Her heartbeat seemed to fill the car, pounding off the dashboard and
doors like a drumbeat echoing in a small room. But Spike didn’t turn on
the radio to drown it out. He didn’t want to wake her. So, despite the
fact that the thrum of her heart kept reminding him of everything they
had just left fled, he left her to her slumber and resolved himself to
enduring the memories of what had just happened roaring in his head. After
all, he was used to suffering, and Willow had really caught the worst of
it. He would just keep driving and hope that the monotony of the endless
miles would somehow calm his thoughts. Though after everything they’d just
gone through, that seemed more than a bit unlikely.
He’d known things would go badly when they had decided to gather the
gang at the Magic Box and tell them about their relationship; so had Willow.
But the truth was that *neither* of them had been prepared for just how
badly things had actually gone or for just how much Willow would lose.
Even he, pessimist that he was, hadn’t expected things to go quite so horribly
pear-shaped as they had. He was sure that Willow, at heart the most optimistic
creature he’d ever known, had hoped deep down that at least one of her
friends would understand. But they hadn’t. Not a one of them.
Of course, they’d both expected Buffy to be furious. And she didn’t
disappoint, that was for sure. She raged and screamed, threw things-much
to Anya’s dismay-made threats...all the things that both Spike and Willow
had been prepared for. Neither of them, however, had realized just who
she would focus her fury on. They’d both thought she’d blame Spike and
he’d been prepared for the inevitable face-off. That wasn’t how it had
gone, though. Instead of turning on Spike, she’d turned on Willow, calling
her a whore and a bitch and a worthless magic-junkie who had done this
just to hurt *her*; spewing more venom than a thousand snakes. Blaming
Willow for everything bad that had ever happened to her, for ripping her
out of Heaven, for the fact that she felt so different, even for the fact
that Angel had left town years ago; somehow making it Willow’s fault that
Angel’s soul was still burdened by the curse. Screaming that Willow had
always been jealous and always tried to take what was hers, that she must
have used magic to make Spike want her instead of Buffy.
That wasn’t what hurt Willow most, though. Spike knew that. No, what
had really hurt his girl was what *hadn’t* been said by the others. No
one had defended her. No one had even tried to stop the hateful words that
poured out of Buffy’s mouth. No one had even reacted to the sudden revalation
that Spike and Buffy had been sleeping together. No one at all. The only
interruption had come from Anya, who helpfully pointed out that Willow
had stolen ingredients for spells and that “thief,” therefore, should be
added to the list of names Buffy was calling her, and who pouted
when Buffy shot her an irritated glare, grumbling about how Willow had
wronged *her*, too, but no one seemed to care.
Xander and Dawn sat silent through Buffy’s tirade; waiting ‘til the
Slayer had run out of breath and calmed down enough to confine her assault
to hate-filled glaring before putting their two cents in. Spike had thought
that at least they’d see that *both* Buffy and Willow had done wrong lately
and that would soften their attitudes towards his girl. It hadn’t worked
that way. Willow seemed to be everyone’s favorite whipping boy and even
her so-called “best friend” couldn’t wait to inflict more pain on her.
“You’ve changed, Willow. You’re not the girl who’s been my best friend
since forever. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”
Those words had been like a knife in heart; Spike could see her flinch.
She’d reached out her hand to him, but he’d turned away, walking over to
Anya, who had glared triumphantly at Willow, as if she’d won some glorious
victory over a despised enemy. Xander never looked back at her. Later,
Spike knew, he’d hate himself for what he’d said. But he’d never suffer
enough for what he’d done to the girl Spike loved. For the flood of tears
she’d cried today and would cry again tomorrow and for many days to come.
For the light that would never shine quite as brightly in Willow’s eyes,
no matter how happy Spike made her. Someday, Spike vowed, when he got the
damned chip out, he’d torture the boy ‘til he begged for death, and then
he’d just keep torturing him. Willow had pinned all her hopes on Xander;
Spike had seen it in her eyes during the worst of Buffy’s tirade. And Xander
had failed her. Nothing on earth could save the boy now.
After that blow, Dawn’s tantrum could barely even register to Willow,
but it had certainly hurt Spike. He’d always been fond of Dawn, seeing
her as a little sister, as a connection to that piece of William he still
carried deep within himself. Why couldn’t she be happy for him? Happy that
he’d finally found the love he’d always wanted, happy that he was keeping
Willow strong and away from the magic. He’d really believed that she loved
him and that she cared about him in a way that made her better than just
a selfish little teenaged brat with a chip on her shoulder and an endless
supply of spite. Maybe it was the fault of those damned monks. Maybe they’d
used too much of Buffy when they’d fashioned a mystical key into the Slayer's
sister and that was why all Dawn could see was her own petty little grudges
and childish desires. Not that the reasons why Dawn was what she was really
mattered now. None of that changed the fact that his Lil’ Bit hated Willow
for Tara moving out and for not suffering enough to suit *her*, and hated
Spike for loving a girl who wasn’t her or Buffy, especially if that girl
was Willow.
That night had been a world of unexpected pain for both of them. He
didn’t even remember leaving the Magic Box, or how they’d ended up at Willow’s
parents’ house. He just remembered holding Willow as she screamed and sobbed,
his own tears mixing with hers, and the desperate way they’d made love
through the morning and afternoon, trying to escape the pain.
Now here they were, with a few possessions hastily cobbled together
and stuffed into the back seat of the De Soto. No destination in mind,
just a desperate need to get as far away as they could as fast as possible.
Spike glanced down at Willow’s face resting against his thigh as she dozed,
curled up beside him. She stirred fretfully and turned to look up at him
through half-lidded eyes.
“Are we there yet?” She shifted her position slightly and closed her
eyes once more, her heartbeat quickly settling back into the even rhythm
of slumber.
Spike gazed down at her fondly before focusing his eyes back on the
road that was taking them to hell-knew-where. “Yeah, pet. We’re there.”
The End.
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