Perfect World

By CousinJean

Part Three: Finale of Seem

He didn't know how long he knelt there, just staring at her. She held his gaze; it occurred to him that if this had been another time, another place, it would've been a contest. Trying to psych each other out, see who would blink or look away first. But after a few seconds her eyes glazed over, her stare became vacant, and he wondered if he'd imagined the spark of hatred from before. If there was even anything of her left in there.

Finally, she turned her head away and rested it against the wall. Spike snapped out of his near-trance and crept forward. He reached a hand out toward her. She pulled back, whining unintelligibly adn trying to burrow into the wall.

Jesus, what did they do to her?

"Shh, Buffy." He kept his voice calm, soothing. "I'm not gonna hurt you, I only --" He took hold of the buckle on her straightjacket and waited.

She stopped struggling and went slack.

"It's all right, Pet. Let's get this thing off." He undid the strap and slid her arms out of it. Underneath she wore an army-green tee-shirt, at least two sizes too big. It might've started out her size, but she looked like they only fed her enough to keep her alive. Bruises -- some faded, some fresh -- mingled with scabbed-over wounds and older scars, running down the length of both arms. Spike caught a glimpse of bite marks on her left wrist. "Oh, Buffy," he sighed as he reached out to finger the scar.

When he touched her, she flinched away from him and jumped to her feet. She moved a few feet away, to stand with her back to him in the middle of the Spartan cell. "Where do you want it?" she mumbled.

"Where do I want what?"

She turned to look at him then, her glare both contemptuous and incredulous. Not his favorite look to receive from her, but at least it was fully Buffy. So they hadn't managed to completely break her. Yet. "What do you think?"

Spike stood there, at a total loss.

She rolled her eyes. "Last time you wanted me bent over the cot, before that it was face down on the floor, before that, up against the wall ... where now? And remember, if you try to kiss me I swear to God I'll bite off your tongue. Even if it means permanent brain damage."

He let her words sink in, focusing on the last phrase first. Brain damage. Why she didn't try to fight ... "They put a chip in your head."

The look she gave him clearly said, "Duh."

"Then why ..." He looked down at the straitjacket in his hand, then remembered the scar on her wrist. The bite was human, he realized. Self-inflicted. "Oh." He shook his head and tossed the straitjacket aside. "Look, Buffy, I don't want to hurt you."

At this, she laughed, but there was a desperation and anguish in it that chilled him.

He took a step towards her. "Pet, I'm not --" He stopped himself. He'd been about to spill everything to her, but he remembered where he was. They were most likely being watched, or at least overheard. "I hit my head, and I'm not quite myself." He held up placating hands. "I don't know what's been going on between me and you ... although you've painted a pretty clear picture --"

"God, would you just shut up and fuck me already? Or is this a new torture you've devised, having to listen to you talk? Because I'm thinking this is worse."

Unbidden, Spike's brain called up memories of a much healthier Buffy, tearing at his clothes as she bent him backwards over a tomb and whispered breathlessly, "Fuck me, Spike." He shook it off. He couldn't reconcile that girl with the frail, damaged creature before him.

"That's not why I'm here, Buffy."

"Why do you keep saying my name?"

Again, all he could do was stare at her.

She shook her head and hugged herself. "Nobody's said my name in ... nobody here ever uses my name." She went over to the wall and leaned against it, then slid down into a crouch. With one hand she made a gesture as though brushing her hair out of her face, and seemed surprised when it had to go all the way to her head to find any hair. Then her expression became resigned, and she hugged herself again.

For a long time he stood there, watching her, letting the horror of everything she'd been through sink in. Everything he had done to her here. He went to stand a few feet away from her, keeping a respectable distance. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "For whatever that's worth."
She didn't say anything, just stared straight ahead and began to rock a little.

"I'm going to fix this. I'll --" He started to say "get you out of here," but remembered the surveillance. "I'll make it better. I promise you, Love."

At that she looked up at him, her face filled with rage. "Don't you ... ever ... call me that!" She lunged at him, but before he even thought to evade her attack she let out an ear-shattering scream and dropped to the floor. She curled into a ball, clutching her head and moaning.

"Buffy! God!" Spike dropped to his knees beside her. He grabbed hold of her wrists, tried to pull her into his lap. "I'm sorry, Baby. I'm so sorry --"
She struggled against him. "Leave me alone! Please, Spike! Please!" The last word came out in a sob. Spike suddenly saw her, her shoulder-length hair pulled up off her neck, bathrobe coming open, sprawled out on the bathroom tile. He jerked his hands away from her like she was on fire. "Oh, God. Buffy --"

The door behind him opened. "Time's up," said Finn. He came in and looked down at Buffy as Spike struggled to his feet. "She tried to attack again, huh?"

Spike couldn't find his voice. He could only watch as Buffy reached out a hand to touch Finn's boot. "Riley!" she cried. "Please ..."

Finn yanked his foot away like she'd soiled him, then reared it back and kicked her in the stomach.

"Hey!" Spike grabbed his shoulder and tried to shove him away from her, but the bastard didn't budge.

"I said your time's up," Finn told him. "Go wait in the hall."

"I bloody well will not!"

Finn laid a claw on his weapon. "I 'bloody well' won't tell you again, vampire."

Defeated, Spike backed slowly towards the door.

Finn retrieved the straightjacket and threw it at Buffy. "Get up, Slayer. Be a good girl and put that on, now." For a minute there he actually sounded like the corn-fed Iowa boy.

When Buffy could breathe again, she did as she was told. As she slid into the restraints her face lost all expression, and her eyes glazed over again. Finn re-fastened the buckle. "Now go stand against the wall where I can keep an eye on you." Again, Buffy obeyed. "Atta girl," he said, backing out of the room. Buffy looked up and met Spike's gaze as Finn pulled the door shut, her eyes full of accusation. The door closed on that image, already burned into Spike's memory.

Rage filled him, and he threw himself at Finn, knocking the monster into the wall. "What the hell is wrong with you!" he shouted. "You used to love the girl!"

Finn picked Spike off of him like he was an annoying insect, and set him on his feet. "Riley loved her. Riley's dead." He looked Spike up and down and raised one of the scaly ridges that stood in for his eyebrows. "I hope that pesky new soul of yours isn't going to be a problem from now on."

Spike got ahold of himself, smoothed down his coat and shoved his hands in his pockets. "No. No problem."

"Good."

Finn escorted Spike back the way they came. He kept his eyes straight ahead this time, refusing to look at Tara as he passed. Bad enough knowing she was there. The girl was probably better off dead.

When they reached the exit, Finn held it open for him. Fortunately it didn't require an access badge from the inside.

"Same time next month," Finn said as Spike stepped into the cave. "And if I were you, I'd get that little Resistance problem taken care of before I came back." With that, he shut the door, leaving Spike in darkness.

He trudged up the path towards the mouth of the cave. Although he didn't spare the guards a second glance as he passed, he did make the rudest gesture he could think of. At the road, Harmony was nowhere to be seen. Just as well. He really didn't think he could deal with her right then, and he was in desperate need of a good, stiff drink. He took a moment to pull out the badge he'd lifted from Finn, turning it over in his hands as his brain went to work on a new plan of action. Then he put it back in his pocket, and set his path for town.

***

He sat on the edge of the tub and watched. The other remained oblivious to her pleas as she struggled, but he could hear them. He could always hear them when he watched like this. He could see the anguish and fear on her face, hear them in her voice, as she begged him to stop. But he couldn't help her, couldn't make himself stop. He sat frozen, sentenced by his own subconscious to watch as he committed this ultimate betrayal, powerless to change it.

The door opened, and she came in. She looked different, dressed in black leather pants and a white sweater, her long hair gathered at the back of her neck. She looked as she had that night, on the stairs, before ...

"I know I'm a monster," he'd told her then; and here, before them on the bathroom floor, was the proof.

She stepped gingerly around the couple on the floor and sat beside him on the tub.

"Pet, what are you doing here? You shouldn't have to see this."

"Already seen it," she told him. "Been there, done that ... they didn't actually sell tee-shirts."

He looked at her. "Anybody ever tell you you've got a morbid sense of humor, Love?"

"Look who's talking." She met his gaze and smiled. He was tempted to smile back when her desperate cries cut through him from the floor. He looked back down at her, at his own face, twisted by frustration and desperation instead of the demon -- the face of the evil that men do.

She cupped his chin and turned him to face her. "I'm here," she said. "Where are you?"

He jerked away from her touch and looked back at the man-monster on the floor. "There." He hung his head. "How can you even look at me?"

She shrugged. "We always hurt the ones we love."

He choked back a sob and dropped his head in his hands. A soft hand caressed the nape of his neck, stroked the hair there. She gently tugged at him, and despite everything he gave in, gave himself over to her embrace, let her cradle him against her breast as he cried. He slid off of the tub and dropped to his knees before her, rested his head in her lap while she rubbed a soothing pattern over his back. Finally he raised up and looked at her, and asked the question his conscious mind wouldn't allow him to ask, knew that he had no right to ask.

"Can you ever forgive me?"

She reached out and stroked his hair back from his face. "Ask the right question."

"What question?"

"Can you forgive yourself?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Every time I try to make things better, I just bollix it all up." When he opened his eyes, she changed. Her hair turned brown, cropped close to her head, and she wore pajama bottoms and an Army-issue tee-shirt. She was covered in scars and bruises. Spike bit back another sob. "Look what I've done to you this time. God, I keep making things worse for you."

"Then start fixing it," she said. "Make it right."

"How?"

Sadly, she shook her head. "I wish I could tell you."

He closed his eyes again as she leaned down and kissed his forehead. When he opened them, he was seated back on the tub, looking down at her. She lay sprawled on the floor, alone. Her bathrobe lay open, revealing bruises already forming between her legs. He reached down to close it, to try and restore some of her dignity. His fingers brushed her skin as he did. She felt cold. That's when he noticed the wound on her throat.

He shook his head. "No. It ... that's not how it happened."

Her head snapped up, and she looked at him with yellow eyes, her forehead a series of bumps and ridges. She bared her fangs, snarled, then lunged.

With a yelp, he fell backwards into the tub, filled with water that enveloped him, pulled him down. Beyond the tub, beyond light, he floated in blackness. Icy fingers stroked him all over and caressed his body. Then they tore at him, rending his clothes away until he was naked, clawing his flesh. Faces appeared out of the darkness -- some he knew, others faint echoes of distant memories -- passing before him in endless succession.

His victims.

He tried to kick away, to swim up into the light, but they clutched at him, grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him back down, down, into endless night, to live with them always.

He opened his mouth to scream, and cold water rushed in.

***

Spike opened his eyes and jerked his head up with a gasp. It took him a moment to register his surroundings. He was in a booth at Willie's. He was wet. He also smelled like beer. With a grimace, he tasted the liquid dripping from his hair onto his hand. Cheap beer. Lovely.

"Wakey, wakey," purred a familiar voice from the end of the table. He looked up to see Willow, dangling an empty pitcher from her index finger, gazing at him with a serene smile on her face.

Willow. Thank God. It had all been a nightmare, and everything was back to normal now. Except, what the hell was she doing in Willie's? And wasn't she supposed to be in England with Giles? He looked back at the table and saw the napkin he'd been drawing on before he passed out, lying next to Finn's access badge. Oh, balls. Still in Bizarro world. But Willow was alive, there was a good sign. Maybe he could get some Scooby assistance after all.

A stream of beer on the table ran towards the napkin. Spike snatched up that and the badge and put them in his breast pocket. He ran a hand through his hair, slinging beer haphazardly around him.

"Hey, watch it!" Willow barked as she jumped back. She pouted as she wiped the beer from her fur coat. "Werewolf's a bitch to clean."

Okay. Still processing. Willow was acting at home in Willie's. Willow was wearing something that could have been her ex-boyfriend on top of -- well, not very much at all, really. None of that pointed to her being on the side of goodness and light. And it was beginning to seep into Spike's whiskey-soaked, sleep-addled, dream-fogged brain that Willow was also quite dead.

She retrieved a towel from the bar and draped it over his head, then slid into the opposite seat, flashing him an impish smile. "Her Royal Haughtiness sent me out to find you. She freaked when she went to pick you up and you weren't there." Willow frowned. "I wish you'd explain to her that just because she's fucking my sire doesn't make me her minion."

"You're nobody's minion, Red," Spike said absently. He was focused on scrubbing the beer out of his hair, but stopped when that last item registered. Another flashback hit him, driven home hard under the extra weight of his conscience. Pushing Willow onto her bed, music blaring from her radio, drowning out her screams -- and his, as the chip sent its first jolts of agony through him. But here, there was no chip. Never had been. Spike threw the towel down on the table in disgust, then focused on mopping up the rest of the mess.

"That's right. I'm not." Her voice was steel. Something familiar about that, too. It sparked another fragment of memory. Maybe it's not such a good idea for you to piss me off. Spike suppressed a shudder. She narrowed her eyes at him. "There's something different about you."

"Could it be my handsome new scent? Eau de Bud Light?" If she picked up on the soul, he wondered if she'd buy the same William the Bloody schpiel he'd given Adam, or if this Willow already knew better.

She shook her head, and tilted it, examining him. "No, there's something else. Something about your aura."

Shit. Becoming a vampire obviously hadn't curbed her taste for witchcraft. That combination couldn't be good.

The bartender came over to take Willow's order, providing a nice distraction. For the moment, at least. "I'll have a Bloody Mary," she said. The bartender rolled his eyes, and Willow cast a wicked grin at Spike. For an instant, he could see a faint glimmer of her human self. "That joke never gets old."

The bartender went to poke his head in the back room. "Mary! It's your favorite customer!"

Out shuffled a dark-haired girl, pale and anemic-looking. Jesus, she couldn't have been older than Dawn. Willow scooted over and patted the seat next to her as Mary, her eyes downcast, approached the table. "Have a seat, Mary," Willow said conversationally, and the girl did as told. Willow brushed Mary's long hair over her shoulder, revealing bite marks all over her neck, some already turned to scars, some more recent.

"She looks well used, that one."

"Mm." Willow continued to pet the girl's hair. "That's my favorite thing about the human heart. As long as you don't take too much, it just keeps on pumping out more of the good stuff." She leaned over and lapped at the most recent mark, then trailed her tongue up the girl's neck and cheek. Unseen by Willow, Mary's eyes closed and her face knitted in revulsion and fear. Spike had to look away.

"And Mary here is definitely the good stuff," Willow said. She glanced at Spike. "You seem kinda down. I take it things didn't go so well with Adam."

"You could say that."

She continued to fondle the girl as she spoke. "Big guy's not too happy about the Resistance, huh? Oh!" She finally stopped touching the poor bird and turned to face Spike. "I almost forgot"

Spike looked back at her. "What?"

"The Resistance. We captured one of them. I think he's their leader." She grinned. "And you'll never guess who it is."

Spike braced himself. "Who?"

Her grin grew wider as she tilted her chin down and looked at him from under hooded eyes. "Go on, guess."

Spike glared at her. "Got a bit of a headache coming on, Pet. Really not in the mood for guessing games."

Her grin melted into a pout. "No fun."

"Willow? Who is it?"

She straightened up, suddenly serious and deadly. "Giles. I mean, hardly surprising, right? The old man is so predictable."

Brilliant. "What did you do with him?"

"We took him to your house, chained him up in the basement. Josh was all gung-ho to torture him, but I told him you'd want to interrogate him yourself." The grin returned, and a sliver of pink tongue peeked out from behind her teeth. "Besides, I want to watch."

Thank heaven for small favors. "Right, good call." Spike stood up. "We'd best get back, then."

"I'll be along," Willow said, turning back to Mary. "Just let me finish my drink." She pulled the girl into her lap and leaned her back, cradling her like the child that she was. Willow morphed into vamp face and leaned into the girl's neck. She slipped her free hand up under Mary's blouse, and the girl gave out a whimper that sounded more of pain than of pleasure.

Spike mustered all of his authority. "Willow!"

She raised her head and cast an irritated sneer at Spike.

"Sun's up soon. You don't have time."

With a sigh, Willow melted back into human face. "Fine." She ran a finger tenderly down Mary's cheek, then planted a soft kiss on her lips. For her part, Mary remained motionless. "Later, Baby." Willow nudged Mary out of the booth. As she got up, she tossed a couple of bills onto the table. Mary grabbed them and ran into the back room. Willow turned to follow Spike. "So much for being nobody's minion," she muttered.

"Just come on," Spike mumbled as they left the bar. His stomach was beginning to rumble, and he was starting to suspect that butcher's blood wouldn't be so easy to come by in these parts. As much as the sight of that girl had pained him, she'd also begun to look tempting.

Spike pushed the thought aside. Ignoring his hunger, he focused instead on how the hell to save Rupert's ass.

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