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Reality Bites -- by Luisa
Rating: PG
Description: Sequel to Beyond Words.
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns Buffy the Vampire Slayer and its characters.
I.
Willow's heart pressed her for motives over the following weeks. She'd fought off its interrogation without so much as listening, another voice making itself heard inside her head simultaneously. Cool, composed, utterly dependable. A voice that didn't scream, unlike her heart's. When she looked back at that night and what had happened, she shrugged inwardly, evading all attempts to over-analyse. She'd done what she had to do. There was nothing more to it. Her actions had altered the course of ScoobyGang history. Spike was now one of them. A vibrant, electric member of the slaying squad. The girl grimaced, remembering Buffy's face when confronted with Spike's metamorphosis. She'd brimmed with suspicion and mockery, jade eyes shooting unasked questions at something she refused to accept. Spike had been more than a gentleman for most of the time, but his patience only went so far. Willow winced as she recalled his outburst of utter passion on an occasion when Buffy's caustic wisecracks had crossed some invisible line.
"WHY IS IT SO BLOODY *IMPOSSIBLE* FOR ME TO BE HERE??? DO YOU WANT IT LIKE IT USED TO BE?!!! IS THAT *IT*, YOU *BITCH*?!!!", he'd shouted at the blonde girl, startling everybody else. Willow had rushed to calm spirits, but they'd been outside her jurisdiction. A pile of ancient volumes had crashed to the floor before she'd managed to reach the furious delinquent. And Buffy had got there first. Lunging at Spike, she'd pinned him to the floor, pointing the stake at his heart. Spike had faced her without so much as blinking. "You're such a *lame* *JOKE*, Summers! Always whining "I'm the Chosen One, I'm *all* alone, boohoo..." And now you've got help and toss it away like the *blockhead* we've always known you were!" His words had frozen the room, icily chucked at Buffy's enraged features. Willow had grabbed the stake out of her friend's hand in time to prevent the Slayer from performing her duties admirably. Buffy had got up and stormed away, not even glancing at her distressed best friend. Spike was swiftly on his feet, storming in the opposite direction. The pile of books was lovingly restored to its rightful place on the living-room table by a wretched Giles and a trembling redhead. Willow was haunted by the indifference in Spike's eyes as he'd walked away. Her conscience was scathingly bent on nailing some home truths to her abnormally weary mind. She couldn't remain deaf to it much longer. Sighing inside a sweater she was pulling over her head, she tried to figure out a masterplan to make everything alright. Working magic on them might do the trick, but to Willow it felt cowardly. Her brain was asking her if she couldn't do any better. Using her power as a crutch of some sort was becoming a habit, one that both humiliated and thrilled her when she was alone. But copping out wasn't her way. Willow still remembered the time when she hadn't known magic existed, when her resources had seemed slight and feeble. And yet she had survived. Glancing unhappily at her computer, she switched it on, hearing the welcoming melody of beeping. Turning away from the screen, she gazed out the sunny window. It was a dazzling day of sunshine and breeze. Willow's heart ached. Spike was a shadow over her life. Someone she felt responsible for, even though she couldn't say why. The girl knew there was more to him than cynical bloodshed. He'd done some terrible, indescribable things. Acts that she knew nothing about, but that were as real to her imagination as anything else. Spike was an outsider, a sociopath...a vicious threat to every soul he came in contact with. Willow's eyes caught a fleeting cloud as it it raced another across blue skies. He'd never had half a chance. The cloud was gone.
II.
Spike cursed his fate, banging a frustrated fist on the counter. The scruffy bartender glared at him for a second before returning his attention to a depressed customer. The bar was full of smokers and drinkers, all determined to have a miserable time. Spike was one of them. If he didn't belong anywhere else, this was home. Dark, stale, hazy. A hole of exquisite dinginess. With a flick of the wrist, he downed half the contents of a beer bottle. It tasted warm. Glancing about the room, he took in his potential victims. A woman in a red dress. Long, flawless neck. A ruffian in a bright blue cardigan. Spouting off about the latest soccer match in a voice that drowned all other noises. Spike grinned at his own fantasy. He felt the boy's bones under his fingers, his soul crying for mercy. The wall against which he'd crush him out of his life, soaking up up blood before the prey dropped. Lighting a cigarette, he took a long, balmy drag, bursting his bubble of self-delusion. There was no point. There was no Spike anymore. He'd held up a mirror against the Slayer and laughed in her face, but a real glass beyond the counter was doing the same thing in a bitingly worse way. Spike scanned the mirror for his reflection. Not there. Non-existent. I don't drink, therefore I am not. I don't kill...*I can't*. The past had replaced the present as a sort of life. It breathed in his face, conjuring demons he'd thought burnt forever. Smoking made him feel things more keenly. Loss was sharp. The vampire had gained nothing from his defeat, the world stood empty, devoid of any charm or light.
Before he had tipped the bottle clutched in his hand, a bleeding wrist imprinted itself onto the realm of thought. A thin, white wrist, gashed beyond recognition. A pale, traumatized face that sacrificed worlds to help out the people she cared about. Willow. Spike brushed a shaking hand across his forehead as the girl appeared in his mind's eye, lying on the damp earth like a broken angel. Her sigh filled his heart with pain. He wasn't giving her half a chance. The bartender walked over towards him and collected the empty bottles, frowning at his undesirable buyer. He made a profit out of soulless bastards, but that didn't stop him from wishing them miles away. Spike noticed the man's contemptuous glance and returned it with one of his own. Pathetic scum. Intoxicating people every night for a living was worse than killing them. He should be taken out and fanged till he begged. The bartender hurried away, a witless look of terror on his flabby face. Spike grinned. It appeared he could still make people panic, which felt uncommonly comforting when nothing else made sense.
III.
Willow knocked on Giles's door, wondering whether the Watcher was in. Giles's new lifestyle meant that he left the house at the most unusual hours in pursuit of the American Dream. Whether in the shape of a new car or a new woman. Willow smiled faintly, as she recalled Spike's quips about Giles's new occupation as a heartbreaker. One bird after another...all leggy and bemused. She knocked again, turning the door handle at the same time. Unlocked. Giles had tossed fears aside and made things easier on any observant burglar that might be prowling the neighbourhood for a coup. Sighing wearily, she went in, blinking in the familiar dimness of the place. Dust covered every line inside the living-room. Books placed in the strangest places, boxes of pizza on the floor and empty bottles of beer. Tripping on one, she grabbed on to the back of a chair, heart pounding. Getting injured walking across a room wasn't funny. Or remotely forgivable. Taking off her parka, she stood in front of a book-shelf, gazing at the battered volumes that contained the underworld. Hard to believe they housed monsters and ghouls. Willow smiled. Giles's house was a pool of contradictions. Reason and unreason side by side, not holding hands. The Watcher knew more than any adult should. Lifting an unread anthology from the shelf, Willow dropped her bag onto the floor and headed for the couch, which had never looked softer or more inviting. Burying her head in the gruesomeness, she forgot everything else.
A vicious banging sound nearly gave her a heart-attack. Jumping from her seat, she rushed to the source, not bothering to ask for a name. The sun had set outside, beckoning a gusty wind to take its place. Spike brushed past her, leaving her holding the door. Willow blinked in confusion and let go of it. Turning to enter, she glanced at him.
"Hey...", she ventured. Spike looked up from his cigarette and gave her a smile. Brief and stirring. Feeling curiously dizzy, Willow sat on an armchair, looking around for her book. Spike held it in his hands, leafing through the pages carelessly.
"Aren't you tired?" His question hit her like a dart.
"Tired of what...?", she smiled vaguely.
"Chasing demons that always win.", he replied slowly, taking in her fidgeting figure.
"They don't always win, Spike. Buffy doesn't let them."
"*Buffy* is not Wonder-Woman. She can't do the job."
"Are you drunk...?", she frowned. Spike smirked at her perceptiveness.
"A tad. Aren't you?"
"No! Not now anyway...", Willow answered, blood flaming her cheeks.
"So you have been smashed before?", he insisted.
"Once." Willow's discomfort grew with every word. Getting up, she moved towards him, anxious to recover the means to a few peaceful hours. Spike gazed at her, a sinister smile playing on his lips. Jumping out of reach, he held the book in front of her, just beyond her grasp. Willow paled. "When?", he asked. Lunging towards him, she knocked down a chair, nearly falling with it. Spike tossed her an arrogant look before hiding the book behind his back. Willow was furious. "What do you think you're doing?! We're not kids, Spike! Give me the book!", she shouted, fists clenched against the back of an armchair. Spike was still.
"Come get it.", he flung, evil as ever. Willow stepped forwards, a menacing smile of her own. "Don't force me to spell you, OK...?" The vampire shrugged. "Vamps are immune to most mojos, above all third-rate-Wicca ones." This was the last drop. Charging against him, she toppled his frame, trying to unclutch the book from his hand. Spike laughed, rolling from under her as she struggled for her hostage. "GIVE IT *BACK*!", she ordered, green eyes blazing with frustration. "When did you get smashed?", Spike asked, face motionless. Willow gave up and sat on the floor, elbows on knees. An sorrowful moan escaped her lips. "Last week, *alright*?! I got drunk last week! And danced like an idiot. And came onto a guy. Buffy saw it, Xander saw it, everybody saw it! And now my life's a wreck! *OK*, Mr Let's-Bully-The-Witch-Cause-I'm-*Bored*?!!!" Two seconds passed before Spike exploded in a burst of loud, unapologetic laughter. "If this is how you came onto the chap, I feel sorry for him, poor sod." Throwing the book at her feet, he stretched out a hand, forcing her up. Willow muttered something incoherent and walked off, flinging herself on the couch without looking at him. Spike stormed into the kitchen, helping himself to Giles's vast array of appetizing bottles. Returning to the living-room, he handed her one. Willow shook her head. "No. I don't wanna see another bottle for as long as I live." Spike shrugged. "Right. I'll take it off your hands then." Sitting next to her, he smirked. "Who was the bloke?" His curiosity held nothing subtle about it. Willow sighed in exasperation. He was crossing every known line of decency and respect. "What is it to *you*?! Why so *interested*??? I mean, I'm just Willow, the third-rate Wicca, remember???", she darted at him, heart pounding in annoyance. Laying down the bottle with a bang, he stared at her. Intensely. Willow writhed under his scrutiny. The room was turning into a living hell. "Who is he?" His voice was icy. Willow gazed at him, puzzled. He wasn't logical. "*Graham*...one of Riley's friends...", she murmured, lowering her eyes.
"Did he like it?" Grasping her chin, he made her look up.
"Yes...no. I don't know! I-I...uh..."
"He *liked* it! Bloody hell, how could he *not* like it?", he sneered angrily.
"Spike, nothing happened! And, OK...I don't have the faintest clue why I'm explaining myself to you, but I hate you when you're like this. Moody, *snappy*... NOTHING HAPPENED, ALRIGHT?!!!" Her small face pleaded with him, eyes running over his features, searching for solace. His face didn't change.
"But it will. Cause he's got the hots for you.", he answered quietly, eyes bitter.
"What...? What are you talking about?" Her mind was quicksand.
"I heard the Slayer. She was talking to Xander...gossiping like a bloody old hag. Giggling and whispering...and *eyeing* me."
"*You*...? *Why*??"
"Cause she got it into her skull that I...erm...*I*..." His voice escaped him along with his nerve.
"You...what?"
"She just didn't want me to know, alright? Now *quit* it!" Willow's eyes danced in woozy bafflement. She gazed down at her lap unseeingly.
"Graham likes me...?" Spike snarled at her, showing fangs.
"YES! *THERE*! DOES THAT GIVE YOU A *HAPPY*?!", he snapped. Willow looked up fast, at a loss for the proper words.
"No...I guess it doesn't." Spike stared, blue eyes wide.
"*What*?"
"I only came onto him cause I was lonely. That's all....I didn't mean anything by it.", she whispered, a pang of guilt filling her breast.
"You didn't *mean* anything. You come on to the poor wanker, all dressed-up and drunk and bleeding *lovely* and you didn't mean it?! BLOODY *HELL*, WOMAN!" Willow jumped, startled out of reason. She still didn't get what he was driving at.
"I'm sorry... *NO*, I'm *not*! What the hell am I saying?! Why are you making me apologize to *YOU*?!!!" Sinking back into the couch, Spike smiled darkly, not looking at her. The first battle was won. "I don't know, pet. Why?" Willow deflated, all energy drained out of her body.
"Y-You...y-you*make* me say things. That have *nothing* to do with you! I...*hate* you."
"No, you don't. That cut on your wrist says you don't."
Willow had run out of words. Silence alighted on the small space like a web. She squirmed and looked at her watch. It was barely 6.30. Glancing at the blank TV screen, she got up, reaching for her parka, glad to be going. The afternoon had cost her peace of mind. And a night's sleep. Graham liked her. Spike...did, too. In his own twisted, unnatural way. Before she could leave the house, he had followed her to the door.
"I'm coming with, Willow. It's dark."
"No! *Stay* here...you've upset me enough. I need to be alone."
"I did nothing. Your mind is to blame, if it can't handle the truth." His voice was glassy.
"What truth, Spike...? The fact that Graham likes me? So what? I can't do anything about that. The vampire's eyes glittered coldly in the starlight.
"You can tell him to bugger off. There's no chance. Tell him *that*." Willow almost lost her hard-won semblance of coolness.
"I am not telling him a damn thing! He's allowed to like me, if he wants. I don't mind..."
"YOU'RE LEADING HIM ON!", Spike snapped, clutching her shoulder painfully.
"I AM *NOT*! HE'S...*OK*!...", her voice broke. A picture of Oz had come in uninvited.
"OK...? Listen to yourself, Red. OK! If he were here, he'd be digging his own grave."
Willow turned away, walking off a distance. Spike was too much reality for her. But the vampire wasn't finished. Stepping beside her, he took her arm, making her stop.
"You're playing with fire, pet. Don't do it."
"Let go of me."
"Tell me you'll talk to the bloke...*Graham*. You'll kill this thing before it starts."
"There is nothing to kill or start, Spike..."
"Then he won't get hurt either way." Willow stared at his determination. All the muscles on his face seemed to demand an answer. A promise of something he wanted to hear. Willow was up against a wall.
"I'll talk to him." Spike started walking, not waiting for her to catch up. A devious grin lit up his face in the darkness. He had won...The bird was trapped.
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