Chapter Twenty-Three
There were two things a man would never forget in his life. Seeing his best friend both seduced and murdered by a demon—the kind he’d always thought existed only in myth—and losing control of his bowels when confronted in the dark. While standing outside the Slayer’s house, no less, with a demon that was even worse in that he pretended to be good. Friend. Xander felt his back passage clench spasmodically and willed enough control over his bowels to not totally humiliate himself in front of Willow.
Leaving Buffy’s house on the pretence of waiting for Giles to come and pick them up had been apparently more foolhardy than he’d imagined, but not once had he even pictured the possibility of being confronted by Angel less than two steps from the curb. Okay, so it was three steps now that they’d been shocked backwards.
Willow squeaked the vampire’s name and then they clung to each other, Xander already having forgiven his friend the bruises he’d be sporting tomorrow if they lucked out and survived that long, and grinning when he realised Willow probably wouldn’t forgive him hers.
“You know, the Buffster’s kind of busy right now, and we’re waiting for Giles. So, maybe you can go find some other…situation…to…um…go away?” He finished very weakly, dragging Willow back toward the house and cursing his lack of superhero muscles that meant he’d likely die against a door he had no hope of kicking down.
The over-large vampire sighed like the weight of the world was crippling. “Look, I know that I got off on the wrong foot—”
“Pffft,” interrupted Willow in a spontaneous burst of disbelief before her eyes went abnormally wide and she cowered behind Xander’s shaking bulk.
Angel didn’t so much stare at them with dazed disappointment in his eyes as drowned them in fabricated hurt. No way was Xander making the mistake of believing this guy and his pretend remorse. Not when he was the sole reason that Spike was all feral-vamp in the Summers basement and his own friend was now the plaything to whatever psycho fantasies went on underground.
“We didn’t get off on the wrong foot so much as have dirt kicked in our faces. Kind of preschool of you, but I guess it got the job done. Now, get out of our way so we can go wait for Giles.” Xander may have decided to take a stand and do the big man talk, but he was so afraid that he felt like the vibration of his body might be all he needed to shunt the front door open.
“Look, I admit what I did wasn’t the best course of action, but you guys just don’t know Spike the way I do. I had to show you—”
“How evil he is? How easy he could kill our friends? How he could trick us into thinking his soul means he’s a do-gooder?” Xander could taste blood on his tongue, his disgust making him sick. He could admit that what they’d left Buffy with in her basement was far from the Spike that had convinced them he was harmless, and yet still Xander trusted him well and above this jerk that still fought for their unstinting faith.
Before he could open his mouth—whether to talk or flash his duplicitous fangs—they could hear the choking gurgle of a car storming down the road and screeching into the driveway. The librarian slammed his door, his glasses slipping down his nose as he ran around to the passenger side, diving in to arm himself with a pile of books before turning back and reeling in surprise at the strange crowd of figures huddled on the Summers’ porch.
“I-I must speak with Buffy. It is quite urgent,” he proclaimed, finding himself more than willing to completely ignore the presence of the souled-Angel while he ascended the steps.
“I’m thinking that’s not the best idea, G-man. Buffy kicked us out and I’m thinking she wants to spend some quality time with Spike,” Xander bluffed, forcing himself to appear unconcerned about the dynamic duo.
Angel and Giles stared at him dumbly, neither of them expecting the recovery of Spike to have occurred without either of their assistance.
“Oh.” He paused, surprised and concerned. “Really?” Giles looked to Willow, who confirmed the truth with an enthusiastic nod before her eyes went straight back to watching Angel’s every move.
“Well, you can’t just leave them in there together. His secret is out now. He’ll kill her.” Angel looked ready to storm the door, never minding that he had no access to do much else afterward.
The Scoobies offered a coordinated eye roll and Giles stepped forward. “Oh do go and be a broken record somewhere else.” He turned his back on Angel and studied the door thoughtfully before switching his attention to the two youths. “And Jesse?”
Xander clenched his jaw and felt the weight of his guilt bear down once again. “He got away. Ran as soon as he led us to Spike.”
Giles merely nodded, and gave up his determined meeting with Buffy relatively easily. “Right. I suppose there’s no point trying to go over this with Buffy now. It can wait until Spike has had a chance to recuperate. How was he?” he asked and then before they could answer, his distraction and eagerness to postpone unpleasantness fought its way forward and he turned back to his car. “Hop to it, you two. It’s getting late and I’m sure your families must be wondering what you do all night.”
Willow and Xander looked at each other, a sad smile tinging both their mouths as they happily left Angel behind.
“Oh, and Angel?” The Watcher waited at his car door as the two adolescents gratefully climbed inside. “Do give up lurking around Buffy’s house. One day you might end up staked, and wouldn’t that be criminal?”
Angel watched as Giles climbed behind the wheel, the car spluttering to life and his surprisingly careful reverse down the drive and onto the road. The evening fell quiet, though if he closed out the sounds of night—ignored the distant owls and cars—he fancied he could hear Spike tearing Buffy’s throat out. It was an effort to cling to his perceived feelings for the Slayer, a wrench to hold onto the purpose that had brought him to the Hellmouth in the first place. He was supposed to be a champion of the powers; was meant to fight by her side and yet that was impossible while she considered Spike the one of them that she could trust. And that contrasted with this perverse sensation inside him that egged on the violence—the hatred toward Spike and all he stood for that Angel had lost a century ago.
He couldn’t warn Buffy of the danger she put herself in. She wouldn’t listen. None of them would listen. The only way they would learn from the mistake now was to experience the devastation of it. Apparently having Spike turn one of their friends into a monster hadn’t been enough. While he felt guilty for leaving her to her fate, felt more than a little shame that he’d allowed it to end this way, Angel knew there was nothing else for it but for Buffy to die. They wouldn’t understand the extent of their stupid trust until Spike took her life.
And then they’d finally trust him. And he’d be right there. Waiting.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
His body felt tight in panic. He was being crushed by breath, though it wasn’t his own and the process was peculiar and foreign. Hair tickled his face and yet all he wanted was to growl and thrash, but survival dictated he stay still and wait to know where he was; know what he was doing.
The creature on his chest sighed in sleep and Spike wondered when his world had gone from upright to horizontal, and when the blood sucked from his veins had been partially replenished. The sigh against his flesh beckoned of the familiar and it touched a sweet spot that he denied existed when in more certain times.
It wasn’t Dru that was sprawled naked upon him. The scent was different, hinted at warmth and life—as if the very real thud of her heart against his ribs had pointed him in any other direction. There was vitality and life in the blood he could almost taste, and it made him feel frantic to consume some of it—more of it if the healing of his body and the strength that was flooding his limbs was to be trusted.
He knew her identity the second she stirred and whispered his name against his lips. Her voice grated at him, so soft and husky with the burr of sleep still clinging to her. Rubbed raw his sensitivities and he struggled to reign in the roar that wanted to warn her where she was, who she was with, and that nothing would ever—could ever—be the same.
Buffy moved and Spike felt the pull on his cock, the howl finally torn from his throat as he realised the depth of this moment. The monster was repelled, hiding deep within as the man screamed and clawed at it in anger and sadness. Something was wrong—something was devastating and Spike wasn’t able to connect the dots. Buffy planted sleepy kisses against lips puffy with surprise and shredded passion, her naked breasts rubbing against the course hairs on his chest and her pussy squeezing him into a new erection. Her moaned acceptance of his body and their subtle movements dragged her from her drowsiness and he was seized with firm, determined muscles as a girl with green eyes and golden hair sat up and milked him while smiling softly and gently touching his face.
“I don’t know if you understand, Spike. Please don’t be mad. I love you. Just remember that, okay?” She braced her palms on his chest and stared into exposed, confused amber and, together, they rode out the waves of sensation that both perturbed and burned.
“Buffy.” It felt like it was the only word he knew, and yet it was a struggle to push it past his lips. Even when she smiled her relief, nodded her encouragement, he was lost to everything else but the feel of her hot pussy scorching and branding him with her need.
His hands curled into fists and Spike pulled hard at the chains that held them over his head, instinct telling him he should be touching her skin, should be sensing her body on every level. Her fingers skated up his arms and curved around his. Annoying him with her lack of understanding. Confusing himself with who and what he was now.
His demon growled angrily at being tethered; it wasn’t used to being held against its better judgement. Fundamentally there was a lapse of control about this moment and Spike was furious that the issue that he should be fighting against escaped him, that his mind was so scattered and his strength still so wane that he couldn’t catch onto what the problem was.
The feel of her was exquisite as she tightened around his cock. He wanted to bounce her up and down, wanted to slide her with his hands around her waist, controlling the pace and the strength with which she slammed down and swallowed him whole. He wanted to see her face at the burst of pain as he hit her cervix, wanted to see her crumble in ecstasy as he nudged her sensitive spots, wanted to see her quiver as his fangs dropped and pierced her skin.
Lowering his gaze, he could see the marks on her breasts where he’d obviously bitten her before and he could sense the flush as it fought its way across her flesh. Intent made his eyes narrow and he licked his lips. His expression went glassy with anticipation, but then he felt the confusion radiating through his little cowgirl and suspected that there’d be no blood this time. His demon clashed with that realisation. The man in him might realise that it was beyond rude to expect certain things automatically of a bed partner, but the demon knew much more of the carnal delights between the sheets—knew the furore and heady intoxication of fucking and biting like no one else could.
Her attention drifted from his glowing eyes and gnashing teeth, and he felt anger so gripping and terrifying that he shook. Flashes of something…memory…dragged him away from this time and catapulted him into another and the audacity of the situation was breathtaking. He was a master—had earned it through blood and death and sod all else and this little chit had him chained up like her personal sex slave, and as much as he might enjoy the sensations, she’d broken his personal code.
The plans he’d had for this one surged back and forth in his gut, willingness to take and kill and create clashing with the need to save her. All he cared about was that she was his and as he distinguished the blood that tickled his nose, he could smell the difference of what he’d taken and what she’d given. Blood of torn innocence melted his demon and he couldn’t help the look of wonder that he bathed her with. No one had given him such a gift, and it took the edge off his fury.
Orgasm tackled them both back to earth—back to the old cot in her basement—and uncertainty and fear entered the once calm, powerful embrace of her eyes. It tugged at the part of him buried beneath agony and rejection and only a small amount was able to pass back through to meet her. Buffy watched the growling creature beneath her, her eyes flitting between his once again yellow dazed acknowledgement and her arm and the thumping vein that restrained her blood. She was impatient to have her Spike back, wanted so much to get past this hang up that was Spike immersed in demon fervour. Her blood could do it. Her blood could bring him back to her.
Trying hard to stop the wince as she offered her wrist to his lips and fangs, Buffy rested well with her decision.
And screamed in pain as her flesh was torn.
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