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 16


Willow was awakened by Spike shaking her shoulder. "Time to go. Get your things."

She protested, "Don't I have time for a shower?"

"No. We're off." Willow's eyes flew open, but Spike didn't look angry; far from it, he was exhilarated, practically glowing. He was fully dressed, including his coat.

She threw back the covers and bent to pull fresh clothes from her bag. Spike stopped her. "No time." Knowing protests would be useless, she grabbed the bag, the fish, and its baggie, and headed for the door.

They settled into the car and Spike drove off, at his usual frenetic pace. "Don't you ever check out?"

Spike grinned. "When someone's alive to handle the paperwork."

I am so sorry I asked that question. She settled back against the seat, then winced and sat forward. I wonder how long before I can sit without thinking?

Spike glanced over. "We'll see to your back presently."

Willow glared at him, sat back pointedly, and regretted it.

He grinned, "On the other hand, it's doing wonders for your posture."

Willow snorted. "And if you cut off my head, I wouldn't have to worry about bad hair days, either."

He pursed his lips. "It's a thought. But I'd never get the mess out of the upholstery."

She played along. "If I'd only known; stay in Spike's car and I'm safe."

"At least until I got a good spot remover."

Willow's train of thought picked up speed, careening past the station. "You must have a lot of practice removing blood from fabric by now... you could probably write a book! You could be the vampire Martha Stewart!"

He grinned. "I'm rather better at removing blood from humans, pet."

Willow sobered instantly. "Why do you keep DOING that?"

He flicked her a glance. "Doing what?"

"Just when I start getting comfortable, you remind me that you kill people."

He shrugged. "I do kill people."

She rolled her eyes. "Spike. Trust me. I live in Sunnydale. I know you're a vampire. I can do the math."

He shrugged again. "Habit, I guess. Can't let a mortal get too comfortable."

This time I'm not backing down. "Do I talk about holy water all the time? Or stakes?"

He kept his eyes on the road. "You don't live by intimidation."

"I'm as intimidated as I'm going to get. Care to knock it off now?" The anger was starting to show in her voice.

"Doubt it. It's an old habit, and demons don't change."

"Oh, for pity's sake, Spike. You want to tell me they had peroxide and punk rock in Edwardian London? Go ahead, I'm all ears."

His voice acquired an edge. "Bit pushy tonight, luv."

Tough. "Spike. You dragged me to Montreal. You dressed me up like some vampire Barbie. You made me learn to be a smart-ass. You didn't want pushy, you could have stuck with the old Willow. Who, I might add, was perfectly happy where she was."

"Well, the new Willow is a pain in the arse!"

"You asked for it, you got it, Spike."

He glared. She let the conversation drop.

A roadside sign indicated a rest stop ahead. Spike looked at the girl, hair still tousled from their hasty departure. "Want to stop?"

"Please."

He pulled off the road into the parking lot and cut the engine. The rest stop was the usual faux-rustic hut sheltering restrooms, a large map, and an assortment of cola machines.

The witch reached for the door handle. He grabbed her shoulder. "Ouch!" She frowned at him.

"Road rules, pet."

She sighed. "Yes, Mom, I know, I'll be home before dark, and call if I'm going to be late." She turned away.

He spun her back. "I'm serious, witch. Any appeals for help to friendly passersby will mean their deaths."

"I know. You've told me." She looked pointedly at his hand, and he released her.

She opened the car door and walked to the ladies' room. Spike got out, leaned against the wall, and lit a cigarette.

Spike watched the smoke rise from his third cigarette. She's taking bloody forever. Showering in the sink?

He heard something from the bathroom. It was hard to make out through the usual background sounds, but something sounded ... odd. She's not the sort to dawdle over her appearance this long ...

He gave it a second more, then slammed the door open.

A couple of women in dungarees had bent Willow back against the sink; one had a knife to her throat. The other was using a fistful of red hair to bang the girl's head against the faucet.

He grabbed the knife hand and twisted hard, hearing the satisfying crunch of snapping bones. The other bitch had started to say something; he crushed her throat and listened to her gargle.

Willow staggered to her feet, face paper-white and covered in blood. He spotted a small cut in her scalp, bleeding like a slaughtered sheep.

Glad I ate before we left. He forced his instincts down and said harshly "Lean over the sink." He rinsed with the cold water, splashed until he could see all her face, then ran his fingers over the rest of her head. The scalp wound seemed the worst of the visible damage.

"Probably ought to have stitches, luv, but I've no idea where to find a doctor at this time of night." He tugged her hair.

"Oww!"

"Don't fuss." He tied the wound together with her hair. "That should hold."

He glanced around. The former knife woman was still moving. He released the witch, then snapped the bitch's neck. The witch said nothing. He dragged her off to the car and threw it into gear.

When they were back on the road, he let her have it. "Why the bloody Hell didn't you call for help?"

She stared straight ahead, and her voice was very soft. "At first I didn't think it was a problem -- those were women, like me, and I figured they wouldn't bother me. By the time I realized I was in trouble, she had the knife out." Her hands flew to her neck. "She didn't even say what she wanted."

"What do I have to to do teach you to take care of yourself?" He slammed his hands against the wheel.

She was silent. Not good enough.

"Do you have any idea what you'd have done if I hadn't been there?"

Her voice, when it came, was tiny. "Died."

"That's not a plan, Willow."

Instead of answering, she started to cry. He glanced around, then pulled the car off into the next side road. There were no lights for miles in any direction.

He turned off the ignition, grabbed the girl, and said, "What's your problem? You survived, damn it!"

She sobbed again, then paused, gulped, and released a torrent of words. "I just can't do this any more! I've used up all the brave I had, and just when I was relaxing, somebody who wasn't even a vampire turned out to be evil! There isn't any such thing as safety, and I haven't felt safe in forever!"

In a soft voice, he said, "I can't cure that, pet. Haven't felt safe myself in 125 years."

She glared. "Yes, that's because you put other people into danger."

Better anger than despair. He smirked. "Safety's an illusion, pet. And a boring one at that."

"You.. you... vampire!"

"Guilty as charged." She started to cry again. He gathered her into his arms, and she sobbed as if the world were coming to an end. Time for another distraction. He lifted her chin and began kissing her.

To his shock, she returned the kiss. With interest. Adrenaline is a wonderful thing. Or so I hear the humans say. Her mouth was as he remembered it, warm and sweet. This time, he was more kissed against than kissing. He corrected the imbalance. He kept expecting the inner good girl to surface, but apparently she'd gone on holiday. Don't hurry back. Her eyes were closed, and she paused to sniffle now and again.

She broke the kiss. Sod, here comes the 'I'm not that kind of girl' speech. Instead, she began nibbling down the line of his throat. He shivered. The green eyes flew open and she pulled back.

"Oh, I'm sorry, was that wrong? I didn't mean to..."

"Quite the opposite, pet. Do try again." He lifted his chin. but she was frozen, staring at something only she could see. He kissed the corner of one eye, tracing the line of tears down her face with his lips. She sighed, then captured his mouth and kissed it frantically. He recognized the symptoms all too well: she was seeking oblivion rather than intimacy.

This is the moment when the Poof would pull back and say 'You're not thinking clearly, little girl. I couldn't take advantage of your confusion.' Wanker.

He began caressing her, careful not to touch her back, lightly tracing the lines of her ribs through the thin T-shirt. No brassiere. How handy. He slipped a hand up and under the shirt; she shivered, but did not protest.

Avoiding the old cold-hands-warm-heart problem's always tricky. Especially minus the heart. He caressed her side a little longer, until he was sure his hands had warmed from friction. He shifted his left hand a trifle. Her breast was warm, velvet-soft, and heavy in his hand, the nipple hard against his palm.

He broke the kiss and waited until she opened her eyes. "Witch. Fair warning. The Slayer shagged the soul out of the Poof. It doesn't work in reverse." What the bloody hell am I saying? Since when do I give warnings, fair or otherwise?

She met his gaze, face grave. "I know." Then she slipped his coat from his shoulders and returned to the kiss. He ran his hands up to her shoulders; she lifted her arms to let her shirt slip over her head, then tugged at the hem of his.

He removed his own shirt, then glanced around. The road was deserted. If he interrupted her to suggest a more comfortable venue, odds were good she'd think better of the whole thing. Oh, well, I've done far less enjoyable things in this car. He returned his attention to the warm girl in his arms. She never spoke a word; moaned or sighed occasionally, but nothing more intelligible. Avoids that pesky name problem, I suppose. At least she's not pretending I'm the wolf.

Their shoes were easily discarded. Removing her jeans took somewhat greater concentration, since he was nibbling her shoulder at the time, and she was doing wicked things to one of his nipples. His own jeans shrugged off with the ease of long practice.

For so outwardly modest and shy a girl, she knew exactly what she was about. Still waters indeed. She adapted readily to his needs, swiftly abandoning gentleness. She herself was far less fragile than her tiny physique would suggest; she was fierce rather than timid, forceful, not shrinking. And her face, the whole time, revealed only desire, concentration, and occasionally surprised pleasure; never tenderness, never joy. Certainly not love.

She collapsed forward on him, gasping for breath. He brought one hand up and stroked her hair. They lay quietly for a few minutes, then she sucked in a deep breath. He braced himself. Here comes the tearful self-reproach.

She said quietly, "Thank you. Hadn't we better get inside before sunrise?"

He cocked his head to peer at her face. It was serious, somewhat withdrawn. She wasn't giving anything further away. He brushed a kiss across her widow's peak. "Suppose you're right." He ran a regretful hand down her body, then sat up, carrying her with him. She slipped off him, turned away, and grabbed her shirt from the floor of the car, exposing her back.

Spike tilted his head. "Will you stake me if I see to your back?"

She glanced up. With forced lightness, she replied, "Will you drain me if I say yes?"

"No."

"Also no." She sat up, turned away, and rested her palms on the door.

He scuffled through the pile of discarded clothes, found the duster, and located the arnica. He rubbed it into her back, allowing himself the luxury of a couple of casual brushes against her breast. She didn't move away, but she didn't lean into him, either. When he finished, she pulled the T-shirt on, then wriggled back into her jeans.

After he finished dressing, Spike restarted the engine and pulled back onto the road. When he glanced over at the girl, she had fallen asleep.




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