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 17


Willow awoke in a strange bed.

This in itself was routine, but she couldn't remember going to bed. She racked her brains, then stopped cold when she remembered... what she did remember.

I think I just forfeited my Good Conduct badge.

Oh, boy, am I ever not in Kansas any more.

She rechecked reality. She lay beside Spike in yet another motel room bed. He was sleeping naked, as usual; she was fully dressed.

Not that that really mattered much under the circumstances.

Moving as stealthily as possible, she slid out of bed. She glanced back; Spike was apparently still dead to the world. Not going there. She ran to the bathroom.

Behind her, Spike opened his eyes. No hysterics, good. No reproaches, also good. Fleeing in terror, not good at all. Match remains scoreless. Likely to remain so, worse luck.

Willow turned the shower on full hot, then slumped against the wall.

As if my life wasn't complicated enough. I knew what I was doing. I knew exactly what I was doing. And I did it anyway.

She soaped her whole body, then rinsed thoroughly.

And I enjoyed it.

She rinsed the dried blood out of her hair, lathered it, wincing as the soap hit her cut, washed the remaining blood off her forehead, then worked soap all the way around the hairline to her neck.

Have I always been this kind of person, and never knew it before? Am I going to start wearing tight leather and talking about puppies any moment?

She decided not to rewash her breasts, as this would be giving them entirely the wrong message.

Buffy slept with a vampire.

She rinsed until her hair squeaked for mercy.

Nice try. Buffy slept with a reformed vampire. Do you think the gorgeous bleached guy in the next room qualifies?

More lather, followed by an attempt at a spiky hairstyle using suds, hastily rethought into a Bride of Frankenstein arrangement.

You're the sensible me. You aren't supposed to be noticing how distractingly good-looking he is.

She rinsed the shampoo out of her hair, then absent-mindedly washed her neck again.

Oops. Exemption for very recent near-death experience? She scrubbed thoroughly under her fingernails.

Okay. Recent near-death exemption. But that means I am NOT doing it again. Because he is a vampire, and he kills people for fun.

She began to wash between her toes.

I wonder if you survive jilting a vampire?

She washed her hair again, just to make sure the blood was all gone.

And if not, does that mean that the near-death exemption comes back into play?

Even a seriously broody witch turns pruny eventually. Willow turned off the shower, stepped out, dried herself, then froze. In her haste to get out of the bedroom, she'd forgotten to pick up clean clothes. The clothes she'd removed had been on her for two days straight, thanks to Spike's latest clerkicide, and furthermore were marinated in her own blood.

But if I go out there wrapped in a towel to get more clothes, he'll think it's an invitation. Maybe I'll just stay in here forever.

A cool voice derailed her brood. "Witch... are you quite finished?"

Arrrgh.

She combed out her hair, carefully working around the knot holding her scalp together, wrapped her hips in one towel and her torso in a second, then peered out the door.

Spike was lying on the bed fully dressed, hands behind his head and an evil glint in his eye. When he saw her, he snorted. "Luv, it's a good hundred miles to the nearest Turkish bath."

"Umm. I needed clean clothes. Which I don't have. Or I wouldn't be wearing towels. " She looked around. "Where's my bag?"

"Had my hands full carrying you in." He smirked.

"Oh, no, I forgot my fish!" She started for the door, only to be stopped by Spike's hand on her wrist.

"You aren't dressed for it, pet."

She shook his hand off angrily. Unfortunately, that wasn't all she shook off. As Willow grabbed desperately for southbound towels, her wet feet slipped and skidded out from under her, and she landed hard on the floor. With the towels, unfortunately, beneath her.

Spike looked down at her, then burst out laughing. Willow looked up in outrage. "It isn't funny!" She began scrabbling her way back into the towels.

Spike assumed a sober face, although his lips twitched. "Of course not." He reached down, pulled her to her feet by one arm, and swatted her on the flank. "Off to the bathroom with you and your modesty. I'll have your maid ring with clean clothes presently."

Clutching her towels and scarlet to the eyebrows, Willow fled, pursued by chuckles.

Not much later, Spike knocked on the bathroom door. When Willow, hastily re-toweled, opened it, he was holding the green minidress in his left hand. His head was thrown back, and he'd draped the back of his right hand over his eyes in a pose straight out of Victorian melodrama. He was smirking.

Willow grabbed the clothes. "This isn't funny, Spike."

He dropped the hand and the smirk and looked at her. "No, it's bloody ridiculous. I've seen every inch of that pretty body, so there's very little point in your hiding it now. As far as I know, there's no such thing as retroactive virginity, not that it would apply in this case."

"Bastard."

He sniffed. "Coward."

Willow's mouth fell open. "WHAT?"

He shrugged. "Witch. You shagged me. Thoroughly. Willingly. Admit it."

How DARE he. "Well, it's not going to happen again!"

He arched an eyebrow. "I don't recall suggesting it."

"You..." Once again running short on epithets, Willow slammed the bathroom door in his face. I need some really, really mean words. Words that I'm not supposed to know. Words that would shock him. And show him how mad I am. Where's my bloody dictionary?

The witch emerged from the bathroom in clean clothes, head high, avoiding his gaze.

Fine. Play it that way if you like. "Ready to leave?"

She nodded. They walked to the car in silence. This time, he checked out at the front desk.

The witch sat in stony silence. The road unrolled ahead, leading nowhere of interest.

Abandoning her sulk, the girl gasped, "Oh! I forgot my fish again!"

He waved her off. "I fed it. It's in the trunk, safe and sound. I do hope you recycled your dirty clothes?"

She sniffed. "As if you cared."

"I'd hate to see you abandoning your principles because of a little blood."

She tried to hit him. He deflected the blow and laughed. "Stick to conversation, luv. That's your long suit."

"Thank you so much," she spat. "What's yours, meanness?"

"Hmm." He cocked his head, pretending to think. "Evildoing? Mayhem? Shagging?"

The witch blushed crimson, dropped her eyes to her lap, and said nothing.

Another silence dragged on. He decided to wait her out.

More silence.

And silence yet again.

Spike, never a patient vampire, got tired of waiting. He pulled the car over, cut the engine, and turned to the girl. She shivered, but kept her eyes averted. He grabbed her chin, lifted it, and held it. Eventually, she lifted resentful green eyes to meet his.

"Look. I am not going to spend the next six months pretending that I didn't shag you, or that I didn't enjoy it, or that I don't have every intention of doing it again." He released her chin. "That's your little fantasy world, fine. I frankly find it boring. But drop the bashful virgin schoolgirl act. It doesn't suit you, and I don't buy it."

She opened her mouth to speak, then bit her lip instead.

He lowered his voice. "If you bite that lip again, I'm going to do it for you."

She released the lip, turned an even deeper red, struggled for breath, and found it. "Fine. I'm not pretending we didn't do what we did. I am not going to do it again. And I really, really don't want to talk about it."

He gave her a come-hither look. "And enjoying it?"

She looked away. "I'm not going to talk about that either."

"You're very unlikely to embarrass me," he cooed.

She whipped her head back to glare at him. "Stop it. You know who's embarrassed, and you know why, and you're enjoying it. I'm not."

"You seemed to be at the time..."

"STOP IT!" Her voice was cracking -- whether from rage or tears, he couldn't guess.

She fumbled for the door handle; he grabbed her wrist. "You can't run away from this."

She looked at him bitterly. "No. But I would if I could. And I'd run away from you if I could. And I'm not a bit surprised that Drusilla --"

He tried to keep the fury out of his voice. "Don't you dare mention that name."

She arched an eyebrow. "Lay off me, and I'll lay off her."

He froze. That was deliberate.

After another long silence, he laughed mirthlessly. "Truce?"

She gave him a half-smile. "Truce." He reached past her and shut the door again, then started the engine.

Willow looked out the window; the scenery looked familiar, although she couldn't quite place it. "Where are we going, anyway? Have you gotten lost?"

Spike shrugged. "Back to Montreal, I suppose. Seen one bit of farmland, seen them all. Can't say I've much appetite for corn-fed yokels anyway."

She lapsed back into silence.

The sky was still dark when Spike nosed the car back into its accustomed parking space. He turned to the redhead. "Home again." She winced. Well, my home, anyway.

He got her bag and handed it to her, then gave her the fish, still safe in its watery world. They trudged up the stairs without speaking.

When he got to the door, he sucked in needless breath. There were fresh footmarks in the dust. Somebody either very stupid or completely uninterested in stealth had entered the apartment. The locks seemed untouched, which meant nothing. He pushed the girl down several stairs and whispered "Wait!" in a tone that did not admit argument.

He unlocked the well-oiled deadbolts, waited a moment, then kicked the door open. The apartment was empty. He checked carefully for traps, but found none.

There was a cream envelope in the center of the table.

"Fuck."




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