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Chain
by Irfikos
Rating: R. Darkish with lots of blood and angst. Oh, and naughty language. Did I mention lots of blood?
Setting: Veers off from Dead Things. Runs parallel to the rest of S6.
Disclaimers: Alas, these characters actually belong to people and companies with way more money than I could ever hope to see and are played by actors far prettier than I could hope to be.
Pairing: Um... not right now, thanks.
Distribution: That would be neato, but ask first so I know where, 'kay?
Feedback: Oh, yes please! irika_m@yahoo.com
Author's notes: This is my first fanfic. Please be gentle. Most of it was written before S7. The story begins immediately after Dead Things and continues through the rest of S6 as an alternate but parallel universe. It is assumed that the other events of S6 do still occur... just... without Spike there. I took some liberties with minor stuff, like the gestation period of a Suvolte demon and such.
Warning: Bad things happen to Spike. And he's not all shirtless and pretty when they happen. Okay, he's shirtless once, later on, but not so much pretty. Also, if blood bothers you... you probably shouldn't be reading about vampires in the first place.
...well, I can do you blood and love without the rhetoric, and I can do blood and rhetoric without the love, and I can do you all three concurrent or consecutive, but I can't do you love and rhetoric without the blood. Blood is compulsory - they're all blood, you see.
- Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead
PART 1: BLOOD
Section 1.1: Falling
i gotta full moon
a smaller room than i need
a candy store a sexy whore
yes i bleed
a sifting sand and an electronic hand
yes i'm fine
i've got a pissed off god
a government shock
yes i'm blind
and i fall
well i fall
well i fall
yeah i fall
- I Fall
The Damned, 1977
He is plummeting to the ground. Roaring fills his ears and he isn't sure if it's the air whipping around him or his own frustration bursting from his throat as he falls. Leather flaps around him like useless, tattered wings. He flails wildly in the darkness, desperate to connect with something he can grasp onto; something to keep him from being swallowed up by the earth as it rushes to reclaim him. Knows its hopeless. His body convulses when it impacts.
Muscles coil painfully as awareness stirs. No. Not falling. Not fallen. Curled fetal on cold cement. The darkness persists. All he can smell is blood. Thick. Dried. Dead. Even so, it makes him hungry.
His blood?
No, not his -animal. Pig blood. Right. His then. His nose is clogged with it, blocking off all other scents. His stomach lurches.
A faint humming sound. All around. Machine. Electric currents. Not a threat. Behind him, a clock ticking. A bit further off - what's that? Breathing. Threat? Human. Slow... steady... ah, sleeping. Not a threat. Not yet.
Reminded, he parts his lips; takes a tentative breath.
Pain.
That's the ribs. One, two, maybe three. He exhales. Won't try that again for a bit.
Still dark. Eyes won't open. Wait. Left eyelid scrapes like sandpaper. There we are. Clears things up a bit. Now, where the hell-
Nope. Not an alley. Course he'd already figured that. Lights blinking -red, green, amber. Computers. Fluorescents. Stairs. Hard to make out with his face pressed against the floor like this. Tries raising his head -
Pain.
Not the chip, no. Not quite so sharp. More like a dull thrumming on the back of his skull. His brain knocking to be let out. Not so fast mate. Might need you. Heh.
Okay, moving-bad idea. Best to lie still. Looks like the room's spinning about enough anyway. Let it do the moving for now. Sandpaper scrape. Dark again. Good. Better.
He waits. Focuses on the ticking of the clock. One, two, three, four...
...Two hundred forty. Four minutes. The knocking subsides enough for a fresh go at it. Okay. Good. Eye open. Yeah. Familiar. Wait a minute...She's here. Buff- the Slayer. Standing off in the corner. Watching him. No... not her. Not even human. No heartbeat. He squints. It's... cardboard. A life-size cardboard cut-out of a woman. Bird from Star Trek, looks like. The blonde with the cat suit. Big tits. Fuck-all, which one was she? She's staring at him, lips curled in haughty cardboard seduction.
Oh. Yeah. Wonderful. He knows where he is. He lets his good eye go closed again. Despite the pain of his shifting ribs, he inhales enough to allow himself a beleaguered sigh.
"Do you think he's okay? I mean, he looks kinda... dead."
"Of course he looks dead, you idiot. He's a vampire. Vamps are dead. Well... mostly."
"I just meant, you know, he hasn't moved yet. Shouldn't he have moved by now?"
"Maybe we should... uh... poke him with a stick or something. Just to check..."
"Oh, good idea, Frodo. Go ahead. Go poke him with a stick."
"Well... I was just saying. I'm - I'm sure he's okay."
"Listen guys, it's fine. We hit him with enough tranq to knock out an entire House of Klingons. He could be out for days yet."
The voice came nearer. Just a few feet away now. Standing over him. Close enough he could leap up right now and rip out the throat it came from before the speaker had a chance to realize what'd happened. He could. If circumstances were a bit different.
"The longer the better. Hadn't planned on grabbing him so soon, but this is good. I can take my time now. Collect more data. Really tweak the program. Plus we need to plan out what we're gonna do once the program's ready. I've got a few ideas..." The voice moved away again. "Til then, just keep watch and let me know if he wakes up."
He's awake. Has been for hours; ever since the two nerds, Warren and the scrawny blond one, had clumped their way down to the basement, arguing loud enough to wake the dead, literally. Something about the actors in the Bond movies. He could have told them it didn't matter which was best, since James Bond was a fucking nance anyway. Fluttering about like a poof, drinking dainty little martinis as if it were something to brag about. Always saving the world from villains too stupid to just shut the hell up and kill the bastard already. Now, a real villain - someone such as himself, would know to just snap the hero's pompous little neck, take the girl for himself and go about his bloody day. Just common sense, really.
The little one, Jonathan, had stirred from his nap when they entered, pretending to have been awake himself. He didn't join the debate. Didn't say much of anything. Well, that's one at least.
Spike keeps his eyes closed, not moving, not breathing. Concentrates on wrapping his brain around what the hell is going on. He listens to the stupid gits - who seem to fancy that they're holding him prisoner - as they chatter and bicker about every kind of nonsense. Bloody idiots. He tunes them out after a bit, careful to perk his ears up whenever they make mention of him or what they might be planning. Not much luck there. Some mention of getting away with "it," whatever "it" is. Probably not important. Still a bit too woozy to focus much.
He spends a lot of time feeling. Starting with the tips of his toes and working his way up, he takes an account of his condition. Legs all right. Spine all right - good thing, that. He'd gotten to be a bit touchy about the spine these days. One broken rib. One mending. One apparently healed now. Concussion, back of the head - happens when your head's pushed hard enough into pavement by angry little fists. Cracked cheekbone. Split lip. Split twice apparently. Mended but swollen yet. Left eye, pretty much healed by now. Right eye, swollen. Swollen quite a bit still. Could probably open it some if he tried. Not just yet though. Nose broken. Ugh. Two places. He fucking hates when his nose gets broken. It's not the pain. Depending on who happens to be dishing it, pain can be quite invigorating. It's not the the loss of smell from all the blood backed up either. Though that does cause a bit of a panic in him, admitted. A vampire uses his nose more than his eyes, after all. A broken nose right now is a weakness. It's also just bloody annoying. Vampire healing ability is a wonderful thing, but noses are a bit dodgy. Get all crooked and such. Your average vampire - gets his nose broken, thinks nothing of it. He moves on - grr grr grr, bite bite bite - whatever. But when a bloke cares about appearances, keeps himself up, he's got to be careful how it comes back together. He already knows he'll have to break the thing again just to make it right. Already healed too much all crooked. He suspects the Slayer knows about his little pet peeve. That's why she seems to get the nose every bleeding time.
The Slayer. Stupid sodding self-righteous bitch! Surely she'd martyred herself on the pike of justice by now, it being the "right thing to do" and all. "Oh officer, I've done a terrible thing and I'm here to pay my debt to society." Bollocks. If you ask him (and nobody ever did) society should be paying her. He'd been dead long enough to know that one life really didn't matter all that much. Nor did a hundred. Nor a thousand. Had the world stopped spinning when William the Soon To Be Bloody had kicked off? Hell no. Didn't even pause to mark his passing. As well it shouldn't have.
`Course...that doesn't really explain why he'd spent every night of her absence sobbing into his mug of blood, knowing that it was supposed to have been him to die that night. They'd as much as discussed it, hadn't they? It didn't explain why he had stuck around so long, honoring a promise to a dead girl. Looking out for her little sis, who, aside for the green glowy thing, was just as insignificant as any other human really... when you think about it. Just two girls. An easily replaced Slayer. Her whiney kid sis. Humans. Food. Why should he care?
He's standing over the drained corpse of the late Miss Cecily Addams, blood dripping from his chin. Some of her hair had fallen over her throat when he tore at it and he pulls it now from his teeth. He is new to this and sloppy. Blood on his clothes. Too much wasted on the floor. For an instant, he looks into the dead eyes beneath him and he fancies that they are staring into him. Seeing something that he no longer can. A tremor passes through him and he takes a step away from the mess. This can't be right. He couldn't have done this. What beast has done this?
A hand on his shoulder, sliding up to his neck. Caressing, comforting. She presses her body against his back, reaching from behind him to wipe blood from his face and daintily lick it from her fingers. He turns his head to her. She brushes her lips to his ear. "Shh, pet," she whispers. "Sweet boy. So hard for you, isn't it... when it's someone you love?" Her tongue flits out lightly, tickling his earlobe. He inclines his head, leans in to her. "Don't fret, dear. See how pretty you've made it? Like a dolly. All yours, my William. Yours to play with..." She floats around him, facing him and he is caught up in her, his goddess, as he always is when she turns those dark eyes on him. The fresh blood is vibrating in his veins, warming him. His momentary confusion is quickly giving way to desire. She arches up and strokes along his jaw with her tongue, lapping up the spilled blood. "...Yours to taste...."
He brings his mouth down to catch her own in a kiss, taste the blood on her tongue. Whatever it is he had felt, that strange tickling at the back of his mind, that feeling of something missing, something wrong, something... something he needs to remember... it's gone now. It mustn't have been important, not as important as this new feeling. Heat of desire. Surge of power. She pulls him down with her as the plaything beside them grows cold, forgotten.
Something misssing. Something forgotten. Something important.
Yeah, okay. He cares. And it pisses him right off. It's just that none of it makes sense. He doesn't understand it. Has tried to understand it. And hell, he shouldn't be expected to understand it! So, he cares! So what? Doesn't mean anything. He's still bloody evil right? Doesn't have a soul. Like she said. Stupid bint. All her fault, anyway. Let her throw herself to the wolves. Makes things easier for him.
He can picture her, all melodramatic and teary. Throwing herself to the mercy of the magistrate. That lower lip of hers all trembly-like. Eye's all big and sad. Holding out her wrists for the handcuffs to be slapped on...
`Course at this point, his thoughts take a bit of a turn. He almost smiles.
Her face is set. Determined. She raises her jaw a little bit. There. Better. Gazes at her reflection. Swollen red eyes stare back at her steadily. Full-on Resolve Face.
"This has to stop," she tells Mirror-Buffy. "It's just... it's not you, it's..."
Crap.
She starts over.
"You-" She brandishes her toothbrush at her reflection. "You can't feel... You can't... And- and- whatever it is you think you feel you have to stop. Right now. `Cause it's wrong. It's... way, way wrong. This whole thing is just a huge mistake and we both know it. It has to stop."
She pauses to let that sink in. Mirror-Buffy frowns.
Buffy realizes she's still holding the toothbrush and sets it by the sink. She gazes at her hands. Runs her fingers over her wrists absently; sees that the bruises are gone. She can't even feel where they had been. Her knuckles aren't red anymore. She looks back up at the face in front of her.
"I'm sorry," she whispers.
Section 1.2: Wake
She is there with him when he wakes up. He can sense her in the bed beside him. He smiles, eyes closed in the comfortable half-sleep of morning. He yawns, starts to stretch his arms over his head but… somehow he’s gotten all tangled up in the sheets. Can’t move his arms at all. He grunts in annoyance and tries to disentangle himself without waking her. Just seems to wrap himself tighter. Opening his eyes, he turns to look at her. She’s lying on her side, facing away from him. Her hair cascades over her naked shoulder; pools on the pillow around her head, thick and dark and lovely.
“Hey baby, could you help me out here? I’m all tangled up.”
She doesn’t wake up. He thrashes in the sheets until he can pull an arm free. Reaches for her shoulder to wake her. She’s cold. He’s hogged all the covers again. Great. She always bitches at him when he hogs the covers. He shakes her.
“Trina, wake –”
Her body flops toward him and he can see her face. Her eyes are open, unblinking, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. Her head is tilted at an odd angle.
“Trina? Baby, wake up!” Panic in his voice.
He caresses her hair but it’s wet, sticky. Holds his hand up over his face. Blood on his fingers. The dark pool on the pillow isn’t hair.
He jerks awake and and flings himself from the bed. The sheet is still wrapped around him and he trips, stumbling against the wall. Bangs his elbow. Steadies himself. Reaches down and wrenches the sheet from his legs. He stands there, back against the wall, panting, staring at the empty bed.
Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.
After a minute or two he is able to collect himself. He licks his lips and takes a nice deep breath. No time for sleep anyway. Work to do.
Has to admit, he hadn't seen this coming. Shameful really. Witness the great William the Bloody, curled up all bloody (literally) on the floor of the Playroom of the Eternal Virgins. How the mighty have fallen.
And he’s bored as hell. Been playing dead for hours and has had his fill of it. If this is what staying dead is like he’s glad he’d skipped it. Hmm… perimeter check. Let's see…
He identifies the littlest nerd’s heartbeat at the far end of the room. Lying still but not sleeping. The squirrely blond one’s nearby. Quiet. Awake. Not sure what that one is up to. The big one is… not in the room. Spike listens. There. Next room over. Fingers tapping a keyboard. All accounted for then.
He feels a bit stronger. Head's a bit clearer. Not healing as fast as he should be, unfortunately. He can feel the minute twinges and tugs of bones knitting together, flesh sealing. Not fast enough, dammit. Lost too much blood. Needs blood. His stomach clenches in agreement. Right. Time to be getting on then. He opens his eyes.
Andrew hates keeping watch. Well, this is actually the first time he’s kept it so he can’t really say for sure that he hates it all the time or anything. Right now, he’s hating it. It’s creepy. He peers cautiously over the top of his comic book at the prisoner lying in a rumpled heap of black leather several feet away. He – it – still hasn’t moved. So creepy. But Warren says it’s cool. So it’s gotta be cool. It’s asleep and dead things don’t move when they’re asleep, right? So it shouldn’t be creepy that it’s all chalky and covered with blood and not moving or breathing. Still, Andrew tries not to blink. About an hour ago, it occurred to him that maybe the vampire was moving when he wasn’t looking. Like, every time he looks down at his Catwoman #15 or… or blinks, or anything, it opens its eyes and stares at him.
He hadn’t even seen a dead body before the other night. He’d always wanted to. In high school, he’d told everybody he’d seen one (a really hot chick in some bushes) just to fit in. By junior year, everybody in his class had seen at least one dead body. Tucker had always bragged that he’d seen over a dozen. Andrew knew he’d only seen about half that, though. Stupid Tucker always lied about stuff like that. After awhile, Andrew had started to think he’d never get to see one. Seemed like he’d always be walking past the alley just as the coroner had zipped up the bag. Or he’d be sick at home the day there was some big massacre at the school. Just his luck.
Now he’s seen two. He’s going to count this one. Warren says it doesn’t count because it isn’t dead. Not technically. Andrew knows he’s right, you know… technically. It’s a vampire. Creature of the night and stuff. Undead. But right now it just looks dead. For real dead. Like the first dead body he saw. The girl. Another reason he doesn’t like to close his eyes. Sometime he sees her – it. Only it isn’t like the vampire. He knows it isn’t watching him. When he sees it, the eyes are open and very definitely, totally dead. The body is slumped awkwardly below him like it was on the stairs. He knows it won’t be getting up again. And beneath it, looking up at him from the foot of the stairs, eyes glittering – Warren.
Warren.
That night, in the van, while Jonathan was working his mojo on the Slayer, Andrew had looked down and realized that he still had some of the girl’s blood on his hand. He had stared at it and then just started shaking. Crying all over again. Such a baby. He had hated the look Warren gave him. Like he was a little wussy-man. Like he had disappointed him. But then Warren had turned and put his hands on Andrew’s shoulders. Had looked right into him. Like Superman with his X-Ray Vision. Seeing him. Seeing Andrew. Bones and guts and everything. The warmth from those hands on his shoulders had seemed to spread through his whole body… kinda like the Force or something. Midi-chlorian rushing through his bloodstream. Making him brave. Making him strong. Making him… well… kinda tingly.
“Stay cool, Andrew,” Warren had said, leaning in. Their faces had been very close. “Trust me. It’s gonna be fine. You just need to chill, okay?” And suddenly Andrew was a Jedi. A warrior. He knew that he was safe. Warren was in control and Warren would make everything okay. As long as he trusted in Warren, he would be fine.
His eyes start to burn and he squeezes them shut. When he opens them again the vampire is looking at him.
"Yeeaugh!" The comic book flies from Andrew's hands. The vampire pulls itself to a sitting position, brushing a hand across its face where it had been stuck to the cement with coagulated blood. It takes a breath, just one, and stares at him, its swollen, russet-stained face expressionless and unblinking.
"Gah– uh… uhm…" Andrew's mouth shuts with a snap. He can’t move. Yeesh. It’s creepy. Like, *The Sixth Sense* creepy. Or like that time when Scully looked up and her dad’s ghost was sitting there talking to her but not making any sounds. He realizes all the little hairs on the back of his neck are standing up. The vampire isn't moving at all. Just staring. Okay… way, way, way, way creepy.
Finally, the vampire blinks and looks away. It tilts its head and narrows its eyes (well, one’s already narrow because it’s swollen shut so maybe that doesn’t count really) looking all around, studying its surroundings.
Andrew realizes he’s been holding his breath. He takes a few quick gulps of air. The vampire's eyes flit back to him at the sound and its mouth twists into a dark little smirk. Uh-oh. This is bad. If the spell doesn’t work– He opens his mouth again to scream for the others. No sound comes out.
Supporting itself with its hands – a bit unsteadily at least, Andrew notices – it slowly pushes itself to its feet. The smirk becomes a grin, and without a sound, the vampire lunges.
A jolt. He hisses and recoils, falling on his ass with a complete lack of grace and more than a little pain. What the hell–
He looks up in utter shock at the trembling nerd before him. "What the hell?"
That certainly hadn't gone as planned. Let's see… jump up; grab nerd; threaten; posture; get the hell out; go home; drink blood; watch telly; figure a way to kill nerds without getting a bloody headache. It was a good plan! What just happened here?
The nerds are on alert now. The little constipated one has leapt to his feet and is standing off to the side a bit looking all scared and stupid. The big one comes rushing from the next room, freezing momentarily to take in the scene before sauntering over to sneer down at him. By the looks of it, the blond one has pissed in his trousers. Wonderful. These are his brilliant captors? Where’s a sodding stake when you need one?
"Morning, sleepyhead!" The big one’s so excited he’s bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet and grinning like an imbecile. Spike slides up into a crouch and glares. Can’t quite get back to the standing upright part yet.
"It’s a spell," the imbecile explains. "Kinda like how you can't come into a house unless you're invited, you know? Only instead of coming in, it's getting out. And instead of a house, its this little 5 by 5 square of the room, see? Pretty cool huh? Short-round here did it."
Short-round shrinks back against the far wall.
Despite his weakened state, Spike manages to keep his voice low and steady. "Listen. You let me out of this now and I don't tie the three of you together at the neck with your entrails like a bloody geek bouquet? How 'bout that for ‘pretty cool?’"
"Don't make promises you can't keep, Count Shockula." A grin. "I know what your little chip does."
Oh hell. Spike clenches his teeth, eliciting little protests of pain throughout his damaged face. “Do you, now?” he growls, knowing he has a terrible poker face. The only way he ever wins the bloody game is by cheating. Hopefully the tossers before him are too stupid to see that his hand is utter crap right now. “What, you plan to enter me in the science fair then?”
To emphasize his nonchalance, he starts going through pockets to find his smokes. Nothing, nothing… oh, the bastards! They’d emptied his pockets while he was out. That’s just bloody impolite. And now he’s left with his hands fluttering about with nothing to do. He opts for running a hand through his hair but it gets caught up in a matted tangle of dried blood. Oh. Fantastic. Way to intimidate. He extricates his hand as casually as possible. None of them seem to notice. Good.
“Oh, it’s way better than that.” Warren squats in front of him and leans in close to the barrier that divides them. “We totally own you now.”
“Yeah,” the blond guy pipes up as he edges out of the room holding his hands before him in a failed attempt at hiding the wetness at the front of his pants. “You like, have to do our bidding and stuff.”
There’s a beat or two of silence as the nerds pause to let this revelation of their fiendish plot sink in. The effect is totally ruined of course as Spike bursts out laughing. He just can’t help it. Even as he feels the shattered rib grating against itself. Even as the throbbing in his head comes back with a vengeance. Even as Warren’s face twists all up and goes dark with fury. It’s just so… funny.
“Shut up!” Warren shouts, jumping to his feet. “Shut up! Stop laughing!”
But Spike doesn’t stop. In a rage, Warren grabs the chair the blond guy had been sitting in before and hurls it at the laughing vampire. There’s not enough room to dodge it properly but Spike is able to drop onto his side and deflect it with his shoulder at least. It ricochets off him and flies off at an angle, clattering to the floor several feet away. Too far away. It’s landed outside the barrier. Pity. He could have used it somehow, a weapon maybe, had it landed within his reach. He’s still laughing but then it turns into a cough so he quits breathing altogether for a bit. The drop to the floor managed to knock his ribs around some more. Great. At least the nerd seems satisfied enough to end his little temper tantrum. Spike pulls himself back into a crouch. This nonsense better not take long. His head is pounding now. He really needs to get back to his crypt and lie down.
“You laugh now, but just wait. You think you can push us around because you’re some big bad vampire? You can’t even hurt us! You’re a– you’re a wimp! You’re not even a real vampire anymore.”
Spike takes a breath to respond but there must be blood in his lungs now because all that comes out is a choking cough. He grimaces in irritation. Definitely not having the best of days here.
Warren paces a couple of times in front of the cage. “We’re sick of being scared of guys like you. And you know what?” He stops pacing and looks down at Spike. “I’m not scared of you at all. I mean, you might be all undead and strong and tuned into the Dark Force or whatever… but I’m smarter than you. I’m the one with the power, now. And I've got big plans."
Takes place shortly after "Older & Far
Away."
Section 1.3: Junk Food
Gotta admit, it’s pretty darn big. It’s been a long time since she’s looked up at the sky. Actually looked at it and noticed it up there. Crisp and dark and glittering with stars. Nice. Kinda funny how you can get so used to something being around like that that after awhile, you don’t even see it anymore. Like it’s not even there.
She takes her breaks outside now, ever since the whole being trapped in a house thing. Spends her time gazing up at the sky. She spends a lot of time trying to feel. Sometimes she’ll just sit there studying her hands. Watching the tendons flex as she wriggles her fingers. Looking for evidence that this is real. That she’s real. Allegedly, she is now a twenty-one year old woman. It has been officially marked by the traditional birthday disaster, complete with bloodshed. She wonders if being dead counts toward birthday points, or if she actually still has 147 or so days to go. Time off for dead behavior. Or is she actually only a few months old now? Or, funny thought, considering how much longer it was… where she had been… maybe she is actually very, very ancient…
She tries to think of the last time she had actually done this. Looking around her. Seeing things. Huh. Had she done it at all after the whole rising from the grave thing? She doesn’t think so. It was just too much. Too big, too bright. Too overwhelming, that sense of having been a part of something– else – and knowing that she isn’t really a part of anything at all anymore. Knowing that the only person to whom she had felt any connection at all anymore wasn’t even technically a person. Worrying about what that says about her. Knowing in her gut that somehow she had come back wrong.
He hadn’t crashed her birthday party. She had kinda half-expected him to. Could picture him sauntering in with a six pack or a bottle of – yeeaurgh – whiskey, acting like nothing had happened. Following her through the house all night. Making some sort of lewd comment at the sight of Willow’s present. Luckily, he hadn’t appeared. Instead that Richard guy Xander and Anya tried to set her up with did the puppy dog, following routine. It was cute. It felt good having someone… well… human showing an interest in her. And he was normal. Really, really normal. Milk and cookies normal. So… that was a good thing. Of course, then he’d been almost gutted by that demon thingy. Not so much a good thing. Probably not gonna be calling her anytime soon. Stupid scaredy normal guys. So easily damaged. So quick to run.
She takes another bite of her not-actually-made-of-meat Doublemeat burger. Nope. She’s absolutely positive that this is not real. Sighing, she wraps the rest of it in the paper and rises to drop it in the trash can by the sidewalk.
“Can I have a bit of that?” Feels like such a ponce, begging and all. Well, not begging. Just… asking. Making conversation is what it is. ‘Cause he doesn’t actually care, really. He places a hand to his stomach and pushes at it to quell the rumbling.
Jonathan looks down at his burger guiltily, frozen in mid-bite. “Um… Warren says we’re not supposed to–”
“Hey, you don’t eat hamburgers! You’re just supposed to drink blood and stuff.” Andrew sips at his milkshake and puts a protective hand over his own paper-wrapped burger.
Yeah. Supposed to. Would love to. Would kill to right about now. Ha bloody ha. “Right. I’m a blooditarian. Not strict about it though. Give me a fucking burger.”
He’s affecting as cool a posture as he can. Going for a casual lean against the only solid wall of his enclosure. Trying not to let on just how much he’s relying on the wall to keep him up. Feeling a bit wobbly of late. Growing weaker each day from lack of blood. His clothes are hanging off him. He’s had to cinch his belt twice in the week that he’s been up and about. On the last notch of it now. The healing has all but stopped – still a catch in one of the ribs when he tries to move. The cheekbone had gotten a good start at mending before stalling as a hairline crack. The right eye’s still swollen and tender. He imagines there’s quite the nasty bruise there. Even when he was well-fed, it would always take bruises longer to heal than anything. Even bones. He'd always assumed it was because the blood had more chance to pool up. Vampire circulation being what it is. Odd thing, really. He always figured that if a vampire starved enough, lost enough blood, whatever, that there wouldn't be enough left to spread around. Sluggish circulation would stop altogether. Any blood pooled up in spots would have no way to move about at all. Nothing to do but sit there and congeal under the skin. He shivers. What a waste.
The concussion is a bother. It’s still making him sick. Lightheaded at times. Every so often he’s overcome with nausea and he doubles over, retching, dry heaving, nothing left to come out. It’s humiliating. All of it is humiliating, really. The whole bloody situation – pathetic.
“You know, you shouldn’t be so mean. You’re like, our prisoner. I mean, we hold your fate in our hands and stuff.” Another slurp from the shake.
“You hold my burger in your hands, ponce. Now give it.”
“Hey! Bite me you big, stupid… um… petaQ!”
“Happy to. Just let me out of this and – wait a minute. Come again?”
Jonathan looks up at this and answers around a mouthful of food. “It’s Klingon. He called you a–”
“Hey, hey, hey, guys. No talking to the prisoner, remember?” In saunters the Alpha Nerd, from the adjoining room. He’s got that damned scanning thingy in his hand again. He comes right up to the barrier pointing the thing at Spike. Starts taking more readings. No chance of getting a bite now.
Spike sighs and slides unsteadily down the wall to assume his now-accustomed crouch on the floor.
Takes place during "As You Were."
Section 1.4: Bad Things
He's not here. What the heck? The crypt is cold and empty. Feels like no one has been here in awhile. She had convinced herself up until now that he had been here sulking all this time. Waiting for her to come to him and apologize or something. Waiting for her to come begging. As if.
He isn't here. That's... weird. He's always here. Where else would he go? She looks around. There's a mug of pig blood sitting out. Sprinkled with burba root. Full. Cold and... ugh... rancid. Okay. That's not a good sign. She peers around in the darkness. A tingling feeling kindles at the base of her spine and begins to work its way up.
"Spike?" she tries. Knowing there will be no answer. "Spike, are you here?"
She sees that the candles had all been left to burn down to cold little wax puddles. The tingling crawls up her back and enters her skull, announcing itself as panic. She flies into action. Strewing books and clothes and dead candles in her wake, she searches frantically. She doesn't quite admit to herself what it is she's looking for. Pushes away the thought of ultimately finding nothing but a pile of dust in the corner. Worse yet, the thought of finding -
Nothing.
She climbs downstairs. Maybe...
Well, she hadn't expected to find this. Big slimy green globs piled in the corner. Demon eggs? Were these the demon eggs? She closes her eyes.
When Riley bursts in, he finds her huddled on the floor of the crypt, crying.
Fourteen days. Far as he can figure from time spent since that initial waking and what clues he'd picked up. Fourteen days since the alley. Since Buffy. He wonders how she is. Even now. Pointless really. She surely isn't wondering about him. Why would she? What was it she'd said? Soulless? Dead? Evil? Whatever. Doesn't matter.
She's likely in a prison herself right now. Doesn't have to be. He knows from his captors' idiotic conversations that she hadn't even killed that girl, the geeks here did it. He'd wager she could bend the bars, anyway. Break through the wall. If she wanted to. Slip out. Take out a guard or two. Escape. Maybe even come looking for him. She'd ask around. "Anybody seen Spike?" she'd say. "Nobody? Not since-" She'd put two and two together. Remember something about a black van near the alley. Smell of nerd in the air. Something.
She'd track him down. Track them down. She'd take her time with it -killing them for what they'd done. Not just for what they'd done to him, of course. Torture them proper, she would. She'd force the littlest one to break his sodding spell before popping his bulgy little eyeballs from their sockets and feeding them to him. Eviscerate the little blond prat, let him bleed out on the floor. She'd let him drink from the big one, cut his throat open and hold him out choking and writhing before him. A gift. Catharsis. And he'd take her off somewhere safe. Maybe grab the Bit too. They could go to Berlin, London, anywhere really. Anywhere but this fucking hellhole where nothing good ever came of anything. Yeah. She would come for him. If she wanted to. If circumstances were different.
He chuckles, alarming himself at the dry rasping sound of it. Fourteen days, eh? Feels a lot longer. He'd starved before. Not for a while, but he'd done it. Angelus punishing him for... well...existing. Drusilla chaining him to the wall and forgetting him there for days. That miserable time right after the chip before he'd broken down and asked for help from his sworn enemy.
Come to think of it, ever since the chip it's been a kind of starvation. None of them had understood what it was like. None of them had cared, really. Even without a reflection he'd known that he had gone paler these last few years; leaner, color gone from his lips and cheeks. Well, he'd adapted, hadn't he? Pig blood. Nasty stuff. They couldn't begin to know. And he'd tried, dammit. Fought the good fight, eh? For puppies and Christmas and all that rot. For her. Forsaken all others. Forsaken. For nothing.
He swallows. His throat feels like vitriol. He's starved before, yeah. Not sure if he'd gone this empty for this long though. Bleeding it all out first hadn't helped. He hadn't had a proper meal the night all this mess started. That's the thing of it. He'd felt her at his crypt door. Run off after her. Left the mug sitting. Well, he'd made his choice then, hadn't he? Rhetoric, blood, love. Which is compulsory, again? Does it matter any more?
It's just so infuriating. These little wankers go on plotting their stupid little schemes. Pratting about with their stupid little arguments. Playing their stupid bloody video games. Doing their best to pretend there isn't a vampire slowly shrivelling to dust across the room. What are they playing at? It's cruel. All that rich human blood. Just beneath the skin. Right there. He watches them, listens to it pump through their veins, all those little capillaries under translucent flesh. Giving them color. Making them glow. They glow brighter still when they catch his eyes locked on their jugulars, his tongue on cracked lips. They go flush with fear. Blood. God. The smell of it is so thick, it gags him at times.
He had long since licked up the dried pig blood from his wounds, from his clothes, from the floor. He had cleaned himself like a cat, rubbing it from his face, catching the dried flecks in his hands, licking his hands clean. Again and again. Not enough. Never enough. Hungry.
"But, he's dying or something. It just seems kinda wrong."
"Wrong?" Warren turns to face Jonathan, raising the tranq gun to his shoulder as he does so. It makes Jonathan nervous, the way he's always waving the thing around. "C'mon, he's a vampire. A bad guy, remember? And he can't die because he's already, you know, undead..."
Andrew looks up from the robot hand he had been pretending to arm wrestle. "Hey, wait a minute! I thought we were the bad guys!"
Warren glares at Andrew. "Yeeeeesss. We're the better bad guys though. Smarter and y'know, more civilized. Vampires are evil, but we're, like, crime lords. It's totally different."
"Oh, okay. That's cool." Andrew nods and uses the robot hand to scratch his head. Jonathan rolls his eyes and tries again.
"Okay, so... he's not dying, but... look at him. I mean... I think he really needs some blood. Or something."
Three heads swivel to stare at the prisoner. He sneers and does something with his fingers that looks kinda like a backwards peace sign. Jonathan isn't sure what it means, but he doubts that the intent is very peaceful.
Despite the defiant gesture, it's obvious that the vampire's fading. He just sits there, huddled against his wall. He's gaunt, swimming in the leather coat he keeps wrapped around himself. It's pretty amazing how much weight he's lost, actually. How different he looks. Fast approaching skeletal. He's white as paper now, with all kinds of vicious, purple-grey bruises mottling his face, mostly around his right eye and cheekbone. His lips are bluish white and cracking. He looks a lot like a zombie - something between the original Night of the Living Dead and the 1990 NTLD remake. Jonathan almost says this out loud but stops himself before another Romero/Savini argument can erupt. The last one got pretty ugly.
The prisoner glares back at them silently. He had stopped the frantic pacing and lunging within his confines after the first couple of days. Had stopped speaking, aside from occasional frustrated outbursts of profanity and grand threats, after the first week or so. It's been two days since he last moved from the spot where he now crouches, watching them.
They look away.
"Just... chill, okay? He's fine. If we'd been giving him blood all this time, he'd be up to full vamp strength. Timothy Dalton here would be peeing his pants every day." Warren gestures at Andrew with the tranq gun. Andrew jumps back. This time it's Warren who rolls his eyes as he lowers the gun. "Besides, I need him hungry for the plan to work."
"Hey, he was like, coming right at me that time. I could have been killed!" Andrew points the robot hand at Spike.
"Okay, okay, calm down... don't wet yourself." A self-satisfied smirk at that. "Now, I should be ready for phase two by tomorrow night, anyway. After that, things should get really cool."
Jonathan shakes his head. "I don't know about this, guys. It's really weird. I mean, this is Spike, you know? We kinda know him-"
"It. It's a vampire, stupid. It would suck your blood in a second if it could."
There's an acknowledging snort from the vampire's cage.
Jonathan sighs. He's getting nowhere. Don't the others see that this whole plan is just completely nuts? Is he the only one who's totally creeped out here? "Okay, okay. ...But the Slayer...she's... she's Buffy. From high school Buffy. And... the crime lord thing, I thought we were gonna get chicks and take over the town and stuff, yeah, but... this other stuff... your girlfriend-"
"EX-girlfriend, Short-Round. And, hello - bad guys, remember? Well... the better bad guys. You know what I mean. We do bad things. We've already DONE bad things. All of us. And the Slayer's after us. She knows what happened with Tr- what happened that night. Which was totally an accident, by the way - if she hadn't tried to run like that... Anyway, the Slayer's still looking for us. What do you think she'll do if she finds us? I mean, it's totally us or her, man. Just... quit whining and get back to work and pretty soon you'll see."
Warren gives them both a reassuring smile before pointing the gun at the prisoner and firing. Jonathan grimaces as the dart hits Spike in the shoulder. With a growl, the vampire scrabbles to pull the dart from his body and shoots a furious look at Warren before slumping forward, unconscious.
Warren lowers the gun and grins. "It's gonna be fun, okay?"
Takes place shortly after "As You Were"
and before "Hell's Bells."
Section 1.5: Time
Section 1.5: Time
as loud as hell
a ringing bell
behind my smile
it shakes my teeth
and all the while
as vampires feed
i bleed
i bleed
prithee, my dear,
why are we here
nobody knows
we go to sleep
as breathing flows
my mind secedes
i bleed…
-Bleed
Pixies, 1989
He tries talking to the little one, now, when he has a brief window of opportunity. The little one doesn’t like to look at him. Always hanging about the other side of the room. Warren is forever bothering him with his gadgets and experiments. Shooting him with the tranquilizer gun and doing who-knows-what to him while he’s out of it. The blond prat sometimes hovers around staring at him. Like he’s some kind of zoo exhibit. Otherwise he stays away as well. Warren has them under strict orders not to speak to him. Lest the naughty vampire trick them into setting him free or lure them in to be eaten, no doubt. But Warren and the other one have gone out for more supplies and if he has a chance at all, he knows it’s with the little one.
“Hey, you… Jonathan,” he says, or tries to say. His voice seems mostly gone. Dry and dusty – just like he’ll probably be soon enough.
Jonathan ignores him like a good little boy, turning up the TV volume.
“Hey! Come on. Talk to me. I’m going batty here.” He doesn’t have to fake the tinge of desperation in his voice.
A glance in his direction. Good.
“Come on. I can’t hurt you. You know I can’t. Just… talk to me a bit, alright?”
The volume goes back down and he knows that he’s in with a chance.
The nerd turns around to face him. Finally. “What do you want?”
Kill you. Suck you dry. Bash your skull in. Make you beg. …Please – just to go home. “Just to chat, I swear it.”
“Um… chat about what.”
“Anything. Whatever. Just… come on. I won’t bite. Promise.” He flashes the best false smile he can manage but seeing the boy recoil a bit he realizes it’s probably just come off as ghastly.
Eventually he manages to coax him closer to the cage. Asks him about small things. Shows on the telly. Stories behind some of the sci-fi detritus strewn about. Gets him all comfortable and calm. Then moves on to bigger things.
“So… you do spells and such, right?”
“Well, yeah. A little bit. I kinda mostly just dabble.”
“Yeah? This spell you got around me…” his eyes trace the invisible boundaries of his enclosure as if he could actually see them. Might as well be able to see them. He knows exactly were they are. “Seems kind of… advanced. Spell like this, you’d think it would take some power.”
“Oh, not really. It’s kind of a simple variation of a standard disinvite spell,” Jonathan shrugs dismissively but blushes slightly at the flattery. Spike nearly gasps at the sight of the human’s blood-rouged cheeks. So fucking close. He blinks slowly and takes a breath to focus himself. Can’t allow himself to bollocks this up. The kid remains thankfully oblivious.
“So…” has to be careful. Not sound too eager. “If it works like a disinvite spell, all it would take is an invitation to leave and… I could get out?”
The nerd shakes his head then. “No. It’s kinda foolproof. That would have made it too easy to accidentally end the spell. It takes a special incantation.”
Spike looks down pretending to study his fingernails. Can’t risk the boy getting a glimpse at his face for what’s to come next. His fingernails are all torn and worn down. The pads of his fingers are scraped away too, for that matter. From all the time he’d spent digging at the concrete blocks of his wall, hoping to find some weak spot. Something. Waste of time. Still, plenty of time to waste, right?
“Wh– what’s the incantation?”
“Oh, it’s really easy –”
The boy stops talking and Spike hesitates for a dreadful moment before chancing a cautious look up at his face. Bloody hell. The boy’s eyes have gone all wide and he’s started backing away from the cage. Spike’s heart sinks.
“You tried to trick me!” The git’s foolish enough to sound betrayed.
Spike doesn’t bother to respond. His throat’s shredded from all the talking anyway. Just another waste of time.
Buffy looks up at the clock. Ten minutes left. Another slow night. She looks at the side window again, hoping to catch a glimpse of fluttering black leather. Hoping not to. Huh. Nobody there. Well… good. It’s for the best. It solves a big problem, him being gone. No more following her around bugging her. No more of the cocky swagger and well-placed insults. No more of the mind-bending, gut-wrenching sex-capades.
Whoah! Forbidden topic alert! Dirty, degrading, nasty, wrong. Bad, bad bad. She had been bad. But not any more. She’s getting better. Playing the game better than ever. She has begun to master the fake smile. The perky comments. Played the game well enough to keep her Doublemeat job after the running off with Riley and the whole trapped in the house thing. She had chosen to come back here.
After all, it’s all about service. Service with a smile. Service the customer, the family, the friends, the ex-boyfriend, the sacred duty. Do NOT service the evil undead thing. And he’s gone now. Probably in South America or something living it up by now. All gone. No more temptation. Tra la la.
Shit.
Maybe she’d killed him. That night in the alley. It had been nearing dawn, hadn’t it? But… that couldn’t be what happened. Spike wouldn’t just lie there. She can’t actually picture him ever being dusted. He just… isn’t the type. Besides, after the whole demon egg, blowing up the crypt thing, she had gone back to the alley. No dust pile. If… if there had been one it’s gone now.
And really, if there’s one thing she’s learned over the years it’s that Spike ALWAYS comes back, looking for more. Except for… you know… this time, when he hadn’t. But it can’t be because of that night in the alley. He must have just decided to run off before Riley and his… unit could apprehend him for his latest stupid – not to mention EVIL – moneymaking scheme.
"I can get money," he'd said. Yeah. EVIL money. Evil, evil, evil. Bad. Wrong. Spike was of the bad and it is good that he’s gone.
Her eyes sneak toward the window. Nothing. She sighs and gets ready to close.
The basement is quiet and dark. Both of the little nerds are asleep. Both of them with hearts racing. Nightmares. Good for them. The big one is awake. He’s always awake. Not in the room, though. They don’t even bother keeping watch anymore. Not like he’s a threat, after all.
Spike stares at the opposite wall. He doesn’t sleep anymore either. He’s not sure he can. He suspects that if he dares allow himself to sink into the depths of sleep, he won’t have the strength to climb back out. So he sits. He kills time because it is the only thing he can kill. He doesn’t move or talk or breathe or blink. Just stares at the wall and lets the thoughts come. They flit through his mind, barely touching him. Random things… all so distant. Perhaps not even real. Perhaps he is asleep and this is all simply a vivid, horrible dream. Perhaps he’s truly dead and this is hell. Perhaps he’s gone mad and should tell his brain to shut the hell up about such things.
He listens to the constant rustling of the mice in the walls; the restless stirrings of his captors. He has gone through the lyrics of every song he can remember from every album he had from 1968 until he’d had to leave them all behind in Prague. He thinks of Drusilla’s dolls and names them off one by one – god, why does he even know that? Stupid ponce. He thinks of Buffy. Infuriating bint. Her eyes. Her hair. Her body. Pictures the look on her face when she – no. Don’t think about that. He moves, at last, bringing his hands up to his head as if to ward off evil spirits.
He doesn’t want to think anymore.
His eyes drop to the corner. The stupid cardboard cut-out of the Borg girl – he'd remembered – stares at him all day, all fucking night. She’s laughing at him, he knows it. Not for the first time, he imagines her as flesh, marching up to him. Leaning down to scowl into his face, furious and disgusted. “You’re not even real,” she hisses, leaning in a bit too far. Her eyes widen to saucers as he grasps her by the shoulders, sinks his teeth into her neck. Warm blood running down his parched throat. He imagines her as flesh and she is always smaller, longer hair, trembling lips. He imagines her raising her stake to his chest as he feeds.
Holding his aching head in his hands, he chuckles again and it rises to a gravelly, slightly mad giggle.
She hears someone giggling. Buffy grips her stake tighter and follows the sound through a break in the trees. She finds the source of the laughter. A woman, kneeling before a tombstone.
“Something funny?” she asks, crossing her arms and frowning.
The woman nods and points at the inscription. “She saved the world a lot,” she reads. “Funny.”
Buffy’s frown deepens. “I don’t get it.”
Buffy looks up at the frowning woman standing over her. “You don’t like jokes?” she asks.
Buffy shakes her head. “I don’t think it’s a joke.”
Buffy places a bouquet of small white flowers over the grave and stands up to face… Buffy. “Maybe you just don’t understand.”
“Or maybe you don’t.”
“Yes. That’s possible too. There are many things I don’t understand.”
Buffy blinks. “I don’t understand what’s going on, here.”
The other Buffy grins. “Oh! Neither do I! See? We have so much in common!”
Buffy peers at the figure before her. “Are you–? You’re the bot, aren’t you?”
Buffy shakes her head. “I’m Buffy.”
“No,” Buffy’s hand tightens on the stake once again. “I’m Buffy. You’re not real.”
This time the other Buffy frowns. “Of course I’m real. I walk. I talk. I shop. I sneeze.”
Buffy glares at her. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re always here.”
“Huh?”
“This is where we live.”
“I don’t live here.”
Buffy looks perplexed. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” Buffy shouts, exasperated. That’s it. This is getting ridiculous. She raises the stake and drives it through the other’s chest. Her eyes widen as she feels the familiar sensation of her weapon punching through bone and tissue.
Buffy looks down at her wound impassively. Blood wells up around the stake. “Well, that’s not good,” she mutters.
“Oh my god…” Buffy pulls the weapon out, wincing as the withdrawal makes an unpleasant squicking sound. She is completely unsurprised at the fact that the stake has become a big honkin’ knife. Faith’s knife. “Oh my god, I killed you.”
Buffy looks up at her murderer. “Huh. Think that’s bad, look at you.”
Buffy looks down at the matching hole in her own chest. Exposed wires and circuitry. Hey, wait a minute… “None of this is making any sense!”
“Maybe it’s a joke.”
“It’s not a joke, okay?”
“Maybe you just don’t get it.”
“There’s nothing to get! This is stupid. You’re not even supposed to be here. I don’t know what the hell is going on!”
“Oh… well… maybe you should wake up, then.”
“Huh?”
Buffy opens her eyes and immediately closes them to the glaring shaft of morning sunlight streaming through her bedroom window. Ugh. Morning. Sunshine. Bright. Ow. She hears a clatter from downstairs. Smells the familiar odor of burning toast that she has come to associate with Dawn. Would it be the end of the world if she were to sleep in today? It’s Saturday. Not like she has any plans.
This is it then. Whatever it is. He lifts his head as his captors approach en masse. He would laugh if he had the energy. If circumstances were different. Mighty vampire hunters. Able to tame the savage beast and all. The leader approaches with his hands clasped behind his back. He is flanked by the lesser nerds, whose not-so-steely gazes take aim at him through the sights of their… water guns. He feels embarrassed for them, really. Wankers. Oh, he knows what's in the guns. Knows it could do a good deal of damage to his person if they choose to let fly. Doesn't really care at this point. It's all just so fucking ridiculous.
The Alpha Nerd squats down in front of him. "Today's the big day, Sparky. You ready?"
Spike meets his gaze, bares his teeth.
"Hey now. Play nice." Warren's tone is full of menace now. He brings his hand from behind his back and thrusts toward him with the cross he had been concealing.
Spike flinches back at the heat of it and instantly shifts into game face. Yellow eyes drop from Warren to the weapon he brandishes. It's moving closer, beyond the barrier. The Alpha Nerd is feeling his power now. This must be very gratifying for him. He enters the prison, cross first.
"That’s right. You just sit still like a good little vampire and this'll all be over in a minute. I wish I could just shoot you again with the tranquilizer gun, because… actually it's kinda fun. For the upload to work though, I need you to be awake." He advances on Spike, fumbling in his pocket with his free hand, not taking his eyes off him.
"Ooh, tell him about the holy water!"
Warren pauses, annoyed. "That's right. Super soakers, fully charged with holy water–"
"–And we drank a bunch of it too, so, you bite any of us or anything and we'll… we'll… um, taste really bad."
Spike rolls his eyes as much as he can while still keeping the cross in focus. This is just too much. The cross is now inches from his face. He can feel the waves of heat rolling off the thing. He lowers his head a bit, eyes still locked on the weapon, snarling like the trapped beast he admittedly is. He is pressed against the wall, far back as he can go. Still, he's writhing a bit, digging his skull and shoulder blades into the mortar as if it could somehow swallow him up, provide a retreat from this inane yet effective torture. Skin starts to blister. He closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them again they are locked on Warren's.
Tongue darting nervously between fangs, he licks his ragged lips, assessing the situation. Can't attack directly or the chip will fire. He'd be even more helpless then. Not enough room to push off to either side. His tormenter is too close and hunkered too low for him to be able to slide down, throw him off balance, knock the cross away. Doubtful he has the strength to leap up, over, kick at the thing. Even so, what could he do then? Sit in his pen and wait for the consequences? Angry Over-Nerd, devising some fun new way to pull the wings off the undead fly? And assuming the wankers over there had the capacity to actually hit the side of a building, let alone the vampire cowering not two meters in front of them, there's the lovely shower of scalding holy water to look forward to. Fuck-all he can do about it.
The git has stopped fumbling and pulls from his pocket a slim metallic-looking object containing a tiny LCD screen and keypad. There's a bit of a relief as the cross is pulled away a few inches and Warren begins tapping on the keypad with a corner of the cross base. He stops tapping. Looks at Spike, expecting something…
"RAAAAUGH!" Spike lurches up, clutching at his head as the chip fires. Legs give out and he drops to his knees, shifting back into his human face. He pants in ragged sobbing breaths.
The chip is– something is–
The vampire’s sudden movement has knocked Warren sprawling, the cross flying from his hand. He's still holding up the metallic device as he scrambles to his feet, eyes wide with excitement.
–Ringing– like ears ringing, but everywhere inside him, echoing and amplified in his bones. Fucking LOUD. Shrill and electric. It's maddening, makes his skin crawl. Feels like his brain is convulsing and rippling in his skull. Bloodyfuckinghell– The chip! What's going on? Got to get if fucking out. He claws at his temples, digging furrows in dry flesh…
Warren's mouth is hanging open in wonder. This is so cool! It's working! Better not take too much longer to upload though ‘cause the vampire's freaking out.
He checks the screen. Almost done. This is gonna be great. He'd been thinking a lot since the… the Trina thing. Reassessed his priorities, evaluated his failures. Everything had happened so fast that night. He’d shifted into autopilot as soon as he’d realized what he’d– what had happened. Then, opportunities had presented themselves… he hadn’t really thought it through at the time. They’d watched the Slayer clobber the vampire. Saw him lying there. He knew it would be their best chance at capturing him. Didn’t look like the Slayer would miss him or anything. He’d been worried that maybe he was jumping the gun, but – wow! Things sure were working out. Once they’d bagged Spike, the plan just fell into place.
The thing with… that night… had been that he'd relied too much on the others. Using magic spells and demon parts. It was stupid. Especially since he'd had a much more stable technology laid out right in front of his nose the whole time. He hadn't realized at the time what a gold mine it was it when Spike came to bully him into analyzing the chip. Hey, it wasn't his fault the guy was dumb enough to leave the data behind when he left. Not that it mattered since Warren had already saved all the information to file. And, wow. Once he'd taken the time to study the data, he discovered all about what the chip did. And what it could do, with a little help. Oh, yeah, this is gonna be great. He grins and checks the screen again. Should be just about–
A cold hand closes around his throat.
“You okay?”
Buffy shuffles to the fridge. Must. Have. Juice. “M’okay. Just kinda groggy. I had the weirdest dream last night.”
Dawn whirls to face her, sucking on the finger she’d managed to burn while extracting toast from the toaster. “You’re not gonna tell me all about it are you? ‘Cause… y’know, nobody ever actually likes that.”
Buffy ignores her. Sighing, she shakes the empty orange juice carton. She pulls it from the refrigerator and makes a big show of dropping it into the wastebasket, cocking an eyebrow accusingly at her little sister.
Dawn tosses her hair with a complete lack of guilt. “Want some toast? You can, uh, scrape off the black stuff.”
Buffy shakes her head. “Tempting, but no.” She yawns and leans against the sink. “You ever have one of those dreams that you can’t quite remember but you know it was something, like, really bizarre?”
“Huh.” Dawn gets a knife out of the drawer and starts scraping at a black toast-like object on the counter. Buffy watches, amused. “It’s probably for the best, Buffy. Knowing your dreams it was all about blood and guts and monsters and stuff.”
Buffy stares at the sunlight glinting off the knife. Scrape scrape scrape. For no good reason that she can think of, she crosses to the counter and wraps her arms around her sister in a quick hug. Dawn tenses and stands motionless, accepting the embrace with adolescent reluctance. When Buffy lets go, Dawn glances back at her.
“What was that for?”
“Nothing. I… just felt like it.”
“Jeez.” Dawn returns to her scraping, her face impassive except for the faint beginnings of a smile. “Must have been some dream.”
Spike wraps a shaking hand around the throat of the monster in front of him, uses it to pull himself up. Seems the chip’s too preoccupied with killing him just now to add any salt to the wound for it. And even weak, even like this, he’s still a fucking vampire, right? His hand is locked on the throat and it feels good. The thing in front of him is choking, beating its arms at him frantically. He doesn’t feel them. Doesn’t hear the screaming of the other two over the screaming in his head. Doesn’t feel the holy water singeing his flesh. His vision blurs and he weaves for a moment, grasping his victim’s shoulder with his other hand and leaning on it for balance. He tries to focus on the terrified eyes in front of him.
“Stop it!” he gasps. He’s shaking violently. Pupils dilated. Smells ozone. Smells burning. His legs are buckling from beneath him now. There’s blackness at the edges of his vision and it’s creeping in fast. He squeezes the neck tighter, but it’s more out of desperation than malice. “Make it stop! Please–”
As suddenly as it started, it stops. All black now and he drops.
Takes place shortly before "Hell's Bells."
Section 1.6: Empty
so how was the party?
i heard everyone was there
my blood is laced with garlic
don’t it make you feel romantic?
my blood is laced with garlic
you bloodsuckers can’t touch me
my blood is all mine…
-ribbed
Mousetrap, 1994
“Hey guy. How’s it going?”
He blinks. Doesn’t respond.
“Come on… you’re not still mad about the chip thing, are ya?”
Spike flinches. He turns his head away. Looks at the wall. He begins breathing. Concentrates on filling his lungs and slowly letting the air back out. Doesn’t need to, but he finds it comforting somehow.
“You hungry?”
Squeezes his eyes shut. Inhale, exhale. Focus on that. Hears the crinkle of plastic–
–BLOOD!–
The smell hits his brain screaming. His stomach twists painfully. He opens his eyes. Inhales deep, deep…
“Got a present for ya. Come and get it!”
A better man would ignore it. Would be strong and resolute. A better man would have enough pride to look the sick bastard right in the eye and tell him “fuck off, I don’t want your blood, you stupid git.” His stomach spasms again. Times like these, he’s grateful he’s not a man at all.
Sighing, he rolls to his side and clumsily pushes himself to his haunches. He wraps his arms around his knees and rests his head on them for a bit until the dizziness passes.
“There ya go. That wasn’t so tough, now was it?”
He pulls his head up to see Warren sitting cross-legged just outside the barrier. There’s a ring of dark bruises encircling his throat like a necklace. He’s grinning at Spike, holding a plastic bag of blood. Hospital blood. Human. If he still could, Spike would be salivating right now. He scents the air like a hungry dog. Unable to stop himself.
“So… are you hungry? Because, if not…” The man holding the blood makes as if he’s about to rise, walk away. Take the blood away.
Spike hisses before he can catch himself. Warren pauses, looking at him expectantly. Right. So that’s the game now. Make him beg for it. At this moment he’s thankful for the dehydration. If he had tears he’d be blubbing in frustration right now. He tries to hold out. He tries to be a man. Bites his lower lip. Would draw blood had there been any left to draw.
The voice is low and taunting, “Not hungry, huh? Too bad–”
“yes–” It’s a whisper, barely audible.
“I’m sorry what was that?”
Spike’s face crumples. He lowers his head again, shaking with dry agonized sobs. What had he bloody done to deserve this? Oh… right… Hah! Don’t answer that! The sobs turn into bitter laughter then die away entirely. He brings his head up to meet his captor’s gaze.
His voice is a croak. “Yes… I’m – I am hungry. Very.” For good measure he adds, “I would like some blood. …Please.” At that, the laughter returns and he has to catch himself to keep from tipping over.
“Need anything?”
“Huh? What?” Buffy looks up, startled.
“Do you need anything?” the waitress asks again, indicating the empty glass in front of Buffy.
“Oh. No. Nothing right now. Thanks.”
Without another word the waitress is gone. Buffy looks around her, not sure just how long she had been spacing off. It feels unnatural, being at the Bronze by herself. The place feels… different. What had she been thinking about? Was it something about the wedding? That’s it. Anya had pulled her aside yesterday and asked her if she would want to deliver a last-minute invitation to Spike.
“Xander doesn’t want him to come,” she’d explained, “But I thought perhaps it would be a good idea to have as many preternaturally strong friends and acquaintances there as possible. You know, in case one of my guests tries to kill the groom. Oh, and tell him to bring a gift. Here’s a list of where we’re registered.”
Guess she hadn’t been told about the whole disappearing act. Dawn knew, because she had asked. And now keeps asking if she’s seen any sign of him, if she thinks he’s okay. “Of course he’s okay, Dawnie. He’s Spike.” Willow knows. She had started to offer to do a locator spell before catching herself and looking down at her hands rubbing together. Rub, rub, rub. Nervous energy. “No, it’s okay Will. It’s not a big deal or anything,” Buffy had said, forcing a smile. She thought she had told Xander about it, but, come to think of it, they hadn’t really seen much of each other. What, with Buffy working double shifts and Xander and Anya going increasingly insane over wedding plans. She should tell him. It would make him happy.
She looks up at the balcony and quickly looks away. She lifts the glass to her lips and tips it back before remembering that it is empty.
Part 2: Blood & Rhetoric
All sections of Part 2 take place immediately before
"Normal Again." All song lyrics in Part 2 are from
"Psycho Killer," Talking Heads, 1977.
Section 2.1: Recognition
I can't seem to face up to the facts
I'm tense and nervous and I
Can't relax
I can't sleep 'cause my bed's on fire
Don't touch me I'm a real live wire…
“You want to know something about yourself, Spike? It’s pretty interesting, really.”
Warren tries once again to wind a wad of noodles around the chopsticks. Most of them wriggle back into the carton but he manages to get a few into his mouth. A couple land on the front of his shirt en route. He picks them off distractedly with his fingers and drops them into his mouth. Stupid chopsticks.
He looks up at the vampire who is sitting against the wall, legs splayed out before him, hands lying listlessly in his lap. He’s looking better now… kinda. Not so much like a skeleton with skin stretched over it. A little more like… oh… the emaciated corpse of a disaster victim, maybe. Yesterday, Warren had even noticed a trace of blood beading up in the gouges around his face where he’d freaked out and scratched at himself during the upload. Good sign. Means things are circulating again. He’s probably starting to heal now. Still a far cry from Mister Big Bad Vampire With the Big Black Coat. The way he looks now, Warren can't believe he had ever been afraid of him. I mean, come on, how could he have ever let himself be intimidated by this guy? Completely harmless. The coat is wadded in a ball nearby. Spike had begun using it as a pillow these last few days. Adapting to his situation. Another good sign.
The prisoner’s head is tilted back against the wall as he attempts to affect an air of boredom. Warren knows better. The eyes are a dead giveaway. The vampire's gaze is focused with deep interest on the cooler at Warren's side. Has been since he'd brought it in and set it down beside him. This has become their little dinner routine now. Warren brings in the cooler. Lets him see it there. Lets him think about what's inside. Makes himself comfortable. Then they have a little talk. Well… mostly Warren talks. Spike listens. Over the last few days, the vampire has learned to pay attention. Has learned not to interrupt. He has learned to respond when it is expected of him. And then, when Warren is finished speaking, if he is satisfied that Spike has behaved, he will take out the bag of blood and toss it into the cage. Most of the time, Spike behaves.
Warren smiles.
"That little piece of silicon in your brain. It's a pretty complex little piece of technology. You should feel special."
Spike doesn't react. Too bad. Must not feel special.
"Whoever put it in there designed it to be a hell of a lot more than a shock collar, that's for sure. Only it looks like they didn't get to mess around with it too much. Like maybe they were interrupted."
He stops and studies Spike for a moment. Again, no reaction.
"So who was it, exactly." Warren leans in a bit, eyes glinting. "Did you kill ‘em?"
Sharp blue eyes shift momentarily from the cooler to Warren. Something flickers there for a second. Warren senses it. Something like recognition. The vampire is peering into him. Uncomfortable he looks down at his Chow Mein; begins to wrestle with the chopsticks again. When he looks up again, Spike has returned his attention to the cooler.
When the vampire speaks it is not to Warren but to the blood, "Government blokes. Dunno really. No."
"No, you didn't kill them?"
Another pause. "No."
"Well, what happened, then?"
"Got away."
"That's it? You just… got away?"
"Pretty much."
"How long did they have you?"
"Dunno. Few days."
“A few days, huh?” Warren cocks his head at the vampire and grins. "So… how long have I had you?"
No response.
Warren waits for Spike to raise his gaze once again from the cooler. He indicates it with a glance of his own. "How long? You know, just an offhand estimate."
Spike manages to hold out for awhile before finally lowering his eyes, defeated.
"Longer."
"It's only been, like, a month, Buffy. I wouldn't worry about it. I mean, you know how Spike is and…"
Buffy interrupts with a strained laugh and stares into her mocha.
"A-and this thing with Xander," Tara continues, "With– with the wedding and everything… you know he's okay too, wherever he is. He probably just needs some time away, you know, to sort things out…"
"Tara, I… I think…" Buffy's voice drops to a whisper, "…I think I killed him…"
"You think you killed Xander?"
Buffy furrows her brow. "What– No! Spike! I think I killed Spike!"
"What? Why… why would you think that?"
Buffy just looks at her, eyes glistening and desperate.
All sections of Part 2 take place immediately before
"Normal Again." All song lyrics in Part 2 are from
"Psycho Killer," Talking Heads, 1977.
Section 2.2: Resistance
Psycho Killer
Qu'est-ce que c'est
fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away…
"Pain conditioning," Warren announces, brandishing a fork he has retrieved from the so-called “surveillance room” where the lesser nerds are apparently keeping watch over the front lawn or what-all. He returns to his spot on the floor in front of the cage. Next to the blood.
"You know what that is, don't ya Spike? Pain conditioning?" He arches an eyebrow. "See, here's a little theory of mine. Let me know what you think of it. Actually I should go back a little bit so a simple brain like yours can understand. Back to the whole chip thing…"
Spike closes his eyes for a moment and sighs. Tries to ignore the smell of the blood. He can feel himself starting to heal again, starting to get back some strength… but on one bag of blood a day… well… most days… it's a tediously slow process. Feels all human and weak. And if he wants to eat he has to endure the slow torture of listening to the pontifications of the great Warren Mears. The prat sure loves to hear himself talk. This little power trip the geek's got going had better have a point soon or he's going to–
–Actually, he's going to do fuck-all, is what he's going to do. 'Cause that's all he can do. No way out of this one then, is there? Nothing to do but sit here nodding along while the Little Nerd Who Could gets his rocks off playing at silly buggers all day. Nearly a century and a half of immortality under his belt and he’s never been so bleeding bored. So completely disgusted at himself.
By now he’s gleaned that Buffy’s out and about. Never locked up after all. The girl’s death ruled an accident. Give it up once again for Sunnydale’s crack police force. Probably been an apocalypse or two since he’s been out of the action. Nobody coming for him. That’s for sure. No reason to. Not like he’s important to anyone, right? Just… convenient. And not even that anymore, what with being all indisposed at the moment. Not anything. He realizes it now. It’s all getting clear. The only thing that’s real, that means anything at all, is in a little bag inside that cooler over there –
– and the talking has stopped. Fuck. He opens his eyes to find Warren watching him with a cold smile. Maybe he can save it: "Well, go on – I'm bloody listening."
Warren picks up one of the chopsticks he had abandoned and holds it up in an overdramatic stabbing pose. Like he thinks he's in a Hitchcock film or something. Idiot.
"I could stake you right now. How would you like that? Dusted. With a chopstick. By me. How would that make you feel?"
"Oh bloody hell, just do it and stop talking about it then. I don't really care." Their eyes lock long enough for both of them to know that the other is bluffing.
"Well," Warren says, lowering the chopstick, "somebody sure is feeling better."
Dammit. There goes the blood. Spike lowers his head to study the hole that’s started at the knee of his jeans. Pulls at the frayed edges of it, trying to bury his frustration in a show of unconcern. He curses himself once again for his unflagging ability to take a bad situation and make it completely intolerable. Here he is, begging blood from a demented little boy playing at evil mastermind. Can’t even do that right. Should’ve just let the bastard stake him.
He looks up in surprise when he hears the cooler being opened.
Warren takes out the bag of blood. He sets it on the floor in front of him so Spike has a good view of it. What’s this now? He begins tapping at it with tip of the chopstick. Small stabbing motions. Enough to press into the plastic but not puncture it.
"Now then," he asks, "where was I?
“Buffy, I’m sure you didn’t kill him. You said yourself, you didn’t find any dust or anything.” Tara smiles at her reassuringly.
“–But there could have–”
“Buffy!” The scolding tone in Tara’s voice catches them both off guard. She tries again, more gently, “Buffy… do you really believe that he’s dead? You know, in the permanent sense? I mean, do you really feel that?”
A sniffle. “I don’t… I don’t know. I guess… I don’t think so…”
And suddenly Tara gets it. Oh wow. She knows what’s really bothering Buffy. She reaches to put a comforting hand over Buffy’s own. “But maybe… maybe it would be, kinda… easier… if you had?”
Buffy’s head flies up, eyes instantly hardened in denial. She pulls her hand away. “How could you say that?”
All sections of Part 2 take place immediately before
"Normal Again." All song lyrics in Part 2 are from
"Psycho Killer," Talking Heads, 1977.
Section 2.3: The Iceberg
You start a conversation you can't even finish it.
You're talkin' a lot, but you're not sayin' anything.
When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed.
Say something once, why say it again?
"Up until now your little chip has been performing a pretty simple function, you know? Behavior modification through negative reinforcement. Yadda yadda. You know the drill. It's all very basic. The chip is programmed to recognize a certain action as bad. Whenever you do that bad thing, the chip reads what you're up to and responds by causing you to have a kind of... incredibly painful seizure or something. Well, you've felt it. You know what I'm talking about."
He flashes a friendly smile at the vampire, who is seemingly hypnotized by the heartbeat tap tap tap of the stick on the bag. God, he's practically drooling. Warren can tell that he's listening though, saw the little flinch at the mention of the seizure.
"Even the dumbest subject -that's you by the way, Chuckles -eventually figures out that if it wants to avoid the pain, it should stop performing the act that causes it."
There's a small snort from Spike, but nothing more.
"But that's just the tip of the iceberg, really. With just a little tweaking, someone could set up a whole new set of parameters to follow. Do you realize how much potential there is in that? If some genius happened to program his own set of rules for the chip to enforce... whole new levels of punishment?
Ah, there it is. He has Spike's full attention now.
Okay, she's gone too far. Tara leans back in her seat. Her hands flutter nervously, defensively in the air before she catches herself and folds them on the table. "I j-just meant... you know, I meant that... with him missing and... and Xander disappearing... and you know, with... other... people... before... I just meant that maybe if that was the reason, if you had... instead of -"
"Instead of me driving him away? You're saying I wish I'd killed him instead of driving him away?" Buffy shakes her head and rushes headlong into the nervous chatter. "But that's ridiculous. I mean, for one thing: drive Spike away? Ha! That's totally impossible to do. Believe me, I've tried. He's like, the annoying pit bull of love... which...which I don't... `cause, y'know, evil... and stuff-
"But Buffy... if you wanted him to go... then why should it matter so much if he did? I mean, isn't that kind of what you wanted?"
All sections of Part 2 take place immediately before
"Normal Again." All song lyrics in Part 2 are from
"Psycho Killer," Talking Heads, 1977.
Section 2.4: The Villain of the Piece
Psycho Killer,
Qu'est-ce que c'est
fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away…
The geek is looking at him. Waiting. Spike gets that he's supposed to ask questions now. That's how it works, right? The villain talks a bunch of nonsense for awhile then gets the hero to ask what the plan is. Gives the villain his excuse to go off about how brilliant he is for twenty minutes or so until the hero gets away and mucks things up for him a bit before rescuing the girl and dashing off into the sunset. 'Cept right now he's weary of the whole thing. Too bleeding hungry to think up some grand escape plan. The girl made it clear where she stands on the whole “being rescued” issue. And –
– and wait a minute! When the hell did he get cast the hero's role? What's going on here? He's supposed to be the bloody villain of the piece! Evil fucking vampire, here! The Big Bad. Arch nemesis of the Slay– well, not that so much. Not so much evil these days… you know, he does his bit. Tries to stay on top of things, but…
Right. Whatever. It's all muddled now. He doesn't understand it. Hero, villain, good, evil… it's all the sodding same when you're sitting in a cage, starving for something you can't have, innit? It's not about what's right or what's wrong. It's about what you've got to do to get through it and go on. It’s the same game he’s always played, really. The same game he always ends up losing. Right then. He'll play. Nothing else to do, is there?
"Alright, I’ll bite," he obliges with a sigh. "What have you done to me?"
They both remain silent. Tara reaches out her hand again, tentatively. Buffy’s hand is clenched on the table. Tara smoothes it out and cups it in her own. Buffy doesn’t pull away, just stares at their hands clasped together on the table as the tears start to drip onto them. She doesn’t look up as she finally begins to speak.
“I thought – I thought somehow… being with him would fix things. You know? Because being with him was so much simpler. I didn’t have to think… or… or feel. And… it’s nice to have someone who looks at you like… like… you’re the only thing in the world that matters. Even if you know it’s not true. And even if…”
“…Even if you don’t feel that way about them?” Tara offers.
Buffy nods and pulls her hand away to reach for a napkin from the dispenser. She wipes the tears from her face and sniffles. “It’s just that nothing is the way it’s supposed to be! Xander, Willow… me… it wasn’t supposed to be like this. I can’t deal, Tara. I just want sombody to fix things. I’m tired of being the one stuck trying to hold everything together.”
“Buffy, you can’t hold everything together. It’s the nature of the universe. Things always come apart. People are always going to leave us in one way or another. And sometimes they come back to us – like you did – and sometimes… they don’t. You can’t control that.”
“Willow did.”
Tara is silent.
Buffy wraps her hand around her cup. Blows on the liquid inside although it’s long since gone cold. “Do you think Willow was wrong to bring me back?”
Tara takes a breath, not exactly sure of the best way to answer. “I think… I think maybe Willow got in over her head. Messing with forces she maybe shouldn’t have. It’s just… y’know, it’s dangerous… to try to have that kind of control over something.”
All sections of Part 2 take place immediately before
"Normal Again." All song lyrics in Part 2 are from
"Psycho Killer," Talking Heads, 1977.
Section 2.5: Reinforcement
Ce que j'ai fais, ce soir la
Ce qu'elle a dit, ce soir la
Realisant mon espoir
Je me lance, vers la gloire ... OK
We are vain and we are blind
I hate people when they're not polite…
Warren licks his lips and leans forward, pleased by Spike's interest in his little project.
"Just a little tweaking. Fine tuning, you know? Like – and you'll be pretty happy about this, I'll bet – you can kill people again."
Spike looks at him warily. Knows better than to speak.
"Well… some people. I mean…" he barks out a laugh, "Not me, obviously. Actually, you're tuned into me now. It's pretty cool. Your chip picks up a signal…" Warren indicates the monitoring device on his wrist. The vamp looks at it, confused. Probably thought it was a watch. Probably never even saw Tank Girl. "Stuff like my heartbeat, brain waves, et cetera. Anything happens to me; disrupts the signal… basically, if any harm comes to me, you’ll get a dose of interference. Not quite a shock. Nothing incapacitating, in case I’m being attacked and I need you to back me up. But you’ll definitely be inclined to protect me. The interference should be painful enough. I imagine it would feel sorta like nails down a chalkboard. You know that feeling? Man I hate that. It’ll be like that but way worse – probably kinda like how it felt when I uploaded the program. You didn’t seem to like it all that much, by the looks of it.”
The vampire blinks, hands clenchin momentarily into fists. Aside from that, there’s no reaction. “I think you’ll eventually agree that my health and safety should be your top priority. “
Spike looks skeptical. It’s obvious that for now, the vamp’s number one priority is still getting the blood. Warren is confident that he’ll learn otherwise.
“Most importantly, if I die, that chip's gonna fire so hard and so long, it'll blow your mind. And I mean it. You'll be, like… a vampire vegetable. Accompanied by an extended period of extreme pain. Now, I am kinda curious… with your vamp healing powers, how long would it take you to heal from severe brain damage? Or would you just kinda be stuck like that for eternity? Man, that would suck, huh? Nothing going on up there except pain, 'cause, of course the chip would still be firing…"
Oh, good. Spike does look a bit uncomfortable at this. He's trying not to show it, but he's definitely not quite as mesmerized by the blood as he was.
"It would really suck if you just happened to wander too far out of range and lost the signal. Or if you just pissed me off and I set the chip off manually." He indicates the trigger button on the monitoring device.
God this feels good. He hadn't thought it was possible for the vampire to look any more pale. If he hasn't already figured out who's in charge here, he's getting it now. Warren winks at him.
"Hey, wouldn't it be funny if I just accidentally bumped the button some time?"
Spike just glares at him. The guy has no sense of humor at all. Fine. Time to get serious, anyway. It’s taken too long to get to this point but now he thinks the vamp is finally ready for the real deal. Not quite mentally broken but close enough. And presumably healthy enough to withstand a beta test.
"Okay, here's the deal, Sparky. You're gonna do as you're told. When you're told. No questions asked. You kill who I want you to kill and your chip won't fire. Kill someone I don't want you to kill and it fires. Do anything I don't want you to do and the chip fires. Do something stupid like running away or trying to stake yourself and the chip fires. Protect me from harm and your brain won't explode. That's simple enough, right?"
He arches an eyebrow, waiting for a response. He's already gotten used to the look of utter hatred the vampire is currently directing at him. A whole lot of good it does him. And he's not responding. What an idiot. Warren narrows his eyes. "Answer me, vampire."
"You're bluffing."
Spike is a terrible liar. He'd figured that out shortly after they'd captured him. The vampire believes him all right. He's already bracing himself for the shock he knows will come. Warren's enjoying the game too much to give him what he expects. He cocks his head toward the bag of blood and looks sideways back at the prisoner. Making sure he has Spike's full attention, he plunges the chopstick through the plastic. A staking in effigy. The vampire whimpers, unable to stop himself. Blood spurts at the impact and then seeps out steadily from the perforation. A puddle starts to form on the floor, so Warren scoots to the side a bit. Mom just bought him these pants and she’ll be totally pissed if he ruins them. He drops the chopstick.
"Don't try to manipulate me, Spike. You're not the one in charge here. I don't have to prove anything to you."
The vampire watches helplessly as the blood seeps from the bag onto the concrete. Warren polishes off the rest of his noodles and stands up. He licks off the fork and tosses it onto the work bench. Steps up to the edge of the barrier. Looks down at the prisoner. Time to test this baby out.
"Okay. Get up," he commands. The vampire ignores him, completely lost in the spreading puddle of blood.
A second later, the chip fires and Spike cries out, clutching at his head, pulling his legs up to his body. Warren sneers. A minor command. It's just a jolt. The same sort of jolt the chip was originally programmed to give. Not like he had disobeyed one of the more serious commands. Warren had cranked up the punishment levels for the big stuff.
"Get up," he says again. Spike just squeezes his eyes shut and wraps his arms around himself. The chip fires again. He's prepared this time so he doesn't scream. Just gasps and tenses up. Curls himself into a tighter ball.
"Wow, you really are stupid." Warren shakes his head. "Get up… NOW!" A "now" command is serious. This should be interesting. He isn't sure what kind of effect the bigger jolts will have. This is his first attempt with a non-robot. He hopes he doesn't kill off his prototype before he can have any fun –
Okay, definite screaming. The vampire drops onto his side, convulsing and pawing frantically at his skull. It doesn't last long. Just a second or two. But the point has been made. Spike lies gasping on the floor, an anemic little trickle of blood coming from his nose. Pretty cool.
"Do I have to ask you again?" Warren inquires.
Scrambling weakly, Spike pulls himself to his knees. He stays that way for a moment, swaying, hanging his head.
"C’mon, get up!" Warren practically shouts this time.
Bracing a hand against the wall, Spike complies, rising unsteadily to his feet. He keeps his hand on the wall for balance. He is still gasping, staring at his boots.
"Look at me," Warren commands, feeling quite satisfied with the results.
Spike turns his head and glares. He's shivering.
"Believe me now?" Warren chuckles excitedly. Holy crap, it’s working! This is way more entertaining than a robot. Of course, it would be a whole lot better if Spike also happened to be a really hot chick. Would open up all kinds of other possibilities. Oh well. Soon enough.
The vampire wipes his free hand at the sluggish rivulet of blood from his nose. He looks hopelessly at the smear of red on his palm for a moment before licking it off.
“Well, I’m sure Spike’s better off wherever he is,” Buffy continues, returning at last to her mocha. Taking a tentative sip. “ Not so much with the drama. No more him stalking me. No more me using him. And that’s… y’know… that’s a good.”
“Yeah,” Tara agrees. “It’s good. He’s moving on with his life… or… unlife… or whatever. It’s healthy.”
“Yeah…” Buffy’s stares into her cup. “Moving on… healthy…”
Tara watches her. She seems to be doing better. When she had come to her for help in finding out what happened with the resurrection spell, Tara had been worried. What if something had gone wrong? The concern had always been there at the back of her mind, but Willow had been so certain that it would work. The spell was so complicated, Tara had had a difficult time poring over it for clues as to what could have happened. She’s still not absolutely sure she fully understood it all. Not that she would say so to Buffy. It would only make things worse.
“Buffy?”
Buffy loses her staring contest with the mocha. “Oh – sorry. Just… kind of a space cadet today.”
Tara smiles. Today? “That’s okay. Sometimes the swirls on the top – kinda pretty.”
“Yeah.” Buffy looks over at the clock on the wall above the Please Bus Your Own Table sign. “Hey, I should go. I’m nerd-tracking tonight. Gonna check out some rental houses Willow looked up on the net for me. See if they’re holed up in any of ‘em.”
“Oh, hey, good luck. Maybe I’ll stop by soon… see how you all are doing?”
Buffy smiles at her friend and stands up to go. “That’d be great.”
All sections of Part 2 take place immediately before
"Normal Again." All song lyrics in Part 2 are from
"Psycho Killer," Talking Heads, 1977.
Section 2.6: Will
Psycho Killer,
Qu'est-ce que c'est
fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away
The nerd is quite happy now. He's pacing and prancing about jerkily in front of the cage. Still talking. It's possible he may never shut up. Spike tries to pay attention. He's shivering with weariness. There's a strange tingling sensation throughout his body. Feels like all of his nerve endings are crawling on him like insects. After-effects of the shock, he guesses. He's dizzy and nauseous. Not much new there but it’s all heightened, worse. Not sure how much longer he can stay upright. He's got his back to the wall, letting it hold him up as much as it can. Still, the room keeps tilting around him, threatening to knock him over. He needs to sit down. Lie down. Rest a bit.
Doesn't dare.
The git has finally gotten back to his little pain conditioning tirade.
"…and since you knew what to expect, you started getting used to it, am I right? You started accepting the pain as part of your life. Expecting it, even. See? Pain conditioning! You get used to it enough, anticipate it enough, and it becomes a part of who you are. And if you're smart at all, you start to realize that you still have free will."
Warren stops for a moment and looks appraisingly at him. "You aren't completely stupid, right? I mean, you do realize that you've always had free will, right?"
Spike blinks, trying to keep him in focus.
His captor sighs and resumes his frenetic pacing. It would be hell of a lot easier to stay focused on him if the bugger would just stay still for a bit.
"Spike, buddy, even now you have free will, you know. You make the decisions for yourself. 'Do I do the smart thing and do what Warren says, or do I do the incredibly stupid thing and NOT do what he says, thereby suffering the excruciating consequences.' It's a pretty much a no-brainer. Ha, get it?"
Spike wipes a hand across his upper lip again. His nose has long since stopped bleeding but it doesn't hurt to try. Warren has made a joke so Spike exhales in what he hopes will pass for a laugh. It does. The lecture continues.
"…like, come on, I'm sure there must have been a few times when it was worth the chip firing to hurt somebody, am I right? You knew what to expect… you weighed your options, and you accepted the consequences. You still have that option. But you won't use it. Wanna know why?"
The shaking is getting worse. The fatigue is too much. His body won't be capable of holding him up much longer, wall or no. Three bags of blood in… how long has it been? Weeks? Months? Years? It's not enough to sustain him. Not enough to allow him to stand up even as long as he has been. The jolts from the chip took what little strength he had. Made him feel even more disoriented and hollow. The droning voice of his tormentor is fading in and out. That's not good. Gotta focus…
"– Hey, I asked you a question!"
"…Wait… I think I… I need to –" His teeth are chattering. He can't stop the shaking.
"I don't care what you think or what you need. I asked you a question. Answer me!"
Question. Okay. Must answer. What was it? Focus, dammit… oh! Right!
"Y-Yeah… tell me why.” Got it. Hopes that's the right one. He presses both hands flat against the wall behind him to help balance.
Warren looks disappointed. The chip doesn't fire. Must have been the right answer.
"Because," he goes on, "I'm way smarter than whoever put that chip in your head. You don't know what's going to hit you now. Hell, even I don't know if you can handle it. You're just a prototype anyway. The only thing you can predict is that the pain's gonna be worse than you've felt before. Try to get used to that. And when you do… I’ll just up it a notch or two. I mean, really, Sparky, it's just a good idea to do as you're told. You go ahead and think it over. I’m sure you’ll do what’s right. Just remember, I totally own your ass."
The pacing stops. He's being stared at. Was there a question? Something expected of him? He's not sure. The figure in front of him is weaving like a serpent. Flickering like a candle flame. Spike feels his legs slide out from under him. Feels his body hit the floor. Not good. Supposed to be standing. Sure to be punished… just… needs to rest…
Warren looks down at the unconscious prisoner thoughtfully. "I’m a god," he mutters. “Cool.”
He kicks the nearly empty blood bag past the barrier. There's not really even enough left in it to leak out. Still, nothing wrong with showing a little mercy.
Smiling to himself, he makes his way to the surveillance room to find out which of the guys fell asleep on guard duty this time. He picks up one of the super soakers on the way out.
PART 3 - BLOOD & LOVE
Chapter Notes: This section takes place during "Entropy." Spike's story & that of the Scoobies begins to re-converge a bit in Part 3. As a result, I borrowed some scenes and dialogue from the show, modifying it somewhat to suit my own purposes. Slathering thank yous to Spikealicious and her daughter's boyfriend for help with the Latin, as well as to the others who answered my panicked pleas for help.
Section 3.1: Invitation
My nerves are buzzin' and my heart is gone
I think I once was different but I might be wrong
There's ghosts in the attic and bones on the wall
But it's all right I don't care at all
I'm yours, and you
You're mine and that's
That's all I know right now
That's all
That's all I know, right now
- That’s All I Know (Right Now)
The Neon Boys/Richard Hell, c. 1972
"Te invito e hoc carcere… um… egredi!" Jonathan sprinkles the last of the enchanted powder as he finishes the incantation. He steps back. Nothing happens. The prisoner doesn't move, doesn't even look up.
"Hey, nothing happened!" Andrew whines. Jonathan shoots him a look. He wonders briefly if there’s a good spell for sealing someone’s mouth shut.
"What's up, Short-round? Did it work?" Warren hovers over his shoulder like some kind of garlic-breathy vulture or something.
"Um… I think so. I mean, I did everything like you're supposed to." Jonathan takes a couple steps forward, hoping Warren will stay put. Invasions of his personal space make him twitchy. He knows better than to try to explain this to Warren. He pretty much knows better than to try to explain anything to Warren anymore.
"One way to find out, right guys?" Warren steps forward and clamps a hand on Jonathan's shoulder. Dammit! Right back into the personal space. Jeez.
"Get up, Spike." Warren presses his lips together and peers at the prisoner in anticipation.
The vampire rises from his crouch without hesitation. He stands with his shoulders hunched and head down, glaring balefully at Warren's shoes.
"Come here," Warren commands.
A couple of tentative steps forward and Spike stops. He's reached the edge of his confines. He looks down at his feet and scowls. Jonathan understands his uncertainty. After all, for nearly a month and a half his world has been limited to five square feet of cement floor. A prison that Jonathan himself had created. Jonathan swallows and shakes off Warren's hand. He edges toward the stairs. Just in case.
"Now!" Warren adds impatiently.
Spike clenches his fists and steps past the barrier. He shuffles to Warren and stops in front of him, eyes still carefully downcast.
Warren pats the tangled curls on the vampire's head. He grins down at him mockingly. "Good boy!"
Warren doesn't seem to notice the vampire's lip curling into a silent snarl. Jonathan notices. He takes another step toward the stairs.
"Hey, Jonathan!" Warren whirls around to face him, leaving his back exposed to the vampire. Jonathan finds himself rooted to the spot. He sees Spike raise his eyes immediately as the figure in front of him turns away. Sees the eyes burning holes into Warren's back. "Why don't you come shake hands with our guest?"
"Um… no, that's okay. Y – You go ahead and do whatever you're gonna do."
"Don't be rude, Short-round. You'll hurt his feelings."
Jonathan doesn't move. He knows that Warren is trying to make a point. To Spike. To him. Warren is the one in control here. And he's making sure that everyone knows their place. Jonathan gulps. He feels a fresh burst of pain from the ulcer. Until a few weeks ago, Jonathan had actually been ulcer free since high school. Now it's like a constant gnawing in his gut. Like some kind of trapped animal is in there, trying to get out. He grimaces. When did it get like this? When did everything go sour? It seems like just a few days ago he and the guys were just hanging out at Warren's mom's house playing D & D. Friends. Hanging out. What – what happened to that?
"C’mon. Ewok. Over here. Now." Warren snaps his fingers and points to the floor beside him. He turns back to the vampire without waiting for a response. Spike's gaze drops instantly to the floor again. Jonathan does as he is told, coming to stand in the spot Warren had indicated.
"Good. Now shake." Warren nods toward the two of them. Jonathan isn't sure what to expect. It's possible that Warren is gonna sic Spike on him. He knows he hasn't been a big cheerleader for the cause lately. Warren probably suspects that he's planning to get out somehow. And he's seen some of the looks the other two have been giving him lately. He should have gotten out before now. He should have gone to the Slayer, told her everything. She'd protect him. Maybe. Or maybe she'd kill him. Or send him to the big house for murder or kidnapping or… vampire stealing. Who knows? And it might be too late now. Warren is giving him a really evil looking grin. Jonathan wonders when it was, exactly that Warren went insane.
"Spike, shake," Warren prompts.
Spike's jaw clenches, but he does thrust out his hand. Jonathan reaches out his own trembling hand and they shake – once – both pulling their hands away immediately. Spike's hand is ice cold; all claw and knuckle. The hand of a corpse.
"See? There we go! We're all friends here. We're all part of the team. Right Andrew?" Warren turns to Andrew, eyebrows raised questioningly.
"Um, right. Go team." Andrew is squirming, afraid that he'll be called on next for a little meet & greet. He also sorta looks kinda like he's… jealous. Like he's upset that Warren's paying so much attention to Jonathan. Huh. That's weird. Especially since, for once in his life, Jonathan would actually welcome being ignored right now.
"Okay then!" Warren claps his hands and rubs them together eagerly. "What do you say we take our pet vamp out for a walk?"
She pulls her jacket tighter as she walks through the cemetery. There’s a bit of a chill in the air. No vamps out tonight. Fine by her. She doesn’t feel like killing anything right now. Not even herself. Ha ha. Funny Buffy.
It’s been a pretty slow week, actually. Ever since she went nuts and tried to kill all her friends, that is. They were all very understanding about the whole thing of course. Well… for awhile it was all about the group hugs and the tiptoeing through the eggshells, but it’s been getting better. Not easy. Not good. But better.
She makes a final pass through the graves, slowing down when she comes to his crypt. It’s only practical that she check here every night. Word got out awhile ago through the demon grapevine that this prime piece of real estate was vacant. She’d already dusted six different vamp squatters and killed more than a couple demons looking to relocate. Not because it’s his place, of course. Because it’s just become a really convenient spot to find the bad guys. See? Practical.
She opens the door and peers in. She never goes inside. Not since Riley had half carried, half dragged her out of the place following the explosion. He hadn’t understood why she’d been so freaked out. Hell, she didn’t understand it. So yeah, Spike ended up being the bad guy. Again. Should she have been surprised? Why should she even care?
She pulls out her flashlight and switches it on. She has good night vision – part of the Slayer job description – but without the candles, the crypt is all dark and voidy inside. She sweeps the beam of light across the interior. Nope. No squatters this time. The place is completely trashed though. She knows the lower level was pretty much wiped out by the explosion but the rest of the place had been mostly intact. Not so much now. Between the demons and the local high school kids, what hasn’t been stolen has been destroyed. The T.V. is gone. The fridge knocked over. Empty beer cans and cigarette butts litter the floor.
He’d been so proud of the place. Well, hey – he’s the one who left, right? Not her problem. Besides, last time she was in Dawn’s room gathering up dirty laundry from the floor (and absolutely not doing a quick sweep for possible illegally obtained contraband) she had found a box under the bed. A box full of stuff that was obviously not Dawn’s. Some books – horror novels and – huh – poetry books – stolen from the public library. CDs of bands with names like the Voidoids and the Buzzcocks… (Buzzcocks? Sheesh!). A fuzzy photograph of Spike in the Summers’ kitchen, scowling and raising a blurry arm in an attempt to thwart the photographer. On the back, written with a fine-tipped Sharpie in Dawn’s hasty scrawl: “To Spike: Gotcha! Love, Dawn” The picture must have been taken during the summer, when Buffy was…
She had quietly shoved the box back under the bed. She didn’t ask Dawn about it. If it made Dawn feel better to think he would come back for the stuff, let her feel better. Buffy knows better. They don’t come back. Or… if they do come back, they don’t come back the same.
She turns off the flashlight and closes the door. As she leaves the cemetery, she glances down at her watch. The Scooby meeting is in ten minutes. Better get home. Willow’s been working on the mystery of the creepy little lawn ornament and hopefully they’ll be able to figure out who’s been spying on her. Or, more specifically, where the annoying little twits are hiding out. She realizes she’s actually looking forward to being with her friends tonight. They’ve got a mission – albeit a minor, kinda irritating mission – to track down some mostly harmless nerd guys. Still… it’s a mission. And they’ll tackle it. The gang. Together. Almost like old times.
She stops and looks up at the sky. Yep. The world is a hard place. But she has people who love her.
He can see the stars. He can't help but stop and stare up at them. Oh, she was right. Such confusion. He had forgotten how big it all was. The sky. The world. All of it. There is a chill breeze flowing around him. He opens his mouth and takes it in. Delicious! He holds it there. He doesn't know how long he has. He'll keep the breath inside of him as long as he can. To remember.
"We’re not out here to sight-see, Sparky. Get in the van. Now."
Spike quickly drops his eyes back to the ground and obeys.
The van is full of all kinds of electronic gizmos and such. There are video screens with images on them that look vaguely familiar. It takes him a moment to realize just what he's seeing. The Magic Box. The Bronze. His cemetery. Doublemeat Palace. Other places. Places he knows. Some that he doesn't. How long had they been watching? Why?
The sight of some of his old haunts sends a strange little shiver through him. Still there. They exist. These places are real. He hadn't dreamt them. An hysterical laugh threatens to escape from him but he catches it in his throat. Real. Of course real. Why wouldn't they be? And still existing without benefit of his presence. As well they should.
"Oh, hey, Warren! Something's up with the Gnome-cam." One of the monitors shows nothing but snow. Andrew fiddles with a knob.
Warren climbs over beside Andrew, pushing Jonathan out of the way. Jonathan stumbles into Spike. The force of it knocks Spike back against a metal cabinet. His head connects with a resounding clang and he flails for balance, continuing his impromptu descent to the floor. Jonathan lands on top of him with an “Oof.”
"Uh… sorry." Jonathan quickly climbs off of Spike and backs away, brushing himself off. Spike blinks up at him, a bit dazed. It's bad enough that he’s being held prisoner and ordered about by the Ubernerd here. But he has to suffer the further indignity of being toppled by a human so small he wouldn’t normally even bother to eat him. Too fucking weak. He scrabbles to a crouch, bracing himself with a hand on the floor for balance. Closes his eyes to curb the dizziness. Feels so hollow. A stick figure. No substance. He opens his eyes to peer at his hand pressed to the floor of the van. Half expects it to pass right through the metal. It doesn’t. Still here, then. Still real.
"Hey! Guys! D'you mind? We're trying to work here! Jonathan… make yourself useful. Drive." Warren pulls a set of keys from his pocket and tosses them to Jonathan. Jonathan nods and makes his way resignedly to the front of the van. Warren turns to Spike. "You. Sit. Over there," he indicates a corner of the floor by the van doors, "Now."
Spike complies, pulling himself into the corner. He can still see most of the video screens. He watches. Not really sure what he's hoping to see in them. Someone's in the magic box. Two people. Women. Their backs are to the camera but he recognizes Harris’ demon girl – Anya. He feels an odd little surge of emotion at the sight of her.
Long time ago, in London, a year or so after his death, he'd caught sight of his sister through the window of his former home. He'd just been passing by. Just the once. Not even sure how he’d ended up there. Wrong turn, most likely. Not like the place had held any significance at that point. It was all dead to him… or… he was dead to it… whichever. But there he found himself. And there she was. She'd been sitting in the parlour, knitting, illuminated by warm, flickering light. He had felt the same twinge of emotion then as he does now. Sort of an… ache. Something missing. Something important. He had stood in shadow and watched for nearly an hour before hurrying off to hunt. Had found a girl about her age that night. Tavern girl. He remembers. Nearly tore her head off with the ferocity of his attack. Tore other things too. He never went past the house again after that. For no particular reason.
"Huh. Looks like we've lost Gnome-cam One. Andrew, make a note to deploy Gnome-cam Two first thing tomorrow. Before the Farscape marathon comes on."
"Oh… but that starts at noon and I was kinda hoping to sleep in tomorrow since, y'know, we're staying up kinda late tonight –"
"Just – make the damn note, okay?"
"Um. Okay," Andrew pulls out a device similar to the one Warren had used to upload his program into Spike’s skull. Spike goes completely numb at the sight of it, clenching his fists so tightly he feels a finger snap. In an instant his entire consciousness is focused on the boy and what he holds in his hand. Then the boy pulls out some kind of plastic stick and starts pressing keys on the thing. Feeling Spike’s eyes on him, Andrew eventually looks up. He must see the terror on the vampire’s face because he pauses, crinkling his brow in confusion. Then, following Spike’s gaze, he looks down at the device in his hand. After a moment, his mouth opens to form a small “O” of recognition and he fumbles to put the PDA back in his pocket. He shoots a quick, almost apologetic glance back at Spike.
"Um... Deploy Gnome-cam Two. Check." He doesn’t look in Spike’s direction again, focusing instead on the monitors in front of him.
Only after the cursed thing is out of sight does Spike begin to register his surroundings once again. Satisfied that there will be no new torment, at least for now, he looks back to the monitors.
Anya and the dark-haired girl she's talking to rise and walk out of the camera's range. Anya returns to the frame soon after, the dark-haired girl apparently having left. She sits at the Scooby table. Hard to tell on the monitor, but she looks sad. Spike absently wonders why.
The Death Star is on the move. Warren re-checks the receivers for the camera feeds. Gnome-Cam One being out of the action makes him kinda nervous. He doesn't like not being able to keep tabs on the Slayer's lair. She's not showing up on any of the other cams. She's probably home. Still, he'd like to know just where she is. She's not part of the plan yet. If she shows up, it could seriously screw things up for him. The vampire's still too weak to fight her if it came down to it. But he's gonna fix that. And leave a nice little calling card for the Slayer to find in the morning. He can't wait to see her face.
The van stops with a lurch. Okay. They're here. It's showtime. He turns to Spike.
The door to the Magic Box closes with a jingle. He certainly hadn't missed that damned bell. He takes a few steps and stops at the edge of the shadows. If he looks at all like he imagines he must, he's not particularly eager to be seen in the light.
Anya looks up. Her eyes are red and teary. They widen when she sees him standing there.
"Oh! Uh… Spike… it's – it's you!" She glances around the shop, obviously scanning for a weapon. None nearby. "We're closed, you know. I must have forgotten to lock the door."
"H – hullo, Anya." It's been so long since he has spoken without being prompted. His words sound flat and awkward. "Uh… how's it going?"
Her eyes narrow suspiciously at him. "Where have you been all this time? And – have you lost weight?"
Spike gives a weak laugh. "Yeah, I s'pose you could say that. Been on a bit of a diet."
"Well… am I supposed to compliment you? Because it's very unattractive." She is still peering at him sharply.
He smiles but doesn't reply. He has missed her. Odd. Guess he'd always rather appreciated how she could be so… forthright. Annoying but honest, y'know? She smells good too. Hadn't smelled a woman in a long time. Her smell is sharp with strong emotion. She's very upset about something. He takes a few steps closer. Anya gasps slightly when she sees him in the light. She stands up and moves around the table so that it is between them. Clever girl.
"Spike… what happened to you?" she murmers. Her voice is filled with a mixture of fear and… pity. Oh. He looks that bad then.
"Had a run in with uh… a particularly nasty demon."
"For two months?" She stays behind the table as he continues to move closer. Her heartbeat is rapid but not panicked.
"Been that long?" Had it really only been two months? Two months. That's nothing. Not to a vampire. A blink of an eye. Thought he'd been gone for years. Thought he'd been gone forever. Maybe never even here. He shakes his head to clear it. So muddled. How long had he been this way? Head full of strange buzzings and whispers.
"Well, not quite – Spike?" she asks cautiously, recognizing that something is very wrong, "What are you doing here?"
"You've been crying." He is at the edge of the table, directly across from her. He leans in. Looks at her. When people cry, the little capillaries in their faces, especially around their eyes, become engorged with blood. Makes their faces swell slightly, turn red. Flush with blood. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world. A crying girl.
He takes an abrupt step back from the table and squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again he tilts his head and looks closely into her reddened eyes. The fear he recognizes. Seen it thousands of times. More than that. The pity… not as accustomed to that. Makes him uncomfortable. He tries to ignore it. It's the despair that gets him though. Resonates in him on a level akin to but deeper than hunger. And there's something else in there too. Can't place it. Something different about the girl…
"Anya? What's wrong?"
His question seems to trigger something in her. Sets her off crying again. She covers her face with her hands and sobs.
He can't move. He's doing it all wrong. What's the matter with him? Just because she's hurting. Just because he knows her. It makes no difference. It shouldn't change a bloody thing. He looks over at the clock. Taking too long. Got a schedule to keep. Now or never –
He lets the demon take over and lunges across the table.
"I think I've got the Magic Box." Willow announces. She types the final sequence and watches as the image comes up on the screen. "Whoah!" She jumps up, staring at the screen in shock.
Buffy and Xander rush around the table to get a peek at what she sees.
"Oh my god! Is that –" Buffy leans in closer, not believing her eyes.
"Spike!" Xander shouts. "Oh god, he's attacking Anya!"
He bolts from the dining room. Buffy hesitates a second longer, transfixed by the image on the screen. Blinking she pulls herself away and runs after Xander.
They leave Willow standing with her mouth hanging open. She watches the scene play out.
A red light flashes on the screen in front of Andrew, accompanied by the hacker alarm.
"Ahh!" Warren jumps up from his seat.
"It's tapped into our feed! Something's Wrong!" Andrew scrambles to type commands on the keyboard in front of him.
Jonathan looks up from the display panel in front of him. "Someone's tracing the video feed to the lair!"
"Um – okay, okay… do they have the remote signal? Are they tracking the remote?" Warren runs his hand through his hair and leans to look at Jonathan's display.
"I – uh – I don't think so. Not yet."
Warren is frantic. "Shut it down, shut it all down"
Andrew is still entering commands. "I'm trying, I can't find –"
Jonathan reaches in front of Warren to Andrew's keyboard. "Here, dorkface –"
"I'll get it myself!" Andrew tries to swat him away.
"Guys, we have to –" Warren looks up at the Magic Box monitor, "– oh, holy crap."
With her hands over her face like that, she hadn't seen him coming. He clamps an arm around her shoulders and twines his fingers in her hair, wrenching her head to the side to expose her throat. She makes no sound as he lowers his mouth to her neck.
"Sorry," he mumbles, scraping her neck with dry lips, "I'll make it quick."
She reaches up and locks her hand around his wrist. He feels bones snapping as she squeezes, forcing him to release her hair. He groans and tries to pull his arm away but she breaks loose from his hold and spins him around, pinioning his arm behind his back and pushing him face first onto the table.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Spike?" she shouts, holding him down.
"Whoah! What the hell was that?" Warren claps a hand over his mouth as he studies the monitor.
"Um… what's up with her face?" Jonathan grimaces, "She looks all… gross."
Andrew's eyes are wide. "She's a demon! Oh my god you guys – she's a vengeance demon! Oh, we so don't want to piss her off."
"Did she just kill Spike?" Jonathan stands on his tiptoes for a closer look.
"No… it looks like he's kinda wriggling," Andrew says, "Plus she's yelling at him. She wouldn't be yelling at him if he was dead, stupid."
“Oh, sorry, it’s just so hard to see what’s going on with your big head in the way.”
“Hey, bite me Numbnuts! I have the con, here! You’re just Ensign Extra and you know it… so just sit back and deal, Jerkathan!”
As usual, scuffling ensues.
Warren is frozen. Their lair is all but infiltrated. And the plan is obviously not going well… he's watching as his secret weapon is beaten up by the girl he'd assigned it to kill. He puts his hands over his ears to drown out the bickering. "Okay okay okay… you guys, just… shut up for a second. I need to think." Remarkably, they shut up. He thinks for a second.
"Okay. New plan. Jonathan – kill that signal. Kill it now. Andrew, you're with me."
As he turns to move into action, another alarm goes off. Spike's time is up.
"I can't believe you were going to kill me! Of all the nerve!"
Spike shifts out of game face.
"Anya," he winces as the crushed wrist bones grind together in her grasp. "Let me up. I promise I won't kill you."
"Of course you won't! You're as weak as a kitten. And I could kick your ass even if you weren't. What is your problem, anyway?"
She relents somewhat on her grip and eases off a little. He takes the opportunity to wrench his arm free and push her off balance enough to flip onto his back. She has him pinned by the throat, straddling his body before he can crawl entirely out from under her. She leans down until they're practically nose to nose. Looks into his eyes curiously. "You look like hell."
"Could say the same to you," he chokes.
"You're not insane are you?"
He's not sure of the correct answer to that. His eyes dart to the clock. No no no!
"Anya –" he tries again.
The door bursts open with a cheerful jingle just as the chip fires.
Xander is standing in the doorway, axe raised threateningly. He's not moving. Buffy pokes him in the ribs to urge him out of the way. She pushes past him and rushes into the room.
What the –?
Anya is looking guiltily up at Xander. Her face is all demony again. She's sitting on top of a wraithlike Spike, who is screaming in agony. He seems to be having some kind of seizure or something. Buffy runs toward them.
Anya jumps off of the writhing vampire and backs away, looking down at him with alarm. Spike's thrashing sends him rolling off the table to the floor. He doesn't seem to notice the fall, just curls up into a twitching little ball. Buffy kneels at his side, stake raised and ready. She's afraid to touch him. After a few seconds, the convulsions stop and he is still. Buffy reaches out a tentative hand and touches his shoulder.
"Spike?" No response.
She tilts her head down to see his face better. His eyes are half-closed. Only the whites are visible. A thin trickle of blood is running from his nose. Blood on his lips. There wasn’t any on Anya. Looks like he must have bitten his tongue or something during the seizure. He has some nasty bruises and abrasions around his face. Weird burns. It looks as if his nose has been broken as well. Somebody did a number on him recently. He looks starved too. He must be eating though or he wouldn’t be bleeding, right?
He's not breathing. Of course not. She has to remind herself.
She looks up at a bewildered Anya, who is now looking much more human. "What'd you do to him?" It comes out sounding more like an accusation than she had intended it to.
Anya retreats back a few more steps. "Nothing! I didn't do anything! He – he tried to eat me and then we were talking and then he just –"
Xander, regaining the capacity for speech, lowers his axe and points a finger at Anya.
"You!" he shouts. "You're a vengeance demon!"
Anya shoots him an irritated look, "Oh! Very good Xander! I'm impressed that you figured it out so quickly!"
Xander's mouth snaps shut and he continues to stare at her, unblinking.
Buffy returns her attention to the prone figure before her. "Spike?" she tries again, reaching to touch his face. Still no reaction.
She frowns and stands up. Tonight just can’t get much weirder.
As if on cue, about fifteen Fyarl demons burst in through the windows and attack.
Section 3.2: Dead Weight
Hollow inside I was hollow inside
But I couldn't find out what the reason was
Why I was
Hollow inside Hollow inside Hollow inside
Why I was
Hollow inside Hollow inside Hollow inside…
– Hollow Inside
Buzzcocks, 1979
“Dammit!” Warren kicks the Playstation out of his way as he paces. Jonathan and Andrew both freeze and emit synchronized whimpers as it crashes against the wall and shatters, spilling its electronic innards on the floor. “Do we have everything?”
“All of the… uh… essentials… I guess…” Andrew answers, looking wistfully at the rows of action figures Warren has ordered them to leave behind.
“Except for the Playstation.” Jonathan adds under his breath.
“Good. Lets roll.” He pauses and marches up to the Big Board, double-checking the trap. It’s a go. He scrawls the words “Too Late!” and turns to face the others. “Well, what are you guys waiting for? To the escape pod.”
They each grab a final box and hurry up the stairs and out the door.
“So… what are we gonna do now?” Andrew asks once they’re in the van. Warren is standing over the body sprawled on the floor, scowling down at it.
Warren sighs. Things aren’t exactly going according to plan. They had been able to retrieve Spike by summoning the Fyarl demons as a distraction, but that was the only thing that had actually worked out last night. Their security had been compromised and so far, the vamp had turned out to be pretty useless. He aims a frustrated kick at the vampire’s ribs. His foot connects with a hollow thud, but the body doesn’t even move. Even more useless now. The shock for a kill command must have been a bit too severe for the vampire’s brain to be able to handle. He had programmed the parameters with a healthy vamp in mind. He should have known that a vamp in Spike’s condition would overload. Oh well. That’s why they call it a prototype. Now he knows. Next time he chips a vampire, he’ll have to start feeding it again a bit sooner. This vamp hadn’t been a particularly healthy subject when they found him. Plus, he hadn’t been able to program him right away like he had originally intended. But now he knows. And now he’s determined to move on to Phase 3.
“We lay low for a day or two. I’ve got some preparations to make. Then we go after the Slayer.”
“Whoah! Hey!” Jonathan protests. “The Slayer? Now? We just had to abandon ship here. We’re, like, fleeing! I just had to leave behind some very important comic books! And your big secret weapon is a – a smelly dead guy that won’t wake up! How are we gonna take on the Slayer? Run away from her to death?”
Warren nearly growls as he leaps over Spike to Jonathan. He grabs the front of his shirt in his fist and yanks until Jonathan is forced to stand on the tips of his toes to stay upright. Warren towers over him and glowers.
“I don’t care about your stupid comic books, Ewok!” Warren declares, shaking him. There is an astonished gasp from Andrew at this blasphemy. “This isn’t some game, you guys. This is war! We’re gonna take over this stinking town. Starting with the Slayer and her self-righteous little Scooby clique.” He relaxes a little, letting go of the terrified Jonathan and taking a step back to look at them both. He breaks into a grin. “Come on you guys! This is reality here! I mean… we can be gods. Aren’t you sick of being bullied and told what to do by these people? Guys like us, we don’t get noticed. We go through life giving up our lunch money and getting wedgies. Chicks laugh at us when they see us naked–”
He stops uncomfortably for a second, realizing that he might have just given too much information. Andrew and Jonathan exchange puzzled looks, neither of them having ever actually been naked in front of a real girl before.
Warren opts to forget that he said that last part and continues. “Uh… I mean, you know, people don‘t respect us. And they should. We’re better than them. Nobody recognizes our genius. And when we try to make something of ourselves, get a little power of our own… someone like the Slayer comes along and tries to put us back in our place. Well… that just… sucks. And I’m sick of it. That bitch needs to be taken down a peg or two. And I’m gonna be the one to take her.”
There is a hesitant knock at her bedroom door. Buffy sits up a little, wincing in pain.
“Come in,” she calls.
The door opens a little and Tara pokes her head in. Buffy gives her a little smile and she steps into the room, closing the door behind her.
“How are you?” she asks gently.
“I’m fine,” Buffy replies automatically. Then elaborates. “One of the Fyarl demons did a pile driver on me. I think I’ve got a couple of cracked vertebrae.”
“Do you… need anything? Some tea?”
“No. Xander took care of me. It’s no biggie, really. I’ll be fine in a day or two.”
“Wow. I wish I could heal as quickly as you can –” Tara begins. “I mean, I guess… on the other hand I’m glad I don’t have to fight big nasty demons that think they’re pro-wrestlers for a living.”
Buffy smiles. For real this time. “I guess that makes us even, then.”
“I guess so.”
Buffy raises an eyebrow questioningly. “Hey! What are you doing here, anyway? …Uh… I mean… I didn’t mean that to come out sounding like it did.”
“Oh, no. It’s okay. I… I just stopped by to talk to Willow. Xander filled me in on what happened and I thought I’d pop in… see how you’re doing. He wanted me to let you know he was going home. He said he needed to be alone.”
Buffy nods. She understands.
“So… weird night, huh?” Tara asks, sitting at the foot of the bed and quirking her mouth in a sympathetic smile.
“I don’t think weird covers it, really.” Buffy sighs
“Xander says Anya’s –”
“– Back to her demony self,” Buffy finishes for her.
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“Poor Xander.”
“Yeah.”
“Fyarl demons, huh?”
“Yep. A dozen. Maybe more. The Magic Box is kinda trashed. And – oh! Nerd cameras! Did he tell you about the nerd cameras?”
“Yeah that’s just–”
“–Weird.”
“Yeah.” Tara nods in agreement.
“I’m gonna get those guys,” Buffy mutters.
They both sit silently for a moment. Buffy stares at the pattern on her blanket and Tara looks around at the walls of the bedroom.
FInally, Tara speaks again. “So… uh… Spike was there too, huh?”
“There too.” Buffy had never really looked at her blanket so closely before. It really is quite nice. She had always found it… cozy. And warm. Blankety warm.
“Xander said he attacked Anya…” Tara trails off. Buffy is still gazing at her blanket. “Did Spike know that she’s a demon again?”
“Anya says she doesn’t think he knew. She says he seemed to think she was human.” She picks at a ball of fuzz on the blanket.
“So he attacked her thinking she was human…”
“Sounds that way, yeah.” When Buffy was a little girl, she used to hide under her blanket at night when she was afraid. She knew that as long as she was hidden under the covers, no monster would ever be able to hurt her. Dumb kid logic.
“Does that mean… the chip…”
“Maybe. Something’s definitely wrong with him. I know that. He looked… horrible. And he was in pain.” Buffy continues picking fuzz balls from the blanket. Pulling them off and putting them in a careful little pile.
“In pain?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the chip is malfunctioning. Maybe it’s that. Or maybe it’s… I don’t know… something else. Anya says he was acting really weird.”
“And then he just–”
“– Disappeared. Yeah. I don’t think he could have taken off on his own. He was in bad shape. It was all just so crazy in there with all the Fyarl. He just – poof – disappeared.”
“Weird.”
“Yeah…” Buffy blows on the pile of fuzz balls, sending them scattering across the blanket. “I have to find him. Whatever’s wrong with him, he’s dangerous.”
“Yeah. I guess he is. Are you… if you have to… are you going to… I mean, can you…”
“I can. I will.” Buffy looks up at Tara. “It’s what I’m here to do, right?”
Tara reaches out to give Buffy’s hand a quick squeeze. “That’s not the only reason you’re here, Buffy. You know that right?” She gives her a smile that is meant to be reassuring as she rises from the bed.
Buffy smiles back, hoping it’s convincing enough. “I guess so.”
Tara walks to the door and turns back to look at Buffy once again. “You okay?”
“Just Ducky. Really.” Tara’s brows knit together and Buffy fumbles the fake nicey-nice. “Okay, okay. Not ducky. But close. …Ducklike?” She surprises herself with another mostly real smile. Tara hesitates a moment longer. Buffy makes a shooing motion. “I’ll be okay. Now go – be with Willow. …She needs you.”
Tara dips her head, blushing slightly. When she looks up, her smile really is reassuring. “Be well, Buffy.”
“Workin’ on it.”
Tara nods and leaves the room. Once the door is closed and the lamp switched off, Buffy slides down into the bed and pulls the blanket up over her head. She giggles at the absurdity of it, but she doesn’t come back out until morning.
Spike wakes up in the afternoon. Warren hears him stir and turns from the console he’s working at to look down at him. The vampire’s eyes are open and darting around the van in a bewildered panic. Eventually they come to rest on Warren and he seems to recognize where he is. He averts his eyes immediately.
“Finally. I was starting to think you wouldn’t wake up.” Warren stands up and walks over to squat down beside him. He grasps Spike’s chin and tilts his head up to face him. He pulls a pen light from his shirt pocket and shines it into each of Spike’s eyes. Spike is careful not to move as Warren performs his inspection.
“Do you know who I am?” Warren asks.
With some effort, Spike answers. “Warren.”
“Who’s that over there?” Warren points over at Andrew, who is sitting in front of one of the monitors, engrossed in the Farscape marathon and a bowl of Rice Krispies.
A pause. “Andrew.”
“Good job. Do you know who you are?”
The vampire hesitates, confused. Either he’s not sure how he’s supposed to answer or he doesn’t even know the answer. Warren puts the light away and stands up again. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Sit up.”
Spike tries to push himself up with his hands and gasps in pain as the broken wrist fails to support his weight. He opts for rolling onto his side and pushing up with his elbow. As soon as he is upright he topples back over again, unable to keep his balance. He keeps trying, desperately. Warren sighs. He looks like a bug that’s been flipped off of its feet and is struggling to flip itself back.
Warren leans down, holding out his hand. “Here.”
Spike looks at the proffered hand warily, but he reaches up and grasps it regardless. Warren pulls him upright and props him up against the side of the van.
“Your face has blood on it. Clean yourself up.”
The vampire licks his lips, finding the dried blood around his mouth. He wipes the blood from his nose away with his good hand. Licks his fingers listlessly.
There’s a little mini-fridge next to where Spike is sitting. Warren pulls a bag of blood from it. Spike’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t look up. Doesn’t move. This is the last of the blood they had stolen from the hospital. If the new plan is going to work, he’s going to need more than this. He stands for a moment, holding the bag of blood.
“You’re dead weight, you know,” he informs the vampire. “You screwed up last night.”
Spike lowers his head in contrition.
Warren tosses the bag into Spike’s lap. “Eat. We’re going out tonight.”
This is about the fluffiest section of
the story. Savor it. Takes place roughly during
"Seeing Red" but getting to be AU enough that the
timelines won't be matching up exactly anymore.
Section 3.3: Meetings
…I'm following lines, the blind leads the blind
So hang me or grant me a stay
You better cut me loose or hand me a noose
I didn't have the nerve to say no
I didn't have the nerve to say no
There's no end to the problem
Of a bad situation. Complication
No, no, no, no, ah
There's no end to the problem
And frustration. I need a vacation
No, no, no, no, ah
And I know I couldn't
And I know that I couldn't say no
– I Didn't Have the Nerve to Say No
Blondie, 1978
Wow. Warren is so cool!
Andrew leans forward in excitement as Warren animatedly describes the successful away mission. The three – well, actually four of them – are gathered at command central, the big warehousey room of the new lair. He and Jonathan (mostly him since Jonathan’s too sulky to do his job anymore, the big baby) had set up the few computers they had had time to rescue from the old lair and get things up and running. Warren seems pleased with the job they’ve done. It helps that the mission was a success. Man, Warren’s been so stressed out lately with all the stuff going wrong. It’s good to see him happy again. His eyes get all shiny.
“So I mojo the girl out into the alley, right? And of course Frankie follows me. His jaw’s all hanging open and everything. He’s totally freaked that she actually went with me – and you guys, I swear, if you could have seen the look on his face – it was priceless! So here comes Frankie – and he thinks he’s gonna kick my ass for taking his girl, right?” Warren pauses to smirk.
Andrew smirks too. Warren had only gone to Sunnydale High for a semester so they hadn’t really gotten to know each other until after high school. But Andrew had known Frankie Barnes. Everybody knew Frankie. Thanks to Frankie Barnes and his friends, Andrew had once spent three hours duct taped to one of the benches in the school commons wearing nothing but his underwear. Nobody had even noticed him there until Harmony Kendall had almost sat on him near the end of 4th period lunch and jumped up screaming. Then the crowd had gathered. And then the laughing happened. And then Principal Snyder had come out an untaped him, lecturing him the whole time… something about natural selection and accepting one’s place in the grand scheme of things. He hadn’t paid a whole lot of attention because he was mostly thinking about stuff like… how much duct tape hurts. And how much he hated Frankie Barnes.
“So I pull out the stun gun and jab the girl a couple times. I make sure Frankie gets a good look at that. I drop her, jab Frankie, then I sic the vamp on him while he’s all distracted…”
Warren gestures toward Spike with the stun gun he still holds in his hand. He looks way cool with a weapon. Like Han solo. Andrew can picture him fighting off hordes of Frankie’s big dumb jock buddies. Hi-yah! Ninja Warren!
…And as the last jock falls to the ground with a groan, Frankie cowers before the man who has defeated him, begging for his life. Warren raises the stun gun like a light saber. Holding it in front of him with both hands, pointing it at his opponent. “This is for Andrew!” he shouts as he thrusts his weapon into his enemy’s chest. With a steely gaze and a cool grin, Warren watches the body drop bonelessly to the ground. He then summons his vampire minion to finish the job because he’s too cool to even bother himself with a big jerk like Frankie Barnes.
Yeah. So cool.
Spike is standing a few feet away, next to one of the big steel columns, looking around the room with a blank expression. He flinches when Warren acknowledges him. Which is even cooler ‘cause, wow, a vampire – Spike the vampire – is afraid of Warren. And by extension afraid of Andrew. He doesn’t get all flinchy around Andrew or Jonathan… and he gets kinda glowery and scary when Warren’s not in the room but he knows better than to do or say anything mean to them. He knows he has to do whatever they say because if he doesn’t Warren will find out. Not that Andrew tries to get him into trouble or anything. That chip thing looks like it hurts him pretty bad. It’s actually kinda scary to watch. But as long as Spike does what he’s told, he doesn’t get zapped or anything, so it all pretty much works out. Spike gets that. He behaves now. And as far as Andrew’s concerned, the less zapping the better. Still… it’s neat to know that they have that kind of power. Just… y’know… if they need it.
It’s pretty cool when you think about it. Warren has found a way to harness an all-powerful creature of darkness and bend him to his will. Wielding him like a mighty sword of vengeance to strike down those who would oppose the Almighty Trio –
“Hey, pay attention Padawan, it gets better.” Warren is looking at him impatiently. Andrew smiles sheepishly and nods. He’s sure it does.
“So, the vamp drains Frankie dry, then starts in on the girl, right? And while he’s busy with her, guess who comes staggering out the back exit, big, dumb, and drunk?
“Ooh! Was it the Slayer?” Maybe that’s why Warren’s so happy. Maybe he managed to defeat the Slayer in some kind of surprise epic battle. A fight to the death pitting man against –
“Uh, no, stupid. It was Xander Harris.”
“Oh. Well, yeah, that was… gonna be my second guess.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew can see Jonathan rolling his eyes. Again. Jeez. The little guy hardly ever says anything anymore. He’s starting to get as creepy as the vampire. It seems like all he ever does is roll his eyes whenever Andrew opens his mouth. Sure, Jonathan is their friend and everything, but he hasn’t been very nice to either of them lately. They used to be able to talk about all kinds of stuff, like – how could the Empire have possibly been defeated by the rebels based on just one decisive naval battle and an assassination of the head of state? But now it’s like he doesn’t take any of that important stuff seriously anymore. He just keeps getting meaner and meaner since the accident with that girl. Maybe he should talk to Warren about it. An attitude like that can seriously weaken the chain of command.
“– So he’s staggering out the door like this,” Warren pantomimes something that kinda reminds Andrew of Popeye the Sailor. Or Donkey Kong. Or a big monkey of some sort. “Man, you should have seen the look on his face when he saw Spike! He totally freaked. Pulled a stake from his pocket and went after him. At first, Count Useless here just dropped the girl and stood there looking at him. But I gave the order to stop the guy and Bam! The vamp K.O.s him with one punch. It was great! I mean, he was out like a –”
“– Did you kill him?” Jonathan interrupts, actually speaking up for the first time all night. It startles Andrew enough that he kinda jumps a little bit. Not that he’s afraid. It just surprises him, is all.
Warren stops speaking and half-turns to face him. “What?”
“Xander,” Jonathan answers, looking Warren straight in the eye, “Did you kill him, too?”
Okay… all of a sudden there’s this sorta heaviness in the air. It feels all tense like it used get when he was a kid – right before his mom and dad would start throwing plates at each other and he and Tucker would be sent to stay with Grandma Helen for a few days. Warren and Jonathan are staring at each other and nobody’s saying anything and Andrew is very uncomfortable. He tries to think of something to say that won’t cause any yelling. Something that will make everybody get along like the well-oiled criminal machine that they are. He can’t think of anything. He looks to Spike for help, but the vampire seems to be enjoying the tension. He’s actually showing an interest in the conversation now. No help there. Maybe it’s a good time to go look for the bathroom.
Andrew stands up, “Um… I’m gonna –”
Warren finally speaks, still looking steadily at Jonathan, “I didn’t kill anybody, Short-Round. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jonathan looks disgusted. “Right. You made Spike kill them for you.”
Warren takes a couple steps toward Jonathan, getting in really close so he can stare down into his face. “I don’t hear Spike complaining.”
Jonathan laughs and it sounds too high and kinda wheezy. “Yeah, I wonder why.”
“Is there something you’d like to say to the group, here, Sparky?” Warren’s mouth is a thin, tight line.
Jonathan glares at him but doesn’t say anything. Andrew fidgets nervously and tries once again to break the tension, “Um – hey, guess what, you guys–”
Warren narrows his eyes. “Spike!”
Spike comes to attention, cocking his head with a detached interest at the spectacle before him. His eyes flicker from Warren to Jonathan and back again. Andrew’s palms are all sweaty. This is bad. He wants to run. There isn’t anywhere to go though. Why is this happening? Everything had been fine. It had all been just fine. Then Jonathan had to go and ruin everything. Why did he have to go and make Warren mad? Why couldn’t he just trust that Warren is doing what’s best for them?
Jonathan holds out for a second or two but then seems to deflate. He gets even smaller than he was. He lowers his head and mumbles so quietly Andrew can barely hear him, “Fine. Go ahead and do whatever you want. I don’t care.”
Warren smiles, suddenly seeming to be in a good mood again. He turns to Spike and shrugs, “Never mind. Just help the guys finish unloading those boxes and then come meet me in my Ready Room.”
Jonathan immediately ducks behind the nearest box and starts unloading equipment from it. Andrew breathes a sigh of relief and watches as Warren leaves the room. Turning back to the others, he catches Spike’s eye. The vampire raises a speculative eyebrow at him before bending down to rip the lid from one of the boxes.
Buffy looks tired.
“So you’re telling me that Spike’s joined up with the geek squad?” she asks incredulously.
“Hey, I’ve been saying for years that the guy’s a geek.” Xander cradles the bag of ice against his swollen jaw. Man, nobody would ever listen to him about Spike. And now here they are. And here – ow – is the proof. Vindication at last. Damn. Vindication hurts.
Willow scowls down at a pile of papers on the table in front of her. “Well, one thing we know for sure… the chip’s not working. And from the sound of it, Spike’s been feeding on humans again.”
“‘From the sound of it?’ Hello! Credible witness here! I saw it with my own eyes!” Ow. Not to mention felt it with his own jaw. Willow looks up and gives him her ‘sorry’ face. She’s still a big ol’ ball of tension these days, but Tara’s back now and she seems to be helping her to work that out a bit. Oh god. Tara and Willow working out tension. Xander quickly looks down at the table. Hmm. Oak. A good solid wood – oh god!
“The girl’s gonna be okay though, right? I mean, she’ll live?” Tara looks up at Buffy who is standing before the assembled Scoobies. Oh, thank you Tara! Thank you for interrupting with serious thoughts.
Buffy shrugs. “The hospital wouldn’t release any information to me. I’m sure she’ll pull through. I’m just glad Spike’s little gang got interrupted before they could…“ she trails off, giving Xander a quick squeeze on his shoulder. The contact surprises him. This might be the first time she’s touched him at all since the hug at the wedding. Oh, and here comes that sword through his chest again. He just needs to concentrate on the pain in his jaw. Focus on the Spike situation. Push the rest aside. He wonders if Buffy has any beer in the house. Yeah, right. Stupid thought.
“I just don’t get it. Why would Spike ever, in a million years, join up with those guys? I mean, that’s just unacceptable!” Dawn pounds her little fist on the table. Everyone turns to stare at her and she freezes, mid-tirade. When she picks up again, it’s a little less dramatic. “I mean… because… y’know, geeks and stuff.”
“Maybe he has rabies,” Anya suggests. She’s sitting at the far end of the table. As far from Xander as possible. With her being all demony now and all, he’s not sure if that’s a good or a bad. Fact of the matter is, he’s probably still too drunk to make that kind of an estimation anyway. In the meantime, he’s just gonna deal. Try to get along. Be happy guy. He can do happy guy. Buffy wants Anya’s input since she had the most interaction with the new twitchy-bitey Spike – although face meets fist comes in as a close second, interaction-wise. And if Buffy says so, well…
“I mean, he was acting all crazy and scary,” Anya continues. “Maybe it’s rabies. You know… like that dog? In that one movie?”
“Cujo?” Xander offers. Then adds more quietly, “Ow.”
She looks at him suspiciously, like anything he says is gonna be some kind of cleverly disguised attack or something. Like he’s sober enough to come up with something subtle like that. “No, not… well, yes, like that one too, I suppose. But I was thinking about that other one… You know, the endearingly loyal one that had to be shot dead by the boy who loved him?”
Maybe it’s the booze, but Xander thinks he catches a funny look on Buffy’s face when she says that. What’s up with that? Oh, but hey! He knows this one. He snaps his fingers, “Old Faithful!”
Oh, god, why does he keep talking? His jaw feels like it’s been… well… slammed into by a vampire’s fist.
Willow narrows her eyes at Xander. “Old Yeller, Xander. The dog was Old Yeller. Old Faithful is the geyser. God, we’ve gone over this like, a million times.”
“Mmph,” he concedes. The actual number is probably somewhere in the low thirties but, hey, not gonna nitpick. Nitpicking means moving jaw and moving jaw is a bad thing.
“Anyway, no,” Willow continues, all business. “Spike doesn’t have rabies.”
Anya harrumphs and crosses her arms. Willow ignores her and continues. “I’ve been going over the stuff Buffy was able to get from their lair. There are some files here that I managed to decode but… I can’t be sure what they are exactly. I think… I think they might have something to do with Spike’s chip. Like, data on how it works. I’d have to take a closer look at them, but…”
“Of course! Spike must have gone to Warren to get the chip out!” Ow. Okay. That’s it. He’s shutting up now. No more talking. It’s just… it makes sense. Spike knew about Warren the robot guy. Warren could probably do it. And now Spike’s all fangy again and working with the Nerd Herd. They scratch his back, he scratches theirs…
“Okay, so… he gets the chip out. Then he just decides to go over to the Dork Side?” Dawn frowns. “Why would he do that? He could have gotten the chip out anytime. And if he wanted to hurt us, wouldn’t he just… come hurt us? It doesn’t make sense. And anyway, Spike’s always kinda been more of a poser than a nerd…”
“Ah, but most posers are in fact secretly nerds.” Xander smiles knowingly and immediately winces. Okay, again… ow. He readjusts the ice pack. He just can’t stop himself. That’s the problem. Is there a twelve step program for witty comebacks or is he destined to suffer alone?
Willow frowns. “Yeah, but… why would Spike join up with those guys? I mean, he was… kinda… on our team… wasn’t he? And – and that big humongous crush he had on Buffy? I can’t picture him just dropping it. Something had to have happened –”
Tara and Buffy exchange something that Xander would best describe as “a look.” There’s a definite I-have-a-secretyness to it. What’s that all about? Come to think of it, Buffy’s been hanging out with Tara a lot lately. Maybe there’s something going on there – oh god! Don’t look at Buffy – No, don’t look at the table. He needs to focus on serious thoughts. Spike killing people. Spike trying to kill him. Spike drinking from that girl in the alley. That’s it. Serious thoughts. Spike in the Magic Box, lunging at Anya. Oh, Evil Dead’s gonna pay for that. Fang-face wants to kill them? Fine. They’ll kill him first.
Buffy stands up, crossing her arms in front of her. “It doesn’t matter why he’s doing it. We know he’s killing again. He attacked Anya. He hurt Xander. I’ve got to take him out before he hurts anybody else.”
Wow. It’s like she’s been reading his mind. Oh god…
This section picks up shortly after
the last one left off. Approximately during "Seeing
Red."
Section 3.4: Home Sweet Home
Well, I got a friend who's a man
What man?
The man who keeps me from the lovely
He gives me what I need
What you need? What you got?
I need it all so badly
This year I've lost some friends
Some friends? What friends?
I dunno, I ain't even noticed…
Oh, anything I want he gives it to me
Anything I want he gives it, but not for free
It's hateful
And it's paid for and I'm so grateful to be nowhere…
– Hateful
The Clash, 1979
“Ahh…” Warren settles into the chair, leaning back and propping his feet up on one of the still unpacked boxes of equipment. He shoots a grin at the vampire who is standing just inside the door of the burnt out room, waiting for Warren to indicate whether or not he may enter further. Nice and housebroken. Warren doesn’t indicate. “Home sweet home, huh?”
The vampire looks uncomfortable. Well, more uncomfortable than usual. He’s been acting funny ever since they had arrived at the new lair. Even quieter. And slouchier.
“Why so glum, chum? Don’t you like the new digs?” Warren looks around at the room he had claimed as his ready room. “Sure, it’s not as homey as the last place, but you gotta admit, it’s pretty wicked cool. Just screams “evil lair” dontcha think?”
Spike nods and continues to stand there, looking thoughtfully at the burnt debris scattered on the floor.
“Yeah. It’s a mess. I know. I sent the guys ahead to get the place all set up. But cleaning wasn’t as much of a priority as tapping into the the power grid and stuff.” He points up at the lights in the ceiling. “Fully operational.”
Spike glances up at the lights briefly and nods again. Definitely preoccupied. Warren isn’t sure if he’s more concerned that the vamp might be up to something or irritated that he’s being tuned out.
“So…” he continues, “You should be pretty happy, huh? No more cage. Full belly…”
Warren takes his feet off the box and leans forward. His vampire is nudging at something on the floor with the tip of his boot. Totally not paying attention to him. For an immortal being, he has the attention span of a toddler with ADD. He’s already looking better though. That’s a relief. Warren doesn’t like to admit it to himself, but it was a major screw-up to have let the vamp get so weak. Easier to control, yeah. But able to take on the Slayer? No way.
Warren peers down at the garbage at Spike’s feet. “What’cha got there, Sparky?”
Spike’s head flies up and his shoulders hunch guiltily. Already, he’s tensing up in anticipation of receiving a shock. Warren suppresses a chuckle. It’s good to be the king.
“Oh…” the vampire mumbles hastily, looking down again at the object that had drawn his attention away from his master. “S’nothing. Junk.” He brings his boot down over it. Crushes it into smaller pieces. Chances a look at Warren to gauge the odds of escaping punishment. Warren leans back a little. Decides to let it slide. He is a god, but a merciful god.
“Come here,” he commands, noting that the vampire has stopped breathing again. Weird. Vamps aren’t supposed to need to breathe at all. Well, maybe for talking and smelling and stuff like that. But Spike does it a lot. More often than not. Warren has noticed lately though, that Spike will stop breathing altogether if he thinks he’s about to get another shock. Pain conditioning. He’ll probably have to reprogram the chip to compensate if the vamp is already finding ways to prepare himself before a shock. Soon. When the vamp’s strong enough to handle another upload.
He hasn’t even registered the movement before he realizes that Spike is already standing in front of him. Vampire speed. Wow. He’ll have to clock that sometime. Once he has the Slayer he probably won’t even need Spike. It still might be a good idea to keep him around though. Do some experiments. Maybe use what he learns to control a vampire army or something. Oh, well, plenty of options. He can figure it out later.
Spike is obviously desperate to avoid punishment. And he’s obviously getting stronger if he’s able to move like that. Warren stands up and appraises him. He’s still skin and bones, but there’s some color to him now. Shortly after he had fed, the wounds around his face had begun to bleed freely. The vampire had, of course, made sure that the blood didn’t go to waste. By the time they had stashed the van in the warehouse area of the new lair, the bleeding had mostly stopped. Now it looks like the sores have already started to scab over. The blisters from the cross and the holy water are healing a bit too. Vampire healing. Cool. It may not take that long after all. If that stupid crowd of people hadn’t decided to come out the back way and interrupted them, they could have grabbed Harris and brought him back for Spike to eat later. That would have been perfect.
“How do you feel? Stronger?” he asks
“Uh, yeah…” Spike responds, cautiously beginning to breathe again. “A bit.”
“You’re healing.”
Spike reaches up and runs tentative fingertips over his wounds. “Starting to. I’ll… I’ll need more blood–”
“Shut up.” Warren cuts him off. “I’m not stupid. You’ll get blood. If you deserve it. Just chill.”
The vampire’s hand moves up from his face to brush nervously through the dirty coils of white-tipped hair above it. He shuts up.
“How long will it take? To heal? Till you’re strong enough. And don’t lie to me.”
“Uh… well, y’know… depending what you want me to do –”
“How long before you could take on the slayer.”
Spike’s eyes widen and a surprised laugh escapes him before he can stop it. Warren narrows his eyes.
“The Slay–” Spike is trying to keep his voice even. He’s being careful not to raise his eyes to meet Warren’s. “–You want me to fight the Slayer? That’s… that’s what this is all about?”
“How long?”
Spike blinks as he contemplates his answer.
“I’ve never… y’know, technically… beaten the Slayer… and, uh, weak as I am just now…”
“I don’t need you to kill her, stupid. I know she’s kicked your ass. I’ve seen it.” Warren smiles as Spike clenches his jaw. “I just need to know how long it would take before you could… you know, engage her in a fight. Help to subdue her. And it better not be long.”
Perplexed, Spike appraises his condition. Warren hovers over him, waiting.
“Uh… the bones should knit… couple days. That’s – y’know – if I feed again…” He flinches as he says it, realizing that mentioning the blood again could incur Warren’s wrath. Warren’s smile disappears but he lets him get away with it this time.
“…The wrist… it’s bad off. It’ll be weak a day or so longer. Got a concussion… that’s… three days maybe, long as I…” he skips over the part about needing to feed. Warren gets the point. He crosses his arms and begins to tap his foot.
“Uh… gone empty for… dunno how long. Could take awhile before I get much strength back…”
“Okay, Nosferatu, lets wrap it up here. I don’t care how you’re feeling. I just want a timeframe.”
Spike clenches his jaw again. Lets a bit of an edge seep into his voice. He doesn’t raise his head though. “I could fight you tomorrow.”
Warren stops tapping his foot. The vampire is feeling himself getting stronger from the nice big meal he had tonight. It’s making him cocky.
“Attack me and your brain explodes,” Warren reminds him.
“Well, yeah. Aside from that though…”
Warren pulls his fist back and strikes a blow across the vampire’s bruised cheekbone. It knocks his head to the side and he staggers back a step or two, but he doesn’t fall. Spike closes his eyes for a couple seconds.
“I hurt you,” Warren states.
Spike opens his eyes but doesn’t raise them. He’s testing the situation but he still knows his place.
“I said, ‘tomorrow,’” he responds quietly. He adjusts his stance a bit, preparing for another blow.
Warren keeps his fists clenched. It feels good to hit Spike. He had never been on the winning side of a fight in his life. Never known the satisfaction of throwing a punch and actually hurting his opponent. He had always been the one on the other side of the fist. This is definitely better. But Warren isn’t stupid. He knows where his power lies. He knows that fists alone could never make the kind of impact on the creature necessary to control him. He feels a certain pride in knowing that in however many hundreds of years the vampire has walked the earth, he is probably the only person to have ever been able to really hurt him. Now that’s power.
“Threaten me again and I’ll make the chip fire. See how strong you feel then. You want that?”
The change in the vampire’s demeanor isn’t obvious but it’s there. Fists may be useless on him, but the threat of the chip is palpable. Warren wonders, not for the first time, just how painful the shocks must be to terrify a preternaturally strong demon with the kind of pain threshhold Spike has. Once, during one of their dinnertime chats, he had asked Spike what it felt like. The vamp had been too busy screaming to reply, and Warren hadn’t been interested enough to force him to answer. It’s hard to describe that sort of thing after all. At one point, Warren had actually started to feel kinda bad for him. But every time empathy tries to creep in, he remembers the vampire threatening him. Intimidating him. Disrespecting him. He remembers how terrified he had been. All his life, it’s been like a constant state of fear. Fear of people like Spike. People who think they’re better than him somehow, just because they’re stronger or more popular. People who still come crawling to him when they need their homework done for them or their stupid robots built for them. Or the microchip in their head looked at. People not as smart as him. He doesn’t feel terror any more. Just anger. Warren Mears has moved up the food chain. No way is he going to let anyone get away with threatening him again.
Warren repeats himself, “Is that what you want?”
There is no longer any edge in Spike’s voice. “No – I… All I meant was… a human. I could fight a regular human tomorrow.”
“And the Slayer?”
“I don’t… Not sure I can. Even at full strength. It’d be a long time…”
“Just to corner her. Give me a chance with the tranq gun or something.”
Spike scowls down at his boots. “What do you… plan to… do with her?” he asks tentatively.
Warren lets out an exasperated sigh. “Just answer the question, okay?”
Spike shrugs his shoulders. “Well… just to… y’know, distract her… Soon as the bones knit, I suppose. Three days. If you’ve got good aim. And she’s likely to dust me before you can snag her.”
“Three days? Cool. That’s good. I can do that.” Warren turns away from Spike, already working on the plan. “Go get the guys. We need to get ready.”
Spike turns and trudges from the room. Warren looks around gleefully at his new sanctuary. Three days and the Slayer is his. Pretty damn cool. He steps over to the doorway and bends to look at whatever had so fascinated Spike earlier. Huh. Must’ve been kids playing in here at some point. He picks up a blackened porcelain fragment of a doll’s face. Scrapes away soot with his fingernails to uncover round green eyes. A doll. Stupid vampire. He drops the shard and stands up, wiping his hand on his pants. With his heel, he grinds the porcelain into the concrete.
On his way to fetch the lessers, Spike takes a slight detour, ducking down a corridor off to the left and slipping into a tucked away little room no larger than a supply closet. Once upon a time, it likely was a supply closet. Now it’s a burnt out husk with dented metal shelves lining the walls and great mounds of rat droppings in the corners. Somewhere in between then and now, this room had been Spike’s. His sanctuary. He had, at one time, done a good deal of quality drinking in this room. When Drusilla would work herself into a snit and put him out of the bed. And later, when Angelus had come back to claim what was his. This is where he had spent his days. Yeah. Lovely memories, those.
He bends down and rummages through the debris on the floor. Finds what he’s looking for under a toppled set of shelves. He pulls the bottle out and squints at it appraisingly. Not even enough whiskey in it to get one of the little boys out there buzzed. Still… the blood he’d had tonight’s not sitting right. Needs a chaser. Sure, it’d been rich and warm and… god… so alive. It’d been enough to make his eyes roll back in his head with the sheer pleasure of it. But then, halfway through the girl, she’d looked up at him and given a bit of a whimper. And no, he couldn’t stop drinking even if he’d wanted to – well bloody hell, why would he want to? – but it had given him pause. And then… what’s his name… the Slayer’s boy…Harris – Harris had shown up and that feeling had hit him again… that fucking annoying something in the periphery…
Something missing. Something… it had been important, right?
Nothing. It was nothing of course. It was just that he’d eaten too fast after starving so long. Nothing more. Still the taste in his mouth is bitter. He opens the bottle and downs the contents of it in one pull. Beautiful! Tastes like piss. Burns everything away. Much better.
He’d hit Xander, hadn’t he? He’d hurt the Slayer’s pet boy. Lucky thing they’d been interrupted by the crowd of humans spilling from the bar, or Warren likely would have had Spike off him as well. Wait… was that lucky? He’d wanted to hurt Harris, hadn’t he? Ages ago, perhaps? Seems to recall quite a few elaborate fantasy scenarios in which he inflicts all sorts of pain on the egregiously dressed wanker. There were possibly even some sketches involved.
Tonight, he had finally been able to inflict a bit of hurt on Xander Harris. And he felt nothing. Feels nothing. Because you are nothing he thinks and then quickly shakes the thought from his head.
Conflicted, that’s what he is. He takes another pull from the bottle. Nothing. Bloody hell. The boy will be fine. He’ll limp off to the Slayer and she’ll come and ram a stake through his chest and that will be the end of this nonsense once and for all. It’ll be a relief, really. His only regret – no, not the only one, but the one that seems to be clearest in his mind at the moment – is that he won’t be able to rip Warren Mears into bloody little bits before she dusts him. Not conflicted about that bit. He may be going mad, and he may be a bloody slave here, but at least he still has a dream or two intact, yeah?
He reaches up to touch the bruise on his cheekbone. The Slayer will come. And she will do her job. And until that time, he will do his job. And there is no choice in the matter at all.
He throws the bottle against the wall. Watches the glass shatter and sprinkle to the floor. He exits the room and returns to the hallway.
They meet him at the end of the hall and he stops.
“Um… there was a noise – we didn’t know –”
“It was nothing,” he interrupts Andrew, looking directly at him long enough to discourage any further questions about his detour but not long enough for it to be construed as insubordinate. Jonathan just stares at him apathetically. That one’s going to rabbit off any day now. And when that day comes, Warren is going to have Spike kill him. He almost feels sorry for the little bastard. Almost.
“Okay, yeah, but… what are you doing… um, loose?”
He pictures his hand punching into the boy’s throat, grabbing onto the windpipe and wrenching it free from his body – pulling it out of him like the little plastic thread from a packet of cigarettes. It would take the rest of him a few seconds to die. But at least he’d be quiet about it.
“Boss sent me fetch you. Plans.”
Andrew nods and the two of them edge past the vampire. When they’re clear, he turns and falls into step behind them.
Later that night...
Section 3.5: Chained
Hey!
Been trying to meet you.
Hey!
Must be a devil between us…
But hey!
Where
have you
been?
If you go I will surely die.
We’re chained…
–Hey
Pixies, 1989
Electricity lies. Someone told him that once. And sometimes, when everything is all quiet-like and still, when there are no other sounds but the sleep stirrings of his captors and the skittering of rats and night things through the rubbish of the lair, he can almost convince himself of that. Almost.
The night thing that is Spike wraps the chain in his fists and gives a tug. It’s a heavy chain, but rusty. Easy enough to break were he to throw himself into it. With his left hand he traces along each link of the chain, from the base of the column it’s wrapped around up to the link that is likely to snap first. Number seventeen. Fitting. About a half meter up. Nearly rusted through. His inspection of the chain reminds him of Dru’s fascination with rosary beads. How he was forever snatching them away from her, licking at blistered fingers as she cooed and whimpered in his arms. Silly bird always lingered when she reached the cross. He’d been tempted to try it once. Not sure why. Boredom, likely. Perhaps curious to see what she got from it. In truth, he was probably just pissed out of his mind. Nothing better to do. He’d held the cross in his palm and watched the flesh sizzle away – red, white, black. Nothing. He’d dropped the thing and stomped it to splinters under his boot. What had she wanted from it? Absolution? Punishment? Or just the pain?
He gives another halfhearted tug at the chain. Not really trying to break it.
Electricity lies. Right. Got it. Thing about electricity – it can be very convincing. These days, electricity tells him all sorts of things. It tells him, for example, that were he to snap this chain and make a break for it, the chip would drop him in a matter of seconds. The chain itself is meaningless, after all. He recognizes that it only exists as a representation of what truly binds him here. Something they can reassure themselves with late at night when they have only intangible electricity to protect them. He knows that even without a chain, even without a cage, he’d still just sit here like a sorry lump. He’s a coward. And he knows it. And he hates himself for it.
Thing is, he likes the chain. He’s glad for it. At last, he has something to hold onto. Something real. It’s the intangibility of it all that gets to him. Electricity. Fuck. How do you fight that? How do you fight something that’s inside of you? You can’t kill it, can’t tear it to bits. Can’t pretend it’s not there, deep under your skull, burrowing into your brain and telling you lies and lies and lies. Making you crawl and beg like the pathetic wanker you are. Twisting you up inside until one day you wake up and realize you’re not even you anymore. It’s horrible.
He hears the footsteps approaching long before the door opens. He lets go the chain and braces himself. Electricity has taught him to sit like a good boy and mind his manners. It has accomplished something headmasters with canes, big broody vampires with bad hair, and moody little girls with sledgehammer fists have all failed to do. Miracles of technology, eh?
He snickers. Electricity. It’s a funny thing.
“Can’t sleep, huh? Hey, I know how you feel.” Warren drops the soldering iron onto the worktable as he enters and draws the chair over to face the vampire. He flops down onto it and rubs at his eyes wearily. This place doesn’t have any mirrors but he’s pretty sure the dark circles under his eyes could give the vamp a run for his money, bruise-wise. He ran out of No-Doz last night but he grabbed a couple Mountain Dews at the gas station so he’ll be good to go for awhile at least. A thought suddenly occurs to him and he looks curiously at Spike.
“Hey, do vamps need to sleep? I mean, I know you can and all that… but hey, you don’t need to breathe but you still do that a lot. Just wondering, y’know?”
Spike runs his hands through his hair and stares at his boots. “Yeah. We sleep.”
His hands are all orange. Rust. He’s been messing with the chain. Stupid vampire. Warren frowns disapprovingly. “You can’t get away, you know.”
Spike pulls his legs up and rests his arms on them, leaning back against the column and looking vaguely in the direction of Warren’s feet. The chain clinks and drags across the floor with the movement. “I know.”
“It’s not so bad, is it? Here? With us? I mean… you had fun tonight, right?”
Spike just shrugs and keeps watching Warren’s feet.
“It’s kind of a rush, isn’t it? Killing? How long has it been for you, anyway? A long time, I’ll bet.”
The vamp turns his hands up and gazes at his rust-stained palms. “Been awhile, yeah.”
“You missed it. I could tell. You liked it, right?”
Spike scowls, “‘Course. Vampire.”
“Yeah. It was pretty cool.” Warren looks at his own hands. Clean. Well, mostly. He could use a bath. Certain parts of the whole supervillain gig kinda suck. No shower in the secret lair being one of them.
“You should be thanking me, really. When you think about it it’s like… like I’m doing you a favor. Letting you kill again.”
Spike wipes his hands on his jeans. “Thank you,” he says quietly, automatically, looking at the floor.
It bothers Warren a little bit that Spike doesn’t mean it. That he’s only saying what he’s expected to in order to avoid a negative response. He’s not sure why it bothers him. It’s not like he cares what Spike thinks of him. It’s not like it matters if Spike enjoys killing people or not.
“You’re welcome,” he responds, troubled. He sits there for several minutes, watching his captive. The vampire fidgets nervously under his gaze. The chain clinks occasionally but otherwise the two of them sit in silence. His eyelids are heavy and he finds himself drifting off. A sudden sensation of falling jerks him back to alertness. The chair scrapes alarmingly with the sudden movement.
Startled, Spike tenses and raises his eyes to meet Warren’s for an instant before dropping them back to the floor. In that moment, Warren sees a lot of things reflected in the vampire’s eyes. Fear, of course… and resentment. A cool, careful anger. And again, that glint of recognition. “I know you,” the vampire’s eyes seem to say. “I know what you are.”
Warren stands up and stretches, cracking his neck a couple times. Needs to stay awake. Work to do. He looks down at his pet monster. His demon.
“Hey, Spike…”
The vampire raises his head, eyes darting cautiously toward his master.
“Vampires. When you sleep… you, uh… ever have nightmares?”
“It’s your go.”
“No it’s not. I just went.” That’s a lie. Andrew knows it’s his turn.
“Don’t be stupid.” Warren’s giving him that look like he’s doing something wrong again. Andrew’s showing weakness. He knows it. He hates it. He hates being weak. He just can’t help it. Whenever he does something he screws it all up. It’s so much easier when Warren just tells him what he wants instead of always expecting him to know.
“I’m not– I just… I don’t know what to do next.”
Warren sighs and throws his head back. A drop of rain spatters onto his face and he frowns, blinking it away
“I told you there was gonna be a storm.” Andrew tries for an I-told-you-so singsong but what comes out sounds a lot more like frightened whisper.
“No you didn’t. It’s just rain, anyway, dillhole. Are you gonna go or what?”
“I don’t… want to go.”
Warren rolls his eyes. “You have to do something or it’s not a real game. If you don’t do anything, it’s just two guys sitting around staring at each other like a couple of morons. Go. Make your move.”
“I– I can’t.”
Warren smiles and leans forward. The rain is falling faster, in big wet drops. The map is getting wet. Warren is staring straight into his eyes. It makes Andrew’s body hum with electricity. There’s gonna be lightning soon.
“Are you afraid?”
Andrew squints up at the sky. The rain is pelting them now but it feels warm… nice. Big fat drops that slide down his neck and crawl under the collar of his shirt. The clouds are moving across the sky time-lapse fast.
“Oh, hey!” he stalls, “That cloud looks kinda like a bunny!”
Warren doesn’t look up, just keeps staring at him. The cloud is gone already, anyway.
Warren repeats himself. “Are you afraid?”
Andrew frowns. “The sun’s… it’s not coming back, is it?”
Warren shakes his head. “We don’t need it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Hey, who’s the Dungeon Master, here? Trust me. Now… make your move.”
“Um… ‘kay…” Andrew leans forward until his face is only inches from Warren’s. The proximity is exciting. Andrew’s heart races. Warren’s smile gets bigger. He smells like blood. It scares Andrew to think that he knows what blood smells like now.
The clouds are moving so fast above them that the sky is just a dark, undulating blur. It makes him feel all dizzy. Like he’s on a tilt-a-whirl. His stomach flip-flops accordingly. His hair is drenched now, falling in front of his face. He brushes it away with the back of his hand. It feels too thick… sticky. He looks down at his hand.
There’s blood on it.
Confused, he looks at Warren who is grinning now, showing his teeth. His eyes are the only bright thing in the darkness. Fat drops of rain that aren’t rain but actually blood spatter on his face – splashing down everywhere, turning everything red.
Andrew pulls away. The game map is gone. Instead, lying between them is a girl in a French maid’s uniform, limbs akimbo, skirt hiked up in a way that isn’t sexy at all. Her dead eyes stare up at him and he jumps to his feet. Warren stands up also, steps around the body and grabs onto Andrew’s shoulders. “You know I need you, right? You’re my Number One, here, man. I’d never let anything bad happen to you. You just have to chill, okay?”
“I’m… um, chilly. I just – I don’t think this is the right game. I don’t remember any of this from the manual. And the Monster Manual doesn’t have anything about… about a –”
Warren pulls Andrew closer and Andrew lets him. It feels nice. Safe.
Warren looks down into his eyes. “Are you afraid?”
“No.” Andrew closes his eyes to shut out the gore around them. He focuses on the feeling of Warren’s hands touching him.
“Good.” Warren says, his mouth next to Andrew’s ear. His breath tickles. It feels good. And Andrew isn’t afraid anymore. Not even when he feels the fangs sink into his neck.
Beside him, Andrew stirs in his sleep and Jonathan turns in his sleeping bag to face the opposite wall. In the darkness he can’t see the door with the smashed in EXIT sign above it, but he knows it’s there. He imagines what would happen if he just got up and walked out.
Well, first of all, it’d be a long walk back to town. He’s not good with distances and his inhaler is running low. And then where would he go? The police? No way. He’s seen enough movies to know that he wouldn’t make it ten minutes in the big house. He can’t just go home and pretend nothing happened. “Hi mom. Hi dad. Sorry I dropped out of college and disappeared but I was trying this whole supervillain thing which didn’t really pan out. So hey, what’s for dinner?”
To Buffy then. The Slayer. He could throw himself at her mercy. And Willow would take pity on him because Willow’s nice. She might convince the Slayer to spare him at least. Yeah, Willow would help him. He’d always liked her. She’s no Cordelia Chase or anything but he’d always thought she was kinda cute… in a nerdy sorta way. Not that he has much room to judge, he reminds himself. He could send her an email. Tell her everything. Warn her about what’s gonna happen. He’d have to cover his tracks so Warren wouldn’t find out. And Warren’s way better at the computer stuff than he is, so it’d be tough. He’ll have to figure out how to do it. Reroute the message through a remote server. Set up some firewalls or something.
He’d be a traitor. He be betraying his friends. The Trio. Andrew, who practically lived at his house after his grandma got sick. Before he and Tucker went to live with their aunt across town. Andrew, who would cry at night when he slept over, after he thought Jonathan was asleep. Something that Jonathan never brought up no matter how much they fought – even when Andrew spilled Yoo-Hoo all over his Spiderman comics. Because kids know that some things are sacred between friends. Some things you don’t talk about.
And Warren, who stood up for him when that guy at the comic book shop tried to rip him off. Warren, who didn’t even know him then, had pulled him aside before he could slink out in defeat. “Are you gonna let him get away with that?” he’d asked. “You’ve gotta stand up for yourself, Sparky. Get what you deserve. C’mon, I’ll back you up.” Warren had made him feel like he could actually be somebody. Like maybe together they could get some respect.
He doesn’t know what to do. Everything’s all screwed up now. He doesn’t understand any of it. He hears Andrew whimper and turns again to face his friend. It’s too dark to see Andrew either, of course.
In darkness as thick as this, it’s pretty hard to feel anything but alone.
Lying silent in the pale moonlight, she watches her lover sleep. Lacy eyelashes on smooth cheek. Perfect kitty-cat nose. Luscious, lickable lips parted as if they were forming a permanent and thoughtful “oh.” As if saying “Oh, it’s good to be back,” or “Oh, I missed you so much,” or “Oh, I love you.” “Oh, oh, oh.” And her bestest, mostest favorite: the little crease between eyebrows. As if even in sleep her sweetie is thinking Very Important Thoughts.
Well, of course she is. Willow smiles.
“You came back to me,” Willow thinks. “You came back to me and everything’s gonna be okay now.”
“Mmm.” Tara smiles too.
For a panicked moment Willow worries that maybe she thought too loudly. Did Tara hear her? Did she screw up already? Lose control in her sleepy-happy, guard down moment? She watches, frozen, waiting for her lover to wake up – at first confused and then angry. And then gone.
She’s tempted – just for an eensy moment, a nanosecond, tops – to slip inside, just to see if her thoughts had disturbed Tara. Find out some of those Very Important Thoughts maybe…
She rolls away and stares at the ceiling, taking deep calming breaths. She’s a monster. That’s what she is. She’s gross and wrong and… naughty.
But no. She won’t be that. She is Amazon Willow. Strong enough to do what’s right. She will never, ever do anything like that to Tara. Nope. Never. Well, not again at least. Never again. Willow Rosenberg is One Tough Chick. Better not mess with her, Buster. So you better just pack your bags, Temptation. Because Willow is strong and smart and… and…
She turns back toward Tara, propping her head up with an elbow on the pillow. She reaches out a careful hand and caresses her lover’s cheek. Just to be sure. Because it still doesn’t seem real yet. Her being back. There. Warm. Soft. Real. She smiles once again.
…and she is loved.
In her bed, buried deep under the blankets like a dead thing beneath the earth, the Slayer sleeps. Willow had dug out some T3s to help her with the back pain. Brewed some tea for her.
“To help you sleep,” Willow had said. “You need to rest.”
And echoes from her friends. Friends with worried eyes and warm comforting hands on her shoulders.
“Rest.” “Rest.”
And the Slayer, too tired to fight them off, was at last defeated.
“Rest,” they said.
And so, in her bed, buried deep under the blankets like a little kid afraid of the dark, the Slayer sleeps. She doesn’t dream.
Tomorrow, she goes hunting.
Still set during "Seeing Red." This
section takes place the next night after the last
section. Sort of a completely alternate version of
the armored car scene.
Section 3.6: Hunting Party
I'm a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm
I'm a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb
I am a world's forgotten boy
The one who searches and destroys
Honey gotta help me please
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby detonate for me…
– Search and Destroy
The Stooges, 1973
The doors to the fraternity house open up, spilling out a stumbling, raucous crowd of humans. They stand for awhile at the entrance, the males mocking each other in loud voices in an apparent attempt to impress the females. One of the women, a petite brunette clad in a skintight tee shirt imprinted with the predictably ironic proclamation of “Angel” takes a last drag from her cigarette and drops it into the bushes beside the doorway. No one notices the hand that reaches out from the darkness to snatch up the still burning ember. An equal lack of attention is paid to the black van parked across the street.
He waits and watches. The only movement he makes is to bring the fag up to his mouth, getting as much from it as he can before it’s down to the filter. Menthol. Balls. Still – beggars, choosers, et cetera. It’s an eternity before the drunken clump begins to disperse, shouting slurred goodbyes to their mates.
“That guy! There. In the red shirt. See him?” the hated voice in his ear is whispering, all cloak and dagger like. As if anyone else could hear. Tosser. Once again, Spike resists the urge to rip the receiver from his ear and stomp on the thing. He peers through the foliage. Draws a bead on the red shirt guy as he and the angel splinter from the group, staggering together with arms entwined. He rises and cuts diagonally across the yard, fast enough to remain unseen. He falls into step behind the couple, melting into the shadows whenever one of them hesitates or turns. He follows close enough that they can sense his presence, pissed though they may be. The smell of their mounting anxiety is intoxicating. It’s been awhile, but he’s still got the stuff. Just like pushing someone off a bloody bicycle.
His quarry quickens in pace and he speeds up to match it, grinning for the first time in… well, long enough that he’s forgotten the last time. This is his element. This is what he was made for. The hunt. The kill. It’s a tasty bit of freedom, is what it is. Several blocks behind, he can hear the engine turn over in the van. Hears it idle slowly down the street, following. Its presence dampens the mood a bit. Reminds him of his situation. Reminds him whose hunt this really is.
“The alley! The alley! Drive them into the alley. Now.” At the command he advances ahead of the couple, gliding silently within the shadows of hedges and parked cars. The van passes them and rounds the corner. Sensing danger ahead if they keep to the sidewalk, the couple pauses at the mouth of the alley. As they hesitate uncertainly, Spike makes a scuffing sound with his boot. That decides it for them and they duck into the alley, moving quickly away from him. Too easy. He follows, wishing he could have drawn out the chase a bit longer. Once in the alley, he can see the van parked across the street. More importantly, he sees Warren standing in front of the happy couple, cast into silhouette by the distant street light. He holds the stun gun in his hand, tapping it dramatically against his other hand.
This is where it stops being fun. Spike stands and waits, shoving his hands into his pockets, awaiting his next order. Warren taps the stun gun a couple more times for dramatic effect. The boy’s really seen far too many movies. Red Shirt crosses his arms impatiently at the obstruction.
At last Warren smiles and speaks. “Hello, Percy.”
Jonathan stares morosely at the monitor. They’re all just standing there. It looks like Warren is actually having a conversation with the guy. It’s kinda sick.
Andrew flops into the chair beside him, sighing emphatically. “This is boring. Isn’t something gonna happen soon?”
Jonathan turns and stares at him. “Yeah. Pretty soon they’ll be dead. I bet you can’t wait for that.”
“Hey!” Andrew jabs a finger at Jonathan’s chest but quickly withdraws it under Jonathan’s withering glare. “I’m not– that’s not– Jeez! why do you have to be such a jerk?”
“I’m not being a jerk!”
“Are too!”
“Am not!”
“Yes you are! You’re being the king of all jerks! You’re– you’re Captain Jerk! You’re being all mean and grumpy. And – and you ate the last Nutty Bar this morning without even offering to share! It’s like you totally hate us. You… you’re tearing the Troika apart and you don’t even care!” Andrew looks as if he’s about to cry.
Jonathan blinks at him, open-mouthed for several long seconds before he finally speaks again, in a low voice. “Andrew… people are dying, here. People are dying – because of us. Don’t you get that?”
“Who the hell are you?”
Warren raises his eyes skyward. God! Doesn’t anyone remember him from high school?
“You don’t remember me?” Warren asks, disappointed.
He stands, feigning patience while Percy leans closer for a better look. Percy shrugs. “Uh… no. Should I?”
Warren spreads his arms indignantly. “Well, yeah you should remember me! I only did your homework for, like, an entire semester in high school.”
Percy stares at him, still not clicking. Warren keeps trying. “I can’t believe this. Warren! Warren Mears? You seriously don’t remember?”
This is ridiculous. Okay, sure… so he didn’t go to Sunnydale High long enough to even make it into the yearbook. But hell, you’d think someone would have at least noticed him there! After all, he’d been there long enough to come up with at two-page list of people the world could do without. See, that’s the problem. They’re like sheep. All of ‘em. Too busy partying and screwing and living their perfect little lives to even notice the stuff going on around them. They don’t even care about the people they step on along the way. It really kinda pisses him off.
Warren sighs and looks past the befuddled jock to Spike who is standing with his hands in his pockets, watching. He looks slightly amused. One eyebrow raised. A hint of a smirk. Warren frowns. The vampire catches the look and quickly lowers his head, shuffling his feet nervously on the pavement. Well, that makes him feel a little better. The girl hanging at Percy’s side looks back at the sound and notices Spike for the first time. Her eyes grow wide. She tugs at Percy’s sleeve but the gears are grinding. He’s too busy trying to remember now. Or too drunk to care what she might have to say. Warren rolls his eyes.
Finally the cloud breaks over the guy’s head and it dawns on him. “Oh hey… Warren. Right. You, uh… you hung out with those other computer gee– guys… Fritz and, uh… what’s his name.”
“Dave. Yeah.” An irritating twinge of memory.
“Didn’t they like, die or something?”
“Um– yeah, anyway… my point here is –” Warren cuts himself off with a sigh, completely losing patience. “You know what? Never mind. Just forget it. Spike!”
Spike raises his eyes, head still tilted downward. He stands patiently but Warren can almost feel the vampire’s hunger for himself. Warren licks his lips and looks Percy in the eye.
“Snack time.”
“Wait – we’re not actually killing anybody. I mean, it’s not like it’s us. Spike’s the one who’s doing it.” Andrew looks down at his shoes and spins in his chair, restlessly.
“Yeah,” Jonathan agrees. “Spike’s doing it because Warren tells him to.”
Unnoticed on the monitor behind them, Spike vamps and lunges, grabbing Percy around the throat and latching onto his neck. The girl screams soundlessly and turns to run. Warren takes off after her.
Also unnoticed is another monitor showing the tiny figure of a girl walking alone down the street several blocks in front of them. At the same time that the girl in the alley screams, this other girl stops and looks around for the source of the sound.
“Well, yeah, but… hey, y’know… you’re the one who said we should feed him. You said it. You said he needed blood. And he’s gotta eat, right? I mean, remember that snake Warren had? He used to let me pet it all the time? Before it got loose and his mom made him get rid of it?
xn letting Andrew pet his snake. “Yeah. Uktena. It was pretty cool.”
“Yeah. Well, if Warren hadn’t brought the snake mice, it would have starved and stuff, right? It was a natural and… uh…necessary part of the food chain that we really can’t –”
“Y’know, actually, I remember you hiding your eyes and squealing like a little girl the first time you saw Warren feed the thing.”
“Um… yes, well… okay. Granted. But I’ve… matured since then, thank you very much. I can accept certain… uh… fundamental laws of… y’know… snakes… and stuff. But, see… it kinda helps if you just think of it like… we’re bringing Spike mice.”
He says that last part brightly, with a flourish of hands, as if presenting a platter of hors d’oevres.
Jonathan sighs. “Okay… One: Spike’s not our pet, dorkface. He’s a person… kind of. A vampire. Whatever. He’s not a snake. And Two: People aren’t mice, they’re people. People who don’t deserve to die just so Warren can do whatever the hell it is he’s trying to do.”
“Hey!” Andrew gets indignant. “Warren’s our leader. He knows what he’s doing! It’s not our place to–”
Jonathan cuts him off, spinning him around in his chair so that he’s facing the monitors. He points a finger at the alley monitor. The only thing visible besides the dumpsters along the side of the building is the body of a man in a red shirt sprawled on the pavement.
“Look, Andrew! Look at that! That’s Percy. We went school with him. We’ve known him our whole lives. He was a person. And now he’s dead.” We did that. Us.
Andrew looks away from the monitor and shoves Jonathan aside. “Okay, yeah.” He narrows his eyes and looks evenly at Jonathan. “That’s Percy. Okay. Percy who stole my He-Man and then sat on me until I cried in the first grade. Percy who gave me a bloody nose in junior high because he said I looked at him funny in the locker room. Percy who picked on us every single day at school until he got bored enough to just ignore us. Percy who… who did something mean enough to Warren to get on his list. Percy was a– a–” His eyes go wide as he looks over Jonathan’s shoulder. “Oh – oh my god!”
Jonathan turns and follows Andrew’s gaze to the monitor showing the street in front of the van. The Slayer is marching directly toward them, head cocked, scrutinizing the Death Star.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…” Andrew shoves past Jonathan to the front of the van, diving into the driver’s seat. He turns the key in the ignition and the engine roars to life.
“What are you doing?” Jonathan scrambles to reach him. “You can’t even drive!”
“We have to get out of here!” Andrew replies, shooting a panicked look back at Jonathan. “We have to get to Warren before the Slayer gets him!”
He jerks the gearshift and slams on the gas. Jonathan grabs onto the passenger seat and pulls himself into it, looking up in time to see the van lurch forward toward a very surprised looking Vampire Slayer.
He follows Warren’s scent – and the more enticing aroma of the frightened girl – to a nearly empty parking lot several blocks up. Warren is there, catching his breath. The girl lies motionless at his feet. No heartbeat. Dead.
The buzzing in his head started a minute or two ago. High pitched and unnerving. More a sensation than a sound. It’s painful and quite – fucking – annoying. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. He approaches Warren cautiously, circling a bit, not sure of the reception he’ll receive. Warren, unaware of his presence is looking down at the girl thoughtfully. Spike stops a few feet away and waits. He smells fresh blood. The girl’s. And Warren’s. He takes a deep breath.
When Warren looks up and notices him, he can see the split in the boy’s lip, the trickle of blood coming from it. The mixture of surprise and exhilaration in his eyes. The gun in his hand. The boy’s getting quite a taste for blood. And Spike knows how unpredictable a fellow can be after a kill. Especially when it’s all still a heady new experience. Spike knows what a rush it can be. The power of it. Wary, he struggles to concentrate despite the interference from the chip.
“She hit me.” Warren says, sounding more astounded by it than angry.
Spike nods, not daring to speak.
“Am I bleeding?” Warren asks, reaching up to wipe the blood from his lip. He pulls his hand away and looks at it. “Huh.”
Warren looks down at the girl again and takes a couple steps back, away from the body. “Stupid bitch,” he mutters.
Spike’s getting a headache. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will the buzzing to stop. Right. 'Cause, of course, that sort of thing always works. Warren notices and when he opens his eyes again, he sees that he’s being grinned at.
“How’s your head, there, Sparky?”
Spike blinks. “Buzzing.” It’s an honest answer.
Warren nods. “Yeah, well, if you hadn’t taken so long cleaning your plate back there, you could have been here to keep me from getting punched in the face. That’ll teach you.”
Spike dips his head, “Sorry.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Warren puts the gun away and licks the blood from his lip. “You gonna eat that, or what?”
He points at the girl who lies, twisted on her back. Her slack face is wide open with fear. There’s a hole in the “Angel.” Blood still running out of it. What blood is left should still be warm. It certainly smells divine. His body, still trying to rebuild itself after having been torn down so drastically, cries out for it. He feels odd about it though. After all, she’d practically bummed him a smoke, hadn’t she?
In his mind, he resists; turns away. Responds with a simple, “No, I’m good,” and walks away, back to the van and the others.
But he’s not good. He’s still hungry. And his head is buzzing. Aching. He’s just confusing himself is all. Thinking too much. It’s the bloody Slayer’s fault. Her and her little morally upright citizens brigade. Bad influences. Hypocrites, the lot of them. He’s lucky to be rid of that nonsense, really.
Warren is getting impatient, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Watching him. Spike picks up the body and drinks his fill. When he’s finished, he drops it and doesn’t look at it again. Looks pointedly away from it, in fact. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and awaits further instruction.
“C’mon.” Warren gives Spike a friendly clap on the back. Spike grits his teeth. “Let’s get back to the van.”
The van hits the Slayer with a sickening crunch as Andrew slams on the brakes. She rolls up the front of the vehicle and smashes against the windshield, which cracks and presses inward, not quite shattering. Then she rolls off and out of sight.
Andrew’s head hurts and there’s blood on the steering wheel. The first coherent thought he has is that his head must have hit the steering wheel. Duh. The second thought he has is, “Oops. That wasn’t reverse.” Shaking, he shifts into park and makes sure it says “P.”
And Jonathan is slumped in the seat beside him. Not moving. There’s blood on his forehead too. And on the dash. And he’s not moving. He’s not moving. Andrew leans over and grabs his friend by the shoulders.
“Oh, no, no, don’t be dead. Don’t be dead, don’t be dead…” He feels for a pulse at Jonathan’s neck. Nothing. He tries another spot on his neck. Where is the stupid pulse supposed to be? Oh, hey, there it is. He feels a steady thrumming beneath his fingers and lets out a sigh of relief. Not dead. Not dead. Okay, good. Not dead.
The back doors of the van wrench open and the Slayer pulls herself in. She all scuffed up and her hair’s all messy and her shirt’s ripped, which is too bad because it looks like it was a nice shirt. Kinda pinkish with little scrolly things at the neck…
“You are so dead!” she grits at him. Andrew cowers where he sits.
Alarm bells go off in his head. This time, thankfully, not literally. He scents the air. Buffy. The Slayer’s around here somewhere. Close. He stops and looks around. He should know where she is by now. The sodding chip is not helping.
Warren stops too. “What’s your problem now?”
Spike holds up a hand to silence him and listens. He forces himself to focus through the commotion in his brain. Hears sirens. From the chip? No. ‘Course not. He shakes his head again. Police. Sounds like the children may have gotten themselves into bit of a mess.
Warren nudges him, dropping his voice to an irritating whisper, “What? What is –?” He stops when he hears the sirens approaching.
Spike doesn’t mention the Slayer. If he can just find her, get to her before…
“Oh shit! The Slayer!” Warren is peering around the corner at where the van should be parked.
Never mind. Spike sighs, resigned. He sidles up to get a peek around the corner himself. There she is alright. Looking a bit worse for wear. As does the van. She’s got Andrew by the shirt scruff, holding him out at arm’s length like a bedraggled stray pup. The boy whimpers as she slams him up against the side of the van and proceeds to give him a rather thorough tongue lashing. She’s using words Spike had never heard her utter before – at least not while wearing clothes. He can’t help but grin at the show.
Warren is getting angry. He can smell it. Can see it in the way his back tenses. And when Warren is angry it usually means bad things in store for Spike. He swallows his grin and waits. He goes rigid when Warren reaches under his jacket for the gun and points it toward the van. Toward her. Spike closes his eyes. Could he knock the gun free? Shout a quick heads up to the Slayer in time? What would Warren do to him? His flesh goes all numb at the thought of it and the blood he’s had tonight suddenly wants to come back up. He swallows, opens his eyes, takes a breath. He makes a fist and prepares to strike.
The sirens cut off one by one. Flashing lights all around. Looking to where Warren is aiming the gun, Spike realizes it’s not even pointed at the Slayer. He’s aiming for Andrew. Spike relaxes his fist and lets the breath out as a relieved sigh. Fine then. He doesn’t give a toss about the prat. Not that he cares about the Slayer either. He wouldn’t have actually done anything, anyway. It’s not like he’s not bloody stupid.
With a muttered curse, Warren lowers his weapon. The police arrive with their typical Sunnydale professionalism. Mostly they mill about in confusion. The Slayer reluctantly releases the boy into their hands and negotiates unsuccessfully with a dull-eyed officer to be allowed to question him. Andrew, meanwhile keeps blathering on from the back of a patrol car about his right to remain silent. As if he ever would.
An ambulance arrives and Jonathan is loaded up and carted away in a blare of sirens and flashing lights. The Slayer continues to wrangle with the Sunnydale Police. Looks as if she might get violent with them soon. Spike and Warren remain crouched, watching, undetected until one of the milling officers stumbles across the body in the alley and raises a cry. At that point Warren stands up and turns to Spike.
“Let’s go home,” he says with his jaw clenched. He walks away from the scene and Spike follows. After they’ve walked for several minutes, Warren, who has remained tense and silent for the duration, suddenly turns around and stops. Spike looks at him curiously, cautiously.
Warren breaks into a grin. “Hey, Spike, can you hotwire a car?”
Section Notes: Still set during "Seeing Red."
WARNING: Character death.
Section 3.7: Eulogy
Can I describe what its like to have sex with you night long?
And would you feel right if I did you tonight and put the bite on?
All this and more little girl
How about on the floor little girl?
No time to implore you girl
I’m just a dead boy
You know that I’m just a dead boy
I wanna be your dead boy
I’ll die for you
If you want me to
–All This And More
Dead Boys, 1977
Buffy sighs as she trudges up the stairs, pulling off her jacket as she ascends. The movement sends another stab of pain through her back and she winces. Another long night with nothing to show for it. After she got off work at the Doublemeat, she’d spent a couple hours at the police station trying to convince them that she had a completely legitimate reason to talk to the nerds in custody. She’d tried to convince the desk clerk that she was Jonathan’s girlfriend. And when he’d finished laughing at her, she’d amended her story down to the other guy’s cousin-in-law. Nothing worked. Changing her story probably hadn’t helped. That and forgetting Andrew’s name again. So she had settled for breaking into the impound lot and searching the van. But the police had already combed through it. Her next stop will be to break into the police station itself and see what she can find in the evidence room. And probably to rough up a nerd or two. Tomorrow. After a good night’s – well, early morning’s sleep. Her back is killing her. Not to mention her front. And her sides too, come to think of it.
She had been recovering nicely after the whole Fyarl demolition crew. Then she had to go and get run over by the Nerd-Mobile. Now her back is hurting again and she really just wants to curl up and sleep for maybe a month or so. She stops in the bathroom and pours a couple more T3s from the bottle. Makes a pouty face at the haggard girl in the mirror in front of her. Dark circles under her eyes. God. She could use a nice facial. Maybe she and Dawn should plan a girls’ night. Do the popcorn and movie thing with the guts of some sort of exotic plant smeared on their faces. She flicks off the bathroom light and goes to her room. Careful not to move too quickly, she pulls Mr. Pointy from her jacket pocket and tosses it onto her bed. She closets the jacket and walks past the dark shape in front of the vanity on her way back to the bed. Reaching to turn on the bedside lamp, she freezes midway and turns around.
“Spike.”
He’s standing with his back to her, inspecting the photos of her friends that she has pasted around the mirror. Happy faces from simpler times. Her eyes, acclimating to the darkness of the room, can see her own reflection in the mirror where his is not. Finally, he turns around, moving to the side just enough to come between herself and her mirror image.
“Hey Buffy.” His voice is small and lifeless. Like an echo of a voice. There is no implied threat in his tone. No hint of seduction. Not even a failed attempt at casual – his usual cover when caught at being up to no good. No anything. “Miss me?”
She doesn’t answer. There is no expectation of an answer. She quickly reaches out and flips the lamp on. He scrunches up his face in irritation at the sudden rush of light in the room. Buffy stares. He looks – gruesome. In the Magic Box, everything had been such a blur. She had seen him but his appearance hadn’t fully registered. Not like now as he slouches before her, hands in pockets. Dirty, ragged clothes. No coat. He looks so much smaller without it. But then he is smaller. Painfully thin and huddled. The warm glow from the lamp does nothing to soften the stark contrasts of his features. He is all glaring white angles and dark hollows. Odd scars and fading bruises cover his face like a mask. The eyes of the creature standing before her are dull and flat. Disinterested. They drift aimlessly around the room, never settling directly on her. There is no sign of the naked, hungry gaze that has betrayed him so many times, giving her the upper hand in both their battles and the… uh… other stuff they’d done together.
The thought occurs to her that this isn’t Spike. Can’t be him, this lifeless thing. She dismisses the notion as soon as it enters her mind. Of course it’s Spike. He’s just… different. He just… came back wrong.
“What are you doing here, Spike?” Her voice trembles a little bit. She hopes he doesn’t notice.
He shrugs, glancing out the open window. “Just thought I’d drop in for a visit. Thought maybe we could have a chat about our relationship. You know, where you see it going and all that.”
“We don’t have a –” she begins, crossing her arms and bristling automatically before picking up on the apathy in his voice and stopping to peer at him.
He smiles sadly in the direction of her feet. “Yeah. Missed you too.”
She takes a breath in preparation for a fresh volley but his eyes flicker up to her own for an instant, stopping her. In that instant she sees a flash of the old Spike in there. A flash of warning. It’s a look she recognizes from nights spent patrolling together. A look that tells her Heads up, Slayer. Enemy nearby. She tenses instinctively and scans the room. Nobody here but the two of them.
Then the moment passes and once again he’s looking anywhere but at her. Buffy shifts her weight. She’s tired, her back hurts, and the vampire standing in her bedroom is creeping her out.
“Spike, listen–”
“No worries, Slayer.” He cuts her off with a dismissive wave. “Won’t be darkening your door again. Much as I’d enjoy looking back on all the bad times together and having ourselves a good laugh. I’ve got… obligations now.”
Buffy uncrosses her arms and promptly crosses them again, puzzled. “So what is this? You’re… uh… breaking up with me or something?”
Spike scoffs and shakes his head. Offended, Buffy narrows her eyes and straightens up a bit. Her usual futile attempt to look taller and therefore more commanding. She should have worn heels tonight. Why hadn’t she worn heels?
“What? What do you mean, ‘Psht’?”
Spike’s little smile is infuriating. “Sometimes, Buffy, you are a very thick little girl.”
Okay – thoroughly pissed off now at Spike’s condescension, Buffy decides to attack from another angle.
“You got the chip out.”
Spike’s smile disappears and he looks completely bewildered for a moment. “What?” The mention of the chip has him more flustered than she had figured.
“Come on. No more games, Spike. I know. You’ve been killing again.” She wants it to be a question but it’s not.
He shoots her a quick sidelong glance and laughs. So now he’s laughing at her. Laughing about what he’s done.
“Why?” Her question takes on a far more pleading tone than she wants it to.
He turns back to the mirror. His body blocks her view of it, but she knows that he is able to see her reflected as though he isn’t even there. The whole mirror thing has always confused her. She had asked Angel once why his clothes didn’t show up in the mirror, either. Shouldn’t they have been there, empty, seeming to move with a life of their own? He had tried to explain it. Something about vampires that made the things that touched them take on the same spectral quality so that they, too, seemed to not exist in reflected light. She had reached to touch him, looking into the mirror. Had seen herself reflected alone, hand held up at her side, touching nothing.
Angel shakes his head. “You can’t disappear, Buffy. You’re too bright. Your soul, your aura. All of you. You have too much substance. He lifts Mr. Gordo, who floats in the mirror. A flying pig.
“Mr. Gordo has a soul?” she asks.
“No Buffy, listen. Clothes, jewelry, anything like that, when we put them on, they become an extension of us… like they’re a part of us. We absorb whatever substance they have and they cease to reflect as well. It’s kind of like we… give off darkness. Maybe, if I held onto this… uh… Mr. Gordo long enough, I would absorb its substance and it would disappear.” He puts Mr. Gordo back down and looks at her thoughtfully.
She curls into his lap then, resting her head on his knee as he strokes her hair. She watches herself hovering over the bed, her hair moving with an apparent will of its own. Watching to see if she will start to grow dim, fade away. “So maybe if you held onto me long enough…”
“Never,” he whispers, bending down to kiss her ear. “You could never fade away, Buffy. You… you give off so much light. You practically glow.”
“So… I’m a lightbulb.”
He smiles down at her. “More like a beacon.”
She steadies her voice. “Tell me why you did it, Spike.”
“Because, I’m hungry, dammit!” It’s his turn to sound petulant. He whirls to face her, repeating in a fierce whisper, “Hungry.” At last his eyes flicker with a bit of the fire she recognizes. “It’s what I do, innit? Predator, right? It’s only proper that I should feed on my natural prey. You see it all the time on telly, don’t you? A lion takes a bite of zebra or what have you… nobody judges the lion, now do they? Don’t see the camera crew rushing in to stop him, lecturing him on why its wrong. It’s – it’s natural, innit? Bloke’s got to eat, right?”
Buffy rolls her eyes. He points a finger at her. “And you! Look at you! You’ve no right to judge me! Your only reason to kill is some… some vague noble objective you don’t even understand. Lofty good versus evil nonsense. It’s all shite, you know. Me, I’m within my rights here! A man – he does what he has to to survive, you know?
He had grown more agitated as his diatribe progressed, pacing back and forth across the carpet and gesticulating like some of her more excitable college professors had been partial to doing. By the end of it, he stops and looks directly into her eyes at last, brows knit in confusion and anger.
“Am I right?” He genuinely seems to want her to answer. The desperation in his eyes makes her waver. Once again, he is asking her for something that she can never give him. He has confirmed what she already knew. He’s been feeding. On humans. Buffy drops her arms to her sides and does what she has to do. She speaks with the clarity of the Slayer.
“You’re wrong, Spike. You’re not a man. You’re a vampire. There’s nothing natural about you. You’re a… an abomination.”
He continues to stare at her for a moment. His mouth twists into a hideous pantomime of a smirk and then, just as suddenly as he had become piqued, he seems to deflate. His shoulders slump and he retreats back to the mirror. Leaning against the table, he grips the edges of it and speaks to her reflection. “Right. You’re right. Keep forgetting myself, don’t I? Always doing the stupid thing. Trying to be something I’m not.” He reaches up, pensively caressing the smooth glass image of her with his fingers. “Don’t know why I ever bother, really. I can’t grasp it. Can sense it. Something missing. Like something floating ‘round my head, just out of reach. Like words to a song. Right on the tip of my tongue. But every time I think I’ve got it, it’s gone, y’know?”
He sighs and turns to face the Slayer. Buffy stiffens as he pulls something from his pocket. He looks down at it, turning it over in his hands. It looks kinda like a stopwatch. If Spike’s been working with the nerds though, it could be anything.
“No,” he laughs, still pretty much muttering to himself. “‘Course you don’t know. You get it. You don’t want to, but you do. Try to push it away, but you can’t do it. Not really.”
Buffy steels herself to act. Something is very wrong here. She knows what she has to do. Harmless, chipped Spike is of the past. Standing in front of her is some kind of crazy, unchipped, born-again killer Spike. She glances at Mr. Pointy, gauging the chances of grabbing the stake from the bed and ending this as quickly and painlessly as possible for the both of them.
Spike looks up and follows her gaze to the stake. “Well, pick it up then. You’ll need it.”
She reaches across the bed and takes her weapon in hand.
“Spike…” she feels the need for some kind of – what? Explanation? Disclaimer? Eulogy? “I – I’m sorry about this. Sorry about all of it.”
He gives her another wan smile. “It’s harder when it’s someone you love, pet.”
Buffy takes a step forward, finds her center, readies herself to spring. Spike sighs and looks at the clock-thingy in his hands. He pushes a little button on it and deposits it back in his pocket. He stands up slowly and steps into a fighting stance.
She waits for him to make the first move. Allowing him to lead this time. He covers the distance between them and lets fly with a quick left jab. She intercepts his fist easily and responds with her customary punch to the nose. He’s finally caught on to her though, and he ducks away from it. He tries to spin away from her grasp and land a side snap kick to her ribs at the same time, but she stops him with a knee to the abdomen. She follows with a smooth sweep that knocks his legs out from under him and he’s tumbling beneath her. Too easy. She pins him to the carpet, stake raised. He looks up at her. The dullness is gone from his eyes. They are clear and sharp, chips of ice. Once again, they give him away. And once again, she does what she has always done with Spike.
She hesitates.
There's a noise behind her and she turns in time to see Warren come crashing into the room. He jabs at her with a stun gun before his presence has a chance to register in her mind. The jolt of electricity sends her sprawling on top of Spike, who lets out a disappointed hiss. He sits up, pushing her off of him. She falls back, limp.
“Got here just in time, mate,” Spike mutters, sounding far more irritated than relieved.
“Grab her,” Warren shouts, and she feels cold hands clamp onto her arms, pulling her up. Already she’s regaining her faculties and she starts to struggle feebly against the vampire’s grip. She stops struggling when Warren pulls out the gun.
“Eh! What’s that?” Spike shouts from behind her, “You said you were using tranquilizers!”
“Shut up, Spike,” Warren says, aiming the gun at Buffy. “Okay Slayer, do exactly as I say and no one gets hurt.”
The bedroom door flies open and three heads turn simultaneously as Tara appears in the doorway.
“Buffy? You okay in here? I thought I heard –” She stops, wide-eyed, in mid-sentence and slides soundlessly to the floor. As she falls, she reveals a dark splatter of blood on the doorframe behind her.
Buffy’s ears are ringing. Why are her ears ringing? She looks up from Tara to see Warren staring in shock at the gun in his hands. It is pointed at the open door. Spike is no longer behind her but she can stand on her own okay. Her muscles still feel like silly putty though and she can’t seem to move. Everything around her is happening so quickly and suddenly she’s caught in slow motion. Someone is shouting and at first she can’t distinguish who or what –
“– stupid CUNT!” It’s Spike, his voice dim through the ringing in her ears. “What the bloody hell d’you think you’re doing?”
He rounds on Warren who looks dumbly at him and takes a hurried step back before stopping, a slow smile spreading across his face. Spike, seeing Warren’s expression, halts and stands in front of him, eyes wide and blinking as though he were awakening from a dream. He makes no move to defend himself as Warren smashes the pistol across his face. The blow sends him staggering toward the doorway where he stumbles over Tara’s body and joins it on the floor. Tara isn’t moving and Buffy can see the blood – there’s so much of it – spreading out from beneath her. Spike sees it too. He lifts himself to his hands and knees and hovers over the body, staring down at his hand on the carpet as blood puddles around it. Everything is still happening so quickly, Buffy can’t seem to process it fast enough. She can’t move as she sees Spike’s face change. She can’t move as she recognizes the familiar look of hunger in fierce yellow eyes. She can’t move as he drops his head, brings a blood drenched hand to his mouth. Tara’s blood. Buffy can taste bile in the back of her throat. She sways on her feet.
Willow’s frightened face appears around the corner of the doorway. “Buffy?” Willow’s mouth moves to form her name but all Buffy can hear is ringing. Willow’s mouth crumples in confusion as she steps into the doorway and sees the body at her feet. The vampire crouching over it. The blood. “Tara?” her mouth says. Willow looks from Tara to Spike, who rises to stand over the body and face her. He stands between Warren and Willow, blocking her from entering the room but not blocking her from Buffy’s line of vision. There is a rushing sound in Buffy’s ears as she feels herself falling. She’s helpless to stop it. Helpless to stop anything. She sees recognition dawn on Willow’s face just as Warren raises the gun. All Buffy can do is shout before she falls.
“NO!”
Spike spins around at the command from the Slayer. He sees Warren holding the gun pointed at Willow. Fuck. He faces Willow again and sees that her eyes have gone black, feels his hair stand on end as energy begins to crackle in the air around her. He does the only thing he can think to do. He pulls his fist back and slams it into the face of the witch before him. Her nose pops like a tomato. Blood gushes over his fist as Willow’s unconscious body drops to the floor, landing in the widening pool of her lover’s blood. Spike turns from the tableau to see the Slayer, already recovering, jumping up from the floor to lunge at Warren. He leaps to intercept her and they both go crashing to the ground, nearly smashing against the bed. Warren drops his precious pistol and reaches for the tranquilizer gun. The Slayer slides out from under the vampire and lands a couple choice kicks to his ribs as she gets back to her feet. He spins around and tries to knock her legs from under her as he scrambles to his own feet, but she is too fast for him. She breaks away and stands to face Warren just as he raises the tranq gun and fires. The Slayer yelps in anger and pulls the dart from her side.
“Spike!” Warren yells, “Hold her!”
Already on it, Spike comes up behind her, flinging an arm around her neck, another around her waist, hoping at least to slow her down. Warren fires again but the dart breezes past, nearly hitting Spike. A well-placed elbow sends Spike flying into the bedside table, shattering the lamp. The room goes dark again. Warren lets fly with another dart, this time without aiming and without benefit of light beyond what little is coming in from the hallway. Of course, this one hits. Right over the heart. It’s too much for the Slayer and she’s down.
Spike gathers himself up and looks to Warren. He is able to see the gloating expression on his master’s face as he stands over his prey. What had the bastard been thinking, bringing a bloody gun into the mix? And what the hell had Spike been thinking turning on him like that? He’d been about to rip the idiot’s throat out. Nearly doomed himself. Committed the worst offense. Fucking stupid git. He hadn’t been thinking is the trouble. He’d just reacted. And why? Because of the witch? Because of Tara? Why the hell should he care if she offs it? He shouldn’t care about her at all. Doesn’t want to care about any of them.
Dammit! There it is again. That something at the edges of his vision – just out of range. It’s infuriating. He’ll never get it. Needs to squelch it. Get control of himself. As much control as he’s allowed, that is.
Warren’s looking at him now. His expression turns from triumph to contempt to something much darker. Oh, fucking hell… in for it now. Better try to make nice with the boss. Spike grits his teeth and drops to his knees in supplication.
PART 4 - BLOOD, LOVE, & RHETORIC
There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said– no. But somehow we missed it. Well, we'll know better next time.
– Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead
Section 4.1: Shock
Section Notes: This section coincides with
"Villains."
WARNING: There is a scene of (quickly aborted and not
very graphic but still...) sexual assault in this
section. If this really disturbs you and you would
prefer to skip it, I understand. Just read up to the
end of Willow's little vignette. I'll put a little
recap of the rest in the notes for the next section.
The air is cool today the time is drawing near
My walls are white and so's my brain afloat in self-made fear
A banal feeling of the sort "I ain't insane"
No fate worse than to never leave yourself and it's as well the most repulsive pain
The air is cool today that whistles through my ribs
My skull is full of sand that dribbles down upon my bib
I call out "Baby" but her face looks like a clock
Tick tock, alive, triumphant victims so surprised we can't recover from the shock
Me, I like a joke as much as anybody else but some are rough
Yeah when the joke's on you though you're the joker too you've had enough
Then though there is no one there, because there's nothing there, you call your bluff
Don't die, don't die, don't die, don't die...
- Don’t Die
The Voidoids/Richard Hell, 1980
“Spike. Spike!”
Something thumps against his chest and goes flying off with a clatter. But that’s not possible because he’s buried deep in the earth. Nestled under several feet of dirt. The weight of it presses at him from all sides, immobilizing him. Nothing can touch him here. But then again, how could someone be pouring blood down his throat if he’s in the bloody ground?
Somebody is slapping his face. “Spike! Come on! Wake up.”
What is this? Can’t they see he’s dead? Let a fellow rest in peace, yeah?
“Dammit, Spike. Wake up! I need you.”
Buffy? His eyelids flutter. Needs him.
She’s grabbing the front of his shirt now. Lifting him up with both fists and shaking. Shouting into his face. He swallows at the blood running down his throat. Can’t move. Eyes won’t open. Useless. She lets go of him and he drops back to the floor. His head hits the concrete with a thunk. Hears it but doesn’t feel it. Is that a bad thing? Doesn’t know. She’s gone. He’s alone in the darkness. Right then. He tries burrowing back down into the safety of the earth.
Moments… or years… or… some time later something cold splashes over his face and he gasps. A reflex. But there’s still blood in his throat and he chokes, coughing. Water is trickling down onto his neck, dripping through his hair. Tickles. He feels it. He stops breathing. Stops coughing. She’s come back to dump water in his face. Well… ta very much.
He swallows more blood. Manages to pull his eyes open. It’s Warren who stands over him, holding an empty plastic bottle.
“God, finally! I need to program you with some kind of… wake up… something…” Warren mutters, tossing the bottle aside and reaching out a hand. “Come on, get up.”
Spike blinks. Oh. He lifts an arm and Warren grasps it, pulling him up and scowling at him. As soon as he’s up he starts to go back down again but Warren grabs him first and shoves him against the wall.
“Can you stay up?” There’s almost an edge of concern to his voice.
Spike nods and Warren lets go.
Warren had waited until they’d gotten back to the lair and everything was secured before meting out Spike’s punishment. He’d been livid at the time. And the shocks had been…
Spike bends down, putting his hands on his knees. The blood he’s been swallowing is from his nose, which is gushing freely onto the floor just now. Spike tries taking a few deep breaths. His head is reeling. He’s going to heave. As if sensing this, Warren steps back and watches him warily. He’s being careful with him. It must have been quite a show then. Enough to make the boy himself squeamish. Worried that he’d finally broken his favorite toy, more like.
“Dude – you throw up – you’re cleaning it up. And we don’t exactly have a lotta time here.”
Right. No time for throwing up. Spike nods again and straightens up. He wobbles a bit but manages to stay upright. Pain conditioning. Lovely. He presses the heels of his hands against his eye sockets. After a minute or two, he pulls them away and looks at his master. Warren is watching him closely.
“You learned your lesson, right? You don’t ever come at me like that again, got it?”
Spike sniffs, swallowing more blood. He nods.
“All right then. Let’s go. We’ve got work to do.” Warren turns and walks away.
Right. Spike stumbles after him. Work to do.
At first it’s just screaming. Then there’s the pain. The awareness. And the knowledge that something – a part of you, you’re not really sure what – is broken. Then the screaming turns into words and despite knowing the truth of it deep, deep down, you respond.
“Willow! Willow! Are you okay? Oh my god, are – are you okay? Please wake up!”
And at first you think it’s the person that you want to see most standing over you. The person you need most. Pulling you back. You trick yourself into thinking that if you just open your eyes, everything will be okay. Just a big joke. Ha ha.
And then you open your eyes and you know that nothing is okay. Nothing will ever be okay… not ever again.
Willow opens her eyes. All she sees is red. Red turning to sticky brown. She pushes herself up, hands pressing against flesh that is stiff and cold and not at all the way that flesh is supposed to feel.
“Oh! Willow! You’re – I thought you were –”
She pushes until she’s on her knees. Her head feels swooshy. Her face hurts. She’s kneeling over Tara. The thing that was Tara. Her hands are still pressed against it. She stares at her hands.
The voice above her is choking and sputtering on words. “Tara… I think she’s – Is she–? She – she can’t really be–”
There’s a hole in her love. She’s leaked out all over the floor. Soaked into the carpet. And now she’s all empty. Eyelashes over empty eyes. No light there. All gone. Perfect kitty-cat nose. Lips parted to form a permanent, startled, “Oh.” But empty of breath. Gone. All gone. Saying nothing. Not ever again. Forehead smooth as porcelain. No thoughts. Nothing. Gone. This – this thing beneath her is cold and hard. Like Tara never was. Like Tara could never be. It’s a dead thing, lying in a puddle of dried blood and urine and –
She pulls her hands away. “You’re not her,” she whispers, “You’re not real.”
“What? Wha – Willow? What happened? Are you okay?”
Calm seeps over her entire body. She can feel it, like stepping into a warm pool. A baptism. Flowing over her, filling her up. The magic hums within her, giving her purpose. Giving her power. She stands and turns to face Dawn.
The girl is a wreck. Puffy tear-streaked face. Maroon streaks of blood on her hands from when she must have tried to awaken the sleepers. A bookbag lies on the floor behind her, discarded, books and cds spilling out of it like guts. She had been at Janis’ last night. The plan was for her to go to school from there and then come home after. So it must be afternoon then.
She’s lost a lot of time. Willow goes to her room, pushing past the panicked teenager.
“Willow!” Dawn trails behind her, begging like a little yappy dog. “What’s going on? Where’s Buffy? Should – should I call Xander? Should I call the police? Willow? Please! I – I don’t understand –”
Willow ignores her. She steps into the bedroom, closing the door in Dawn’s face. She has to find them. The ones who did this. The monsters responsible. No time for chitter chatter. Work to do.
He is the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes. She blinks groggily and murmurs his name.
"Spike?"
Bloodshot eyes flicker to meet hers for a fraction of a second before he turns his attention back to the task at hand. Aside from that, he doesn't acknowledge her. His hair is damp and sticking out in all directions. He looks wild. Dangerous. She lifts her head up as far as she can to get a look around. She is strapped down to a very large, very cold, very dirty table. Naked. Naked!? Okaaaaay… that explains the cold… Oh, this can't be good. Spike is ignoring her. Busying himself at checking the straps to make sure they're tight. He doesn't look directly at her.
"Spike? What the hell –"
A spatter of blood drops onto the back of her hand and for a panicked moment she thinks that it is somehow hers. Wait, no – not hers. Spike tips his head up and sniffles, bringing a shaky hand up to wipe at his upper lip. The blood is coming from Spike. His nose is bleeding. There’s blood all down the front of his shirt. He weaves on his feet for a moment, grabbing onto the table to catch his balance. Then he reaches out a thumb and carefully wipes the drop of blood from her skin. The brief contact causes a strange little shiver in her. She’d forgotten how cold his touch was. He pauses to lick the blood from his hand. Sneaks another look in her direction. She thinks of Tara and closes her eyes.
When she looks again, he has turned away from her. He moves to the far end of the room where he huddles on the floor, staring intently at his boots. He sniffs every so often to keep blood from dripping on them. Every few seconds he kinda hunches over and shivers. Again with the weird. Vampire’s can’t feel the cold, right? But hey, she sure can. She strains at the straps. No good. All she manages to do is remind herself that her back still hurts like a mother –
– hey, wait a minute… she knows this place. She gazes up at the scorched rafters of the factory and snorts.
"Oh, very original Spike. You brought me to the factory? You really are a creature of bad habit aren't you?"
Nothing. She glances over at him. He's got his elbows on his knees, hands locked together behind his bowed head. Still apparently fascinated by his footwear.
"So," she says, watching this new, crazy Spike for some kind of reaction, "You got the nerds to help you in some lame new attempt to prove your love for me? Is that what this is?"
He doesn't move.
"Come on, Spike. Okay. You love me. I get that.” …love me – in your own crazy, strap me naked to a rusty table, evil vampire sorta way, she adds under her breath. She clenches her fists and jerks again at the straps around her wrists. Damn. "But this? Not the way to impress a lady."
Metal clangs somewhere behind her. A door. She tries to twist her head to see what ‘s coming, but can't quite do it. She looks back over at Spike and sees that he has jerked his head up and sort of stiffened to attention. His eyes are still riveted to the floor a few feet ahead of him though. What's up with him, anyway?
"Oh, hey, she's awake!" Suddenly Warren's upside-down head is looming over her own. Ew. She can see up his nose… And EW! He can see her… gah! She renews her struggles against the straps.
"Ah, she's feisty, huh?" He grins over at Spike, who is still being Mr. Non-Responsive. Then his tone turns serious and he disappears from her line of vision. "You checked the straps again, right?"
"Yeah," Spike replies, his voice hoarse and quiet.
Wait a minute. Is Warren the boss? Why would Warren be the boss? Spike would never –
Warren reappears at her side and leers down at her. "Good. Perfect." He leans in and reaches to stroke her hair. "Don't worry baby. Daddy's gonna take good care of you." His hand traces across her collarbone and moves down to her breasts.
Buffy closes her eyes and tries not to react. Slayer. Slayer. You're the Slayer, dammit. You will get out of this and you will kick his perverted little ass. You can wipe the floor with this little twit. She forces her voice to remain steady as he paws at her. "Sorry Warren. I'm not really your type," she can feel the strap on her right wrist loosening a tiny bit. "You see, I happen to be real."
He laughs and moves his hand up again to stroke at her face. "Even better, baby. Either way, you belong to me n –"
Buffy whips her head around and snaps her teeth. She clamps down on his thumb before he can finish his little boast. She holds on.
"Ow! Ow ow ow ow! Oh holy – Spike! Spike! Get her off me! NOW!"
Spike appears immediately behind Warren. She thinks she sees a hint of a smile on his face for just a second. It disappears quickly and then he does – out of sight behind her. She sinks her teeth deeper and Warren screams. She's down to the bone now. Warren hits her across the face with his other hand. Yeah, good luck with that, asshole. She doesn't even flinch.
Then there's a cool hand on her nose, pinching it shut. Another under her chin, gentle but firm, prying her mouth open. Warren's blood is pooling in her mouth and she splutters, trying to twist her head out of Spike's grasp. Her hold loosens and Warren rips his hand away. He doubles over, cradling the injured hand and whimpering. Spike immediately lets go of her.
She cranes her neck to see him standing back a few feet away from Warren, watching him cautiously. The vampire keeps blinking, shaking his head from side to side. What had Anya said about rabies? Warren wheels on him. "Don't just stand there you idiot! Get me a… a rag or something."
Spike disappears behind her again. When he returns, he hands Warren – her shirt! Oh! She is so gonna stake him! Warren wraps the shirt around his hand. It turns red almost immediately. He marches over to Buffy, fuming. "Bitch! You're gonna pay for that." His fist slams into her face. Bracing, but not so much painful. Buffy spits his own blood back in his face. There’s a reason why it’s a classic. Take that, geek boy.
Oh, he's really angry now. Turning all purpley-red and actually shaking. She takes a peek over at Spike. He's still just standing there, shoe-gazing. Still with the blinking. He looks kind of… nervous? Scared? Is Spike afraid? Of Warren? That can't be right.
"Spike," Warren hisses. Spike's head snaps up. "Get me the stunner. It's over there by the tranq gun." Spike hesitates for a second and Warren slowly swivels his head to face him, eyes narrowed. "Now." Spike ducks his head and trods back out of sight.
Warren turns his attention back to Buffy, his eyes shining just a little too brightly. "What – you think you're better than me? You think you can just do that to me and get away with it?"
Section Notes: Still set during "Villains."
Previously in Section 4.1: Shock (for those of you
who skipped that bit):
Buffy wakes up strapped naked to a table in the old
factory (Warren's lair). Spike, nose still bleeding
from the shocks Warren punished him with earlier,
pretty much ignores her, acting all dizzy and afraid.
Warren shows up and starts to get gropey but Buffy
manages to chomp down on his thumb. Warren orders
Spike to get her to let go and he does as he's told.
Then he is sent to get a rag for Warren's bloody thumb
and Spike gives him Buffy's shirt. Buffy is not
amused. Neither is Warren.
"Spike," Warren hisses. Spike's head snaps up. "Get
me the stunner. It's over there by the tranq gun."
Spike hesitates for a second and Warren slowly swivels
his head to face him, eyes narrowed. "Now." Spike
ducks his head and trods back out of sight.
Warren turns his attention back to Buffy, his eyes
shining just a little too brightly. "You think you're
better than me? You think you can just do that to me
and *get away with it?"*
Section 4.2: Choices
All ugly thoughts are gone
I'm sure we'll all be friends
I'll try to break your back
You'll try to make amends
Curse softly to me baby
and smother me with your love
Temptation comes not from hell
but from above...
- My Curse
Afghan Whigs, 1993
He's at work when he gets the call. Dawn. Crying. Hysterical. Something about Buffy. About Tara. About Willow. Something not good.
"Hey - Dawnster -slow down, there. Slow down. Take a breath or something..."
He can see the foreman scowling at him out of the corner of his eye. Talking on his cell phone at work again. Another emergency. Gonna hafta take off early. Again. Sometimes it sucks to be a superhero's sidekick.
But this isn't just another apocalypse. He can hear it in Dawn's voice. This is bad. This is something way bad. She eventually remembers to breathe. And then she talks some more and he can't possibly be hearing it right.
Buffy missing. Tara... Tara dead. Dead? Oh god... And Willow -Willow, what?
He's running as she talks. He forgets to ask if he can go. He runs to the truck. He forgets his keys and has to run back to grab them from his lunchbox. He ignores the guys gawping at him like he's some kind of crazy person. He runs back to the truck. Starts it. Slams it into gear and is gone. One sidekick, coming up.
He remembers both the phone in his hand and his capacity for speech at roughly the same time.
"...be right there Dawnie. Sit tight. On my way. It's gonna be okay - okay?"
He hopes he didn't just lie to her.
She looks up as Willow steps through the door. It's even worse than she'd thought. With Willow in such close proximity the grief and fury she's emanating is enough to make Anya dizzy. The light fixtures explode one-by-one as the young witch passes by them. Anya knows enough to bite back the reminder of just how much these sorts of things cost. Nobody understands the expenses involved in running a small retail business. And it's become blatantly obvious that none of her friends care about that sort of thing. Not with all their, "Oh, the world is about to end. Let's all go to the Magic Box so that the forces of darkness will have a place to find us," or their, "Uh oh, demons are attacking us! Lets just smash their heads into the expensive glass display case and get their goo all over the merchandise."
But now terrible things are happening. She'd felt it hours ago. Had sat up in bed, sweating and alarmed. It had gone away, just like that. She'd thought that maybe it had simply been a nightmare. But then a few minutes ago, as she had been on the telephone with the glass people regarding their shoddy workmanship on the repairs to the display case, it had hit her hard enough that she had doubled over, dropping the phone. A cry for vengeance so deep and so dark, she had known immediately who it was from. Just as she knew that it was not for her to answer. So she waited, here, behind her counter. She had known that Willow would come.
"Willow," she feels compelled to try, if anything to reduce the amount of property damage taking place. But yeah, mostly because she's scared out of her wits and doesn't know what else she can do to stop this.
Willow rudely ignores her, instead sweeping her eyes around the shop. Searching. "Where do you keep the black arts books?"
Anya tries again. "Something terrible has happened, I know. But you don't have to do -"
"I need power," the witch cuts her off, zeroing in on the upstairs shelves.
Anya does what she can. She'll keep trying to reason with her but she knows. She knows what's going to come next. She takes a deep breath and tries not to be so terribly afraid.
Spike returns and hands Warren the stun gun before scurrying back to his spot across the room. He backs against the wall and slouches there with his arms behind him, watching. Blood is still streaming down his face, covering his mouth, dripping from his chin. He's not even trying to stop it anymore. He looks terrified. Not particularly reassuring. Warren steps closer, blocking her view of Spike. The strap on her right wrist is a lot looser now. She just needs a little more -
Warren holds up the stun gun, about to thrust it at her. "Well think agai -"
He freezes in mid-jab, eyes wide. He makes a kind of gurgling noise and drops the stun gun. He flails weakly at his neck - there's something sticking from it. Buffy furrows her brow, confused. Warren drops to the floor to reveal Spike standing behind him holding some kind of - oh! Tranquilizer gun! He cocks his head, looking down apprehensively at the unconscious Warren Mears, then looks at the gun in his hand. He tosses it away as if it were going to bite him. He glances at Buffy and then comes over to her, dutifully removing the straps.
She sits up and wipes at the blood on her face. He looks away from her, down at Warren. She crosses her arms in front of herself, shivering. She can't think of anything appropriate to say. She looks down at Warren as well. She blurts the first thing that comes to mind.
"My shirt."
Spike looks up at her. He doesn't seem to understand. He looks lost. She nods down at her shirt wrapped around Warren's hand.
"That... was my shirt." Lame. That was the lamest thing she could have said just now.
Spike furrows his brow at her. Then recognition seems to dawn and he moves quickly, unbuttoning his own shirt and handing it to her. Oh... it does not smell good, but she takes it gratefully. Puts it on. It's stiff with dried blood and dirt. Damp with fresh blood.
"Thank you."
He doesn't seem to hear her. He drops to one knee beside Warren and feels for a pulse, pulling the dart out as he does so. Buffy looks around, spying the rest of her clothes in a pile by the door. She jumps off the table and hurries over to them. When she's dressed again she approaches Spike cautiously, pausing to pull off a chunk of scorched wood from a nearby pallet. She stands behind him, holding her makeshift stake. He is still kneeling over Warren with his back to her. Now she knows what "skin and bones" really looks like. She grimaces and makes a mental note to eat an entire pizza when this is over. She easily finds the spot where the stake should go. A quick upthrust from just below the sharp plane of shoulder blade, between the sixth and seventh rungs of the ladder of ribs. All it would take. She can count the ribs, trace the backbone, down to the hollow of midsection, the jutting of hipbones above black jeans with a belt that has been knotted to keep them from slipping from his attenuated body.
Came back wrong.
He doesn't look up at her.
"Is he gonna be... um... okay?" She watches Spike, completely baffled.
"Think so," Spike mutters. "Darts were loaded for you though. He's... he's just a human."
Buffy flinches slightly at the implication of his words. Spike reaches for Warren's wrist, pulls it up to study his watch. And so the weirdness continues.
"Got an appointment somewhere, Spike? Planning to get in a little light mugging before bedtime? Maybe something to top off all the kidnapping and murder?"
He looks up at her as if she's the crazy one. "What?"
He's not taking any of the bait she's setting out. "Never mind. You... uh...wanna fill me in on just what the hell's going on here?"
He way-too-carefully places the limp arm back down and settles back to sit beside the sleeping geek. "Not really. ...You should go."
"Need some alone time with your little nerd buddy?" She arches an eyebrow.
Spike snorts but doesn't say anything.
"Tell me anyway Spike," she says in her best exasperated, I'm-about-to-kick-your-ass tone.
He sighs but cooperates without a fight. It doesn't seem right without the customary roughing up. She doesn't know how to react to this new Spike. His compliance is really disturbing. "Was gonna make you his... uh... slave. Control you, y'know?"
"His what? How?"
"Mind control. Of sorts." He stops and blinks slowly, as if it's an effort for him to focus his thoughts into speech. "Gonna... put a chip in your head. Have himself a pet Slayer. Take over the world. That sort of thing."
Spike is fixated on the shallow rise and fall of Warren's chest. She can tell that he's listening to the guy's heartbeat. Sensing for anything that would indicate that something is wrong.
"A chip in my head?"
Spike nods. "Yeah."
"A chip... like yours?"
Spike doesn't answer.
Whoah. She leans against the table, staring at him.
"That's where you've been? All this time? That's what happened?"
He's not going to answer.
"He's controlling you, then. The stuff you've been doing - killing - he's been making you do it?"
Spike shakes his head. "Can't make me do anything. My decision. I have free will, you know."
Buffy stares at him, perplexed.
"It was your decision to attack Anya? To help him kidnap me? You're... not being forced somehow?"
He turns his head away so that she can't see his face.
"Not... forced," he whispers. "Made my choice. Could have refused, couldn't I?"
"Okay, you're not making any sense, Spike."
He turns back to continue his vigil over Warren. He keeps his head tilted enough that it's difficult to see his face, but she recognizes the all-too-familiar look of someone who is trying not to show weakness. Too late for that. The blood continues to flow - drip, drip. Spike seems dazed, watching the droplets form into a spreading pattern on Warren's shirt. He doesn't seem too concerned about the not making sense.
She looks down at the unconscious figure before them.
"Okay, that's it." She stands up. Reaching down, she grabs Spike by the arm. "C'mon. Let's get the hell out of here. Figure this whole thing out."
He wrenches away from her before she can pull him up. "No!"
"What are you talking about? We've got to get you out of here."
"Can't. Have to be here when he wakes up."
"Or what?"
He finally looks up at her when he answers, his voice full of misery. "Don't - don't know... something...it'll be..."
He shakes his head again. Like there's a swarm of bees or something flying around his head, distracting him.
Buffy takes a breath, remembering the sight of Spike curled up on the floor of the Magic Box. She squats down beside him and looks again at Warren, her expression grim. "And if he doesn't wake up?"
Spike looks down again. He actually shudders. "It'll be worse."
Sighing, she stands up again and begins pacing. Okay. Situation here. What would Giles do? What should the Slayer do? Help the vampire? That's not the right answer, is it? And... had she just suggested killing Warren? What the hell is wrong with her? She can't kill a human, even if he did -
She wraps her arms around herself again.
Even if she were to - hypothetically -try to kill Warren, she gets the feeling that Spike might be compelled to try to stop her. Although they both know he'd fail.
"Okay," she announces. "Here's what we're gonna do. Um... we keep loser-boy here unconscious as long as we can, until we can find out a way to keep him from hurting you. If he's figured out a way to control you through your chip, then maybe Willow could -"
She's interrupted by a brittle laugh from Spike. "Don't think Will's gonna want to help me, luv."
Buffy sucks in a breath. Tara. God. Another flash of Spike hovering over Tara, bringing a blood-drenched hand to his mouth. She grips the stake tighter and pushes the memory aside. No. She has to focus. She can't - can't let that...
She shakes her head. "No. If -if we explain to Willow... she -she's good with the techie stuff and she... We just need to explain to her. It'll be okay. I'll take care of it. I'll fix this."
Another vague, infuriating little smile passes across his lips. "Get out of here Buffy. You're free now, right? Stake me if you want. I don't care. Just... get away from me. I don't want your help."
"Well, Spike... sometimes you don't have a choice." Buffy holds out her hand. "Come on."
"Always a choice," he mutters. He doesn't seem to be talking to her. He's still just watching the blood drip down. "Got to do the smart thing."
"Spike..."
Wincing, he presses the palm of his hand against his head and looks sideways at her, noticing her outstretched hand for the first time. "No-brainer," he mutters.
There's a knot of something building in the pit of her stomach. She thinks it might be horror. Or rage. Something unproductive, that's for sure. She tries again, more forcefully. "Spike, this is ridiculous. We have to get you out of here. Just...come on. Get up."
His eyes dart with confusion from her to Warren and back to the hand she holds out to him. He glares at it suspiciously. She sees his gaze drift to her other hand. The one holding the stake. He licks his lips. She moves it behind her back, out of sight. Then, reconsidering, she brings it back out and holds it up for him to see before tossing it across the room. She holds up her empty hands to let him know he can trust her.
He frowns. "That was stupid." He almost sounds like himself for a moment.
"I trust you," she lies.
Haunted eyes peer into her own. The whites of his eyes have gone almost completely red. It makes the blue of his irises seem pale; washed out by comparison. Solarized. His face is tight. Pinched into a pained expression she had become all too familiar with during her mom's illness. He appraises her.
"No you don't." He states it as a fact, neither hurt nor surprised by the knowledge.
"I... I don't want to hurt you." She realizes as she says it that she really doesn't.
He runs his fingers over his mouth and looks down at them, in dazed fascination. They've come away covered in blood.
He sniffs. "Can't do it myself you know... chip."
She repeats herself, reinforcing the truth of it to the both of them. "I don't want to hurt you."
He nods, taking that in. Still not looking at her. He licks blood from his fingers thoughtfully. He's not going to come with her. Not without a fight. She could probably knock him out... with the tranq gun or otherwise. But she can work a whole lot faster without dragging around the unconscious undead. Best not to disturb him any more than he already is.
"Listen... he should be out for awhile, right?" She indicates Warren with the toe of her shoe, pulling back quickly as Spike snaps instantly to attention, tracking the progress of her foot as it moves toward the prone figure. Looks like Warren trained him well. She swallows back that feeling in the pit of her stomach. If that feeling makes it to the surface, very bad things will happen to Warren. She can't let that happen.
Once satisfied that she's not making any more threatening gestures toward his charge, Spike replies, "Yeah, think so."
"Good. Okay. You go ahead and stay here with him. I'm going to find Willow. Don't worry. We'll fix this."
"Yeah. Willow'll fix it," he agrees. She hesitates a moment, eyeing him before turning to the door. She really doesn't like the way he says it.
Section 4.3: Reflection
…my blood is laced with garlic
you bloodsuckers can’t touch me
my blood is laced with garlic
my blood is all mine
and some day there will be
no disguised passion in vain
and some day
the element of crime will grace the few
and the living will kill off the dead
and passion like a supernova
will explode in the air
and you’ll die screaming
and when you go
you won’t go with a bang, but a whimper
and you’ll die screaming
yes, you’ll die screaming
the sky is falling
the sky is falling
the sky is falling…
– ribbed
mousetrap, 1994
Xander drops her off at Janis’ and speeds away toward the Magic Box. She stands in front of the house until he’s out of sight and then takes off at a run. She runs until her lungs burn and her legs go all rubbery and then she runs some more. She doesn’t care where she ends up. She runs with her eyes squeezed shut half the time, feeling her way. Trying to hold the tears in. She hopes she runs off a cliff. She hopes she gets hit by a bus. She hopes she runs so hard her heart explodes.
And then it does. Or, what feels like it. Something breaks inside her and she drops to her knees in the grass, skidding to a stop. She screams and sobs and basically throws a major wiggy tantrum until her head aches and her face is all teary and snotty. And when she’s done with that, she just kinda lies there all soggy and grass stained. Head and heart throbbing in tandem. Leg muscles twitching. She just stares up at the reddening sky as it slips into sunset and lets the tears roll silently down her face and into her ears. She listens to the birds chirping in the trees above her. Stupid birds. What do they know? The world has come to an end. Again. DadMomBuffySpikeTara… every time she loses someone she loves, her world changes shape. And just when she starts to get used to the new, distortedness of it, someone else goes away and it gets all wonky again. Over and over and over again. And she can’t do anything to stop it. She should have just stayed a green glowy whatever-the-hell for all the good she can do. Now all she is is…
“Useless…” she mutters up at the birds. “What good are you, anyway.”
She closes her eyes and she sees Tara. Tara smiling. Tara making pancakes especially for her. Tara teaching her those funky braids that looked so good on her but somehow like total crap on Dawn. Tara, the undefeated thumb wrestling champion of Sunnydale three years running. Tara, the big sister she never quite had in Buffy. Tara dead on the floor.
Part of her – the part that is her own and no one else’s – hopes that Willow has gone all dark, evil magic again. Hopes that Willow finds whatever scumbag jerk did this and kills him… really slowly, with lots of pain and screaming and stuff. But the other part of her – the part that is sister to the Slayer, daughter to Joyce Summers… and yeah, friend to Willow Rosenberg – that part knows that certain things shouldn’t happen no matter how much you want them. Because you can’t ever take those things back. Because you become someone else by doing those things. Because it’s wrong.
And that really sucks.
She opens her eyes and sees the demon. She sits up with a start. Realizes she’s been lying in the grass next to Spike’s… the crypt that used to be Spike’s. And the demon is the flappy skin guy. One of Spike’s old poker buddies. Last summer Spike had taken it upon himself to teach her the fine art of gambling and would bring her out with him to the bar sometimes. He’d even let her take her winnings (he’d taught her how to cheat “right proper”) to the animal shelter after the games. Though he would grump the whole time that it was a waste of perfectly good kittens.
Clem. She remembers. Clem from poker. He was nice. Always gave her Twizzlers and laughed at her dorky puns like he actually thought they were funny.
“Um… you okay?” The demon asks her with his head tilted in concern.
She scrambles to her feet although her legs aren’t too happy with the idea. Embarrassed, she uses her sleeve to wipe away some of the tears and stuff. Yick. “No,” she sniffs. “Not really.”
“Oh… um…” he looks uncomfortable. Like a crying teenage girl is some strange, possibly dangerous creature from a whole different species… which, well… technically, she is. He glances over his shoulder, like maybe he’s thinking of fleeing.
She narrows her eyes at him, “What’s in the box?”
He looks down guiltily at the box in his hands. “Oh, uh… this?”
“Yeah, that.” she recognizes a cracked Kiss the Librarian mug among the contents. “Hey! You’re taking Spike’s stuff!”
“Am not!” he gasps in outrage.
She glares.
“Okay, okay… I am. But hey, all the good stuff’s already been picked through. I’m just scavenging through the rubble, pretty much. And anyway… it doesn’t look like Spike’s coming back for it anytime soon.”
He looks kinda sad about that. Dawn relents. It’s true, after all. Even if Spike is back and all evil or crazy or whatever, he hasn’t come back to his crypt. She’d rather Clem take the stuff than some gross Sssslrvlak demon, anyway.
Wait a minute – demon! Clem’s a demon! He can take her to that Rack guy’s place. He can take her to find Willow before she can do anything awful. If she can get Willow to listen to her… maybe she can fix this before it gets worse…
Clem steps back anxiously as Dawn’s expression goes from miserable to excited.
“You’re not… you won’t tell your sister will you? I know she’s been all antsy about trespassers in this crypt, but I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear.” He shoves the box toward her. “You can keep the stuff. I don’t really want it. Just – just don’t tell her, okay? I’ll do anything you want…”
Dawn smiles.
He feels it coming before it happens. He’s ready for it. The metal door bursts inward, ripping from its hinges and flying past them to clatter against the far wall. Spike pulls himself to his feet and turns to face it. Sees Buffy standing, stunned, halfway to the now-absent door. Found the witch before she got the chance to have a look.
In saunters Willow. No… not just Willow. Willow to the tenth power, she is. Hair’s gone all dark and her eyes are black pools of… oh, he recognizes it, right enough. Dark veins spiderweb under her skin. Not blood. He knows blood. Blood is life. It’s not life she’s being fuelled by just now.
“Buffy,” he says, as evenly as he can, “Get out. Go now.” Presses palm to forehead once again. Got to set himself right. This is important. Can’t let himself get all punchy and abstracted, here. He’s not sure if the witch would hurt Buffy or not. Would rather not find out. Mostly, he doesn’t want Buffy to see the show that’s to follow. Bad enough she’s even seen him like this. What he’s been reduced to. No use, her seeing the end of it.
“Willow?” Buffy asks, completely flummoxed by the sight. “Willow, what’s going on?”
“Hey Buffy,” Willow smiles brightly through a mask of dried blood, eyes fixed on Spike as she speaks. Then the smile gets significantly less bright. “Spike.”
Spike gives her a wary nod.
“Buffy…” Willow goes on, “Could you excuse us for a sec? I need to have a little chat with the fellas.” She peers over the table at the inert Warren. Her eyes narrow.
Buffy looks from Willow to Spike and back again. “Willow,” she says, “I can explain this –”
“You heard the girl, Buffy,” Spike growls through clenched teeth. “Go.”
Buffy doesn’t move. Just keeps looking between the two of them, thinking how to set things right. Always the little hero. Never listens to him then, does she?
“Willow, this whole thing, it’s bad, I know. But… it’s not the way it looks. We need to just calm down and figure this – oof!”
Spike feels the power flow past him like a rush of cold air as Buffy is blown back against the wall, landing in a heap next to the twisted door. He takes a step in the direction of where she lands but stops. Heartbeat still strong. Breathing steady. She’s unconscious. Alive. And out of the action for now. Better off.
The witch that is Too-Much-Willow is coming toward him. She’s wearing a smile that would make his blood run cold if it weren’t doing just that already. Running all down the front of him, as it were.
She jerks her head in the direction the Slayer was tossed. ”Sheesh. Some people just don’t know how to keep their noses out of other people’s business, huh?”
“Will –”
“–Shut up, Spike,” she hisses.
He complies automatically. Lowers his head. It’s reflex now. Obey orders. It’s what he does then, innit? Her voice cuts through the buzzing in his head like an axe through a skull. She’s not just speaking to him with her voice. She’s in his mind as well. More like she’s all around him, filling up the air in the room.
Eyes on Warren, she comes round the table for them. Reluctantly, Spike steps forward, placing his body between her and the unconscious man.
She stops in front of him. “Come on, Spike. You don’t really want to protect this…” her mouth twists in disgust, “…this maggot, do you?”
“Sorry luv. Have to.”
“You know I’m gonna kill you.”
Spike nods and sniffs back more blood. “I get that feeling, yeah.”
She smiles again stepping up to him until they’re nearly toe to toe. Inspects him up and down. “Is that what you’re counting on? A nice quick death? Get it out of the way before I take care of your friend here?”
“He’s not my friend.” Dread now. She’s not going to fix it. No end to it, then. Not ever.
“Yeah, I can see that. Y’know, it’s kinda weird. I can see all sorts of stuff.” She is gazing up at him, eyes burning with a light that is the opposite of light. They’re bright with darkness. Gleaming with it. Finds it hard to look away. He knows what’s in there, has been a part of it for a very long time. Or it’s been a part of him. Same thing, right?
He’s being pulled in. Drusilla had done this but… not… quite… like this… With Dru it had been… like being wrapped all round in darkness and letting it carry you in its currents. Everything just dropping away… like pulling off heavy, wet clothing after being caught too long in a storm. Discarding everything that weighs you down till you’re stripped basic. Pure. Powerful. Free. Not giving a toss about what was left behind. Things missing. Important. Forgotten.
This time… this is different. He’s sinking into the depths. Drowning. It’s pulling him under. In his mind he thrashes and struggles to stay above it. Dark eyes hold him in place. He doesn’t want to see. Can’t look away. Dark eyes… reflecting… reflecting… he gasps as he sees, for the first time in well over a century, his own image mirrored back at him.
“I see you, William,” the witch is saying, her voice cold and flat. And at the same time he feels it, an undertone, insinuating itself into his mind on a frequency too low to actually be a sound: I know you. I know what you are. What you’re capable of. I know…
Willow continues, her voice overlapping. “You’re pathetic – a lap dog, throwing yourself at the feet of whoever will take you. Begging for their scraps. Baring your throat to anyone who lets you follow them home.”
Willow raises a hand to rest on the side of his face. Her mouth turns down in a patronizing pout. “Aww. Poor little Spikey. You’ve gotten so used to being kicked, you don’t know what to do without it. You just can’t be happy unless someone’s holding the chain, can you?”
Spike tries to protest but the monster he sees in her eyes terrifies him to silence. Knows him. Knows what he is.
Willow looks at him, her face a mask of false sympathy. “The kindest thing to do, really, is to put you out of your misery.”
He watches, unable to move as her other hand comes up in a fist, blue sparks of energy emanating all around it. It connects with his face and he feels his nose snap yet again as he’s thrown back, over Warren’s body, to land sprawling several feet away. He stares up at the rafters, waiting for his eyes to focus again.
“Too bad for you, I’m not feeling particularly kind right now,” Willow says, shaking out her fist and grinning. ”That was for breaking my nose, by the way.” She turns away from him and reaches down to grab a handful of Warren’s hair, dragging his limp body upright. “Awake,” she mutters.
Warren’s eyes open with a flutter, then widen in alarm as he realizes that something very bad is happening. He thrashes wildly, trying to free himself from the witch’s grasp. She waves her hand and he goes rigid, levitating in front of her for a moment before flying across the room and crashing against the wall with a thud. He hangs there, pinned to the wall like a bug.
“No!” Spike launches himself back to his feet. The buzzing is worse now. Has to stop it. Make the smart choice.
Warren sees him rise and shoots him a panicked look. “Spike! Help me! Kill this crazy bitch! NOW!”
Spike looks from Warren to Willow. Willow is sauntering leisurely toward her victim. She turns her head and looks back at Spike, amused. “Yeah, come on Spike,” she mocks, “Your master’s calling. Better come.”
Helpless, Spike rushes at her. She half turns and easily deflects him with an upraised hand. He crumples to the floor as a current of dark power crashes over him like a wave.
Willow laughs. “Is that the best you can do? Come on Spike! Here, boy!” She whistles at him as though calling a dog. “Come and get it!”
Shaking his head to clear it, Spike pulls himself back to his feet. Summoning all of his strength and speed, he charges. This time, he moves too quickly for her to react and he is on her, tackling her to the floor. For an instant, he has the advantage as she is taken by surprise. He grasps her head in his hands, ready to snap the neck.
But in that moment, her face changes. The self-assured Dark Witch falters and becomes… just… Willow. Frightened and inconsolably sad, Willow.
And he can’t do it. No more. Right. The stupid choice it is, then. He lets go, even as he sees the fear in her eyes dissipate and the darkness take over once again.
“Don’t do this, Will,” he whispers, knowing with the certainty of experience that it’s of no use. “Don’t be like me.”
He leans back and closes his eyes, bracing himself. The chip fires and everything in him screams.
Section 4.4: Feeling
I've fallen from favour while trying to savour experience
I'm seeing things clearly but it has quite nearly blown my mind
It's the aim of existence to offer resistance to the flow of time
Everything is and that is why it is will be the line
I believe in perpetual motion
And I believe in perfect devotion
I believe in
I believe in
I believe in the things I've never had
I believe in my Mum and my Dad
And I believe in
I believe in
There is no love in this world anymore
There is no love in this world anymore
– I Believe
Buzzcocks, 1979
Anya sneaks another surreptitious peek at her erstwhile fiance. He’s bent over the steering wheel, staring at the traffic ahead. His lips are pressed white together. That’s his worried mouth. He’s very worried. There was a time when such an expression on Xander’s face would be the cue to instigate a game of Inappropriately Affectionate Massage Therapist. Not now, though. No sir. She’s through with all that nonsense. Silly human attachments. It never ends well. Just look at the current predicament. If she’s seen it once, she’s seen in a million times: Girl meets girl. Girl falls in love with girl. Girl shares many exciting orgasms with girl. Girl tampers with girl’s brain. Girl loses girl. Girl gets girl back, only to have her die a horrible, bloody death shortly thereafter. Girl goes all Carrie and calls upon the Black Arts to exact her gruesome revenge. Oldest story in the book, really. Just another case in point. Relationships suck.
As a vengeance demon, Anya is lucky to be above such things now. She just wishes the thick, dreadful feeling in the back of her throat would go away. It’s disturbing and not right. She should be by Willow’s side, offering encouragement and evisceration tips, not rushing off in a smelly pick-up truck with her ex-lover (technically The Enemy) to try to prevent the young woman from inflicting painful torment on the source of her unhappiness. Why on earth is she here? Well, it’s certainly not for Xander’s sake, that’s for sure. Perhaps she lived among the humans for too long and now she’s tainted. Infected with their do-gooder attitude. Oh, how awful! See, this is the sort of thing that happens when you let yourself care about others. Things get all messy and confused. And then they betray you and stomp on your feelings and you get even more confused until you can’t even do your job properly.
Anya sighs and turns to her window to watch the bland suburban scenery, bruised purple by the twilight, rush past. This is all sure to end badly. It’s funny how nobody ever pays the slightest attention when things are good, but when it’s bad you can just bet people will sit up and take notice. Well, they’re sitting up all right. Rushing off to save the day – or more likely to die trying. And in the unlikely event that they actually succeed and somehow manage to stop the enraged little Wicca, what then? What will be come of them then?
For no rational reason whatsoever, Anya begins to cry. Cry! Of all the undignified, inappropriate responses! She quietly slips her sleeve over her thumb and dabs at the corners of her eyes. Xander is too preoccupied with keeping his white-knuckle grip on the wheel to notice. Thank goodness. She checks herself in the side mirror and is disappointed to find an all-too-human face frowning back at her. This is no way for a vengeance demon to be carrying on. She shouldn’t be having these feelings. It’s the very reason she got back into the business. A chance to escape from feeling anything but the satisfaction of a job well done. Becoming a demon was supposed to fix things. Make it all stop. But it just keeps coming. And so do the soggy, tell-tale tears. She dislikes the way her emotions weaken her, making her feel useless and small. She’s such a failure. Emotions make you sloppy. All vengeance demons know that. The only way to get the job done efficiently is not to let yourself feel.
Her eyes slide toward Xander, the horrible worry on his face. If only circumstances were different.
Buffy reaches behind her and feels. There’s blood in her hair. Her head is screaming. Had she heard someone else screaming earlier? She blinks and looks around her. There’s Willow – wait – that’s not Willow, is it? It must be. Something is very wrong with her though. She is a Not-Quite-Willow. Or a… Too-Much-Willow. And she’s talking to the wall. Wait, no. She’s talking to someone who is stuck to the wall. She’s talking to someone who is Warren who is stuck to the wall. He’s bleeding, begging for his life, hurt.
Buffy’s eyes go fuzzy for a second. Her head feels all wobbly. Ow. Nothing that’s happening seems to make sense. She stands up and staggers against the wall. Warren is screaming now. Willow is hurting him. But Willow wouldn’t hurt anyone. Buffy squints across the room to try to make out what’s happening. No good. She’s the Slayer. She should be slaying something right now. Protecting the innocent. Protecting… someone. But she isn’t sure who, anymore. Which one of them is the demon? Can’t tell from over here.
“Willow?” she calls. “Willow, what are you doing?”
Willow stops in the middle of the speech she is making to Warren and turns to face her.
“Oh, goody. It’s Buffy to the rescue,” she smirks. She takes a step forward but then stops and looks down, irritated. Something has reached up from the floor and grabbed her ankle. Is that Spike? He’s lying at her feet, pushing up from the ground with one arm and reaching for Willow with the other. Willow kicks the hand away and crouches down beside him. Buffy takes a few uneven steps forward, trying to get close enough to make sense of things.
“You’re persistent, Spike,” Willow is saying. “Has anyone ever told you how annoying that is?”
He says something that Buffy can’t quite make out. His voice is barely a whisper. Knowing Spike it’s probably some crude Britishism only he can understand anyway. Willow smiles in response. It’s not a nice smile.
“Willow,” Buffy tries again. “Willow, whatever’s going on – whatever you’re doing – just stop for a second. Lets figure this out…”
Willow looks up at her, eyes widening innocently. “Figure what out? I know exactly what’s going on. These two are experiencing a little much-deserved karma and you’re being all clueless and nosy. Again.” Eyes still fixed on Buffy, Willow reaches down and grabs Spike by the throat, hauling him to a sitting position propped up against a steel column. Spike offers up groggy resistance, raising an arm in a feeble attempt to knock her hand away. “Spike…” Willow warns quietly, her grip tightening, “Cut it out. I mean it.” Spike drops his arm and stops struggling. He stares at Willow with glazed eyes. Just watching. Above them, Warren whimpers.
Buffy swallows hard. “Let me handle this, Will. You can’t – you can’t do this.”
Her recently-very-scary friend laughs. “I can. I will.”
“I won’t let you do this. It’s not the way…”
Willow scoffs and rolls her eyes, “God you’re bossy! This isn’t even about you, Buffy! Just because you’re the stupid Slayer doesn’t mean you always get to tell me what to do. And y’know, if you were actually worth a crap as a Slayer, I wouldn’t have had to step in like this. A real Slayer would have done something about Mr. Gun-Happy Overcompensation Guy up there a long time ago. And this…” She pulls Spike forward, head lolling, and rams him back into the column with a clunk. His eyes roll back in his head for a second and then crawl back into Willow-watching position. Once again his arm comes up, a slow-motion reflex, before hesitating in the air and dropping back to his side. Willow glances at him and smirks back at Buffy. “…This would have been a pile of dust years ago.”
Buffy takes another step forward, fists clenching. “This isn’t you, Willow. Something’s wrong. Let me help you.”
Willow looks her up and down, taking in the threatening posture. “Help me how? With your fists? Gosh, gee, no thanks.”
“It doesn’t have to come to that,” Buffy says, fists clenching tighter. “But I can’t let you destroy yourself. I’ll stop you if I have to.”
Laughing, Willow releases the vampire’s neck and wiggles her fingers in front of her. “Oooh. You’re so intimidating. Y’know, if I’d had any idea you were gonna be such a bitch when you came back, I would have let you rot in your grave.”
That’s it. Before she realizes she’s doing it, Buffy leaps at Willow who responds with a snicker and a quick hand gesture. And all of a sudden she’s airborne. In the wrong direction. Flying once again toward the wall at the other end of the room. Anticipating it this time, she curls to protect her head, taking the brunt of the collision with her shoulder. She drops to the ground and rolls to her feet. Determined, she immediately rushes back to the action.
“Buffy!” Spike shouts. Or, attempts to shout. Rasps would be more accurate, probably.
She stops. Willow raises her eyebrows and looks at him. He says something else that she can’t hear.
“Huh?” Buffy asks, feeling incredibly dorky as she says it.
He has to take another breath to repeat himself. “Get.” Another pause to inhale. “Out.”
“Wha–?” This is all just way too much. Her vocabulary seems to have left the building – taking with it the bulk of her patience. Is he completely nuts? Okay, scratch that… does he not realize what Willow is probably going to do to him if she doesn’t put a stop to it?
With great effort, he takes a deep breath and clarifies. “Go… away. Not your concern. I’ll sort this.”
Looking even more amused, Willow turns to Buffy for her response.
Buffy is incredulous. “You’ll sort this? You have got to be kidding. Spike, have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re like, half-dead already!” Yeah. Okay. That last part was dumb on so many levels. She’s not doing so good with the clever dialogue just now. She makes a mental note to blame it on the head injury in review. Even Warren takes time out from whimpering and bleeding to stare at her like she’s an idiot. The only thing missing is the chirping of crickets. She presses onward. Clarifies. “Spike… you need me.”
“Don’t.” His eyes flash at her. She notices that the former stream of blood from his face has pretty much stopped. He looks drained. Of blood and more. She isn’t sure if his statement is a command or a reply.
“Like hell.” She starts forward again. Willow cocks her head and looks back at Spike curiously. She’s enjoying the show.
“Dammit Buffy, piss off!” He actually manages a little volume this time. Willow puts a hand up to her mouth to hide a snicker.
Buffy stops again. Stupid, crazy vampire. She rolls her eyes. “Just quit with the melodramatic macho riff for, like, two minutes, okay, Spike? I’m trying to freaking save your ass, here.”
“Don’t,” he repeats, gaze steady on her, as resolved as a dead man can be.
“Yeah Buffy,” Willow chirps, still terribly amused. “You should really go. It’s so obvious nobody wants you here. And this one’s all broken now anyway. Why dontcha just grab a shovel and go dig up someone new, ‘kay?”
Buffy’s mouth drops open. Willow knows. The witch gives her a lascivious smirk. She knows it all. Oh god. Buffy flushes. Spike turns away from her, ashamed. Or disgusted. Or… just resigned. He seems intent on the dangling feet of the sacrificial nerd. Warren has lost a shoe.
“B–” Buffy sputters, suddenly feeling as though she has to explain, somehow, to her freshly homicidal best friend why she had, at one time, been engaging in illicit shag-fests with her formerly and maybe, probably, still homicidal not-boyfriend, who also happens to be… well… dead and, if said best friend gets her way, soon-to-be-even-deader. If things get much more complicated, she’s gonna need to make a flowchart. “Wh–”
Willow tilts her head primly at the flustered Slayer, feigning patient attention. Okay. That’s enough explaining. No more talking. Action, much better. Fists clenching tight once again, Buffy moves in.
And with a bored flick of the wrist, Willow stops her.
The Slayer is kicking and struggling before them though there are no visible bonds around her. Huh. Knows that feeling, yeah. Kick all you want. Nothing comes of it. More pressing matters, besides.
The witch.
He drags his head up to face her. Her breath smells of blood and, more faintly, of Tara. Would be arousing… were circumstances different. Painful just now. Dunno why, for sure. Not one hundred percent certain of the order of things. He’s all muzzy, off and on. Witch is talking. Her turn to play. And he’s not the hero. Not the villain, neither. Not nothing. Got the game all wrong then, hadn’t he?
“Fascinating as it is, I don’t exactly have the time to deal with you and Buffy and all your little issues, Spike,” Willow explains. She shrugs, jerking her head up to indicate Warren. “…I’ve kinda got this thing going on. You know how it is. Busy, busy. And as long as little Buffy stays out of my way, I really couldn’t care less about her. But you…” She cocks her head at him, baring her teeth in carefully contained fury, “You deserve a little attention. After all, you’re his little helper, aren’t you? You were there. You… you tasted her.”
He catches the flicker of the old Willow that appears in her eyes at the thought of her lover. Faint, but present. Hope for the witch yet. None for him though. Far too late for that.
“So tell me, Spike–” she leans in close. Predatory. For an odd moment he thinks she’s about to bite him and has the mad compulsion to shrink back… but no. He’s confused is all. It’s him that does that sort of thing, not her, right?
“–Was she sweet?” Her voice catches on that last bit.
She doesn’t want the truth of it so he keeps mum. Waits. He’d recovered from that last shock much more quickly this time. Pain conditioning and all that. Still finds himself unable to move much. Certainly in no condition to stop what’s happening. No use to try anymore anyway. The game will be ending soon enough. He had watched the bullet enter, waiting for Warren to die. Waiting for the shock to come. It didn’t. Warren‘s still alive. For now.
“Spike!” Warren gasps, and Spike reflexively jerks his head up but no longer bothers with humility. He looks directly into the face of the bleeding figure above him. Warren’s eyes are bright with pain and fear. Tears stream down his face. Just a human after all, then. Perhaps Spike should feel some satisfaction at this. Perhaps he should feel fear of his own at what’s to come. He doesn’t. He’s had his fill of it. Feeling. Look where it’s gotten him.
“I’ll get you blood,” the condemned man’s tone isn’t as commanding as it once was, “I’ll deactivate the chip… no more shocks… I promise! Just –”
Willow turns to glare up at him, “Oh for crying out loud, shut the hell up for a second! I’m trying to have a conversation here!” With a gesture she seals his mouth shut. His screams of terror come out all muffled. Spike looks away.
With Warren waiting quietly on the wall, the witch turns her attention back to the warm up act. Spike watches her mouth move as she begins speaking again. Watches teeth glinting behind dark, blood-encrusted lips. Anything’s better than looking into those eyes.
“So what am I gonna do with you, then? Hm?” She studies him for a moment. “Tell ya what, Spikey… remember how you offered me a choice once? Well, how about I do that same favor for you? Y’know… since you and I go way back and all.” Another cold smile. “It’ll be neat! And don’t worry, I’m not gonna let ya die, or anything. How boring would that be? I mean, hey… you’ve already been there, done that. Where’s the fun?” Leaning in, she grabs a handful of his hair and jerks his head up, forcing him to look her in the eyes after all. He sees it then. His true choices. The consequences. What she plans to do to him. The demon in him struggles, changing him. He snarls, panicked, and tries to rear back from her, get away. She holds fast, waiting him out until the demon – he – submits and lets her continue. His face shifts back to human. Something wet runs down his face. Not blood. Tears. Fuck.
“Oh, it’s not so bad ya big baby!” Willow chastises. “Here – just to show how nice I am, I’m gonna let you decide what I do to your best buddy, Warren, okay? Give us what I know we both want and I won’t do anything to you at all. Or you can do ‘the right thing,’ whatever that is, and I’ll give you a little present. Either way, it’s all up to you.”
She quirks the corners of her mouth up, playful-like. “So… what’s it gonna be, Spike?” She reaches down, brushing her fingertips over his forehead. They tingle with power against his skin. “He gets to die?” She traces her hand down his face, across his collarbone. Places it against his chest, over his heart, her fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise. “Or he gets to live?”
Section 4.5: Dreadful
The day goes by, I nod at it, another comes again.
I'm asking you for guidance now, I hope my ways to mend.
In the secret history of time we're all alone and dead
And only suffering is sure is what the best book said.
There's something knocking in my mind I'm trying to recall.
I think if I could remember it I could regain it all.
But maybe it wasn't even me who had that memory
But someone gone if ever here like a river to the sea.
I'd like to say I'm sorry if I've disappointed you
But everyone expects the world and then they get it too.
The night is coming on and time it won't stand still.
The end is near they say and yes it always will.
The night is coming on and I'm feeling scared.
There are things I've left undone and the deadline's here.
The night is coming on and the dread is sheer.
–The Night Is Coming On
Dim Stars/Richard Hell, 1992
Oh… this is so not good. She’s not sure what kind of “present” Willow has in mind for Spike if he decides to let Warren live, but it doesn’t sound any less nasty than whatever Warren had promised him if he were to die. There’s some hope in the fact that Spike hasn’t answered yet. But come on, giving Spike the choice? Ooh, hey, let’s leave it all up to the guy without a conscience! Pretty twisted even for creepy, bad dye-job Willow. Of course Spike wants Warren dead. Hell, she’s the Slayer, Miss I-Don’t-Hurt-Humans, and even she’s gotta admit that dead Warren isn’t exactly the worst idea in the history of the world.
And Spike just sits there, staring at the floor between his feet as if the answer to this little multiple choice test has been inscribed in the concrete. He’s panting as though he’d been running hard and needs breath.
Ladies and gentlemen, Buffy thinks to herself, Spike has left the building.
Willow gives an exaggerated yawn, unaffected by Spike’s zombieness. “C’mon Spike. I can’t wait all day y’know. I’ve got places to go, people to kill.”
Buffy continues to push against the funky, sludgey air bubble that Bitchy-Willow has trapped her in. Bracing her feet on the floor and pushing forward with her hands, she leans her whole body into it. God, she feels like a freaking mime. No one should ever have to feel like that. There’s more give now. She’s able to move forward by a fraction of an inch. At this rate, she’ll be close enough to – well, still not stop Willow – in about two months. Wonderful.
“Willow!” she keeps trying with the words, although they traditionally aren’t exactly her most powerful of weapons. “Please! You really don’t want to do this. You can’t kill Warren. He’ll pay for what he did… but if you kill him you’ll be just like him! Will, you’re not like that. Not really.”
Another inch. Good. Better. It’s getting easier. She keeps trying to reach her friend. “Willow, you’re not a monster. You’re not a killer.”
But Willow ignores her. Her attention is fixed on Spike. She’s talking to him in a low, soothing voice, as if comforting a frightened child.
“…thing is, see, Warren didn’t tell you everything. The fact is, eventually, maybe in a year or two, that chip in your head is gonna end up burning itself out. And even before that could happen, it would probably just fry the pain receptors in your brain enough that eventually you’d stop feeling anything. So hey, not so permanent with the shocking after all, right? And who knows? You might even recover in a decade or two! Plus, Warren’ll be nice and dead and I’ll be happy – so, y’know, warm fuzzies all around!”
Although he appears to be zoned out, catatonia guy, Buffy can tell that Spike’s listening very carefully to what Willow is saying. Gotta give him credit, this is probably the first time he’s taken more than a split-second to make a decision in his life. Or his death. But hey, not kidding herself here. She has to break free so she can fight somehow. Unless she can stop it, Warren’s a dead man.
He’s a dead man.
When he was a kid and he was scared, he used to run through the multiplication tables in his mind. Usually, by the time he got to twelves, everything would be okay. His dad always used to say that there was no problem that couldn’t be solved with the proper application of math and physics. As a physicist he’d been biased of course. Luckily, he’d managed to die before they’d moved to the Hellmouth. He would have had an aneurysm trying to explain the stuff that goes on here.
Death. Now there’s one for ya, Dad. Try solving that motherfucker with a tidy formula.
Now, even the multiplication tables have failed him. He’s stuck at stupid six times seven and he’ll be damned if he can remember what it means anymore. He just keeps looping: Six times seven equals I’m gonna die… Six times seven equals this isn’t fair… Six times seven equals I wasn’t finished yet. I was supposed to be something great, powerful…
See, now, that’s panic. He gets that. Unproductive thoughts like when he killed Trina. No. When Trina fell. The accident. That’s right. Panic is the cue to think of something else. New plan. Find a way out of this. Show this witch bitch who’s in charge. His mind races. Nothing. He’s got nothing. What’s the use of being the smartest person in the room if your brain won’t work?
His throat hurts too much to keep screaming. He can’t open his mouth anyway. What has she done to him? Does he even have a mouth? Does he look like that chick from Twilight Zone: The Movie? He can’t move and it hurts! God, it hurts! That psycho chick put a bullet in him. He knows that. He saw it go in. Felt it. It doesn’t feel like he would have imagined it. It burns. Like a flame licking at his insides, radiating heat throughout his body. He’d thought he was gonna die right then, but she’d stopped. Started talking about Trina. And then he thought he’d seen her, seen Trina, but it wasn’t her of course. Some stupid fucked up spell to make him feel bad. But he won’t because he won’t let himself be manipulated by crazy Wicca bitch. No way. No fucking way.
He can see her down there. Just sitting there talking to Spike. He hadn’t been paying any attention to whatever it is she’s going on about. Probably just the usual, I’m gonna kill you, blah blah blah. Villains are so predictable. That’s like, the number one villain mistake, right there. Talking too much. He’d never do that. He’s not stupid.
And Spike, who should be helping him – hadn’t they been a team? hadn’t he given Spike everything he needed? let him work side by side with him? – Spike, just sitting there feeling sorry for himself.
Spike betrayed him. He’d set him free, let him kill again. He’d actually kinda started liking the guy. And he’d betrayed him. Warren should have known better than to trust a vampire. Spike wouldn’t kill the witch and now they both get to die because of it. Stupid fucking Spike. He’d been a mistake. He should have removed the chip and dusted him, then gone directly to the Slayer. No messing around with prototypes and making duplicate chips. He’d captured her easily enough. He could have captured her alone. With his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back, probably. When he thinks about it, this is really all Spike’s fault.
Just then Spike glances up at him. And okay, yeah, he starts trying to scream again. Just a little. Spike, you fucking worthless vampire, help me! Or maybe it’s something more like Spike, please… do something! Help me! I’m sorry! I don’t want to die! Please! Whatever. No one will ever know. No words come out, of course. And then, okay, sure, he maybe starts crying again. So what? It doesn’t make him a pussy or anything. It’s perfectly okay to cry when you’re about to be killed in some horrible way by a pissed-off lesbo witch.
Then the Slayer, who’s just standing there doing stretches or something, not helping at all – selfish bitch – yells at the vampire and Spike looks away. Looks at the Slayer.
“Spike!” Okay. She’s not going to bust free in time. She knows this. It really is in Spike’s hands now. If she can only reason with him. Appeal to the part of him that fought to protect Dawn. The weird loyalty or whatever it is that makes him keep stumbling somehow into doing the right thing. If she can just convince him…
But no other words come out. He looks at her and language, as usual, fails her. His eyes lock on hers, searching, and she stops struggling. Just gazes back at him. Steady.
Then he turns away, to Willow who leans in close. With Willow so close in front of him, Buffy can’t see his face. Exhausted, too quiet for Buffy to hear, he gives his answer.
“Oh, hey – I knew that’s what you were gonna say!” Willow smiles, rubbing her hands together.
The lights go out.
Section Notes: Takes place immediately before "Two to
Go." Not everything matches up exactly with canon
anymore. I tried to get it close. Use your
imagination. I trust you. And ooh! Check out
irfikos' brand spankin' new livejournal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/irfikos
Section 4.6: Staring Into the Sun
Take this invitation
Bishop's Queen to Pawn
All of us were taken
All that was, is gone
Of this information
Shames us, one and all
Where's my compensation?
Watching others fall
Welcome to the fall
- The Fall
Ministry, 1995
All of a sudden, it's too bright. Which is way weird because the lights are out and it should actually be really dark, right? At first, she can't see anything but light. Sorta familiar in an unnerving way. But also wrong in a whole not belonging in front of her eyes like this way. Wrong like staring into the sun until you go blind. It's so bright she has to close her eyes to see. And she can see like that. All pink and diffused through her eyelids, she sees Dark Shape Willow kneeling over Dark Shape Spike. Like shadow puppet theater. Only in surround sound. All around her, she hears Willow chanting something in a language even more unfamiliar to her than the French she had failed to learn in high school. The words sound all loopy and distorted, like a Tricky song. Played backwards. With blown speakers.
Buffy squints her eyes open to see Willow calling the light to her, funnelling it into her outstretched hand where it grows dense and compact, swirling and writhing on her palm.
Ball of sunlight, Buffy has time to think, just as Willow stops chanting and, with a grin, shoves her hand, light and all into Spike's chest. He throws his head back, bellowing in agony and goes all translucent, like an x-ray of himself. The light fills him up. Spills from his eye sockets. Still so bright Buffy has to look away. Has to squeeze her eyes shut for a second.
When she looks again, Willow is pulling her hand from Spike's chest and there's no hole there where there should be. Just the same pale flesh stretched tight over bone. And the room is dark. The only illumination comes from the scant moonlight that fights its way inside through a shattered skylight high up in the roof. The weird, ethereal light is gone and Spike is just Spike again. Still, Buffy holds her breath, expecting him to crumble to dust at any second.
He doesn't. He looks at Willow, wide-eyed with shock, as she rises to her feet and brushes herself off.
"Oh," he whispers, like he just remembered the answer to a riddle he had abandoned years ago. He tries to pull himself to his feet but staggers and collapses to his knees. Willow steps over him, apparently no longer interested in him at all.
"Oh," he says again, looking around at the room they're in; the people in it; down at his hands. He looks as if he's been trapped in the middle of a play and has no idea what his lines are. He's just there, in the middle of the stage as the scene plays out around him.
Willow, on the other hand, is relishing the spotlight she's created for herself. Her captive audience. She turns to Warren once again and picks up her conversation with him where she left off.
"How's it going, Warren? Hangin' in there?" Willow crinkles her nose in amusement at her little joke. Buffy feels a surge of indignation. That's her thing -punning before the kill. Can't Willow even think up her own thing? Now she's stealing the Slayer's act! Channeling the competitive prom queen within, Buffy keeps pushing. For all the good it seems to be doing her.
Warren sees that he's the focus of Willow's attention again. He squirms uselessly, eyes rolling in terror. With another twirl of the hand, Willow makes the seal over his mouth disappear. He gasps but seems to be done with screaming. Buffy is able to push forward another couple of inches. Warren watches her snail's progress, seeming to fully realize at last that his likelihood of being rescued anytime soon is not very promising.
"Please, God..." he begs, desperate. "I did wrong, I see that now. I need... jail! I need... But you - you don't want this. You're not a bad person. Not like me -"
He's interrupted as Xander and Anya burst into the room, Anya complaining loudly to Xander as they enter. "-so many twists and turns it's really an inefficient floorplan. Are all buildings on the hellmouth built like th-"
Her chatter comes to an abrupt halt when the two of them catch sight of what's taking place directly in front of them. Buffy doing a really convincing "walking against the wind act," Spike crawling on the floor, muttering to himself. And Willow. Evil. About to kill a guy.
Willow doesn't seem too convinced by her intended victim's argument anyway. Warren jerks his head toward the converging Scoobies. "When you get caught - you'll lose them too. Your friends. You don't want that." He's losing steam, grasping at anything that will buy him his life back. "I know you're in pain but -"
Willow rolls her creepy, button eyes, completely losing patience. "Bored now," she drawls.
Xander and Anya both jump back with a squeak as Willow with a casual gesture flays the skin from Warren Mears' body. Warren screams. The sound of it is ten times worse than the sight of him hanging there, looking more like meat than like a person. It is the sound of someone who has been skinned alive and is fully aware of it. Now Buffy knows what that kind of scream sounds like. She really never wanted to know that. Warren's eyes are twitching in his skull, even latching onto Buffy for an instant before moving on. He's alive. Conscious. Willow won't let him not be.
"Oh my god." Xander turns away, shielding his eyes with his arm as if they could be harmed by the mere sight of the carnage his best friend has just caused. Anya looks on, her face grim.
Buffy tears her eyes away from the Wes Craven-ness to look into Willow's face. Nothing. She sees nothing. There's nothing of Willow in there... Is there? "What did you do?" she asks, not wanting to believe this. "Willow, what did you do?"
Willow merely glances at the distraction of her friends, then turns back to smile at her handiwork. She looks pretty satisfied with herself. Another gesture and Warren bursts into flame and vanishes entirely.
Brushing her hands together to sum up a job well done, Willow turns back to the Scoobies. "Two down," she mutters as smoke begins to curl up around her body and a red fire flashes in her eyes Lightning flashes inside the room as the witch's body dissipates into smoke and is gone.
Suddenly finding no resistance to her struggles, Buffy is propelled forward. Throwing out her hands, she catches herself with Slayer-fast reflexes and flips back up to her feet. Anya steps forward, halfheartedly, to help, but stops to turn a disapproving eye on Xander as he bends over and gets sick all over the floor. She almost places a comforting hand on his back, but stops before she makes contact, stepping quickly away from him instead.
Catching her balance, Buffy goes to them and it is she who ends up doing the comforting back pat thing.
"You okay, Xand?" she asks, gently guiding him away from the mess. Anya accompanies them, hovering and scowling but not touching.
"Oh my god," he says again. His record is skipping. Buffy knows how he feels.
"Xander?" she asks.
"I'm fine. We...we have to... Willow..." he sort of answers.
"Two down," Buffy murmurs as Xander collects himself. "She said `two down.' She's not done."
"She was talking about 'two to go', right?" Anya asks. "Jonathan. And, whatsisface, the other guy..."
"Andrew," Buffy nods. "They're just sitting at county jail without a clue Willow's coming."
"We have to stop her..." Xander squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath. From the grimace that immediately follows, it looks to Buffy like the deep breath might have been a mistake.
"...and get the hell out of here," he finishes.
He turns to leave, Anya following. Buffy starts after them. Willow is pretty far gone, but she can hopefully still be saved. They have to get to Jonathan and Andrew before Willow does, though or it'll be too late. For the remaining geeks and for Willow. Sending Angel to hell had nearly killed her. In a gut-wrenching, heartachey kinda way. Having to... do something... to Willow is not something she's exactly looking forward to. It was bad enough when she found out Spike was killing again -
"Wait-" Buffy calls out, lingering and looking around the room to see what had become of Spike. He's gone. She returns to the spot where she last saw him and kneels down. No dust. But no Spike. He's pulled another David Copperfield. There's nothing but a faint, streaked trail of blood that leads to a drainage grate in the floor a few feet away. She recognizes it.
The sewer.
"Spike!" she calls. She holds her breath, listening. No sound other than the anxious breathing of her friends behind her.
"Buffy," Xander says, getting her attention with a hand on her shoulder, "Willow..."
"Yes," Anya agrees, sighing impatiently. "And I'm Anya. Now that we've established who everyone is, can we please get back to trying to stop the homicidal uber-witch?"
"Right." Buffy stands up. "We've got work to do. Let's go."
Section Notes: The non-Spike events of "Grave" continue to take place after Section 4.6. This epilogue picks up a few weeks after "Grave." After this it's Choose Your Own Adventure. Go on to watch Season 7, or wait for the sequel I'm working on.
Author Notes: irfikos would like to thank some nifty people...
Inobunny (aka roomie): Thanks for stopping laughing at me once you actually read it. And the helpful semi-betas.
---
Popecorky XXIII: The Evil Genius who replied unblinkingly to questions like, "So, if I were planning to stab somebody in the heart from behind, which ribs would I be stabbing between? Um... just curious." And who would probably do such a job for me if I were only to ask. (We'll talk...)
---
Nan: Thanks for all your help betaing that last bit for me. You are so incredibly swell!
---
Brigid (who won't tell me her pen name or what fics she's written): Who helped roomie & me come out of the Buffy closet and for warning me, "Don't ever start writing fanfic. Because once you start, you won't be able to stop." I think you were right.
--
And thanks to everyone who's been reading, especially those who took the time to give me feedback, criticism and encouragement. You wacky fanfic people have sucked me in. Dammit. Hope you all have enjoyed... er... well... at least liked "Chain."
Section 5.0: Epilogue
His body convulses when it meets the earth. Broken, unable to pull himself back up, he lies still. Air so black and heavy, even he can't see his way through it. Panic brings a shattered arm up to hover over his face, unseen.
Nothing.
Then something.
A touch. Something connects. He feels a hand grasping his own, pulling him up, heedless to the protestations of his grinding bones. With all the might left in him, he tries to jerk away from it; recoil back into himself. But it has him good. His eyelids squeeze shut as he's pulled unwillingly to his feet. In case the darkness fails him... he doesn't want to see. It's Warren... or the Witch... or another...
Whoever - whatever is dragging him up, it can't be good. The pain is too great. It burns. The hand is burning him; searing his skin. And then he is standing somehow and there are more hands. And more. Tearing at him. Burning him. Roaring fills his ears. Voices shrieking. Thousands of 'em. His victims, crying out for him. For his blood - which is rightfully their blood then, innit? He swings his arms about, tries to fend them off but there are too many of them. The pain is excruciating and he can't see to fight properly. They swarm him, desperate and howling. Their hands are all over him, slipping in blood, and soon he's buried in them, screaming.
He wakes up screaming.
The sound of it echoes throughout the cave, causing little bits of dirt and rubble to come skittering down the walls. He puts his hands over his ears until the cave stops screaming back at him. Though he can see well enough in this place, it's suddenly much too dark and closed in for his taste and he flings himself at the entrance. His boot knocks against the tiny opening as he pulls himself through it and he feels something unfamiliar press against his ankle. He slides down onto the rocky soil and crouches for a moment, sniffing the crisp night air for any possible danger. Sensing nothing amiss, he kneels to inspect the boot and is surprised to find a rather impressive knife tucked away there. He pulls it from the sheath and stares at it. Interesting. Now how did he come to possess the thing?
It's hard to remember sometimes. The nights tend to bleed together - not so much now as before, but enough to keep things a bit muddled. It had been worse before the buzzing stopped. Until the noise had quit, he'd actually gotten the daft notion that flies must've hatched in his skull and eaten his brains away. Nothing in his head but flies, buzzing and buzzing... Which is utter bollocks because he's still thinking, isn't he? Can't rightly do that without a brain. For all the good it does him.
It had been the chip of course. Once the interference stopped he'd been able to suss things back together again. Well... truth be told... he hadn't even noticed at first when the buzzing had stopped, he'd grown so accustomed to it. A fellow gets used to things after awhile, see. All he really knows is... he was hunting in the woods one night and he noticed that everything had gone quiet. Then he'd realized that the woods hadn't gone quiet, the chip had. And he had no idea when it had happened. Had it been quiet all night and he just hadn't noticed until that moment? Had it been quiet for days? Weeks? He didn't know.
All that matters now is that it's stopped and that's enough. The thing he doesn't like to think about is why it stopped. Did the Witch break her bargain? Kill the git after all? If so, shouldn't the chip have had its way with him by now? Shocked him good as dust? Unless she wanted this. To keep him like this, no matter what. It'd be just like her. She'd think it some kind of bloody mercy to let him keep on. Or maybe it's nothing to do with her at all. Could be the chip finally burned itself out. What then? Means Warren could still be out there, somewhere. Can't risk being found. Warren'll be angry he's run off. He'll want to punish him for crawling away first chance he got... leaving him to the witch, bargain or no. Even if the chip has shut up for good, Warren'll find some way to get to him. Hurt him.
Right.
Best to hide. Stay hidden. Warren could be looking for him right now. After all, she is. The Slayer. Out there. Hunting him. She'd nearly got him in the tunnels one night. He'd had to duck into a pipe when he smelled her coming for him. He'd almost crawled out to her too, when she passed by, calling his name. Her voice had such a hold on him. But it was a trick. Had to be. All a trick. And he knows he has to hide himself from the likes of her.
It's all tricks, you see. Nothing's real. Or he's not. Or... Maybe it's the chip. It's taken his mind... or maybe it's the... the dreams... the confusion... the bloody spark. All gnawing at his insides. The things he sees out the corner of his eye. Impossible things. Like... people. People long dead who have no business popping out at him and saying such cruel things as they do. It's all wrong. Terribly confusing.
He stands up, shaking off such unpleasantness. It won't do to dwell - go all broody and annoying like some. He cuts a silent path through the woods. Moving with vampire speed, he makes his way toward town. That's what it was. He must've done this before. Shortly after the chip had shut up. Yeah, he has a vague recollection of being in Sunnydale again. Although what the hell he'd been doing there he hasn't the foggiest. He'd apparently had his wits about him enough not to return to the caves a great sun-scorched cinder though. There's a bit of luck in that, at least. He'd come back to the caves before daybreak.. He'd come back full of blood, wearing different clothing ...and he had the knife.
Right. He's got it now. That's when he'd started trying to cut out the stinging thing the Witch'd put in him. Cut it out and maybe the dreams'll stop. Maybe then he could get some bloody rest. So far, he hasn't been able to find it. Of course. Stupid git. Something like that, it can't just be cut out. He really has gone off the track, hasn't he? He brings a hand up to trace the most recent of wounds through the fabric of the shirt. Mostly healed. Been awhile then. Can't believe he'd forgotten about the knife. What else has he forgotten? How long had he been down there, dreaming?
He stops and looks around him. Well then. Speaking of going off the track, when the bloody hell had he reached town? He's on a sidewalk. Recognizes it. Recognizes the street. He's standing in front of Jack's Beverages, the liquor store he always avoided. All mirrors and domestic swill. He'd always preferred The Keg, on the other side of town. Broken security cameras and the occasional halfway decent import. No sodding mirrors. Much better.
Right. He knows where he is. There's a start. The next question, which hadn't occurred to him to think until just now - why? Why is he in bloody Sunnydale? He hadn't been sleepwalking, had he? No. He'd just been walking. Had he meant to come here? Why'd he leave the cave?
Spike turns in a circle glaring at the buildings around him as if they'd conspired to bring him here themselves. Oh, he's lost his fucking mind, is all. He's completely insane, no doubt about it. Has to be to come back to this place. He rattles off into laughter. "It's hell," he explains to the buildings. "I get it. This is hell. This is my hell, innit?" His snorts of laughter echo down the street.
A heavyset bloke in a plaid shirt and ball cap steps out of the liquor store carrying his purchase in a crumpled paper bag. He glares at Spike suspiciously and gives him as wide a berth as the narrow sidewalk allows. The laughter stops immediately and Spike swivels smoothly to mark the human's progress as he brushes past. The fellow drops his eyes and quickens his step. Heartbeat speeds up. Blood pumps faster. The vampire watches with rapt attention as the man hastens away. Spike parts his mouth a bit, scenting the air in his wake.
Fear. The man had been afraid of him. He reaches up to touch his face, confused. Could he see? Do people see the beast he really is when they look at him? The thing he saw in the Witch's eyes? He's transparent then. A monster loose on the streets. He has to hide. Has to get away. It's not safe-
Feeling panic start to rise within him, he ducks into the alley ahead. Sidling along the building wall, he drags his palms along the rough brick like a blind man feeling his way. Helps to hold onto something solid when he gets like this. Head down, forehead pressing against the brick, he takes a few great gulps of utterly useless air. Like all alleyways in Sunnydale, this one smells of rubbish and death. Familiar. He's feels a bit safer here, tucked away in the shadows. Out there is the glare of the streetlamps making him feel all exposed and vulnerable to attack. Out there are the glares from the people, bustling about all human and warm and smelling of hot, coppery blood. He digs his fingers in, clinging to the comfort of the wall in a desperate embrace.
It was a mistake to have left the safety of the caves and forgotten tunnels. Whatever impulse keeps driving him back to this bloody town, he has to put a stop to it. Shouldn't have come here. Shouldn't be here. Doesn't belong. He just needs to -
"Dude, you alright? You look kinda -"
Something grabs his shoulder. Startled - spinning - lashing out - he grasps at the source of the voice and automatically sinks his teeth into flesh. He tears a hole and drinks. Only when the thing stops twitching and he feels the blood humming in his veins does he pull away, letting the body slip to the pavement. Everything sways for an instant as the effect of the blood hits him. It's been awhile. Hadn't realized how hungry he was. He slides down the wall and crouches beside the rapidly cooling body before him. Some kid. Not yet twenty. All baggy pants and floppy hair. Stupid little tosser. Shouldn't have been out alone at night. Place like this. Shouldn't have... shouldn't have startled the crazy, muttering vampire in a dark alley. Shouldn't have...
He brings his knuckles up to his mouth, brushing them over his lips and covering the offending fangs. But the fangs are gone. Just blunt human teeth there now. The blood burns inside him. It feels heavy. Like hot lead in his veins. Makes him queasy. He wipes the remainder from his lips with his trembling hand.
"Fuck," he whispers, pulling his hand away and cocking his head to take in what he's done. "Bloody hell..."
Spike stares down into the kid's face. The kid's dead eyes stare back up at him. They stay like that a long time, the two of them.
END
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