Disclaimer: Joss & his people own all. Lyrics are from Jonny Lang's
Breakin Me, c. 1998 A&M Records
Summary: Willow & Spike had a night on the town; she instigates another in
the hope of smoochies.
Notes: I had written quite a bit of this when I realised that Buffy and
Willow wouldn't have their own bathroom. But I needed it, so ... forgive.
Willow's eyelashes slowly fluttered as she awoke, hesitant and dreamy. The
heavy possessiveness of the arm hugging her stomach was definitely new ...
She turned her head and looked at the man beside her. Or the vampire, as
the case turned out to be.
He was still asleep, although it was reasonably hard to tell with the
walking dead, for here and now, he just looked dead. No breath stirred his
chest, and his mouth and eyes were closed and still.
His arm lay low on her stomach, intimately draped and holding her as if
staking a claim. He was smooth and cool against her, not cold, but merely
cool, like silk. He slept on his stomach, low in the bed, his face at her
She blushed just thinking of the sight, and it was then that he stirred.
His arm tightened around her, and in a smooth movement he shifted his body
atop hers, rubbing his groin against her so she clearly felt his increasing
erection. She gave a squeak of startlement, and then it was crushed as he
began to kiss her. His eyes were still closed, and half-asleep he expertly
slid his thigh between hers, parting her legs to receive him. His hand
skimmed up her stomach to her breasts, and as he slid one hand to cover
her, he found the hem of her short t-shirt and stilled.
Spike drew his head back, and opened his eyes in confusion.
The look on his face when he realised who she was was unforgettable. His
eyes widened and he gulped audibly.
*Am I that disappointing?*
"What are you doing?" he rasped, his eyes frantically taking in the
"You were kissing me," she answered breathlessly.
She felt the hard, ready length of him pressing at her core, and her own
eyes flickered downwards in anticipation. He followed her gaze, and
swallowed again, then quickly leapt from the bed.
He shook his head at her, his eyes huge, and raced to the bathroom,
slamming the door. She heard him start the shower, and frowned. *Why
doesn't he just escape, if he's so, so ... whatever he's so!*
From the bathroom, over the shower, came a muffled cough, and a wondering
look entered her eyes.
*Did he just ... oh my ... in our shower?!*
Spike laid his head against the wall of the shower, letting the scalding
water cascade over him.
*What the fuck have I done? Oh, the Slayer is going to bloody kill me.
No, that's too good for me. She'll curse me like the poof. Let me starve
again. Turn me in to her boyfriend's lot. Oh, fuck. What did I do?*
His one clear memory of the past twenty-four hours stood out like gold.
The feel of her. Her warmth. The feel and warmth of her thighs parting for
his. Her pulsing heat …
He swore, and began to stroke himself once again as he remembered.
He stepped from the bathroom with his head down, his T-shirt tucked neatly
into his jeans and his hair wet. His long, pale feet were bare, and Willow
marveled at their beauty. He looked gorgeous, what a surprise. And
panicked, which was.
"Willow," he said quietly, his voice filled with something she didn't quite
recognize. Pain? Confusion?
"Mornin', Spike," she replied, chipper.
"What … did I? … I'm sorry." He continued to face the floor, and she
frowned at him.
"We didn't do anything," she told him, sad anger in her voice.
He finally looked at her, hopeful. It hurt.
"We met at the pub last night. And we went drinking together at the Bronze
"I was at the Bronze?" he interrupted her, disbelieving. *I hate that
"Yes. And you said you hated it, and I said I did too, so we went to
"Divine?" he asked in horror. "That trendy place with all the yuppie
"Yup. And then you said that 'the blood in this place is rancid' and so we
went to Jake's."
"I took you to Jake's?" Oh, yes, the Slayer was going to slowly pick him
apart. With toothpicks.
"Yeah. I kinda liked it. And you said you were the best looking blonde in
the place, and took over from one of the dancers." She smiled at the
memory, hazy as it was.
He turned green.
"But you couldn't figure out how to unlace your boots, so you never got
past taking off your shirts."
"That right?" he questioned faintly.
"And, you made fifty dollars from a man who was almost as drunk as you,"
she supplied. He gave her a sick smile.
"After that, we finished up with tequila shots at Willy's. And you tried
to get me to do blood shots, but, uh, I didn't. And you put "Wannabe" on
the jukebox, so we got kicked out. Plus I threw up on a vampire's shoes.
Willy thought it was best to scoot us."
"And?" He waved vaguely at the bed. *I think I will throw up on my shoes
if I hear much more. Although, I have no idea where they are.*
"And so you insisted on walking me home, and when we got here, you
collapsed on my bed and announced you couldn't move. Which you proved by
passing out, so I took your coat and boots and shirt off, and then I
collapsed with you. 'Cause I didn't know if Buffy would be home. But she
"What about before?" He was staring at the floor again, his voice hollow.
"Uh, well ... you assumed we had, uh, and well, you're a ... healthy ...
He raised his head to look at her. She was trying to smile, but he didn't
believe it for a moment.
*You utter idiot, she'll never speak to you again. Maybe, if you're lucky,
somebody'll get in a lucky blow and you'll go quick. Goddamn. One
official, beautiful chance at redemption ... blown to all hell.*
He spotted his boots, shirt and duster in a pile, and quickly made his way
over to throw them on.
Spike turned at the door. She sat wrapped in her bedspread, silent and
unmoving, watching him.
"Sorry," he said quietly, and left.
Willow stared at the door he had closed behind him. *Why couldn't you have
stayed? Have done anything last night? Why aren't I enough for you?*
She shook her head slowly. She didn't need to be lusting after Spike like
she had with Xander for so many years. It was just ... she adored him.
She loved his company, loved his touch. It made her pulse race and her
breath come short when he brushed against her, even more when their hands
touched as he gave her something, or took a mug of steaming blood from her.
Willow grabbed a pillow and gave a muffled shriek into it.
He drove her crazy in so many ways.
Some part of him wondered, as he found a table at the half-full campus pub,
what he was doing here yet again. Now that he wasn't at the Watcher's
house, he was less likely to be roped into helping the Slayer, and that
meant his nights were free.
And they fell into the same pattern. His hangover when he woke would lead
him to Willy's, the only place in town with completely covered access. As
soon as dusk hit, he'd start to wander in and out of the different bars and
pubs in town, stops along his sort of patrol of Sunnydale. And eventually
he'd be drunk enough to come here. For her.
And he'd wake with another hangover, and the faint memory that she hadn't
showed. And, fool that he was, he'd start it all again.
He could only partially see the door from this spot. His regular table was
a few over, straight across from the door. The barpeople normally kept him
topped up, and weren't too obvious in their smirking. It killed him, but
what could he do about it? Bloody bugger all.
Willow sat cross-legged on her bed, reading through a ragged looking
witchcraft text. She was skimming the pages, looking for something ...
something that she didn't know exactly yet. Some purpose.
It was the same task that she had set herself all week. She had refused
every invitation of Buffy's, Xander's, or Tara's, tucking herself away.
She knew he would not show up here, would not let himself get that drunk
anymore. Buffy said she would see him occasionally, barely able to stand,
at differing nightclubs and pubs around the town. Or nursing a single
drink at the campus pub, staring into its depths as if it contained the
secret of existence in the clarity of the alcohol.
He was drowning his sorrows, she got that. He wanted her, but not enough
to do anything.
He had to want her.
Her hands paused on one of Giles' ancient texts that she had borrowed for
'research'. As she read through the spell and its effects, a plan started
to form. A workable ... enjoyable ... pleasurable plan.
Spike stared at the redhead wannabe-witch in disbelief. She was unsteady
on her feet, and reeked of alcohol. Not that that was a bad smell -
alcohol and blood had a special place in his heart. Or his taste and smell
buds, whatever the hell it was.
"You're not serious, luv. I've got a couple hundred years on you, not to
mention a different set of valves."
"No, I am serious, Spike. I am taking you on."
"Pet, the Slayer couldn't take me on. I have had a bloody lot of practice
at this. It's my third favorite hobby. Especially now, seeing as all the
fun and torturous ones have been taken away from me."
"Don't give me that Slayer crap. So, you dig killing, torturing, and
drinking? What a surprise."
"No, I enjoy killing, drinking, and shagging, baby. Not necessarily in
He smirked at her, but she was oblivious. His face fell as he realised she
hadn't even blushed.
"You can keep that sexy -"
"- voice and hot eyes away from me, baby. I have a mission. You have a
challenge to face. 'Less you're chicken."
*That's it. No bloody way am I letting her call me a chicken. Bleedin'
Christ, we're at Willy's and she calls me chicken! Surrounded by the
undead! If I ever get this chip out they'll laugh in my face if I want to
take over again. And they can bloody well try ...*
"I have a name, you know. And nicknames, even. Could you just pick
something, and stick with it?"
"Willow. Red. I have killed people for less than that."
"For calling you a chicken? Oooh, over-react much? Why don't you try
proving you're not?"
*She's swaying. And she challenges me. I think I like it.*
"You are already markedly ahead of me. A head start, to phrase it."
"I'm fine. Just ... loose."
"Any looser and you'd be on the floor," he muttered under his breath. *Or
in one of these creeps' arms, limbs, whatever they happened to have.* Her
eyes flicked to him, but she made no answering comment.
"You're on, Red. Your lucky day. But I swear I will drink you under this
bloody table, and I'll be telling you that I told you so, too."
His momentary scowl included fangs and golden eyes. She only laughed at
"Rules?" he sneered.
She lazily blinked at him, and he felt something warm his stomach, or maybe
"Not from my corner. You can make up any you wish."
"Nah. Em, except no staking, now or later. Including the Slayer."
"I don't want to stake the Slayer, either."
Her voice was low, and definitely doing warm and wonderful things to him.
"I'm guessing you know what I mean. Poison?"
"Scotch. See if they've got Glenfiddich at the bar, otherwise settle for
Johnnie Walker. Black, not red. Your wallet."
"Scotch? Scottish scotch?" he repeated in disbelief.
"In honor of our very own, drunken, British drama queen, fuzzy vampire,"
she clarified, toasting him wildly with the last of her well-vodka'd orange
"Dra-" he began, then turned on his heel to stalk to the bar. Glenfiddich,
sweet, strong, smooth oblivion that it was, coming right up.
Willow watched him walk away, her eyes focused on his beautiful, tight ass.
*So glad he's not wearing his duster.*
She straightened, swaying ever so slightly, and dug a small vial from her
coat pocket. Wrapped around it was a scrap of paper that she smoothed on
the sticky bar table. She squinted, read it once, and then shot down the
herbal concoction. Willow repeated the two lines out loud, and smiled to
herself as she felt the alcoholic haze slide away. In fact, she felt
fresher than she'd felt in weeks.
*No rules. Silly, wonderful vamp.*
The first thing about whisky, hard and fast, was that it was hot fire
tipped down your throat. And second, it started its work immediately,
vampire or not.
The third thing about whisky, was that by your second bottle, you were
very, very drunk.
Spike looked at her blearily. She was sitting straight, calmly pouring
another round. He'd stopped pouring after the eighth round, and here she
was with a perfectly steady hand. His body, vampiric or not, couldn't
handle the onslaught quickly enough. Much to the amusement of their
little, growing audience.
In between rounds they were taunting each other with ideas for the winner.
His were growing wilder, and he'd only managed two forfeits, at the
beginning, before he'd offered up nothing but sexual conquest and bliss.
But she gave as good as she got. Mixed in with 'kissing the Slayer ...
again' (how the crowd had roared at that one) and 'having your soul
restored for 24 hours' were snippets like 'chains, bathtub, chocolate
sauce' and the even kinkier 'week on a leash as my horny little puppy ...
you'll want me so bad you'll beg just to hump my leg'.
*If I weren't so drunk, we'd be shagging on the table already, crowd'n'all.
Only, I'm bloody pissed as all hell.*
And to make matters worse, she insisted on a new toast every time. And it
was his turn.
"To, uh, Mary in '42." He raised his shot glass, watching a little of the
pale liquid slipping over the side.
"That's not a toast, that's a dinner!"
"But ... it might have been a good one."
"But you can't remember!"
"Can. She tasted like ... blood. Female, human, blood. Memory like a, a,
one of 'em gray things. Grasshoppers. No. Africa. Oysters. Elephants."
"Mary in '42."
She shot it back, head tilted, baring her white throat for them all to see.
They wanted it, he wanted it, but everyone knew it was between the redhead
and Spike. And it was obvious that he was losing, and losing badly. So
she probably wasn't the type to get interested in.
Spike's swallowing was a little convulsive. Vampires didn't puke over
anything less than the most rancid and doped up blood available, but they
passed out like anyone else drinking to the death. He suddenly became very
aware of the fact that he was going down like that bloody ship he'd nearly
caught in 1912.
Her steady hand poured again. *Come on, Spike. Give in or give out.*
"To winning," she smiled.
*Gawd, beautiful smile. If I wasn't so, I'd be all over her. I keep
sayin' it. Should remember to do it.*
"It's not over, pet," he replied belatedly, testily.
She slid the shot down, silkily. He watched her swallow. He eyed his
glass with dread, something insisting that it might be his last.
He gagged as soon as he'd swallowed. The burning taste washed through his
mouth, overwhelming his senses.
Willow watched him gag, his face paler than usual, if it were possible, and
maybe slightly green with it. He came undone like a movie scene, perfectly
expressionless as he slid beneath the table and to the floor.
She came alive, howling with delight. The assorted demons and other
creatures of the night clapped loudly, and she giggled, jumping up and down
slightly in delight.
"Willy, how the hell do I get him home?" she yelled at the bartender over
"Well Red, some nice young blood and some wild radja root, we'll get him
out of that funk. He'll be up and about in no time, and you'll just have
to deal with the usual hangover. And I guess he'll know you won ... how
the hell did you win?"
She shrugged. "I cheated. I really wanted to win."
"I don't think I woulda done that. Guy like Spike ..."
"I think he'll forgive me."
"Really? Y'know, I think he liked that one with the satin ribbons most of
all. Who woulda thought?"
"It's the beauty of it, Willy. It's not just bondage, it's sweet torture.
Always wins points. And besides, the ribbons were blood red. Vampires
always dig that."
She looked at one of the other patrons, and he nodded.
"It reminds us," he shrugged.
Willy went to get the supplies, and a couple of the vamps helped her swing
Spike up onto the table. He groaned faintly, but didn't wake.
Another stepped forward, catching Willow's eye.
"Bite him," he suggested.
"What? No, I - what? I don't want to be a vampire," she stammered,
momentarily losing her cool.
"Not like tha'. You don' have to drink. Jus' bite, leave da mark. Claim
him. Like he woulda you. You da winner."
The first vampire nodded.
"You won. You own him. It'll heal in a couple of days, but until then –
Willow stared at him in horror. Then she blinked, set her shoulders, and
walked over to Spike's inert form. She looked at his pale throat, chose
her spot, and bit in, hard.
"Yow!" Spike yelled, as the redhead pulled away from his throat. He
focused in on her, seeing the smear of blood on her soft lips.
"Willow?" he asked in utter confusion, memory and logic failing him.
"I own you, Spike," she declared, moving aside for Willy. "Drink up."
He sank the blood in a few seconds, his eyes not leaving her. He felt
himself sobering instantly, and both his panic and pain grew with each
*Ow. Ow. What the hell have I got myself into? How the bloody hell did
this happen? And could someone turn down the fucking music?*
As Spike cradled his head in his arms, and more than once brushed the bite
that remained, unhealed - she didn't quite get that - on his neck, Willow
exchanged a few words with Willy.
"Yeah, he's got a place near here. Nice, too, not the dark hole you
normally expect from these guys. You might have to supply your own, uh,
ribbons and stuff, though."
"I've got all I need with me," Willow shrugged, well aware of what lay in
her purse. She ran her tongue over her teeth, tasting the cool, faintly
metallic traces of his blood. Interesting.
She pulled herself together, and walked back to claim her prize. A few
vampires and ... other sorts ... were still watching them, smiling. He
looked up, eyes bloodshot and face paler than ever.
"'S'up, Red?" he asked hoarsely. His head was pounding, and his stomach
rebelled every time he moved. He had a feeling that if she tried to tie
him up or any such forfeit, she'd regret it.
Willow gave him her hand, and helped him stand. She liked that, a little
dependence on her.
"We're going back to your place," she said coolly. "I'll get you over that
hangover when we get there."
He nodded, and set his mouth grimly. Not too far to walk, then.
Spike's apartment was one of several in a smart looking apartment complex's
ground floor. Someone had made the wise decision of setting in two lower
levels, and utilising one as a garage and the ground floor as housing to
It was spacious and well-lit, with a large living area taking up the entire
width of the first room. An open door presumably led to the bedroom, a
closed one to perhaps a bathroom. There was no kitchen evident, and Willow
realized there was no need for one. But Spike did have a refrigerator and
microwave in one corner of the room, underneath a row of shelving. The
shelf had wine and regular glasses atop, bottles of vodka and whisky, and a
row of blue mugs hung underneath. She could also see an entire
supermarket's packing box of Weetabix resting on the floor nearby.
She had expected maybe black leather furniture, but instead Spike had two
green couches and two matching armchairs. He had a widescreen TV in a
cabinet on the wall, and a well stocked video cabinet. His stereo was also
large, but his CD filing system appeared to be just throwing them on the
floor. As she shut the door behind them, and Spike stumbled to fall face-
down on the couch, she realized a CD was playing. It ended as she
listened, and then began again.
She looked at Spike thoughtfully, and listened to the words.
I see your face
I wish I'd stayed
Don't even know what made me run away
It's just the way I play the game
Emotional is not a word I'd use to explain myself
But now I'm down upon my knees
Baby please take me back
I don't want to be in love
But you're makin' me
Let me up
I've had enough
Girl you're breakin' me
Willow took one of the glasses, and moved to the right-hand door leading
from the back of the room. Behind it she found what she hoped, a bathroom.
Leaving the door open, she could still hear the words as she half-filled
the mug with water, and swirled another vial of herbs into it. She
repeated her earlier spell, and walked out to rejoin Spike.
Here I am
Just half a man standing alone
Feeling like I lost my only chance at happiness
When I let you go
I don't want to be alone thinkin' 'bout you girl
I got nothin' left to hold in this lonely world
Spike heard her walk up beside him.
"Here," she said softly. "You'll feel a lot better if you drink this."
He accepted the glass and swallowed the green liquid, unquestioning.
Funnily enough, it cleared his head instantly - and the thoughts that
filled it made him lay his head back on the arm of his sofa.
Willow. Here. With him. Challenging him. Now sober. Her ... her mouth,
on his neck.
...Can I make you understand
Can I make you see
That I'm desperate for your love
And it's breakin' me
It's breakin' me
The guitar chords faded, and then began again.
Spike sat up, and looked straight into Willow's eyes. He gulped, and
hurried over to the stereo, stopping the song that had been programmed to
repeat over and over. He stood nervously, a few feet away from her. She
was sitting on his coffee table, in front of the sofa where he had lain,
looking at him calmly.
"That ... um, thank you. Did, did you have some?" She didn't look drunk,
but she hadn't at all ... His eyes narrowed suddenly, and he took in her
"I, uh, had some before," she answered quickly.
"How much before?" he pressed, trying to resolve the reasons she might have
for challenging him with that in effect. "And ... how long does it last?"
Willow caught his horrified look to the bottles of alcohol in the room.
"At, at the bar, before we ... Um, and the rest of the weekend," she
answered, looking guilty for the first time.
"Bloody hell," he muttered.
Her mouth set.
"Remember, you're mine for that long, anyway," she taunted.
His eyes found hers again. And his fingers traced her mark again.
"Is that right? But doesn't a cheat forfeit the prize?" he asked hollowly.
Willow stood and moved to him, touching for herself the mark she had made.
"Does that look like I'm forfeiting you, Spike?"
Saying his name shifted things. Oh hell, it shifted a lot of things. He
bit his lip, trying to hold back the smirk.
"Bathroom or bedroom, pet?"
Willow smiled in answer, and took his hand again. "Where do you keep the
Spike drew her small form into his arms, nuzzling at her neck. Whatever
she had fed him was definitely going to need the whole weekend to exhaust.
"Right in here," he murmured, slowly pushing the way to the bedroom.