Rating: PG...pretty much safe for all eyes
Spoilers: Up through season 6
Summary: Just a little blurby thing that came into my head, set during Willow's magic withdrawl in season 6.
When angst gives way to fluff:)
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It had been four hours. Hour hours of tossing and turning and dizzy spells and nausea. Four hours of oscillation between sleepless rest and restless sleep. Four hours of pain and need and want and penance. It had been four hours, six days and thirteen minutes, to be exact, but Willow was only concentrating on the last four hours. The rest was a blurred memory of the torment and struggle that was addiction and withdrawal. She could feel the magic, even now, swirling within her, begging and pleading and demanding release, but still she held strong, jaw clenched tight, eyes squeezed closed, fists clutching blankets.
Rolling over once again, her body stiffened as another wave of nausea rolled through her, and her body shook. Holding her breath for a moment, she reached out with her senses…not magic, just intuitive senses, or so she assured herself, and Willow immediately felt his presence.
"Wrong room, Spike," she mumbled, teeth chattering. Forcing her eyes open, she felt a light breeze filter in through the open window as she stared at the vampire perched on the sill. He said nothing, simply staring back, his expression unreadable. "Buffy's not home."
"I know that," he said, standing up slowly and looking over the shaking witch, his expression unchanged. "Waited until she was on patrol."
"Well, I'm not really in any condition to stop you from rummaging through her room like some-" Her words were cut off as pain tore through her, and she whimpered, holding a hand to her head. "Please, just go."
He didn't leave. A moment later, she felt the bed dip, cool fingers on her heated forehead. She felt him take her hand in his. She felt him brush the hair back from her face, and she felt her eyes brim with tears.
"Look at me," he said, his tone soft yet demanding, and she did, not even enough will power left to say no to his words.
His eyes were piercing as he held her gaze, one hand gripping hers tightly, the other pressed against her head, and she gasped as the pain slowly slipped away.
"Relax," he whispered, and her body complied.
"How are you doing this?" she asked, her voice shaking, though her body no longer did.
"Thrall," he said, simply.
"Thrall," she repeated, letting the word roll on her tongue, testing it, tasting it. She felt good. She felt relaxed. She felt both controlled and in control, for the first time, ever.
"Why?" she asked, yawning as he ran his fingers through her hair. Spike shrugged, and said nothing. "I shouldn't let you do this," she told him, her eyelids heavy, but still open, her gaze never wavering.
He smiled, the expression real and warm. "I won't take advantage," he promised. "Go to sleep."
Closing her eyes, Willow felt him shift on the bed, moving into a more comfortable position, and she smiled. "Maybe a little advantage-taking wouldn't be bad," she mumbled.
Spike grinned again, though this time she did not see it, and he leaned in, his lips brushing against hers, the ghost of a touch. Arching up slightly, she sought to deepen the kiss, not content until she felt his tongue sweep into her mouth, tasting her, taking her, and time stood still, a lifetime in freeze frame, before he pulled away.
Though he suspected her ardor had more to do with the thrall than with him, Spike was pleased to see the content look on her face, and yet just before sleep graciously took her, he heard Willow whisper, "It takes a lot more than that to enthrall a witch."
The End