Bottle of Red Wine
Spike slumped against the elevator, weary as though he had just completed a marathon. Panting. Exhausted. Desperate for rest. That alone was enough to tickle his sense of whimsy: marathons typically didn’t bear affect on those who were not dependent on oxygen.
Oxygen. He wanted it now. Craved it. Futile as it was to his body, he felt he would compress if it were denied of him.
It was too much, he decided. Barely ten minutes had passed since he left Buffy’s side, and yet his skin tingled as though still brushing intimately against hers. His nostrils were flooded with her scent. She was all around him. Inescapable. Even with so little separating him, he felt the burden of detachment. As though their physical distance would—in some manner—affect his actions.
Such was dangerous. More than dangerous. For whatever reason, the bond forged between them had grown to near painful proportions in the matter of a simple hour. The connection burned him with ferocious intensity, and there was nothing within the bounds of rationality that could suggest what he was feeling. Beyond love. The foundation of which love was established. He had never thought it possible. Not with the years he had seen, not with which he had been taught to believe based on vampiric law. It was as though she was in him, now, and he could feel everything that she felt.
All that pain. Confusion. Heartbreak. Outrage. And want.
Oh, so much want.
It would be easy to blame everything on what he had done. What he had nearly forced between them, but he would be wrong. This had been slow coming. It shook him to his very core, and was only growing stronger. With every beat, every unnecessary breath, it became that much more potent.
He inhaled her. Warm. Complete. Wholly female. And human. Always human. He felt his tears colliding against her welcomed radiance—everything that was and always would be the essential Buffy Summers. He did not know the duration of his lapse against her, though it could not have been long. His arms were tight abound her as though she would disappear on command. That his hold alone was keeping her anchored to a world that did not deserve her.
There was nothing for long minutes. Nothing but the harsh pant as the mingled jubilation of her orgasm rode its intensity to its lasting peak. There, and then fading once more as the world she had begged him to erase came soaring back. He could almost feel her despair. The aching reminder that she was as she had been yesterday and the day before. As she would be tomorrow and until he came to save her for good. But it wasn’t as compelling as it had been before. Sedated, even accepting. The face of her own torment, and he knew it was more than she felt she was owed.
“Spike?”
The vampire stirred at that, nuzzled against her protectively. “Sweetheart?”
“Why are you crying?”
The elevator soared higher still. Figured the wanker would have an office located on one of the more prestigious floors. He recalled thinking much of the same when he first came to see Lindsey McDonald, but for whatever reason, it bothered him now. Bothered him to the degree of physical handicap. The forced separation between himself and the Slayer was wearing on his senses, especially when he felt her as vibrantly as he did. Felt her. Her pain. Her pain as vividly as though it were his own. The knot in his gut could attest that much, but he reckoned even his own scars would fail to produce this sort of torment.
His mind drifted back, unable do to anything but. He had to admire a woman who got straight to the point. The peroxide vampire smiled poignantly to himself, his own not betraying what he felt. Instead, he rested peaceably against the box wall and thought of her.
He was at his feet in seconds, hands unwilling to renounce contact, though they did little more than skim along her. He made no effort to hide his tears, hide the affect she had on him. Hide anything when there was nothing more to hide. “I don’ wanna leave you,” he whimpered against her, knowing he was condemning himself to acknowledge even that much. The strength he bore—the same she relied on—would betray them both.
“Don’t.”
“Have to.”
She mewled in protest, even if she knew it was the truth. “I’m strong with you here,” she whimpered. “Don’t go. Please.”
Spike drew a deep, unneeded breath and willed himself closer to McDonald’s office. The reaction from those he passed was noteworthy, but otherwise ignored. Angelus was the only of the Aurelius family that had ever walked the halls so openly. The unmarked ringleader of a mistake the Senior Partners were unwilling to correct. It was the sort of thing one knew without making outward reference to. Darla could never be kept under any form of regulated control—she was nearly as bad as her ponce of a childe. However, her business interest had expired. She was infinitely more preoccupied with the populace. With getting things back to the way they used to be.
He feared she was growing envious of Angelus’s time with the Slayer. That she would eventually take it upon herself to do the thing he seemed incapable of. Strange. Even with Buffy, Spike had never thought his grandsire to be hesitant on killing anyone. But he was. On a strange whim, he was. And if he thought about it, their time in Sunnydale served as choice enough prospect.
“’m not gonna let you die ‘cause I don’ know when to stop.” He brushed a kiss over her temple, rippling with her when she shivered her pleasure. He had hesitated then, a dark thought entering his mind without perseverance. It was stupid and dangerous, but not wholly out of the question. Making her stronger did not necessarily constitute anything on a conventional level of understanding. It could be simple. He could make it simple. He could make it anything.
But not without permission.
“Buffy,” he said, very slowly. “Listen to me. This is serious, an’ we don’ have a lot of time. ‘E’ll be back. Hour’s nearly up.”
She blinked at the gravity in his tone. It was different than before. “What is it?”
“What would you say ‘f I told you that there’s a way to make you stronger? To make it…easier…to…”
“Yes.”
“You ‘aven’t even heard me.”
“No. But I trust you.”
That confession alone was enough to ground him. He had not considered such a possibility. While true, the weight of her life was literally compound and waiting in his hands, he had not considered that faith in his word, in him, would be an ultimate reward. “You’re not gonna like it, sweetheart.”
There was a dry snicker at that. “I don’t think that matters anymore. Do you?”
That was true enough. Spike exhaled deeply and rested with her for a minute longer. He knew he was stalling. Dangerous presumption…stalling when their time ran short anyway. She had agreed, of course, but he wanted to make perfectly sure that she knew what she was getting herself into. “Listen. ‘ll explain.”
“No explain. Just do it.”
“No. I wanna make sure you know what you’re askin’ for.” A sigh rippled through him. “Back in the fifteenth century, a craze broke out across Europe for—”
“Fifteenth century? Why the history lesson? Spike—!”
“Listen to me. ‘S important.” He sighed. “There was a craze goin’ through Europe. Wasn’ exactly highly regarded by the hierarchy, though rumor has it, they were bloody addicted, too. Mortals who drank vampire blood, thinkin’ it’d make ‘em all powerful or what all. It din’t turn them or anythin’…but it did juice ‘em up with power. Some got addicted. A few clans started to huntin’ down vamps an’ bleedin’ them to maintain the high. ‘S potent stuff, Buffy. Dangerously potent.” His eyes dropped to the ground, unwilling to see the disgust he was certain pooled behind her own depths. “It din’t last long for the obvious reasons. More powerful vamps got wind of it an’ took the lot of your humanly types out. The craze ended an’ vamps were given an even uglier name than before. I only mention it ‘cause it works. I know it does.”
Lindsey’s office was vacant. The peroxide vampire paused inside, finding that mildly curious. He turned his attention to some of the books that sat estimably for the outward impression. Lawyers by definition usually projected a better appearance if they were well read. Spike didn’t reckon that he cared much either way. Some of the titles were laughable, and he wondered of the King James translation of the Bible was there as an additive for a false conscience or a private joke amongst colleagues.
“You’re teasing me.”
He blinked. “Am not.”
“Are so.”
“Why do you think so?”
“I didn’t become addicted-girl after Dracula made me drink from him.”
Ah. That explained it. “Luv, how much did you drink?”
“Well…not much. A sip, really. But it was gross.”
“Wasn’ enough. An’ yeah, gross as it might be you bloody pulsers, somethin’ tells me you might a bit more open to it now.”
“Don’t count on it.”
Spike’s eyes narrowed, unsurprised and hardly offended by the expect revoke of her consent. “I’d never even suggest it ‘f I din’t think it’d help, Buffy. An’ I’ll be damned before I see you jonesin’ for it like they did in the old days. You’re a Slayer. It’d work wonders on you.” He leaned inward impulsively to kiss her, reveling as she moaned at the taste of herself on his tongue. “I jus’ wanna help. As much as bloody possible. An’ I don’ wanna leave here without knowin’ I did everythin’ I could to make things better for you.”
Her cheeks tinted at that, the reminder of what had passed between them flooding her eyes and speaking volumes for what she did not. “Have you…” she asked softly. “Did you ever…do this before? Make someone…?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know—”
“I watched Angelus an’ Darla do it once for kicks. Dragged some poor unsuspectin’ into their clutches an’ got ‘em all doped up on vamp blood. Not a pretty sight, ‘specially when the girl started goin’ through withdrawal.”
“I don’t like the sound of this…”
“I wouldn’t let you get like that.”
She arched a cool brow that remained oddly prestigious in mind of her surroundings. “You’d have a say?”
“I know how much is too much. Doesn’ take an experienced donor to tell you that.” Before she could lose herself in the depths of consideration, Spike allowed his bumpies to emerge, biting into his wrist and raising the wound to her lips. “Come on.”
She was hesitant. Hesitant, but not protesting nearly as much as he had suspected she would. Another token suggesting the balance of weighed change. The Buffy Summers of before would never have even considered, especially when balanced in danger such as this. She might have taken the offering from Angel—hell, he knew she would have taken the offering from Angel. But he was not Angel. He was Spike, and up until all too recently, she had hated him.
But she did not hate him now.
The lawyer’s absence from his office was beginning to irritate. With things as they were, the peroxide vampire hardly felt comfortable entrusting everything he had to lose in the hands of a man he had only recently felt any compulsion to trust. It had been several minutes, and while not in keeping with his customary impatience, he had yet to start pacing. As though his encounter with Buffy had drained him of any response other than complacent nonaction. It was dangerous, but his mind was clouded with her. Drunk on the thought of her.
It had startled him—moved him more than he cared to acknowledge.
He pulled away when he felt her disgust turn to desperation, despite the cruelty in gesture. Any more could prove fatal for both of them, and she was not completely beyond her fear of addiction, or worse, transformation. She had not taken enough to account for anything more than a day’s strength, but he was content, if not terrified.
Buffy seemed to sense this. Her eyes became large and inquisitive, betraying a small shudder when he leaned inward and licked his own blood from the corner of her perfect mouth. Then he released a trembling sigh against her, closing her eyes and crooning against her. “Please don’ hate me for this.”
“For what?” There was no answer; there was no need for one. Watching her eyes soften warmed his insides. “For this? For making me…I trust you, Spike. After everything…you’ve earned trust…and more than that.”
Her words soothed, but he did not wholly believe them.
“Hey. Look at me.”
The command in her voice made him smile. The blood was working wonders already. And Spike complied. He was helpless to do anything but.
“You’ve done more for me than anyone,” she said seriously, and he saw that she meant it. The notion was enough to prompt the tears that had warmed his eyes only minutes earlier to rekindle their flow, but he did not want to cry in front of her. Once was enough. Twice was inevitable. Again would reveal too much, though he doubted at this point that he had anything left to hide. “I can’t…I can’t begin to—”
“Then don’t,” he whispered. “But there is somethin’ I need you to do for me.”
She nodded. Amazing. Unquestionable faith. There was no hesitation in her eyes. Whatever it was, she would comply. And that was all there was to it.
Spike inhaled deeply and raised his wrist to her lips, flinching when she instinctively neared. That wasn’t what he wanted, and he knew damn well that Buffy loathed the idea of being dependent on blood. She hated blood, and he would never understand why she chose to believe him in this particular venture, just grateful that she had. “You have to make it look like a bite,” he said. “Your bite. Like you were tryin’ to…I need you to make it look like you hurt me.”
The vampire knew the minute that he was no longer alone—knew well before the office doors swung open to admit its proprietor. He knew Lindsey’s scent well by now, too well to be doubted.
McDonald was on his cell phone, evidently no more surprised to see him. They merely looked at each other; the lawyer nodded and held up a hand to signify his need to end the call. Spike nodded in turn and pivoted to the book stand once more in some old fashioned respect of giving the man privacy. He didn’t know from where that whim had originated; he had never been polite and wasn’t looking to adapt any of the customary habits that coincided with being such. Common courtesy was notoriously lost on him.
Perhaps it was different with foes-turned-ally. So much had passed that he no longer recalled.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
He grinned at her concern but shook his head. To be honest, he was surprised. Though he knew her to be properly fueled with more than enough to get her through the next span of hours—hopefully to tide her until he and his friends from Angel Investigations made their move—he had not expected her to react so favorably at his request. She had not liked the idea though she understood its importance. Not only did the scent of her lingering climax taint the air, but if Angel got a whiff of Spike’s blood, unpleasant questions were going to be asked, and given the nature of their last meeting, the elder vampire might simply tire of mind games and kill them both.
Truth be told, Spike was surprised that it hadn’t already come down to that.
“I’ll be back,” he promised her, claiming her lips in an ardent kiss. “Before you bloody know it.”
Buffy matched him for everything he gave. The taste of his blood on her tongue nearly caused him to double over in pleasure, and while she could not doubt the evidence of his desire, he made no attempt to act upon it. “I know you will,” she answered when they pulled apart. “Because you love me.”
And the simplicity—the understanding—in that statement had left him thoroughly defeated. If there was ever a time that he could hide himself from her, he did not recognize it. She saw him and knew. She knew. Buffy knew that he loved her, and she accepted him. Trusted him.
He could not acknowledge or deny her. Even now, he lacked the courage for it.
And he had left her.
“I hope you have not been waiting long.”
A snicker at that. The vampire’s brows perked. “Depends on the context.”
The lawyer’s face broke out into a wan smile, and his tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Touché.” A beat later, and he broke across the floor for the minibar that sat parallel the bookshelves. “Would you like something to drink?”
Spike’s eyes narrowed, his patience already absolved. It didn’t take much these days. “Bugger the pleasantries, Skippy. Whaddya got for me?”
Lindsey nodded his understanding, finding no need to contest though he went about his business anyway. “I believe that I have found a loophole in the magic that protects Buffy’s chains from breaking. I just got off the phone with someone that can help us.”
A sigh rumbled through his throat. “We’re bringin’ in more independent wankers? Bloody no. I jus’ now got Zangy to trust me. Listen, McDonald, I appreciate everythin’ you’ve done, but we’re gettin’ too close to worry with what may or may not work. Cordy’s got this plan…’s not very good, but I’m already fancyin’ it more than whatever you’ve got cooked up. Black magic can’t be bypassed. You oughta know that.”
“In any other circumstance, I’d agree with you,” Lindsey said readily, handing him a glass of Amarone without looking at it. The gesture threw the vampire off for a minute, but did not deter him from objective. It was not an act of manipulation, rather civility, and that he could appreciate. “You’re right. Absolutely. But in cases such as these, there is only one thing that can undo an enchanted shackle other than its key.”
Spike arched a cool brow, sipping at his drink. “Oh. An’ what is that?”
“The warlock I just got off the phone with. Very prestigious, but his rates are negotiable, and he owes us a few favors.”
That was it. His interest was piqued. “Who is this?”
“The same…well, not a man, but client that made Buffy’s bindings. He’s the only one who can undo them, aside the key bearer.”
Relief was a funny thing. It didn’t take much to alter Spike’s disposition. A magic-prone locksmith sounded oodles better than the lame and voted-most-likely-to-fail plan that Cordelia had up her sleeve. This was it. It could work. It bloody well had to. “Bloke got a name?”
“There are some who call him—”
Spike held up a hand in warning. “’F you say Tim, I’m gonna bite you.”
“—Gregori.” McDonald had to look away, shadow of an amused smile tainting his face. “But Tim works fine, too. Although, as I told you, he’s a warlock—not an enchanter.”
“Ha bloody ha.”
Lindsey shrugged insolently. “You’re the one that suggested it.”
There was no sense in denying that. Spike opted with a dirty look, maneuvering to the chair opposite the lawyer’s desk. He waited until the other man was seated before continuing. “So, what’s all that, then? We wait around until this bloke agrees to get her out?”
“He’s agreed.”
“An’ this is the type of gent who respects his verbal contracts?”
“Absolutely.” It was amazing how absolutely no hesitation hid behind that statement. McDonald believed it with every fiber of his being. Remarkable.
“You have no doubt?”
“Like I said, he owes us a favor.”
The vampire’s brows perked with interest. “I see. Interestin’. ‘Cause you see, you better be sure that he’s the type of guy who holds up to his bargains. Now I got my heart set on—”
Lindsey rolled his eyes. “Look, Spike, don’t try to threaten me. I’m your best connection and I know you’re not going to do anything to mess with that. Despite what your associates might think, you are an intelligent man, and I think you see that if I’m gone, your chances for getting Buffy out are as well. We’re all sharing our part of the blame here.”
“Some more than others.”
His eyes averted to his desk. “Yes,” he agreed. “I won’t deny it. Had I known what she was going to be put through, I would’ve done everything in my power to get her out of here when it was under my control. That’s my fault and I assume all responsibility.” He glanced up once more, gaze serious. “I thought I was in love and that bringing her in would…I don’t know what I thought. Whatever it is, you can’t imagine how…”
At that, the vampire’s demeanor softened, albeit not by much. “I promised her,” he said, “that the next time I came to her, it’d be to get her out. An’ it will be. You hear me?”
“Yes.” There was no resentment, only understanding.
“An’ ‘f your bloke doesn’ come through?”
“He will. I know he will.” A pause. One must always consider the extraneous possibilities, despite how distant they seemed. “But if something happens…if he doesn’t…I’ll do what I have to. Whatever I have to.”
“Even ‘f—”
Lindsey glanced up, eyes stilling him with ready anticipating. “Whatever I have to,” he said softly.
A sigh then. The vampire considered him a long beat, nodding when he saw it was true. And there was nothing else to say. Nothing else to verify. He could not ask for more than that. A vouch of good faith. They were covered from all corners. It was only a matter of hours now.
Hours.
“There is something, though,” Lindsey continued, “that I want you to do for me.”
Ah, here it comes.
“I see,” Spike drawled, leaning back expectantly. The underline of venom in his voice was impossible to ignore. “An’ what might that be?”
“Regardless of what happens to me, or to her, I want you to kill Angelus.” The stone façade in his eyes would not be contested. In this, the lawyer was most definitely unmoved. “And at this point, I don’t care if the Senior Partners get pissed off or not. Wolfram and Hart is not in a place to remove him, even though he has not served up his part of the bargain that he and—”
“Hold up, mate. Lemme get this straight. All I gotta do—”
“Is kill Angelus. That’s it. No strings.”
The vampire snickered. “No strings? Rot. I’ve eaten my fair share of lawyers, so I know what they hunger for. There are always strings.”
“Not in this. I just want him dead.”
The peroxide Cockney stared at him. That was it? The end? It couldn’t be, but the look on Lindsey’s face did not resemble treachery. In this, he was absolutely certain. The bill was a dead Angelus, something he had banked on from the beginning? Well, that was too perfect. Perfect.
“I tell you what,” Spike said, kicking his feet onto the desk and raising his glass. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“I’m sure.” The cynicism in his voice did not reach his eyes, and for whatever reason, Spike found that even more reassuring. Eyes were far more telling than intonation. “Do we have an understanding?”
“An’ more so.” The vampire flashed a grin. “I’ll even drink to it.”
To be continued in Chapter Thirty: Fallen…