ChainBy Irfikos
Part II: Blood and Rhetoric
2.2: Resistance
Notes: All sections of Part 2 take place immediately before "Normal Again." All song lyrics in Part 2 are from "Psycho Killer," Talking Heads, 1977.
Psycho Killer
Qu'est-ce que c'est
fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away…
---
"Pain conditioning," Warren announces, brandishing a fork he has retrieved from the so-called “surveillance room” where the lesser nerds are apparently keeping watch over the front lawn or what-all. He returns to his spot on the floor in front of the cage. Next to the blood."You know what that is, don't ya Spike? Pain conditioning?" He arches an eyebrow. "See, here's a little theory of mine. Let me know what you think of it. Actually I should go back a little bit so a simple brain like yours can understand. Back to the whole chip thing…"
Spike closes his eyes for a moment and sighs. Tries to ignore the smell of the blood. He can feel himself starting to heal again, starting to get back some strength… but on one bag of blood a day… well… most days… it's a tediously slow process. Feels all human and weak. And if he wants to eat he has to endure the slow torture of listening to the pontifications of the great Warren Mears. The prat sure loves to hear himself talk. This little power trip the geek's got going had better have a point soon or he's going to–
–Actually, he's going to do fuck-all, is what he's going to do. 'Cause that's all he can do. No way out of this one then, is there? Nothing to do but sit here nodding along while the Little Nerd Who Could gets his rocks off playing at silly buggers all day. Nearly a century and a half of immortality under his belt and he’s never been so bleeding bored. So completely disgusted at himself.
By now he’s gleaned that Buffy’s out and about. Never locked up after all. The girl’s death ruled an accident. Give it up once again for Sunnydale’s crack police force. Probably been an apocalypse or two since he’s been out of the action. Nobody coming for him. That’s for sure. No reason to. Not like he’s important to anyone, right? Just… convenient. And not even that anymore, what with being all indisposed at the moment. Not anything. He realizes it now. It’s all getting clear. The only thing that’s real, that means anything at all, is in a little bag inside that cooler over there –
– and the talking has stopped. Fuck. He opens his eyes to find Warren watching him with a cold smile. Maybe he can save it: "Well, go on – I'm bloody listening."
Warren picks up one of the chopsticks he had abandoned and holds it up in an overdramatic stabbing pose. Like he thinks he's in a Hitchcock film or something. Idiot.
"I could stake you right now. How would you like that? Dusted. With a chopstick. By me. How would that make you feel?"
"Oh bloody hell, just do it and stop talking about it then. I don't really care." Their eyes lock long enough for both of them to know that the other is bluffing.
"Well," Warren says, lowering the chopstick, "somebody sure is feeling better."
Dammit. There goes the blood. Spike lowers his head to study the hole that’s started at the knee of his jeans. Pulls at the frayed edges of it, trying to bury his frustration in a show of unconcern. He curses himself once again for his unflagging ability to take a bad situation and make it completely intolerable. Here he is, begging blood from a demented little boy playing at evil mastermind. Can’t even do that right. Should’ve just let the bastard stake him.
He looks up in surprise when he hears the cooler being opened.
Warren takes out the bag of blood. He sets it on the floor in front of him so Spike has a good view of it. What’s this now? He begins tapping at it with tip of the chopstick. Small stabbing motions. Enough to press into the plastic but not puncture it.
"Now then," he asks, "where was I?
---
“Buffy, I’m sure you didn’t kill him. You said yourself, you didn’t find any dust or anything.” Tara smiles at her reassuringly.“–But there could have–”
“Buffy!” The scolding tone in Tara’s voice catches them both off guard. She tries again, more gently, “Buffy… do you really believe that he’s dead? You know, in the permanent sense? I mean, do you really feel that?”
A sniffle. “I don’t… I don’t know. I guess… I don’t think so…”
And suddenly Tara gets it. Oh wow. She knows what’s really bothering Buffy. She reaches to put a comforting hand over Buffy’s own. “But maybe… maybe it would be, kinda… easier… if you had?”
Buffy’s head flies up, eyes instantly hardened in denial. She pulls her hand away. “How could you say that?”