Chapter Sixteen

Tourniquet



Lindsey McDonald didn’t even bother to glance up when the door opened. He had known it was only a matter of time before a spokesperson for the unholy trio decided to break the silence that had settled since the Slayer was brought into the picture. As it was, he had been looking to call Angelus into his office for some time now. There were things to discuss, pleasantries and their mutual uglies to get out of the way.

And a meeting to arrange.

“Well, well,” a familiar and overly unwanted voice drawled in greeting. “Alone at last.”

The lawyer snickered but maintained his focus on his work. “Hello, Angelus.”

There would be no pleasant exchange. They hadn’t bothered with such tomfoolery when the vampire harbored a soul; there was absolutely no reason to now. “You know, I just can’t seem to figure out why… Now, before I get ahead of myself, don’t get me wrong. This new and improved status of being is really working out for me. Granted I have a lot to catch up on, and the helpless pups over at my respected offices aren’t really helping me out in that department.”

Lindsey sighed and finally presented the vampire with his eyes, consigning his pen to his desk with raw agitation. “You’ve only been here two seconds, and I’m already tired of listening. Is there a reason that you’re here and interrupting my very important and highly entertaining tax filing?” he asked monotonously, cocking his head.

A rich chuckle colored the air. Angelus leaned forward, supporting his weight on the desk with open palms. “All that hostility, and you still maintain your sense of humor. Maybe I underestimated you, Lindsey. You aren’t quite the sniveling crybaby I had always pictured. Close, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t like to shortchange those I’ll likely be killing within the next five minutes with any doubts of their skills, however transparent they seem to be.”

Even at that, McDonald refused to bat an eye. The past few days had served as ample enough evidence that when it came down to chatting with associates, Angelus was about as much talk as he was action. That wasn’t to say the vampire didn’t have aspirations of following through; his torture sessions with Buffy had been split between words and lashes. Oh no. This was a creature that enjoyed the buildup. The suspense. The endless wonder if today would be the day he ended his taunts with an effective snap. “Is there a point you would like to make?” he asked. “Or should I have you escorted out by force? I do have work to do, if you don’t mind.”

“Ah, right to the point. I always liked that about you, Lindsey. So direct. Forceful. You simply reek of testosterone. All that lovely man-juice that will never get you anywhere. At least anywhere you actually want to get.” Angelus glanced down speculatively, running his hand across the length of the desk before finding what he was looking for. A pen. A small instrument of minimal value. Something that had to be more fascinating than it looked. He ran his forefinger over the ballpoint, tossing a brief look upward as a smile curled his lips. “You’re really not afraid of me…are you?”

McDonald’s brows perked, and he gestured dismissively. “Should I be?”

“I could kill you with this, you know. Your head would hit the floor before you could think to call for help.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Lindsey returned honestly. “But you didn’t come up here to threaten me.”

“Didn’t I?” An incredulous snort tickled the air. “You really think you matter to her? That she lies awake, dreaming of you when the day is done? That she touches herself, and calls out your name when she—”

“No need to be crude.” Perhaps it was his indifference that bothered; a look of irritation overwhelmed the vampire’s face to a degree where, had he not been as valuable a player as he was, McDonald reckoned that might have been his last lucky break. “Obviously not. Why would you come up here and brag about that? In fact, why would you come up here at all? Don’t you have a Slayer to be playing with?”

That remark stank of deception—coated in lies and buried somewhere that he hoped remained perpetually undiscovered. The last thing Lindsey wanted to do was send Angelus back into the bowels of Wolfram and Hart to engage in another round of ‘how much can a Slayer bleed.’ The monitors in the room he wasn’t technically supposed to be in had long ago worn their reservation. He couldn’t stop watching—a morbid fascination. For every flinch that crossed her face, for every tear that trenched her cheek, for every time she bit her lip to keep from screaming, he hated the vampire more.

And it wasn’t just that. It could never be so simple. Lindsey McDonald—the folly of his own repugnance. His insides twisted with self-loathing that refused to grant him leave. For as often as he watched her torment, he never made move to interfere. To end it. To get her out of there. To save her and himself from this haven of sin. He couldn’t. He remained. He had to. Wolfram and Hart was what he knew.

It had only been two days. Two days. And she bled. She had bled too much.

And yet it was he who was dying.

Irony was a horrendous pain in the ass.

“Funny that you should mention the Slayer,” Angelus replied. “You’ll never believe what Dru shared with us over breakfast.”

Lindsey froze and glanced up.

Oh. God.

If the vampires knew that their torture sessions were being videotaped, things were going to go from bad to worse in record time.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me,” he replied, attempting with desperation to maintain a cool, disinterested façade.

“Seems Spike is in town. In town, and looking for us. Imagine that.” His eyes narrowed and he studied the man with intensity that could melt an iceberg. Funny how a vampire could produce that sort of radiation. With merely a look, a flinch, Angelus betrayed everything he was. And he enjoyed every minute of it. “I’m thinking, you knew about this, didn’t you?”

Lindsey didn’t know what merited the most reaction. The notion that his late night rendezvous to the security room had yet to be discovered, or that the vampire would display such interest in one of his own, especially one noted on the ‘likely to try something stupid’ list. “Our resources aren’t really focused on new arrivals,” he replied steadily. “But yes, I was informed. By Spike himself, actually. He claims to have rethought Darla’s offer. He wants in.”

Angelus drew back and stared at the man blankly before emitting a long, incredulous chuckle. “Perfect!” he decided richly. “How absolutely perfect. It never ceases to amaze me how centuries can change, but the people remain…” He paused, cocking his head for emphasis. “Irrevocably the same. Spike, one of my own. Same guy. Same mindless enthusiasm. Different cause.”

“I think it runs in the family, myself.” McDonald wisely avoided the vampire’s eyes at that, glancing once more to his work. “Anyway, I told him the Slayer was dead. He didn’t seem to care.”

He quirked a brow. “Interesting. I never thought he’d be inventive enough to go with apathy.”

Lindsey leaned back in his chair. “You’re so sure it’s a rouse?”

“Of course it’s a rouse, Bright Boy. Spike always reeked of way too much humanity to give up that quickly. And man—that kid becomes obsessed with something, he stays that way.” Angelus rolled his eyes and gestured emphatically. “On and on and on until I wished I had never even mentioned the Slayer. It was almost worth getting souled to not hear another word of his mindless, endless rambling.”

“He wants to meet you tomorrow at Caritas. At sunset.”

The vampire’s eyes widened in consideration. “Interesting choice.”

“Not nearly as interesting as what our tracers picked up.” Lindsey leered forward and retrieved a single-sheeted document from his desk. “The phone he used was issued to a Wright, Zachary Stephens. Anyone you know?”

“Name doesn’t sound familiar.” Angelus frowned speculatively. While improbable, the notion that Spike had suffered a drastic change of heart was not too outrageous to be marked as the truth. Were he to be on some Slayer-saving tangent, chances lay in the better wake of his contacting associates at Angel Investigations. Both men knew that.

Of course, it was entirely possible that Spike knew that as well. Possible, but unlikely. Despite the very sad esteem that merited his reputation preceding him, the younger vampire was not known for his forethought. It was vexing. All very vexing.

“Well,” Angelus decided with definitive finale. “I guess there’s never any harm in looking, now is there? Caritas at sunset…well, I suppose we’ll just have to wait until then.” He turned to flash McDonald a cheeky grin that practically dripped with disdain before bidding a very insincere farewell and waltzing out of the office to his leisure.

For everything the vampire formerly kept to himself to everything he now practically shouted from the rooftops. Lindsey never thought the day would arrive when he would miss the shadow of his former rival. Every minute mounted more surprises.

He did not want William the Bloody in these offices, especially if he had spoken the truth earlier. Vampires were fickle creatures—and despite whatever sense of romance the little Cockney might have felt prior to the turn of the tide, that did not deduct from the very well noted fact that he was a Slayer killer. He prided himself in it. Had already done two in and—by the files—had spent the past three years of his life skirting around the ways to kill the one currently in the firm’s darkest nook.

Drusilla thought that he was in love with Buffy. Hah. Rich. That was all very well for Drusilla. Lindsey much preferred to keep his opinion based on factual evidence, not the sporadic claims of a rambling undead lunatic. He did not know what Spike was trying to pull, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to be on his side of the rope to drag the Slayer further into her shame.

Angelus’s hostility toward Buffy was founded but aged. Too much time had passed and he was currently hell-bent on revisiting the causes of yesterday. When he tired of her, it was going to take every string in McDonald’s command to keep the girl from reaching a messy end. Spike was a different story. His hostility had had time to brew. To bubble and fester. All scars were fresh and likely still bleeding; he wasn’t going to have the satisfaction of repaying that regard.

Not if Lindsey could stop it.

He had to get her out of there. Before things got worse. Before William the Bloody was implicated.

It was merely a question of how.

*~*~*


This time, she knew she was dreaming.

He stood in the doorway, shadowed by his own darkness. The figurative silhouette marking his undoing. His features remained blurred, either for the lack of convenient luminosity or the mask of tears that had long since dried and crusted under her eyes. She didn’t know. Had long since stopped caring. How much time had passed? Days? Weeks? Years?

Days. It was only days. Two or three at best. Likely three. Three sounded good. A sturdy, wholesome, reliable number. Three days since she saw him. Since he burst into the Bronze after his premature leave. Since he looked at her with such genuine regard to warn her of this. Of what it was. What was to come.

To warn her of Drusilla and Darla. What they had planned for her.

To warn her of Angelus.

And before that? A walk through Restfield cemetery. Cordial. Nice. Side-by-side, as though they had been doing it for years. As though witty banter and the occasional personal remark resembled a hug or a smooch on the cheek. As though it were a labeled brand of affection.

She had opened up to him that night. She had gone against her own established rule. She had prefaced herself and opened up, and Spike, never one to shy from a challenge, had admirably stepped up to the plate.

Everyone is wrong, he had told her. And he had been sincere.

You’re an ambiguity, Buffy.

And now he was here, and she was dreaming. She had to be dreaming. Nothing was clear enough to merit reality. Trapped in a daze where what she wanted was so close within hindsight, even if the same couldn’t be Spike. Couldn’t. Never had been, never would be.

What she wouldn’t do to see his face now. His face. Xander’s face. Willow’s face. Hell, right now, even Parker’s face. Someone to remind her that the world existed outside these three-dimensional walls. That she wasn’t in Hell, repaying for some sin she didn’t know she had committed. That life in all its blessed routine, complete with demonic Hellgods who wanted to use her sister as some sort of turnkey, was still the basis of reality outside her suffering.

But that wasn’t entirely true, was it? Because if Spike were here, it certainly wouldn’t be for her. He was a vampire after all. He was a very notorious, very dangerous vampire with two Slayer deaths under his belt. And he had been jonesing to kill her since he first blew into Sunnydale three years prior.

Funny, though, how the thought of him right now—in this distorted version of her even more distorted reality—brought with it some sort of peace.

Flash. He was standing there before her, now. The open sea of his eyes welcoming her own. Imploring her with depths that could find her even if they had to swim through the inner maze of her psyche. Despite everything, their differences, their banter, their mutual hatred, he somehow managed to know her better than anyone she had encountered. Better than even Willow at times, and that was scary. Vampires weren’t supposed to divulge their enemies so thoroughly. It displayed a nature of wanting left to be uncovered by an unnamed source. He knew her. Oh, he knew her. He always had.

He knew Slayers, he had said. That was true. But he knew Buffy better than any of the others. He knew Buffy.

When he spoke, his breath fanned her lips—her chapped, raw, sore lips. There wasn’t a part of her that wasn’t screaming in some form of agony. That hadn’t been explored and taunted for all its painful possibilities. Angelus was a connoisseur of such things, and by the way he touched her, he never wanted her to forget it.

“What’s this?” the Spike-apparition demanded. “My girl all chained up? Tsk. That won’ do, now will it?”

Buffy lunged forward at that—or rather, tried to. Her bindings held steadfast, pulling on skin that had long ago outstretched its limits. Her muscles were sore and abused, tired from struggling against an unrelenting chain. Tired of holding her up while the others made their play. Simply tired. She was grateful for the lack of mirrors; feeling the grime and blood caked upon dirtied flesh was enough. The last thing she needed was a diagram.

The chains would withhold anything; even and especially images conjured simply because she wished it so. The Slayer withdrew after a few seconds, emanating a pitiful wail as she limped in defeat. “Spike…” she whimpered imploringly. “Please…”

“Things are gonna get rough. You’re gonna have to sit tight. Close your eyes. Pretend ‘s not real. An’ wait. Jus’ wait. I’ll make it all go away.” He reached out to caress her cheek and she was surprised when it didn’t hurt. When she didn’t feel the need to flinch. Rather, it was exquisite. Being touched out of feeling rather than unsatisfied anger. Rage. Fury. Everything that constructed Angelus into being. “Hold on for me, all right, luv? Can you do that? We’re tryin’.”

“Spike,” she moaned, biting back tears. She had thought to having drained her body of tears, but somehow they kept coming. Stinging her eyes with their intrusive salt. Waiting to trek painful rivers down a face that could spare no more inward screams. “Please, don’t…Angelus…he’s…”

“I’ll find you.” He flashed a grin, then leaned forward softly and caressed her lips with his own. It wasn’t a passionate union. It wasn’t flavored with lust or unrequited fervor. More gentle and reassuring. And yet, somehow, she had never received a more ardent kiss. And real. Oh God. It felt so real. She could almost smell him. Cigarettes, leather, whisky…tears? Were those his tears she sensed, or her own? Too soon it was over, and he pulled back, drawing locks of bloodied hair between his fingers with a look on his face that she had never seen before. Never seen. Couldn’t place. But she loved it. “I promise, Buffy. I’ll find you.”

She opened her eyes and allowed her tears to sting, but before she could call him back, beg him to stay; he had dissolved into the night behind him.

There was a slam and she jerked awake.

The fantasy was over. Reality stepped forward with all its wretched glory.

This was it. She was alone.

And Angelus had returned.

He flashed a smirk, consigning some foreign object to the ground beneath her feet. Buffy refused to blink; refused to look at it. Rather lifted her head with whatever kept her going and met his eyes. Beat by beat.

And, as she had at every interval, refused to show him any fear.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he greeted contemptuously, marking her brow with a forceful, bitingly cold crash of his lips. “Miss me?”

The warmth that had camped throughout her system left with the remnants of her lost redeemer. Truth returned. Nasty, spiteful, and real.

The same that could never be forgotten. Wanting did not make it so.

This was her certainty. Her stamina. Her one true thing.

She was alone.




To be continued in Chapter Seventeen: With A Little Help…





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