Title: Judgment
Author: Medea
Email: medealives@hotmail.com
Pairing: Willow/Angel friendship, Buffy/Spike
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Willow's joyride in 'Wrecked' was only the beginning of her downward spiral.
Spoilers: Through BtVS "Smashed" and "Wrecked"; and AtS "Lullaby"
Archive: Please do.
Disclaimer: Joss created. I am not Joss. Therefore, not mine, never will be. Pity, that.
Note: A response to Kendra A's challenge to "fix" Wrecked, although I don't really feel that the ep needed fixing. There's nothing wrong with taking a character through the moral gray zone. I kinda thought it gave Willow some interesting nuances.
Note 2: This is not part of the Masters and Minions universe -- Willow is human. For Willow/Angel fans -- it comes later in the story, but it *will* come.
Feedback: Much appreciated: medealives@hotmail.com

C'mon, Bit, you're not even tryin'," Spike taunted, feinting at Dawn, then circling behind her.

They'd been going at it in the basement workout room for nearly half an hour. Dawn glowed with a light sheen of sweat. Spike could hear the blood pounding vigorously in her veins. Something was missing, though. He was all for the Little Bit learning to defend herself, what with all she'd been through, but she was still holding back, like she was waiting for someone to do all the work. Time to step it up -- she needed a good scare.

Seizing her abruptly, Spike pinned her arms to her sides with one arm and yanked her head to the side with the other. Dawn cried out in alarm as he plunged his head down at her exposed neck--

--and gave her a quick kiss right over the jugular.

He pushed her gently away.

Panting, Dawn managed to say, "You *so* scared me for a second there. What was with the Big Bad routine?"

A rush of pride surged through Spike. It was nice to know that even though the damned Scoobies had grown used to seeing him as a tame little kitten, he could still scare somebody. Nevertheless, he frowned sternly and retorted, "You're supposed to be scared, pet. That's the idea. D'you think any of the nasties we're tryin' to get you fit to handle would settle for a little peck on the cheek? Need to make you take this seriously."

Pouting defensively, Dawn insisted, "I'm taking this seriously. I'm totally down with the training."

"You're holdin' back. Can't always assume Big Sis'll be there to watch your back."

"I'm not assuming anything! Why do you think I'm down here with you? I'm tired of everyone treating me like they have to take care of me. I want to be able to take care of myself," Dawn argued, stalking over to the edge of the mat where a white towel lay heaped beside a water bottle. She grabbed the bottle, twisted the cap, and took several, deep swallows.

Spike sauntered over. "Then put a little effort into it. Haven't even given me a scratch yet. What would you do if some nasty vamp had you cornered and Buffy couldn't come running right away?"

Dawn's expression clouded and all the fight seemed to drain out of her. Softly, she murmured, "I'd tell him I thought he loved me, stake him, and try not to cry too hard that the only guy who ever acted like he was interested in me turned out to be a creep."

Sod it. He'd forgotten about that little escapade on Halloween. Seemed like that was ages ago, and bloody tame compared to everything that'd come after.

Spike sighed, scooped up the towel, and began gently dabbing sweat from Dawn's forehead. "Sorry, luv. Wasn't thinkin'."

Dawn sat down on the mat and Spike followed suit. She shrugged. "It's okay. I know you're just trying to help out. And it's been fun, hanging out with you like this."

"If you even think of using the words 'like a brother', I'll rip that tongue right out of your head, chip be damned."

Grinning, Dawn swatted playfully at him. "Fine, but then you can kiss the Buffy action good-bye."

"Oooooh, naughty girl, Dawn," Spike teased. "I can see who got all the vixen in your family."

Dawn's grin broadened and she blushed a little, but said nothing. After a few moments, she grew thoughtful and said, "It's still weird knowing that it's not just Buffy. I mean, that there have been other Slayers that fell in love with vampires."

For a moment, Spike felt the hollow, still, emptiness in his chest as his lifeless heart ached at Dawn's innocent remark. Softly, he corrected, "She's not exactly in love -- least, she hasn't said it yet. But I take whatever she'll give me."

"She so totally does love you," Dawn protested, rolling her eyes at him as if he were the densest git on earth. Her expression softened and she added, "Buffy's just been trying too hard to be things she's not. Ever since mom died...it's like she doesn't think it's okay for her to make a mistake...like she thinks if she'd done everything right, mom might still be alive."

Resting his arms across his knees, Spike fiddled with the laces on his right boot. Nodding, he agreed, "Hurt her pretty bad. Guess it's hard, her bein' the Chosen One, savin' the world over and over again, and yet she couldn't save her own mum."

Dawn hugged her knees to her chest and they sat together in silence for a few minutes. Then Dawn asked, "Did you ever meet him?"

Puzzled, Spike frowned. "Who?"

"Ramon Diaz," Dawn clarified, eyes twinkling eagerly.

Spike shrugged. "Once. 'Bout a hundred years ago. Thought he was a ponce."

"A ponce?"

"Real pathetic bugger. I'd heard the rumors about him an' his Slayer, but it was right around the time I'd...well, back then, I had a different opinion about Slayers."


//Amsterdam, 1902//


The pub was crowded and boisterous. It teemed with the stench of human vice: beer, smoke, the rich odor of sex wafting from beneath a whore's skirts, and the acrid, diseased miasmas exhaled by poor wretches who were infected with everything from consumption to syphillis.

Not the sort of place Dru cared to visit. But it suited Spike just fine. He rested his head against the dingy plaster wall and surveyed the drunken human patrons of the establishment. Not many he'd care to bite -- on the whole, they were a filthy lot. However, a few looked like they might be good for a nice, bloody fight. He could do with a spot of violence. Ever since China and that glorious kill -- his first Slayer! -- he'd had an edginess that just couldn't be stilled. He itched for a rematch with a worthy opponent. His body quivered in anticipation...for something...

As his studied, predator's gaze roamed over the pub's raucous denizens, his lips curling in a slow, feral grin at the multitude of churning heartbeats, he sensed the arrival of his own kind. Spike glanced across the room to the entryway and narrowed his eyes at the curious pair of vampires who had just come in. One was tall and dark-haired with a slight hint of beard on his chin. Spike figured him for a Spaniard. He looked proud but...sad? With a sneer, Spike reached for his stein of ale and took a swig. What self-respecting vamp'd go about looking sad?

'Course, maybe it had something to do with the wretch taggin' behind him like a dog. Looked like a minion, but there was something about its eyes...Dull, dim, haunted in that way only something very old can look. A network of scars cris-crossed its face, punctuated by a fresh, ugly bruise darkening its cheek. All the way across the room, Spike was able to detect a faint blood scent that suggested further injuries were concealed by its ragged clothes.

Spike's gaze returned to the first vamp. Their eyes locked and a tacit acknowledgment passed between them. Neither was interested in a fight over these hunting grounds. The somber, dark-haired vampire made his way across the pub, radiating an aura of command that prompted one human patron after another to give way. Without hesitation, the minion trailed obediently in his wake.

With a diplomatic nod of his head, the lead vampire sat down at Spike's table.

"Cómo es la caza?"

Spike shook his head. "Sorry, mate. Don't speak Spanish -- or Italian, if that's what that is."

"Spanish. I asked how the hunting is."

"Fair enough," Spike acknowledged with a shrug. "Haven't made my choice yet."

The taciturn vampire merely nodded and turned his attention to the surrounding humans. He reminded Spike of Angelus: all business. Get in, make a clean kill, get out. Spike, on the other hand, planned to stick around for a while, maybe stir up a fight.

A thought came to him.

"Get caught by a mob?" Spike asked conversationally. When the other vampire stared at him blankly, Spike cocked his head toward the battered minion, who certainly looked like he'd been roughed up by an angry crowd.

Pure, cold hatred hardened the dark-haired vampire's eyes, so intense it sent a slight shiver through Spike. Now this was a demon.

"He belonged to the Council of Watchers before. I turned him, and now it amuses me to torture him. It is a small revenge, but one that has taught them a lesson."

Spike warmed to the venom in the dark-haired vampire's evenly spoken words. Sounded like a wicked arrangement. He was intrigued.

"Revenge, eh? For what? Who're these Watchers?"

A slight clench of the jaw was the only reaction the Spaniard gave him. For several moments, the dark vampire stared absently at the humans carousing at other tables. Then, quietly, he said, "The Council is composed of pretentious mortal fools who think it is their place to control the Slayer."

"You don't say?" Spike mused with a feral grin. "Thought the girls just worked alone. S'pose it don't matter -- they fight alone and they die alone." Warming to the memories of his battle with the Chinese Slayer during the Boxer Rebellion, Spike thought little of it when the dark-haired vampire stiffened suddenly and stared at him with the same, slightly crazed look that Drusilla had. Smugly, Spike boasted, "Y'know you're lookin' at the vamp who killed the last Slayer. Damn, but they've got sweet blood, 's like--"

Without warning, the dark-haired vampire delivered a vicious, powerful blow to Spike's chin and sent him hurtling across the next table. Several of the humans bellowed indignantly as their drinks clattered to the floor. Abruptly, their cries sharpened in terror and Spike sensed the thundering increase in their heart rates. Rubbing his sore jaw, he looked up and saw the Spaniard looming over him, enraged, demon to the fore.

Spike had been chilled by the vamp's demeanor before; now there was something terrifying about the stranger. His eyes had the desperate, wounded look of an animal that wants to die.

Spike let his own true face emerge. Looked like he was about to get that fight he'd been hoping for. All too soon, and to his humiliation, Spike found himself outclassed. The dark vampire attacked him with a fury unbound, like all the forces of hell unleashed. They battled back and forth across the abandoned pub -- the humans having fled in mortal fear at the sight of two unholy monsters locked in combat. Spike managed to hold his own for a while, but eventually fell beneath the frenzied onslaught. He howled in pain as his skull cracked against the floor and curled in on himself to defend against brutal kicks to his ribs, only to suffer more kicks to his back. Slowly, oblivion swallowed him up.

When he came to, whimpering in agony, the Spaniard and his minion were gone. Drusilla sat beside him, gently stroking his hair.

"D-Dru?" he rasped painfully.

"Sshhhh," she soothed. "Musn't hurt yourself any more than you are, precious Spike."

"How'd...you...f-find...?" Spike's question trailed off as he coughed up stolen blood.

Gently, Drusilla gathered him in her arms and cradled him across her lap like an infant. Shifting to her demon visage, she sank her fangs into her own wrist, then held the wound to Spike's swollen, bruised lips and urged him to drink.

"I followed the fear...all the people scurrying away like little mice from the hungry cat!"

Strengthened by his Sire's blood, Spike pulled away from her wrist, blinked up at her dark, glistening eyes and asked, "The vamp I was fightin'...did you see him?"

Dru, consoling her wounded childe, murmured sadly, "My poor boy. You still have your princess. He lost his -- naughty men! She gave him her heart, but the nasty Watchers stole it away and cut it into tiny little bits, snip, snip, snip..."

Spike shivered, his entire body in searing torment, as his Dark Goddess continued to stroke his hair. Too tired to press her for answers, he clung to her and let the rich scent of his beloved's blood soothe him and wash away the pain and humiliation.


// Los Angeles, 2002 //


"How did you know it was Diaz?" Dawn asked.

Spike cocked his head to the side in surprise. He'd expected her to be more upset that he'd bragged about killing a Slayer, but Dawn relaxed companionably beside him, her legs stretched out before her on the mat, seeming more curious than angry.

With a wry grin, Spike sighed, "Word got around about the fight -- no way it couldn't have. Dru got me out of town all right, but my reputation had been buggered good and proper for a few years. Couldn't turn around without hearin' how Ramon Diaz gave me a sound thrashing. Spent a long time fightin' with tossers who rubbed my nose in it, workin' my way back. Meantime, I heard more than enough about Ramon Diaz -- most of it rumors. Told me himself he'd turned a Watcher, but everything else I got were vague stories -- he'd turned a Slayer, he'd killed a Slayer, he'd loved a Slayer...I just thought he was a bloody psychopath."

Dawn smirked. "Pot calling the kettle?"

"Yeah, well..." Spike's retort trailed off as he caught the faint scent of blood.

Very familiar, intoxicating, blood.

He looked to the stairwell and a moment later Buffy appeared at the top of the stairs and started down. Spike's eyes narrowed in concern at the sight of her hand gripping the handrail. Small traces of blood dappled her fingertips. Yet when he searched her eyes, it was emotional pain he saw.

Rising to his feet, Spike crossed the mat to meet her. "Buffy? What's wrong, luv?"

When she didn't answer, merely gazing at him in numb sorrow, he drew her into his arms. Tenderly, he brought one of her abused hands up to his mouth and kissed it. One by one, he took each finger between his lips and soothed the damaged flesh with his tongue, struggling to keep it relatively chaste in Dawn's presence. Buffy closed her eyes and leaned into his embrace, sighing at his loving ministrations.

After several moments, Buffy murmured, "I don't belong here."

In the darkened basement of a run-down, abandoned building, behind a thick metal door reinforced with dead-bolts, a vampire slumped against the chains that bound her. Her senses were agitated, painfully inflamed by hunger, and she could hear the mice skittering across the floor in the shadows.

She could hear their blood -- sweet, tempting blood.

Little mice, with little blood, but, then, a little was better than none.

She wanted to eat the naughty man who kept her here. Every time he came to taunt her, to tell her about daddy's new family, his warm blood called to her. How she wanted to sip the man's blood from a china cup as the little mice crawled over his body, nibbling, nibbling at the house...

With a low, frustrated growl, Drusilla tugged on her chains.




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