Author's Note: This is only my second story. It's really short, and sort of sad. It's just a little plotless oneshot, a bit of an extended drabble, really. I'm not completely satisfied with it, but I wanted to post it anyway. As I'm sure you all know, feedback would be wonderful. If you loved it, hated it, or didn't feel much of anything, please tell me. Oh, and if you spot any errors (grammar, spelling, etc.) please let me know. Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own BtVS or any of the characters therein. These belong to the brilliant Joss Whedon and co. No profit is being made from this story, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Additional Note: I am currently looking for a beta reader. If you're interested, please let me know.
Willow was crying. She had been crying a lot, lately, but this was the first time anybody had seen her doing it. She was so careful to keep her pain quiet that she would be shocked to know that someone was listening and watching her as she sobbed. But there he was, hidden behind a tree in the cemetery, smoking a cigarette and staring at the crying witch. She looked so small, so fragile, so young for a girl who had skinned a man alive before trying to end the world. And yet that was exactly what she had done. Spike hadn't been there, of course; he'd been off in Africa, earning his soul. But he'd heard the story many times over in the past few weeks, and each time the strangest feelings came over him. He couldn't decide if he was proud, disappointed, angry, or admiring when it came to the things his Red had done. Perhaps he felt all of those things at once.
He knew that he shouldn't feel pride or admiration; after all, he had a soul now. But the demon inside of him was still there, the bloodlust still rushing just beneath the surface. She had once been so naive. He could still remember the timid girl in the pink sweater he had kidnapped four years ago. And so he found himself shocked and vaguely proud when he had learned of the creative manner of her revenge. First, of course, was that trick with the bullet. Bloody painful, is must have been, and he was sure the boy would have been screaming if his mouth hadn't been sewn shut. As for what came next… Flaying was one of Angelus' favourite torture methods (and Spike should know, having been flayed many times over). But for the witch - well, it was quite impressive that she had come up with something so gruesome, so painful.
Of course, he could hardly admire her attempt to destroy the world. That sort of thing had always seemed idiotic to him. He might not have always been a white hat, but had always prided himself on having at least a modicum of common sense. Nasty buggers, apocalypse attempts; inconvenient and dangerous to boot. Frankly, he was furious that the bint would try to end the world. Grief could do things to you, horrible things, and he should know. He had adored Glinda, and the bond between the two witches was one of the strongest he had ever witnessed. But he'd never thought that her death would drive the chit to do something so completely moronic.
But even though trying to use her magic to create an apocalypse was idiotic, it did still require an impressive amount of power. Power that seemed mysteriously absent in the trembling girl before him.
Willow was sitting in front of Tara's grave, tracing the letters over and over with her finger the way she did every time she came out here. Spike knew why she was there. In fact, he had just caught the tail end of the confrontation that had lead her here.
Willow had only recently recovered from the time she turned into Warren, and she had just been accepting Kennedy's place in her life. Spike couldn't say he was too pleased with the developing relationship: he didn't trust Kennedy and there were strange feelings of jealousy her name brought up that he didn't care to examine to closely. And he doubted that any of their feelings for each other were based on anything more than lust and the desire to have a good time. But he had seen things between them heating up, both faster and more slowly than they would have had the apocalypse not been approaching. Faster, because life seemed dangerous and fleeting, and every emotion, even if it was as superficial as the ones between Kennedy and Willow, was more intense than usual. More slowly because they were spending much more time focusing on saving the world and staying alive than cementing a new relationship. Yet despite all the work and the lack of any real emotions, the two girls had been making headway.
And then tonight The First had shown up and used Tara's form to start talking to the redhead, telling her that she missed her, that she was waiting for her, but that she could only be there for her if she kept herself pure, if she never let herself love Kennedy or do magic, never forgot and never gave in. As much as Spike might not like the relationship between the witch and the Potential, he could see how these comments were hurting Red. He had considered stepping in and telling The First to sod off. But Tara's face had vanished as soon as he had made up his mind to say something.
As soon as it had disappeared he started to go up to Red to tell her that it was all lies. But before he had taken more than a few steps forward, the witch started talking to herself quietly: "It wasn't real Willow, it was just The First, just a stinky evil hallucination that wants to throw you off your game." She kept muttering to herself as he watched her put on her coat and walk out the door, alternating between murmuring comforting platitudes and angry jabs at all things evil.
He didn't know why he went after her. He told himself it was to protect her from any nasties who fancied young girls for a midnight snack. And he did feel very protective of her; he didn't know what he would do if something were to happen. But he knew that protection wasn't his real reason. After all, if the witch could almost end the world, she could certainly take care of herself. She might be hesitant when it came to using magic, but everyone had a survival instinct. So it wasn't because he thought she needed him.
Nor did he just want a nice walk. He was exhausted, still trying to heal from the tortures The First's minions had inflicted upon him when he was held captive, not to mention training with a bunch of teenage Potentials and having to listed to them stomping around above him all the time. And he was still wary of being recaptured. If he had his druthers, he'd prefer to be tucked up in bed right about now.
He had just felt this draw towards Willow lately, this need to be with her whenever he could. He couldn't understand it and he wasn't quite sure that he wanted to. The draw was nothing like the mindless passion he had for Buffy, or the devotion he had once had for Drusilla, or the possessive yet paternal feelings he had for Dawn. He didn't know what this emotional pull was. There was no one adjective to describe it. In fact, he was certain that fifty adjectives could not describe the things he felt when he looked at the beautiful woman crying in front of him. All he knew was that as he watched Willow brush the tears off of her face, he brushed off tears of his own.