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Author's Chapter Notes:
(Co-written by Mariana)
Author's note: this was probably the hardest chapter ever! What you're about to read is the result of many discussions and what seems like hundreds of emails sent between me and my friends. Without the creative input from Kar and the untiring efforts of Mariana, who fully deserves to be called co-author to this chapter, I couldn't have written it. Thanks for all your support!!!
To those of you who have expressed some concern about Buffy not resisting Spike hard enough: I can only say, have a little patience, and keep reading - she'll never be just "one of the pack". Let the story develop - you might just like it.
Chapter 4: Crime and Punishment
Buffy's heart deeply sank when a group of guards appeared behind Spike, avoiding looking directly at her but aiming, all the same, their weapon in her direction. There was no way to escape. No way was she ever going to get that close to freedom again.
Spike shook his head slightly. "I can't say I'm surprised. I expected you would try something stupid, but..."
"This is not what it looks like," Buffy defended herself, "I was just..."
"...knocking out my guard with a vase, a 20 million dollar vase I might add, in order for you to call your mother with my son's toy phone?" Spike did not sound like he found the situation in the least amusing. His expression was unreadable, his voice icy. "Buffy, you didn't fancy me that stupid as to let a five-year-old near a real telephone, did you?"
"Believe me, this isn’t what it looks like," Buffy repeated. Wait a minute. Buffy blinked her tears away and lifted her chin defiantly, trying not to be affected by the harsh tone his voice had acquired. Why was she even trying to justify her actions when she was the one who had been wronged?
"You've offended me and my house, you've injured one of my guards, and you’ve used my clueless, naive son as a mean to escape from the palace. I thought I could forgive you anything, but using and abusing my son’s trust and friendship, that was an all time low. Do you have any idea how worried I was when I heard that my son had been injured? I can't just let you walk away."
"YOU were worried? Good! Because it's your own fault," Buffy exploded, "You seem to have a very selective memory, mister! I asked you for a phone so I could call my mother, and you denied it to me! To add insult to injury, you dangle the possibility of that same phone call in front of my nose, only so you can prove yourself and to me, how desperate I’m becoming for it. That I would do anything, ANYTHING! So I can have. Just. One. Phone. Call. Even to play the harlot, with you, of all…argg!!!. But you enjoyed my despair, didn't you? And that's all that matters to you, your own sick fun. Guess you proved that last night when I turned to you for comfort," she added bitterly.
Spike arched an eyebrow at her. "You turned to me for sex, Buffy. There's a difference."
Buffy was getting furious. Especially because she knew there was a grain of truth in his statement. During her first week in college, she had tried to dull the pain of the breakup with Angel by throwing herself at the next available cute guy, and although she had sworn never to do anything that stupid again, she had found herself lonely and naked in the wrong man's bedroom, once again. And what was worse: he had seen right through her.
There was no denying the fact that she was…is attracted to Spike from the first moment, regardless of the fact that he had acquired her like a trophy and held her captive. She wondered permanently, how could she even think of him that way when the circumstances were so wrong? What did having those feelings towards such an obviously soulless person say about her? She closed her eyes in shame, and personally, she preferred blaming it all to the hormones. If she could only let it mess strictly with her head! But, no, she seemed perfectly capable of accepting his advances, justifying her actions by the slim chance it might get her what she wanted. How much of a difference was there to the random prostitute? No offense and all, but he seemed on the specific intent to make her feel that way, to despise herself to the point where she would crack and let her become his. But all the anguish and loathing she had suppressed until now to make her situation feel less painful broke to the surface at once.
Buffy glared at him. "And you have the guts to tell me I have offended you? You think you're so smart, asking me who was making me a whore, you or myself. There's only one answer to this." She looked straight into his eyes. "You. With your words and your actions, you're making me a whore every single moment."
"What you've done is enough to get you sentenced to death in this country," Spike said levelly, ignoring completely her rambling.
"Fine, so kill me," Buffy replied in defiance, head held high, though the trembling of her voice and the tears forcing their way through Buffy's self-control, betrayed her. "It doesn't matter either way. I'm your property, am I not? - I'm as good as dead already! But let me promise you one thing: if you give me the tiniest bit of a chance to escape from you, your pack of willing sex puppets and your silly little power games again, I will take it. Every. Single. Time!"
He glowered at her. "I'm going to devise the punishment I see fit." Without another word, he addressed the guards. Buffy had not picked up much of the language yet, but she understood enough to know that he wanted them to take her downstairs and gather the women somewhere. Two guards stood, one at each side of Buffy, implacably cold, staring ahead, then proceeded to take Buffy's arms, lifted her up in the air and dragged her past Spike.
The look she gave him was somewhere between despair and contempt. "So you're gonna set an example out of me, huh?"
To her surprise, he cast his eyes down and could not hold her gaze.
*
By the time the women had gathered in the reception room, every single one of them knew what had happened. Buffy caught Willow's frightened stare and saw her squeezing Tara's hand. She could see the expression of shock on all of the women's faces, well, almost, since she had noticed Drusilla's condescending smile when the guards dragged her into the room and made her kneel in front of the sheik.
Spike still did not look at her when he talked to the crowd. "You have been found guilty of deception, violence, destruction of private property and treason. In such a case, there is no other choice but capital punishment."
A cry of shock and horror went through the rows of women. Willow almost fainted.
Buffy closed her eyes. It was over. Her ordeal would end here. And, for a moment, she was at peace, which was a relief actually, after all of the trauma and constant worry she had been put through. But, the peace only lasted a moment, for her sheer sense of survival kicked in again soon enough, making her even more frightened.
"However, given that you have only been in this country for such a short time and are not used to our ways, I will attribute your actions to your long journey, the unusual climate, and your homesickness. The guard will be well soon, your attempts to flee have been futile, and no one else has been harmed. What we still have is trespassing and a broken vase. These are classified as minor offences and are to be punished according to our laws." He took a deep breath. "Your punishment is ten strokes with a chachurgha."
"No!" Willow collapsed in Tara's arms, pure horror etched in her face.
Tara gently stroked her hair, but her eyes had an expression of dread.
Buffy looked around in confusion. She had no idea what they were talking about.
Two guards dragged Buffy to her feet and lifted her arms. Looking up, Buffy noticed for the first time, that there was a heavy iron hook in the ceiling. She gasped as steel handcuffs on a chain secured both wrists and left her hanging there.
She was facing the wall, but was able to see the others if she turned her head. She wished she hadn't. They were holding onto each other, trembling, terrified, some averting their eyes. Drusilla licked her lips in expectation. Whatever was coming, it was turning that bitch on.
Darla's lips curled into an almost amused smile.
Buffy shivered as Spike stepped behind her and tugged her dress down, leaving her back exposed. The room was not cold, but Buffy felt the draught.
"As I am the offended one, it is my right and my obligation to exercise justice." He walked around her and extended his hand. One of the guards brought him the instrument he had waited for. Buffy realized what a chachurgha was: a vicious-looking braided leather whip.
"I should have known you'd enjoy that kind of thing, pervert" Buffy whispered derisively between clenched teeth. She was not going to give him the satisfaction to see her cry in front of his whole harem. Once again, she blinked away her tears and looked at him. What she saw cut her like a knife inside. His stormy blue eyes were devoid of the fury and vengeance she had expected. He looked hurt, disappointed.
Spike did not reply and took his place behind her, where she could no longer see him.
Dru walked to his side like a shadow, taking his robes to allow him more movement. She ran her fingers over his arms casually as she took the robe and whispered in his ear, but loudly enough for Buffy to hear: "If she won't scream for you, I will, later tonight."
Buffy was so disgusted she wanted to vomit. She heard the rustling of leather in the air as Spike unfolded the whip.
Buffy closed her eyes.
Spike had to fight to keep his voice and hand steady. "One," he said clearly.
"Wait," a female voice said, and a dark hand closed gently around his wrist.
It made Buffy crazy not to see what was going on. The blow and the mind-numbing pain she had expected did not come, there was a death silence, and she could not see what was going on behind her back.
Spike let the whip sink.
Kendra looked at him shyly, it was visible it had taken all her courage to walk up to him like that. She let go off his hand and kneeled down, her forehead touching the floor.
"You may rise," he said, confused. "What's the matter, Kendra?"
"You have been wronged, my lord," Kendra said quietly, "It is your right to demand compensation. You said so yourself. But you also said Buffy has not found her way to us yet. If you punish her now for what she did, this door may close forever. I can see she is my sister. When I look at her, I see myself four years ago, right after I first came here. If you break her today, she will never see you in a different light; never see you for what you really are: a wonderful and caring husband. So, for you, I am willing to take her punishment for her."
Buffy turned her head, but could not move enough to see Kendra. "Listen, Kendra, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but it's not an option, I..."
"Shut up," Kendra snapped, "I'm talking to my husband."
Had the situation not been so tense, Buffy's expression of surprise might have seemed comical.
Spike regarded Kendra with a mixture of admiration and amusement.
Kendra could see the understanding in his eyes and knew immediately she had won him over. At the same time, realization hit her that her sudden heroism might not feel as good when she would be unable to sleep from the pain, for the next few weeks.
"So am I," Willow said and stepped forward, joining Kendra. "Five's better than ten. Right?"
Tara did not hesitate and practically flew to Willow's side. "With your permission," she said quietly.
Faith's expression betrayed her internal debate. Finally, she sighed and stepped forward. She smiled at Spike coquettishly and stroked the whip as she walked past him. "You never bring that along to the bedroom," she teased him.
Anyanka rolled her eyes, not wanting to stand aside. "Hell, you girls do have a help-the-weak syndrome!"
Drusilla's face went extra white with rage as more and more girls volunteered to take Buffy's punishment for her.
Spike gave them a warm smile. "Your loyalty makes me proud to have you for my wives. I resign my right this time. Let me make it more clear, just this once. The next time, I'm not going to show that much mercy." The girls exchanged triumphant and relieved glances. "Buffy has to be special to win your friendship in so little time. Go back to the serail, all of you. This show is over." Buffy felt the guards approach and uncuff her. She sank to the ground and rubbed her aching wrists. After a moment, she managed to stand.
Kendra and the others were about to leave.
"Kendra, I want to thank you," Buffy began.
Kendra shook her head. "Don't talk to me," she said coldly and left.
*
"You guys want WHAT?" Buffy's eyes widened in shock.
"Apologize," Kendra said simply. "Tell him you're sorry, and we're sisters again."
"No way," Buffy refused, "He's the bad guy, he's keeping me prisoner! Don't you see how sick and wrong this is? I'm not gonna apologize!"
"We gave you all our hospitality, we helped you adjust, and you betrayed us," Kendra said simply. "You deserved the punishment."
Buffy glared at her. "Then, why did you save me?"
"What I did, I did for Spike, not for you," Kendra replied. "He did not want to do this. But a sheik cannot refuse to punish a crime without losing authority, so I interfered."
"Oh, yeah, he's all noble because he only beats a defenseless woman when she's a danger to his ego," Buffy snorted with bitter irony.
"Buffy," Willow said in a more friendly tone, "we are not asking you to feel anything for Spike. All we want is peace in the house. It won't kill you to apologize to him, even if you don't mean it. We have to stand together as one. Given what we've done for you, this is only a little thing to ask, don't you think?"
*
Buffy closed the door behind her very carefully and tried not to walk too loudly. Spike was seated on the divan, next to Khari, who seemed to have fallen asleep while discussing his homework. Spike was looking around for a blanket. "I'll come back later," Buffy whispered, acknowledging herself to the Sheik.
Spike shook his head and gestured at his office. "Wait in my study. I'll only be a minute."
Buffy wished he had sent her away. None of the other women could have blamed her. But now they would have a conversation she most dreaded. Waiting in his study, while he was making his son comfortable on the divan in the room next door, made things worse.
To distract herself from being nervous, Buffy roamed her gaze around curiously. She could see a mahogany desk with precious golden ornaments, oil lamps, shelves covered with souvenirs he had apparently received as gifts from foreign visitors, and, to her surprise, a faded Union Jack on the wall.
A crumpled sheet of paper in the waste paper basket next to his desk caught her eye, because it was sheathed in, not Arabic, but Latin letters. She carefully unfolded it. Buffy raised an eyebrow. Poetry? Curiosity got the better of her, and she read it, once again, disregarding all the danger it concealed.
Behind a veil of golden sunshine
She hides her frozen gaze.
She covers my roses with snow
And breathes an icy wind in my face.
She is remote like the old gods above
I reach for her, but she shuns my caress,
I would die for her love,
And she could not care less.
Poetry. She had not expected him to write verses. And truth to be told, deep inside of her, putting all her denial aside, she longed for those words to be about her. Those carefully, almost delicate chosen terms did not match the image he had so carefully tried to maintain in front of everyone. For all she knew, he pretended to be indifferent to her resistance against him and his way of life, but apparently this was just another charade. It made sense. She had been at the ready to sleep with him twice, but he refused her—only not to demean her, as she had once assumed—but he had done it because he did not want her obedience, he wanted her desire, he wanted her to want him. And that was kind of sweet, almost geeky sweet, if her presumptions were right, because the other possibility seemed terrifying. For that meant he was only doing this psychological war, just so he could prove he was man enough, that he could take to bed any woman that crossed his path and do it with her utmost consent. She quickly glanced at the door. Spike was just standing there, looking at the sleeping child, smiling. No, not going there, Buffy chided herself. Bad case of Stockholm syndrome. He was right in destroying the poem; it was cheesy, stereotyped and not even good verse. She heard Spike move in the adjoining room. With a careful look around to make sure he was still busy, she folded the sheet and hid it inside her golden bra.
A moment later, he had put Khari to bed and joined her in the study.
Buffy pointed at the Union Jack. "What's that?"
He smiled with a far-away look on his face. "It was my mother's. The colours are fading, but I won't throw it away." He didn’t elaborate, just paused, and studied her face. "What do you want?" he finally asked in a quiet voice.
Buffy held his gaze. "I owe you an apology."
Spike smoothed his hair back with a hand and leaned back against the desk. "The girls sent you."
"No!" Buffy hurried to say, but cast her eyes down. "Maybe. Just a little."
He nodded slowly. "Tell them I appreciate it. You may leave, Buffy. I have no need for an apology you don't mean."
Buffy took a deep breath. "Look, I'm sorry I brought Khari into this, and I didn't mean to injure your bodyguard."
Buffy was suddenly very aware of the sheet of paper hidden between her skin and the fabric of her dress. She was sweating. Why had she even taken the poem? It did not mean a thing, especially no to her, she reminded herself. She knew she was not an ice queen, and it was Spike's entire fault she hadn’t succumbed to him like all those other women.
Spike glanced at her intently, for a moment she feared he had spotted the folded paper, her dress, if she could call it that, didn’t cover all that much, that was for sure. However, there was no suspicion in his gaze. He was just looking at her. "But you're not sorry you made a run for it."
It wasn’t a question. And she had no clue how to reply to that statement. She was not sorry for seizing the first chance she got to get out. She remembered the way he had looked at her only the night before she had tried to flee that silken cage, somewhere between devoted adoration and burning desire. There was nothing left of that look in his eyes now. He looked exhausted, and, above all, defeated. This was what Buffy did feel sorry about. But she would rather have her tongue cut out before saying so.
"Go back to the others, Buffy. I've heard enough excuses to last me a lifetime." He walked toward the door of his study to the adjoining bedroom. "I'm tired. Just leave."
For the first time, he did what she had hoped for, from the moment of her arrival: he was sending her away. He had given up. She remembered the tenderness in his eyes when he was talking to his son and the hurt of her betrayal. Buffy remembered the lines he had not meant for anyone to see and were, right now, burning a metaphoric hole in her breast, and, suddenly, she had no desire to go away. For a moment, she imagined a scenery in which she had arrived at the hotel and met him, not as a sheik, but as a normal man at the swimming pool, the sunshine casting highlights in his hair, a sharp contrast against his tanned skin, then, Spike and her dancing the nights away at the local clubs and spending their days at the beach, laughing together. She would return earlier from her manicure, catching him at the bar where he was waiting for her and scribbling some verses because he thought he was alone. He would refuse to show them to her, she would snatch them from him, and he would hurriedly say that they were no good, but of course they were beautiful, and they were about her. Until one night she would not go back to her hotel room. He would try to unlock the door to his room, but after many unsuccessful attempts to calm his unrelenting trembling hands, and maybe drop the keys once or twice for full effect, she would unlock the door for him, they would close the door behind them, leaving them in the dark, with nothing but soft music and moonlight. And he would look at her in that special way she was sorely missing now. His empty gaze made her feel incredibly lonely and bereft.
Buffy shook her head. "I don't think you heard me correctly. I want to apologize. To make up with you." She gave him a shy smile. Then she kissed him.
For a long moment, Spike kissed her back. Her hair had the faint scent of oranges [So we can have a little chat before you rape me?], her lips were soft against his skin [Let's get this done, so you can lock me up again and call another slave] while she pressed against him, shivering slightly, her little breaths fast and shallow [I'm your property, am I not? - I'm as good as dead already]. What was wrong with him? He was the sheik, he shouldn’t give a damn about why she was here, and she did not have to like him as long as she complied with his wishes. All he wanted was to lay her down right there on the desk and let his body speak for his heart, but he knew in an instant he could not. Because he did gave a damn. He pushed her at arms length, still holding her forearms. "God, Buffy, please, just go."
"Why?" she asked in a small voice, her lips still puckering out.
He jumped to his feet. "You feel compelled to be here, maybe because of the other girls, maybe to ease your conscience, I don't know, and I don't want to know! You've made it perfectly clear that you don't really want to be with me, so don't start anything you don’t want to finish! That's it, you win." He said, finally releasing her and turning away from her. "I can't let you go home, but rest assured, I won't call for you again either. You are freed from your wifely duties."
Buffy stared at him disbelievingly. "You can't... I mean, what will the others think, won't it do harm to your authority?"
He chuckled, but his voice was full of bitterness and frustration. "Don't flatter yourself. All they will think is that you're just not any good at it. Would you mind getting out now?"
Without another word, Buffy ran out, veiling her face erratically in order to hide her pouring tears, while at the same time, unsuccessfully trying to push away all of the images that came tumbling down like a freight train from her past, that effectively reopened a long-time, deep, wrongfully thought as recovered, wound.
TBC...
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