“Oh, God,” Buffy whimpered, pacing the floor of her bedroom with an almost frantic speed, letting out a little moan of frustration and anxiety as her eyes fell on the alarm clock on her night stand. “I don’t think I can do this, Anya.”
It was 7:15.
“Well, it’s a little late for that now,” Anya pointed out to her in a matter-of-fact tone that was ironically calming, the voice of reason in this insane situation that she had somehow managed to get herself into. “The spell’s already done, it’s just a matter of waiting for it to kick in. And if Spike’s chip is gonna go down, you’d *better* go ahead and fight him!”
Buffy had to admit that she was right. “Well, I guess we’d better go,” Buffy muttered, and Anya thought that she would have sounded more excited about facing a hundred regurgitating Frolox demons than the one, currently chipped – but soon to be not – master vampire that she was about to face. “We need to get Spike over there before the spell kicks in.”
It was a little after 7:30 when they arrived at Giles’ apartment.
Buffy took a deep breath before reaching to open the door. When they entered the living room, the feeling of tension was almost palpable. Giles was sitting at the counter that made up the border between his living room and tiny kitchenette, a full bottle and an empty glass of some kind of liquor in front of him. As she entered, he gave her a flat, unhappy look and refilled his glass, shaking his head and muttering to himself.
He wanted her to do the ritual, but he was not very happy about the idea of her being alone with Spike to do it.
Anya was acutely aware of the resentful looks that Willow kept shooting her out of the corner of her eye. Buffy’s reasoning that the red-headed witch needed to get the spell done, so Anya should be the one to help her get ready, hand the ring of an excuse to Willow’s perceptive ears, and she was clearly jealous that Anya should have been chosen instead of her to help her best friend prepare.
What bothered Anya even more was the much milder, but very similar look that Xander was giving her as well.
“Slayer!” Spike immediately said when he saw Buffy come in, and there was no mistaking the agitation in his voice. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but am I ever glad you’re here!”
Buffy raised one eyebrow, her mouth quirking slightly up on one side as she gave him a questioning look. She was quite certain that in a very short time, he would not feel that way anymore.
“Your little witch over there has been working her bloody mojo on me, and wouldn’t even tell me what it was all about, and the Watcher and the boy keep giving me looks like they wanna stake me right now…and I swear I haven’t done a bloody thing, Slayer! I’ve spent the whole day tied to this soddin’ chair!” Spike pleaded his case, looking up at Buffy with wide, angry eyes that betrayed a bit of his fear, in spite of himself.
As he spoke, Willow stood up from the couch and walked to Buffy, placing something in her hand. Spike did not notice what it was until the Slayer moved slowly toward him, raising it in both hands toward his face. It was a thick, black cloth – and he suddenly realized with indignation, and greater fear – she meant to blindfold him.
He jerked his head back, protesting, “Now wait just a bleedin’ minute, Slayer! You’re not gonna…”
His words cut off in a little yelp of pain as she gripped his hair and yanked his head back forward, leaning in close to speak softly, her eyes focused on his in a penetrating gaze. “I’m not?” she asked with a little smirk. “Wanna tell me just how you’re gonna stop me?”
He had absolutely no response, and they both knew it. She watched as his jaw set with anger at her, and at his own helplessness. After a long moment, he said in a low, dangerous voice of barely suppressed rage, “I can’t stop you. Not now.”
She released her grip on his hair, satisfied that she had made her point.
“But when this chip comes out, Slayer,” he went on, meeting her eyes with blazing fury and defiance in his own. “I’m going to show you just why they call me what they do.”
“William the Bloody?” she frowned, confused.
With menace shining in his narrowed eyes, the words coming out razor sharp, he corrected her, “Slayer of Slayers.”
In a reflex reaction to the chill of fear his words invoked in her, Buffy lashed out, backhanding him hard with her fist, nearly toppling the chair with the force fo the blow. She caught it before it fell, leaning in to place a heavy hand at the back of his neck, pulling him in close to her as she spoke softly, right in his face.
“I look forward to the day when you try!” she informed him with an angry challenge in her eyes – but her fear was also obvious, and he took what satisfaction he could in the knowledge that he *had* gotten to her. “But until then,” she went on with a cold smile, “you can’t lift a finger against me – so why don’t you just be a good little neutered vampire, so I don’t have to kick your ass -- *again*. Okay?”
He closed his eyes, swallowing hard in a mixture of fear and fury at her completely unwarranted treatment of him.
Fury, that she should dare to treat him with such utter disrespect, as if he were nothing more than a pathetic irritation to be smacked around and manhandled as she saw fit, rather than the powerful master vampire who had claimed the lives of two of her sister Slayers – the powerful master vampire that he still was, only temporarily restrained by the chip in his head.
And fear, because something was clearly wrong with this picture. In all the time he had been in the Watcher’s house, Buffy had hardly touched him – well, with the intent of hurting him, anyway, he amended, thinking again of Red’s spell. She seemed to be of the opinion that it was wrong to hit him when he couldn’t hit back, and she hadn’t – much. Once or twice she had punched him, but it had only been if he had tried to hit her first.
Now, the combination of the odd demeanor of her friends, with her own more-aggressive-than-usual behavior, and the strange, calculating light in her eyes, worked together to convince him more and more with every moment of one thing – he was in very real danger.
And that was not even considering the added evidence of the blindfold that the Slayer was bringing toward his face again.
He glared at her in hatred at being forced to submit to it as he muttered out a low response to her words. “Until then,” he agreed, with a deadly promise in his words. He would do what he had to in order to survive – and when he managed to get the chip out, the “good little neutered vamp” would vanish, and the master would take his vengeance.
As Buffy tied the dark cloth firmly around his eyes, he fought back a sudden sense of panic, at being suddenly just that much more helpless, unable even to see what they were doing around him – or to him.
“Buffy!” he heard Willow hiss in a loud, urgent whisper, and he suppressed the urge to laugh at the girl’s apparent belief that he could not hear her. He could have easily heard her even had she been actually whispering, and her voice was louder than she had intended in her anxiety. “What are you doing provoking him? In a few minutes…”
“Will!” The Slayer’s voice was sharp as she cut off her friend’s words.
“Oh.” Willow’s voice was small and sheepish, and he realized with disappointment that the Slayer had called her attention to the fact that he could hear her. “Sorry.”
*In a few minutes -- *what*?* he wondered almost frantically.
Buffy released a slow breath of relief that she had stopped her over-anxious friend before she had given anything away. They had all decided the night before that it would be best not to let Spike know anything about what was going on until he and Buffy were alone at the site for the ritual. But Willow, not as aware of vampires’ heightened senses as Buffy was, had almost given it away ahead of time.
The Slayer felt very conflicting emotions about the whole situation, as she regarded the tense form of the bound vampire in the chair, clearly afraid – and clearly determined not to show it. She had intended by her harsh treatment to shake him up a bit, throw him off his game. And yet, she found herself oddly pleased when his reaction was anger and defiance, as opposed to the breaking of his confidence that she had thought was her goal.
Something in her recognized his courage and strength with admiration, pleased to find in him a worthy opponent.
Of course, she reminded herself, she had already known that Spike was a more-than-worthy opponent; he was the only one of all the enemies she had faced that she had failed to truly defeat. It was that fact more than any other that kept her from staking him, now that he was defenseless. It seemed so unfair, and even – sad – for him to go out that way, after coming through so many battles so impressively.
The truth was – she simply had too much respect for him to stake him now.
But at the moment, she had no intention of letting *him* see that.
She laid a frighteningly strong hand at the back of his neck again, tipping his head forward as she leaned in to speak close to his ear, feeling him tense under her touch, at her sudden nearness, as she said softly, “We’re gonna untie you now. And you’re not gonna try anything – are you? Cause I’d hate to have to hurt you.”
She was surprised – and a bit disappointed – when he shook his head, indicating that he would obey. Then, he replied in a voice of quiet mockery, “No, I rather think you’d bloody well love it, pet. But I think I’ll wait ‘til I can hurt you back!”
Buffy was surprised at the relief – and almost…*affection* -- that she felt at his continued courage in the face of her power over him. Honestly, she had not expected any less from him.
She kept her oppressive grip on the back of his neck as Xander reluctantly untied the ropes that held him to the chair. Once he was free, she pulled him up to his feet, reminding him quietly, “You can’t get away. Don’t even try it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of giving you the pleasure, Slayer,” he smirked, in spite of the fear rising up inside him.
He was absolutely, utterly helpless against her. He knew he couldn’t fight her; that would only result in further pain and humiliation when his chip fired. He would never get in a second blow. And the way she was behaving was leading him to believe that whatever she had planned for him for this evening, it was *not* going to be pleasant.
He was caught off guard when she grabbed his arm and shoved him into the wall, not very hard, but with enough force to remind him who was in control at the moment.
“Don’t move,” she ordered, and he didn’t, as his arms were pulled behind his back by someone else’s hands – until he felt a metal ring close around one of his wrists, and realized with a sense of panic that he was about to be bound again.
His mind raced with the implications. He had been loosed from the chair, but he had been blindfolded and now they were chaining him up again. They meant to take him somewhere, and did not want him to be able to offer any resistance or even know where they were going.
That could only mean that the Slayer intended him serious harm once they got there. And it had to be more than a staking – which would have been bad enough – because that, she could have done here, which a lot less trouble. He had no idea where they planned to take him.
All he knew was that he could not let them take him there.
He suddenly jerked his left wrist out of the grip of the person behind him, who let out a startled little cry and staggered back a step or two, as he simultaneously slammed his elbow into the ribcage of the Slayer at his side, causing her to release his arm and double over in pain. At the exact same moment, he spun around, swinging the handcuffs hanging from his right wrist with flawless aim, catching her in the face, sending her stumbling back a couple of steps with a little gasp. He reached for the blindfold that covered his eyes, heading already toward the door.
And in that moment, the chip caught up with his lightning fast movements.
A powerful jolt of fiery agony punished his defiance, tearing through his head with vicious intensity, and he dropped to his knees with a moan of pain, holding his head, the blindfold, his desperation for escape – forgotten, swallowed up in agony.
Buffy straightened up, holding her bruised ribs with one hand, her other rising to wipe the blood from her face where the handcuffs had cut her, staring at the blood on the back of her hand in surprise, as a slow smile spread across her face. If Spike could do this much damage while chipped…
This was going to be quite a fight.
She frowned, puzzled. *And why does that seem like a *good* thing to me?*
Xander, stunned and outraged by the unexpected violence from the supposedly harmless vampire, started toward him with a bitter, angry look on his face, drawing back his foot to aim a vicious kick at his ribcage, heedless of the fact that he was still reeling from the pain of the chip.
Buffy noticed just in time, her eyes widening in alarm, and pulled Xander back before his foot could connect. “Xander,” she said quietly. “no.”
“He hurt you, Buffy! I thought the whole reason you were letting this worthless little piece of shit live was because he *couldn’t* do that!” Xander spat out the words in hatred, glaring down at the helpless creature with a vindictive rage in his dark eyes.
“*No*,” Buffy repeated again firmly, a warning in her voice as she pushed her friend gently behind her, away from Spike, before crouching down beside the suffering vampire, helping him carefully to his feet.
He was still shaking, gasping for unnecessary breath through the pain, as Buffy pulled his wrists behind his back and locked them into the cuffs, not wanting to risk another incident like the last. This time, he did not resist, still weakened and disoriented by the aftershocks of the chip’s assault.
He had completely missed the little exchange that had passed between Buffy and Xander, but he could smell the powerful aroma of the Slayer’s blood – knew that he had somehow managed to hurt her – and expected her own punishment to follow at any moment.
He was surprised when her hand touched him, not in violence, but as a steadying support under his elbow, as she led him toward the door. “I guess I don’t have to tell you how very *not* smart that was, do I?” she said, and there was an odd gentleness to her voice.
It only added to his anger with her. “I’m going to make you pay for this, Slayer,” he informed her in a low growl.
He could hear the surprised indignation in her voice as she replied, “Hey! That was *not* my fault! You’re the one who decided to go all kamikaze on me, so don’t blame me!”
“I *do* blame you, Slayer,” he said in a quiet, deadly serious voice, as they stepped out into the night air.
He wondered briefly if anyone was around, knew that if there was, he could cause the Slayer a hell of a lot of trouble by calling attention to the fact that she was leading a man about bound and blindfolded against his will. But then, he thought about the potential negative effects of that sort of action, if there did *not* happen to be anyone around to help him – and decided it was not worth the risk.
And then, he understood the reason for the blindfold.
“For what?” Buffy demanded, her voice rising slightly in pitch on the last word, in a way that made her sound very much like a petulant child.
To her surprise, the vampire laughed – a soft, bitter sound – before he replied quietly, “Everything.”
“Buffy, are you *sure*?” Giles turned around in the driver’s seat to face his Slayer, who had ridden in the back with Spike.
After all, car doors were not human, and kicking one out would not activate Spike’s chip. They both knew that the vampire could easily survive a tumble from the car, if he should choose to take that route.
Buffy figured it was better not to give him the option.
“I’m sure, Giles,” she said impatiently, as she got out of the car, pulling Spike along after her, helping him to get out of the vehicle. “You can go, Giles!” she urged him when the older man did not seem inclined to move the vehicle. “We’ll be back later.”
The implication of the words was not lost on the attentive vampire. She had said “we” – so she did not intend to dust him, then. He was not sure if that was a relief or not. He *did* feel a sense of relief at the knowledge that it was just the two of them. No paranoid, over-eager Scoobies to get him unnecessarily hurt. Just him and the Slayer. And Slayers, he could deal with.
At least – he could have – before the chip.
He heard the sound of a door being opened, and suddenly his sense were assaulted by the powerful, familiar smell of -- *family*. He thought hard, trying to figure out where he was, what place they could be that would smell so strongly of…
Suddenly, his attention was focused on more important things, as he felt the Slayer’s hands on his wrists, turning a key in the cuffs, and the next moment – he was free. He felt her hands suddenly near his face, though he couldn’t see her, and he jerked back instinctively, fighting off panic when his back encountered the wall. He knocked her hand away from his face when she reached for him again, wincing at the small current that shot through his head in warning response to his small act of violence.
“Easy,” she said softly, soothingly, as she reached up again to remove the blindfold from his eyes, and this time he did not resist. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
He scoffed at her as he opened his eyes, allowing them to adjust to the dim light. “Like you’d bloody ca…” His words trailed off as he realized where they were.
The old mansion, where he had spent so long, with Dru – and Angelus.
He looked back at her with suspicion. “What is this, Slayer?” he asked quietly.
She shrugged, with a small, nostalgic sort of smile. “Just thought this might be a good place to do this.”
“To do *what*, exactly?” he slowly asked her, searching her guarded eyes.
She was quiet for a moment, looking down, before she suddenly met his eyes again, an odd little smile on her face. "You've caused quite a bit of trouble for me and mine, Spike -- and I don't intend to tolerate it anymore."
A smirk crossed his face as he looked up at her, derisive despite the fact that he knew he was defenseless against her. "So that's it, then? You mean to beat the bloody daylights out of me and hope I fall in line? Not bloody likely, Slayer!"
"*If* I beat you -- you *will* fall in line," Buffy corrected him, a certain hardness coming into her eyes that sent a chill down his spine. "I'm challenging you, Spike. I believe you know how it works. If you can beat me -- well -- then I'm pretty much screwed," she said with a small smile, which faded as she added, "But if I beat you -- then *you* will submit to *me*, Spike."
His eyes widened in recognition at her words, a sick feeling settling over him as he realized the ritual that she was talking about. How the bleeding hell had the *Slayer* found out about it? But that was a soddin’ foolish question – from the Watcher, no doubt. He’d have to think of a special way to *thank* old Rupes for contributing that little piece of information, later.
Providing he didn’t become a bloody slave to the Slayer tonight.
“But,” he began cautiously, hating the uncertainty in his voice. “the ritual can’t apply in this case, Slayer. Because I can’t fight you. So – you can’t technically challenge me.”
Her knowing smirk, not at all surprised by his words, made him feel even sicker as she took a step toward him, effectively eliminating any distance between them. She glanced down at her watch speculatively for a moment, before she looked back up at him appraisingly.
“Hit me,” she said softly.
He stared at her for a moment in silence before speaking slowly, cautiously, as if afraid she had lost her mind. “Come again, love?”
“Hit…me,” she stated slowly and emphatically, her eyes shining with a secret triumph.
Thinking he understood, he averted his eyes, angry and embarrassed. “Now, that’s just bloody cruel, Slayer. You know bloody well I can’t, if you’re trying to prove a point, trying to say how much of a true vampire I’m *not*, well you’ve made your bloody point, now if you’d kindly just sod off and…”
“Spike,” she interrupted him sharply, and he realized with alarm that that strange hardness was back in her eyes. “I’m not kidding. Hit. Me.”
Bloody hell, but the Slayer was a sadistic bint! he thought as he took a deep breath.
She knew very well that what she was asking would cause him extreme pain. But they both knew that she could cause him worse pain than the chip would for a simple light blow, with no real intention to hurt her at the moment.
After all, the more he hurt her, the more he hurt himself.
Reluctantly, he complied with her order, half-heartedly slapping her arm, wincing automatically at the expected jolt of pain from the chip – his eyes widening in disbelief when he felt nothing. He glanced quickly at her, cringing exaggeratedly with a hand to his head, thinking it might not be wise to let her know just yet what he had just discovered.
She laughed softly. “I know it didn’t hurt you, Spike,” she informed him. “So you can drop the act.” She paused. “I *made* it so it wouldn’t hurt you.”
He stared at her, uncomprehending, shaking his head slightly.
“That was the spell that Will did.” She laughed again. “Oh, it’s not permanent…that’s for sure. But for the next six hours or so…you’re chipless.”
He looked away from her for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around the impact of what she was saying, as she went on talking.
“I knew I couldn’t challenge you if you couldn’t fight back. So I made it so you *could* fight back. And if I win – the chip won’t matter, anyway. Because you won’t be doing any killing or anything like that, with or without the chip. So – do you accept my challenge?”
She looked at him expectantly, waiting as he stared off into space for a few moments, still trying to take it in. Slowly, his head turned and his eyes focused back on hers – and a slow, predatory smile came over his face, his eyes glittering with evil delight, tiny flecks of gold sparking through the crystal blue.
Without warning, he drew back his fist and struck her such a powerful blow that she found herself staggering back up from the ground several yards away, trying urgently to regain her bearings.
Before she could shake off the dizzy feeling enough to even know where either of them were, she heard a chilling triumphant laugh, much closer than she had expected, whirling around to see Spike standing behind her, stalking slowly toward her again.
“Yes, Slayer,” he said softly with a cold smirk. “I accept.”
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