The Mercy Seat

Lovesbitca and Lyric

Rating: NC-17. Way NC-17.

Summary: Set after Grave. Willow, Spike, Sex, Drugs, Toilet. This is not fluff, people.

Disclaimer: We don’t own them. They do.

Author’s notes: Thanks to our wonderful betas; the goddess-like Julia, Lesley and Claudia. We couldn’t have done without you.

Feedback: lovesbitca@btopenworld.com  and lyric_au2000@yahoo.com.au

For such a low-down , dirty dive, The Lizard Lounge in Bakersfield made a damn good vodka martini. Heavy on the vodka, so cold she could see the vapour rising up from the surface and dry enough that her face curled up in a good impersonation of a beagle chewing on a sloe worm.

But it wasn't enough, Willow thought, as she drummed her fingers impatiently on the sticky bar top. She could swim underwater in vodka martinis and that relentless itch would still be scratching away at her insides, and, besides, the alcohol would probably destroy her rubber swimming cap.  Willow lifted the frosted glass in front of her and swiftly dealt with its contents.

She'd been living magic-free for a whole nine weeks, three days, five hours, 27 minutes, and 8 seconds (not like she'd been counting them or anything because only a complete geek would do that). She'd survived two transatlantic flights in coach! A month at Giles' flat in Bath without cable or a microwave or a waffle iron! And five weeks back in Sunnydale with a determinedly chipper bunch of people who pretended really hard that she hadn't nearly killed them and brought on an apocalypse, but couldn't quite bring themselves to look her in the eye.

And even though she'd found an extremely effective way to numb the pain of the Tara-shaped hole in her magic-free life, when she woke up this morning, she'd discovered that the well had run dry. Figuratively speaking. And it wasn't like she really *needed* it; it wasn't like she was some skanky delinquent on an after-school special, but the itch was back. It had only been a teeny, weeny spell. A mere blip on the magical radar screen. A facsimile of Tara filling out the raggedy, red dressing gown that didn't smell or feel like her lover. Butthe way The Scoobies had reacted when the “Willow's doing magic” alarm charm had started ringing (and what was with Giles rigging up something like that and not even telling her?), you'd have thought that she was trying to end the world. Again.

Like she hadn't already learned *that* lesson. As if the gentle “reminders” from Giles every opportunity he got about just how close she'd gotten to bringing forth the apocalypse weren't enough, there were the constant reproachful looks sent her way by her “friends” when they thought she wasn't looking. On the occasions that she caught them looking at her this way, they would invariably offer her a sickly sweet smile and a “how you doin', Will?” which would turn her stomach.

They were all so determined to forgive her and support her that they'd actually stopped treating her like a person. She had ceased to be their friend; she was now their mission.  Their part in Willow's recovery had become a duty, a penance for allowing her to fall so far and their dogged determination in returning her to “normal” had them *being there* for her until she thought she'd scream.  

They were making it almost impossible for her not to want to give in to the seductive pull.  She loved the way it filled her, licked at her from within and without. Stroking her, stoking the fires of her sex, the rhythm of it pulsing through her, waves of it battering at her senses dragging her under, drowning her in rich, sweet darkness until she quivered with barely-contained excitement. It was better than anything ever, and there was nothing that could even come close.  Well, almost nothing.

Today had been particularly awful, what with missing Tara, and the itch and the charm alarm going off.  Then of course there was the demoralising ticking-off Giles had given her.  He'd practically screamed at her, in front of everyone.  She was pretty sure she'd seen Dawn smirking, as Giles berated her like a naughty five-year-old, and that had been the final straw.  Willow's fingers had twitched with the familiar heat, as she fought down the impulse to send Dawn through the far wall of the freshly-renovated Magic Box. Instead, she calmly collected her things and walked with as much dignity as she could muster out of the shop.  Not one of them made a move to stop her.

Muttering curses under her breath, she stalked back and forth along the alleyway behind the Magic Box, the near-constant  itch that skittered under her skin began to burn and was rapidly overtaking her anger as the focus of her attention.  Willow's hand fumbled into her jacket pocket, and a slow smile lit her features.  Her smile widened as she pulled the spare key to Giles' car into the bright light of day.  Willow barely noticed the “You Are Now Leaving Sunnydale - Please Come Again” sign, she was too busy checking the reception on her cell phone.

Happy hour.  Hrumph.  She'd been here for over an hour now, and there was still no sign of happy.  Fed up had been waiting for her at the bar, and drunk was just parking the car but still no happy.  Willow decided she'd settle for not feeling anything at all and waved down the bartender for a refill.  With any luck, she'd be able to silence the gnawing beast in her gut or at least appease it with copious amounts of alcohol until Ricco showed.

Thank God, Ira and Sheila were so dutiful in paying their bills.  Willow's credit card practically glowed with the satisfaction of being paid in full for another month, and, to celebrate, Willow would drink herself into a lovely haze until Ricco could bring her a little something more to help take the edge off, and then she'd make some new friends.

Willow checked her watch for the fourth time since sitting down and stiffened when she heard a familiar chuckle uncomfortably close to her ear.

“Well, well, well, who do we have here?  Drinking alone, pet?  How... pathetic.” Willow didn't have to turn around. If the accent wasn’t enough, the very definite smell of tobacco and 100-year-old arrogance was a dead giveaway.

“Fuck off, Spike,” Willow groaned. What was it with the universe anyway? Who'd she have to fuck to be left alone?  He was going to ruin everything.

“Oh, didn't know any of you Scoobies used language like that. Charming!” he smirked.

“Yeah, well, you lay down with dogs, you get fleas,” she offered, tiredly.

“And if you walk with cripples, you limp,” he countered. “What's your point?”

“Fuck off.”  She sighed.  “Fuck off is my point.”

 “Who's buyin'?” he asked, ignoring the unwelcoming committee and indicating her newly-arrived martini with his chin.

“Compliments of Ira and Sheila Rosenberg.” With a flourish, she waved her credit card in the air.

“My regards to the Invisible Man and his good lady wife.  Bourbon.  Neat. Leave the bottle.”  Spike said before the bartender could retreat further.  He pulled a crumpled packet of cigarettes from somewhere on his person (no duster, Willow noted) and took the barstool next to hers.

“Do Mummy and Daddy know you blow your allowance on getting hammered?” he snickered through a cloud of acrid cigarette smoke.

“What part of 'fuck off' confused you? And how the hell did you find me?” she asked, her voice just this side of a whine.

“Didn't know you were missin'.” His eyes narrowed. “Why? Who you hidin' from?”

“No one,” she bit out. Her lips twisted. “Everyone. I'm having a bad day.”

Spike arched an eyebrow. “I'm having a bad week.”

“Yeah, well I'm having a bad year.”

“You missing Glinda or the magic or those carefree days when the Scoobies didn't have you electronically tagged?” Spike wanted to know, pouring two fingers of bourbon into his shot glass.

Willow gestured to the barman for another martini and traced a figure eight in the condensation from her empty glass. “All of the above,” she replied in a tight voice. “They don't understand. Won't leave me alone to figure it out. It's all, 'We miss Tara too, Will.' And 'we forgive you for trying to scrub out our very existence but, hey, do we really have to talk about it?' Except Dawn, she keeps eyeing the knives in the sharpening block every time I walk into the kitchen.”

Spike nodded sympathetically. “She's threatened to shove Mr Pointy Junior where my heart don't beat the first time she sees me,” he told Willow, who smiled ruefully, and he wondered why he'd confessed to something that had made him bawl his eyes out when he'd got back to his digs.

“Because of the...?” she pushed.

“Yeah, because of the...” he sighed.

“Wait.  You've spoken to Dawn?” asked Willow, puzzled that there'd been no mention of it at the house. 

“No.  You're the first one I've seen, well, spoken to since...” ducking his head, he stopped until he believed he'd had the tremor in his voice under control.  “I overheard a conversation she and Buffy had.”

“You've been following them?” Willow's voice rose. She wondered how he managed to survive this long being this stupid.

“It's not what you think.  I just wanted to make sure that they were both...ok.  I don't blame the Niblet,” he continued, not wanting to hear anything Willow might have to say on the subject, “but I think Buffy would be all right with me. Still want me to go patrolling with her so she can tell me what an evil scumbag I am and beat me up if I so much as look at her funny.”

“She's going through stuff,” Willow said as if by rote, still conditioned to come to the defence of The Chosen One, even if her heart wasn't really in it these days.

“And won't be content 'til she's dragged us all there with her,” Spike commented savagely. “Oh, you smoke now, do you?” he added, as Willow pulled a crumpled packet of Marlboros out of her jacket pocket and reached for his Zippo. “Picked up any other nasty habits in the mother country that I should know about?”

She flushed. She couldn't help it, and she saw the almost-imperceptible flare of his nostrils, as he took the information in and filed it away for future use, which, as it happened, was a few seconds later.

“So does it really help stave off the cravings, or are you just working the good girl gone bad motif to keep Rupert on his toes?” he smirked and was rewarded when Willow visibly jerked and almost spilt her fresh martini over her fingers. Only his lightning-quick reflexes stopped the drink from doing a triple salko.

“I...how did you know? Do I smell of it or something? Did I drop...? It's not what you think. You don't know how bad I get sometimes. Can't sleep, feel it clawing inside of me and nothing there but misery and this awful choking feeling, and it helps, it makes it go away for five minutes. For five minutes everything's all right, and I'm happy, and then I remember that she's gone, and that's bad, but what's worse is that the magic's still there, and I'm supposed to pretend that it's not.” Her head had found its way into her hands, and she sat there, trying to catch her breath, trying to ignore the vampire who was doing that fucking head tilt thing that almost made her forget that he was an evil thing who'd tried to kill her on numerous occasions and had almost raped her best friend. Repeat to fade.

“They must be bloody strong cigarettes, if they can do all that,” came Spike's slightly mocking tones. She refused to look at him. But then he was inching nearer to her and lowering his voice. “I could help you, you know. Know a bloke who can get you some stuff, would work better than the cigarettes, if you want to forget things.”

“Stuff? What... stuff are you talking about? Are you talking about drugs, 'cause, I don't do drugs, Spike. Drugs are for losers who can't deal with reality. They're for weak-willed people who have no self control...” She began up a head of self-righteous steam.

“Hey,” said the bartender, setting down the latest in a long line of martinis, “you the redhead waitin' for Ricco?” Willow gave a small, nervous nod, trying very hard to avoid Spike's raised-eyebrow stare. “He called. Says he's been unavoidably detained, so if you still want to make a buy, you're gonna have to wait for him.” Spike's bark of laughter ricocheted off the walls like machine gun fire.

“Erm, thanks,” she mumbled at the retreating form of the barman, as she fidgeted in her seat.

“So you're meeting someone, pet?” Willow remained silent. “Hot date perhaps? Ricco's a funny name for a girl, Red,” needled Spike.

“Well, I suppose it's a good thing he's not a girl then, isn't it?” she shot back.

“So we've hopped the bus back to Boy's Town have we? Knew it was a phase...”

“It wasn't a phase, and I haven't... look, just fuck off, would you? I'm sure you must have better things to do than hang around here, goading the lesbian.”

“Nah. My calendar's clear. I've got nothin' to do and all day to do it in. May as well be here as anywhere else.” With that, he settled himself further into the barstool and poured himself another drink.

“Please, Spike,” she whined. “Please go away. It's a... business transaction, and this guy I'm meeting, he's a little... shy in front of people he doesn't know. So please. Would you just go away?”

“What sort of business transaction would possibly take place in a shithole like this, I wonder?” he mused, watching her squirm.

“I...I...” she stuttered, trying to formulate a story he might believe.

“Let's have a little chat, shall we? Fill in the time 'til your... business associate gets here,” he said, completely changing tack.

“So” he began, casually, “you ever fantasize about the Slayer?”

Willow choked on her drink. Running her hand over her mouth, she gave him an incredulous look. “What? What did you say?”

“S'okay if you do. I mean, I'd understand it. You're into girls; she's a girl. You must have fantasized. It's only natural. All that strength and power, wrapped up in that tight, hot, little body. It's fucking spectacular. I could tell you some stories...”

“Hey, freak. That's my best friend you're talking about.  I realise you may not get this, friendship being a foreign concept to you and all, but there are just some things you don't do, but I don't expect you to understand that.”  She watched him mumble to himself, something about 'bet you've thought about it' when something wicked occurred to her.

“Not that I couldn't, if I wanted to.” Willow continued, an evil gleam in her eyes suddenly, watching Spike's face carefully. She moved in closer, close enough that the breath of certain words warmed his skin. “I could getBuffy to want it, if I wanted it. I'm told I can be pretty persuasive.  One way or another,” she breathed and dipped her gaze, batting her eyelashes at him while she ran the tip of her sweet, pink tongue over bright, white teeth. Good Christ, she even giggled.

The picture they offered to the bar was of playful flirtation. The redhead leaned further into the blonde, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. Her hand came to rest coyly on his knee, only to move further up along his thigh with every prettily-smiled word until it came to rest just shy of the blonde's denim-covered cock. He seemed mesmerised by her words.

The conversation, however, would have offered a whole other perspective on the scene playing out. She whispered conspiratorially, and her smile was saucy. “And I wouldn't have to force myself on her, either. I wouldn't have to hold her down and try and take it from her. She'd choose to be with *me*, Spike. She'd let *me* fuck her. I could get her so wet. All that soft, pink flesh twitching, just aching for me to touch her, just begging for me to take her. To put my hands on her, inside her. She'd push those perfect, little tits into my hands, grind her tight, hot cunt into my face, 'til she's just a quivering puddle of cum and sweat. And then, she'd kiss me sweetly and thank me.” He flinched, as if she'd slapped him, and it made Willow feel good to wipe that ever-present smirk of his face. Fuck, she hated that smirk.

“But,” she sighed, her voice returning to a normal conversational tone, “I like my women with a bit of meat on their bones.” She flexed her hand where it lay on his thigh, letting the nails of the last two fingers drag slowly against the taut material over his burgeoning erection. Her hand slid along his leg, as she sat back in her seat, before giving his knee a friendly squeeze. “Thanks for the idea though, Spike. It's been a while since Buffy and I shared any...girl time.”

The evil little bitch! The flesh on his fingers blazed with sense memory of the heat of Buffy's reluctant skin, the deep, wet unwelcoming of her cunt, eager to be rid of him at the same time she clutched him to her, impaling herself on him, taking him down and down. He blanched with the knowledge he would never have that again.

Spike's head swam with beautifully-perverse images of red and gold mingling in a sweat-soaked tangle of lithe limbs. His mind a drowning pool of slick skin sliding over same, tiny hands and mouths plucking and sucking at puckering flesh, delving deep into hot, wet holes, mouths giving rise to low, throaty moans and high, girlish screams and breathless, trembling satisfaction. His mind's eye lingered lovingly over their spent and sated forms until his heart could no longer bear it, and he tore his gaze away.

He steeled himself against the lovely pictures the vicious witch had conjured and willed his attention away from the intensity of sensation that was his hard and angry cock. He shifted gingerly in his seat, as he ground out, “Seems to me you've thought about this a great deal, Red.”

Baiting Spike had gone a little way to relieving the itch under her skin, had given her something other than the constant tugging of need to focus on. For the time it took to toy with Spike, Willow felt normal. He was waaaay more fucked up than she was, and reminding him of it made her feel good. But the redhead's sense of satisfaction was short-lived. Spike seemed to recover from her well-placed, well-timed verbal kick to the gut far too quickly. Willow didn't like the speed with which the pained expression left the vampire's face, nor how rapidly the hated smirk slid back into place.

There was the head tilt thing again, and she knew he had chosen his method of torture. “But yeah, Tara. I remember. Now *that* was some sweet meat!”

Please, not Tara, she silently begged, not wanting to go down this road, even as she understood that that was the only place he could go. “Get real, Fang. You may be the town bike...” And, with a sudden flare, the itch returned. Willow managed not to double over in response to the boiling in her belly. Oh God. She wasn't ready for this. Where the fuck was Ricco?

“Oh no, baby. Not everyone's had a ride, but that luscious blonde of yours certainly took me out for a spin once or twice.” Another sudden flare, but this time it was the flame from his cigarette lighter, as he dragged a lungful of smoke back down his throat, settling in for some torture of his own.

“I'm warning you...” began Willow weakly, knowing full well she wouldn't be able to stop whatever foulness he would manifest but hoping she could ride it out.

“Christ, I made a pig of myself on those gorgeous tits of hers. She was fucking magnificent. I couldn't get enough. What about you, Red? You a tit man? And her pretty, little cunt...so hot...so fucking wet! I barely had to touch her, and she was writhin' and moanin', screaming my name.” He spoke conversationally, quietly smoking his cigarette, sharing his supposed reminiscences of good times past.

“Stop it,” she pleaded, her voice the pathetic sound of a trapped animal to her own ears.

His own voice grew low and hypnotic, as he waxed on, rhapsodic. “Her arse...Christ, it was a thing of beauty. Tell me, Will, you ever strap on and fuck her up the arse? She loved it. Absolutely adored it. Howled like a bitch in heat. Made a man proud. All that lush, soft, pliant flesh. All that sweet, sweet cum, just...pouring out of her, coating her thighs, covering my hands, my cock, God, my face. Bloody hell, the taste of her, and the smell comin' off her - makes me hard when I think about it. And believe me, Red, I do think about it.” He returned from his other place to pin her eyes with his own, the vile stink of his smugness burned the back of her throat.

She could take no more. “Shut up. You filthy, fucking liar. You're lying,” she growled, launching herself at him. Bringing her nails up to scratch at his face, to take out his mocking eyes.

“Now, Will,” he admonished her gently, easily capturing her hands in his but careful not to hurt either of them, “if I was lying would I know about the butterfly-shaped birthmark at the top of her creamy left thigh. Right up close to her pretty, pretty hole. I passed many a happy hour nuzzling that particular spot, as did you, no doubt. And do you remember, baby, the way she couldn't speak afterwards?” he whispered. “Just sighs and moans, and how you couldn't touch her afterwards, 'cause she'd have to go again?”

“I'm going to kill you, you fucking bastard,” Willow railed against him, trying to pull herself from his firm grasp. Any hope Willow had of gaining assistance from the other patrons of the bar faded when she saw that barely anyone had turned around at her outburst. And those that did turned quickly away, not wanting to become involved in what looked little more than a domestic dispute.

“Such language! You'll make me blush! You kissed your witch with that dirty, little mouth? Oh, don't be upset, love. I've eaten more pussy than you've had hot dinners. Stands to reason I'd be better at it. I imagine I could get even a die-hard lesbian, such as yourself, creaming her knickers. Here,” he leered, pulling her within mere inches of his face “maybe we could slip out the back, and I could give you a few pointers?” Leaning into her, hedrew his tongue from the point of her chin, up over her lips to the tip of her nose.

“Any of this getting you wet?” he smirked. Willow would say, if anyone knew to ask, that it was the mere thought of Spike touching Tara that caused the roiling in her stomach. She would never admit, even to herself, that it was closer to the truth that Spike's vivid description of her lover had, in fact, turned her on, and it was Willow's disgust in herself that caused the bile to rise. That, and the seven martinis.

“Oh God. Spike, I'm gonna be sick.” Willow panicked. One hand rose to her mouth, the other pushing against the vampire's chest to break free, as she scrambled to stand. In one swift move, he gathered her up and began moving.

“Hold on, pet,” he said, practically lifting her of her feet and heading towards the back of the bar. He turned to yell at the barman, “Bathroom. Which way?” barely pausing to see in which direction the man pointed. Bursting through the door, he knocked a woman out of the way, as they made it just in time for him to lift the seat and for Willow to empty the mostly-liquid contents of her stomach. Willow began to sink to knees and rest her hands against the bowl but Spike stopped her. “No, pet, don't touch anything. It's filthy in here. I've got you.”

He held her upright, as she wretched and heaved, smoothing back her hair from her sweating, reddened face. “You're okay. It's okay. That's it. Get it all out. I've got you.” He rubbed her back, until there was nothing left and she stood panting doubled over in his arms. Closing the lid, he flushed the toilet and lowered her down to sit. “Come on, love, let's wash your face,” he said, going to grab a handful of toilet paper then thinking better of it. While she rested her cheek against the stall wall, Spike ran the hem of his t-shirt under the cool water, and rinsed a half-empty spirit glass he'd found under the sink. Filling the glass, he returned to kneel in front ofWillow, wiping her face down gently with the wrung-out edge of his shirt. “There, that's better isn't it?” he soothed, then brought the glass to Willow's lips. “This'll clear out the nasty taste. You'll be good as new.”

Willow sat strangely compliant under his ministrations. “Spike, what you said, about Tara... you didn't, did you? Tara never...” she looked up at him with such loss, her slender body in danger of giving way to shuddering grief. Her wide, wet, eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, her cheeks flushed with anger and the effort of expelling the contents of her stomach. She was the picture of despair, and, despite how much he'd enjoyed hurting her just moments before, he couldn't continue with the lie.

“Shh. No, pet. 'Course not. A lady like Tara... Wouldn't give the likes of me the time of day, you know that.”

“Then why...why would you say a thing like that? It was so cruel,” she whimpered, quickly forgetting her own viciousness.

“And what you said about Buffy wasn't?” he spat out. “People are bound to bite back when you decide to take your inner bitch out for a walk,” and he winced at the pout in his voice. He was turning into such a whiny, pathetic fuck, sniveling like a baby every time one of them hurt his feelings. Thing was, they had been able to hurt his feelings since long before he got his soul.

“Yeah, well, you should really learn to stop letting your outer fuckwit do all your talking for you.” Willow countered a little too indignantly, with a pout that surpassed his own.

“I know. I'm a bad, rude, evil man is all. And jealous as all hell. Despite your problems...you and Tara were beautiful together. A real pity it was, what happened.”

“How did you know about the birthmark?” she quizzed him, closing her eyes and leaning into the cool, as she let Spike dab gingerly at the remnants of spittle that clung to her chin with the damp hem of his t-shirt. She heard the spin and tear of the toilet roll and dutifully obeyed when he held the paper to her running nose and commanded her to blow.

“I told you. You were beautiful together.” Willow was a clever girl, he thought. She would figure it out.

“Oh my God...you *watched* us? You watched Tara and me having sex? I can't... You... What...?” The redhead's voice became shriller with each unfinished thought, and Spike was convinced that, for the next ten blocks at least, dogs all over the neighbourhood were howling their protests.

“Come on, love,” he said, reaching for her, trying to put an end to their mutual cruelty.

“Don't touch me. You sick, perverted bastard!” she seethed, pushing feebly against him, desperate to get away.

“You wouldn't be this mean to me, if you weren't in pain, Willow.” he soothed, calmly pulling her closer to him. She squirmed inside his embrace. “Not you. I know you. You were never like this,” he continued, his voice low and gentle. He believed that if he were going to find some sort of solace, any kind of understanding, it would be here with her. She had always been more tolerant of him than the others, and he needed to bury himself in something like kindness.

“Jesus, would you let it go already! What the fuck do you care anyway?” Willow's face reddened and contorted into something ugly with her fury. “It's not like checking up on me is going to get you back into Buffy's good books. Or anything else of hers for that matter. They're just barely tolerating me, Spike, what makes you think you've got a chance?” He was using her somehow to get to Buffy; she couldn't figure out why just yet, but she knew it was true. Why the hell else would he be this... understanding?

“I know you're hurting, pet, and I know why,” he continued, determined to ignore the reference to Buffy. “It's not just about Tara and the Scoobies. But I can fix it for you. I can make the hurting stop.” She stilled in his arms, need suddenly overtaking anger and embarrassment, and she raised her eyes to his.

“You can?” she whispered.

“If you let me,” he nodded.

“How?” she asked.

“Do you want to get up, baby?” he countered, pulling a small plastic bag from his jeans pocket. He hated the way her face lit up at seeing the little white pills hanging from his fingertips.

Willow nodded. “I have cash,” she stated quietly.

“Don't want your money, love, “he sighed.

“What then? I'm serious, Spike. I won't help you with Buffy.”

It amazed him still just how deep the hurt went, even just hearing her name. He wondered if there would ever be a time when he would be able to think of her without wanting to die. The forever kind. “Stop saying her name, “he growled.

“What do you want, Spike?” she pushed.

“I want a little warmth and compassion. I want someone to touch me. I want to feel something other than misery for a little while. I want you, Willow,” he finished, leaning in to kiss her.

“You can't be serious!” she scoffed, pulling away in disgust.

He buried the hurt and went on. “You need me, Will. And I need you. We can help each other. Ricco won't be here for a while yet. Do you think you can last 'til he gets here?”

“I...I don't...”  she stammered.

“Then let me help you,” he murmured softly against her neck. “You know I can make you feel good.” Spike's hands moved from their resting place at her waist, down over her hips to cup her ass. “Don't you want to feel good, Will?” he breathed, holding her flush against him.

It was the sole reason she'd come to the bar, to fill the gaping void inside with whatever came her way. Drugs, alcohol, sex, it didn't matter which, and it didn't matter what she had to do to get it. Willow had no doubt that she was going to do this, despite the warning voice in her head screaming at her to get fuck out of there and as far away from Spike as she could. Still she fought to delay the inevitable. “How do you know Ricco?”  she whispered, pulling just far enough away so she could look him in the eye.

“Where do you think I got the pills?”  Spike leaned in, holding her gaze until he knew she understood exactly what he was saying. He pressed his lips to hers tentatively, kissing the corners of her mouth, before pushing his tongue between her tight lips to gain full access to her mouth. Willow stood unmoving in his arms. 

“Be nice, baby, or I flush all the lovely little pills down the pan.” He held the plastic bag just outside her reach and watched in amusement as the panic overtook her. She turned her eyes to him, to plead with him when all the little pieces of information that had been whizzing around her brain, not making any sense, suddenly clicked into place. The panic left her, as the realisation hit.

“No. You won't. Because you need them too! Don't you, Spike?” she smiled. “Now what could possibly cause a vampire so much pain that he needs to medicate himself, hmmm?” For the first time since he'd walked into thebar Willow *really* looked at him. “What the...? Oh my God... A soul? You've got a soul?!” She sat down heavily on the closed toilet lid.

“Keep your voice down, witch, world doesn't need to know, “he hissed at her.

“But how...? Why...?” Willow gaped incredulously.

“S'private, innit? Not likely to tell you now, am I?” Spike put all the petulance he could muster into the pout he now wore.

“Spike,” she said sternly, giving him the high voltage resolve face. She was pleased to see there was *some* power Giles couldn't suck from her. Spike crumbled under the weight of it.

“Went to Africa, didn't I? Where this glow-y-eyed fella in a cave put me through my paces. Demon trials and what all.” There was little fear of Captain Petulance leaving anytime soon.

“But a soul? Why on earth would you want to burden yourself like that?” Willow couldn't fathom it. Why would anyone choose...?

“Why do I do anything anymore? It was for her...it's always for her.”

“But Africa? Demon trials? What sort of demon trials?” she asked, suspiciously.

“Fighting flaming-handed  buggers, cockroaches, all sorts of nasties....” Spike began to warm to his story.

“Cockroaches?” she snorted incredulously.

“These were demon cockroaches. Awful big buggers they were, too. Had a hell of a time getting the filthy fuckers out of my nose.” Spike made a show of shuddering at the memory of a thousand tiny jagged feet stampeding toward any and every available orifice. From the corner of his eye, he checked Willow for her reaction. A moment of panic gripped him as the expected grimace of distaste and the inevitable “ewww” were decidedly absent. Instead, her brow was furrowed, and she stared at him in puzzlement. Now he was scared. What he didn't need right now was to be under the scrutiny of Willow's enormous brain.

“What?” he asked, uncomfortably, turning and reaching for his cigarettes. He hoped being occupied would still their sudden shaking.

“Well,” she began, twisting on the toilet seat so she could turn the full wattage of the resolve face on him, “it's just that, it seems to me an odd sort of thing for them to make you do. In order to get your soul back. I mean, demon fighting, come on! You're already way good at that...” He smiled at that, and his chest puffed with pride at the compliment, but the attempted “aw shucks” look felt weird on his face, so he stopped before she saw it and called an ambulance. “No, I would have thought they'd make you, oh I dunno, walk little old ladies across the street for a thousand years, rescue tiny kittens from trees, or, or find lost puppies...” He winced at the thought of it. He gave thanks to whoever was in control of such things that Willow Rosenberg had not been in charge of doling out the trials.

“It's not the friggin' boy scouts, Willow,” he huffed, indignantly. Never mind that he'd put himself through tremendous physical and mental torture to prove to Buffy that he could change, that he could be what she wanted, what she needed; all the witch seemed concerned with was that the trials didn't seem fluffy enough! Was it asking too much, he wondered, for a little awe, a smidgen of respect? Christ on a cross! She was hard to impress.

“Ok, technically, no, but it's the same principle - performing good deeds for goodness' sake and all...”

“Missing the big picture here, love,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette. “Soul-having now me, aren't I? Makes a big difference that. I'm a changed man. You lot are going to have to reconsider your treatment of me.” A sudden wave of emotion threatened to overtake him, his voice thickening and his eyes welling with tears despite his desperate efforts to tamp down his rioting emotions. Thankfully, Willow was too busy contemplating the knee of her jeans to notice.

“I don't know why she makes such a big fuss about it,” she mused, absently twirling her finger across the denim. “Angel's good. Angel has a soul,” she sing-songed. If she was looking to get Spike's attention, she was going the right way about it. “What with everything that's happened, my little foray to the dark side, it's made me think. Being good is a lot of hard work, and, it seems to me, just having a soul doesn't count for much. Prisons are full of soul-having rapists and murderers and thieves. I've come to the conclusion that having a conscience is more important than having a soul, and you already had one of those.”

“Now you tell me! You couldn't have had this revelation three months ago?” he tried to smile, to show her that her words hadn't cut him, but he couldn't hide it. They made his heart hurt.  And his head.

“Oh, Spike,” she said, not unkindly, “you do realise that having a soul doesn't stop you from doing shitty things, don't you? It doesn't make you any *more*. Geez, look at me. Look at Warren. Hell! Look at the six o'clock news. No, the best you can hope for is, if it's working properly, a soul will make you think twice about doing something shitty or at least make you feel bad for doing something shitty.” Willow placed a hesitant hand on his forearm, offering a comforting squeeze. A powerful force ripped through her body causing her grip to tighten on his flesh.

The scenery around Willow began to melt and swirl, and, with a sudden jerk, Willow felt herself falling backwards. Once again, she was nose to chin with Spike in the toilet cubicle, her hand still on his forearm. She ripped her hand away, gasping. “Oh. My. God!”

“What did you do, Witch?” he growled. “Did you read me? That's...that's an invasion of my privacy! It's a violation of my civil rights is what it is! I thought you weren't allowed to do that anymore.”

He watched her hoping against hope that Giles had drained all the magic from her and that she hadn't seen...

“Since when do they have Bingo games in caves in Africa?” Willow wanted to know.

“Bingo is an international game, Willow, don't be so closed-minded...er, I mean, don't know what you're talking about.” Spike made the universally recognised pffting noise of disdain.

“I'm talking about the demon Bingo game at the Sunnydale Community Centre last Spring, where you won your soul. I saw it all Spike. Spill.” Two resolve faces in less than ten minutes. There was no weapon forged that could defeat that.

Shaking his head resignedly, Spike began his tale of woe. “Stupid Clem. I only went outside for a sodding smoke! All he had to do was go pick up the steak knives off the sodding prize table like I told him to. But noooo, he has to start talking to stupid Mrs Thomas about her sodding niece's, sodding wedding. The evil old bint must've laid it on real thick about not being able to afford a wedding present 'cause next thing you know, Clem's feeling sorry for her, and he's handing over *my* steak knives and picks up this poxy soul instead. I mean I ask you, “he continued, warming to his subject in a ramble that made Willow a little envious, “what sort of P'taru demon doesn't have a little somethin' put away for that kind of thing. What with the looting and such. And it's not like it was unexpected or anything; P'taru demons breed like fuckin' rabbits. Huge families, always some wedding or birthday or engagement or what have you. Hence the looting. She should have bloody well planned ahead! Evil old bint.” he muttered to himself. “Clem said somethin' about it going nice with my eyes. Not that we have that sort of relationship, “he quickly clarified. “Daft twat! Should have killed him right then and there, but the stupid bloody thing kicked in, and he had the saddest puppy dog eyes... Tried to send it back, but they've got this policy. Well, sign actually. “Please do not ask for a refund as a smack in the mouth(s) often offends.” ... and you can stop laughing any time now thanks Red.”

Holding her sides, Willow bent at the waist trying to get her breath back. “Ooh...Oh...God. Stop. No more. I'm getting a stitch, “she wheezed.

“So, Red...” Spike looked nervous. “Will it make a difference... what I mean to say is, do you think... now that I *have* the soul, do you think Buffy will...”

“Not in a million years...” she cut him off, the defeated look on his face bringing forth another round of laughter.

“I'm so glad my torment affords you pleasure, pet,” he pouted.

“I'm sorry Spike, “she breathed. “What sort of prize is a soul anyway for a demon Bingo game?”

“Booby prize,” he muttered.

Fresh laughter bubbled up inside her, and it only served to piss him off. He yanked her upright and grabbed her hips, pulling her closer too him and kissed her hard. She stood wooden and unyielding to his insistent tongue and hands and hips. 

“C'mon, pet, open up for Spike,” he coaxed, purring seductively and fell upon her once more. He gave the soft skin below her waist a short, sharp pinch. She gasped, and he took the opportunity to force his tongue between her lips. There was little time for acquainting himself with the taste of her mouth before she was pulling away from him, her slender fingers turned claws, as she pushed against his chest.

 “Would you just stop for a minute!” she whined. “God, what is it about bathroom tiles that makes you want to force yourself on women?” The urge to slap her fought with the urge to run away, but, in the end, he stood there, the coward that he was, and said nothing.  “Give me the pills,” she demanded, feebly.

“That's not how this works, Willow.  I get, then you get.”  He growled, as she pushed against him, her body rigid to keep him at arm's length.

“Wait!  Please...” she fumbled in the back pocket of her jeans.

“Quit stalling, Will.”

“I'm not stalling, I... my gum... see?” she stammered, holding up the pack for him to see.  She placed two pieces quickly in her mouth and chewed rapidly.  “It can't be nice,” she offered by way of explanation.  “I don't want... that you'll remember...”

“Do you think you might actually finish a sentence there, pet?”

“Well, I've just thrown up, and you've got your tongue down my throat.  It can't be pleasant.”

He was actually smiling at her.  He seemed ridiculously pleased.  “It's not that bad, still tastes mostly like Martini.” She blushed and smiled back at him, studying his face.  “What?” He was still smiling, studying her in return.  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that he was sweet, but she stopped herself.  He wasn't sweet. Any softness he might show her was all a means to getting what he wanted.  He was a cruel, manipulative, vicious bastard.  Oh yeah.  And evil, let's not forget evil. That soul thing was just smoke and mirrors.

“Nothing,” was all she could safely manage.

There were so many reasons why she shouldn't be doing this, why she shouldn't even be here and only one reason why she had to be.  But it was a compelling one, and she could live with just about anything as long as it meant she could get her hands on the contents of his pocket.

And she wasn't going to enjoy it. Wouldn't give him a moment's satisfaction, because nothing helped the business end of a manic depression like spreading it around. He thought he could fuck her and fuck with her, but she'd picked up plenty of tricks in the last few months.

Still chewing, Willow made sure to look him right in his beautiful, bastard-y blue eyes, as her hands went to the button on her jeans. The sound of her zipper going down seemed to reverberate against the walls of the cubicle. He hadn't come up, but he was all dilated pupils and heavy non-breathing, as he watched her hands slide the zip all the way down.

“I have to pee,” she announced, matter-of-factly. “Can I have some privacy?”

“Don't mind me, pet,” he said with a leer. “'Cause I'm not fucking going anywhere just so you can mojo yourself a convenient, get-out portal or what have you. You want what I'm selling, then you have to put up with my charming company. We had a deal.”

He'd called her bluff, but he'd seen her puke, and he was going to be seeing her lady parts in the next few minutes, peeing in front of him didn't really make that much difference, whichever way you looked at it.

“Fine, suit yourself,” she huffed, yanked down her jeans and briefs, and plopped down onto the seat.

She didn't think she'd ever peed as loud and as long as she did then. But she was bad to the bone, the baddest seed on the block, and she wasn't going to be embarrassed because she was alive and had bodily functions unlike the undead dickweed slouched nonchalantly against the door, smirking at her. That smirk was now number one on the list of her most unfavourite things ever.

“Sounds like you really needed to go,” Spike commented with a wry smile. “How many martinis did you have?”

“Enough that I'm about to fuck you,” she replied tersely and pulled viciously at the toilet roll hanging from the dispenser. As she wiped herself, she was dismayed to find that she was turned on wet, not just pee wet. It was all that dirty talk one upmanship at the bar. And, from the way Spike was taking ostentatious sniffs, she knew that he knew.

Her face was stained crimson, as she grabbed another handful of paper and ruthlessly dealt with the contents of her treacherous cunt.  Then she demurely removed the gum from her mouth and dropped it in the bowl, before standing up and flushing.  Although it seemed superfluous to the situation, Willow adjusted her clothing, wiped her hands down the front of her jeans, and squared her shoulders like she was bracing for battle.  “Okay, I'm ready,” she said nervously, flexing her hands in mid-air.  She was trying to decide if she should touch him.  She stood stiff and still, her eyes closed lightly, her lips slightly parted.  She could do this.  She had to do this.

Once again he kissed her, and this time she responded.  She welcomed him into her mouth, snaking her tongue around his, moaning a little - which he seemed to appreciate - when he licked her teeth and the roof of her mouth.  She waited for him to break the kiss, then trailed her tongue along his jaw line.  She stopped to nibble at the flesh on the underside of his chin, and, when he groaned, she asked with her best Sunday manners, “May I please have one now?”

Spike laughed and reached into his pocket.  “Since you asked so nicely...” 

Willow visibly relaxed, but her eyes never left his hands, as he licked the end of his index finger and lowered it into the bag. 

“Here you go, sweetheart, enjoy,” he said, extending the finger bearing the coveted prize.  She swept up the offered digit hungrily, sucking it deeply into her mouth.  Willow moaned, as the bitter-tasting pill slid effortlessly down the back of her throat.  She released Spike's finger and replaced it with her own.  “Now it's your turn,” she said, dipping her finger into the bag. 

“Need more than that, love.”  Spike told her, as she offered him a pill.

“How many then?” she asked, hoping there'd be enough left for later.

“Three,” was the reply.

“Wow!  OK.  Three it is.”  And she swiftly removed three pills from the bag and placed them on her tongue.

“Hey!” Spike grabbed her by the arms, ready to turn her upside down to retrieve them, but, before he could move, she had taken him by the face and was pushing her tongue hard between his teeth, forcing the tablets into his mouth like some demented mother bird.

His grip tightened on her, and she fought against it.  “Don't hold me so hard,” she winced, even though he wasn't holding her halfway tight enough to make the chip send out a friendly warning.

“Don't want you get away,” he stated, pulling her closer still.

“Not going anywhere,” she told him.  The kiss lost its urgency.  Now that he knew she was staying, it became something slow and sensual, deep and full of longing.

But when his grip on her upper arms stopped being about keeping her from wriggling away and became more caressing, loosened so he could graze the soft skin with the tips of her fingers, she tensed. He saw her brow wrinkle up, and he thought, Christ what now?

Spike nipped her bottom lip as a gentle reminder that it took more than one of them to make the beast with two backs or even indulge in a spot of light petting to pass the time, but Willow pulled herself away. Wiped the back of her hand across her mouth deliberately and sighed.

Her games were so different from Buffy's games.

“Cut the lovey dovey crap, Spike, and kiss me like you mean it. Like you want to actually be here with me. You managed it okay with Anya,” Willow growled.

Then again, maybe they weren't so different.

The close confines of the cubicle didn't give him much room to manoeuvre, but he still managed to prowl towards her using baby steps, grab her by the shoulders, and take her mouth again. He gave her no time to think, to analyse, to pontificate on the whys and wherefores of his mouth on her. It was just enough that his tongue was in her mouth. No finesse. Just hot, wet kisses like they were starring in their own porno flick and her climbing up his body, trying to get the friction where she needed it most.

His hands slid down to her buttocks, so he could hoist her up, turn them around, and slam her against the wall.

“Ow.” Willow punched him hard on the arm and tore her mouth from his. “There's something digging into me.”

“Yeah, I know, baby,” he tried to sound lascivious, but, even to his ears, it sounded slightly second-hand. He thrust himself against her, but though she was clinging around him like poison ivy, she flinched away.

She rolled her eyes. “I mean my back.”

He peered over her shoulder to see the toilet roll holder staring back at him as if to say, “Hurry up pal, your meter's going to run out, and you're only halfway round the block.” It couldn't have hurt that much. Not enough to make the chip send out a warning foray. This stop/start was beginning to grate on his already considerably-frayed nerves. This was a bad idea. It was the king of bad ideas. But she was there. And that was something.

Spike spun round, so he could rest her against the other side of the cubicle. “Better now, pet? Can we get on with this?”

Willow shrugged. “I s'pose so. Go on, kiss me again.”

And, even if she didn't mean it - if she was more interested in the contents of his pockets rather than a crucial two inches to the right, she kissed like she could suck the soul right out of him.

Her lips skittered across his chin before she latched onto his mouth and demanded that he let her in. He could taste the bitter essence of the sloes and the sharpness of the Freshmint gum she'd spat into the bowl. There was nothing sweet about her, but her tongue was everywhere at once: teasing along the roof of his mouth, investigating the crevices of his teeth, dancing across the insides of his cheeks.

And she was riding him. Her crotch pressed against his, as she bumped and grinded against his erection. With one arm under her buttocks to hold her in place, he managed to get his other hand between them, so he could deal with his belt, unbutton his jeans, and free his aching cock. But when he decided to return the favour and liberate her from the desensitising prison of denim, Willow stilled again. She held herself away from him and looked down at the angry head of his dick, as it nestled between their two pelvises as if it was a worm that she'd found in her salad. Then she gave another one of those loaded sighs, leant her back against the wall to show her willingness, and waited for him to kiss her.

He leaned forward and then stepped back. His grin was humourless, as she lost her climbing post and collapsed in a clumsy heap on the floor.

“Jesus, Red.  I'm supposed to be the dead one, remember?” he snapped.

She looked up at him and it with limpid, green eyes and smirked. “Well, give me something I can work with.  Are you sure that's it? It looked a lot bigger on the video!”

Spike tried to look dignified, as he tucked himself back into his jeans. “Fuck this for a game of soldiers. Look, just forget it. If you're that desperate, you can have all the pills. I don't fucking care anymore. Fed up with the whole fucking lot of you and the games you'll play to get what you want.”

“Oh, don't get cranky, I was just kidding,” she said, as she scrambled to her feet and had to clutch onto his arm to complete the task. Willow ran a finger along the crease of his elbow and watched in fascination as the tiny pulse that should have been there didn't flicker. “It's just it's been a while since. I'm rusty.” She gave a cat-like smile. “I need you to show me the ropes.”

Despite himself he couldn't help but be charmed, and he smiled back. “As it were.”

“Yeah, as it were.” She began to unbutton her shirt. “But, y'know, I'm all shy and stuff. Probably better if you just do what you want, and I'll try to keep up. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Getting to be the one who's in control?”

He chucked her gently under her chin and nodded. He dropped his voice to an indolent purr. “Oh, I get it, pet. Don't want to give yourself because you want me to take you. Don't let me seduce you because you want to get fucked. You want this to happen without your permission? Well, don't kid yourself, Witch. I'm not going to make that mistake again. You want it, you ask me real nice.”

Willow looked up at him from under her lashes to find him doing his own variation of the resolve face, jaw set, brow furrowed. He looked adorable, if you liked that sort of thing. Which she must on some level because, hello, locked in a toilet cubicle with him.

She put her hands experimentally on the side of his waist, right where the oblique muscles were and then leaned in to drag her tongue up the side of neck to a spot on his jaw she suddenly had a perverse urge to nibble. She gave into it and was rewarded by his shudder.

“Please, Mr Spike,” she whispered in his ear, “I want you to get out that big, old cock of yours and fuck me into the middle of next week with it.”

Willow wasn't really prepared for what came next. One moment they were standing facing each other in a civilised manner, the next he had her back against the wall so fast it knocked all the breath out of her, his hands working on the zip of her jeans and tugging them down to her knees. Her panties followed, and then, God, his head was right there, inhaling her, smelling her. Spike lifted her slightly, and, as if it was happening to someone else, someone good, he slid his tongue between the lips of her cunt and pressed it hard against her clit.

There was no messing around with Spike, his hands pressed her thighs as far apart as he could, kept her from falling, as he rolled his tongue against her clit and then, without ceremony, shoved it into her cunt. And she knew what it meant to be eaten out. This was like being devoured. This persistent thing inside her, wanting to know all her secrets and she. she grabbed handfuls of his hair and ground herself against his mouth because it had been too long to live without this truth.

Willow's head banged against the wall, and she gave a guttural groan, and then he stopped. Fuck! Why was he stopping? And then he placed a kiss so sweet and soft against her stupid, almost-melting heart that she could feel the prickle of tears sting her eyes.  She yanked spitefully at the hair she was still clutching, so he had to raise his head and look her right in the eye.

“Don't fucking love me, you pathetic piece of shit,” she spat out.  “You don't have any right to love me, you're not allowed to. Just fuck me. Fuck me into the ground.  I know you can still do that, I've seen you in action.”

He might have the vampiric strength and the muscles, but she had might and spite on her side, as she shoved him so hard, it was his turn to tumble on the floor. She followed him down, her hands angry wasps attacking his belt and his buttons so she could straddle him and force that terrible, beautiful thing into her.

“Fuck!” they both screamed as her barely- wet, barely-wanting (the eating out had been nice enough but it hadn’t really lasted long enough to get her motor running) cunt protested and let his chip know about it.

And she relished it, that she was hurting him. That she could still make somebody, somewhere, feel what it felt to be her. She winced, as she relentlessly sank down on him, millimetre by millimetre, and he groaned and gritted his teeth, raised his hands to haul her off him but decided to clutch his head instead.

“Hurts, doesn't it?” she hissed, biting her lip, as her muscles slowly and painfully parted to let him in. “It's no more than what you deserve.”

Spike managed to get some leverage on the floor with his feet, bent his knees and tried to buck her off. It didn't work. Willow fell forward, one hand resting on his chest to steady herself, his cock sinking further inside her.

It didn't stop hurting, but they both got used to it. And it was enough to have someone touch them, make them hurt, make them something other than exiled.

Spike had his hands over his face, so Willow couldn't see what he was thinking, he groaned every now and again, as his cock scraped against the dry walls of her cunt enough to make her wince too, but she closed her eyes and thought of Tara. Not that Tara would ever have done something like this with someone like him but the feel of someone underneath her, at her mercy. And she thought of Oz, how he'd like her to get on top, so he could watch the play of emotions and the flush on her breasts as she got close to coming. That was when it was still possible to second-guess her because she never bothered to hide anything. She wondered now, with Spike's cock trapped inside her, what Oz would think.

“What's the matter? Can't you think of anyone else either?” Spike's words, bit out between gritted teeth, disturbed her reverie.

“Huh?” she muttered and suddenly saw herself outside of herself. A stupid girl, jeans pushed down around her knees, sitting painfully on top of a man's (except he wasn't really a man) cock, as he sprawled out on the floor of a toilet. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Willow Rosenberg, girl most likely to...

“I said, can't you think of anyone else either, you spiteful bitch?” He was in gameface now, either because of the drugs or because of the pain from the chip, she couldn't tell.

And she couldn't help the sudden clenching of her cunt, a gush of wetness enveloping his poor, beleaguered cock as the realisation hit that on some level, some nasty, atavistic level, she was fucking a demon.

She slowly arched her hips, so just the tip of him was resting at her entrance and then slammed back down on him.

God, she was getting so wet. She settled into a fast, furious pace, as she shunted up and down on him. Spike's fists balled at his sides, his feet scrabbling now to find purchase. What the fuck did it take to make him lose that control?

He opened his eyes, so she could see the yellow inside of him, and he could see the look on her face. The triumph and pain and fear and all points in between that seemed to burn out of her.

“Oh, c'mon, Spikey, someone needs to get off by fucking the monster in you. I can do that. It's all right, nothing to be scared of,” she managed to gasp out, as her hands reached forward to rest on his chest, so she could add a few more degrees of force to their fucking.

“I'm not a monster,” he spat out between his fangs, but his hands were creeping to her hips, so he could lift her up and then bring her down again, her juices pooling out of her cunt.

“It's okay,” Willow insisted, throwing her head back