Chapter Four: Unfinished
Sire and Childe
She was on a chair. Her hands tied behind her back. Her hair was caked with drying blood; her skin was stiff with it, her nostrils filled with its scent. Slow, excruciating hunger ground her insides. Her strength had left her hours ago as ounce by ounce her force of life was tapped from her. Cut by cut. Inch by inch of skin was covered with them.
She could hear Dru cackling. It made her raise her head. Her eyes met Spike's. They had moved her from the basement into the dining room of the Inn, which was tacky, paying homage to frills and porcelain figurines galore, but it didn't deserve the grittiness of the scene. Spike was sitting on a polished wooden stool, its legs curled dramatically beneath the cushioned seat. Presumably the piece was meant to look antique. It failed miserably.
He smiled softly. Buffy felt sudden hatred towards him; it wrapped its silk around her neck as though telling her to wear it proudly. She yanked at her restraints, cutting them further into her wrists.
"What's this?" Drusilla's voice came from somewhere close.
Buffy felt fingers pull her hair back, the hold tightening, forcing her to tilt her head. The vampiress leaned over her, her dark brown eyes nearly black in the gloom surrounding them.
"Still there?" Drusilla wondered, patting Buffy's cheek to the point of slapping it before releasing her grip and moving around to stand next to Spike, placing one hand lightly on his shoulder. "She's still there," she announced.
He blinked, glancing up at his lover before rising to his feet.
Buffy lowered her head again. The fight nearly over, she felt. He came up to her, his face in front of hers as he placed one hand on either knee, leaning forward.
His nearness had become a strange state of guilty euphoria. She couldn't tell when she had come to revel in it, but she could sense the dislike emanating from Drusilla, and so she took pure pleasure in every moment he was close. It was a resting place for her broken warrior, from which it could observe its formidable enemy having an Achilles heel.
She felt his fingers beneath her chin, lifting her head up. She met his eyes with her own, his gaze like coolness of water sliding through her.
"Let me," Drusilla offered.
Buffy could hear the muscles of her face shift as she vamped out.
"No," Spike said simply, his touch disappearing as he straightened himself up.
Drusilla stared at him.
"We finish this," she protested.
"I thought you were enjoying yourself," he replied flatly.
"I have been," she confirmed. "But now I wish to finish it."
"No," Spike repeated. "Fun's just beginning."
"Spike."
He gave her a look. She stared in disbelief, her brow furrowing slightly, and then she was human once more, stepping close, wrapping her arms around him, resting her cheek against his chest.
"Please, Spike," she said, voice low, eyes in Buffy's. "I'm bored with her. Let's you and me go find a new toy. Do it, Spike. Do it for me."
Buffy saw through it, the act, the sudden mask of innocent pleading, and she understood that it was a well-rehearsed dance. All the vampiress had to do was twirl in the right manner and Spike wouldn't be able to take his eyes off her. He would follow her lead, no matter where it took him.
Now he stroked her back before his hands slid up and undid her embrace.
"Sorry, baby," he mumbled, kissing her on the lips, but she was stiff with the rejection.
Buffy pressed down the smile rising, mostly because it would hurt too much to produce it.
Drusilla's eyes were streaked with anger, threads of gold in her otherwise dark irises. She turned and left the room. Her presence still lingered, though her form was no longer there, always quiet as a ghost and just as haunting. She seemed to hide in the darker corners of the room.
Buffy leaned her head against the high back of the chair. She was quitting now. With the small victory she had just been handed, she felt she was done. She shut her eyes. There was her mother, turning around and smiling, happy to see her. There were Giles and Willow and Xander, bent over books, researching. There were candles. There was a flash of Angel's face. Then it was gone.
She felt Spike's wrist as it pressed itself against her lips. And she began to drink.
x
Spike ripped a piece of cloth from a kitchen towel, wrapping it around the fresh puncture wounds before walking into the bedroom he and Dru had chosen for themselves. It was the one room that didn't look quite as much as though a murder of potpourri had recently occurred in it.
"Time to move soon, love," he said, watching her as she slowly ran a brush through her long, dark locks.
"I suppose you want to bring her."
"I suppose," he muttered, rubbing his forehead uncomfortably.
"You suppose?"
"Dru."
She froze at the edgy tone in his voice. He was beyond caring. He felt strange, and disliked it.
She put the brush down in a languid movement, her slight wrist bending ever so little before her fingers released the object and the hand joined its twin, resting on her lap. She looked at him, her eyes earnest in a way that was uncommon with her. This was important to her, then.
"I understand," she said gently. "I do understand what you're going through, don't think otherwise. But..." She rose and came up to him. He wanted her to touch him. That familiar touch, to chase away this new one. She stopped before him, hands at her sides. "You made the decision to sire her. Not me. She's your childe, Spike, and I don't want her near me. She stares at me as though she's never seen me before."
He furrowed his brow.
"And you find that... disturbing?"
"She isn't one of us and she never will be. There's something wrong with her."
"Don't bloody start," he grumbled, moving away from her and sitting down on the bed.
"Bringing her with us will only slow us down."
"She'll heal. We can wait a day." Drusilla's eyes widened dangerously and he hurriedly added: "You took her down with a few blows. She's not up to full strength yet. And with the blood loss... Once we get to Florida, I bleeding well swear to you, I'll stake her myself."
Drusilla observed him in tightening silence. She finally chose to shatter it with words that fell heavily on his ears as they entered uninvited.
"Every hour, every minute that she is near us she learns. She has inherited the memories as well, you do realize that? She will get stronger before too long. She's a liability, Spike. A burden I cannot carry for miles and miles for some fixation you've gotten in your head. We agreed to leave this country. You and I."
"And you and I will leave this country," he replied, tensing at the insinuations she was making. "I will kill her." He put the toe of one boot to the heel of the other and slid his foot out. "In Florida," he finished.
She sat down beside him, her hands taking his, but the touch was too late, the moment had passed, and the sweetness of it was nothing but melting snowflakes on his skin. She was about to say something, but stopped as the tip of her finger felt the cloth around his wrist, hidden thus far by the sleeve of his duster. She pushed it up, staring at the red spot soaking the fabric. She pulled on the knot and the makeshift bandage fell away. Her stare grew ever more focused until she moved it to his eyes.
"Oh," she murmured. "Oh, what did you do?"
"Drusilla," he tried, but she rose and disappeared all in the blink of an eye.
x
"I can't stand this," Willow stated.
"Fine. You take the crossbow and I'll take the stake," Xander said, handing her his weapon.
She shook her head with a slight smile, making him lower his arm with the crossbow still in a firm grip.
"I mean - Buffy," she said.
"Let's not talk about it," he muttered.
She drew a breath, wanting to go into a tirade and tell him to damn well get over himself already and that she was hurting too, but that she didn't see any need to keep it all in, like she had a jar-lid on top of her head that refused to open so that she would have to get a knife and try and find an air pocket, only she couldn't, so she wasted energy just struggling with the lid again and it still wouldn't open.
She turned her head to him.
"I don't know where to stick the knife to find your air pocket," she admitted apologetically.
He frowned.
"I'd rather you didn't stick the knife to find my anything," he replied.
The sound of running steps came from behind them and they exchanged a glance before swirling around, weapons held high. Xander semi-instantly remembered his was actually supposed to be held in front of him and quickly readjusted. Only, it wasn't a foe: it was a friend.
"Kendra?!" Willow exclaimed; taking a step forward as the other came to a halt before them, Willow's arms held out to embrace the slayer, who shied away in demonstration of excellent reflexes. Willow drew her arms back again. "Right," she said. "Sorry. Hi."
Kendra smiled, glancing at Xander.
"Hello," he greeted and she nodded.
"It is nice to see you again," she said to both of them.
"When did you get back? I'd no idea you were coming," Willow informed.
"It was not scheduled. But my Watcher heard what had happened. I could not believe it."
"No, it's pretty hard to believe," Xander agreed. "Let's walk. With you here I'm feeling much more into this whole mission of patrolling."
"That's very manly of you," Willow smirked.
"Yes, I always tell myself so."
"Hah-hah," Willow said.
Kendra looked from one to the other.
"I am very sorry," she said seriously.
The other two lost their smiles as if robbed of them forever.
"Thank you," Willow replied.
She almost added "But Buffy isn't dead, you know"; thinking better of it as the truth of it was that Buffy wasn't exactly breathing, either.
x
She woke from fingertips running over her skin. It took her another moment to come out of sleep. Once she did, she jerked her head up, meeting Spike's gaze as he turned his eyes in hers where he was standing, leaned over her.
His scent filled her nostrils and kicked her senses until they were trembling and alert. His hands ran down her back, lifting her sweater and slipping over smooth skin. Her lips were dry, her lips were slightly parted, and an ache was pleasantly beginning to burn between her legs that was so unexpected and yet not, that she drew her first involuntary, unnecessary breath.
Hotness filled her lungs until she thought they would explode.
He smiled, pulling back and squatting down before her, balancing on his toes as he rested his arms on his knees. She felt sick, and didn't know which sensation to blame.
"You've healed nicely, love," he said.
She mustered a glare.
"Don't call me that," she grumbled.
"What? Love?"
He smirked, straightening himself up. Her eyes followed his every movement, suddenly starved and un-cooperating. He brought his right leg forward, sliding it slowly, until their knees touched. Her glare intensified, but another breath was in her throat, a shaky traitor. His knee pushed on hers, sliding between them and effectively parting them. She heard static in her ears, like a choir of angels hissing their damnation. His knee slid further. Her gaze didn't leave his. Her mind was like the eye of the storm while her body was raging and twisting. She had never in her life felt anything like it.
His knee met her groin, her thighs suddenly clenching his of their own accord. The expression in his eyes was changing from mockingly amused, to something as deep and dark as the wilderness growing within her.
Then the door to the Inn opened, Spike was steps away from her in an instant, and the obscuring branches pulled back. Somehow the clear view seemed the unusual state and Buffy didn't know where to look. She felt exposed, weak. More than she ever had in his presence. And Drusilla's gaze was drilling its way through the stillness until she might as well have been screaming where she stood, quiet as a statue.
"Dru," Spike greeted. "I was looking for you."
She didn't move a muscle in response. Buffy slowly brought her eyes into hers, and Dru's face settled in a mask of disdain. One of her hands slid out from its hiding place in the folds of her long skirts, and she reached it out to Spike. It held a stake.
"It's time."
Her voice was calm, her gaze was not.
Buffy felt her eyes pulled to the shape of the age-old weapon. How many times had she not swung one of them into the chest of a demon, into the heart of a vampire, splintering its ribcage in the process? And now that low, crunching sound would be the last thing she heard on this earth. How funny, how ironic, how horrifying.
"Put that away," Spike said impatiently.
Drusilla lowered her arm, her eyes in Buffy's for another long moment, before she turned and walked up the stairs. Her back was straight, but her posture spoke of some sort of hurt and Spike followed without ado.
Buffy tried to move her hands, but to no avail. The knots were too tight. She looked around for any sharp object that could serve the purpose of freeing her, but saw nothing. And all the while she had to struggle with the side of her that wanted to stay there, in the dark, in that chair, waiting for him.
She bit her lower lip so hard it drew blood, and closed her eyes.
x
Spike nearly kicked the door off its hinges as he entered the bedroom.
"If you're gonna react like that, then don't bloody well do that in front of her," he exclaimed. "You buggering said it yourself - she's my childe. I'm not bleeding well finished with her yet! Now leave it alone."
Drusilla gripped the stake until her knuckles creaked.
"I can smell her on you," she said, tossing the stake on the bed. "Fool," she added coldly.
"Baby," he said, voice softening and the warmth of it spreading into his eyes. "You're not jealous, are you?"
"She's pretty; in an ugly sort of way," Drusilla replied, and he smiled, reaching out a hand and taking one of hers.
"Let me show you just how irreplaceable you are, love," he said.
It took a few seconds for a hint of a smile to show itself on her mouth, but when his lips met hers, they parted in anticipation.
x
Buffy listened; her jaw crushing her teeth together at every new sound, every new sigh and moan. She heard hands sliding over skin and slowly, steadily, a glowing heat began to spread, mimicking what she had felt earlier in the haughtiest of fashions, making goose bumps spread. She hadn't realized how much she hated Drusilla until that moment, but she did. She really did hate her.
x
Giles stepped onto the porch of 1630 Revello Drive. He had a knot in his throat that wouldn't be swallowed away, but he was determined to do this. He simply had to. He rang the bell; soon enough the door opened. Joyce smiled at him, wearily, inviting him in. He could tell she had been crying again.
They sat down in the living room, after he had declined both offers of tea and coffee.
"Joyce," he said, completely forgetting the words he had prepared as he looked at her, saw her sitting where he had seen Buffy sit dozens of times, remembering that this was her little girl he was about to tell her of. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I am not sure how to begin."
He took off his glasses, polishing them slowly; thinking. After a minute had ticked past, he replaced them and his eyes fell on one of the African statuettes Joyce had collected around the house.
Turning his eyes in hers he met her quizzical expression with a bit more confidence.
"That is from the Aruru tribe, is it not?" he asked with a slight nod to the artifact.
"Yes, a fertility goddess. Her name was Mnene. She was killed by hunters as a child, but her soul grew so wise that the gods favored it above all else, and adopted her into the heavens, where, I hear, she helps women who have trouble conceiving, and when sacrificed to, she keeps their babies safe. Her husband..."
"Joyce."
She stopped, blinked, one hand touching her forehead briefly before she smiled apologetically.
"I'm sorry. It seems, these days, either I can't find anything to say, or I can't stop talking."
"I don't mind," he shook his head. "But there's something I have to say, and it won't be easy for you to hear. You may not even believe it. I was hoping, given how well-rehearsed you are in many of the mythological aspects of our world, that you will agree to keep an open mind."
She frowned.
"What is it?" she asked. "Has it got anything to do with Buffy? Did she leave you a note? Did she call you? Send any kind of message? I still can't believe that she would leave without giving me any hint as to why or where... What if she's dead?"
He grabbed her hands, making her calm down, her eyes filling rapidly with tears.
"She isn't," he said carefully. "But..."
Joyce stared at him.
"But, what?"