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 12


The next night began with a question. "What day is it?"

Spike didn't open his eyes. "What?"

"What day is it?"

"I have no sodding idea, and I care less. Leave me alone!"

The girl let out a long sigh.

Spike opened his eyes and sat up. "What is it? Last night was so much fun you want a repeat?"

The witch was sitting on the edge of the bed, still wearing the torn clothes from the night before; her face was pale and serious, with deep rings around the eyes. "You don't know what day of the week it is? Really, truly?"

"No. And I don't know who's Prime Minister, and I don't have a concussion, I just don't give a rat's arse!"

She nodded. "Okay. I just needed to know." And she rose, stiffly, and began to walk away.

He grabbed her hips and sat her down.

"Ouch!"

"Not so fast. You have your bloody answer. Why the question?"

"I needed to know." She stared into her lap, avoiding his eyes.

"Don't beat around the bush. No, I had no idea there'd be a show, I would have left you home if I had."

She looked at him unhappily. "But you'd still have gone yourself."

He met her eyes. "I believe we've covered that. How's your back?"

She straightened, then winced. "I'm not discussing that with you."

"You're right, no point, really. Stay." He stood up, pulled on his jeans, walked to his duster, and rummaged in the pockets. He returned with a small jar. "Arnica. Turn your back."

Willow shrank back. "I don't want you to touch me."

"You don't have a choice. Turn around, or I'll turn you."

She met his eyes, recognized that he wasn't bluffing, and turned, movements slow and careful.

He stripped the rags of her blouse from her shoulders, then sucked in unneeded breath. Enthusiastic participation, remember? Remember ?? The Boxer Rebellion was in -- ask me if I bloody care --, six nines are -- completely irrelevant to my unlife, thank Whoever -- an Imperial pint is -- barely a mouthful ...

When he'd regained some semblance of control, he began spreading the ointment over her back. She flinched, which didn't help. The jeans were definitely a good idea. When he finished, he left the bed and retrieved a black T-shirt.

"Arms up."

She tried to obey, but cried out and dropped her arms again.

Spike sat back and thought. I didn't exactly plan for this situation when shopping. He looked at the blouse remnants, but he doubted she'd want to touch them again. He tore the T-shirt down the front, eased the sleeves over her arms, and tied the front halves in a knot between her breasts. That contact was entirely accidental. Soft accidental skin she's got, too.

He stood. "Take it easy. I'll be back in a bit."

She turned and glared at him. "Don't hurry."

She'll live.

When Willow was sure Spike was really gone, she stood up from the bed. Then she screamed. It hurt.

Moving hurt.

Breathing hurt.

Thinking hurt worst of all.

Willow started looking for something to read, then froze. When she'd left the bathroom, she'd been looking straight ahead, at the sleeping vampire. She'd missed the drifts of torn pages on the floor. She dropped to her knees, gathered the remains to her chest, and cried as if her heart would break.

When she ran out of tears, she sat up. Her head hurt. Her back hurt. Her heart hurt. Aspirin and time would probably repair the first two. She went back into the bathrom and took some aspirin. Time she apparently had in abundance; Spike usually returned quickly, if he planned on returning at all.

I've screamed. I've cried. Now what do I do?

She looked around the apartment. The door was still locked, and Spike's threats about the consequences of escape seemed uncomfortably real today. Her torn blouse was still on the bed. The floor was covered with the remnants of books. Both reminded her of things she'd rather forget. She began gathering up the pieces and throwing them away.

For some reason, her 'Perl scripts' had escaped the carnage, and were still lying where she'd left them; she picked them up, stacked them, and slipped them under the mattress. She removed the velvet skirt, but couldn't raise her arms to hang it; she draped it across the foot of the bed.

It didn't take nearly long enough to restore the apartment to its usual bleak Gothitude. Willow thought about a hot bath. Her back didn't veto the idea, which was something. She fixed herself a sandwich, then went back into the bathroom, locked the door, ran a very hot bath, and eased herself into the water, agonizingly slowly. After some squirming, she figured out that lying on her stomach, supported by her forearms, seemed to cause the least amount of pain.

I started trusting a vampire. Knowing what happened to Buffy, knowing what happened to Drusilla, knowing what happened to Kendra, I trusted a vampire. How could I have been so stupid? And why am I so surprised?

No answers came, or at least none she was willing to acknowledge.

Not getting anywhere with this line of thought. She groaned, and tried to shift to her side. It hurt. She inched herself back upright, let out the lukewarm water, ran hot back in, and then lay down again.

Okay. I can't trust Spike. I can trust Willow. What can I do to get some good out of the rest of this year? I suppose there's always the diary ... She flinched. That hurt, but not as much as the thought of recording the previous evening. "Vampires like to hurt people." Everybody knows that already. Everybody except stupid Willow.

"Witch?"

Oh, God, he's back.

"I'm in the bathtub. " A horrid thought struck her. "Don't come in, I-I'll be right out. "

"Take your time."

I see we're back to Mr. Nice Vampire. Sorry, I won't get fooled that way again. She pulled out the plug with her toe, clambered out as fast as her back would allow, towelled off, and dressed in clean underpants, jeans, and the modified T-shirt. She looked at the door wistfully. I wish I could stay in here for the rest of my life. In my sense of the word, not in Spike's. She sighed and turned the knob. The door opened far too fast, and she walked out into the room.

Spike was lying on the bed, watching the television. He jerked his head at the table, then returned his gaze to the TV. "There's some stuff you might need over there."

Willow glared at him, which was pointless since he wasn't looking at her, then stalked over to the table. It held several shopping bags. One she recognized as coming from the same bookstore they'd visited originally. She opened it.

It contained COBOL For Dummies, Visual BASIC Certification, and three Harlequin romances. Willow fell into the chair, dropped her head into her hands, and started laughing uncontrollably. Her laugh grew louder and wilder until it turned into sobs, and she couldn't stop those either. Suddenly Spike was beside her.

"Stop it. I thought you liked computers. Stop it."

She kept sobbing, and he pounded the table. "What the Hell is wrong with you?"

Willow sniffed, tried to speak, then went back to crying.

He squatted down and lifted her chin. "What is it?"

Willow sucked in a breath, swallowed, and waited. For a wonder, Spike let her collect her thoughts. She raised her eyes to his.

"You really don't understand me any better than I understand you, do you?"

One corner of his mouth twitched up. "If you think I make about as much sense as a chocolate-covered fire hydrant, then I'd say we're even." He grew serious again. "What are you on about?"

Willow tried to turn away, but he held her chin and wouldn't let go. "Let go of me and let me get something to blow my nose with."

He stuffed his free hand into his pocket, passed her a crumpled napkin, then raised an eyebrow. "Answer the question."

Willow wiped her eyes, then blew her nose. "It's kind of hard to explain. You don't understand why those books aren't the same as the books you ruined, because you don't know anything about the things I care about. Which means you also don't understand that t-torturing people for fun upsets me; you think I'm just upset because it was me. And I didn't understand why you couldn't understand that." She rushed on. "It hurt a lot when you hit me, but that's not the really awful part. The awful part is knowing that you'd have killed anybody else without a pang of conscience, and you only care that you hurt me because it's me."

Spike met her eyes. "Can't help you with that, luv. It's the truth."

Willow sighed. "I know it's the truth. Reality really bites sometimes, though."

Spike jerked his head at the table. "You haven't looked at the rest of them."

"Can I have another tissue first?"

"Sorry, I don't actually need them myself. Hang on a sec." And Spike walked over to the bed and retrieved the box Willow kept on the floor. Willow mopped her eyes, then blew her nose vigorously.

She looked at him. "Presents don't really change anything, Spike."

"They pass the time, though."

She sighed. "Fair enough." She reached out a hand and opened the nearest bag. It revealed three button-front silk shirts in violet, royal blue, and deep green. Without thinking, she said, "What is it with vampires and dark colors anyway?"

Spike smiled and draped a white hand against the material. "High contrast, luv. What is it with humans and pastels?"

She shrugged, then winced. "Low visibility?"

"You glow against deep colors. I've never understood why you feel the need to play fluffy bunny instead."

Willow reached hastily for another bag. To break the silence, she said, "This better not be a puppy!"

Spike looked sheepish.

"Oh, God, it isn't a puppy, is it? Because it isn't moving, and a dead puppy would be very bad, and even a live puppy would be pretty bad, because this isn't a very big apartment, and I couldn't walk it, and anyway I'm having a major responsibility problem as it is..."

"Open it."

She did, gingerly. It proved to contain a takeout container, the kind used for Chinese food. She looked at Spike, who was back in You-Can't-Tell-What-I'm-Thinking face. She pulled the container toward her and opened it.

It contained a baggie of water, with a scarlet Siamese fighting fish.

"Oooh, it's gorgeous!"

"Think you can handle the responsibility problem?"

She grinned. "Probably. As long as you don't go all grr."

"If I do, I promise to concentrate on you rather than the fish."

Willow shivered. I think that wasn't a threat. Or not meant as one, anyway.

The last bag contained a bowl, gravel, and food for the fish. She took a few minutes to tuck the fish into its new home. It swam around, looking elegant and self-assured. Lucky fish. Willow smiled at it. "Thank you."

Spike shrugged, then stretched elaborately. "Bedtime. And if you'll be advised by me, you could use another dose of arnica."

Willow blushed. "What is arnica, anyway?"

"And you the witch. It's an herb. Heals bruising. "

"Okay. Let me get something loose to sleep in. " She rummaged through her clothes and found an oversized T-shirt. Then she crossed to the bed, turned her back to Spike, sat, and untied and removed the black T-shirt. God, this is embarrassing.

Spike remained almost clinically detached; he smoothed the ointment into her back, then lifted the T-shirt over her head. She managed to get her arms into it.

Spike's voice was matter-of-fact. "Had trouble brushing your hair?"

Back still turned, Willow nodded.

"Where's the brush?"

"In the bathroom."

Spike rose, got the brush, and ran it carefully through her hair, working it through the tangles without yanking her scalp. Willow felt herself slowly relaxing, and despised herself for it. When he had finished, he returned the brush, turned out the light, and lay down beside her.

"Good night, Spike. Thanks for the fish."

"Good night, witch."




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