Bite Whore - Part Two
Here is part two of "The Bite Whore" - have got to get better at coming up with names for these things.
Previous part Here.
The blood was getting to him: the adrenaline, maybe, or something more magic and less scientific. Spike was sleeping less and when he was awake, he couldn’t keep still. Like his body was convinced the supply of human blood would stop again and it didn’t want to miss a drop.
“Today. I’m telling her today, ‘Buffy, love, I’m glad to help you out, but not this way. This has got to stop before it drives me batty.’” He paced his crypt, rehearsing his lines to the candelabra and the window-panes. Every day, the same resolution, and every day he caved. He’d see Buffy and she’d look tired and unhappy and he couldn’t add to that. Or else he wouldn’t see her at all.
He took even more risks with the sunlight, darting out as soon as he could to get to Buffy’s, hoping to catch her before she left for the evening shift, because if he didn’t catch her then he was NEVER going to break it off.
But most times, no matter how early he took to the sewers, Buffy would have already left and he’d meet Willow, or worse, Dawn.
Willow was better because she didn’t question why Spike brought envelopes for Buffy and collected notes left for him. She just smiled, even gave him a cheery, “Hi, Spike!” Once she even said, “It’s really sweet how you’re helping Buffy out. I mean… I know you haven’t got a chance in heck of her ever dating you, and yet you keep trying and it’s sweet. To try. I mean. I try. I have new-found respect for the unrequited thing.”
“I’m doing this for the Niblet,” he lied. “How is she?”
Dawn was a subject he could get Willow to talk about that wasn’t magic or Tara. Red was feeling lonely since Glinda moved out. So they talked about Dawn, or about the latest demon activity, and he wondered if she saw his hands shaking. He felt like an addict getting a hit.
The irony was, he was the product, wasn’t he? Could the product be an addict as well?
But Willow was too caught up in her own misery to notice. Dawn DID ask questions. “And what will I find in here if it accidentally passes through some steam over the stove and falls open?” She held the envelope to her cheek and waggled it a bit.
“Money. The exact amount of which your sister knows. Don’t get sneaky, Niblet.”
Dawn tapped the envelope. “Hrm… but she’d be far more likely to blame the evil, soulless vampire than her sweet little sister who needs a new jacket, won’t she?”
“Platelet. Don’t. That’s rent money for the roof over your head.”
Dawn turned on her heel and dropped the envelope in the little wicker basket by the door where they kept mail. “You’re up to something shady. And Buffy’s in on it.” She picked up the thinner envelope with “Spike” written on it in her older sister’s loopy handwriting. She hefted it like she was testing its weight. “Addresses and names and times. Why does Buffy give you addresses, names, and times, and you give her money?”
Spike snatched the envelope from her. “That’s not your business. You want me to tell the slayer you’ve been reading her private papers?”
“Go right ahead. Then maybe she’ll actually notice I still exist.”
“Your sister’s really busy, Bit. She’s working herself half to death and slaying on top of it. You know she cares about you.”
Dawn tossed her shiny hair over her shoulder. “Seems like you’re the busy one.”
“Bit…”
“Oh stop with the stupid pet names! You haven’t cared about me since you got your precious Buffy back. Did you ever care? Was I ever anything more than a way to get to her?”
He opened his mouth to protest that he’d taken care of her when Buffy was dead and buried, hadn’t he? But they don’t talk about that time. He closed his mouth and opened it again. “Wasn’t in love with Buffy when I let you escape on parent-teacher night. Remember? You with the Batz Maru backpack? Could easily have eaten you but I didn't.”
“Manufactured memory, jerk. For all I know that wasn’t what you would have really done. The monks just needed me to survive.”
Spike squinted at her. “’Course it’s what I’d’ve done. Our memories are what we’d have done. Always liked you.”
“You think you’ve always liked me.”
“Always liked you.” He grabbed her arm, wincing as the chip set off a small warning. “Liked the rebel in you. Which is what’s making you read your sisters mail and behave like a brat, so I guess I’m getting what I asked for.”
Dawn jerked her arm from his grasp. “Tell me where the money comes from.”
"I run a… um… delivery service. Yeah.” Dawn rolled her eyes. The eye-roll that said, “How can a century-old vampire be such a crap liar?” Spike sighed. “I’ll be back tomorrow night. We’ll talk then, yeah?”
“Why not now?”
He held up his envelope. “Because I have a list of names and addresses to read, don’t I? Now go… do your homework or something. We’ll talk. Tomorrow. Promise.”
***
The next evening, Buffy was at the door, and he almost fell over with relief. Before she even opened her mouth, Spike pulled her out onto the porch. “Dawn’s suspicious.”
Buffy blinked. “And hello to you too.”
“I’m serious, love. She gave me the third degree yesterday. She wants to know what’s with the envelopes.”
“Um… is it a big secret?”
Spike’s jaw dropped open.
Buffy shrugged. “She wants to know, tell her. But if she knows you’re leaving money, you should write down the amounts. Not that I don’t trust her, I just… okay, I don’t trust her.”
Spike forced himself to close his mouth. “Buffy. Love. I don’t want Lil’ Bit to know.”
“Over-dramatic vampire. It’s not like you’re sleeping with people.”
It kind of is, he thought.
Buffy held out her envelope. He fished the one with the money out of his back jeans pocket and decided to change the subject. “Not working the afternoon shift today?”
“Nope. We’ve almost paid for the full-copper re-pipe and I celebrated by telling the boss no more doubles.” She snatched the money envelope from his fingers.
“So.” He rubbed the back of his head. “If you’re all caught up and all there’s no reason to…”
“Ugh. Hardly caught up. With the funeral bills and the home repairs and all the money we owe Xander, I don’t think we’ll ever be caught up.”
“What I mean, Buffy, is, I can’t look for a real job, can I, if I’m busy…”
She pressed the named envelope into his palm. “Just take the names and go. I’m not in the mood to talk about all this.”
Spike pulled out his ace card. The phrase that, of late, could magically make a Buffy happy to stay and talk. “How’re your feet?”
She sighed and dropped into the porch-swing. “You have no idea. You’d think slayer healing would apply to arches.”
Spike sat down next to her feet and cupped one calf through her jeans. He kissed her knee. “Poor darling tootsies,” he said, starting to knead her calf. He smiled up at her. Buffy never refused foot-rubs. As crazy as their relationship had gotten, here was where he felt most in control - at her feet, giving her what she needed until she couldn’t admit she didn’t want it any more. She groaned and leaned back, letting the swing rock gently as he eased her shoes off and set her feet on his thigh.
“You have… four hours to stop doing that,” Buffy said, and bit back a moan. His strong thumbs forced the tension from her arches and sent tingles down to her toes, reminding her of other ways his nimble hands could be brought into good use.
“So beautiful when you give in to your body,” Spike purred.
Someone jogged up the wooden porch steps. Buffy kicked away from Spike, who ended up against the wall of the house with an indignant expression while she scrambled to put her shoes back on.
“Well, isn’t this not a surprise,” Dawn dropped her backpack next to the door. “Let me guess… muscle cramp again? Or did Buffy have something in her eye?”
Spike tried to summon up some dignity as he stood. “Well, got to go, Slayer.”
“Oh no.” Dawn set her fists on her hips. “You promised me we’d talk.”
Spike found himself in the undignified position of trying to step around Dawn, who kept moving to block his way.
Buffy finished putting her shoes back on and stood. “Dawnie, let Spike go. He has somewhere to be. Spike? You’ll come back tonight? You know, after?”
Spike felt the clouds part and angels sing a chorus. Buffy was asking him to come back! He nodded. “Sure, luv. Be back as soon as I can.”
“Wait a minute, we aren’t finished here, mister!” Dawn shook a finger.
Spike jumped over the porch railing and beat a hasty retreat, hearing Dawn’s cry after him, “Oh you are NOT getting off that easy!”
At the end of the block he slowed his steps. Master vampires did NOT run away from little girls. Nope. This was more of a… strategic retreat. From a little girl.
He slid a finger under the flap on the envelope Buffy had given him. “Let’s see who’re tonight’s lucky appetizers,” he said, and unfolded the paper inside. There were three appointments, this time. Slayer must have some hidden pimping talent. She’d been keeping him busy.
The first address was for a warehouse by the docks, which they’d used before for more discretion-minded clients. “Chuck” was the name, which made Spike groan, immediately picturing some thick-headed Neanderthal. No good could come of a man who willingly called himself “Chuck”.
And he wondered what Dawn had meant with that “not a surprise” crack.
The warehouse was empty, as expected, smelling of dust and the sour tang of unwashed humanity. Spike was a little early for the appointment so he kicked around and smoked. There was a beat-up old sofa propped up on phonebooks in one corner. It smelled of rat droppings. Christ, he didn’t want to be here any longer than necessary.
He tried to look nonplused when the broken alleyway door creaked open, admitting a sliver of sodium light and a man who was, presumably, Chuck. He had a narrow face, a high forehead and long black hair. He wore a scuffed leather jacket adorned with chains.
So, not so much the Neanderthal.
“Hello, Chuckie,” Spike said, and turned to face him with a broad stance. “Come to meet the big bad?”
Chuck scowled. “You Spike?”
“You expecting some other vampire? Come on over here or are you afraid I’ll bite you?” He smirked at his own joke.
Chuck seemed immune to humor. He walked right into a conversational distance and, without removing his hands from his pockets, said; “I want you on your knees.”
Spike raised his eyebrows. “Doesn’t work that way. Still a vampire here, not your doxy. You hand over the cash and I’ll bite you. Arm, neck, shoulder, chest. That’s where I’m willing to go. So pick your spot and have a seat.” He gestured at the couch.
There was a little waft of apprehension from the guy. He obviously hadn’t expected that. Maybe the brothel vamps were more of a mind to be submissive. The thought set Spike’s teeth on edge. When this was done he’d find some brothels and dust the lot of them for smearing the image of vampires everywhere.
But Chuck shrugged and said, “Whatever,” and finally pulled his hands out of his pockets. He had leather wrist-bands and black x’s tattoed on the backs of his hands. He kicked the couch, letting off a little cloud of dust, before throwing himself down into it with an abandon the filthy piece of furnishing did not warrant. But then, humans couldn’t smell so well.
Spike was careful to keep his duster between himself and the ratty cushion. “You look like a neck man,” he said.
Chuck’s only response was to pull his hair out of the way with one hand.
Well, what did he expect? Witty conversation? Spike sucked back saliva and tried not to look too eager as he shifted into game face.
Chuck’s skin was clammy, not salty, and a little soft for a guy. Spike kept the physical contact minimal; he steadied himself with a hand on the back of the couch and leaned in so his fangs were the first part of him to touch. Careful, neat, he slid in. The blood was hot, of course, hot and alive and clean - overall better than Chuck’s outward appearance would have him imagine. There was no tang of adrenaline. That should have been a warning. Chuck was strangely calm for a bite addict.
Then Chuck twisted. Fangs gouged flesh and mid-swallow Spike was hit with a shock of pain. “Motherfuck!” He pushed away from the kid and got another jolt for his trouble. “Hold still!” He grasped his head. “Could you just hold still?”
When the spots cleared from in front of his eyes, Spike found Chuck was staring at him thoughtfully. Blood was soaking the guy’s white t-shirt under his leather jacket. He hadn’t done a thing to stop the bleeding from his neck. “I like a little pain,” Chuck said. “Is that some kind of problem for you?”
That was a question with no good answer. “I get migraines,” he said. “Give us a few, and we’ll start over.”
Chuck was smiling. “Hit me,” he said.
“No.” Spike glared at the git from under his own hand. “I’m not here to play some kinky game with you. Well, I suppose, I am, but only one kinky game. You pay you get bit. That’s the deal.”
“You can’t hurt me, can you? Is it a spell? A witch’s curse?”
“Piss off. I don’t need this.” Spike got to his feet.
He was shocked to find Chuck had moved directly into his path. “No. I don’t think so. I think you’re going to stay. And I think you’re going to get on your knees.”
Spike pulled back to sneer at the kid and saw he’d drawn a gun. “Better check your Anne Rice novels, kid. Those don’t scare us creatures of the night.” He stepped around Chuck, easily, coat swirling in his wake.
He heard two shots fire and fell before he realized he’d been shot. Then the pain woke up. Right knee, left shin. He grabbed the blood-soaked denim over his knee first, feeling the crumbled remains of his kneecap.
“Fuck. You crazy fuck!”
Chuck walked past him to the alleyway door, where he made sure it was wedged tightly closed. He kept his pistol out in one hand the entire time.
“You don’t just shoot a bloke!” Spike checked his injuries and then unconsciously raised his hand to his mouth to lick the blood. “Are you completely barmy? Even in Sunnyhell people react to gunshots.”
“Not so much in my experience,” Chuck said. He looked down at Spike. “Now let’s see you on your knees.”
Spike felt his gut squeeze into a tiny ball as he realized he couldn’t fight back, and he couldn’t run. He tried to get up on his left leg, but the bone felt like it was splintering to the hip when weight hit it. His right wasn’t going anywhere. He shifted his weight onto his left hip and raised his middle finger at Chuck.
“Right,” said Chuck, and he backhanded Spike with his pistol.
Spike found himself with both palms on the filthy floor. He would have to crawl to escape. He bit back his pride and started crawling. He could still move faster than a human, and there was another door on the far side of the warehouse.
Crawling faster than a human could was still not as fast as a human on two legs. Chuck easily overtook him and grabbed his right leg, which was dragging since he couldn’t use that knee.
Chuck simply had to pull and twist, and Spike cried out. He kicked, and was rewarded with both a shot of red-hot pain in his left shin and an explosion in the back of his skull from the chip.
“You know, I like a little pain,” Chuck said, “But you must like a LOT of pain, because I’m not asking for much.” He wrenched Spike’s leg the other way and there was an unmistakable grinding sound of bone against bone. “How is this better than just getting on your knees? You are a whore, aren’t you?”
Spike had been trying his hardest to twist from the man’s grip and move away. But when he asked that question, it was like a stake in the heart. He stopped. He gritted his teeth. “What do you want?”
“I want you on your knees.”
Spike picked himself up on his elbows and turned to look at the man, hoping to convey in sheer expression how sadistic a request that was, considering the state of his right knee.
Chuck’s eyes were half-lidded, and his lower lip wet with saliva. He knew.
“I kneel,” Spike said, “on my broken knees; that’s it. You pay me and leave.”
“Nuh.” Chuck licked his lips. “I paid for a suck-job. Now get up and do it. Whore.”
Spike clenched a fist against the cold concrete. He turned on his hip to face Chuck, who was standing with his legs apart, his gun resting lovingly against his groin - and how was that a safe habit to get into with a gun?
“That’s it,” Chuck said, his voice sibilant.
Spike got his left knee under him and lifted his weight onto it, though his right leg screamed at being bent at all. His face ticked with rage. He straightened, as much as he could, gritting his teeth hard and grunting as he forced his right leg to bend under him. He glared up at Chuck’s satisfied face and tested his weight.
“Now,” Chuck said.
Spike threw himself at the kid, everything he had, in a punch aimed for his jaw.
Spike knew he only had one shot. The pain would knock him out, but if he was lucky not before he knocked out Chuck.
He had no way of knowing if he was successful. The combined pain of a all-out chip fire and the sudden hard weight on his shot-up legs caused his vision to white out, his hearing to blank, and his world to reduce to nothing but the reception of pain.
He came to on his back. Little white dots swam on the edges of his vision and he was looking at support beams and corrugated tin.
“That was stupid,” said a voice Spike was growing to hate. Did the kid have to even sound kind of soft?
Spike shook his head. “Yeah,” he tried to laugh. “Never been one for the real thought-out plans.”
Chuck stepped into his vision, looming over him now, his black hair hanging in his face. He stepped over Spike’s hip and squatted down, straddling him. Spike felt the rough denim of his jeans against his bare skin. His shirt had been removed.
Chuck had a wooden stake in one hand. He pressed it point-first over Spike’s heart, and then raised it over his head. “I can leave no evidence behind. Or are you going to start doing what you’re told?”
Spike wanted to tell him off: tell him he’d never done what he was told and now wasn’t the time to start. He rocked his head against the gritty floor. “What the fuck do you want from me?”
“I think I made that clear.”
Just say yes just say yes. The kid was going to do it. He could see it in his eyes. And Spike couldn’t risk another chip-fire. His eyes were still tearing from the last one and there was the fear, ever present, that the next firing would be the one to finally scramble his brains. Just say yes. He opened his mouth and it felt like the words stuck in his throat. “Can’t do it, mate. Pride.”
“Okay. Then you die.”
Spike threw his hand in the way. The stake pierced his palm at a shallow angle from just below the fingers to the heel of the hand. It hurt. God, wood hurt.
“So you don’t want to die,” said Chuck, yanking his stake out of Spike’s hand. Spike felt each splinter that stayed behind or ripped free. “What was your other option? There’s only two, genius.”
“I’ll do it,” Spike said. “Yeah. Don’t kill me. Just… I’ll do it. And you’ll leave me, yeah?”
“Now you’re talking sensibly.” Chuck swung his leg over Spike, letting his weight fall temporarily on the vampire’s middle as he took to his feet again. “So let’s see some kneeling already!”
Spike rolled onto his side. He blinked away the pain. Just do it, he thought. Pride isn’t worth dying for.
Left knee first, easy. Right knee, agony, and the added stinging burn now when he tried to use his left hand for support. But he did it, he got his broken body into a kneeling position and looked up at the loathsome, young, scrawny punk. When he could talk without gasping, he asked, “Now what?”
Chuck grabbed Spike’s belt and tucked his stake into Spike’s waistband. “For safekeeping,” he said. “Now suck me.”
Spike closed his eyes. His hands felt like lead, but somehow he raised them. His dominant hand was in a world of hurt and didn’t want to close, so he had to do most everything with the other and just use it to brace against.
“That’s it,” Chuck said.
He sounded like he might drool on him.
Spike jerked the zipper down a little harder than necessary. The kid wore white BVDs. How attractive. He hooked the waistband with one finger and yanked it down. The kid’s erection popped out, fat and weeping, it wobbled against the pushed-down elastic.
Stake. Death. Brain damage. Why, again, was he avoiding these things? A circumcised penis was staring him in the eye. He tried to get some moisture into his mouth.
“Come on. You need me to draw a diagram? Suck on it!”
“I do this; you walk out of here. You don’t try to kill me. You don’t ask for anything else.” He ignored the prick bouncing in his face to meet his assailant’s eyes.
“That’s all I want,” Chuck said. “I’ll even give you your money.”
Keep the money, he wanted to say. But he didn’t. He leaned forward and opened his lips. It’s just skin, he thinks, and presses against the yielding tip. It’s just skin and he’s a vampire and supposedly above such things as shame. Above or below. The thinner skin of the shaft, next, and the tip is nudging the back of his mouth and his saliva glands are finally kicking in and making everything slippery. He tries to remember what feels good.
Buffy did this thing where she’d circle the tip with her tongue, flick over the slit and then… he does that.
Chuck grabbed the back of his head, tugging, forcing him to take it deeper. The bastard also oh-so-accidentally nudged his fucked-up knee with his boot. The pain made him cry out, which made his throat open, and then he was choking on cock. It hadn’t looked that big outside. Christ, why couldn’t he just do this? His mouth was swimming in saliva now and his throat constricted, tight, sore.
It was a mess, a slobbering mess, but Chuck fucked his face and kicked him in the knee and got off on it, groaning and thrusting harder with each stifled moan of pain until he was jerking arhythmically. Cum joined saliva and Spike felt like he could drown.
It’s not that vampires don’t need to breathe; they can’t suffocate, but the old panic triggers are still there, gripping your chest and flooding your brain until you remember. And Spike was always bad about remembering he didn’t need to breathe.
He spat and gasped and wiped his mouth on his arm and fell, shaking, back onto his hip. He didn’t look at Chuck.
“Well, that was terrible,” Chuck said. “But good enough not to die, I suppose.” There was a sound of a zipper going up, and Chuck walked away.
Spike closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax.
The chorus of aches and thoughts kept him from listening closely. He didn’t hear Chuck pick up the chunk of rebar, and didn’t notice him coming back. He heard the air displaced as the blow fell, and that was his only warning before the metal smashed into his left knee.
He howled twisted, only just stopping himself from grabbing for the man as blows began to rain down. He tried to block with his arms. Chuck was panting with effort, swinging again and again into his legs, his sides, his arms.
As suddenly as it started, the beating stopped. Chuck staggered away to lean against the wall and catch his wheezing breath.
“Wew! That took a bit out of me. Okay, vampire. Time for round two.”
There was a chuckle and footsteps approaching again. Spike was damn well paying attention now, but he didn’t know why. What could he do? What could he hope for?
Buffy. She’d come, wouldn’t she? Check on him? If he was gone too long. He tried to believe it.
He tried to pull himself away one last time.
“Come on, you know better than that.” Hands were on him, digging in to damaged tissues, pulling him, turning him.
He struggled and got a knee pressed into his throat while deft hands worked his belt off. “What’s the problem? You gave it up so good just a minute ago. You can’t sell yourself.” A huff and a pause as the belt was pulled free. “And then change your mind.” Now his flies were undone, and he was being rolled out of his jeans.
And Spike realized that no one was coming. No one would worry about him, not for days. Not him.
“Mmm. You’re pretty for a corpse, you know that?”
Spike was on his back again. He turned his cheek to the floor and tried not to see or feel. Chuck grabbed his wrist, brought it up. His damaged hand. He pulled it back. I can still pull away, bastard, he thought. There’s no law against that.
Chuck pulled out his gun again and pressed the barrel to Spike’s left wrist. “You lost your knees. Want to lose your hands?”
“You’re pathetic,” Spike said. “Getting off on my fuckin’ disability. I get this chip out; you’re going to die slow. I’ll do a full Angelus on you. Maybe even get the old bastard to come help out.”
“You’re the one who came here to be used,” Chuck reminded him, and took his left hand in a hard grasp, digging into the wounded palm until Spike had no choice but to open his fingers and feel Chuck’s hardening shaft drag against his ripped skin.
Continued in part three
Previous part Here.
The blood was getting to him: the adrenaline, maybe, or something more magic and less scientific. Spike was sleeping less and when he was awake, he couldn’t keep still. Like his body was convinced the supply of human blood would stop again and it didn’t want to miss a drop.
“Today. I’m telling her today, ‘Buffy, love, I’m glad to help you out, but not this way. This has got to stop before it drives me batty.’” He paced his crypt, rehearsing his lines to the candelabra and the window-panes. Every day, the same resolution, and every day he caved. He’d see Buffy and she’d look tired and unhappy and he couldn’t add to that. Or else he wouldn’t see her at all.
He took even more risks with the sunlight, darting out as soon as he could to get to Buffy’s, hoping to catch her before she left for the evening shift, because if he didn’t catch her then he was NEVER going to break it off.
But most times, no matter how early he took to the sewers, Buffy would have already left and he’d meet Willow, or worse, Dawn.
Willow was better because she didn’t question why Spike brought envelopes for Buffy and collected notes left for him. She just smiled, even gave him a cheery, “Hi, Spike!” Once she even said, “It’s really sweet how you’re helping Buffy out. I mean… I know you haven’t got a chance in heck of her ever dating you, and yet you keep trying and it’s sweet. To try. I mean. I try. I have new-found respect for the unrequited thing.”
“I’m doing this for the Niblet,” he lied. “How is she?”
Dawn was a subject he could get Willow to talk about that wasn’t magic or Tara. Red was feeling lonely since Glinda moved out. So they talked about Dawn, or about the latest demon activity, and he wondered if she saw his hands shaking. He felt like an addict getting a hit.
The irony was, he was the product, wasn’t he? Could the product be an addict as well?
But Willow was too caught up in her own misery to notice. Dawn DID ask questions. “And what will I find in here if it accidentally passes through some steam over the stove and falls open?” She held the envelope to her cheek and waggled it a bit.
“Money. The exact amount of which your sister knows. Don’t get sneaky, Niblet.”
Dawn tapped the envelope. “Hrm… but she’d be far more likely to blame the evil, soulless vampire than her sweet little sister who needs a new jacket, won’t she?”
“Platelet. Don’t. That’s rent money for the roof over your head.”
Dawn turned on her heel and dropped the envelope in the little wicker basket by the door where they kept mail. “You’re up to something shady. And Buffy’s in on it.” She picked up the thinner envelope with “Spike” written on it in her older sister’s loopy handwriting. She hefted it like she was testing its weight. “Addresses and names and times. Why does Buffy give you addresses, names, and times, and you give her money?”
Spike snatched the envelope from her. “That’s not your business. You want me to tell the slayer you’ve been reading her private papers?”
“Go right ahead. Then maybe she’ll actually notice I still exist.”
“Your sister’s really busy, Bit. She’s working herself half to death and slaying on top of it. You know she cares about you.”
Dawn tossed her shiny hair over her shoulder. “Seems like you’re the busy one.”
“Bit…”
“Oh stop with the stupid pet names! You haven’t cared about me since you got your precious Buffy back. Did you ever care? Was I ever anything more than a way to get to her?”
He opened his mouth to protest that he’d taken care of her when Buffy was dead and buried, hadn’t he? But they don’t talk about that time. He closed his mouth and opened it again. “Wasn’t in love with Buffy when I let you escape on parent-teacher night. Remember? You with the Batz Maru backpack? Could easily have eaten you but I didn't.”
“Manufactured memory, jerk. For all I know that wasn’t what you would have really done. The monks just needed me to survive.”
Spike squinted at her. “’Course it’s what I’d’ve done. Our memories are what we’d have done. Always liked you.”
“You think you’ve always liked me.”
“Always liked you.” He grabbed her arm, wincing as the chip set off a small warning. “Liked the rebel in you. Which is what’s making you read your sisters mail and behave like a brat, so I guess I’m getting what I asked for.”
Dawn jerked her arm from his grasp. “Tell me where the money comes from.”
"I run a… um… delivery service. Yeah.” Dawn rolled her eyes. The eye-roll that said, “How can a century-old vampire be such a crap liar?” Spike sighed. “I’ll be back tomorrow night. We’ll talk then, yeah?”
“Why not now?”
He held up his envelope. “Because I have a list of names and addresses to read, don’t I? Now go… do your homework or something. We’ll talk. Tomorrow. Promise.”
***
The next evening, Buffy was at the door, and he almost fell over with relief. Before she even opened her mouth, Spike pulled her out onto the porch. “Dawn’s suspicious.”
Buffy blinked. “And hello to you too.”
“I’m serious, love. She gave me the third degree yesterday. She wants to know what’s with the envelopes.”
“Um… is it a big secret?”
Spike’s jaw dropped open.
Buffy shrugged. “She wants to know, tell her. But if she knows you’re leaving money, you should write down the amounts. Not that I don’t trust her, I just… okay, I don’t trust her.”
Spike forced himself to close his mouth. “Buffy. Love. I don’t want Lil’ Bit to know.”
“Over-dramatic vampire. It’s not like you’re sleeping with people.”
It kind of is, he thought.
Buffy held out her envelope. He fished the one with the money out of his back jeans pocket and decided to change the subject. “Not working the afternoon shift today?”
“Nope. We’ve almost paid for the full-copper re-pipe and I celebrated by telling the boss no more doubles.” She snatched the money envelope from his fingers.
“So.” He rubbed the back of his head. “If you’re all caught up and all there’s no reason to…”
“Ugh. Hardly caught up. With the funeral bills and the home repairs and all the money we owe Xander, I don’t think we’ll ever be caught up.”
“What I mean, Buffy, is, I can’t look for a real job, can I, if I’m busy…”
She pressed the named envelope into his palm. “Just take the names and go. I’m not in the mood to talk about all this.”
Spike pulled out his ace card. The phrase that, of late, could magically make a Buffy happy to stay and talk. “How’re your feet?”
She sighed and dropped into the porch-swing. “You have no idea. You’d think slayer healing would apply to arches.”
Spike sat down next to her feet and cupped one calf through her jeans. He kissed her knee. “Poor darling tootsies,” he said, starting to knead her calf. He smiled up at her. Buffy never refused foot-rubs. As crazy as their relationship had gotten, here was where he felt most in control - at her feet, giving her what she needed until she couldn’t admit she didn’t want it any more. She groaned and leaned back, letting the swing rock gently as he eased her shoes off and set her feet on his thigh.
“You have… four hours to stop doing that,” Buffy said, and bit back a moan. His strong thumbs forced the tension from her arches and sent tingles down to her toes, reminding her of other ways his nimble hands could be brought into good use.
“So beautiful when you give in to your body,” Spike purred.
Someone jogged up the wooden porch steps. Buffy kicked away from Spike, who ended up against the wall of the house with an indignant expression while she scrambled to put her shoes back on.
“Well, isn’t this not a surprise,” Dawn dropped her backpack next to the door. “Let me guess… muscle cramp again? Or did Buffy have something in her eye?”
Spike tried to summon up some dignity as he stood. “Well, got to go, Slayer.”
“Oh no.” Dawn set her fists on her hips. “You promised me we’d talk.”
Spike found himself in the undignified position of trying to step around Dawn, who kept moving to block his way.
Buffy finished putting her shoes back on and stood. “Dawnie, let Spike go. He has somewhere to be. Spike? You’ll come back tonight? You know, after?”
Spike felt the clouds part and angels sing a chorus. Buffy was asking him to come back! He nodded. “Sure, luv. Be back as soon as I can.”
“Wait a minute, we aren’t finished here, mister!” Dawn shook a finger.
Spike jumped over the porch railing and beat a hasty retreat, hearing Dawn’s cry after him, “Oh you are NOT getting off that easy!”
At the end of the block he slowed his steps. Master vampires did NOT run away from little girls. Nope. This was more of a… strategic retreat. From a little girl.
He slid a finger under the flap on the envelope Buffy had given him. “Let’s see who’re tonight’s lucky appetizers,” he said, and unfolded the paper inside. There were three appointments, this time. Slayer must have some hidden pimping talent. She’d been keeping him busy.
The first address was for a warehouse by the docks, which they’d used before for more discretion-minded clients. “Chuck” was the name, which made Spike groan, immediately picturing some thick-headed Neanderthal. No good could come of a man who willingly called himself “Chuck”.
And he wondered what Dawn had meant with that “not a surprise” crack.
The warehouse was empty, as expected, smelling of dust and the sour tang of unwashed humanity. Spike was a little early for the appointment so he kicked around and smoked. There was a beat-up old sofa propped up on phonebooks in one corner. It smelled of rat droppings. Christ, he didn’t want to be here any longer than necessary.
He tried to look nonplused when the broken alleyway door creaked open, admitting a sliver of sodium light and a man who was, presumably, Chuck. He had a narrow face, a high forehead and long black hair. He wore a scuffed leather jacket adorned with chains.
So, not so much the Neanderthal.
“Hello, Chuckie,” Spike said, and turned to face him with a broad stance. “Come to meet the big bad?”
Chuck scowled. “You Spike?”
“You expecting some other vampire? Come on over here or are you afraid I’ll bite you?” He smirked at his own joke.
Chuck seemed immune to humor. He walked right into a conversational distance and, without removing his hands from his pockets, said; “I want you on your knees.”
Spike raised his eyebrows. “Doesn’t work that way. Still a vampire here, not your doxy. You hand over the cash and I’ll bite you. Arm, neck, shoulder, chest. That’s where I’m willing to go. So pick your spot and have a seat.” He gestured at the couch.
There was a little waft of apprehension from the guy. He obviously hadn’t expected that. Maybe the brothel vamps were more of a mind to be submissive. The thought set Spike’s teeth on edge. When this was done he’d find some brothels and dust the lot of them for smearing the image of vampires everywhere.
But Chuck shrugged and said, “Whatever,” and finally pulled his hands out of his pockets. He had leather wrist-bands and black x’s tattoed on the backs of his hands. He kicked the couch, letting off a little cloud of dust, before throwing himself down into it with an abandon the filthy piece of furnishing did not warrant. But then, humans couldn’t smell so well.
Spike was careful to keep his duster between himself and the ratty cushion. “You look like a neck man,” he said.
Chuck’s only response was to pull his hair out of the way with one hand.
Well, what did he expect? Witty conversation? Spike sucked back saliva and tried not to look too eager as he shifted into game face.
Chuck’s skin was clammy, not salty, and a little soft for a guy. Spike kept the physical contact minimal; he steadied himself with a hand on the back of the couch and leaned in so his fangs were the first part of him to touch. Careful, neat, he slid in. The blood was hot, of course, hot and alive and clean - overall better than Chuck’s outward appearance would have him imagine. There was no tang of adrenaline. That should have been a warning. Chuck was strangely calm for a bite addict.
Then Chuck twisted. Fangs gouged flesh and mid-swallow Spike was hit with a shock of pain. “Motherfuck!” He pushed away from the kid and got another jolt for his trouble. “Hold still!” He grasped his head. “Could you just hold still?”
When the spots cleared from in front of his eyes, Spike found Chuck was staring at him thoughtfully. Blood was soaking the guy’s white t-shirt under his leather jacket. He hadn’t done a thing to stop the bleeding from his neck. “I like a little pain,” Chuck said. “Is that some kind of problem for you?”
That was a question with no good answer. “I get migraines,” he said. “Give us a few, and we’ll start over.”
Chuck was smiling. “Hit me,” he said.
“No.” Spike glared at the git from under his own hand. “I’m not here to play some kinky game with you. Well, I suppose, I am, but only one kinky game. You pay you get bit. That’s the deal.”
“You can’t hurt me, can you? Is it a spell? A witch’s curse?”
“Piss off. I don’t need this.” Spike got to his feet.
He was shocked to find Chuck had moved directly into his path. “No. I don’t think so. I think you’re going to stay. And I think you’re going to get on your knees.”
Spike pulled back to sneer at the kid and saw he’d drawn a gun. “Better check your Anne Rice novels, kid. Those don’t scare us creatures of the night.” He stepped around Chuck, easily, coat swirling in his wake.
He heard two shots fire and fell before he realized he’d been shot. Then the pain woke up. Right knee, left shin. He grabbed the blood-soaked denim over his knee first, feeling the crumbled remains of his kneecap.
“Fuck. You crazy fuck!”
Chuck walked past him to the alleyway door, where he made sure it was wedged tightly closed. He kept his pistol out in one hand the entire time.
“You don’t just shoot a bloke!” Spike checked his injuries and then unconsciously raised his hand to his mouth to lick the blood. “Are you completely barmy? Even in Sunnyhell people react to gunshots.”
“Not so much in my experience,” Chuck said. He looked down at Spike. “Now let’s see you on your knees.”
Spike felt his gut squeeze into a tiny ball as he realized he couldn’t fight back, and he couldn’t run. He tried to get up on his left leg, but the bone felt like it was splintering to the hip when weight hit it. His right wasn’t going anywhere. He shifted his weight onto his left hip and raised his middle finger at Chuck.
“Right,” said Chuck, and he backhanded Spike with his pistol.
Spike found himself with both palms on the filthy floor. He would have to crawl to escape. He bit back his pride and started crawling. He could still move faster than a human, and there was another door on the far side of the warehouse.
Crawling faster than a human could was still not as fast as a human on two legs. Chuck easily overtook him and grabbed his right leg, which was dragging since he couldn’t use that knee.
Chuck simply had to pull and twist, and Spike cried out. He kicked, and was rewarded with both a shot of red-hot pain in his left shin and an explosion in the back of his skull from the chip.
“You know, I like a little pain,” Chuck said, “But you must like a LOT of pain, because I’m not asking for much.” He wrenched Spike’s leg the other way and there was an unmistakable grinding sound of bone against bone. “How is this better than just getting on your knees? You are a whore, aren’t you?”
Spike had been trying his hardest to twist from the man’s grip and move away. But when he asked that question, it was like a stake in the heart. He stopped. He gritted his teeth. “What do you want?”
“I want you on your knees.”
Spike picked himself up on his elbows and turned to look at the man, hoping to convey in sheer expression how sadistic a request that was, considering the state of his right knee.
Chuck’s eyes were half-lidded, and his lower lip wet with saliva. He knew.
“I kneel,” Spike said, “on my broken knees; that’s it. You pay me and leave.”
“Nuh.” Chuck licked his lips. “I paid for a suck-job. Now get up and do it. Whore.”
Spike clenched a fist against the cold concrete. He turned on his hip to face Chuck, who was standing with his legs apart, his gun resting lovingly against his groin - and how was that a safe habit to get into with a gun?
“That’s it,” Chuck said, his voice sibilant.
Spike got his left knee under him and lifted his weight onto it, though his right leg screamed at being bent at all. His face ticked with rage. He straightened, as much as he could, gritting his teeth hard and grunting as he forced his right leg to bend under him. He glared up at Chuck’s satisfied face and tested his weight.
“Now,” Chuck said.
Spike threw himself at the kid, everything he had, in a punch aimed for his jaw.
Spike knew he only had one shot. The pain would knock him out, but if he was lucky not before he knocked out Chuck.
He had no way of knowing if he was successful. The combined pain of a all-out chip fire and the sudden hard weight on his shot-up legs caused his vision to white out, his hearing to blank, and his world to reduce to nothing but the reception of pain.
He came to on his back. Little white dots swam on the edges of his vision and he was looking at support beams and corrugated tin.
“That was stupid,” said a voice Spike was growing to hate. Did the kid have to even sound kind of soft?
Spike shook his head. “Yeah,” he tried to laugh. “Never been one for the real thought-out plans.”
Chuck stepped into his vision, looming over him now, his black hair hanging in his face. He stepped over Spike’s hip and squatted down, straddling him. Spike felt the rough denim of his jeans against his bare skin. His shirt had been removed.
Chuck had a wooden stake in one hand. He pressed it point-first over Spike’s heart, and then raised it over his head. “I can leave no evidence behind. Or are you going to start doing what you’re told?”
Spike wanted to tell him off: tell him he’d never done what he was told and now wasn’t the time to start. He rocked his head against the gritty floor. “What the fuck do you want from me?”
“I think I made that clear.”
Just say yes just say yes. The kid was going to do it. He could see it in his eyes. And Spike couldn’t risk another chip-fire. His eyes were still tearing from the last one and there was the fear, ever present, that the next firing would be the one to finally scramble his brains. Just say yes. He opened his mouth and it felt like the words stuck in his throat. “Can’t do it, mate. Pride.”
“Okay. Then you die.”
Spike threw his hand in the way. The stake pierced his palm at a shallow angle from just below the fingers to the heel of the hand. It hurt. God, wood hurt.
“So you don’t want to die,” said Chuck, yanking his stake out of Spike’s hand. Spike felt each splinter that stayed behind or ripped free. “What was your other option? There’s only two, genius.”
“I’ll do it,” Spike said. “Yeah. Don’t kill me. Just… I’ll do it. And you’ll leave me, yeah?”
“Now you’re talking sensibly.” Chuck swung his leg over Spike, letting his weight fall temporarily on the vampire’s middle as he took to his feet again. “So let’s see some kneeling already!”
Spike rolled onto his side. He blinked away the pain. Just do it, he thought. Pride isn’t worth dying for.
Left knee first, easy. Right knee, agony, and the added stinging burn now when he tried to use his left hand for support. But he did it, he got his broken body into a kneeling position and looked up at the loathsome, young, scrawny punk. When he could talk without gasping, he asked, “Now what?”
Chuck grabbed Spike’s belt and tucked his stake into Spike’s waistband. “For safekeeping,” he said. “Now suck me.”
Spike closed his eyes. His hands felt like lead, but somehow he raised them. His dominant hand was in a world of hurt and didn’t want to close, so he had to do most everything with the other and just use it to brace against.
“That’s it,” Chuck said.
He sounded like he might drool on him.
Spike jerked the zipper down a little harder than necessary. The kid wore white BVDs. How attractive. He hooked the waistband with one finger and yanked it down. The kid’s erection popped out, fat and weeping, it wobbled against the pushed-down elastic.
Stake. Death. Brain damage. Why, again, was he avoiding these things? A circumcised penis was staring him in the eye. He tried to get some moisture into his mouth.
“Come on. You need me to draw a diagram? Suck on it!”
“I do this; you walk out of here. You don’t try to kill me. You don’t ask for anything else.” He ignored the prick bouncing in his face to meet his assailant’s eyes.
“That’s all I want,” Chuck said. “I’ll even give you your money.”
Keep the money, he wanted to say. But he didn’t. He leaned forward and opened his lips. It’s just skin, he thinks, and presses against the yielding tip. It’s just skin and he’s a vampire and supposedly above such things as shame. Above or below. The thinner skin of the shaft, next, and the tip is nudging the back of his mouth and his saliva glands are finally kicking in and making everything slippery. He tries to remember what feels good.
Buffy did this thing where she’d circle the tip with her tongue, flick over the slit and then… he does that.
Chuck grabbed the back of his head, tugging, forcing him to take it deeper. The bastard also oh-so-accidentally nudged his fucked-up knee with his boot. The pain made him cry out, which made his throat open, and then he was choking on cock. It hadn’t looked that big outside. Christ, why couldn’t he just do this? His mouth was swimming in saliva now and his throat constricted, tight, sore.
It was a mess, a slobbering mess, but Chuck fucked his face and kicked him in the knee and got off on it, groaning and thrusting harder with each stifled moan of pain until he was jerking arhythmically. Cum joined saliva and Spike felt like he could drown.
It’s not that vampires don’t need to breathe; they can’t suffocate, but the old panic triggers are still there, gripping your chest and flooding your brain until you remember. And Spike was always bad about remembering he didn’t need to breathe.
He spat and gasped and wiped his mouth on his arm and fell, shaking, back onto his hip. He didn’t look at Chuck.
“Well, that was terrible,” Chuck said. “But good enough not to die, I suppose.” There was a sound of a zipper going up, and Chuck walked away.
Spike closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax.
The chorus of aches and thoughts kept him from listening closely. He didn’t hear Chuck pick up the chunk of rebar, and didn’t notice him coming back. He heard the air displaced as the blow fell, and that was his only warning before the metal smashed into his left knee.
He howled twisted, only just stopping himself from grabbing for the man as blows began to rain down. He tried to block with his arms. Chuck was panting with effort, swinging again and again into his legs, his sides, his arms.
As suddenly as it started, the beating stopped. Chuck staggered away to lean against the wall and catch his wheezing breath.
“Wew! That took a bit out of me. Okay, vampire. Time for round two.”
There was a chuckle and footsteps approaching again. Spike was damn well paying attention now, but he didn’t know why. What could he do? What could he hope for?
Buffy. She’d come, wouldn’t she? Check on him? If he was gone too long. He tried to believe it.
He tried to pull himself away one last time.
“Come on, you know better than that.” Hands were on him, digging in to damaged tissues, pulling him, turning him.
He struggled and got a knee pressed into his throat while deft hands worked his belt off. “What’s the problem? You gave it up so good just a minute ago. You can’t sell yourself.” A huff and a pause as the belt was pulled free. “And then change your mind.” Now his flies were undone, and he was being rolled out of his jeans.
And Spike realized that no one was coming. No one would worry about him, not for days. Not him.
“Mmm. You’re pretty for a corpse, you know that?”
Spike was on his back again. He turned his cheek to the floor and tried not to see or feel. Chuck grabbed his wrist, brought it up. His damaged hand. He pulled it back. I can still pull away, bastard, he thought. There’s no law against that.
Chuck pulled out his gun again and pressed the barrel to Spike’s left wrist. “You lost your knees. Want to lose your hands?”
“You’re pathetic,” Spike said. “Getting off on my fuckin’ disability. I get this chip out; you’re going to die slow. I’ll do a full Angelus on you. Maybe even get the old bastard to come help out.”
“You’re the one who came here to be used,” Chuck reminded him, and took his left hand in a hard grasp, digging into the wounded palm until Spike had no choice but to open his fingers and feel Chuck’s hardening shaft drag against his ripped skin.
Continued in part three