Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS. However, I wouldn't mind chaining Spike up in my basement.
Much thanks to Obscurebookwyrm for her tireless efforts to edit my horrid grammar.
Spoilers: Rewrite of Helpless
More Than Just a Girl
Chapter One
Buffy had never been more terrified. Not even during her funeral march to the Master's lair, dressed in her best virginal whites. Somewhere in the back of her mind there had been an arrogant teenage voice egging her on, saying, 'prophesy smophesy'. She was a strong, powerful force of nature to be reckoned with. She was the Chosen One, and no bat-faced, wanna-be Dracula was going to take her down. 'Cept that voice had been dead wrong. Hah. Get it?
Now, she was just a girl. There was no power, no strength-just the force of her own crippling weakness. She ran down the rain-slick sidewalk, the late January night biting though her denim jacket, icy air streaming into her freezing lungs. The recent rain made the world seem wrung out and soggy instead of fresh and new. It was no virgin bride; it was a syphilitic whore.
She hazarded a glance behind her as she ran. She couldn't hear any sounds of pursuit, but vampires could be as silent as a snowflake settling on an apocalypse-ruined world. Vamps were swift, strong, and silent. Everything she wasn't.
She collided hard with a solid wall, rebounding and landing square on her ass with a pained gasp. Her gaze traveled up, taking in black Doc Martens, black jeans, black leather, and amazingly crisp blue eyes.
Crap!
Death comes to us all, a morbid voice rang in the back of her head. Good to know her cheerleading squad was back, even if it was less with the cheer and more with the fear. Spike was absolutely the worst person to run into while powerless. He was going to drink her down and laugh while doing it.
She scrambled to her feet and Spike, being the Victorian gentlemen he was, helped her with a hand under her elbow. Then he threw her a dozen feet into a darkened alley between a Chinese food restaurant and a tattoo parlor. She skidded across the oily pavement, tearing up the palms of her hands. The alley stank of rotten food and urine. Buffy didn't have time to process the full yuck factor of whatever sticky pool she'd landed in because she was being hauled up by a fistful of her hair.
Her scalp burned, her eyes prickling with tears. The strong tug had her face angled upwards, making it hard to search the alley for weapons. She had one small hand wrapped around Spike's wrist while she desperately swept out her other one in a blind search for anything she could use against him. She fumbled with the lid of an aluminum trashcan, getting a good grip before swinging it around to pummel her attacker with the rounded edge.
The lid bounced off his skull, the impact vibrating all the way up her arm, but she was pretty sure the blow barely fazed the master vampire. The response of tossing her into the brick wall was just a spot of fun to him.
She hit the wall and pain exploded in her temple. Her knees buckled, but through sheer force of will and the helpful wall at her back, she remained standing. She lifted the trashcan lid, gladiator style, rapidly blinking the blood out of her eyes so she could reconcile the three Spikes standing at the mouth of the alley into one.
He was still, his head cocked inquisitively to the side. He didn't blink, his predatory gaze pinning her where she stood.
"You feelin' alright, Slayer?"
Double crap. Must not let the Slayer of Slayers know you're powerless. Time to brazen it out.
"Just letting you build up your confidence. You were pretty crushed the last time we fought. I read in Cosmo that in order to have healthy male-female relationships, it's sometimes necessary for your man to feel powerful. Even when he's not."
He hollowed his cheeks, his lips pursing into a leer. He glided his hand down his chest, hooking his thumb in his belt.
"Is that what you want, Slayer? A male-female relationship?"
What-oh! Ease up on the innuendo, girlfriend! Great, she was channeling her inner Faith.
She scoffed, waving her hand. "You'd have to be a man and we both know you're just a thing."
"Oh, I'm a man alright. Let me show you," he purred as he stalked towards her.
She tried to step back, but the previously supportive and friendly wall blocked her way like a total asshat. She held out her hand, trying for nonchalance when panic was galloping through every nerve ending in her body.
"Look, Spike. I don't have time for you right now. I've got places to be, important people to see." She tried to infuse her words with as much haughty venom as she could, but she was pretty sure he heard the quaver in her voice because he didn't react right away. He paused, staring at her with unsettling blue eyes that made her feel like he was scrying all her secrets.
"So, if you don't mind. I'll be going now." She slid along the wall, intending to slip on by, but he shifted subtly, blocking her exit.
The disaster warning system flaring in her brain got upgraded from double crap to dammit! She had a feeling she was about to be Spike's third slayer.
In desperation she flung the light aluminum lid at him, but it just bounced off his chest and fell flat on the ground with a loud clatter. They watched as it rocked itself to a standstill on the pavement. Slowly, he looked back up at her, a large predatory grin darkening his face.
"Well, this is just…neat," he purred and her thumping heart fell into her stomach.
Just then the two vamps that were chasing her galloped around the corner. Dumbasses must have gotten lost or distracted by something shiny. They stumbled to a stop behind Spike, uncertain of what to do now that their prey had been cornered by a master.
Buffy knew she wouldn't be able to brazen her way out of the situation. No way was she going to be able to fight her way out. Maybe she could try the truth? Capitalize on Spike's sense of fairness and their previous truce. Maybe his conscience? Yeah, right. And any second a flying pig was going to swoop in and carry her away.
Spike stalked towards her, the tails of his leather duster swishing from side to side as his Big Bad strut she hated became more pronounced. She panicked. That strut usually heralded bad, bad things for her.
She waved her hands in front of her, sliding away along the wall. "I'm weak," she blurted out. "Just little girl Buffy. The Slayer has stepped out."
He kept coming and her heart did a double tap. "You don't want to take a bite out of me, do yah, Spike? It'd hardly be sporting. I'm all weak kitten Buffy and you're all big and bad and…" Hey, she wasn't above a little ego stroke. Life and death circumstances and all. She was certain she could come up with more, but she wasn't given the chance.
Spike struck her hard across the mouth with the back of his hand. He hit her like she was just a 'girl' and he was a bad man. For the first time, Buffy registered that her situation was a lot worse than she initially thought. Completely against her will, she collapsed at his feet. Her shaking hand covered her jaw as she looked up at him with big, watery eyes, feeling a deep, shocking sense of betrayal.
Her eyes were hot, but she refused to cry. She might not have the physical strength to fight him, but she would never show him weakness.
He towered over her, and at the dark edges of his coat she could see the eager faces of the two fledges crowding behind him.
"You're right, Sla-" He paused, considering her. "Buffy."
She gasped. He'd stripped her of her title and it hurt. Of all the mean-spirited barbs, the snarking exchanges in the past, this was likely the worst thing he had ever said to her. The Slayer was what she was; without it she was nothing. She was just a woman at the mercy of a man. She was normal.
"I don't beat on little girls."
The tension leaked out of her, and her shoulders curled as some of the fear that stiffened her body lessened. He smirked down at her, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. He rocked back on his heels and the motion had her looking back at him. There was something cold behind his cocky smirk, and she knew he already saw her as nothing more than a corpse.
"These guys, though." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Not so finicky."
"You wouldn't," she breathed.
His lips thinned, and he just shrugged. Afraid and desperate she scrambled for any crumb.
"I thought you wanted to be the one to kill the Slayer?"
Suddenly, the thought of Spike sinking his fangs into her wasn't as unappealing as it used to be. Especially if her choices were being drained by him or ripped apart by a couple of fledges. In the back of her mind, behind the same locked door that scoffed prophesy smophesy, she always thought it would be Spike who did her in. That's why she always feared him so much. Why she always kept him at a distance.
"You're not the Slayer anymore. Are you, luv?" he said softly. Her heart constricted in her chest. It was as she always feared. If she wasn't the Slayer, then she was nothing. Just a worthless girl. Not good enough to be dinner for a master vampire. Barely good enough for fledges. Buffy the girl was unremarkable, unexceptional, and unworthy of even a sideways glance from such amazing beings as Spike and Angel.
They wanted her only for her specialness, not for who she was underneath.
Angel placed her on a pedestal as Heaven's Chosen One. She had a purpose, a meaning. Through her he would find salvation, but only if she was the Slayer. Without her abilities she was no different that the hundreds of unremarkable girls he could have with a single crook of his finger.
Spike's only interest in her was in killing another Slayer to enhance his reputation. She doubted she was even good enough to be his dinner. She knew he had a type. He liked his women tall, dark, and beautiful, not blonde and disgustingly perky. He would never want her for her.
Spike stepped aside, revealing her crumbled and broken figure to the salivating fledges behind him. Panicked beyond pride, she grasped the corner of his duster.
"Please."
He looked down at her impassively. "Please, what?"
She stared up at him. A few days ago, if asked if she would ever beg for her life, she would have scoffed. The Chosen One did not beg. Buffy the girl wasn't above it. What she needed was an edge, something that would appeal to Spike.
Tasting her blood was an epic fail, but she hadn't fallen so far that she would offer her body. She rather thought he expected it. There was something about the way he held himself. As if he was waiting for her to make the final fall from grace so he could pounce on her weakness and laugh at her total degradation before walking away.
Besides, if there was one thing she knew about Spike it was that he would never be unfaithful. He was utterly devoted to Drusilla. She of the crazy, of the pixies, fairies, and dancing stars. She of the ethereal beauty; always in need of her black knight's protection. Helpless, but deadly and utterly feminine, she was everything Buffy wasn't.
Buffy eyed Spike speculatively. Angel had told her of Spike's dirty little secret. Who he'd been before his turning. A Victorian gentlemen at his core, he'd been molded from birth, both in his human and vampiric lives, to be a champion for femininity. He was a dark knight, fighting for his princess. Buffy knew she could never compare to his wicked, rotten-to-the-core plum, but just maybe she could appeal to the protective instincts deeply ingrained in him.
"Please…help me?"
Her conviction teetered out at the end. It galled her to ask for help-to beg protection from anyone, especially her mortal enemy. Spike's lips quirked, and she hoped the flare of irritation she felt didn't show on her face.
"Umm, dunno, pet. That didn't sound all that sincere to me. You sure you wanna ask me for help?"
She swallowed around the lump in her throat. What she needed to do was swallow her pride. "Help me." She was proud her voice sounded strong, conciliatory without a hint of begging.
He rested his hand on the brick wall behind her and leaned down. He cocked his head to the side, and Buffy couldn't get over how cold his eyes looked. He was usually so full of fire. This was the first time she had ever seen him and thought he looked as dead as he was.
His icy eyes raked over her before meeting her gaze. "And what will you give me, Buffy? If I save you?"
Her hot blood froze in her veins and something nasty curled up and died in the pit of her stomach. Was he suggesting what she thought he was? What about Drusilla? Did his fidelity to his black goddess not extend to humans? It made a certain amount of sense. Vampires did like to play with their food. It didn't matter either way. She wasn't willing to do that. Was she? Was she willing to spread her legs to save her life? She dropped her eyes and looked away, deeply ashamed. He chuckled, but it wasn't the rich laugh she was used to hearing. It was as cold and dead as his eyes.
"I don't help the helpless, little girl," he murmured so softly she almost didn't hear. Then he was gone, leaping up the wall behind her, and disappearing over the lip of the roof.
The fledges were on her before the sound of his boot-heels scraping over the bricks died away. She clamped her lips together, promising herself she wouldn't scream.
Spike could hear the struggle behind him-the sounds of hard fists striking a soft body. The gasping grunts of pain and the growls of anticipation. The Slayer-no, not the Slayer. Buffy-a tiny slip of a girl with a ridiculous name. The fact that she was being eaten up was a bit of all right. Just some hungry fledges drinking their evening meal. Nothing wrong with that. When it was over a new Chosen would rise, and maybe Spike would be lucky enough to take her down.
He was smiling at the thought when he heard a sound that made his stomach fall out of his arsehole-the rending of fabric, followed by the delicate tinkling of buttons on pavement.
"Spike."
The single word held registers of emotion that, as a vampire, he was hard-pressed to comprehend. Fear, anger, and pain, he understood. The deep undertones of sadness and betrayal he couldn't fathom.
He turned back to take in the tableau below him. The fledges had Buffy splayed out on the pavement, one holding her wrists above her head while the other tried to work the material of her jean skirt up over her hips. Her pale pink blouse was shredded, and her bra ripped away. There were repulsive red streaks across her small, young breasts.
She was fighting with all the strength of her small, frail, powerless body, but the fledges just laughed. He could smell the salt stink of her tears, and her small cries sliced at the hardened shell he had constructed over the years to protect himself from his useless human emotions.
Feeding the girl to fledges was a spot of fun; letting her be raped was not. Rape never sat well with him, but he was hardened enough to ignore it. He had spent many decades walking away from bad things. Buffy being raped wasn't one of them.
His actions weren't completely justified to himself even as he was leaping over the lip of the roof and landing cat-like twenty feet below. In the same smooth action, he was plunging a stake through the back of the vampire holding Buffy's hands above her head. The second fledge recoiled, releasing the girl as he scrambled backwards. Years of honing her instincts had Buffy rolling away from the battle towards the nearest wall. Being on the ground made her feel vulnerable, so she stumbled to her feet, using the wall to steady herself. She turned back to the alley just as Spike dusted the second vampire.
The stale air of the alley shifted. Before she could blink, Spike caged her against the wall. He had one hand planted by her head, the other flattened near her ribs. He leaned closer, panting cold, unnecessary breaths against her cheek. His eyes were flat, but there was a wildness beneath the icy veneer. A spark of an internal war she had no insight into.
She caught her breath, trying to be as still as possible lest she incite him to violence. He had saved her from the fledges he'd fed her to, but by no means was she safe. He could turn on her at any moment, rending her apart or worse. She stared into his glittering blue eyes, hypnotized by his gaze. She couldn't look away. She couldn't move. She could barely breathe.
He leaned forward and her lips parted. Not in invitation. In shock. Fear. Uncertainty. Still staring intensely into her eyes, his tongue flicked between his lips and slicked over a small cut at the corner of her mouth. At the taste of her blood, his pupils blew wide open until there was only the thinnest band of blue.
Her paralysis broke and her skull knocked hollowly on the bricks behind her. Undaunted, he followed, his tongue cool against the burning heat of her wound. The tip of his tongue slipped between her lips at the very corner of her mouth, just tracing the edge of her eyetooth. He tasted of blood and whiskey. Of deep, naughty, wicked sin.
The sensation wasn't that of a kiss. It was quieter. Less intrusive, yet far more intimate. Shivers wracked her body and she expelled her breath in a shaky rush. He inhaled, taking her breath into his lungs.
He leaned back and she felt a sick combination of relief and loss. His hands slid away from the wall, but he was still overwhelmingly inside her space, tripping all her internal sensors that screamed she was in danger. Her muscles tensed as he gently smoothed his hands down her arms in a light caress that made the small hairs on her body stand on end. He lifted her hands like she was a lady and he was her lover, her palms curved over the edges of his. The endlessly deep abyss of his eyes never broke from hers as his mouth traveled from her lips to her hands, caressing her knuckles, abraded by her powerless punches with kisses that were far from gentlemanly. His tongue swirled over the delicate knobs of her bones and slicked between her fingers to tickle the sensitive webs of flesh.
Gently, he turned her hands over, tending the fleshiest parts of her palms where they were deeply scraped from being thrown onto the pavement. He lapped at the drying blood, before sucking the supple flesh between his lips. She could feel the edge of his teeth, and she stirred, but the strength of his gaze held her. It was the most intimate moment of her life, and ironically the most dangerous. At any moment he could turn from genteel lover to voracious killer.
He dropped to his knees with a suddenness that had Buffy recoiling. The connection of their eyes was broken and she felt something snap free inside her. His cool fingers eased behind the curve of her leg, applying slight pressure to the bend her knee. She resisted.
"I won't do-it," she whispered. She wouldn't spread her thighs. She wouldn't let herself fall, even if she did owe him her life. "You'd have to force me."
Spike didn't respond. He only wrapped more of his hand around her calf, lifting her foot until it settled on his thigh. She pressed her shaking hands to the bricks at her back, looking for something solid and real to ground her in a moment of unreality. She watched, her full lower lip caught in her teeth, as he leaned forward to swipe his tongue over the hot, scraped skin on her knee. His cool tongue soothed all the pain away, making her breath hitch. She expected his hands to wander higher, but they remained chastely anchored on her calf and ankle. When he was done, he carefully settled her foot on the ground and pulled the other to his thigh. She acquiesced easily. She was confused, but cautious. As long as he wasn't hurting her, she was willing to let him do as he pleased.
He rose to his feet with breathless grace, leaning forward to cage her once again. This time she refused to be sucked into the whirlpool of his eyes and focused on his mouth instead. He leaned forward as if to lave the cut on her lip, but she turned aside, her gaze falling on the trash heaped in the alley. He growled a soft, low warning, but she refused to be baited, and reaffixed her gaze on the pavement.
He gathered up her hair at the nape of her neck, holding her still in the crook of his arm. Her wide eyes sought his, her mouth forming words of protest that died as he leaned forward. With wide, sure laps, he licked the blood on her forehead from the cut on her temple. She snapped her eyes closed, feeling the cold wetness of his tongue on her skin. He lapped around her eye, cleaning the blood that was starting to glue her lashes together. Lastly, he laved her wound, soothing the raw ache. He withdrew, and she finally breathed.
He banded his fingers around her delicate wrist and she gasped at the sheer power of his touch. He could crush her, pillage her, murder her, and there was nothing she could do to stop him.
"C'mon, little girl. The Big Bad will get you home," he said, tugging her away from the wall. Her breasts bounced, reminding her that her shirt was undone. Her cheeks heated as she realized he'd had an uninhibited view the entire time he cleaned her wounds. She hurriedly gathered the edges of her shirt in one fisted hand to cover herself. He turned away, seemingly unaffected.
"Really?" The last thing she expected was a ride from a remorseless killer.
He didn't answer. He just towed her along behind him, and she was helpless to stop him.
tbc