Title:  Nothing, or The Thrall of Victory, the Agony of Healthy Eats

Author:  Miss Murchison

Rating: R

Disclaimer:  All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc.  Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.

Notes:  A sequel to Quick and Bitter, Slow and Sweet. 

Thanks: To Keswindhover for the beta, and to DorothyL for the beta and the title.

Mid-way through dinner, Clem called. "He wants my help checking out his new neighbors," Spike said as he hung up the phone. "This particular species comes in several breeds with different eating habits. Most just like vermin stew or sewage salad, but some are nastier."

Tara had volunteered to go, of course, but Spike assured her it wasn't necessary, that he was capable of handling several dozen of these things, no matter what their dietary preferences, and that his witch should take care of their Dawn instead (as if she couldn't take care of herself!), and that Tara was meant for far better things than interviewing some leprous demon squatters, and that he'd come back soon and make up for his absence, and blah, blah, and blah. He would probably have gone on all night if Dawn hadn't intervened by making what she considered to be completely appropriate gagging noises.

The word "leprous" brought up memories of Glory's minions and squashed whatever curiosity Dawn had to see Sunnydale's latest immigrants, so she was content to be walked back home by Tara. Spike hung around long enough to make sure they bundled up against the chill, looping a long, thin, blue scarf around Tara's neck with his own hands. "Sets off your eyes lovely, that does," he said before he slipped off down the street.

"Huh," said Dawn. "I've got on a blue sweater, but does he say anything about what it does for my eyes? Nope. He could at least give me credit for getting you that scarf."

"It's a lovely scarf," said Tara, fingering the soft fabric as they walked along. "Thank you again for giving it to me." She was glowing with happiness, her hands moving gently as if to caress not just the scarf, but the man who had just complimented her.

Dawn melted. Spike and Tara were awfully sweet together, and it wasn't their fault that Dawn couldn't annoy them back by mooning over her own boyfriend. She didn't have a boyfriend, and that was something that didn't seem likely to change. Most of the kids at school thought she was weird, and she didn't have much to talk about with them.

As Dawn and Tara turned the corner onto Revello Drive, a vamp jumped out at them. Dawn kicked it in the stomach, spinning around first, just like Spike had taught her, to add force to the blow. Before the demon could recover, a ball of fire flew from Tara's fingertips and caught it in the chest. It was consumed in a few seconds.

Dawn's thoughts slipped back to her lack of boyfriends. Was she really that different from everyone else in high school?

She looked at Tara's profile. Her friend had told her she'd had trouble fitting in during her high school days too, but that things had gotten better in college. That was kind of reassuring, but it seemed an awfully long time to wait for a social life that consisted of more than hanging out with a couple of older friends.

The fire died down, and Dawn stomped over the ashes as she resumed her path home. "Why do the vamps even come into this neighborhood anymore?"

"I think the fledglings are attracted by the aura of magical power around your house." Tara linked her arm with Dawn's. "The same thing happens around my apartment and the Magic Box."

"So they're too stupid to tell the difference between black and white magic?"

"Magical ability isn't black or white, and neither is the kind of energy that vampires or Slayers use. It's the creatures using it that makes the difference. These fledges haven't figured that out yet."

The door to the house opened, and Willow's pale face peered out at them. Dawn grimaced. Oh, great. The only thing worse than being greeted by her depressed sister was having to watch a dejected ex-witch making sad puppy-dog eyes at said witch's ex-lover.

"Uh, hi, Willow," said Tara, stepping back.

Ignoring Tara's obvious discomfort and eagerness to get away, Willow came out onto the porch. "Tara, sweetie! I haven't seen you in weeks."

"Yeah," said Tara, reaching the porch steps. "Well, with school out on break and everything—"

Dawn couldn't stand it. "I'm going up to finish my homework," she said. "Thanks again for dinner, Tara. That tofu stuff was, uh, a real experience."

As Dawn's footsteps sounded on the stairs, Tara stopped trying to slip away and gave in to her desire to examine Willow's features. Even accounting for the poor lighting of the porch lamp, the other witch looked ghastly.

"So, you're still eating healthy?" said Willow in an attempt at a cheerful tone.

"I try," said Tara, wondering if Willow was eating at all. "How about you?"

Willow shrugged. "I could do better. Buffy's discount at the Doublemeat is too tempting." She paused. "Actually, food pretty much isn't tempting these days." She stepped closer to Tara, who held her ground this time. "But you look good. Except—"

"Except what?" Tara shifted uneasily. Willow was so close her breath was warm against Tara's cheek.

Tara didn't want to hear criticisms of her appearance from this source. She realized suddenly that Willow had never used to criticize her in that way. Spike did it all the time, but his complaints were usually phrased along the lines of, "A lady with such luscious tits shouldn't be hiding them under a sweater that looks like it was knitted for a member of the England Rugby Team by his half-blind great aunt." It was curious, but Willow's constant murmurs of reassurance about her looks hadn't boosted her self-esteem nearly as much as Spike's vehement criticisms of her wardrobe.

Willow reached out a hand, then pulled it back, her eyes wide and fearful. "That scarf," she whispered.

Tara grasped one end of it almost protectively. "You don't like it?"

Willow shook her head, but her next words made no sense. "Buffy did it too, once. With Dracula."

Tara just stared, wondering if her ex-girlfriend was on some kind of strange high.

But Willow's next words made things nauseatingly clear. "She hid the marks. Tara, please don't hide from me. Let me help you."

Tara stepped off the porch onto the front path, staring into Willow's gaze with a mixture of anger and repulsion. "You think—you think that— Willow, have you looked in a mirror? If one of us is being eaten away by something magical, it's not me!"

Willow's voice erupted in anger. "Don’t you say that! He's not about magic! He's a demon. Have you forgotten, he tried to kill me, what he did to Buffy, what—"

"I haven't forgotten," snapped Tara before the litany could continue. "I haven't forgotten the things you did either."

"I'm not like him! How can you think I'm like him? I never tried to hurt you?"

"If you believe that—" Tara made a gesture of disgust, waving away the other woman's attempt at argument. "No, you're nothing like him. And look, if you must," she yanked the scarf away from her neck to show unmarked flesh. Satisfied?" She turned away, not waiting to see Willow's reaction.

Tara was still angry and upset when she stormed into her basement apartment. All the way home, she had kept visualizing Willow's aura, once a dazzling, burnished halo, but now dampened to an ominous scarlet ember behind a dark haze.

How had things gone so incredibly wrong for Willow, who had once seemed to have a future as bright as her aura had been?

As she rubbed tears away from her eyes with the back of her hand, Tara became aware that someone was in the bathroom, turning off a noisy flow of water and muttering to himself. She dropped her hands and breathed in deeply, almost succeeding in calming herself before Spike stepped out into the apartment's one main room.

Spike's aura was in chaos, as always, a mass of intense hues battling with each other. Most vampire auras were a tumult of colors, but they were usually overwhelmingly dark shades vanquishing pinpricks of lighter ones. Spike's had always been different, and it seemed to Tara that it grew more unusual with each passing day. Green, blue, and red seethed around him as always, but these days the colors bled into each other, merging in near harmony when they met instead of clashing wildly as they used to do.

The red sparks gleamed brighter as he stared at her, then flared blue, echoing the concern in his eyes. He'd obviously sensed her presence and her agitation, because he'd emerged after showering but before slicking down his hair, and the short locks were springing into an unruly mass that added their shapes to the kaleidoscope Tara's magic perceived around him. He was wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist, and his still-damp torso gleamed whitely against that vivid background.

"What's wrong, love?"

"N—." She stopped. There was no point in telling Spike nothing was wrong and expect him to politely acknowledge her obvious desire not to discuss things. No, he'd tease, nag and seduce the story out of her in the end. "I saw Willow, that's all. She looked terrible and made me feel terrible, and then I left. How was your evening?"

He seemed almost satisfied with that, and gestured at the towel. "They turned out to be sludge eaters. No demon slaying needed, manure not being an endangered species in these parts. I'll skip the details, but a bath was definitely called for after that expedition. And Clem owes me a six pack and a carton of smokes."

Tara smiled in sympathy and amusement as she slipped off her jacket and started to untwine her scarf from around her neck. She had to fight the urge to tear it off and throw it away. Earlier this evening, it had symbolized Spike's pride in her and Dawn's affection, but now Willow had destroyed her pleasure in this silly, pretty thing.

Her hands tightened on blue fabric, and she stood up straighter. I will not let people take things from me anymore. I used to think I was worthless, too worthless to protest when people stole away bits of me. But I am whole again, and I know better now. What I have, I will hold.

Spike's head was tilted to one side, and he was watching her closely, half-worried, half-curious. "Going to take that off and stay a while, pet?" His tone was cautious, probing.

He'd cosset and coddle her if she explained, but Tara was not going to take back her happiness by spending the night crying on his shoulder about Willow. She tossed back her head and bit her lip, considering her options. "I think you should take that off," she said, pointing at the towel.

He glanced down, comically surprised as the towel dropped to the floor. "What the bloody—"

Before he could finish, Tara continued, "—and let's see how you look in this instead."

She gave him a slight mental push, and he staggered backwards, falling on the bed. Recovered from his initial astonishment, he smirked up at her, undismayed. "Got plans for the night, have you?" he asked hopefully.

"Oh, yes." She felt the fabric of her scarf loosen, and watched with satisfaction as it whipped out to its full length, its soft blue folds draping over him in a gentle caress before one end darted along the length of his arm and seized his left wrist. He let his breath go with a gasp as the other end gently scourged his legs.

As the narrow length of fabric slipped along his thigh, creeping over his chest, Tara pulled off her blouse, and his eyes were drawn back to her. She leaned forward a little, her hands going to the zipper of her jeans, as she watched him lick his lips at this view of her breasts. She was wearing a lacy red bra that she'd bought as part of a matching set just a few days ago. To her, it had seemed daring and naughty. She saw with satisfaction that for once Spike agreed with her assessment.

"Look at you, love, all decked out like the siren you are, instead of hiding and pretending you're a little grey mouse."

"Just for you, Spike. The rest of the world can see me as a mouse. The siren wants to lure only you." She gave another mental order, and watched him grow hard as the scarf snaked over his skin; his cock stiffening as the bonds tightened around his wrists and drew his arms over his head to fasten him securely to the headboard.

Tara smiled, enjoying the undeniable evidence of his excitement. This was one of the many things she loved about being with him, the way she could see his arousal, touch it, wrap her hands and tongue around it, and take it inside herself. As her jeans slid over her hips and fell to the floor, she let her gaze move upwards to his face. He was watching her intently, breathing hard, his mouth open.

"You like that, don't you, love? The way I stand to attention at your orders?"

"Yes," she said, dropping onto the bed to lean over him, on her hands and knees, still dressed in those silly frills of underwear. "I like knowing I make you feel that way." One hand hovered over him, hesitant, but not out of shyness. "Now, what should I play with first?"

Choices, choices. He'd love it if she teased that eager erection, but she was saving that for later. Her gaze caressed his flat belly, the straining muscles in his forearms as his fists clenched around her scarf, the taut nipples on his chest, and the exquisite line of his cheekbones.

Silence wasn't one of Spike's few virtues, and, as she contemplated, his mouth opened. "Bloody hell, woman, you can choose where to start, but for pity's sake, start!"

Tara was an incurable romantic. She started with his lips.

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