by
Lisa Y. Drexel
For two weeks Willow tried melting into the woodwork. If she had been a vampire, she would've tried lurking in shadows like Angel did.
But she wasn't a vampire—just a witch with fledgling powers, so she stuck to the 'less said the better approach.'
It wasn't working.
Her embarrassment hadn't magically disappeared.
Both Buffy and Xander still watched her like a hawk—as if she was going to suddenly bolt from her predestined seat in front of the library's computer and run into Spike's arms, where she would surely be turned and they would once again be forced to deal with a vampire Willow.
Giles watched her from the corner of his eye, as if by keeping tabs on her actions would somehow enlighten him on how she, the innocent little Willow that he had taken under his wing three years before could harbor such lustful desires for such a despicable demon like Spike, right underneath his nose no less.
And Spike.
He was the worst offender.
More often than not, she would feel his eyes watching her from wherever he was—whether it was in the library, at the Bronze or even at home.
She wasn't sure what to make of that.
Buffy had told her that Spike had put one of his minions on her during that shapeshifter scare and the Slayer assumed it was only because of that present crisis.
But Willow wasn't so sure now.
Now that she thought about it, there were many times, first when Oz was still around, and later when she was alone, that she felt someone's eyes on her. It drove her former boyfriend crazy, but since nothing dangerous came of it, they both just let it go—filing it under that huge folder that held weird facts in their minds called 'The Hellmouth.'
She wasn't so sure now.
Could it have been Spike that watched her every night—double checking that she got home all right—keeping her safe from demons, just by the mere presence of a vampire watcher?
And if that were true, then maybe her feelings for him weren't unfounded. Maybe she subconsciously picked up on his desires and her psyche just said, 'cool with me—he's hot.'
Willow shook her head and fell back into her bed, trying to ignore that pounding listlessness that had been plaguing her for two weeks. Goddess, if she only could get over her embarrassment, maybe she could find out what was true and what was just a figment of her imagination. It wasn't as if he didn't already know her feelings—hell, he's the one that wrapped her nearly naked body up with a sheet and carried her to the library. He saw Talon—the shapeshifter—that wore Spike's face and used his mannerisms to seduce Willow.
Goddess, he saw her breasts!
What did she have to lose except her pride—which had been shot to hell the moment Talon knocked on her French Doors?
No, she had nothing to lose but that didn't seem to be the issue either. Fear was the issue. Willow may not be the same shy computer geek she had been three years before, but she was still fundamentally shy. She still babbled when nervous or mad and even with Oz, she had a hard time telling him her feelings. So how could anyone expect her to confront Spike?
Better yet, how could she expect herself to confront him?
But she already knew the answer.
Because, she was changing. She wasn't satisfied being shy, quiet Willow anymore. Not after all she had seen—from the Master to Hellmouth demons, to vampires and even her own vampire doppelganger. Each and every one of those experiences worked to bring her out of her shell and it would be wrong for her to fall back on the shy defense as a cop out.
And that's exactly what it was—a cop out.
She sat back up and rubbed her tired face. "Well, Rosenberg, what next?" she asked herself out loud. She turned around and started to stand up and when she felt it again.
Someone was watching her.
Her heart began to race as her head whipped around to her French Doors in time to see a white envelope slip underneath the doors and a sharp knock on the window that echoed eerily in her room.
Knees knocking, she walked over to the door and took a deep breath, reminding herself that no vampires could enter or pull her out if she remained in the room, and opened the door.
She bent down picked up the card, noting the lack of writing on its face and closed them without much thought.
Her hands shook as she tore open the envelope and she was almost afraid she tear up the note inside if she didn't get handle on her nerves.
But after a couple of deep breaths, she managed to pull out the note out and read it.
Before she even read the words, she knew whom it was from. All she had to do was look at the handwriting—so much like Angel's that it had to be from Spike.
And then she read it. Simple, succinct—barely anything to even acknowledge the writer's identity or feelings—except she could hear him say it in her mind. Three simple words and a phone number—different from the one that Giles had in his rolodex—but Willow had already thought he had a private phone line; one for business as such and one for personal.
Just three words, but it was enough to somewhat calm her nerves and her fear and build on whatever courage she had left.
A wave of relief washed through her as she opened her French Doors and stepped outside. As she leaned against the railing and stared down the street, she saw what looked like man dressed in a long, black duster with white blond hair step underneath a street light about a 100 yards away as he lit a cigarette.
He turned around, looking straight at her, causing Willow to smile despite herself. Although she couldn't make out his face or even if he returned her smile, she knew he saw hers. She nodded once at him and turned around, not even noticing the bounce in her step or that the weight on her shoulders had mysteriously disappeared. She glanced back down at the note and reread it, still grinning to herself.
It said: Pet, call me.
And she knew she would.
Willow & Spike fic SunnyHell Haven Fanfic page
If you have any comments or like what you've read, drop me a line!
©1999 Lisa Y. Drexel