His Pleasure Is My Pain
She was having the strangest dream.
It had been quite a few years since she had the sensation while lost in her subconscious that she could fully identify that her body was elsewhere, snoozing the world away. So much that she had nearly decided that the concept was something fabricated—not for any purpose, but that she had heard of its occasion at some point in time and marked herself as a potential. Nothing more, nothing less.
The world she was in right now was fiction. It had to be.
“Looky, looky,” a childish though hauntingly matured voice cried from the far right. The preemptive giggle before the tumbling fall. “The little birdie heard our call, grandmum.”
“That was very thoughtful,” an opposing voice decided. Moving. She couldn’t tell where her other captor was. “After all, we did extend her invitation personally. It would’ve been of the most appalling nature not to attend.”
“Time for cake and hats.” A pause. “Shall we call Daddy down? He will be most disappointed if we begin the party without him.”
There seemed to be a minute for consideration. “No,” came the answer. “I told Angelus that I want some time with our new friend before he broke her in. I think I deserve it, seeing as she’s the one that got me killed.” A step. Someone had taken a step toward her. “Isn’t that right, Miss Buffy?”
The Slayer felt her insides collapse and hot tears sprang behind her eyes.
Oh God.
“Hmmm,” Darla cooed a second later. “That’s odd. I could’ve sworn I just asked her a question. Dru, honey, you don’t suppose she’s gone deaf, do you?”
There was a thud. Something heavy had fallen to the ground. The cackle that rang correspondingly through the air provided swift verification. The mad vampire was giggling insanely, shaking her head as though refuting a relentless order. “Shhhhh,” she cooed, pressing a finger to her lips. “Little birdie’s playing possum. Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping the night away. Can’t have fun if the guest wants to nap.”
“No, no fun at all.” Darla turned speculatively back to the Slayer, whose head remained drooped and her eyes nearly forcibly closed. A cry for ignorance—anything to have attention waned in the opposing direction. “Well, we’ll have to wake her up, won’t we? You know how much your Daddy likes to play with his food.”
“Oh yeah,” Drusilla agreed. “Make ‘em bleed. Raw. Tasty.” Her eyes shone like birthstones, and she giggled once more before allowing her body to fall anticlimactically to the floor. She poked a crooked finger at their captive, ushering her into consciousness by will. “Wakey, wakey little Buffy. It’s time for the party. You wouldn’t want to be late.”
The Slayer squeezed her closed eyes tightly, demanding something to prompt her into unconsciousness. Crying had been rendered a sign of weakness a long time ago; she hadn’t allowed herself to cry for a genuine cause in what felt like forever. Perhaps when Riley left—even then, it was more for her own inadequacies. For what her reputably short life was turning out to be. She had cried when Riley wanted himself dead rather than fix himself. She had cried for Angel. She had cried when she killed him and she had cried when he left. She had cried for her mother—oh, she had cried for her mother.
Buffy honestly couldn’t remember when she cried for herself because of overwhelming odds. Because of where her line had led her. And here she was, refusing to open her eyes. Reduced to such a weak bundle with so little at the edge of the blade. Her arms were chained; it felt like she was hanging from the ceiling. Her legs, similarly, were shackled, but her feet did not touch the ground. She was merely hanging—suspended in midair with nothing against her back and nothing beneath her toes.
More. Cold air nipped at every newly reopened wound. She felt dried blood crusted against dirtied skin, and realized that every stitch of clothing had been torn from her body.
She was completely vulnerable. And what was worse—she felt it. Exposure made whole for her acknowledgement. Buffy had never known that before. The sensationalism of succumbing to what was in store, and certainly hadn’t known it could arrive for anyone so soon. But she knew where she was. Who she was with. The last nail in the coffin. The Order had robbed her of every comfort, every sanctuary, and they knew it.
What’s more, she did, too.
The blonde vampire stood directly in front of the shackled girl, arms crossed and a most unimpressed look coloring her features. “Come on, Buff,” she drawled, bored. “We know you’re awake. You’re just making it worse on yourself. I know I have a few things I’d like to clarify before we…well, we’ve already begun, but you were enjoying the not-so-big snooze, and really, it would’ve been rude to wake you. Dru and I…we have no tolerance for rudeness. Do we, Dru?”
A bark from the side. “She stinks of goodness. It’s all over her. Inside her.” There was an inquisitive pause. “Shall we carve it out of her, grandmum? Make pretty colors and rearrange the patterns? It would please Ms. Edith.”
There was a sound of exasperation. “I swear, one more word about Ms. Edith, and I’m going to throw that wretched thing into the furnace, you understand? God, I don’t know how Angel does it.” She glanced back to Buffy, arched brows explanatory as though they were carrying on a conversation. “If it had been my choice, she would’ve met dust years ago.”
“Hush!” the insane vampire pouted. “Your sour words will spoil the party.”
“There won’t be a party unless our Slayer decides to wake up.” Darla took a step forward. “Come on. I swear, we’re going to start again here in a minute, with or without you. And I’m sure Angelus will wake you up. His methods might seem a little tiresome, but that’s only because he thoroughly enjoys a lively session.” The brazen sound of a delighted cackle rang giddily through the air. “Oh, God! You wouldn’t believe his bloodlust. He’s gotten so inventive this past century. Life at his side was always fun, but now it’s so good it simply must be fattening. I tell you, the way he—”
That did it, for better or worse. Buffy opened her eyes to her reality.
And immediately wished she hadn’t.
“Oh, look!” Darla clasped her hands together joyfully. “There she is!”
“The guest of honor has arrived,” Drusilla informed a line of century-old dolls. A dozen empty faces staring at her with equally empty eyes. “It’s time to start the party.”
“Looking a bit worse for the wearer, if you ask me,” the other added as though she was gossiping to a noisy neighbor. Then her face grew pensive and she stepped forward, studying the abruptly presented eyes with new light, shaking her head when she saw nothing to her liking. “Not so tough now, is she? Oh, God! I think she’s crying! Dru, honey, we made a Slayer cry! Oh, how precious!” The blonde vampire’s head flew back and she cackled hard in utter delight. “Could it be that this is the same girl that ruined us? That this is the very same face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium? Weeping in front of her enemy? This sniveling…thing?” Another short laugh; the demon marched forward and slapped her. Completely unprompted and hard. “You disgust me.”
“Ohhhh!” Drusilla squealed excitedly, rolling onto her stomach. “Do it again! Do it again!”
Darla cast her a weary eye, but shrugged. “Angel always told me it was better to keep her happy. Do you think we ought to try?”
Another elated shriek was all the evidence required.
Buffy’s cheek burned more with the first blow than the second, but she flinched all the same. And she hated herself for it.
A tower of fortitude torn down so quickly. She never would have imagined it so.
“Now then,” the blonde vampire continued. “Where to begin? There are so many venues to explore…of course, I would not presume to tour them all. Angelus would never forgive me, and really, it was more than generous of him to allow Dru and I this opportunity to…how do you say…break you in.”
It came unbidden; a sudden rush of strength that she depended on with more fecundity than any bode of buoyancy could hope to offer. “You’re better to kill me now,” Buffy said, amazed that her voice could produce a whole sentence. Every movement forced a surge of pain through her aching muscles—pain that was easy to ignore in quick bursts, but not in wave after wave of consistency. “Whatever it is that you want from me, you won’t get it.”
Darla looked at her askance.
Then started to laugh.
“Good God!” she cackled. “I think I was underestimating the potency of your superiority complex. Hon, we don’t want anything from you.” She leaned forward carefully, the wicked glint in her eye burning with more rage than any one being should hold while maintaining such a calm façade. When she spoke again, her voice was level and composed. More unraveling than any sound before its premiere. “We just want you to scream over, and over, and over again.”
“Is it because of Angel?” Buffy closed her eyes as her muscles again threatened to collapse. Her arms were stretched and aching from where they were held in the manacles, and if she were any less of a person, she would have screamed her entrails out. She didn’t. Crying had been too much—it had been more. Crying betrayed more than vocalized pain ever could. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of a scream as well. “Because he chose me over you? Simple vengeance? Is that what—”
“Please,” Darla snapped, rolling her eyes. “This has nothing to do with your dearest Angel. Tell you the truth, I’m over it. Been there, done that, had my rebound guy.”
“Mmmm…” Drusilla cooed, licking her fingers. “He was tasty.”
“A screamer,” the other vampire agreed. “Then Lindsey came along. Safe, gullible Lindsey. Who never says no. Well…” She grinned. “Not to me, at least. Angelus’s involvement, while celebrated, is hardly the driving force behind our foundation. And trust me, dearie, if it weren’t for the Senior Partners, chances are I would’ve gotten bored with you by now. You see, Angel was the one who celebrated live victims. I just wanted them to bleed.”
Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “You seem to be going out of your way, though,” she observed, flinching inwardly as her muscles strained. “Playing nice with the Slayer until Angel’s ready to take a gander at her.”
The vampire shrugged. “Waste not.” Darla turned away, backing strategically toward the raven-haired loony who remained sprawled on the floor, playing with fine whispered strands of dark follicles. “There’s no point in making trouble at home. Angelus and I have a lot of rebuilding to do. Old trust—not that there ever was any. New hopes—not that we ever focused too much on the future. No, no. We had a simple love. Comfortable. Casual. The occasional brutal slaughter at a local convent. Angel has a thing for convents. Had he told you?” She paused considerately. “No. Of course he hadn’t.”
Something sharp jabbed her side. Buffy buckled against nothing and her arms strained at the prompt of furthered excursion. When she looked, though, there was nothing at all. An old wound must have acted up.
That hadn’t happened in years.
“Double, double, toil and trouble,” Drusilla giggled, rolling onto her stomach and propping her weight onto her arms. “You’ve been a naughty girl. It isn’t right to take toys that don’t belong to you. No. There should be enough candy for all the girls and boys.
Buffy stared at her blankly, and it occurred to her that outside a random attempt to use her existence against Spike in an unsuccessful raid of a vampire cult, she hadn’t truly been around the insane vampire enough to understand the full extent of her madness. She had seen her with Angel one night in the park, she had dreamt of her before her lover lost his soul, she had seen her briefly before escaping from the Judge, but all accounts of her insanity were few and far between. The Slayer had never truly acquainted herself with Drusilla’s darker, madder nature.
Watching her now, she suddenly had new respect for Spike’s stamina. The peroxide pest might have been a thorn in her side, but he evidently had aspirations of greater tolerance than she had ever accredited him. If he could look passed that twisted cranium, there was obviously something more substantial about him. Something she had never before thought to consider.
“She doesn’t care, grandmum,” the raven-haired vampire continued, lolling her head to the side. “She doesn’t care that she’s stealing all our toys.”
Buffy blinked. “What?”
“Bad, wicked girl,” she hissed. “Caught with your hand in the cookie jar. Nowhere to run. No one to blame it on.”
What was theirs.
“I thought you didn’t care about Angel.”
“I never said that,” Darla protested. “But Dru takes it a bit personally.”
“Well,” the Slayer retorted, closing her eyes tightly as she attempted to flex again. “Sounds to me like someone’s calling the kettle black.”
The blonde vampire shrugged reasonably, though it was too frightening to be casual. “That might be true,” she conceded. “But she’s only made to take the one, hasn’t she? You’re already sharpening your corners for a second.”
What?
“What?”
There was something so raw, so blunt in her tone that it lent even the darkest of captors pause. Darla cocked her head curiously, studied her with ominous concentration, then slowly smiled. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” she said, shaking her head, broad smile never fading. “This is just too funny. You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
She shook her head and turned to Drusilla. “Honey, it’s okay,” she said softly. “Evidently, it was all one big mistake.” The blonde vampire’s face was aligned with mirth, and the overall effect was more than thwarting. “Though I can hardly believe that you remained so blissfully ignorant after he rushed to your beck and call. You should have seen his face. It was so…what’s the word…priceless.”
Buffy blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Darla shrugged. “It doesn’t matter much, anyway. She won’t listen to me.”
As if to verify this, Drusilla emitted a mournful wail and rolled over again, clutching her stomach. “He calls for her,” she announced cryptically. “Oohhh, grandmum. He’s so deliciously furious. My dark prince is furious with me. He burns. He wears her like a mask. She is…” The vampire sat up suddenly, dark eyes burning intently at the Slayer, snarling dangerously. “She’s stealing him away from me.”
“She’s not going to get far,” the elder reassured her quietly. “Oh no. Our friend here is not going anywhere.”
The Slayer was still put off, but enough to ignore a digression. The pathway was clearer that way. Less confusing, and all the more welcoming right now. She couldn’t stand to fill her plate up any further than it already was.
And despite her survival instincts, something told her that she would have plenty of time to consider what that had all been about.
“I have friends who will come for me,” Buffy said.
Darla smiled dryly. “I don’t doubt it. You humanly types are entirely too predictable.”
“You won’t hold me here forever.”
“Oh, and I suppose your next line’s going to be, ‘You won’t away with this?’ Please. This is reality, sweetheart. Not a reading for a James Bond golden girl.” She shook her head, rattled with amusement. “You’re the Slayer. You’re not supposed to have friends and family. And yet you do, and by some small twist of fate, you’ve managed to make your way this far in life. It won’t last. I knew a Slayer like you once. Not complete with the staff of support, of course, but just as cocky. Just as assured of herself. She broke just as easily as the rest of them. Her overconfidence was her weakness. She’d killed many vampires, but none quite like the Master.”
Buffy quirked a brow. “But I killed the Master.”
A look of unadulterated fury poured through the blonde vampire’s eyes—and the concentrate behind it was purely terrifying. It didn’t last. In a minute, Darla had collected herself. Better. Calm. “Yes,” she agreed. “You did. You were a little girl and you got a little lucky. And nevertheless, we are not the Master. We’re not like the other vampires you’ve faced. We are unlike anything you’ve ever encountered. You met Angel when he was sniveling soulboy. You saw him as Angelus, and still underestimated the full of his potential. You saw Dru when she was sickly and didn’t know how inventive that twisted little mind can get. You saw me once—I was killed by the only creature on this planet that even stood a fair chance. That’s over now. And Spike, dear William…I don’t even know where to begin.” She shook her head. “We’re the real thing, Buffy. We’re not some nameless bloodsuckers. We’re the vampires that made the world crumble to its knees. And the sooner you accept that, the better.” A significant pause. “Your little friends won’t find you here. Even if they did get into Wolfram and Hart, trust me, we’d know. And we’d take care of it. For their sake, you better hope they stay far, far away.”
The Slayer’s glare did not fail her, and for that she was glad. The remnants of dried tears had crusted around her eyes and her body was cold from the sharp affliction of naked air. And even that didn’t stop her. Not from looking right back at the face of what could likely be her final undoing. She met her enemy’s stare, match for match, and did not blink. Did not flinch. Did not betray the trembles that were seizing her insides, the quivers that were threatening to leak to the surface.
Didn’t betray anything. Couldn’t. Not even the dreariest form of acknowledgment. There would be nothing.
“I’ve had enough,” The blonde decided the next minute, jumping to her feet. “Dru, it’s time to let Daddy and the naughty Slayer have some alone time. All right?”
“Oohhh,” the other vampire pouted. “Things were about to get interesting.”
“Don’t worry.” Darla stopped shortly and made sure she articulated very clearly. Staring straight in the face of her embitterment. The great pinnacle of everything she had grown to hate with such fervor that it made her into more a monster than ever dreamt of before. “They will.”
Buffy reckoned she had drifted. It seemed years passed between intervals. Her inner tinglies let up long before they kicked in once more. It was what awoke her—what stirred her from the edge of proverbial solitude. When she started again, there was no lapse in remembrance. Everything rang true. Sharp and clear. She was still chained in the middle of an anonymous, windowless gray room. Her muscles still ached. Her eyes were still swollen. And she was still abandoned.
Torture sessions with Angelus were nothing she was familiar with. Giles had never shared his experience—just that it had occurred and it was awful. On some days, she noted a limp in his walk that hadn’t been there before Acathla’s awakening. She never mentioned it, of course, but it was there all the same.
It made her blood cold to think of what he would do to her.
But she would not scream. She had already cried; she would not scream.
Not even when the face that had haunted her nightmares for too many years entered her foresight. Not even when he graced her with a smile that surmounted anything and everything Darla had tried to accomplish with words and fury. Not even when he neared so close that she could feel him; revulsion crippling her insides. She would not scream.
Angelus leaned close, fingering a lock of hair between anxious, nimble fingers. “Hello, lover,” he greeted amiably.
She would not scream.
Lindsey McDonald barked an order for the image to freeze-frame, but it was more out of habit, as he was alone.
He didn’t know how late it was. Often times, the staff at Wolfram and Hart worked for days without realizing an hour had passed. Through lunch and coffee breaks. Doing everything they could to better themselves. To please the Senior Partners. He had been in the dark for a while, he knew, but the approximation on time was lost to him.
He couldn’t stop staring at her face.
To her credit, he supposed, the Slayer had pulled through. When she could have sobbed, she refrained. When she could have shouted, she remained mute. When she could have begged, she bit her tongue.
But he hadn’t.
A picture was worth a thousand words.
That was how Lilah found him. Sitting in the dark, studying a paused monitor, forefinger gently outlining the pain contorted in the Slayer’s face. He was so deep in thought that he didn’t even register her presence until she flicked on a light and offered a pointed cough.
“You know,” she began cordially. “This is becoming a rather bad habit of yours.”
“Hello, Lilah,” he replied without looking up.
“If one were to make an observation, I’d have to say you’re starting to develop the Angel-syndrome. First Darla and now—”
“It’s not about her,” he said. And it was the truth. He didn’t know what it was.
Only that it was growing stronger. Had birthed into full reality the day she had attempted to flee his office. Had spurned into something greater when he watched them prepare for her wake. That gnawing feeling that attacked his insides. The knowledge that someone pure was being tortured by someone he hated. The acceptance that he had made it all possible.
It was enough to eat him up.
He hated it. But that didn’t matter a damn.
“They don’t know about this, do they?” Lilah asked, gesturing to the security cameras.
“No. And they won’t.”
There was a shrug. He didn’t have to be looking at her to see it. “You’re going to destroy yourself,” she said, moving to exit. “Not that it matters to me. By all means, destroy away.”
The light went off again. She was gone.
Lindsey stared blankly at the face of Buffy Summers contorted in pain. He had done that. He had done that without touching her at all.
The twisting inside took a violent turn.
This was no way to live.
With a heated sigh, he rose to his feet and forced himself to snap the tape off and, in the dark, reached for the phone.
It only took a second to get a response.
“Get me Kate Lockley,” he said.
To be continued in Chapter Thirteen: Thou Art The Man …