Buffy The Vampire Slayer Fan Fiction ❯ Fear Becomes You ❯ A Short Escape ( Chapter 3 )

Still don't own anything

And I hated what I put up before, so I changed/revised it a little/lot. So in this revision something actually happens.

 

 

Chapter # 3: A Short Escape

 

A half hour of the bloodless documentary later, his attention more on his apparent guard and escape, Spike swallowed the last bit of his sandwich and immediately found a rather large kitchen knife pointed at his face.

Needless to say, it was a bit of a shock.

Apparently his guard had been paying him more attention than he'd thought.

And just when did she get that bloody knife? Had she had it the whole time?

Staring at the blade inches from his nose, Spike cursed his situation for not the last time that day. If he had still been a fucking vampire he would've known she wasn't as relaxed as she'd seemed. He wouldn't have been taken by surprise.

“Alright, you're done eating, so now it's back into the ropes you go.”

Shaking away his surprised thoughts, Spike leaned back into his seat and gave the bird behind the blade a truly irritating smirk. “Right. And `ow's that little thing supposed t' make me do anythin'. Even if y' could threaten' an' torture me into putting on th' ropes, I couldn' do it. An' y' need two hands to tie ropes, so yer gonna have t' put down yer little toy there an' leave yerself defenseless if yer gonna be the one doin' th' tying.”

“I . . . er . . .” Spike leaned his head back a bit more as she waved the knife around a bit, starting to look a little unsure.

“Tell me. Did y' think this plan through at all?”

“Of course I did,” she obviously lied, “And I just happen to be really good at tying people up while holding pointy objects.”

“Really? That's kinky, luv” Spike leered, running his eyes down her shapeless, ridiculously clothed form. This just might work for him. “An' I suppose y' get good practice with that while keepin' yer bitch in line, too, huh?”

Looking a bit confused, she took a step back, knife wavering. “Wha—

In a sudden movement, taking advantage of this momentary distraction, Spike lifted his bound legs and kicked out at her stomach. She fell, landing hard on her back, losing her breath and knife in the process.

Standing with care, Spike hopped over as quickly as possible to push her back down as she started to make it to her feet. This overbalancing him a bit, he let himself fall forward to land hard, kneeling, on her stomach. Her breath gone once more, and unable to get much air into her lungs with Spike's full weight resting on her stomach, she, nevertheless, made a few token struggles. But these were easily avoided and ignored as Spike dealt a hard blow to her head, knocking her out.

Minutes later, Spike was free of his bindings and kneeling over the bint's unconscious body with knife in hand.

Positioning the knife over her heart, intent on a quick kill then escape, he raised his arm and . . . paused.

Lowering the knife, he gave the body a confused look. The bint laid silent, chest slowly rising and falling with breath, and looking more vulnerable and small in her ocean of baggy clothes than he had imagined she could while she was awake and talking.

Then he looked at his knife. He could already see the blood, a dark and beautiful red dripping down the blade and forever staining the carpet. It would be rich, delicious and fulfilling after that bland sandwich, and he was still hungry.

Then he turned to the body again. He could already see the puncture holes from his fangs, her slightly tanned skin fading to a sickly pale as the blood left her body, cold and dead . . .

But he didn't have fangs, didn't need the blood, and . . . and that really needed to be fixed.

He turned to look behind him at the door.

He didn't know what was happening, but . . . he didn't want to kill this girl.

There was no real reason as to why he didn't. He just . . . didn't.

He'd said he'd wanted to. He'd made graphic plans. But now that it came time to actually do it, he just . . . couldn't.

For the first time in more than a century, he was hesitant to kill, and so he was confused.

Spike would say it was because he was human at the moment. That, because he didn't need her blood to survive, there was no reason he should kill her.

But that didn't really make sense. He had killed humans without feeding off them before. Vampires didn't just kill to eat, after all. They killed because it was fun or advantageous to them in some way.

And this . . . this little girl was his prey. His enemy. A loved one of a bloody Slayer.

He should be dragging her off to his lair to be tortured and destroyed, to be used as Slayer bait. He should be relishing her screams of pain and terror, shagging Dru in pools of her blood.

He shouldn't be having second thoughts about quickly sticking a knife in her heart as she lay defenseless. Compared to what he should do, and what he normally would do, that was being merciful.

So why couldn't he do it?

Once accepting that he was human, for awhile at least, he had feared that a soul had come with the package. But that thought had died when it became clear he wasn't feeling any different than normal. There was no overwhelming guilt, no desire to abandon Dru and fight the `good' fight, no pressing need to go to church and pray for the forgiveness of his sins.

So, logically, it couldn't be a soul that was keeping him from killing.

Maybe it was just some instinctive feeling of connection to the bint due to them being the same species?

But, well . . . that didn't really make sense either.

Sharing a species had never seemed to stop all those other humans from killing each other. And it had certainly never stopped Spike from killing other vampires.

Finally, shaking his head, Spike decided to just forget the girl.

Right now, Spike wanted only one thing—to see Dru.

She was probably worried about him by now and he needed to make sure that the bloody stupid minions of this town had kept her from hurting herself.

He also needed her to cure him before this human-thing became any worse. As it was, he as already starting to go . . . funny.

And so, disgusted with himself but decided on a plan of action, Spike walked out the door.

 

When Xander came to, he was lying comfortably on a large bed in what he assumed was Giles' bedroom.

The last thing he remembered was being unable to breathe, Spike's pointy knees and weight pushing down hard, and a hard blow to his head. So he must have been knocked out.

And the others must have finally returned from school and found him lying on the floor, Spike nowhere to be found.

Which meant that, right now, Buffy was probably out searching for Spike, who had escaped due to Xander's own idiocy, while Giles and Willow sat in the living room researching the newest fuck-up in the long line of Xander fuck-ups.

Which meant that Xander had to get his ass out of bed and go help, headache from hell or not.

Groaning, Xander pulled his body up to sit on the edge of the bed. Then, slowly, he stood and started to make his way toward Giles' small bathroom, aspirin being a decidedly necessary thing.

His body had really been through far too much, in far too short a time, and his new bruises really weren't helping.

A short time later, aspirin found and taken, he dropped onto the couch next to Willow with a soft “Hey.”

Just as he'd predicted, Buffy was nowhere to be found, and Giles and Willow were surrounded by books.

“You're up!” Willow turned to him with a smile, ignoring her book to give him her total attention. “Are you okay? Do you need any anything?” From his own seat, Giles put his glasses back on and sat up, looking concerned.

“Nah. I'm good. I've already taken some Advil. ” Xander replied easily, reaching out to grab a book lying on the small coffee table in front of him. “So what are we looking for?”

“Xander, you should really be resting,” Giles said, still looking concerned. “We would completely understand if you didn't help with the research.”

“But I'm fine!” Xander looked over at Giles. “Really! I've never felt better.”

Neither Giles nor Willow looked convinced.

“Well, alright, my head's about beat itself off my neck and my stomach is now the proud owner of a bruise the size of Denmark, but it's not like researching is really gonna involve me doing anything all that physical. All I'm gonna do is sit here and read, maybe walk around the table to get a book or something. And besides, this is my problem you're researching, so I deserve to get to research it too.” And with that said, Xander opened his book and pointedly began to read. Normally he'd be happy at the prospect of getting out of research, especially as he really didn't feel that great, but, as he'd said, this was his own problem. It wouldn't be fair for Giles and Willow to do all the work while he did nothing, especially when it was his own fault for being cursed. And besides, the more people researching, the quicker all of this girl-stuff would be over.

Giles took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, I-I don't think we will be finding anything actually useful in these books anyways. They're really only here for my own interest; all of the . . the more useful books are back at the library. And besides that, we won't have a clue as to what we should be looking for until Buffy returns with Spike. Willow and I were merely going through these books in the blind hope of accidentally stumbling upon an answer to pass the time.”

Seeing Willow shrug and nod in agreement, Xander let out a disappointed, “Oh . . .” Then he shrugged himself and closed his book, deciding not to say anything about Spike and his escape unless they asked. He didn't need them to tell him how stupid he had been, releasing Spike's arms and letting him into the living room, or to give him those painful looks of disappointment. Xander knew full well that he had just been lucky Spike had, for some reason, decided not to kill him. He wondered if Giles had noticed his missing knife yet.

“Well, okay. When do you think Buffy'll be back?”

“She should be here soon,” Willow answered with a quick glance in the direction of the door. “She's been gone for a really long time.”

“Really?” Xander asked and Willow nodded. “What time did you guys show up, anyways?”

“Uh . . .” Willow looked at her watch. “I think it was around 4: 30.”

“I wasn't on the floor for that long, then,” he said, mostly to himself, and ran a hand through his hair. Then, half-heartedly twisting to see the wall clock behind him, he asked, “What time is it now?”

“Almost six.”

“Six?” He looked out the window. It was getting kind of dark. “Why didn't you guys wake me up sooner?”

“Well, there wasn't really any need,” Giles said, “I mean, you-you've been through quite a bit these past two days and, well, quite frankly, we all thought you could use the rest.”

“But I don't want the rest. Rest can go—”

“Oh look!” Willow said, cutting in. “Buffy's back.”

“Really?” Xander turned around to see that Buffy was, in fact, back and dragging a strangely awake but not struggling or talking Spike along behind her.

Stopping just to the side of the couch he and Willow sat on, Buffy smiled and pushed Spike none too gently in front of her. “Yep. One Slayer and prisoner reporting for duty.”

“Ah, good . . .” Giles stood to pass Buffy the long length of rope that he had apparently being keeping near-by. “If you could please tie him up again.”

“Sure,” Buffy said, already grabbing Spike's arms to quickly tie. “Where should I put him?”

Moving out of the way, Giles motioned toward his seat, and Buffy immediately dragged the still silent Spike over and pushed him into the seat. Xander expected, any minute, for Spike to burst into a sudden flurry of violence and insults, but Spike just sat there, silent. He didn't seem to even realize where he was or that he had just been re-tied.

And Xander just had to wonder what had happened to him, going from his normal loud and evil self to this in such a short period of time.

 

 

Spike was confused and in shock.

He would try to push the feelings down and away, but that would mean becoming overwhelmed with depression—something he didn't plan on doing until he could find enough alcohol to sink a ship—so he stuck with them.

Drusilla was missing and he couldn't find her.

He couldn't find her and he was still human.

And he needed alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.

After leaving the Watcher's place, he had gone immediately to the abandoned factory that he and Dru had set up base in for the moment only to find the place empty.

All of the minions were gone despite the remaining daylight, which didn't bother him, and there was no sign of Dru, which did.

The worst part was that she had obviously not just stepped out too early for a meal. All of her belongings, everything that she carried with her on their travels, were gone.

Her tea sets and dolls, her dresses and cards, her music box and toys . . .

He didn't understand it.

Had she finally stepped out to dance in the sun as she so often tried to do, forcing the minions to run away to escape his wrath and take her things with them?

Had the stars, Miss Edith, a bloody rock told her to move to another factory in Sunnydale?

Had she just plain moved on, leaving him behind again?

And without his usual senses, he couldn't even tell how long ago she had gone, much less track her down.

Shocked, confused, depressed, and frantic, he found himself sitting on a park bench, too lost in thought to really notice or even care about the arrival of the Slayer and his subsequent kidnapping.

Now he found himself back at the Watcher's place, re-tied and vaguely listening to the Slayer and her minions talking around him. Knowing better than to be vulnerable in the presence of enemies, Spike forced himself to pay attention.

The dark haired bird he'd been unable to kill sat on the couch off to his side, looking at him with wide, curious eyes. “Where'd you find him?”

“He was just sitting on a bench in the park.” The Slayer shrugged. “It's so weird. He didn't try to fight me at all, just stared into space the whole way here. Hasn't even really said anything, just “Oh, you” when he noticed I was there.”

“Yes . . .” The Watcher stood in front of Spike, watching Spike as though he were some sort of strange science experiment. “He is acting rather odd, isn't he?”

The redhead looked worried. “Is that bad?”

“Well let's hope not.” The older man frowned, and then moved to snap his fingers a few times in Spike's face.

Scowling in annoyance, Spike batted the hand away and looked up with a glare. “Wot?”

The man's face was serious. “We have a few questions for you.” Of course they did.

“About th' amulet,” Spike said, seeing no point in lying and too emotionally tired for pretending ignorance.

“Yes,” the Watcher nodded, “We would very much like to know what it is and its trigger. Is it safe to touch?”

Spike slowly shook his head, starting to feel better as he realized that this could work for him. “No”

“No what?” The Slayer narrowed her eyes. “No you won't tell us, or no we can't touch it?”

Ignoring her, Spike kept his attention on the man in front of him and asked, “Wot'll y' give me if I tell you?” If he was cured he could go find Dru.

At this the Slayer straightened, hands making fists. “We won't kill—

“What would you like?” the Watcher asked calmly.

“What?” the Slayer asked, turning to her Watcher in shock, “Giles? You can't be—” He cut her off with a look.

Spike watched this, inwardly smirking at the display. “I don' want t' be human. If you'll cure me, I'll tell y' all I know.”

The Watcher nodded agreeably. “Very well.”

“An' I don' wanna spend th' whole bloody time in these bleedin' ropes,” Spike quickly added. He could already feel his rope burn from last night protesting the rope's return.

“I'm afraid you will just have to become accustom to those. Even though human, and weaker, you are still dangerous.”

Spike scowled, caught between the enjoyment of still being seen as dangerous and the indignity of being tied up by humans. “I didn' kill th' bird y' stuck guardin' me.”

Acknowledging this, the man nodded once more. “We'll see.”

“Right” Spike shifted in his seat, not believing him for a moment, and was suddenly much more grateful for the chair he sat in. He did not want to be stuck in that bloody uncomfortable and cold tub ever again. “So wot exactly do y' want t' know?”

The Watcher leaned back against the arm of the couch he stood in front of. “What it is shall be fine for the moment.”

“Right.” Spike rolled his eyes. “It's called th' Eye of T'rambilk. Got it from some Wrenix traders; said it's old Egyptian or sumthin' similar, triggered by lookin' at th' eye straight on, an' meant t' make th' person who looked at it physically weak.” Spike sneered. “Obviously, they were lyin'.”

“Quite,” the man said, looking deep in thought. “I'll need my books from the library of course, but this is a good start.”

“We're starting tomorrow right?” The redhead looked up at the man, finally tearing her worried gaze away from the dark-haired bint next to her. He wondered what she seemed so worried about.

“Of course, of course,” he said, and they all turned away to work on other business, ignoring him again. Spike could hear them making plans for tomorrow, for his storage, for what to tell someone named Xander's parents.

But that one bird, the dark one, stayed focused on him, her eyes seemingly searching for something.

Finally, she asked, “Did they say how long this amulet thing lasted? How it's cured?”

“Wot's it matter?” he sneered, “They were lyin' `bout wot it did, so they were probably lyin' about that too.” Hopefully.

There had, of course, been that stray thought he refused to acknowledge on how humans were naturally physically weaker than vampires.

“What did they say?”

Her eyes were strangely intent and he found himself answering without really meaning to. “They said it was permanent.”