Time Bomb

by Rabbit

Summary: Jana wants a fic set after In The Dark, a disturbing Spike/Cordy torture fest. Hard R or higher for torture/smut/psychological fun. Okay, Spike finds out that the Gem of Amara is destroyed...and then he gets really mad.
Distribution: Lists, my site www.geocities.com/impudent_guttersnipe
Rating: NC-17 Physical and psychological torture, character death. (This is kind of fucked up.)
Disclaimer: the plaintiff list goes something like this-Joss Whedon, Fox Television, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar, The WB etc.
Spoilers: Set during Into The Dark
Feedback: I can take it
Notes: Written for #193 at YGTS () and Improv #14: hidden -- jade -- memento -- possession Yay to Kassie and Sam. also, gratuitous RedDwarf reference.

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Time Bomb
By Rabbit
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Sitting back in his chair, Nathan taps his lips with his right index finger, studying her. "Cordelia, they want to offer you a series. Picture this, you're a young, single mother who beep...beep...beeeeeeeeeppppppppppppp."

Nathan doesn't often make a lot of sense, but since when does her agent sound like a garbage truck backing up? What the fuck? Or maybe, it's more like an alarm? Is it time to get up already?

Pray that if she doesn't come into the office first, that Doyle will make the coffee this morning. That is if he's not drunk off his ass. Yesterday was Wednesday and she knows what that means-Guinness buck night at O'Doul's. And Angel, well, he's hopeless when it comes to beverages that don't come pre-wrapped in donor bags. Cordelia, trying to open her eyes, immediately gives voice to her earlier thought. "What the fuck?"

The effort results in a blurry crack of light, confirming her worst suspicions-she's sleeping on Doyle's couch. And can she say- does he have a possession that wasn't a red tag sale at Salvation Army? Ah, depression descend with swift wings and crush all hope. Thank you. That's just what she was looking for. What could possibly make this worse? She could've woken up lying next to him. Repress shudder. Another quick prayer to God that it's daylight and safe to stop over at her apartment and take a shower. In bleach.

Her nose hairs are tickling and she furiously scrubs at her nose with her right palm, sits up and immediately starts hacking. The room is filled with thick, acrid smoke and the panic coils in her stomach, spreading to her legs. Weak knees and she feels like she can't stand. Just calm down and quit spazzing out. Fuck.

"Doyle!" *cough*cough*cough* and it burns, like someone's turned her lungs inside out. Eyes are protesting, stinging and she can feel tears running down her face. She really can't see shit now.

This wasn't exactly how she pictured her final chapter...that involved much more celebrity, fame and money. Lots of money. Okay, now she's really starting to get pissed. That other dream was much better, the one with the TV series. Can she go back to that one please?

Nope. She's still here. That would've been too easy huh?

One step forward and she hits her shin on the coffee table. Ow. Motherfucker. Doyle, your feng shui is fucked up. Furniture placement should enhance traffic flow. The man is hopeless. He needs a woman to straighten this place out, but who could he find, some escapee from a woman's prison work crew? Ankle cuffs and orange jumpsuits? He'd *love* that wouldn't he?

Luckily she's wearing a new long skirt she bought last week, covers a multitude of shin wackage. It's so cute, that crinkly fabric in a jade, batik pattern...

Something clicks in her mind and she tries again, "Doyle! Are you here?" she feels the burn as the smoke is inhaled and comes right up in a barking spasm that rattles her chest. Manages to stumble her way to the door, and see that his room...his bed is empty. The bathroom door is open as well, showing the darkened, unoccupied interior.

That shit didn't come home last night. She doesn't consider that he did it to give her some space, make her feel more comfortable. That would make him too human. She likes to categorize Doyle as a sub human life form Cro hops man, neander-loser-thall. Oh, near death experiences really bring out her grandmother Betty's midwestern humor.

Deadbolt, chain, deadbolt, swing door open. She nearly shits her pants when she sees the hallway full of smoke, thicker even than inside of the apartment. Damn it, why didn't she get that fire prevention and safety spot she was up for last week? At the time, she'd been pissed at being denied a shoot in a fire station...with cute firemen. Now she's just thinking she would know what to do right about now. Silent wish that who ever did get it gets a little visit from the karma police very soon.

Think. Elevator? Not an option.

Stairs. Yes, must be around here somewhere. Think Cordy. Okay, got off of the elevator...refused to touch anything for fear of violent, crazed cockroach attack and followed Doyle four doors down to his apartment. There was a stairwell at the end of the hall. She remembers that.

She's alone in the hall...not another soul, and can't believe that everyone living in the vicinity of Doyle is gainfully employed and safe at work right now. All of his stoner friends must just think it's the bong hit from heaven. As she follows the wall to the end of the hall, groping like LA's version of the miracle worker, she bangs on doors as she passes each one. The first couple of times she tries to yell fire, but soon finds that impossible without losing a lung. Shuffle, bang on door, shuffle, bang.

The door at the end of the hall is heavy, she pushes it several times before the catch clicks, and she can swing it open. There's less smoke in the stairwell, but there's no light. She can see a broken bulb as the door closes behind her. Does no one respect property these days? Damage deposit: it's a concept, not an invitation.

Luckily, there's a big slit of a window in the door behind her, and as her steps echo on the cool cement floor, she can see light from below, maybe a couple of floors down? So, whoever Ponyboy and his greaser friends are, they haven't managed to entirely screw her over. She can do this; she'll make it out.

Wow, remember to thank Angel for such a great idea. It was so much safer to stay at Doyle's place. That brooder is going to have a hell morning when she sees him.

Following the curve of the stairs, verifies that the lights are out on the next floor too and she can see someone else bending over, coughing like she is. Well at least someone else will make it out. She wonders if there will be news crews out front. That is the only thing that will salvage this crap morning, the chance for a little on air time. Maybe someone out there's trying to cast-plucky heroine with unsinkable zeste pendant la vie?

"Hey buddy," she pats him on the shoulder, still clinging to the handrail and fighting coughing spasm. "Don't stop now."

The figure straightens, hand pinching her bicep before she can recognize him in the dim light.

"Oh my God. Spike?" He's now free of the whole annoying need to breathe pretense, that faker.

Tightening of his grip as the fingers dig deeper. "Did you think you were going to escape the fall out of a war between Angel and I Cordelia? I thought you were a little smarter than that luv."

Oh, this is just perfect. Her mouth opens, and the first thing she can think of comes tumbling out, only slightly reeking of quaky desperation and the need to find *anything* to scare him." Angel's supposed to meet me here. He's giving me a ride today. He didn't trust you."

There's the smirk she's come to know so well. "Well, isn't he smart?"

"Someone else is going to try and get out this way." That sounds lame even to her.

It must to him too, because he shrugs. "Let them. Although, I don't think we'll see anyone. The building was nearly empty this morning and the ones who *were* home, well, most of them can't really come out."

And with him so close to her, looking right into his eyes, she knows that he's killed them. He sees her conclusion, so obvious, smiles in satisfaction, and the sickening realization that he's planned this a little too well slams into her. He's not going to let her go, let her warn Angel herself. He's going to use her as a lesson, and having seen him in action, that scares the shit out of her.

Six weeks of a self-defense course taught in a community center on Lombard Ave. come back to her and she brings her free hand up to gouge an eye out and praying she can make it to street level, and sunlight, before he can catch her.

She won't. Whatever breath she has left leaves her in a rush as she hits the wall, slides down to the floor, and he's standing calmly above her. She's not even enough of a challenge to switch to vamp face. He lifts a boot and places it on her inner thigh, presses down just hard enough to pin her to the floor.

"Angel's such an inspiring father figure. He used to play daddy for me. Does

he play that for you too? Does he let you sit on his lap and..."

"Fuck you!"

A laugh. "I've always liked you Cordelia. We're going to have lots of fun." He contemplates her for a moment. Grinds his foot down harder against her femur, watching her squirm against the added pressure. "Well, maybe just I will."

She tries to suppress the bile that's rising in her throat, only partially successful at doing it. She briefly wonders if he can hear her heart racing, because it's deafening to her. Tries to remain calm, don't let him see how affected she is by seeing him here. Brave face. What's her motivation; the fact that she really likes being alive? "This is an original plan."

"Go with what you know. That's what I always say." Releases her leg and hauls her roughly to her feet." Before you get too invested in an escape plan, let me just say-I will kill you if you cause me trouble. I can always grab the Mick."

This is not good.

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He shoves her through the doorway into some kind of storage room, all cinderblock walls and one bare light bulb. Just a little too NYPD blue she thinks as she hears the thump of the heavy door closing behind her. When she turns, she sees Spike hanging the leather duster on a hook, and then fishing a pack of cigarettes from the pocket.

"Those will kill you."

He says nothing, just tosses the pack on top of a footlocker sitting to the left of the door. Spike's moved her twice since taking her yesterday. He's perpetually twitchy.

"Now what?" She wonders what's with her chatty Cathy routine, but knows it's just a reaction. She always tends to babble when she's nervous and this is definitely one of those times.

He's focused on her now, stalks across the distance between them and reaches into his back pocket. She gets the immediate flash of a gun, backs up quickly, but then chides herself when she sees the cell phone he flips open. Too much television? Too much fear induced hysteria? Yes, and yes.

The phone bleeps as he turns it on. "I'm going to trade you for the ring."

"Huh?"

"The ring. The bloody gem of Amara you stupid bint"

"Ha ha ha ha ha." She can't seem to stop the laughter bubbling out even though she strongly suspects he'll just kill her now that there's nothing to barter her life for. Maybe she's snapped? This might not be so bad if she's totally insane? He can just prop her in a corner to drool and rock in a catatonic wonderland. Then when he kills her...she won't even know it's happening.

"What the fuck are you laughing at? Have you gone off then?"

It must be true if he recognizes it too. "Angel destroyed the ring."

She can see the disbelief playing over his features. He couldn't possibly understand why someone would disregard such a powerful object. Can't see how anyone wouldn't use it to their advantage , let alone destroy it.

"He what!"

"He smashed it with a brick. It's dust."

The vampire lets out a bellow of rage and kicks a chair so hard it smashes against the brick wall. The metal frame mangles against the force, twisting into a warped version of what it was. He moves his arm to throw the phone after the chair, but catches himself. When he turns back to her a terrible coldness drags his features into harsh lines. He takes a deep breath before speaking. "You saw him?"

"He told me." It's hard to get the squeak her voice has become past the lump of fear in her throat. Now he's going to kill her for sure. She can see the tic in his cheek as he holds the phone in his right hand, punching numbers with his thumb. Hears the faint ring on the other end and someone picks up.

"Hello peaches. Missing something?"

He holds the phone away from his ear with an amused grimace. And she can hear Angel's angry voice for at least forty five seconds before there's any break in his tirade. Spike puts the receiver back to his ear. "Now ya see, that wounds me deeply. Cordelia and I are having a lovely time, just lovely. But that could all change if you don't tell me what I want to hear. She's been going on about some nonsense of you destroying the Gem of Amara." The vampire turns to look directly at her. "I told her you couldn't want her dead that much."

More of Angel's muffled voice, and Spike answers, "Now you wouldn't be lying to me just to keep her alive for some half assed rescue attempt on your part would you?"

Oh yes, rescue attempt? Half or full asses, that sounds good. She'd prefer that right about now.

"Why would she think you did? Or are you completely lying out of your ass?" He smiles in response to something Angel demands. "Well, she's terribly busy right now, but I suppose she cold spare a word or two." Hand to her ear and the receiver's right there. "Talk nice or you'll make Spike very angry."

"Cordelia, are you all right?"

Angel's voice envelopes her and for the first time she feels a sense of calm. He'll fix this; he won't let anything happen to her. "I'm okay, but get here soon..."

"Enough talking." Spike snatches the phone away and she barely stifles her protest as he starts speaking to Angel again. "No, not today. I'm thinking tomorrow. We're going to have a nice slumber party tonight, and you can think about how wrong it is to piss me off. That way, in the future, we can cut out all the bullshit." He listens for a moment, and then taps his front tooth with his tongue. "Keep yer pecker up mate, she's still alive- for now."

He gleefully disconnects, mid Angel sentence and she can see how pleased he is with the way things are going. He's much too cocky and she's going to laugh her ass off when Angel gets here and beats the shit out of him. Maybe he'll dust Spike, and they can keep his ashes in a cookie jar on her desk. Now that's something to look forward to.

"I've been far too sympathetic lately. I should have nicked you in the first place, he's usually not this cooperative." He walks over and thunks the phone down on top of the locker, picks up the pack of cigarettes and taps one out.

Click. The lighter flares and turns the tip of the rolled tobacco bright red just before he pockets the lighter. He inhales. Holds the filter in the corner of his lips, talks around it, "Go on. Say it. You know you want to."

Would it be possible to ignore him for the next twelve hours or so? And let him have the last word...*so* not happening. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He blinks slowly and nods his head with that smart ass, know it all sneer that if she didn't have the benefits of a Sunnydale education, would swear he practices for hours in front of a mirror. If anyone was in love with himself, it was him.

"You want to tell me how despicable I am for killing those people and starting that fire. And how Angel's so much better than I am. How he's going to bust in here with guns blazing like some proper super hero. Admit it."

"Well, he is going to kick your ass and you *are* kind of a scumbag murderer."

He studies her for a second, and she's afraid of what bizarro wheels are turning in that vampire head. "You like helping Angel don't you? Do you guys help everyone who walks in your door?"

"Uh, no. We don't help evil wastoids." Example: his name would not be on the client list.

Widely innocent eyes stare back at her, and she can't help but get the feeling she's being set up for something. "Ah, so only those who *deserve* your help?"

"Well, yeah."

He's getting too close now, and the hair on the back of her neck starts to stand up. What are you supposed to do in a mad dog attack...not look 'em in the eye? It's supposed to make them madder, or something? She tries to look at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere else. Does try to catch him out of the corner of her eye without him noticing, because for some perverse reason, now she wants to see her deathblow coming.

"Do you get off on that as much as Angel?"

"I feel good helping people?" She answers uncertainly. It's better to humor insane people, she knows she's read that somewhere.

"No. I mean do you love that power, that God like responsibility of deciding who is saved and who isn't. You like decisions like that?

She's not quite sure how he wants her to answer that question. And then...lets out a yelp as he springs forward, taking her to the floor. Her back is to the wall, and she draws her knees up protectively in front of her. "Hey, they come to us," she huffs defensively, trying to back farther into the wall behind her.

He's leaning forward, too close, right in her face, and it's hard to breathe when there's no space between them. "Don't you find it interesting that one decision they've made in their past set them on a path, on a path that led them to you?"

She's not sure where he's going with this, but she's getting scary vibes, like he's going to sew her skin into a lampshade or something.

"Maybe *another* decision they've made will clinch yours and Angel's acceptance or refusal of their need? Maybe they're not bad, maybe they've just made bad choices?"

"That's a cop out. Everybody has to make choices. Most people make the right ones." Some of her fear dissipates when faced with a good argument; nothing ever lifts her spirits as much telling other people why she's right.

"So choices are always clear...right or wrong...black or white?"

Now he's twisting everything. "No, but you consider all factors, weigh the choices. Hopefully you'll make the right one for you."

"Here's a decision Cordelia." Before she knows it, he has both of her wrists trapped in one of his hands, holds the red tip of the cigarette right in front of her face. "Choose. I know your face is important to you since you fancy yourself an actress. You won't get much work if you're scarred will you?"

"What in the hell?"

He circles the glowing end of the cigarette lower, down to her neckline and over her breast. She can feel the heat as he moves it closer, holding it in the circle of his thumb and index finger. "Will men find you less attractive with an ugly scab here, like some drunken biker pass around. What's that going to do to the classy, Cordelia chase image?"

He moves further along to her leg, right below the junction of thigh and pubic bone. "How about here? It could be hidden here. Only someone who knows you intimately will ever see it. They'd be more accepting of a physical imperfection wouldn't they? Unless you open your legs for anyone. I've heard it's hard to get work in LA?"

"Fuc..."

"You pick."

"You want me to pick where you'll burn me? What kind of a sick ass idea is that?"

"Because I like you so much Cordelia, I'm going to let you chose where. I thought you liked making decisions. Just think, the next few seconds could change your life forever."

Cordelia pushes against him, shoving her arms outward. "I'm not going to choose any, this is fucking crazy. Why in the hell are you doing this?"

Her efforts don't even faze him. "Because I'm not a tame vampire like Angel. Do you want to know what it is he's fighting...what you're fighting? If you're taking on his mission, you should know what it is you hate. It's simple, pure. That's what will keep you on your path, if you've got something tangible to picture when you conjure up that self righteousness."

"Oh, don't worry. Whenever I want to connect with a psychotic loser, your face will be right there."

"Aww, sweet Cordelia. My face will fade...with time. When you're old and you can't remember how words are formed anymore. I want to give you something that you'll carry with you. Something that you can see everyday, touch it, and *know* why this stupid war was worth it. You'll have your badge of courage right there to give you strength against the nasties."

A squeeze of his hand grinds the bones of her wrists together. "Choose."

How can she make a choice like that? Which will hurt the least, which is* less* disfiguring? How about if he just cuts one of her hands off-'which do you use more, left or right? It's impossible for her to invite pain to herself, who can do that?

He pokes the cigarette near her eye, his voice gritty and harsh. "I'll pick for you."

"I can't," she wails.

"Pick."

"Leave me alone, Angel's going to kill you," she can hear the panic rising in her own voice.

"Pick." Another sharp jab and he's *this* close to blinding her forever.

"Leg, leg, leg," she screams with the vision of her empty socket filling her head, making her so scared she swears she just peed her pants.

She hears an evil little chuckle and feels the searing pain right in the tender flesh of her thigh, in early the same exact spot he pointed to earlier. It's not so bad, a quick, intense sensation, and then it's over. She stops herself from screaming by imagining the new skirt she bought, the one that will just cover...

"See Cordelia, we all make decisions. And we learn to live with the consequences that come. We always carry the scars of our past, no matter how hard we try to run."

Time Bomb pt 2
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The cement under her is cold and hard, her ass already starting to tingle with that half dead feeling that means it's nearly asleep. She would try to get up and move around, but her hands are tied in front of her, and the only way she can get to her feet is to roll over onto her hands and knees, use the wall to help her.

And it's not like she hasn't already tried. Cordelia's spent what seems like hours going over every inch of this room, in Braille. Because he's taken the only light bulb with him, and that has seriously fucked over any escape plans she might have. She knows where the door is, but the only thing she can find to pry it open is her own fingernails. Ineffectual? Highly.

And now she's sitting here hopelessly for what, half an hour. Racking her brain, trying to remember everything that was in the room. Excuse her if she had been a little preoccupied at the time.

A tickle of sensation flutters across the knuckle of her left hand, she flicks her wrist, but still there is that scratchy little prick. Sharp, but so delicate. There. Now on her right ankle, there seem to be a couple. Like...like...

"Oh my God!" she screams as the image of Doyle's ambassador cockroaches scurry through her active imagination. She rolls over and shoots to her feet, violently stamping her heels on the ground. She hates bugs, that's why she sleeps with a can of Raid by her bed.

Oh my God, this is just too much. That light bulb had been the only thing keeping those little peckers out of sight, and now they were probably coming out in droves. There had to be a chair or something in here, because she could feel the girly shriek building now, and it's not going to stop until she's at home, in her own bed with a large fly swatter and a paperweight made from Spike's remains.

The door creaks as it opens and she doesn't know whether to hide or jump into their arms. When she hears a voice softly calling her name, there's no more debating as she recognizes Angel.

"Cordelia, are you in here?"

"Yes, yes," she screeches, bolts for the door and falls out into the hallway. A glance down, confirms that yes indeed, her bound wrists are resting against that broad hunk of chest, and she doesn't care how many times she's complained about being subjected to it while bandaging it up. Has she ever mentioned how much she loves this man? What word would best describe him? Uh, timely? God bless an anal, compulsive control freak.

"He burned down Doyle's building and he burned me with his cigarette and he wants the ring, but he doesn't know you destroyed it and..." she opens her mouth and lets it all pour out, afraid that is she leaves any of it inside of her, it'll lie in her and grow like a cancer. Better to purge it like the last big Mac before a contract weigh in.

The bulbs are on out here, and she's contemplating life with a nightlight from this day on.

"Settle down Cordelia." Angel reaches up and tucks the hair that's fallen over her face behind her ear. "We're here now, everything is okay."

How does he do that? How can he always make her feel so safe with the smallest gesture? There's that little catch in her throat, and everything starts to distort as she feels tears coming. She is so not going to cry. Maybe a hot bath and a stiff shot of tequila, but she won't succumb to girlie tears. Because it's over now and it's better just to put it behind her, get over it.

"I'm going to kill that bastard Spike." She can hear Doyle over her left shoulder, but she can't bear to take her face off of Angel. She knew he'd come for her, she just knew he would...

"Don't move, my eyesight is a spot better than yours. I don't need this light to know every move you make."

She shakes her head as Angel's image dissipates from her mind. The sound of boot heels thunk on a chair seat, followed by the squeak of him screwing the light bulb into the ceiling. Spike's back.

There is no Angel, no rescue, just this depressing little hole with a deranged maniac. Her hands drop in depression, and she realizes she's touching the burn scar on her thigh, rubbing it with the callused side of a thumb, unconsciously. Is this the first time she's done that?

The light blinks on, and she can see the movement of roaches scuttling for the darkened corners of the room. There's no Angel this time, just Spike, but at least he's brought the light, and she can pretend that there aren't hundreds of little hard shelled bodies lying in wait for him to leave again.

Try to breathe.

He hangs his coat up and tosses the pack of cigarettes on the locker. The strange dj vu is broken when he takes a candy bar out of the coat pocket, rips the paper off one end with his teeth and takes a bite.

Cordelia realizes she hasn't eaten in about twenty-four hours. Think of it as a fast, a cleansing of the body, a quick drop of five pounds without even trying. Tries not to think of six people on an island eating tree bark while their ribs stick out farther everyday. There's a line even she doesn't want to cross.

He stops chewing for a minute, squints his eyes at her, and then goes back over to the door. When he turns back around, he tosses something in her direction. Quick reflexes. She can catch it with one hand tied behind her back. Well, two, and technically, they're tied in front of her.

It's another candy bar. She gratefully tears the wrapper and sinks her teeth into chocolate. And no, chocolate can't cure everything, but it can lift some of the gloom even from this shit her life has become. Cordelia looks over at him in confusion and says around a mouthful of nougety goodness, "What gives, the Grinch's heart grew three sizes today?"

"I was bored, lifted them from a store. Just grabbed a handful didn't see what I was getting." He shrugs dismissively and takes another bite. " I've always hated that kind."

Ah, so not entirely altruistic. Why would she have thought anything else?

She's dying to ask him if he saw Angel, but she's afraid of pissing him off. Can she quietly wait for him to bring up the subject without grabbing him by the shirt and shaking him until he tells her what the hell happened. Takes another bite, fills her mouth with chocolate and buys another ten seconds of silence before she goes crazy.

"Aren't you curious?" He wads the paper and tosses it sideways; it bounces off the wall and rolls into a corner of the room.

Don't appear to eager. He probably wants to get her hopes up and then refuse to tell her. He's perverted like that. Be casual, voice low and even. "You saw Angel?"

"Yeah, I saw bloody Angel, and that stupid, boy wonder, Mick tried to kill me."

God damn it Doyle. He probably rushed in there with cross bows flying, trying to play the big hero, instead of letting Angel handle it. Hopefully he didn't screw everything up.

"But he didn't." Obviously.

"Nope, he got a broken hand out of it though."

Stifle the sympathy for poor, sweet Doyle. He's still alive and at least he's walking around under the sun and sky. No fear of sudden, massive blood loss in his near future. But why can't he learn to settle for being back up man instead of immediately jumping into testosterone mode, why can't he leave that for those who perpetually embrace the brood and lack a heartbeat.

"Did you and Angel...talk?" That sounds so junior high; she'd laugh if she thought she could stop.

"There was a lot of posturing-on his part, but no ring so far. He got a little jumpy with all of the bone breakage and we had to head out, caused a little too much attention."

"Since when are you patience man? You're awfully unconcerned about getting the ring back. I would've thought you'd be out of town and half way across the country by now?"

"Well actually, I like seeing him twist by the danglies. It's a nice change of pace. I put up with a good thirty years of his shit, and now it's my turn."

Ah, payback. Great. She gets to sit here and be tortured by a crazy man all for a contest of who's got the biggest balls. And now she has to pee. "I have to pee."

He looks around the room disinterestedly. "Yeah, and...?"

"Ewww, I'm not going to do it here, with you watching."

"Then yer going to be waiting for a hell of a long time."

"I could go right outside. You seriously don't want to have to sleep here if we're going to start using it for a toilet."

He glares at her in annoyance. "I could fix it so you never go again?"

He could, and she realizes suddenly that she's been forgetting that. She has the fresh wound on her leg as a memento of just how ruthless he can be. And here she is baiting him, but she really doesn't want to be stuck in this room if it's going to start smelling like the bus depot.

So. Small. Grateful. Cooperative. She can hear that wheedling tone in her voice and that's okay, it's worked for her before. "No one will see me, and it's not like I could go anywhere. You'd be on me in a minute." Okay, *on* conjures a disturbing mental place that thankfully, she hasn't had to think about yet. Hopefully he hasn't either.

"Will you shut up if I do?"

Two fingers: middle and index side by side, raised in the air. "Scout's honor."

He sighs and rolls his eyes back into his head. "Oh wonderful."

He shoves open the door and grabs her elbow. "I warn you, we're not gonna go traipsing about this place looking for the lavie, you'll do it here in the hall. And don't make a fuss about getting away."

"Whatever, just turn around. It'll only take me a minute."

"No. I'm not taking my eyes off you for a second girlie."

Uh, perv. "I promise I won't try anything."

"And I would believe someone who would say just about anything to get away?"

His hand's still on her arm, and she looks down at it. "You going to squat right here with me?"

His hand is gone, and he steps back. "Clock's ticking."

She hasn't peed outside of a bathroom since that time Harmony and she went to kegger at the beach and got totally drunk. Even then, they'd made it behind some bushes. She'd had a hard time doing it in front of Harm, how the hell could she do it with him standing over her like this? "Can't you just close your eyes or something?"

"We can go right back inside."

"Okay, okay." Bites her lip and says to herself-what the fuck. The fabric of her skirt is quickly scrunched around her waist and she holds it in a roll against her, hoping to God she doesn't miscalculate and end up with urine all over her. Panties down and stretched as far down over her knees as she can get them, which isn't far since she wants to keep her balance squatting here. Reaching down between her legs, she pulls the material out further while trying to hold the skirt with her elbows. Awkward at best.

This is really hard with him staring at her. Closes her eyes and pretends he's *not* standing right there. Strains for a minute and feels the stream trickle over her and fall ringing to the cement. And isn't it embarrassing how much there is. Gives new meaning to the term "like a race horse'.

She braves a peek, and he's watching her, the first hints of a lewd smirk starting to turn up his lip. For some reason there's a little tingle in the nerves of her clit and she's reminded of the time her cousin Annie and she discovered that if they opened their legs in the bathtub and let the faucet pour water right over them, right *there* it felt so good. Warm water splashing over their thighs, not too much, just a trickle and that hard little knot would open. They'd spent so much time in the bathroom that summer; her mom had forbid them to take any more baths. Little did she know it wasn't the MR. Bubble they were craving.

And how sick is it that *he* should be associated with that memory now. "I hope you're getting a good look?" He really is a pig.

"I am. You know, a lot of blokes get off on this sort of thing."

"I'm sure you're one of them." Finally, stands up. She struggles to get everything in its rightful place, tugging at the seams to get it all lined up.

A lot of good it does. She hears a growl behind her and has time for a startled yip before she's grabbed, looks into a face with a misshapen slit for a mouth, stringy long hair and eyes that are black, no whites...all pupil. Long claws are grasping at her and the stench nearly makes her pass out.

"Hey, that's mine," she hears an outraged British accent behind her and whatever demon has grabbed her, it flies back against the wall with an enraged vampire laying into it.

After a two-step stumble, she manages to catch herself and not go down. Stares in fascination at the two grappling, then realizes she's an idiot and takes off running in the opposite direction.

She thinks she knows where she's going, makes a quick decision to go left when the path divides. And she's lucky when she runs into an outlet with a broken grate and a moonlit stretch of grass just beyond. Takes a moment to verify that she does indeed rock, and slips through.

Who cares if her hands are tied, she stops, looks around and recognizes the park that's about five blocks from Doyle's apartment, well, his old apartment. She'll have to get out of here and find a phone...and a quarter. Hell, she'll run all the way to Angel Investigations if she has to. Hitches up her skirt and takes off.

She hears the growl behind her just as she's knocked to the ground, and she just barely manages to get her hands up in time to block her and prevent at least a face full of manicured turf, or, worst case scenario, a broken jaw. Because when she hits, it's hard, and she feels her lungs squeezed of air as her attacker lands on top of her.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going Cordelia?" A hand in her hair pulls her head back and gives a shake. "Of all the ungrateful... now you've really hacked me off. You shouldn't have tried it bitch."

It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now she can't help but think he'll decide just to trade Angel her body. What is she thinking, when he finds out that the Gem of Amara is gone, she'll be lucky if she has a body left.

Damn that was stupid, she must have Manly Doyle syndrome. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I just panicked."

He bends his neck round and snuffles from just underneath her chin, down to her collarbone just avoiding the small cross she wears on a chain around her neck.

Her cousin Annie used to have a collie too, they'd coax it up to her room, and...never mind. She pushes that memory back down and tries to ignore the feeling of the bulge of his cock resting in the crack of her ass. An attempt to throw him off of her just settles him in deeper, and she closes her eyes as she feels embarrassment flood her cheeks.

"Or maybe you should try this more often." He shifts and thrusts into her several times rapidly and she can feel the denim of his jeans, the seam over his balls digging through the thin fabric of her skirt. He starts bucking against her furiously and groaning out loudly, "Oh Cordy, yes."

She can see some people on the other side of the park turn and walk in the opposite direction. Of course they think that she and he are..."Get the hell off me!"

"Ah, look. They must be offended by young love," he whispers in the nape of her neck, then raises up a little, starts pounding into her again and shouts loudly enough so that they can surely hear, "Oh fuck, yes Cordy. Oh God, yes!"

"Knock it off you freak." The couple is gone by now, but the humiliation just lingers. She bites her lip because she is *not* starting to feel a throbbing need to rub against the grassy ground underneath her.

She hears him growl softly behind her. "It's been a long time since I've had a chase and fuck, girl. Thanks for making me all nostalgic."

"You are *so* not going to..."

His palm slides around to her throat and fingers dig into her windpipe, just enough. "I do whatever the fuck I want to do Cordelia, you'd do best to remember that. Maybe you're used to Angel fluffing about, but I'm not a eunuch and no one tells me what the hell to do."

She couldn't argue that one right now even if she wanted to.

"Angel's never bitten you?" He muses against the column of her throat, speaks the words directly into the blue thread of her jugular. His lips part over her skin, and she can feel teeth scraping as he opens wider, his tongue coming out to flick the vein until it's standing out in bold relief. "I bet he wanted to."

"He didn't mention it." Digs nails into the palm of her hand, because damn, she's always been sensitive at that spot in her neck.

"Well he wouldn't, but I'll tell you. I've always wondered what you'd taste like."

Oh please, no sharing. Because the squick factor is rising.

The sound of voices drifts over them, and she hears him curse. He lifts himself off of her and clamps a hand over her mouth, and warns softly, "Don't even think about trying anything, because I'll kill whoever comes to your rescue and you'll watch. If I'm feeling especially nice, you won't join them."

Obediently, she doesn't make a sound as he drags her back into the cover of the tunnel.

Part Three

Why is she still here? Where in the hell is Angel? Isn't he supposed to be some kind of detective or something?

Well here she is...can't he just sniff her out , or Spike?

Jesus, he probably made Spike, isn't there supposed to be some kind of connection there? At least with all the time they spent together, you'd think he'd be able to at least *think* like Spike and make a wild guess about where he'd be hiding.

Crap. How long has she been here...three days? Oh depressing, she thinks she's starting to lose her mind. She looks over to where Spike's sitting, holding a pack of cards. He separates, taps them into alignment then fans them together with a rapid whoosh of motion.

What happens if Angel does come? Spike knows every inch of these tunnels; he probably has booby traps set up at strategic points. He himself said he loved making Angel sweat. It wouldn't surprise her if Spike lured him down here in order to get the ultimate payback.

But physically, Angel is a lot bigger than Spike. So, the good guys would win. Right?

"Come here,, Cordelia."

The sound of his voice makes her jump, and she's immediately guilty for even thinking that Angel would lose...that he wouldn't even come for her. Some loyalty there, huh? She turns slowly, with the first gnawing hint of dread circulating slowly, lazily through her, but she doesn't move from her spot.

"I said come here." There's no mistaking that this time it's said as an order.

She could resist, but she's afraid not to follow his command. He's been restless lately, and she doesn't know why.

"Coming," she promises as she reluctantly steps forward.

"Sit down," he nods to a chair opposite, while he continues to shuffle the cards on the small table in front of him. When he notices that she's still standing there, he pauses for three seconds then looks up at her, hands frozen in the air in mid shuffle. But he doesn't say anything else.

She hurriedly sinks into the chair. Somewhere along the way, Cordelia Chase has become someone who obeys irrational requests without question; she can't quite pinpoint the exact moment when something clicked, and she became spineless.

Could be her screwed attempt to escape, maybe it's the fact that she has to beg just to go to the bathroom, or that she doesn't eat anything unless it comes from him, or that she's started to pray he doesn't leave because she can't stand obsessing about what's there that she can't see in the dark.

"Want to play cards?"

It's an innocent sentence. Is he asking or ordering? His face is casual and she can't get any reading of his motivation. She takes a stab, "Okay?"

The cards are separated into two piles. Each square of cardboard flies quickly and she almost loses track of which heap got the last one, their glossy surfaces slide against each other, and her pile starts migrating closer to her as each new card is tossed at her.

He's done, and she reaches for her cards, but hesitates, realizes she's waiting for him to go first and that makes her mad. What the fuck, she can't even pick up her cards without his approval? Roughly, she starts thrusting her cards into a more manageable stack and grunts softly to herself in anger.

Trying to placate your captor, to stay alive and becoming a total, mindless jellyfish are two separate things.

"We should wager something." He says over the top of his cards.

"Sorry, left my wallet at home," she says tightly, just short of bitter.

"Bet me your necklace," he nods to the small silver cross.

Oh yeah, bet the one thing that might keep all of her blood in her own body where it belongs. One short, simple word, "No."

"Oh come on, you have to make it interesting," he teases, leaning forward beguilingly and his voice lowers with a touch of promise, "You can put it up against anything you want."

"You'll let me go?" Sarcasm is a wonderful tool, and one of the only weapons she has right now.

"You're very funny," he laughs and leans back, rearranging his cards. "No, seriously, pick something."

Cordelia, placing her cards face down on the table one at a time in order, looks down at her bound wrists and says quietly, "Lose the rope?" Just that small thing would make this so much easier to bear.

"It's done then." He places a few of his cards on the table, "I'll take two" and replaces them.

She swallows and tries to stop from jumping up and down in her chair, "One." Tries to refrain from lifting her cards to peek. She knows what they'll show and she can't believe it. Oh yeah, it'll be much better with this rope off of her hands.

When she does eventually show her hand, he raises an eyebrow in disbelief. What? He doesn't think chicks can play poker? When he lays his cards down and she can see for sure that she's beaten him, she can't stop the small crow of satisfaction that erupts.

"Yeah baby, read `em and weep." Lifts her wrists and thrusts her arms out, waiting for him to pay up. He doesn't move immediately, and she starts to worry that he's not going to, but he reaches into a pocket and brings out a knife, clicks the blade open and severs her bonds.

She massages the bones of her hands and wrists, then gathers up her cards and shoves them across the table towards him. "Let's play again."

A chuckle. "You're getting cocky girl. One hand does not a shark make."

"You afraid?"

"Of you? Yes." He shuffles. " So, it's another hand is it? What are you after this time?"

"The light bulb. ..it stays." ~~~~

She's secured the free movement of her hands and protection from the creepy crawlies that lurk in the dark, but by the third hand, her luck takes a small vacation, and she loses the necklace.

Tries not to panic as she unhooks it and places it on the table.

He lifts it gingerly by the chain and holds it up in front of him. It swings crazily back and forth in his fingers. "Ready for another go," he taunts.

That was her grandmother's, hell if she's not going to try and get it back. "Deal the cards."

"If you win, you get it back. If *I* win..." the pause is deliberate "... you let me bite you."

Because she has a death wish? " Delusional much?"

"I don't want to kill you, you stupid girl. Just a small taste." When he sees her stubborn look, he sweetens the proposition, "I'll call Angel, make the trade for the ring. You can even talk to him."

To finally get out of here, anything's worth it. "All right."

~`~`~

Cordelia stares in disbelief at the cards on the table, but no matter how long she looks, they won't change. Her loss is spelled out vividly in a spray of tiny hearts and diamonds, spades and clubs.

Spike pushes up from the table and comes around slowly as if he's trying not to spook her, (How considerate.) steps lightly and is in front of her in less than three strides. She tries to *not* obviously squirm in her chair.

Is it too late to change her mind? "Um. We could call first?"

"No," he's already knelt down in front of her. "We'll do this first." Eyes half closed and his nostrils twitch as he sways, mouth slack.

Is he smelling her...oh God, that's a little too much right now.

Hips nudge her knees apart and before she knows it, he slides right up against her, dragging her skirt up with a hand on each side of her thigh so there's nothing hampering their touching. And apparently, feeding makes him a very *happy* boy, because she can feel the hard bulge of his cock. Right where his seam digs through her panties, separating her cleft.

And yes, that *is* definitely way too much right now.

"How's this going to work?" She knows she may not want the answer to that question, but at least when she hears herself ask it, she knows she hasn't died of embarrassment or anything else yet.

He's already slipped the strap of her top over her shoulder and his hair is tickling her jaw line as he bends forward. "Don't worry, I've got a system." Left hand comes up to cup the back of her skull and guide her head to a greater angle, while the right palm rests just above her left breast, fingers curling around the curve of her shoulder, holding her still.

"I never thought I'd see it."

"See what?" Cancerous mole? Freak show head growing out of the side of her neck? The image of a wizened little Chuckie -doll face smoking a cigar while he bulges out of her gives her such a case of the heebie jeebies that she can almost forget what's going to happen.

"That I could have something that belongs to Angel, before he does."

"Whoa, we're just good friends, there's no having of anyone."

"Hmn, friends compatriots, buds...whatever. You belong to the world he's made for himself. If I leave my mark on you, it'll be a reminder of his past that he can never forget, that he can never turn his back on. And if I know him, that'll just eat him up."

"You might want to get over this fixation, after a century or so...it goes a little beyond obsession."

Stops, ignores her pulse for a minute and looks unflinchingly into her eyes. "Have you ever felt a connection to God?"

"You mean in Sunday school?" She hadn't gone since she was a child and appearances had seemed so important to her parents. They'd eventually gained enough financial importance that they no longer sought approval...they gave it to others. They'd stopped going soon after.

"I mean...have you ever felt the essence of divinity inside of you. Have you ever *known* that the blood of your creator flows through you and binds you to him, that you are a part of him and always will be?"

Had she ever sat through the Sunday lesson, bored, and then got in trouble when she asked if dogs went to heaven too, if Jesus liked pizza? No, she hadn't felt any mystical connection. "You're not going to start wearing a white shirt and tie and biking through the neighborhood with a bible under your arm are you?"

He ignored her flippancy. "Have you ever been God's favorite son, tried to imitate him in everyway...and then been abandoned by him without warning?"

"Angel? He was cursed, it's not like he did it on purpose."

"It's not like that makes me feel any better."

"No, I guess not." Something inside flickers, remembering betrayal, and the one person she thought would never hurt her. And when exactly did she start feeling sorry for Spike. "I'm sorry."

Strange look that says he wasn't fishing for sympathy, and then a half smile and he shakes his head before leaning close again. "It hurts a bit in the beginning, but if you relax, it's actually quite... pleasant."

There's a sharp jab and the feel of something sliding into her skin- kind of a sting that soon fades and then...a weird pull that begins with a fluttering in her belly. The sounds of his lips pulling the blood from her, sucking, and low growls that vibrate in his throat increase and she feels the fluttering drift lower, between her legs. And she's open, like a knot unfurling. Wet and open and it sounds weird, but -vibrating. Maybe more of a pulsating throb?

She remembers researching something called Kundalini in the library once. There is supposedly this energy that circulates along a person's spine, with certain power centers that you have to open for some reason. There was a `root' center located in the pelvis and if you were all repressed or toilet trained too early, it was like blocked or something.

If this is what the book meant by opening it-damn.

Every time Spike's suction increases in her neck, she can feel her clit tighten and then relax as his pressure subsides...only to repeat again. And the intensity builds, stronger each time; so much so, that her breath catches in her throat and is released in a shuddering exhale when she can't hold it any longer.

She feels like she needs more, but she can't pin down what that might be until she accidentally rolls forward and mashes her vulva against the hard surface of the chair and her already sensitive pelvic nerves nearly scream with the sensation. Her nipples accidentally brush against Spike and the friction tightens them with a sweetly painful ache.

He's pushing her back in the chair and his fingers brush lightly against the inside of her thigh, walking upwards until they reach her panties. He brushes his fingertips against her mound, stroking her cunt lips through the material, outlining them, then coming around and sneaking through the elastic hem of the leg hole. In creeping exploration, advances farther, circles her clitoris and flicks it with his middle finger. He sucks even *harder*, if that's possible. Slides that finger into her all the way to the knuckle.

"Uhhhahhh." She can't form words right now, but oh God, hopes he knows what that feels like, and that he'll keep doing it. She's vaguely aware that his fangs have left her. Hand pulling her shirt down and her breast literally pops out when the material scrapes over it and tongue and lips licking a trail downwards until she feels the dj vu of the bite, but magnified a hundred times as the pink skin of her areola is pierced and he starts suckling.

Something far in the back of her mind says -ah, this was what was up with the whole Angel/Buffy attraction. And when she looks down on his bent head, sees him bobbing up and down slightly as his lips move and the thinnest sliver of rosy areola peek out from the corner of his mouth she has an idea of how hard it must have been for Buffy and Angel to stick to their resolution to stay apart, having known this.

He looks up and blue eyes notice her attention, impish gleam from underneath lashes, and he lets her nipple slide out of his mouth, licks the oozing blood from around the nub, tongues it a few times as the puncture marks fill with blood. Recognizes the appalled, but aroused twinge of voyeurism and never takes his eyes off of her face, like he's daring her to...

Beep...beep...beep the cell phone comes to life and Cordelia feels very exposed suddenly, pulls the shirt up to cover herself, doesn't feel bad about the momentary flash of hurt(?) in his eyes, appreciates the coldness that replaces it because then it's easier to remember that she's the victim here. Raises a hand to her face and feels the heat in her cheeks as he stands up and walks slowly over to the phone.

Clicks it on. "Yeah?" Glance over to her. "Let's do this then." He disconnects.

"I'm meeting Angel now."

Cordelia stands up. "Okay, I'm ready. Let's go."

"No, Legs." How does he achieve that monotone, he *must* have studied Angel, because it's really quite scary. "I wanna see the ring before I parade the goods."

Oh yes. *So* flattering.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She paces up and down the length of the room one more time, bringing the total count to what, four hundred and seventy five times? Looks up with wild eyes." One more time, you fucker! Once more and I'll...do you hear me? D'ya think I don't mean it?"She screams at the ceiling.

With a sudden, muffled roar, somewhere nearby, a machine comes to life. The walls vibrate with a slight movement. She kicks them viciously, manages to hurt her toe and hops in place for five seconds biting her lip and choking on the urge to attack the wall with her teeth since she doesn't have any other weapon available.

Well, except a half full can of gas that she tripped over fifteen minutes ago. No lid on it, she knocked it over and voila, nice puddle of highly flammable liquid. Look Spike, I redid the floors, I like to call it my Rustic Arsonist phase.

She recovers, continues her pacing. " What did I tell you? I told you! Didn't I tell you?? How many times have I told you? What was the last one?" she counts silently on the fingers of her left hand, one...two...three.

"Whururgh. So the next one will be grunhungk, and then thrunghtht." She counts off on her fingers again, four seconds; three seconds; two seconds-

The machine changes pitch with a shuddering rumble. Cordelia points threateningly at the ceiling above her. "And now thrunghtht..."

A third immense pitch of sound, like the death throe of some alien creature reverberates through the small space.

"No, that's wrong," she yells in panic, "You've messed it all up. It's whururgh, grunhgunghk, and then thrunghtht! Don't you know anything? You're the one that started this, the least you can do is get it right!"

The generator seems to answer her with a high pitched, grinding squeal.

"Sqweloookle'?? Where the hell does 'sqweloookle' come from?? What are you trying to do to me?"

The sound of the doorknob rattling has her spinning instantly, and Spike comes steaming through. There's blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth, and it looks like his lip is starting to swell. He passes the hook by the door with leather duster swirling as he tosses it across the room. The departure from his usual routine seems jarring, and *wrong*, and she notices almost immediately how jittery he is.

He must have found out about the ring. "What happened, was Angel there, what's going on?" Since there's no vampire employer here, she's beginning to suspect the worst. When Spike turns, she can see the anger glittering in his eyes, and she takes a wary step back. Her movement seems to spur him to action, and he leaps forward, shoving her hard. She lands on her tailbone on the floor. A shocked gasp of pain escapes her.

Which really seems to make him mad. He stands over her and glares until she swears he's envisioning her with all of her skin peeled off, all stringy tendons and squishy meat. "What. Happened?"

Jaw clenched, and there's that tic, the one that if he were human, would signal impending aneurysm. "He destroyed the ring."

"Well I told you that!" As his eyes narrow threateningly, she repeats softly, "I told you that..."

"And he told me he lied to you, to protect you. Well a fucking lot of good it's going to do him, isn't it?" He kicks out at her and gets her once before she rolls away and comes out in a crouch. Working with Angel really did give her some transferable skills, but she has a feeling that in a room this size, her chances of running away are near to nonexistent.

She makes a break for the door anyway, and his fist shoots out, catching her in the jaw. She has a feeling that wasn't even as hard as he could have hit, but it still feels like her jaw is broken. "And if there's nothing to trade you for, what really is the point anyway?"

He's pacing rhythmically in front of her, almost as if he's forgotten her presence, but Cordelia's pretty sure she'd bet everything that he hadn't. She's probably so *not* a threat in his eyes.

"I wonder what he'd do if I delivered your body to his doorstep."

He's talking to himself, and scary insane demon vampire becomes scary crazy street guy. He might start wearing a tinfoil hat like Crazy Fred in Sunnydale, and talking about how monkeys control the space-time continuum in order to bring the dead back to life. Of course, crazy Fred in Sunnydale never tortured anyone with a railroad spike.

"Or maybe if I turned you, that might be better?" The idea must appeal to him, because his face brightens as the revenge wheels change gears in his brain. When he comes for her, she greets his with flailing arms, because there's no way in hell she's just going to stand passively for this. It doesn't do her much good, because she's no match for vampire strength. He easily pushes her to the ground near the pile of his duster, straddles her hips, puts his hand around her neck, and squeezes-just a little.

"Vamped and full of my seed, now *that's* a greeting that says you care enough to send the very best." His hand tightening around her throat cuts off her air supply, and she feels the room spinning, only vaguely aware that he's ripped her panties, tugged his own jeans open. The room is darker as she feels him inside of her, alien and cold, burning as he pushes deeper into her.

"Don't worry about any physical damage," he grunts as he thrusts into her. "That will repair itself during the change. In fact, all your injuries will heal very rapidly once you cross over. Dru used to get the lash, and be ready for another ride by morning, and don't you know, that only made Angelus try harder the next time."

He tightens his grip on her windpipe just a bit each time he pumps into her, and she feels a spastic jerk of her arm, twitching out to her side. "Angel's some hero, isn't he Cordy? Where's he now, when is he going to save you? Looks like you've thrown your lot in with the losing team, doesn't it?" Leans back, and pulls out of her. "Looks like it's nasties-one, team Angel- zero."

Her knuckles bounce against the concrete floor and make a hollow thunk as they connect with the metal of the gas can she tripped over earlier. Closes her eyes, grasps the handle, and with a weak swing, brings it round, spattering it over the both of them... but mostly right in Spike's face. He falls back screaming as the liquid burns his eyes and drips down the front of him.

She can finally breathe again as he writhes on the floor in agony. She rolls over, coughs as air enters her lungs. Hands hold her off the floor, and she hits the lighter that's fallen out of his pocket. No hesitation. Clicks it and lowers it to the floor, right into the trail of dribbled gas that leads to him, uses the leather to smothers the flames that burns the hair off her own arm.

It's a pretty fire, blue at the center, near the gasoline source. It travels in a nearly straight line until it finds his saturated t- shirt, lying in its path and bursts into an orange plume. She's ready to go up next when she sees the silver glint of the key lying on the floor, picks it up and stares at it for a full twenty seconds before she bursts into laughter...crawls to the doorway with the coat over her as protection.

Those goddamn monkeys better mind their own business this time.

[END]

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