oz, pre-Tara
Summary: Willow has re-fanged Spike, and must deal with the consequences. Sequel to "Blinded By Science".
Feedback: reinforces the desired behavior.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to large corporations, and were created by the brilliant writers for Buffy and Angel.

Chapter 11


Willow awoke with a start. I don't remember getting home... Oh, God, I don't remember getting into bed. She sat up in alarm, to discover she was still fully dressed, except for her shoes. I am NOT disappointed.

Something was missing, though: Spike. There was no sign of him. Probably out 'hunting'. Now there's a euphemism. She stretched. Eww. Unbrushed teeth. She grabbed jeans and a T-shirt, then headed off to sanitize herself.

When she came out of the bathroom, Spike was sitting in the armchair, lighting yet another cigarette. He shook out the match, then looked up at her. "Good evening."

"Hi."

He waved his cigarette at the closet. "Go change; we're going to Rafe's."

Well, so much for my turn. She took the velvet skirt and silk blouse off their hangers. As she was bending to collect the new shoes, Spike's voice interrupted her.

"You'll need these as well." He tossed something, scoring a bulls-eye on the small of her back. The something bounced to the floor and turned out to be the second drugstore bag. She opened it, to discover Ace bandages and packages of blue, black, and purple eye shadow.

Willow looked over her shoulder. "Huh?"

Spike shrugged. "I told François I'd be punishing you. You need to look the part. Bandage that ankle and play up the bruises on your wrist and cheek. That should do for public consumption."

Willow stood. "Okay. And, this is really embarrassing but I think I should say it anyway, thank you."

"For what?"

She could feel her face flushing. "You didn't ... um ... take advantage of me."

He gave her the eyebrow. "Popular fiction aside, luv, I can think of few things more boring than shagging an unconscious woman. I'm holding out for enthusiastic participation."

She blushed even deeper. "Thank you anyway."

"Go dress." She scurried to the bathroom, glad to have the conversation over.

When she returned, suitably dressed and bruised, Spike had already shrugged his coat on and was pacing next to the door. "Let's go." She took his arm and they left.

As they neared the club, Willow felt herself growing colder and more frightened. Chin up. I can do this. I've faced worse... and probably will again.

After flashing vampface at the gatekeeper, Spike caught her eye; she nodded, the door swung wide, and they entered.

This time, the bar was packed; Spike reached out, grabbed Willow's uninjured hand, and dragged her through the mob to a table where Martin was arguing vehemently with another of what Willow mentally tagged as post-punk vampires. This one sported pink hair, an eyebrow piercing, and an Armani suit, black of course.

"Evening, Martin, Lew. Watch the skirt. Another Molson?" And without even glancing at her, Spike dropped Willow's hand and headed off to the bar, leaving Willow standing alone next to the table. I am going to die. No. I am going to kill Spike. Then I am going to die happy.

She glanced around for a seat, but none was available. She leaned against the table and tried to avoid making eye contact. No. I am the New Willow. She tried to make eye contact, only to find that she was invisible; Martin and his colleague had apparently written her off. Stuck-up vampires.

Spike reappeared, three longnecks in one hand, a chair in the other. A vampire two tables over was picking himself off the floor and giving Spike an extremely dirty look, which he cheerfully ignored. Spike handed beers to Martin and Lew, shouldered Willow aside, dropped the chair where she had been standing, and sat in it. Willow glared at him. He grinned back at her and took a pull from his beer.

Martin saluted Spike with his bottle. "Still hanging out with the fragile silent type, I see."

Willow switched glare targets. "I'm silent when I don't have anything to say. You might try it." Shocked at her own boldness, she backed up a step and bumped into Spike's free hand. He patted her bottom. She hastily moved forward.

Martin laughed and toasted her, then turned to Spike. Yay, me. "So, Spike, maybe you can settle this. Lew thinks Darla sired Valerie; I don't think she goes back that far. You heard either way?"

"Don't know, don't care. Whoever sired Valerie picked beauty over brains. The bint's careless as hell -- she's bound to meet up with the business end of a stake some time or other. Seen anything of Elena?"

"Not since Havana."

Boy, this is just as boring as a human party. I hate listening to stories about people -- vampires -- I haven't met. Willow pasted on her polite listening smile and kept just enough track of the conversation to make sure nobody was addressing her directly.

Suddenly a drum roll sounded. The lights dimmed and a spotlight played over the stage, moving from a rack to whips to things Willow didn't want to recognize. Over the sound system, a voice announced "And now.... our Master of Ceremonies!"

Willow froze. Oh, God, what day is it? She counted hastily on her fingers. It's a weekend. Spike warned me about weekends. Get me out of here.

A cold hand grabbed hers under the table. She turned her head to meet Spike's eyes, her own wide. His face was stone. She opened her mouth, but Spike shook his head once, emphasizing the gesture with a hard squeeze of her hand. She tried to pull her hand away, but Spike tightened his grip until she gasped.

The vampires were applauding the Master of Ceremonies. Willow had been half-expecting Joel Grey; instead, the MC was a fat, balding vampire in a too-tight tuxedo, set off by a ruffled green shirt. I guess they can't all be Spike or Angel.

Spike stood, dragging Willow with him. The spotlight flashed to them. "What, leaving so soon?" purred the MC.

"I'm going to play the home version!" Spike flashed his best carefree grin and yanked Willow into his arms. Bewildered, she looked at his face for guidance, but his gaze was focused on the stage.

In a scornful voice, the MC asked, "Afraid you might learn something new? Afraid she might?"

Spike snorted. "Not bloody likely, mate."

"We wouldn't dream of your leaving so soon." He looked at the back of the room and raised a finger.

A quartet of bouncers began converging on them; Spike met their eyes, scanned the room, then sat again, dragging Willow onto his lap. Cold lips brushed her ear.

"Sorry, pet. Change of plans."

She shuddered and tried to slip down, and an arm pinioned her in place. "Stay put and calm down."

The spotlight returned to the MC and Willow let out a long breath. Now what do I do?

The first act began; nothing terribly novel, a pair of teenage boys and a lamia. She'd wrapped her snaky tail around one boy and was focusing her attention on his twin. Spike flicked a glance down at the redhead. The girl was whiter than he was, and trembling on the edge of some outburst, whether of tears, outrage, or nausea, he couldn't guess. Not that it mattered; any would be equally dangerous.

He shifted beneath the girl's warm weight. As if I needed the distraction. He had to find some way of getting her out of the place before she became the center of attention. She was radiating nearly as much fear as the boys onstage.

One word, one touch, and she'd go over the edge for sure...

which just might be a solution. Of sorts.

As a plan, it sucked. Even so, it beat the Hell out of waiting.

Show time. He stood up, threw the girl to the floor, and yelled "Bitch!"

The damned spotlight picked her out, a huddled red-and-black heap looking up at him, green eyes wide, mouth open in shock.

The MC purred, "You disliked the performance so much you wish to offer an alternative?"

You just joined the superfluous list. "Sorry. Unexpected interruption."

"Do you -- expect -- any more?"

"No. If you'll excuse us ..." Don't plan to stay on the list long, ponce.

"Having interrupted the planned entertainment, the least you can do is provide a replacement."

Fuck. He swept an arm toward the lamia. "Can't interrupt a lady..."

"Oh, we insist." The MC shooed the lamia and her prey offstage, leaving the floor open.

Spike risked another quick glance; the room was with the ponce, not with him. If he tried anything now, Rafe wouldn't be backing him up.

Out of options. He strode to the girl, picked her up by the injured arm, ignoring her gasp of pain, twisted it behind her back, and marched her up to the stage.

He turned to the MC. "I assume I have free run?"

"Of course."

Spike dropped the girl to the stage floor; she cradled her wrist in one hand and stared up at him, eyes pleading for rescue. Not this time, Red.

He ran an eye over the equipment, sorted by size on chrome racks. Bloody theatrical amateurs. The tamest thing on offer was a riding crop. Spike took it, walked up to the human, turned her around, and tore her shirt and bra down the back. "Don't move."

Then he hit her with the crop. She flinched.

After the third blow, she began to cry.

After the tenth, she was screaming.

When he had finished, she made no sound at all, except to gasp for breath.

He swept a challenging glance over the audience. Was it good for you, too? They seemed satisfied enough. He replaced the crop, lifted the girl by her shoulders, dragged her offstage, and made for the exit. This time, nobody attempted to stop him.

Once they were safely outside the club, he checked the girl, who had remained blessedly silent. She was shaking, white except for the remaining smudges of eyeshadow, and wouldn't meet his eyes. He turned away to collect himself.

When he was sure his face was blank again, he shrugged off his duster, then wrapped it around the girl, touching her back as little as possible. He arched an arm around her, avoiding her back, and half-led, half-carried her up to the street. Fortunately, there were still cabs free at that hour; he flagged one, gave the driver the street address in a voice that didn't permit argument, and bundled the girl in. She shrank against the door, as far from him as the cab seat allowed. They rode to the apartment in silence.

Spike paid, lifted Willow out, and got her up the stairs and into the apartment. He turned away to lock the door.

Willow waited till the door was closed and hit Spike hard across the face. Or tried to. Demon reflexes, and her back wasn't letting her move very fast.

"You enjoyed that, you bastard."

He leaned against the door and folded his arms. "And your point is? I'm a demon, luv."

"I am going to hate you for the rest of my life." She struggled out of his coat and threw it at him.

"Witch." His voice and face could have frozen helium. "Did you want to spend the rest of the evening watching? I promise you, nobody else on that stage is going to get off as easily as you did. You survived. You shouldn't even be marked."

"This isn't just about me. Those vampires were torturing people. For fun. And you enjoyed it, too."

"I am a vampire." The words fell like drops of molten lead.

"That's not an excuse."

Spike straightened, all pretense of unconcern gone. "I don't need an excuse. If you had the self-control of a fledgling, I wouldn't have had to get you out of there before you caused a scene."

"I am not a vampire!"

Spike dropped his voice. "That could be corrected."

Willow stepped into his face. "You're wearing that threat out, Spike."

His eyes glowed golden, and he leaned forward. "Don't throw my words back at me!"

"If I had something else to throw, I would. Excuse me." She spun, walked into the bathroom, and closed -- and locked -- the door.

Spike stared in disbelief and fury at the door. If he broke it down, he doubted he'd stop there. He looked around for something to throw, and spotted Willow's pile of books.

When he had finished, a snowstorm of pages littered the floor. It wasn't enough. He picked up his coat, slammed the door, and locked it. And now, Mr. Green-brings-out-my-dewlaps, let's have a chat about audience participation.

When he returned, a little before dawn, the witch wasn't in the room, either in the chair or the bed. He doubted she'd had the strength to go far.

The bathroom lock didn't deserve the name; when he opened the door, she was curled up in the bathtub, still dressed in the rags of her blouse, arms cradling her head. She didn't move when the door opened, and her breathing was slow and even. He closed the door again and retreated to the bed.

What a world-class cock-up.




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