Title: Plenty Self-Destructive (1/1)
Summary: Willow has some questions.
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns the Buffy characters.
Date: Feb. 26, 2001.
She stood in the doorway for a long moment, hesitant. He made no move to help her. He sat in the armchair he had salvaged from a dump, booted feet propped up on a crate. The intensity and feel of the light in the room shifted rapidly as Spike flicked from channel to channel, watching the jumping images of the television screen without any real interest.
"Spike?" Willow finally ventured. The sound of her own voice startled her into action. She took a shuffling step into Spike's crypt, pulling the door shut behind her. She smoothed her palms over her jean clad thigh. "Spike?" Willow repeated, more insistently.
He raised a bored eyebrow, still staring at the television. "What?" he asked, cool and stripped of any hint of interest.
The witch didn't wilt beneath the weight of his disinterest as he had halfway expected. She took a breath and moved towards him. He felt her waver momentarily, debating how daring to be. To step in front of him, grab the remote from his hand and demand attention or to remain hovering at his side, meekly requesting an audience? She surprised him by laying a tentative hand on his slumped shoulder.
He turned slowly, his face to hers. Willow flushed and let her hand fall limply to her side. "I..." She swallowed and ran a hand over her eyes. "Tell me about the world, Spike," she said.
"Tell you about the world?" Spike echoed incredulously.
She nodded. "Tell me... tell me what its like to see new places, to experience new cultures. Tell me what life is like beyond Sunnydale." Willow looked at him for a long moment and her voice trembled slightly when she next spoke. "Please."
His thumb found the off switch on the remote control, and the room dimmed as the television went blank. Spike leaned back in his chair, long fingers crossed over his stomach. "Well? Sit down all ready."
Willow gaped at him for a moment before shaking her head sharply. She didn't look for another chair, simply settling down on the floor at his feet. She crossed her legs, forearms resting on her thighs. She leaned forward slightly, wisps of red hair falling across her forehead. She looked up at him with hungry stranger's eyes as he began to speak.
...~*~...
She came back the next night. She was standing in the doorway, door closed behind her, even as Spike woke. He blinked away sleep and drew a deep breath into himself. He could feel her, smell her, hear her. The steady beat of her heart rang sharp and clear, and his demon rumbled in discontent and longing.
He didn't spare her a glance as he rose. She shut her eyes against the sight of his body, embarrassed for him and herself both in that odd shyness some humans held to. He dressed, black-jeans and t-shirt and worn white socks, not hurrying on her behalf. Spike settled into his chair, silent, waiting for Willow to open her eyes. It took her another minute for the silence to soak fully into her mind and her eyes cautiously fluttered open.
She was dressed in jeans again, and a black turtleneck. She was a serious figure, face set as she approached. "Spike?" his name was a question, still fearing that rage or cold disinterest would drive her back outside. He looked at her with carefully perfected blankness. She blinked, bit her lower lip and sat, cross-legged, at his feet.
Her head cocked and she watched him through narrowed eyes. "Tell me what its like to be strong. Tell me what its like to be powerful and confident and secure in your own invincibility."
Spike snorted, humourless. He took in Willow - small and pale and weak and his lips parted, a quick, silent flash of blunt white teeth. Willow swallowed, closed her eyes and sighed. They opened, the green dark and eerie in the darkness surrounding them. "Please."
She watched, rapt, as he spoke.
...~*~...
She came back the next night, and the next, and the next until Spike woke to the sound of emptiness and rain against his crypt. She wouldn't come that night, Spike thought as he rose. He stood, boots in hand, at a loss for a moment. He pulled his boots on, laced them tightly, and sought out his duster. He opened his door and stopped.
Willow stood outside. Her umbrella was bright yellow against the bent grass where it lay, still open. Willow's arms were at her sides, spread slightly so that her palms were exposed, narrow fingers curled inward slightly. Her clothes were soaked. They hung heavy around her slight body. Willow's face was upturned, eyes closed against the rain.
He broke, speaking her name. "Willow?"
Her face lowered, blinking away rain from her eyelashes. She pushed her bangs out of her face before offering him the memory of a smile. "Never mind. Go about your regular business. I think I'd like to stay right here for awhile," Willow said, a startling echo of Drusilla's wispy, knowing tone.
Willow flung her arms to the sky, loose sleeves slipping down towards her elbows. She turned, the toes of her sneakers squelching against the wet grass. She giggled, shrill and desperate until Spike nearly thought she was sobbing.
Spike stepped back inside and carefully shut the door behind him. He listened to the rain against his roof until it ceased.
...~*~...
She came the next night. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. The scent of dried blood clung to her. There was a tightness about her eyes and lips that spoke of a headache. She sat on the floor, back to the blank television, facing Spike. She drew her knees up to her chest, ankles crossed. Her arms were wrapped around her legs, right hand latched onto her left wrist hard enough that the skin turned white beneath the pressure.
They sat in silence, both listening to the sound of her breath.
"Spike? Tell me--" she stopped her words with a snap of closing teeth. Her head bent, forehead resting against her knees. Her shoulders rose and fell with each breath. He waited, counting each beat of her heart.
She lifted her head and found his eyes. "Tell me what its like to die."
His eyebrows climbed upward. The question found his lips before he thought to stop it. "Why?"
Willow shrugged. "Why not? I want to know."
He closed his eyes, cast his mind backwards. He remembered Drusilla, anticipation, fear, pain. He remembered wanting to live, a sudden desperate clarity as Dru's fangs found his neck. He remembered praying. Weakness. Darkness.
"That's what I thought," Willow murmured. Spike opened his eyes to find Willow watching him.
"What? I didn't say anything. I can't remember."
She smiled. "Yes, you do. You didn't have to say." She rose, absently brushing off the seat of her pants. She looked at her feet, the door, the ceiling in quick, jerking motions before turning back to Spike. "Thank you," she said in a sudden explosion of sound.
Willow nodded affirmation to her own statement. She met his eyes. And again, surer now. "Thank you."
...~*~...
She didn't come the next day, or the next, or the next.
~end~