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Spike winced at the pain and instinctively tugged on his hand to pull it back, but Willow held his wrist tightly with one hand. “Hold still. This salve won’t work at all unless I apply it properly.”
He looked away from her, mostly not wanting to see the damage done, but also not wanting to meet her eyes. He hated this. He hated being injured. He hated having to be treated. “I’m a vampire. Leave it alone, give me some blood, and I’ll heal just fine, pet.”
He felt her eyes on him but still didn’t look at her. They didn’t talk about how stupid it was for Spike to go rushing into the burning building. They didn’t talk about the fact that fire was just as likely to kill a vampire as it was a witch or a slayer. They didn’t talk about how worried they’d been about each other during the battle, even though Spike had promised not to take stupid risks and had, clearly not hesitated to take one.
“Maybe you’ll heal on your own, but we don’t have the time to wait for that, do we?”
They didn’t. That was true. He winced again, sharp pain enveloping his hand and shooting up his lower arm, almost all the way to his shoulder.
“You know, Spike, ‘walking through the fire’ is really just a metaphor. You’re not supposed to actually do it.”
He cracked a smile. “Tell that to those pyromaniac demons out there and the families in that apartment building who—ah!” He pulled his hand back again, this time successfully wrenching it free of her grasp. A tentative glance down at it showed a variety of charred flesh, red and blistered skin, and smears of thick, white ointment. “Hurts,” he complained, when she went to reach for it again.
“No kidding.” She didn’t tease him for showing some weakness. She didn’t admonish him for pulling his arm away from her. She just held her hand out, asking for it back but not taking it.
She sat cross-legged in front of him, head cocked, blood spattered upon her long skirt, her hair the color of the fire he almost hadn’t escaped from. He saw the fatigue in her eyes, not surprising as they’d all been awake for days trying to track and stop these demons. Tonight they’d gotten as close to them as ever, but half had still managed to escape. They really didn’t have time to waste. And, yet, she sat there with some magical gift of patience, hand out, palm up, waiting for him to come to her.
Like a wounded animal finally trusting its rescuer, Spike gingerly placed his arm back in Willow’s hand. Her touch was soft, reassuring. And even when the salve stung him, he kept his arm there for her. Maybe, if he were especially lucky, she’d have a kiss for him to help him heal just a little bit more.