Title: The Spike Experience
Author: Blue Zen
Email: i.love.spike@bloodyhell.co.uk
Distribution: Any archives that want it, take it! I’d love an e-mail with your site address though…
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Willow casts a spell, Spike has to suffer
Notes: Thanks to everyone who’s responded to this fic. Like every fanfic writer, I live off feedback so drop me a line.
Thirteen:
“So what you’re telling me is that Spike’s back to normal and that he’s got Willow? I don’t believe this - you had, like, a hundred opportunities to kill the son of a bitch but, no, just because it looked like he wasn’t a threat, you let him go,” Xander turned on his heels then paced in the opposite direction.
Giles and Buffy sat on the couch, watching him mark a trail in the soft pile carpet.
“He’s not back to normal, Xander. He’s… I should’ve known-” Giles started but Buffy interrupted.
“Known what, Giles? That there’s no such thing as a harmless vampire? Or that an empathy spell would cancel out Initiative’s chip? And what about the fact that Willow would leave her friends to be with a… a heartless killer?” Buffy rubbed at her eyes, fighting back tears.
If only she had went after her. If only she’d killed Spike when she had the chance. If only…
“I can’t wait around, any longer,” she stood up, gathering her bag and coat. “I’m going out on patrol.”
“Buffy,” Giles said quietly, catching her wrist as she turned from him. “If you hurt Spike at this point, you hurt Willow as well.”
She hung her head for a moment. “I know, it’s just that I need to get out of here,” she moved towards the door. Under her breath, she sighed and murmured, “Need to kill something.”
Spike handed her a bottle of cola, hoping she was too hungover to notice the sharp taste that lay beneath the sugar.
He was planning on keeping her drunk for as long as necessary - the last thing he needed was for her to realise she was in danger and panic - the crippling fear that he had experienced yesterday was still fresh in his mind, along with the taste of blood.
She gulped at the sweet liquid, smiling at him.
“Thank God for that,” he sighed, carrying her to the bedroom and laying her on the freshly made sheets.
Spike stalked out of the room, carefully avoiding the sunlight which separated one half of the hallway from the other, and headed into the kitchen. Out of habit, he lit a cigarette then choked on the acrid smoke.
He pulled the Venetian blinds closed and settled into one of the chairs, putting his feet up on the breakfast table. At least he was capable of violence now, that was always a good sign - except now there was something holding him back when he was feeding. He wondered if this was how Angel felt, if every day was a struggle to separate the necessary from the sadistic streak which all vampires carried.
The look on Anya’s face when he had crept up behind her - it was something his demonic self used to revel in, but now, he felt revulsion at the image. She’d been happy to see him, after her surprise gave way, and even invited him into the magic shop. “Today’s inventory day,” she had said, brushing hair from her face and laughing at his reply. “It still feels like the middle of the night to me,” she’d added after a moment, turning her back on him for a second to switch on Giles’ battered kettle. Then he’d grabbed her and fed from her until she stopped struggling.
Now sitting at the table, head in his hands, Spike hated himself. He wished that the blood on his clothes wouldn’t taunt his senses, that he could just forget the rush of adrenalin and the sweet, metallic taste of Anya’s blood.
He reached into the pocket of his duster, and pulled out an old hip flask. “One mouthful of this,” he muttered, placing it on the pine table. He stared at the flask for a moment, grimly weighing up the pros and cons of drinking the holy water.
It was strange that he had carried it about since Dru left him, stumbling around blindly, trying desperately to fill the void their hundred year relationship had left. He’d been lost and hurt, yet the one thing that had brought him to the verge of suicide was an eighteen year old.
< I’m becoming a teenage girl,> he thought grimly, then something clicked and whirred in his mind. <…But if, I’m becoming more like her, she’ll become more like me…> A smile slowly crept along his face.
He saw something move, catching a hint of red out of the corner of his eye. Spike started to sit up but it was too late to react. Pain seared through his head as one of the breakfast stools connected with his skull. He slumped over onto the floor, unconscious.
Willow looked down at him, watching as a small pool of blood grew around his head. “Well, I’m guessing it’s not the nice parts,” she said, lowering the stool. She reached for the flask of holy water and tucked it under her shirt.
“It could be your deviousness,” she reasoned, dragging his prone form to the radiator. “Or perhaps your strength,” she continued, lifting the manacles, which he’d brought in case she had tried to escape. “Or your memories.” She considered the radiator for a moment then opted for chaining him to the shower instead.
The vampire started moaning in his sleep but she hit him with the heavy chains and he stopped. “Or your tolerance to pain,” she added, dragging him by his Doc Martins, through the living room and into the bathroom. Willow hoisted him up onto her shoulder then unceremoniously dropped him into the enamel tub, then she started wrapping the chains around his arms and legs tightly.
When he was secure, she stepped back to admire her handiwork. She looked at his blank face before extracting the hip flask from where it was nestled in her belt. “Myself,” she stated, beginning to unscrew the bottle. “I think it’s mostly your sadism.”
With that sentiment, she sprinkled the flasks contents over his torso.
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