Ironically, she was the one to give him the idea. She had taunted and terrorized him chipped as he was, with the stake.
A long thick wooden stake it was, but first she had trailed him through the cemetery, just out of sight but keeping pace. He knew she was there, at first he thought she was keeping an eye on him, just tabs, just running a tab of his offenses but his inside sense corrected him.
Hunt.
She was hunting him. She wanted him to know she was hunting him.
The first night he had out ran her. He was faster and knew a few camouflage tricks.
The second night he was still fast but she knew the cemetery better.
And he had finally resorted to climbing a tree.
She had treed him. He, Spike. William the bleedin’ Bloody.
And she hadn’t said a word. No witty repartee. Just looked up into the tree holding that long thick stake. As she held eye contact with him she fisted the stake and had gently but firmly insinuated it between the cleft of two branches meeting in a ‘V’ shape. She had run, just the little tip of her tongue over her dry lips--she hadn’t even known she was doing it. Just little tongue darting in and out. Her eyes: a promise to kill. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow but soon.
Someday.
But before that, he would know what it felt like to be a victim. To be hunted.
The third night she simply followed him everywhere. Always stayed a good forty feet away, but there, always there.
The fourth night was bingo night.
And that was only because he had stayed inside the crypt. So she had come after him.
Again not a word, just bursting the door open and a leap across the room using a cement urn for a jumping block--into the air she went and pinned him to the ground--stake at his heart.
Her eyes were cold almost flat except for a sharp gleam that shouted kill. Kill the killer. Kill the killer who kills little girls.
He did not blink, he reflected nothing--his years with Angelus had taught him the advantage of presenting a blank slate. Sometimes blank was better. The perfect nonprovocative.
She inched the piece of wood through his shirt and into his flesh, just breaking the skin all the while looking deep into his eyes.
She stretched herself on his body writhing a little, getting comfortable a lot. She pushed the stake a little deeper right between the ribs--she had perfect placement, he was bleeding now, just a centimeter more, her eyes quickened into his and sharpened when she saw it--
--Fear.
It was just a shimmer, glimmer, glimmer now it’s gone--but it was enough. She saw fear in Spike.
It was enough. It was payment enough to let him live one more night.
And as much as he sometimes despised this existence and had contemplated suicide in the months after his chipped internment he was still Spike the Survivor--just, couldn’t, couldn’t die, didn’t want to die, (didn’t want to…go back…there…) any sooner than he had to--going out in a fight was one thing…this…this…
“…This is what it feels like…now you know what it feels like…” It was her voice whispering now, almost tenderly in his ear. And then quite unexpectedly she kissed him on the inside of his ear and then leapt off him and was gone in a blink.
Frissons of pleasure radiating from that gentle touch on one of his most erogenous zones blending with the fear in his body slowly churned and solidified into one of the most solid walls of anger he had ever, ever known.
And he hated her. He hated her for making him feel pleasure at her touch. He hated her more for making him remember the fear and making him feel it…again.
Oh aye, he knew what it felt like. On the receiving end of the school yard bully for most of William’s life. Oh aye, he remembered William bearing it all with his almost insane unflappable optimism in the better nature of human beings. If only he tried harder, prayed harder, God would help him bear it--help him love those who afflicted him. Help him understand. His small body and tender nature made him a target, moving, standing, and running away from a small group of older boys. He was a good, kind boy and other boys had liked him, he did have friends--but his kindness also inspired a certain kind of contempt. A certain kind of boy that thrived off of the suffering of others would seek him out and enjoy breaking his smile, his joy into dust, and nothing, nothing fuels evil more than ripping purity down into terror.
He had finally convinced his Mother to take him out of boarding school but not before a rough and terrible initiation to evil as it came chasing after him even then.
It was his first recollection of consciously using his instinct--when, eight years old; he had awoken in the common room with his senses screaming. RUN. He had puzzled on it for a minute--and then the memory of hearing some of his friends crying in the night came rushing back. He had thought Thomas had been home sick--but maybe not--maybe something terrible, something inexplicably insidious…got him. The monster under the bed made manifest in some kind of midnight assault. They were all targets for the bigger boys. He was up and out of his bed and down the length of the room and going through the doors at the far end when a group of four older boys, appeared at the entrance at the other end of the common room.
William had seen them before he was seen--so he had a bit of a head start. But when he was espied--the chase was on.
But he was William the Hidden, used to finding the nooks and crannies in the School, in the world, used to knowing how to keep himself unobserved--knew where to go, what to do. The coal bin. Even if the older boys were to discover him there--they wouldn’t dirty themselves enough to come after.
Cold, muscles cramped up from the cold. Pressed up against the wall on top of the hard bits mined from the bowels of an earth he would never understand. And what was that soft scratching? What is that moving over there?. Everyone heard those stories of rats chewing the faces off of babies as they slept. DON’T sleep. Must stay awake. Maybe if he said a prayer?
So he prayed; cold and shaking as he was, he prayed inside his mind so as not to foul the magic words with shaking teeth.
Running had kept him safe. And even now he wasn’t averse to running to live to fight another day. But it had taught him fear.
It was one of the reasons as a vampire he went looking for it. A fight. A fight with impossible odds. To appease William’s dream of the worm that turned. As a boy William was not a coward but his small body, and physical inferiority to other boys had taught him to use other skills. Instinct, to name top dog. But now he needed fists and fangs and to stand up in a fight. He needed physical impact and the satisfying crunch of contact. And it was never enough to balance Williams’s scales. It was William that lighted the demon’s spark and called out for the brawl.
Angelus had been no better than a school yard bully boy terrorizing his victims. No. Spike would not use that as his role model. Spike would not become like his enemy. He had to take them out in a straight up fight. Or…or drew them to him. Because sex was a different kind of conflict--wasn’t it then? Even as William he had been charismatic, it was a thin tether that drew other small tender souls to him but it was there and he had had friends and enemies and had drawn both extremities to himself. As a vampire he could draw men and women to him. A certain kind of human would come out of the crowd and follow him asking: “Who are you?…What’s your name?…” And they were never surprised when he sunk his fangs into them. Terrified, perhaps, almost always and resigned as well--but never surprised.
And when he needed the satisfaction of tasting fear he made chase. But much more often he preferred the conflict of sex with his blood. For his real deep feedings. Sex and adrenalin and endorphin enriched blood and topped off with a little whipping when they creamed.
So yes, he knew fear from both ways ‘round; from the happy and sad endings of a sharp stick poking the eyes out his life story. He knew all about it. All about the cost of that theme park ride. He’d had the worst of the worst done to him and did indeed, on occasion do himself. But. But.
The strongest, heaviest toll was paid to the monster swinging on the gate like a child. Childhood-- scarier than the scariest movie.
So he knew fear.
And right now he hated the Slayer for making him remember it in such a way.
WHO DID SHE THINK SHE WAS?
Who did she think he was?
Who did she think she was dealing with?
Impale him? IMPALE HIM? Impale him would she? He would impale her…he could impale her.
And the idea so dreadfully simple was cracked hatching and he considered something that never would have occurred to him by himself. That is, uncourted, unprovoked.
It all depended on the standing invitation into her house. If it still stood in place.
Oh god, it could be so dreadfully easy.
~ ` ~
On the fifth night Spike watched the house on Revello Drive. He kept a bit of a distance--didn’t want her picking up his signature anywhere near her house. It was summer--and he knew from overhearing her and her mates talk, she was returning to room at college in the fall--so it had to be now. Now would be best.
There, that’s her. And Spike felt a shocking movement and answering tightness from his groin confirming--yes, oh yes, it’s her. The she courting he. His she. A little surprised at his sudden extremity--he unzipped himself and let his cock out for a bit of fresh air and to get a better look at the missus.
Her swinging blond hair, watching her lithe athletic body and that strange softness in his heart that made him hard—
He came so unexpectedly and so savagely he was doubled over and in a bit of shock. Like a fourteen year old boy suddenly caught and shook silly by nature. He hadn’t even stroked himself--just came. He sat on the ground to keep from falling and waited while he got his bearings. What the hell was that? He consoled himself after his body’s sudden declaration--just a bit off the top, eh? That’s all right, all would be made right again. He fingered the dried poppies in his pocket. Soon. He would place these enhanced sleeping flowers under her bed. Just under her bed and in the open air--maybe tuck them under a spring under the mattress so they would still be loose but would go undetected. Yes it wouldn’t do to be detected too soon.
There was an old wives, an old witches tale that he was going to try regarding slayers, placing slayers under thrall--probably never ever work on her, she was so strong, ‘sides that didn’t really appeal all that much to him and if it worked that would only be gravy on his taters. His tots tickled and a little ‘top o’ the morning to you’--that’s all he wanted. Just a little greeting, a little respect and if not that…well then…there would always be the memory of a little rumpus on Buffy for Spike. A little tit for tat and then a tell all…TELL ALL.
Her friends, her Watcher, every stray vamp and demon deluxe come to town would hear all about it. Nobody would look at her the same way again.
There was a twinge, a small one, a small sting of empathy--he knew what it felt like to be laughed at--BLOODY HELL. No. She brought this on, she provoked him.
(‘Angelus. Wanker’--William whispered) NO! Spike shrugged it off--this was warfare. Slayer had declared war on him and this was all he had left in his weapons chest. He couldn’t job this out to a death squad. Not anymore. No, this was personal.
(…’leave town’…) And go where? He argued. ‘Sides where was he gonna get blood, chipped as he was? Bars around here, this whole set up--ah BULLOCKS. Slayer was the thing that pulled him back to Sunnyhell, Slayer was the thing that kept him here, haunted him and he couldn’t even think straight when he got more than fifty miles away from her.
Slayer had started this courtship with the first unprovoked sock on his jaw. She had courted him harder than Dru ever had. She wanted him? She would get him.
He had finally been provoked beyond his own need for survival and this was just finally, finally tending to unfinished business and if this gave him rest or even eternal rest, well, blimey and double hootenanny.
It was going to work. He knew it was
It would get him dusted completely on true confession day--but FUCK--if she was taking him out, if he was going anyway--what a way to go! She thought he was toothless did she? No, he was evil. Evil and he would defile her with it.
Impaled by the Impalee and ‘round robin right enough.
If he was dusted, he would die laughing.
~ ` ~
It was almost sunrise when his crypt was within sight. His step was almost jaunty. There had been no disinvite--he had snuck in the way she had snuck out--through her bedroom window. The poppy was in place and if all went well--would hold a human suspended in an almost unwakable sleep for about six hours for the darkest part of the evening. A nice sleeping draught for the poor, poor overworked slayer; he would massage and stroke her poor tired body he would be…sweet. Huh. That thought was strangely pleasing. He would be doing her a service. Chip would never fire because he would be servicing her--and with this very satisfying thought inspiring an even more satisfied smirk--he found himself pinned face first up against the marble wall of his crypt.
Cool cold marble against his skin on one side, hot taunt pissed off Slayer pressed on the other. She ground her body into him as she leaned forward to whisper in his ear:
“Missed you…”
“Had some pressing business Slayer…”
“I’m your pressing business…” She said as she flattened her breasts against his back.
He groaned as his cock tried to impale the solid wall he was pushed up against.
“Ah hem…hem..hem…” It was a slight gentle coughing from off and to the right. The voice continued, “Ah Buffy…the sun’s almost up…”
And indeed Spike’s Vampire clock was screaming a terror alarm.
“Huh? What’s that Willow? Oh yeah…lookey there. But Spikey loves the sunlight, look he waited to share it with me. Isn’t that right Spikey?”
“Thas’ right Slayer…night just wouldn’t be right without sharing the best part of it with you—“
“Buffy…” Willows voice held just a bit of a freak…’Giles needs that information Spike is translating for him on those tablets…I gotta do a spell…”
“It’s alright Willow, Spike wants to play chicken…we’re just playing right Spike?”
Dawn was roaring like an oncoming wave and Spike held on held on to thoughts of this evening of the sleeping poppies will make you sleep…poppies will make you sleep’…and he gasped out…
“…Uncle…”
“What’s that?” Buffy asked sweetly.
Willow almost shrieked… “He said ‘Uncle,’ he gives, Buffy let him go!”
The sun was creeeeeeeaking…
Spike tried again, panted:
“…Uncle, Auntie…second cousin lovin,’ oi eh, give over Slayer…” And then softly: “…please…”
And with that Buffy stroked the back of his head gently almost lovingly, kissed his neck and then pulled him away from the wall and threw his now smoking corpse into the shelter of the open doorway.
Subdued now, lesson concluded, she lowered her voice, wide hazel eyes regarded him evenly and spoke softly, almost kindly as she had the previous night.
“Thank you Spike. That’s all I wanted. Just want you to remember what it feels like…remember it…”
Yes he would.
~ ` ~
Willow was…well...more than a little concerned. On the way out of the cemetery she kept sneaking sideways glances to Buffy to gauge what she was feeling, where was she in her mind to make her act this way? True, she had often seen Buffy enjoy beating Spike up--it’s just, well recently the vibe seemed to have taken a turn. Toward where? And down what road? Curvy, curvy and swerve to miss the twirling dervish. She guessed it didn’t matter, really if Buffy killed Spike--but…well…they did know him now and he had been useful on many occasions. Albeit sans cash no Spike but often times were, they could enlist his aid to kill a Ferrari demon for less than cigarette money. A discount demon that did delivery too. He’d wash your windows with a squeegee for pocket change. He was handy. Plus. It was…Spike. She decided on the caution sign.
“Buffy, do you think it’s wise to provoke him?”
“Who?” Buffy glanced at Willow who returned her gaze rather directly.
“You’re kidding me? Spike? What’s he gonna do, tongue lash me to death?” Buffy’s eyebrows drew together. “That didn’t come out right.”
“Buffy…I don’t think—“
“--Look…Angel told me how it is in Vampire clans—they gotta know who top cat is—and once they do, they respect the hierarchy.”
“Yeah and that worked real well for him in dealing with Spike.”
“Well…it’s more than that--he…irks me…I know part of it is that it’s summer… and it’s always slow in summer and I’m dying for a good slay. And there he is--always there…always there everywhere I turn, that blonde hair and black leather and he’s neutered and still so full of himself? What’s that all about? What’s he got to be cocky about? It bugs me. I know he’s a help, but then I think about all the people he must have killed in his 121 years and the Slayer makes me--Willow! The Slayer made me do it.”
Sounding suspiciously like ‘the devil made me do it!’ She repeated herself less jokey more sure now:
“The Slayer made me do it. It’s something she needs to say to him. Something he needs to understand.”
Every once in a while Buffy would slip into absurd person singular when talking about the Slayer and it always stood out for Willow as something she should pay attention to. As if Buffy was receiving direction from a higher authority.
Willow looked away from that glint in Buffy’s eye, the feral appraisal that rang, rang, ding, dong damn it--The First Slayer from her dream! Sure that’s it! That’s the look. This is what that felt like--being hunted by the first Slayer.
Buffy’s voice became soft and small as she folded it over and over tucked it inside creeping so creepy, it made the little hairs on Willows neck stand up.
“You can tell Giles and I don’t care, I can end up killing him and I don’t care--but there is something in him Slayer needs to break and she will or he’ll die with her trying…”
Willow shuddered and it could have been the cool early summer mist in the morning but and more likely it was the grim chill cold purpose of the Slayer speaking in Buffy voice.
