Chapter Twenty-Two

With every quarter hour that crawled past after she logged off the Internet TV, Willow cursed her lack of nerve and the unpredictability of Spike’s movements while she watched television with her back to the door and an ear cocked for any attempt to open the door. She wanted to figure out how much time she had between someone trying to get in, and actually getting in, which would require her to disengage the safety lock, and possibly the bolt she had thrown. Once she had that timing down, she would be able to figure out how much time she had to log off the computer and get to the door as well as an opportunity to determine how annoyed Spike was by her locking the door.

Nibbling on her pinky fingernail, Willow thought about how to play that. Angry? You lock me in, you steal my clothes, so yeah, I’m going to lock you out, you jackass, she thought. It helped that she was angry. She was angry at Spike. She was angry at herself for the position she had placed herself in. She was angry about loosing precious time to her uncertainty about when he would return.

She made herself think constructively about her next on-line time. She would check her email first. If Buffy had not responded, she would start emailing other people who regularly checked their email to get them to call Buffy and Giles. Then she would look for a web site for the hotel, to try to narrow down her location, hit MapQuest for more information on Sacramento, and then find local law enforcement web sites.

Her mind wandered to her parents' email. The last one hinted at some frustration at her lack of response, which was put down to AOL, and not good old reliable Willow. Her father had once asked her opinion about AOL and her comments had not been flattering. He adopted the attitude, but he kept the service for the very reasons Willow wouldn’t have. AOL was for people who were casual users and browsers. It was reliable and the interface was easy to navigate. To her it was an irritating layer of program between her and the Internet.

Her parents always sent her notes every few days when they were on the road. The personal tone of the email in the impersonal medium of email irritated her. It was a glimpse into their mind set that she found unsettling, like at her parents' anniversary party, where she met her parents’ friends and colleagues. One of her Dad’s older graduate students had said something about how he felt like he knew her already because her father talked about her so much, and as gratifying as that had been it was also irritating and a little painful because she had no idea what he would say about her.

She should have known. You should know what your parents think of you without a stranger telling you.

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to stop the self-pitying train of thought. She didn’t have time for it, and as a practical matter, her parents were not only too far away to be any help, they were too out of touch with what went on in her life to understand what kind of help she needed.

She was reviewing her plan when Spike came in through the forgotten connecting door to the room with a smirking, “Lucy, I’m home,” that was probably meant to be funny.

Willow settled for a withering glare and returned to the somewhat hypnotic charm of David Venable on QVC.

Georgia brushed past him, bearing an armful of clothing on hangers that she dropped on the unmade bed while admiring the channel set ruby ring that was being shown. She cast a sidelong glance at Willow, staring blankly at the television screen, before looking at Spike and smiling sweetly.

Spike read the smile as something along the lines of ‘serves you right, you greedy pig’. He smiled back.

He walked over to the table behind Willow, emptying his pockets of the cell phone, his cigarettes, lighter, and keys before turning back to her, trailing his fingers over her bare shoulder, brushing the back of his hand over her cheek. She went utterly still, and then she very deliberately tilted her head a fraction of an inch away from his touch.

He crossed the room to hang up his coat. Was this a version of the unsuccessful silent treatment tactic? He had no doubt that finding that she was confined to the room without clothing had irritated her. It was meant to. He was making a point. Their arrangement was not predicated on trust.

“Hang your clothes up, pet,” he said.

She set the remote control down and got up from the chair to pick the clothes up and carry them to the closet. The only sound was the metallic click of each hanger as it was hung on the metal pole, and slid down with a whisper of plastic from the clothing bags. He watched her for a moment. She hardly looked at the clothing she was hanging, and didn’t ask where it had come from.

He went back to the table to get a cigarette, and leaned against the table, watching her with a small smile as she completed the task and returned to her chair, sitting stiffly. The wrinkled sheet she was wrapped up in had a certain charm. Her tousled, towel dried hair looked messy and it was an unintended reminder of what it had looked like after he had had his hands in it. The angry flush in her cheeks—he wasn’t sure if the novelty of her blushes would ever wear off—drew his eye.

She had taken a bath or a shower. He could smell the soap, but wrapped up in the sheet for hours, she smelled like them, a sweet, musky scent. He couldn’t resist playing with the ends of her hair. When she started to pull away, he though it was time to remind her that they had a deal.

She turned her head to look at him, the angry glitter of her eyes subdued. “Next time you go out, could you bring back something for me to read?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said, a little surprised by the request. “Make a list,” he started to smile. “No reason why you can’t catch up on your summer reading list,” he teased.

“Thank you,” she said, turning back to the television.

He raised an eyebrow at that, picking at his chipped black nail polish. “We’ll be having drinks and dinner in the hotel,” he told her.

Georgia sat at the foot of the bed, watching them like they were a tennis match. She had already picked out Willow’s clothes for the evening and was looking forward to seeing how she would look in them. Spike hadn’t filled her in on the precise nature of the arrangement that had been worked out. He had simply told her that, for the time being, Willow was off limits.

Georgia examined her fingernails. “Did you get anything to eat, sugar?”

Willow looked at her. “Yes. Thank you,” she said.

Spike eyed the back of her head. Extra polite, with the please and thank you, and they unstated ‘bugger off’. He caught Georgia’s eye and nodded to the door. She made a face at that, her attention returning to Willow. “There’s more,” she told her. “Underwear and accessories and shoes. I thought of everything. Before dinner, I’ll do your hair,” she promised.

Willow gritted her teeth. “I imagine that this will come as a huge shock to present company, but I have been dressing myself since I was five. I can manage.”

Georgia just grinned. “Someone is in a bad mood,” she teased. “I’ll leave you two alone and pop in later,” she said, going through the connecting door and shutting it behind her.

Spike threaded his fingers through her hair, tugging her head back. “Is Georgia right, pet? Are you in a bad mood?”

She didn’t bother to dignify that with an answer, feeling his fingers twist in her hair, exerting just enough pressure to tug her head back another half inch. His lips grazed her temple. “I didn’t handcuff you to the bed or to a chair,” he tilted his head away from her. “That was a courtesy.”

Pushing off the table he was leaning against, he gave her hair a slight tug and let go of it and her. Now that she had given up being agreeable, he didn’t know what she thought was left for her to do. He was leaning toward pulling off the sheet and providing a demonstration of how unpleasant he could be if she didn’t start thinking more clearly.

He plucked the remote control from her hand and changed the channel, looking for something to watch.

“Why are we going anywhere for dinner?” she asked. “You don’t eat.”

“Food?” he glanced over at her before reaching up the unmade bed to grab a couple of pillows to wedge behind his shoulders. Propping one booted foot on the low footboard of the bed, he continued his channel surfing. “I eat.”

He glanced over at her and saw that she was looking at him, a slight frown on her face. He tried to decide what it was. Puzzlement. Curiosity. A spark of reluctant interest? Ah, the social anthropologist was rearing her head.

“I like food,” he decided to indulge her. “I get cravings for things. Like peanut butter and carrots.”

The frown deepened. “Together?”

“Yeah. It’s good,” he insisted, going back to his channel surfing. Taking her clothes had been deliberate. Leaving her without anything to do had not. It probably was not a good idea. God only knew what she’d think up with enough spare time.

“What were you up to while I was gone, pet?” he asked.

The question was unintentionally abrupt, and she was looking directly at him. There was no hiding the reaction. The increase in her heart rate would have tipped him off, but she couldn’t quite control her flinch.

She covered by rubbing her arms as if she was cold. “Shower. TV. Yelled at Pete,” she summarized with an unconvincing lack of detail. “And, you?”

He decided to let it ride for the moment and gestured to the closet. “You needed clothes.”

“You went shopping? With Georgia? In the middle of the day?” she was frowning again. “How?”

“Hotel boutique,” he told her. “You would have loved it. They had these Hobbit reject demons scurrying around. Smelled funny, but they found everything Georgia wanted.”

Willow looked at him like she suspected that he was on to her, and then she got up and walked over to the closet, taking a sudden interest in the clothing. He leaned back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, savoring the signs of her nervousness.

Willow made herself look at the clothes. He caught her off guard with the question and she was afraid that she looked as panicked as she felt when she realized that she had looked too startled. She found herself staring at a pair of Capri pants in royal blue that was on a hanger with a sleeveless white sweater. There was a giant blue chrysanthemum on the front of the sweater that almost looked like something she would have chosen for herself.

He watched her for a moment longer before rising from the bed in a predatory, back arching move that she saw out of the corner of her eye. He walked over to her, running one finger down her bare arm.

“Anything you’ve forgotten to mention?” he prompted. “You’re an industrious sort of girl, aren’t you? Idle hands are the devil’s work shop, and all that?”

She backed up and found herself up against the open arch that framed the closet when he smoothly followed, not crowding her exactly. “No?” he mocked. “Is it more, I am what I do? Is that why you worry about your reading lists and your summer job and your lost opportunities to for earnest do-gooder activities?”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. He had figured out that she was up to something and he wasn’t going to let go of it until he figured out what it was. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get dressed,” she said, keeping her voice as even as possible.

“And, if I do?”

She gritted her teeth. Crap. “I—“

He reached out for her, hooking his fingers into the sheet where it covered her breasts. “You?” he prompted, and then he laughed. “The look on your face, Red. Free advice? Poker is not your game.”

Without a mirror to check and see what her expression was betraying, Willow wanted to touch her face to see what it was doing that was so unsubtle. She wasn’t stammering. Stammering was usually her give away when she was lying. Damnit! Was he just fishing, or was she really throwing off an ‘I’ve got a secret’ vibe?

She considered testing out a condescending look at the hand buried in her cleavage and a ‘do you mind’ but this was Spike, and he didn’t mind, so that seemed like a bad idea. Instead she blurted out a reminder. “You hit me, I hit you, remember?”

He tugged on the sheet deliberately. “I rip your clothes off, you rip mine off?” he shot back. “I’m shocked, but game. Wasn’t thinking about beating you just yet, but give me a moment. I could get in the mood for it.”

She stared at him. There was just the tiniest hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He was joking.

He sighed, and shook his head. “Yes, that was a joke,” he confirmed. “This is glib repartee, pet. When I’m not playing, you’ll know it.”

To her relief, he let her go, and unearthed the cell phone, flashing her a conspiratorial smile. “Time to call the Scoobies and find out what they are up to,” he explained. “Stick around. They’ll want to talk to you this time.”

She briefly debated about refusing to talk, just to spite him, and then decided not to. She started wondering how she could make talking to them work for her. Maybe slip in something like, read any interesting emails lately?

Too obvious. She frowned as Spike dialed a number, holding the phone to his ear. He strolled across the room to get another cigarette.

She frowned at the chrysanthemum on the sweater. Emails. Computers. It was sort of what she was known for. How to mention that? Ask about her computer? Ask where it was? If anyone had been using it—or her newsgroups and links. She looked at Spike. “Can I really talk to them?” she asked.

“Hmm?” he held up at hand. The phone was answered on the second ring. He recognized Angel voice. “Watcher.”

“Spike,” Angel gave it the menacing growl. Giles would have at least sounded bored, or weary in his aggravated Englishman talking to his favorite vampire kidnapper voice.

“Meant to call you. Just hadn’t gotten around to it.”

“We’re going to stop digging unless we know Willow is alive,” Angel told him.

Spike chuckled. “Really? So, you’re in charge of this little operation, eh? Reminds me of the good old days. You, thinking you were in charge, Darla, cracking the whip and bringing you to heal like a puppy. Speaking of which . . . according to Red, here, in some other version of Sunnyhell, you’re Red’s bitch. Makes you think about all the wonderful possibilities that she has, doesn’t it?”

“Shut up, Spike. Put her on the phone.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Spike drawled. “Because, you aren’t in charge, are you? Did they bring you in because they thought you knew how I think, or some other rot? Did you remember to point out that in recent history, I’ve beaten you on your ground twice? I beat you to cure Dru, and I beat Angelus on his wacky mission to destroy the world. Try not to chip a fang grinding your teeth, Peaches,” he advised.

“Where is Dru?” Angel asked.

There was a tiny pause. “Fuck if I know,” Spike answered.

“Left you? There’s a huge surprise,” Angel twisted the knife.

Spike responded with a harsh bark of a laugh. “Oh, right! You care? Don’t make me laugh. It’s all your fault. You, confusing her, messing with her head, ruining her. We were just fine without you and you bloody well couldn’t stand for that, could you?” he retorted.

“You’ve got issues with me, Spike? Let’s settle it. You don’t need Willow. You and me. We fight, we finish it. Last man standing walks away,” Angel offered.

Not even remotely tempted, Spike rolled his eyes. “Let me explain something to you, Angel,” he began, “your Slayer? You are probably thinking that if I get the Gem of Amara, her days are numbered, and you’d be wrong. Taking her down without it, that would be something, but once I have it, what’s the point? She’s no longer what she’s been. A worthy adversary. You, on the other hand? Piece of advice. Buy your sweetie an urn.”

He could feel Willow watching him, one hand at her throat. She looked like she was trying to plan what to say. “Put the Watcher on, or the Slayer, or Xapper—you know, someone that actually has a say in what happens?”

The winner was the Watcher. Giles came on the line a moment later while Spike silently relished the notion of the brooding one relinquishing the phone. It probably galled him to no end. Good.

“I’ll reiterate what Angel said. We want to talk to Willow and we will stop digging unless you prove that she is alive.” Giles was cool to the point of curtness.

“That’s workable,” Spike agreed. “Making good progress?”

“Willow,” Giles insisted.

He sighed, “Fine,” he gestured to her. “Pet? Say hello to the Watcher. He thinks you're less than alive,” he told her, holding the phone out to her.

She walked over to him and took the phone, holding it to her ear as one hand crept up to rest between the top of her makeshift toga and her neck in a gesture that smacked of maidenly modesty, as if the Watcher would be able to infer her mostly undressed state over the cell phone.

“Giles?”

Several hundred miles away, Giles pointed to Angel in the loft of his apartment and he quietly lifted the receiver of the phone there. “Willow,” Giles said, his tone softening unselfconsciously. “Are you all right? We’ve been very worried.”

Was she all right? “I’ve probably been fired from my summer internship, and I’m behind on my reading list, but other than that and oh, yeah, being kidnapped, I’m just . . . fine,” she said, sarcastically.

Spike threw his head back and laughed. Willow glared at him and he laughed louder. Then she frowned. “Um. Sorry! You just caught me off guard,” she began again, sounding contrite.

“No need to apologize,” Giles assured her, though he had been taken aback at the snide retort. “I’m sure it has been very difficult for you, and I want to assure you that we are doing everything to . . . effect your safe return.”

The little pause made Willow pause, at least mentally. There was something that Giles wasn’t saying, some doubt that he wasn’t expressing. Willow eyed Spike. “I know,” she said softly. “Um . . . research? You’ve probably got that covered, but if anyone thought to get my computer. I’ve got newsgroups and links that might be helpful with the research. And—“

Spike smiled and reached for the phone, “That’s enough for now,” he told her, taking the phone back.

“Satisfied?” he asked Giles.

Giles looked up at Angel, who nodded. “For time being,” he said.

“Get back to work then,” Spike suggested. “Oh, and if someone has a cell phone, you might want to give me the number.”

“You can always reach someone here,” Giles told him.

“But I don’t want to reach ‘someone’. I like talking to you, Watcher, and yanking Peaches chain is a treat, but I don’t have much to say to Xapper.”

Angel spoke, rattling off a cell phone number that Spike made himself mentally repeat three times until he was satisfied that he had it memorized.

“Ta, then, back to the salt mines. The faster you dig, the faster you get Red back,” he reminded them before disconnecting.

Willow watched him as he took a deep drag on his cigarette with an air of creamy satisfaction.

“You enjoy this,” she accused.

“I do,” he agreed. “It’s fun. More fun for me,” he rubbed his chin, “and that makes it more fun.”

He finished the cigarette while casually disrobing, which made Willow wish that she had managed to get dressed. She went back to the closet, half expecting him to tell her not to bother, but after he was finished undressing he strolled past her into the bathroom and a few minutes later she heard the shower start. She used the time to put on the sweater and pants outfit from the closet.

Once she was dressed, she went to the refrigerator to retrieve the salad that Spike had brought back last night and the second to last can of diet Coke. She was sitting at the table when he emerged from the bathroom with a towel loosely draped around his hips. He picked up the sheet she had left on the floor in passing and tossed it on the foot of the bed before going to the refrigerator and getting a beer.

He sat across from her at the table, picking up the room service menu. He ate real food, probably more than most vampires did. Breakfast foods didn’t do much for him, though he liked bagels and certain cereals. Eggs, which he preferred poached with bacon on a toasted English muffin, did not mix well with whatever passed for a digestive system. He liked the way any kind of bread smelled, but outside of bagels, bread never tasted as good as it smelled.

The dinner menu looked bland, but the appetizers were promising. He suspected that there was something more to this make nice dinner with Colin’s contacts than making nice. Colin had looked a bit cagey about that when they had talked earlier. Spike’s mind drifted over that conversation while he scanned the appetizers. Vampires were not the most trustworthy of creatures. This is where he differed from most vampires he knew. He was trusting. He trusted what he knew. Spike trusted his impressions and his instincts.

He had Colin sized up. He was lazy and willing to be led. As long as his illusion of independence was maintained and he was allowed to be useful in ways that reinforced his ideas about himself, he was manageable. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t reasonably alert, curious, or trying to figure out how to turn things to his advantage. He was lazy, not stupid. He made good decisions and he had raised in Georgia, an equal partner, which suggested a craving for order and stability. Keeping Colin focused required sharing a certain amount of information with him. Enough to reassure him that Spike hadn’t dragged him out on a limb with his childe.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with Pete and the little fledge that was Pete’s new shadow. His gut instinct was to stick and move. The longer they stayed in any one place, the more likely it was that someone would find them, or that the girl genius, apprentice escape artist picking at her salad would figure out some way to make a break for it again. He looked at her for a moment, watching her assemble a forkful of salad with all the salad food groups represented, drenched in salad dressing.

The concentration she could bring to bear on such a simple thing was interesting. He set aside the menu. “I’m going to get some sleep,” he told her. “Turn the television on, if you want, it isn’t going to bother me.”

She looked at him warily. “Thanks,” she said after a moment.

“Or, feel free to join me,” he invited, just to see how she would react.

He could almost see her on the verge of saying that she wasn’t sleepy, and then mentally reviewing that and deciding that it wasn’t a good idea. She sipped her diet Coke. Her tendency to blurt out the first thing on her mind was something he was going to miss.

“Do you want me to wake you up at a certain time?” she asked instead.

“Not necessary,” he told her. “Pete’s outside the door,” he reminded her. “Georgia will be back with the rest of the crap she got for you.”

She understood what he was getting at. Now was not a good time to escape. She gave the bits and pieces of salad a swirl with her fork, looking for croutons, while he tipped his head back, throat working as he drained the beer. There were little drops of water that clung to his shoulder, probably having fallen there from his hair, combed straight back in his familiar minimalist hair style.

He reminded her a little of Oz, though a day ago she would have said that it was impossible to even imagine a resemblance. They had a very similar physicality, though Oz was shorter. They were more lean muscle, competent but not extravagant grace, and at ease with themselves when naked. Oz had been more aware of her initial embarrassment and more considerate of it where Spike was aware of it, but he either didn’t care at all or he thought it was amusing. She had slept with exactly two men under vastly different circumstances and comparisons were inevitable, and even comforting as the contrasts she identified sharpened her appreciation of her boyfriend.