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 20


Once again Willow found herself pinned in the arms of an angry demon, his fangs grazing her throat. Sometimes I talk too much.

Spike growled, fangs sliding against her skin, "I could solve every single problem I've got right now."

Willow bit her lip to keep from saying anything else stupid. She knew that the wrong word could push Spike over the edge.

She had no idea what the right word might be.

Time dragged on. Why isn't he biting me?

As her initial panic ebbed, Willow gradually became aware of Spike's hard body pressed against hers. Perhaps bloodlust isn't the strongest possible need after all.

Slowly, carefully, she raised a hand and stroked down the line of his spine. Was she imagining it, or did his grip loosen a trifle? She caressed the muscles at the small of his back. God, he's wound tight. Talking it out didn't work ... The next moment, the hand tangled in her hair released her. She turned her head and brushed her lips across Spike's ridged brow. He growled again, but still didn't bite. She traced the line of his scar with her tongue.

Before she could breathe, she was lying on the bed beneath Spike, who was ripping the clothes from her body. I liked that blouse. Shut up, irrelevant thoughts. She raised her hands to help him remove his own shirt; he growled and slapped her hands away. She contented herself with caressing his muscular chest while he stripped off his jeans and shoes. He grabbed her wrists with one hand, pinned them above her head, and leaned in to kiss her.

I am so not going to tell Buffy about this. Or Giles. Or anybody.

Then she stopped thinking entirely and focused on Spike, matching his desperate ardor with her own.

Willow lay cradled against Spike's chest, feeling his fingers stroke the hair at the nape of her neck. I wonder if I could ask any questions now? Probably a mistake. She frowned.

He chuckled, bouncing her head. "You're thinking again, Red."

She nodded. "I do that."

He patted her shoulder. "Noted. Go ahead, I'm braced."

"Are you not going to bite me if I say something you don't like?"

"Not just now." His cool fingers slipped along the line of her collarbone.

"Then why don't we just leave? If you hate this dance so much, why be there? Why not go someplace else? Quebec, maybe?"

The muscles under her cheek tensed. Spike stayed silent for an endless moment, then replied, "Can't, luv. We're being watched. François didn't seek us out to compliment your frock. He was sending a message. Trying to escape would be a direct challenge to those who sent him. I don't fancy those odds myself, and I'm rather tougher than you are."

Willow sighed. "It was a thought."

"Not a good one." He sat up, carrying her with him. "On your feet, luv, we need to get you dancing. And dressed, more's the pity. Put your petticoats on. You'd best practice managing long skirts."

"One-two-three, one-two-three, STOP BLOODY TRYING TO LEAD!"

"You were about to crash me into the wall!" Willow retorted, trying to pull out of his arms.

"That's the whole point. You have to trust me. You let me direct you here -- " he squeezed her waist with his right hand -- " and you don't bloody push back. If you do, we WILL crash into another couple, and things will go straight into the bloody sewer from there. Again."

They began waltzing again, but after a few moments, Spike released her, turned away, and began scanning the room. After a few seconds, he picked up the remnants of her blouse. "Stand still." He ripped the blouse into a rag, then blindfolded her.

She raised her hands to her face. "What on earth?"

"If you can't see, you'll have to learn to follow." He hit a switch and "Wiener Blut" began yet again. Spike pulled her back into waltz position, his grip detached and impersonal. "Again!"

Blind trust again. Literally. Spike won't give it to me, why does he think he can demand it? Sigh. Because he's stronger than I am. Male chauvinist vampire.

Willow collapsed into the chair and tore off the blindfold. "I don't think I can move."

Spike sat on the bed and looked pensive. "Suggests possibilities..."

Willow pretended to glare. "Only if you prefer passive women. Extremely passive women."

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Tomorrow we'll work on country dancing. Properly it's done with other couples; I can't teach you most of the figures alone. Bloody Hell." He stood and began pacing again.

Willow grinned. "What about François? Does he have a girlfriend?"

Spike threw her a disgusted look, never stopping his restless circuit. "I am trying to avoid becoming the laughingstock of Montreal, not to advertise your shortcomings. No, we'll have to leave the country dances. Damn. No minuet, you'd never learn it in time, no country dances, I'm afraid you're going to be a wallflower."

Willow smiled. "Like Jo. I'll just remember to keep the burned breadth against the wall."

He groaned, "Another bloody book, right," and strode on without waiting for her answer. Suddenly he halted, struck by an idea. "Actually, I do know somebody who has a girlfriend. But there's a catch."

Willow looked at him suspiciously. "What's the catch?"

"You'd have to go back to Rafe's." He tilted his head, awaiting her answer.

Willow sat bolt upright. "Over my dead body. And I mean that literally, Spike. Not only 'No', but 'Hell, no.'"

"Such language." He pursed his lips reprovingly.

Willow glared, meaning it this time. "You're in no position to talk, Spike. And don't try to change the subject."

"If you don't learn to country dance, you're going to spend most of the ball on the sidelines."

Willow set her jaw. "Fine by me. It'll be just like high school."

Spike threw up a hand. "As you like. Stand up, let's try a mazurka."

Willow groaned and dragged herself to her feet.

The remaining weeks before the dance slipped by like silk ribbon from a spool. Spike and Willow left the lair only for food and the occasional shopping trip, then returned to the endless drill on dancing and vampire etiquette.

Decrypted from the Diary of Willow Rosenberg

$parser = XML::Parser::PerlSAX->new 
( Handler => $grove_builder );

I now know more about forgotten Victorian dances than 
any non-historian human needs to know.  Whee.  I also 
know that traditional vampires consider humans prey, 
not worthy of social notice. Which does rather raise 
the question of why they invited a human to the biggest 
party of the year, doesn't it?  Spike won't answer that 
question. Spike won't answer any questions that don't 
directly relate to (1) which foot to put in front of the 
other and (2) how I should behave in public.  

I won't bother with question (1) here.  I can summarize 
(2) in one word: "Grovel".  I am to speak only when 
spoken to, say "Sir" or "Ma'am" every other word, never 
volunteer information, and keep my eyes downcast unless 
I am ordered otherwise.  I think somebody took the Gor 
novels seriously. Ewww.  On the other hand, if I survived 
nearly three years of Principal Snyder without telling him 
exactly what I thought of him, I can probably get through 
this. And Principal Snyder got eaten by a giant snake, so 
there's hope, right?  Maybe I'll spend the evening 
visualizing vampires getting eaten by giant snakes.

Except Spike, who has been rather sweet in a left-handed 
vampiry sort of way.

I am editing these notes before I let anybody else see 
them. Or maybe I'll just leave them sealed until 50 years 
after my death.  

Make that 100.

The evening of Solstice arrived. Willow collected her clothes and went into the bathroom to prepare herself. She slipped on her black strapless brassiere, tap pants,and satin shoes, then looked in the mirror. As short as her hair was, there wasn't much she could do to make it look formal. (Spike had made some acerbic comments about defacing her crowning glory, which Willow thought privately was a case of the pot and the kettle.) She did what she could with her hair, then made herself up according to Spike's instructions (minimal color, lipstick, yes, blush, no).

She turned away from her reflection and pulled on her petticoat. Then she took the black taffeta ballgown from its hanger, stepped into it, and zipped it up the side. She tugged at the strapless bodice, swayed back and forth to feel the bell skirt swishing, then turned back to the mirror. < Still me. > The black material exaggerated her natural pallor; the garnet drop of Spike's necklace glowed against her skin. She put up a hand and traced the chain, wondering again what it really stood for. Suddenly she realized that she had forgotten her evening gloves. She hastily pulled them on, smoothing the wrinkles above her elbows, then buttoning the wrists with clumsy fingers.

When she left the bathroom, Spike was pacing again. At the sound of her footsteps, he stopped, took something she couldn't see from the table, and turned to her. He was dressed in full white tie and tails, complete with patent-leather dancing pumps.

Goodness, he cleans up nicely.

Willow straightened her back and walked to Spike. He was wearing his expressionless face again. He scanned her from head to foot, said "Good enough," and held out the thing he had taken from the table.

It was a clear plastic box. Inside, nestled into green tissue paper, was a single white gardenia. Willow buried her nose in the waxy petals.

"It smells wonderful. Thank you." She raised her eyes to meet his and felt a flush rising to her eyebrows.

"It goes in your hair. Let me." He took the flower from her hands, leaned forward, and pinned it into her hair over one ear. Cool fingers traced the skin behind her ear down to the pulse point. He paused as if to say something, then shrugged, released her, and stepped back, face a mask of disinterest. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

He turned away to the table, where lay a silk top hat lay on the table, white gloves stuffed carelessly into it. Spike picked up the hat, then bowed and offered Willow his right arm. She took it and they set out.




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