RATING-- R/NC-17 (angst, hurt/comfort, lawyers - egads)
SUMMARY-- Challenge #237 at YGTS? Spike is forced to take drastic measures in order to keep himself fed.
DISCLAIMER-- Joss' universe - my planet. Title and lyrics belong to Slipknot
PAIRINGS-- Eventual S/Wes, S/others, mentions of S/A and S/D
SPOILERS-- B:tVS early season 5 (pre 'Out Of...') A;TS season 2
DISTRIBUTION-- YGTS? Temptation Waits, Rune - you don't need to ask . If by any chance anyone else wants it, take it and let me know where it's going.
FEEDBACK-- welcomed and appreciated.
NOTES-- Fun and games are over, kiddies. This time I'm turning to the dark side of the Force. Thanks, as ever to Rune for the handholding and support. Smooches, darl.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I've felt the hate rise up in me...
Kneel down and clear the stone of leaves...
I wander out where you can't see...
Inside my shell, I wait and bleed...
[Slipknot]
***
~Prologue~
It didn't hurt as much now.
He stretched out on the thin mattress, trying to ignore the constant ache in his stomach and instead concentrate on the slightly more relievable pain snaking it's way through his abused limbs. After tonight's session, he had managed to crawl back to his room without bleeding too much on the gravy coloured carpet and slump into a dazed slumber on the floor. But soon the hunger became too great, and he found himself staring at the small lump of plastic holding his meal for the day. Hypnotised, he watched as the red liquid swirled around inside the thin material, the way it flowed from corner to corner as he pressed his callused thumbs against the centre of the packaging.
Another hour.
Give it another hour and he would feed. It was still too early, and he had to savour each drop.
{you know if you hadn't done it then you wouldn't be here}
The police sirens blared outside, and again he found himself wishing that he could have been put in a room at the back. So the room would have been smaller, and there was no electricity, but at least he could have had a decent night's sleep. Or day's. Whatever.
Shifting his coat-come-pillow behind his head, he considered how to kill fifty-eight minutes in a room without TV, radio, or literature of any kind.
{at least the crypt had a tv. And Xander would never have noticed if you 'borrowed' his stereo.}
The blood still lay there, alone on the floor - temptation only a tear away.
Any new reasons to add to his 'Why my unlife is a royal fuckup' list? Oh yeah - we have a winner. Number seventy-two - Now the building work had been finished upstairs, there were no new cracks to count in the ceiling. Bastards.
{two words and you would still be in Sunnydale. Two words and this wouldn't even have been considered as a nightmare, let alone daily life.}
He looked at the clock. Four minutes had passed. Only fifty-six to go then.
Maybe in a few hours when he started again, he might earn himself a tip. Maybe he'd get lucky this time and get a sympathetic female, instead of the usual angry men looking for a victim.
{you're a disgrace, Spike. Even Angel never got this low}
The blood still lay there, helpless, exposed. All he needed was to make a small puncture, and pop it in his one luxury item - a microwave oven - and within seconds it would be ready for him. Warm, thick, comforting. A reminder of what he was and what he could never be. He could smell it now, maybe if he inhaled the air he could somehow -
Time check.
Another forty-seven minutes to go.
It's funny, really. He thought it would pay better than this. Thought humans had some sort of innate desire to pity those in plight. He licked his dry lips and grimaced at the irony. Guess he was wrong, then. Bad as the next demon, if not worse.
{giles said he'd pay for your help. But oh no, couldn't have that now could we? Had to push them just an inch further. Imbecile}
But it paid just enough to keep him alive. Just enough for the rent and a few bags of blood a week. Anything extra went on maintaining his wardrobe and appearance. He snorted. After all, couldn't look shabby for the lads now could he? Wouldn't touch him if he stank of their leftovers, and if he didn't get the job, then he didn't get the feed. And he couldn't go anywhere else - signing a contract when half starved and desperate was never a good idea. Not that he ever one to stick to the rules, but considering the stake the larger, human-types were wielding, it seemed a good idea to not make a fuss.
{slayer always threatened to stake you, but you both knew she never would. Brick, and his larger companion - Small Cottage (or so you oh-so wittily christened them) were excruciatingly serious.}
Time?
Only forty minutes more.
Another glance at the life-giving ichor. It'd be nearing room temperature now.
Maybe just a sip...
He found himself reaching for the bag.
After all, what was thirty-nine minutes out of a possible eternity?
~Part: 1~
You haven't learned a thing
I haven't changed a thing...
"Shh..." he cooed into her ear, voice as smooth as velvet. Softly, softly, little lamb. They might have taken the Big Bad Wolf's teeth, but they could never take his mind.
She shivered, fear choking her body. He hadn't got the chip out, had he? No. Impossible. Perhaps she could attempt that Reactivation Charm just to make sure. That is, if she was ever allowed to speak...
She swallowed, and found her dry mouth fill with saliva.
"I don't want to hurt you, love...Well, maybe I do a bit, but you know I won't. All I want is a deal with the Slayer and her little army boy."
His hand caressed the soft skin around her cheek, gently reaching down to tug at the cotton gag. A frown marred his sharp features and he deliberately lowered his voice, soothing and surprisingly gentle. She flinched as he moved even closer to her. He was unstable. Unbalanced. But he wasn't completely stupid.
"Now I'm gonna get rid of this, see, and then maybe we can have a nice chat. But none of that Witchy mojo or I won't be responsible for his," he nodded back to the seven foot tall Fyoral demon standing behind him, "hissy fit." He shrugged and proceeded to remove the gag.
"Of course, I'd rather do this without all the hostage crap." He waved his hand dismissively. "It's nothing personal, y'know?"
She nodded again, desperately trying to think of a spell to use, cursing her muted mind.
Shifting his thoughts to his current situation, the vampire's eyes swiftly turned dark with longing.
"I just want to get this sorted out once and for all. Once they get it out," pointing to where he suspected that accursed chip to be lodged, "then I'll leave. But I really can't handle it right now. No blood, no fun, no unlife really. And the pain..." The horned demon behind him moved towards Tara as he recognised once of his favourite words. The girl shrieked and Spike casually gestured it away, and continued. "It's indescribable. And not even in a good way. So, looks like you're my last resort, sweets. If they come back and get it out then I'll go and leave this place" he spat out the word in distaste, "forever. And well, if they don't then I guess you'll die and the Slayer'll stake me. Either way I'm getting out of this mess."
Tara's mind raced as she realised the implications of what he had just said. Spike was essentially on a suicide run. He didn't care one way or the other. This definitely did not bode well for our heroine.
He observed her expression and laughed, verging on hysteria and roughly wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "Yeah, I know it's a bit desperate, but I thought I might as well go out in style. Better than sitting here stuck like this forever."
"Will - Willow and Buffy - " she began, her stutter re-emerging.
"Cavalry's here already, eh?" His voice was resigned now, anticipating death. He took a deep unneeded breath. "Looks like we get to play early." He turned and met with the Slayer's fist.
***
"Oh Baby, are you alright?" Willow held on to her love as if her very life depended on it. "Did he hurt you?" She glared at the unconscious figure of Spike on the floor, alongside the decapitated head of the Fyoral demon Buffy was leaning over. "If he did...Hey - forget the 'if'. I'm going to kill him for this!" Her emerald eyes turned as black as ebony, but before she had the chance to eviscerate the vampire, Tara had managed to curtail her efforts.
"No!"
"What?!" exclaimed both Willow and Buffy in disbelief.
"Tara, Spike was going to have you killed!"
The aforementioned girl sniffed, and turned her gaze towards the prone blond. "I don't think he wanted to. Not really. He was suicidal," she then gazed into her lover's anger-filled eyes. "He just wanted a way out."
"Well I can see to that," said Buffy as she removed a stake from her sleeve.
"Don't, please."
Willow simply could not comprehend this. How could Tara, her Tara, her sweet, strong girl defend this monster?
"Maybe I'm not defending him here, but I think that killing him would be the easy way out." The blond witch shrugged, and felt Willow's trembling hands on her shoulders. "He said that he was going to leave here. I think - I think we should make him go."
Swallowing down the rising bile, Buffy affected a calm facade. "Are you sure this is what you want?"
Tara nodded. "I mean, it's not like he'll ever really hurt anyone. I think he'll be far more miserable if we leave him alone, stuck like - all chipped." Callous as her words sounded, the sad look in her eyes belied the anger she initially felt.
It was just too hard to hate Spike. She could be angry with him, but that wouldn't last. She pitied him, certainly, but hate? When she saw what he had become the worst emotion she could muster was disgust, again with a healthy dose of sympathy. And considering her words, the others reluctantly realised that they felt the same.
So he'd go. Buffy had a few connections with the butchers in town, and as for Willy's Place? Spike was no longer welcomed there anyway. If he were to stay, he would risk his unlife in more than one way. Without any food, and no hope of reprieve, the vampire would soon learn that there existed far worse retribution than a simple, final death.
However, no one was to be certain whether the punishment fitted the crime.
***
So this was Hell.
Eyelids fluttering, he looked into the face of it's demonic Master...
Rupert Giles?
"What?"
Spike found himself sprawled on Giles' couch, Rupert and the Slayer looking at him with disdain. So, nothing new then. Just as he was about to make a regular patented 'Spikey Sarcastic Comment', he found himself dealing with another Giles altogether. Cool demeanour, voice like steel, and all sentences a simple statement of fact. It chilled him to the bone.
"Be quiet, Spike."
The vampire nodded nervously. He could see that Buffy was just itching to slay him, and for once wished that she would get on with it, rather than subject him to the ex-Watcher's wrath.
Giles continued, eyes tunnelling a hole into the demon's soul.
"You will leave Sunnydale after I have had my say. There is no place for you here. If you try to feed you will find that there will be no blood available for you. You've pushed it too far this time. Come back and Buffy will stake you, harmless or no. Understand?"
He nodded again.
"If I even catch a glimpse of you by the time I leave the room then I will kill you myself." And for an instant, Giles almost looked as if he regretted what he was doing. It didn't last long.
"Go." He nodded towards the door, ready to walk away from this impossible creature.
Spike picked himself off the couch and walked out, not once looking back. Just before he left, he made one final remark, rough with emotion and barely audible.
"I'm... sorry."
Watching him leave, Buffy sighed helplessly and watched her mentor polish his glasses, ever calm, ever the respected, responsible Rupert.
It really must suck to be the mature one sometimes, she mused.
Breathing upon the lens before continuing in his meticulous duty, Giles shook his head in resignation.
"So am I."
~Part: 2~
I wipe it off on tile, the light is brighter
this time
Everything is 3D blasphemy
So it was true.
Drifting in and then swiftly out of every dive, every butchers, every seedy spot in Sunnydale he found that himself to be unwelcome. Barriers protected private abodes, and it appeared that even the artisans union had been warned of his presence. "Look, man," explained the new owner of 'Willy's Place', "I let you in and the Slayer has my head on a stick."
So much for two years of loyal custom.
As for the hospital? It seemed that Red had done a special little number there. A blazing barrier had been somehow erected, and the unnaturally blond vampire had the charred skin to prove it.
Clutching at his rapidly healing hands, running now, Spike headed for what he hoped to be his last resort. His car.
Slumping into the back seats, he searched for something, anything to make reality disappear.
A last bottle of whisky later and he fell into oblivion.
***
Jackhammers pounding at his fragile skull, Spike woke draped over the backseats of the DeSoto, thoughts gushing through his brain like a waterfall.
Fuckedupfuckedupnowheretogonodrunoangelusnonothing...
He coughed violently, breath reeking of alcohol and nicotine.
Fell out of the car into the hard asphalt. Thank Satan it was still night.
Wiping stray pieces of granite from his skin, he recalled every single haunting detail of the last day. Kidnapping the Witch's girlfriend...never a sage idea, threatening her when you couldn't as much hurt a hair on that pretty little head...very bloody stupid. Getting thrown out of Sunnyhell with not so much as a penny on him. No blood - no local places to find blood, no Dru - oh God how he missed that heartbreaking bitch - and worst of all he'd drunk the last of his booze.
He fumbled inside his coat pocket. Fuck. No fags either.
{nicely done, Spikey-boy. Why don't you just go and stake yourself now and get it over with?}
Even his inner monologue was against him.
Staring up into the cloudy night sky, he realised what he had to do. Drive as far as the gas tank would take him, and either: a) find somewhere to get himself fed and maybe start again, or b) get nowhere and die very, very slowly of starvation.
Such exciting possibilities, so little time.
"G'bye Sunnyhell. I'd say it was a jolly old laugh but then I'd be lying."
He clambered into the driver's seat and started the engine.
Time to make a new start.
***
Demonic blood was not an option, he knew that now. Two days later and he hadn't got anywhere, except for finding a small garage in the middle of nowhere owned by a friendly Bracken demon couple. Tired, hungry, and downright pissed off, Spike had simply snapped their necks and drank.
It tasted awful. Worse than pig's blood and that was saying something. He carried on drinking, nonetheless, until he felt full and bloated. Sated for at least what he hoped to be a day or two, he carried on.
Big mistake.
Big, Jackson Pollock-esque, vomit shaped, fucking mistake.
Demons drinking demon blood was an obvious no-no in the little demonic handbook.
He vomited for two hours straight. Feeling that every drop of moisture had been squeezed out of his body, he had sunk to his knees and wept, bright red pools surrounding him in a mockery of his current condition.
His last thought before fizzing into unconsciousness was a desperate plea.
'Please, anyone. I'll do anything. Just let me have something to drink.'
***
How he was found was a near miracle by anyone's definition.
Poking her head around the doorframe, she contemplated the sorry sight that lay before her, congealing blood covering the blond vampire's form. And the smell! The car was bathed in the stench of blood, vomit and alcohol. Pinching her nose, she motioned to the boys to pick him up and dump him in their car. If the vehicle was her own, then she would have conducted this outside, but since she was in possession of the company car, she felt a little more carefree.
Just great. Hauled out in the middle of nowhere with a half-conscious vampire and a tentative deal from the new clients. Why didn't Lindsey ever get these cases?
Perhaps with a good clean up and a new outfit he'd do. She'd seen worse. Much worse. He had the bad-boy look that she knew was popular at the moment, but coupled with that seemingly innocent face, maybe, just maybe he could bring in the big bucks...
Well, it was too late now. He'd made his bargain and now it was her duty to see that he stuck to it.
Positioning herself in the back seat of the limo, and then adjusting her blouse to reveal her exposed neck, she motioned for the boys to wake him up.
***
Yet again, he found himself slowly drizzling back into consciousness, a fresh set of anvils pounding their way through his brain. Really ought to stop making such a habit of that...
He blinked. Twice, then let his eyes drift up.
A woman.
Human. Human, with human blood inside. Pretty, too, but that wasn't the issue right now.
A grunt escaped his cracked lips.
"Urg."
"Mr William Bennett, also known as Spike." stated the talking meal, casually flicking a strand of shampoo commercial hair from behind her ear.
The ex poet coughed again, idly wondering whether it was indeed possible to hack one's guts out. "Ey?"
A packet of blood was thrust in front of his nose, and before he had the chance to react, was then swiftly removed. Yup. That certainly got his attention.
The pretty meal stuck out a hand and shook his, successfully keeping the disgust out of her voice.
"Lilah Morgan," she introduced herself. "I work for Wolfram and Heart - attorneys at law. Before your collapse I believe you made a request for aid, which was answered by one of our local telepaths."
Trying to wipe the fuzz from his eyes, Spike found himself nodding.
"I have a proposition for you."
Half-listening as she read out the contract on behalf of her 'business associates', he considered his situation. Whatever the rich bitch was offering, it didn't look voluntary. Things from now on could only get much better or much worse. He prayed to a variety of demon deities that it would be the former, but experience told him that it was destined to be the latter. Stupid, sodding, predictable life.
She was talking to him now, he was quite sure, but somehow the words passed through deaf ears and carried on along the dirt track of the next few kilometres.
" - Of course our clients will have full discretion in this arrangement, and in return you will be paid - "
But surely anything was better than this? spoke up a hopeful voice, usually hidden in the recesses of his thoughts.
Oh no -looks like he was still as foolish as he'd ever be.
" - so if you'd just like to sign here, and here..."
Head shaking as he watched the two male protectors of the lawyer girl fiddle absently with their stakes, he picked up the pen and looked up.
" - and of course here..."
The smell of fresh blood was overpowering. The thin, plastic packet was open, looming only inches away and all that stood between him and it was a piece of paper that he had to write his long-dead name on.
He signed, and reached for his prize.
~Part: 3~
My eyes are red and gold, the hair is standing
straight up
This is not the way I pictured me
Dragged up into his new room, dumped on what could loosely be defined as a bed, and then left with a couple of packets of cold blood, Spike contemplated what the night's events.
The lawyer bitch had gleefully accepted his autograph, and then driven him on to L.A, home of brooding Sires and the most insidiously corrupt law firm in the US. Dropped off at what was now to be laughingly called 'home', he was instructed to feed and sleep before being inducted into the world's oldest profession.
'Jadis' was substantial enough to accommodate several large, elaborately decorated boudoirs, as well as a waiting-come-lounge area and of course the upstairs, private rooms of the residents. Small, squalid and notoriously unhygienic, they were a stark contrast to the opulence of the ground floor.
Too exhausted to argue with the commands imposed upon him, Spike simply took long swigs of the free blood, skulked around the shoebox of a room, and promptly fell asleep, clutching his beloved duster in his arms.
***
He awoke to a distinctly unpleasant sensation. A pointed boot was attempting to dislodge his ribs from his chest.
Rolling over and slowly clambering to his feet, he met with the looming figure of Philippe, the owner of 'Jadis', a stick insect of a human male, with all the charm and morals of a praying mantis. Clothed in a charcoal black, astronomically expensive suit, he reeked of understated wealth, influence, and positively stank of sleaze. The man's pointed features screwed up in disdain as his eyes roamed over the bond's near naked form, allowing himself a snort of appreciation before fluttering his manicured nails at the vampire in a gesture to turn around.
"Who the bloody hell are you?"
Philippe snorted. Oh perfect. Just what he didn't want. Another moron who either hadn't been told about the arrangements, or who was simply too dense to pick it up.
"I'm the owner, boy," he spat. "Now take off the rest of your pathetic excuse for undergarments, and let me take a look at you."
"Fuck off."
Rolling his eyes, the brothel owner walked closer to the fuming vampire and poked a nail against his marble white chest.
"You're new, and maybe you're not used to this, so in my infinite wisdom, I'll let you off this time."
Spike roughly pushed the human away, only to find a warning jolt of pain shoot through his temples.
Philippe smirked. "I heard about that cute little gizmo you've got. Very handy, don't you think? Protects my customers, and protects my interests, too. A two for one package deal, sweetcheeks" His tone immediately shifted up a gear, sharp and businesslike. "Stay with us and you get a reasonable cut. Try to leave, and as well as breaking my heart, I also let the boys break yours." He gestured vaguely towards the door. "One word, boy and you get more wood in you than a trunk full of pencils. Are we crystal?"
Jaw clenched, the semi-nude male nodded.
"So let's see what you've got."
Spike shifted from foot to foot, awkwardly.
"Everything off. Now."
Mentally repeating a soon to become mantra of '...need the money. Don't need to get staked...' Spike removed his boxers and stood up straight, staring the human in the eye. If he had to do this, then he was going to try to keep a shred of dignity.
He could feel a small breeze tickling his thighs, and idly considered purchasing a draft-excluder. Wouldn't want to catch a chill, now would we? Fuck - you just had to love the irony.
Philippe circled the blond, eyes darting over his lean form as if they had a will of their own, each darkened orb tearing off a visual image to save for later. He extended a hand to examine his merchandise and smirked as he saw the vampire flinch. Oh this was going to be fun...
***
Poked, prodded and generally feeling as if he'd been treated like a prospective stud, Spike had then been given a diary of the week's events. The small book contained client names, turn-on's and the service they requested. He noticed that he'd be starting with the relatively easy work - hand jobs, petting and whatnot, but soon it moved to full on sex, oral, anal - every orifice covered. And to his intense mistrust, some dates were simple pencilled in as 'F.A.G', which he soon learnt meant Fuck All Goes. Whatever they wanted, he'd provide.
After spending twenty years with a dominating Angelus, and over one hundred years with the insane, masochistic Drusilla, he had a fair idea of what was coming. Only thing that sent the snakes in his stomach into a wriggling fit was the fact that all the customers were very much human - effectively leaving him at their mercy.
And the worst part was? He couldn't do a damn thing.
***
He would have felt dirty as he walked to the bathroom and spat out the remnants of the morning's work, but over a century of death, destruction and sexual perversions had, it seemed, more than prepared him for this. So instead, all he felt was tired. Tired, sore, yet disgusted with what he had become. But still, anything was better than that final death.
Yeah. Keep telling yourself that, mate. Either one day you'll believe it, or by then you'll be too fucked over to know your arse from your elbow, let alone care.
The first client, a shy boy from Pasadena, was a gentle introduction to the trade. Poor kid only wanted someone to give him a peck on the cheek and kiss it all better. And if Spike could've cared, then he would have done so. But that wasn't what he was paid to do. So, he kissed, he groped, he used every damn cliché in the book, and by the end of the session he'd broken the kid's heart. Angelus would be proud. Then again, he always was a sick bastard.
The days and the weeks started to blur together, and as he progressed from petting to blow jobs to the inevitable, Spike simply decided that he could works things on automatic. Retreat to a safe little spot in his mind where he could watch from a distance. Think about those times he could call his glory days. Made him feel like an old man, reminiscing over his wild and misspent youth. Sometimes he'd think of his Princess, calling for her little Spike, eyes sparkling in delight as they waltzed over piles of bodies, both dancing to their own, imagined melody. She'd marvel at the wonderful mess they would make, and then - then the best parts. Making love in the moonlight, fucking under the stars, the heavens, mocking the almighty as they worshipped each other night after night. And she would laugh and mock a blade of grass and sometimes he'd even catch the joke, too. Sweet nights. Good times. Maybe it wasn't the 'good' love that the poet desired, but to his eyes, it was bliss.
And now...
Sex had suddenly lost its appeal. Damn he wished he hadn't been turned a virgin. The men loved it, so fucking tight they'd moan, but even the masochistic demon within had a limit to the pain he'd endure. So he'd retreat back to the safe place where it hurt less.
Oh - he could wine 'em, dine 'em, seduce 'em and leave with a goodbye job that'd make your hair stand on end, but it was all hollow. All of this whilst Spike watched from within himself. Once over and done with, he forced himself back to reality, and back to Hell.
Perhaps he could have stayed like that for years, centuries even, but something eventually had to change.
A flap of the butterfly's wings and Tokyo is hit by tsunami. One conversation between man and demon, and a lifestyle is shot out of the sewer water, left to flounder and gasp until it finally reaches the ocean.
But who would have thought a shy, nerdish millionaire was about to be responsible for this oh-so dramatic change?
David Nabbit never would have suspected, that was most definitely for sure.
~Part: 4~
Get outta my head 'cuz I don't need this!
Why I didn't I see this?
I'm a victim - Manchurian Candidate
He swore he wasn't going to do it again. Not after what happened last time.
The brothel was at least human this time, as far as Nabbit had ascertained. Very discreet, very pricey, but, sweet mercy, it had the most wonderful women in the state. And one trip to 'Jadis' was never enough.
The young millionaire had been introduced to it via a mutual friend, and after one initial encounter, and then restraining himself for over a month, he came back. Back for *her*. No one else but his sweet one. Paradoxically, he felt a strange sense of loyalty towards his whore. He knew she was not exclusive, but nevertheless she was always his, no matter the cost. And she, at least in the financial sense, was not a cheap woman.
But today he had to wait.
He settled down into the plush seats, nervously tapping his fingers against the tabletop in front of him. Felt like a doctor's appointment. He half expected a nurse to poke her head around the doorframe, emerge with a thermometer and take his temperature. Although, thinking of some men's kinks, perhaps that was not an unlikely image.
Another man entered the small room.
Oh thank God. Another guy. Another guy who either didn't know, or didn't care who he was, seeing the way he'd sauntered into the waiting room and lounged upon the leather sofa, gaze swinging from Nabbit to the world outside, back to Nabbit. Bleached blond hair, tight jeans, and cheekbones that could slice through steel. Devilishly handsome, and it looked like he had an attitude to match. Interesting.
He realised that this man must have special privileges, otherwise he would not be allowed in the area. Perhaps this was John Harper, a new player in the software business, and a potential rival. Nabbit was anxious to meet him, but in a more public area. Still, he didn't have anyone to talk to, and he didn't have to reveal his identity, regardless of whether this was or not his new adversary.
Desperately he searched for an appropriate, yet subtle question, preferably one not revolving around his beloved Dungeons and Dragons. To be revealed as a fan *here*...well that really would be an embarrassment.
"Uh..." Nabbit began awkwardly, shifting on the leather seat. "So who are you waiting for?"
'Waiting for'? It made it sound like a date, for pity's sakes. Sugar sweet relationships. High school and fumbling behind the back of the bike sheds... C'mon, David. You've elevated yourself one step up from the demon brothels, the least you can do is say the words. You're here for a whore. Prostitute. Jade. Courtesan. Hooker. Fille de joie. Even in French it sounded just as cheap. Well, regarding his mystery companion, at least he knew he wasn't the only one this desperate.
The blond managed to look both contemptuous and saddened at the same time. A low, steady voice arose from those ragged, pink lips.
"I'm not here for the service, mate," he stated without inflection. "I *am* the service."
"But you're a -" *Guy*, the young man mentally finished off the sentence before he could display even more of his naivety. He understood the male need for female companionship (especially that of the slightly more 'exotic' women), but for women to come to such places as this, or even...Oooh. So that was it. Blond wasn't here for the girls, was he? He was...well. He was on 'intimate terms' with other guys. He didn't look too happy about it either. Then again, mused the dark-haired entrepreneur, he didn't think he'd be too happy if he had to fit the equivalent of David Junior in *there*.
He gulped and found himself fiddling with a handkerchief in his pocket. Finest cotton, fresh ones shipped over daily. Even had his initials embroidered on them, even though they knew he wasn't very comfortable with that. Wonder how much it cost for them to be produced...
"So..."
The blond's chiselled features flicked up to meet the other male's lowered eyes and hold an uncomfortably long stare.
"Does it hurt?"
Shit. He hadn't meant to blurt that out loud, hadn't meant to worsen this already intolerably embarrassing conversation. Blond guy was bound to be mad now, and all he'd wanted to do was to have a nice evening in with Natasha, with her almond eyes and skin as sweet as cherries. She always seemed to say the right things.
Instead he saw the faintest flicker of amusement in those otherwise stoic features.
"Yeah," he confessed quietly, yet alarmingly still without emotion. "But it's better than dyin' again..." His eyebrow quirked imperceptibly. "I think."
Feeling the strangest sensations of empathy for Blond, David leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially. "So why not leave?"
Bingo. Another glimmer of emotion.
"Can't, mate." He snorted. "Buggered either way..." and almost as if Nabbit had left the room, he continued, eyes focused on an invisible stranger in the distance. "No Dru, not a chance with the old Sire now, no qualifications, no nothing. So much for William the Bloody. More like William the Broke." Lighting up for a rare cigarette, the sliver of flame bringing him back to reality, he shook his head in disgust and again, his face turned hard. "Why am I telling you this?"
"I -"
"Piss off." He stood up, coat flaring as the folds of leather escaped their luxurious prison. "Go fuck with someone for real this time. And if you give a damn, leave a decent bloody tip."
He stomped out of the waiting room and out into the cold night air, leaving a bemused and hurt young man in his wake.
David suddenly felt an inexorable desire to vacate the premises.
***
"Could I speak to Angel, please?"
Wesley glanced up as he saw Nabbit enter the hotel, mercifully sans cape and sword.
He smiled welcomingly. "I'm afraid he's - " Sleeping. "Out at the moment. Very important business, you know. The task of fighting evil waits not for time or reason, more..." he tailed off. "Is there anything *I* could help you with?"
The man came closer to the front desk, conspiratorial finger raised against his nose.
"It's kind of a private matter," he explained.
Wesley sighted. "You haven't been caught in Madame Dorian's again have you?"
"No! I'm went human this time - I...whoops?"
The Englishman raised a questioning eyebrow to considerable effect.
"So what precisely is the problem, then?" He couldn't say that he approved of brothels, but it was not his part to judge. Especially if he was getting paid not to do so.
Deciding that he could lay his burden upon his associate's back, Nabbit revealed his findings. "It kinda concerns Angel more, but I think I found another vampire with a soul."
"My God!" Wesley gasped in amazement, taking in Nabbit's confusion.
"Can I guess that it's not exactly common?"
***
"Good grief," breathed Wesley. "Are you absolutely sure that he has a soul?"
Sat down on the sofa in the middle of the foyer, the two men discussed the mystery blond.
"Well, not exactly," Nabbit confessed. "But he looked so, well, depressed. Like Angel. Only...not. And he obviously couldn't bring himself to kill, so maybe that's why he was at 'Jadis', you know, doing *it* for the money."
"But surely if he did have a soul then he could find himself a more rewarding..." He winced slightly at his turn of phrase. "Occupation?"
Nabbit shrugged helplessly. "He just looked real upset. I felt so guilty. I mean - what of the others are like that. I'd never even considered it, and now I keep on thinking about Natasha..."
"I don't suppose you've had your memory jogged over the name of this creature, have you?" Wesley interrupted the brooding train of thought. He already has his quota of obsessional employers cluttering up the hotel.
"David frowned in concentration, his forehead creased into lines of thought. "Well," he began, "He was an attractive guy. I mean, not that I - "
Wesley motioned for him to continue.
"Anyway, he had bleached blond hair, kinda punkish, I think, and he called himself 'the'...uh...the Broke?"
"The broke?"
Nabbit snapped his fingers as a thought struck him. "The Bloody...William. Yeah - he was a William. And he definitely mentioned Angel" He looked worried. "That doesn't exactly sound like a friendly moniker, does it? Not the kid of guy to pet kittens and write poetry."
"No, it doesn't," Wesley mused as he rolled the name over his head. William, the Bloody, it was definitely familiar...Oh no. No, it couldn't be.
His next question was careful, cautious. "And you say he made no move to attack you?"
"He was actually rather friendly...for a vampire that is. Although I think I upset him."
"Spike. It has to be him. Angel's already worried enough over Darla, and now his protege re-enters the scene..." He walked over to the desk and took out a pad and a pencil. "Write the address down for me, would you? I don't think this is something I could burden Angel with right now. It could send him...well it could make things even more complicated."
"So what are you going to do?" he asked, scrawling on the proffered pad,
"I'm going to pay a visit to this vampire and see if what you say is indeed true."
~Part: 5~
Wesley stared again at the address given to him, glancing from the crumpled piece of paper to the building in front of him, and back again. *This* was the infamous 'Jadis'? This relatively small, unremarkable building that he must have passed by a hundred times? Wesley shook his head. What did he expect? It was hardly likely to be painted in leopard print with a bright red neon light outside proudly proclaiming 'Whorehouse - all species welcome'? Of course not. The best method of disguise was to be hidden in plain sight. A cliché perhaps, but that didn't mean it wasn't true.
Hand resting on the cool brass doorknob, he gave it a rough twist and walked briskly in.
***
"So, if you don't mind my asking, Sir, why exactly are you here?" Plastering a fake smile across his thin lips, Philippe realised that he should have left this to the receptionist to deal with, but oh no - can't have shaky customer relations now could we?
Embarrassed, Wesley tugged absently as his collar, trying to explain his presence yet again. "I'm not here for a woman, you see. I - "
"Oh that's quite alright sir, we have many males available, each well-tailored to your every - "
"No!" The Englishman violently exclaimed. "I'm looking for a vampire, his name..." His voice weakly tailed off at the realisation that he'd now made himself appear even more perverse.
The owner gave him a confidential smile, and a drum-like tap on the nose. "Ah, I see." He took out a pad and started to make notes. "And would sir wish to be bitten? I'm afraid we no longer provide a siring service." He shrugged apologetically. "I'm afraid a few of our workers got a little...carried away..."
Good Lord, he thinks I'm a bloody necrophelliac!
"Look," Wesley said with a slight panicked edge to his voice. "I am not here for any form of intercourse with a male or female, living or dead." Pre-empting the manager's next query, he continued, "...nor with any other types of fauna." For pity's sakes, does he think I'm Welsh? "I just want to speak to this fellow. His name's Spike, also known as William the Bloody and I have reason to believe he, uh...works here?"
Offering a disarming smile, Philippe steepled his slim fingers together in contemplation.
"And why exactly, my dear little man, do you wish to 'meet' him?"
"He owes me money," Wesley lied. "I promise there will be no violence. I just want my cash."
"Well I'm afraid young William may be a little short of funding at the moment. Perhaps if you'd like to head next door, we can negotiate something a little more... appropriate?" He nodded towards his private office.
Having exhausted all of his cunning, Wesley decided it was time to act on Plan F. "I'll pay you. He owes me enough to make it worthwhile."
The magic word uttered, Philippe stopped in his tracks.
"And would that be in cash or cheque?" he swiftly asked, voice as smooth as the Persian rug beneath their feet.
The other man sighed, and reached for his chequebook.
***
A firm, but gentle tap on the door.
"I'll be with you in a minute."
Tugging the last rope loose from his already chafed wrist, Spike absentmindedly rubbed at his blistering skin, wishing that his next client would have a fetish for pampering vampires with large amounts of blood and a century's supply of cigarettes, rather than simply tying him down and fucking him dry. He sighed.
Oh well. A bloke can dream, can't he?
About all I can do right now...
Another tap at the door.
"Hold your bloody horses. Come in early and it'll be extra," he warned, too annoyed to care about his supposed 'subordinate' status.
Pulling a pair of trousers over pale legs, he half walked, half hopped towards the door and flung it open.
Looking down at him was a brown-haired man, dressed almost as badly as Giles, and awkwardly examining his surroundings as if expecting a myriad of randy demons to jump him on the spot.
"I believe you are Spike?" he queried in a voice holding more nerve than his appearance let on.
Oh lookie, he casually observed as he cautiously let the man in. A fellow traveller from the mother county. He watched as the man took in his surroundings in distaste, carefully edging around the mattress as if it were a dead body. Hesitating, he sat and glanced at Spike, as if expecting the other male to jump on the bed and start revealing his deepest secrets.
It was obvious, Spike eventually realised - Male, British, knew who he was, and didn't want to get his hands dirty. Well well, look what we have here...
Now *this* is interesting, the vampire noted as he sat not far away from the other male. What does a Watcher want with little 'ole me?
***
Nervously glancing at the vampire's exposed chest, Wesley decided he'd already had enough of crossed lines for the decade and went straight to the point.
"I'm not here for..." Oh come on man, you're an *adult*, just say it, "...for sexual gratification."
Spike raised an inquisitive eyebrow, desperately wishing for a smoke. Instead, he started to pick at the remnants of black polish still stuck to his nails.
"Oh really?"
"I've head, from an acquaintance, that perhaps you might..." He glazed intently at the other man's deep blue eyes, searching for something to indicate a soul. Some spark of humanity. Some twinkle that suggested love, compassion, inherent goodness. Some.... other random cliché to help him out. "I mean, what I'm trying to say is, and I do realise this is a unique situation but..."
"For God's sake bloody spit it out already," Spike snapped, his usual sarcastic demeanour returning knowing that was in relative safety...so far.
"Do you have a soul?"
And for the first time in months, Spike laughed.
Annoyed, Wesley removed the cross from the back of his pocket and held onto it firmly, watching as the blond erupted into yet another bout of hysterics.
"I'll take that as a no then."
"Sorry mate but that's the funniest thing I've heard in ages," Spike chuckled, wiping tears from his eyes. Really, it wasn't that funny but God he needed something to laugh at after all this crap and..."Hey!" he swiftly backed away from the small piece of wood that was half an inch away from burning his eyebrow off. "There's no need to be getting all unfriendly-like, you know. I won't hurt you, more's the pity..." mumbling the last few words.
"Which leads me to my second question," Wesley continued smoothly, still brandishing the crucifix. "Why exactly are you here?"
"None of your business." Leaning languidly against the wall, Spike looked the picture of nonchalance. "Now either you came here to get your question answered or you really don't have a clue about foreplay. I'm assuming you're done either way, so sod off."
"Actually, I came here to help if I could, but seeing as you're obviously content with your situation I'll be off." Wesley started for the doorway, frustrated at this obvious waste of time.
"What if I told you I didn't kill people? Didn't even hurt 'em a little?" came a slightly tentative voice, swiftly growing in arrogance. "What would your precious Watcher's Council think of that? Picture of restraint, me. Should give me an award, really. Or at least immunity from the Slayer..."
Unconvinced, Wesley nevertheless pulled up a chair, the small bottle of holy water in his pocket clunking against the side as he sat down. "I'd say that you probably weren't telling me the whole truth, but I must admit to being intrigued. You have...quite the reputation."
Satisfied with the ego boost, and eager to find an ally who could potentially get him out of this shithole, Spike launched into his tale of chips, annoying blond Slayers and oh-so unfortunate misunderstandings (it wasn't him, honest. The little witch's position was practically screaming to be taken advantage of...), leaving out the occasional strategic detail.
Wesley listened, half disgusted, half pitying. What this creature had done was without any moral value, but to lower himself to *this* simply in order to survive...It showed a zeal for life that he had not recognised in any other soulless creature. It was, at the very least, extremely disturbing. And he got the feeling that Spike was not exactly finding his current situation to be as trouble-free as he'd hoped. The way he kept picking absently at his nails, giving cautious looks every time an unexpected noise was made...If Wesley didn't know better he'd say he was...
"So prove it."
Forehead lined in confusion, Spike observed a proffered bare arm. "You want me to try to bite you?"
"I wouldn't advise it," informed his new confidante with a dangerously cool edge. "Pinch me, and be well aware that I can recognise a good actor."
Sighing dramatically, Spike gave the thin flesh a hard pinch, and immediately yelped as the uncomfortably familiar pain lanced through his skull. One of these day he'd be able to tear that Iowa kid a new one...Or maybe several.
Frankly amazed that William the Bloody was indeed telling the unvarnished (well, perhaps a little polished...) truth, Wesley rubbed at the pinkening skin on his forearm and made a slightly revised offer to the one he had originally envisaged.
"I'll assume you want to get out of here?" If for nothing else, mused the man, to get away from the smell. For pity's sakes, it was worse than a Trakken demon's armpits after a particularly heavy game of table tennis.
Rubbing his sore temple, the vampire nodded in the affirmative.
"Then I suggest you come back with me and work for the side of good."
A new sense of defiance suddenly welled up within Spike. Does he think I'm completely broken or something? Think a little rough shag's gonna make the Big Bad go running like a whipped puppy? Forget that. I stay here, I get paid, hurts a bit, but I can't really help that. I can hack it. Only been a month or two and already feels like years but...I can hack it. Yeah. How dare he assume I've gone soft? I'm fuckin' *evil*, right? Right? A slightly trembling hand clenched into a fist he answered Mr. Poncey-Wankery-Watcher-who-probably-wanted-to-humilarte-me-anyway with his usual erudite air.
"Bugger off!"
Resisting the urge to make a sharp comment on exactly who was buggering who, Wesley carefully placed the card with his own phone number down next to the obviously conflicted vampire and made his goodbyes, for some reason disappointed that things hadn't gone better. After all, he had gone to all this trouble...
"If you change your mind..." his last words trailed off as Spike slammed the door behind him, leaving the demon alone to contemplate his situation.
Well, he couldn't say he hadn't tried.
***
It didn't hurt.
Really.
He'd been through worse. He's been through Angelus, for fuck's sakes, hadn't he? So why should one poxy human be scaring him more than the Scourge of Europe? Oh yeah - point One - The Scourge of Europe occasionally gave a damn, and Two - at least he could've fought Angel back.
Thrust into again, body pinned to the floor, he bit back a groan. The thick belt whipped against his bruised legs again, and he started to smell blood. In and out, up and down...constant repetition. He was being torn both inside and out.
So his weak body may have betrayed him, but he still had his mind, right? Sharp as a tack, a little psychotic, little neurotic, but what did you expect from a demon getting fucked over six ways from Sunday?
Comfort ignored, rolled over and presented with something that really should have a health warning stamped to it's base, he gagged at first, cursing involuntary responses that should have died long ago along with his humanity.
His 'client' smiled, release approaching and grabbed the other male's head, thrusting. "Take it all or you get nothing, boy."
Almost three years ago Angelus was saying the same thing.
He swallowed.
***
"Spike m'boy, things really have gone to pot haven't they?" Patted on the head like a dog and left to his own devices whilst he watched his Sire fuck his love. Helpless.
"Don't worry" his Sire had promised, "I'll take good care of her, then maybe later we can have our own fun, huh?" Angelus regarded the wheelchair-bound vampire with a look of unbridled derision. "I know we can find something you're good for."
And with a mocking kiss blown in his direction, Angelus had left.
***
Patted on the head and left chained to the wrought iron headboard he watched his last fuck of the day leave, promising to return soon.
Bloody cold here.
He coughed, ribs jarring, watching as a slow trickle of blood dripped from wrist to chest. Watching as it soon became a small pool nestling in the hollow between his collarbones.
The door shut and he was left alone. Again.
Oh no, this didn't hurt at all.
Maybe...maybe once he recovered consciousness again he might find that number the Watcher left?
If nothing else, he could make a decent crank call.
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