Chain

By Irfikos

Part IV: Blood, Love and Rhetoric

4.4: Feeling


I've fallen from favour while trying to savour experience
I'm seeing things clearly but it has quite nearly blown my mind
It's the aim of existence to offer resistance to the flow of time
Everything is and that is why it is will be the line

I believe in perpetual motion
And I believe in perfect devotion
I believe in
I believe in…

There is no love in this world anymore
There is no love in this world anymore

– I Believe
Buzzcocks, 1979

---

Anya sneaks another surreptitious peek at her erstwhile fiance. He’s bent over the steering wheel, staring at the traffic ahead. His lips are pressed white together. That’s his worried mouth. He’s very worried. There was a time when such an expression on Xander’s face would be the cue to instigate a game of Inappropriately Affectionate Massage Therapist. Not now, though. No sir. She’s through with all that nonsense. Silly human attachments. It never ends well. Just look at the current predicament. If she’s seen it once, she’s seen in a million times: Girl meets girl. Girl falls in love with girl. Girl shares many exciting orgasms with girl. Girl tampers with girl’s brain. Girl loses girl. Girl gets girl back, only to have her die a horrible, bloody death shortly thereafter. Girl goes all Carrie and calls upon the Black Arts to exact her gruesome revenge. Oldest story in the book, really. Just another case in point. Relationships suck.

As a vengeance demon, Anya is lucky to be above such things now. She just wishes the thick, dreadful feeling in the back of her throat would go away. It’s disturbing and not right. She should be by Willow’s side, offering encouragement and evisceration tips, not rushing off in a smelly pick-up truck with her ex-lover (technically The Enemy) to try to prevent the young woman from inflicting painful torment on the source of her unhappiness. Why on earth is she here? Well, it’s certainly not for Xander’s sake, that’s for sure. Perhaps she lived among the humans for too long and now she’s tainted. Infected with their do-gooder attitude. Oh, how awful! See, this is the sort of thing that happens when you let yourself care about others. Things get all messy and confused. And then they betray you and stomp on your feelings and you get even more confused until you can’t even do your job properly.

Anya sighs and turns to her window to watch the bland suburban scenery, bruised purple by the twilight, rush past. This is all sure to end badly. It’s funny how nobody ever pays the slightest attention when things are good, but when it’s bad you can just bet people will sit up and take notice. Well, they’re sitting up all right. Rushing off to save the day – or more likely to die trying. And in the unlikely event that they actually succeed and somehow manage to stop the enraged little Wicca, what then? What will be come of them then?

For no rational reason whatsoever, Anya begins to cry. Cry! Of all the undignified, inappropriate responses! She quietly slips her sleeve over her thumb and dabs at the corners of her eyes. Xander is too preoccupied with keeping his white-knuckle grip on the wheel to notice. Thank goodness. She checks herself in the side mirror and is disappointed to find an all-too-human face frowning back at her. This is no way for a vengeance demon to be carrying on. She shouldn’t be having these feelings. It’s the very reason she got back into the business. A chance to escape from feeling anything but the satisfaction of a job well done. Becoming a demon was supposed to fix things. Make it all stop. But it just keeps coming. And so do the soggy, tell-tale tears. She dislikes the way her emotions weaken her, making her feel useless and small. She’s such a failure. Emotions make you sloppy. All vengeance demons know that. The only way to get the job done efficiently is not to let yourself feel.

Her eyes slide toward Xander, the horrible worry on his face. If only circumstances were different.

---

Buffy reaches behind her and feels. There’s blood in her hair. Her head is screaming. Had she heard someone else screaming earlier? She blinks and looks around her. There’s Willow – wait – that’s not Willow, is it? It must be. Something is very wrong with her though. She is a Not-Quite-Willow. Or a… Too-Much-Willow. And she’s talking to the wall. Wait, no. She’s talking to someone who is stuck to the wall. She’s talking to someone who is Warren who is stuck to the wall. He’s bleeding, begging for his life, hurt.

Buffy’s eyes go fuzzy for a second. Her head feels all wobbly. Ow. Nothing that’s happening seems to make sense. She stands up and staggers against the wall. Warren is screaming now. Willow is hurting him. But Willow wouldn’t hurt anyone. Buffy squints across the room to try to make out what’s happening. No good. She’s the Slayer. She should be slaying something right now. Protecting the innocent. Protecting… someone. But she isn’t sure who, anymore. Which one of them is the demon? Can’t tell from over here.

“Willow?” she calls. “Willow, what are you doing?”

Willow stops in the middle of the speech she is making to Warren and turns to face her.

“Oh, goody. It’s Buffy to the rescue,” she smirks. She takes a step forward but then stops and looks down, irritated. Something has reached up from the floor and grabbed her ankle. Is that Spike? He’s lying at her feet, pushing up from the ground with one arm and reaching for Willow with the other. Willow kicks the hand away and crouches down beside him. Buffy takes a few uneven steps forward, trying to get close enough to make sense of things.

“You’re persistent, Spike,” Willow is saying. “Has anyone ever told you how annoying that is?”

He says something that Buffy can’t quite make out. His voice is barely a whisper. Knowing Spike it’s probably some crude Britishism only he can understand anyway. Willow smiles in response. It’s not a nice smile.

“Willow,” Buffy tries again. “Willow, whatever’s going on – whatever you’re doing – just stop for a second. Lets figure this out…”

Willow looks up at her, eyes widening innocently. “Figure what out? I know exactly what’s going on. These two are experiencing a little much-deserved karma and you’re being all clueless and nosy. Again.” Eyes still fixed on Buffy, Willow reaches down and grabs Spike by the throat, hauling him to a sitting position propped up against a steel column. Spike offers up groggy resistance, raising an arm in a feeble attempt to knock her hand away. “Spike…” Willow warns quietly, her grip tightening, “Cut it out. I mean it.” Spike drops his arm and stops struggling. He stares at Willow with glazed eyes. Just watching. Above them, Warren whimpers.

Buffy swallows hard. “Let me handle this, Will. You can’t – you can’t do this.”

Her recently-very-scary friend laughs. “I can. I will.”

“I won’t let you do this. It’s not the way…”

Willow scoffs and rolls her eyes, “God you’re bossy! This isn’t even about you, Buffy! Just because you’re the stupid Slayer doesn’t mean you always get to tell me what to do. And y’know, if you were actually worth a crap as a Slayer, I wouldn’t have had to step in like this. A real Slayer would have done something about Mr. Gun-Happy Overcompensation Guy up there a long time ago. And this…” She pulls Spike forward, head lolling, and rams him back into the column with a clunk. His eyes roll back in his head for a second and then crawl back into Willow-watching position. Once again his arm comes up, a slow-motion reflex, before hesitating in the air and dropping back to his side. Willow glances at him and smirks back at Buffy. “…This would have been a pile of dust years ago.”

Buffy takes another step forward, fists clenching. “This isn’t you, Willow. Something’s wrong. Let me help you.”

Willow looks her up and down, taking in the threatening posture. “Help me how? With your fists? Gosh, gee, no thanks.”

“It doesn’t have to come to that,” Buffy says, fists clenching tighter. “But I can’t let you destroy yourself. I’ll stop you if I have to.”

Laughing, Willow releases the vampire’s neck and wiggles her fingers in front of her. “Oooh. You’re so intimidating. Y’know, if I’d had any idea you were gonna be such a bitch when you came back, I would have let you rot in your grave.”

That’s it. Before she realizes she’s doing it, Buffy leaps at Willow who responds with a snicker and a quick hand gesture. And all of a sudden she’s airborne. In the wrong direction. Flying once again toward the wall at the other end of the room. Anticipating it this time, she curls to protect her head, taking the brunt of the collision with her shoulder. She drops to the ground and rolls to her feet. Determined, she immediately rushes back to the action.

“Buffy!” Spike shouts. Or, attempts to shout. Rasps would be more accurate, probably.

She stops. Willow raises her eyebrows and looks at him. He says something else that she can’t hear.

“Huh?” Buffy asks, feeling incredibly dorky as she says it.

He has to take another breath to repeat himself. “Get.” Another pause to inhale. “Out.”

“Wha–?” This is all just way too much. Her vocabulary seems to have left the building – taking with it the bulk of her patience. Is he completely nuts? Okay, scratch that… does he not realize what Willow is probably going to do to him if she doesn’t put a stop to it?

With great effort, he takes a deep breath and clarifies. “Go… away. Not your concern. I’ll sort this.”

Looking even more amused, Willow turns to Buffy for her response.

Buffy is incredulous. “You’ll sort this? You have got to be kidding. Spike, have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re like, half-dead already!” Yeah. Okay. That last part was dumb on so many levels. She’s not doing so good with the clever dialogue just now. She makes a mental note to blame it on the head injury in review. Even Warren takes time out from whimpering and bleeding to stare at her like she’s an idiot. The only thing missing is the chirping of crickets. She presses onward. Clarifies. “Spike… you need me.”

“Don’t.” His eyes flash at her. She notices that the former stream of blood from his face has pretty much stopped. He looks drained. Of blood and more. She isn’t sure if his statement is a command or a reply.

“Like hell.” She starts forward again. Willow cocks her head and looks back at Spike curiously. She’s enjoying the show.

“Dammit Buffy, piss off!” He actually manages a little volume this time. Willow puts a hand up to her mouth to hide a snicker.

Buffy stops again. Stupid, crazy vampire. She rolls her eyes. “Just quit with the melodramatic macho riff for, like, two minutes, okay, Spike? I’m trying to freaking save your ass, here.”

“Don’t,” he repeats, gaze steady on her, as resolved as a dead man can be.

“Yeah Buffy,” Willow chirps, still terribly amused. “You should really go. It’s so obvious nobody wants you here. And this one’s all broken now anyway. Why dontcha just grab a shovel and go dig up someone new, ‘kay?”

Buffy’s mouth drops open. Willow knows. The witch gives her a lascivious smirk. She knows it all. Oh god. Buffy flushes. Spike turns away from her, ashamed. Or disgusted. Or… just resigned. He seems intent on the dangling feet of the sacrificial nerd. Warren has lost a shoe.

“B–” Buffy sputters, suddenly feeling as though she has to explain, somehow, to her freshly homicidal best friend why she had, at one time, been engaging in illicit shag-fests with her formerly and maybe, probably, still homicidal not-boyfriend, who also happens to be… well… dead and, if said best friend gets her way, soon-to-be-even-deader. If things get much more complicated, she’s gonna need to make a flowchart. “Wh–”

Willow tilts her head primly at the flustered Slayer, feigning patient attention. Okay. That’s enough explaining. No more talking. Action, much better. Fists clenching tight once again, Buffy moves in.

And with a bored flick of the wrist, Willow stops her.

---

The Slayer is kicking and struggling before them though there are no visible bonds around her. Huh. Knows that feeling, yeah. Kick all you want. Nothing comes of it. More pressing matters, besides.
The witch.

He drags his head up to face her. Her breath smells of blood and, more faintly, of Tara. Would be arousing… were circumstances different. Painful just now. Dunno why, for sure. Not one hundred percent certain of the order of things. He’s all muzzy, off and on. Witch is talking. Her turn to play. And he’s not the hero. Not the villain, neither. Not nothing. Got the game all wrong then, hadn’t he?

“Fascinating as it is, I don’t exactly have the time to deal with you and Buffy and all your little issues, Spike,” Willow explains. She shrugs, jerking her head up to indicate Warren. “…I’ve kinda got this thing going on. You know how it is. Busy, busy. And as long as little Buffy stays out of my way, I really couldn’t care less about her. But you…” She cocks her head at him, baring her teeth in carefully contained fury, “You deserve a little attention. After all, you’re his little helper, aren’t you? You were there. You… you tasted her.”

He catches the flicker of the old Willow that appears in her eyes at the thought of her lover. Faint, but present. Hope for the witch yet. None for him though. Far too late for that.

“So tell me, Spike–” she leans in close. Predatory. For an odd moment he thinks she’s about to bite him and has the mad compulsion to shrink back… but no. He’s confused is all. It’s him that does that sort of thing, not her, right?

“–Was she sweet?” Her voice catches on that last bit.

She doesn’t want the truth of it so he keeps mum. Waits. He’d recovered from that last shock much more quickly this time. Pain conditioning and all that. Still finds himself unable to move much. Certainly in no condition to stop what’s happening. No use to try anymore anyway. The game will be ending soon enough. He had watched the bullet enter, waiting for Warren to die. Waiting for the shock to come. It didn’t. Warren‘s still alive. For now.

“Spike!” Warren gasps, and Spike reflexively jerks his head up but no longer bothers with humility. He looks directly into the face of the bleeding figure above him. Warren’s eyes are bright with pain and fear. Tears stream down his face. Just a human after all, then. Perhaps Spike should feel some satisfaction at this. Perhaps he should feel fear of his own at what’s to come. He doesn’t. He’s had his fill of it. Feeling. Look where it’s gotten him.

“I’ll get you blood,” the condemned man’s tone isn’t as commanding as it once was, “I’ll deactivate the chip… no more shocks… I promise! Just –”

Willow turns to glare up at him, “Oh for crying out loud, shut the hell up for a second! I’m trying to have a conversation here!” With a gesture she seals his mouth shut. His screams of terror come out all muffled. Spike looks away.

With Warren waiting quietly on the wall, the witch turns her attention back to the warm up act. Spike watches her mouth move as she begins speaking again. Watches teeth glinting behind dark, blood-encrusted lips. Anything’s better than looking into those eyes.

“So what am I gonna do with you, then? Hm?” She studies him for a moment. “Tell ya what, Spikey… remember how you offered me a choice once? Well, how about I do that same favor for you? Y’know… since you and I go way back and all.” Another cold smile. “It’ll be neat! And don’t worry, I’m not gonna let ya die, or anything. How boring would that be? I mean, hey… you’ve already been there, done that. Where’s the fun?” Leaning in, she grabs a handful of his hair and jerks his head up, forcing him to look her in the eyes after all. He sees it then. His true choices. The consequences. What she plans to do to him. The demon in him struggles, changing him. He snarls, panicked, and tries to rear back from her, get away. She holds fast, waiting him out until the demon – he – submits and lets her continue. His face shifts back to human. Something wet runs down his face. Not blood. Tears. Fuck.

“Oh, it’s not so bad ya big baby!” Willow chastises. “Here – just to show how nice I am, I’m gonna let you decide what I do to your best buddy, Warren, okay? Give us what I know we both want and I won’t do anything to you at all. Or you can do ‘the right thing,’ whatever that is, and I’ll give you a little present. Either way, it’s all up to you.”

She quirks the corners of her mouth up, playful-like. “So… what’s it gonna be, Spike?” She reaches down, brushing her fingertips over his forehead. They tingle with power against his skin. “He gets to die?” She traces her hand down his face, across his collarbone. Places it against his chest, over his heart, her fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise. “Or he gets to live?”

 

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