Time passed. Minutes. Hours. Days. She didn't know. It felt like it had been years. She couldn't do anything but watch as her Hostile paced, back and forth, back and forth across the length of the cell. He wasn't healing, and he was getting weaker, but he was fighting through it, putting on a good show for the cameras. She had offered him her blood several times, trying to quietly coax him into feeding, but each time she was met with silent refusal, as he shoved away her proffered wrists and neck. She imagined she saw betrayal flash in his cold blue eyes, and eventually she gave up her efforts. It was only a painful tease, tempting him with something he so desperately needed, and just as desperately wished to stay away from.
But it hurt. She knew the reasons he refused her, but knowing didn't help. This was her reason, her purpose; to feed him, to sustain him with her blood.
Want to heal him. Want to stop the hurt. Want to make him whole.
She was shocked to realize that the voice was right. She did want those things. Not because of purpose or reason, thought she wasn't precisely sure exactly why. But she wanted.
He had been mumbling to himself under his breath for a while now and his pacing had sped up. Now he spun on his heel, more viciously than before, and it had him clutching at his ribs with a hiss of pain. His distress was too much for her, and she broke her silence.
"You should eat," she said softly, so quietly that only he would hear her.
Her voice stopped him dead in his tracks, and he looked her straight on for the first time since he had flinched away from her in a crumbled haze of fear and physical shock. But there was a softness in his eyes this time, and for just a moment she felt a flash of relief that maybe he'd given in. Then he heaved a put-upon sigh and slumped against the wall opposite her, patting the pockets of his duster in a now-familiar series of movements, coming up empty-handed like all the other times.
"What's your name luv?" he asked her gently, shoving his hands deep into his jean pockets and flicking a brief glance at the microphones and cameras above their heads.
The question surprised her. All this time spent trapped together, and it had never come up. She shrugged. It didn't matter. "I am Feeder17," she mumbled, her eyes on the floor.
"Bollocks," he muttered, pushing off the wall and beginning to pace again. "I am not a hostile, I'm SPIKE! And you are not a feeder." He flung up a hand to stop her when she began to protest. "Even if that's what you think you are now," he said, pointing hard at her, "it's not what you always were. So let's try again. What was your name?"
"I… I-I am Feeder17," she stammered, her voice trailing off into nothing.
"I am not calling you Feeder17!" he snarled.
She didn't notice. She had retreated into her memories, listening intently for the voice to guide her to the answer they both sought, but there was nothing there. She knew she'd had a name, knew she'd had a life, but it was gone from her now, lost in the ether that was the Initiative.
Spike paced. Back and forth, back and forth, the motion the only thing keeping the anxious restlessness at bay. It hurt to move, hurt to breath and to talk, but when he was still the panic set in, making him want to run, to fight, to beat the barrier with his fists until his brain was fried and his knuckles were bloody. So he paced. And he planned.
Not that any of his plans were all that good. His mutterings were mostly centered on all the things he'd do once he was free, the trails of carnage he would leave behind him. As for just how he would get out in the first place, well, that he was still working on. But oh, the damage he had planned. He was practically immortal; he had all the time in the world to come back and bring vengeance down on the head of every soul in this cursed place. And God help anyone who stood between him and the exits on his way out. He would gut them like deer, eviscerate them, tear their throats out with bare hands and blunt teeth.
"And soldier boy is first," he muttered viciously, turning hard on the heel of his boot.
His broken ribs screamed with the movement, the vivisected muscles in his abdomen howling as he barely managed to keep his vocalizations down to a low hiss as he wrapped and arm around his torso, trying to quell some of the pain.
"You should eat."
The quiet words froze him in place and he gave her his full, undivided attention for the first time since she had helped to stuff him into his jacket. She looked better. Where he had undergone violent and horrible suffering at the hands of the science-bitch and her pet soldiers, she had come back in much better condition than she'd left in; fed, watered, bathed and bandaged. She was more alert, her dark eyes clear, a bit of color in her pale cheeks.
Strangely enough, he found himself grateful that their positions hadn't been reversed. Spike knew torture intimately, and could take a lot more of it than the girl could. If they wanted to care for his little blood bag instead of poke her full of holes, he could only count himself lucky. But her incessant requests that he feed from her both confused and irritated him. He would only scowl at her when she bared her wrists and neck, though hunger twisted in his gut and in his mind each time. He and his demon both knew how badly he needed blood; it had been days since his little sojourn outside the cell and he had yet to even halfway heal. He couldn't risk it. Though if he didn't get them out soon, risk wouldn't matter anymore.
She continued to stare at him, something like determination flickering at the back of her eyes. Spike sighed heavily before slouching down against the wall, trying to take some of the pressure off his ribs. He wanted a cigarette. Almost as much as he wanted to feed, to get out of this place, he just wanted one damn smoke. His hands searched his pockets in subconscious, futile movements, looking for the Zippo he knew was no longer on him. Annoyed with his roaming fingers, he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.
"What's your name luv?" he asked, flicking a glance at the ceiling. He didn't really care, but he was desperate to take his mind off the sudden hard craving for nicotine.
She shrugged, looking at the floor. "I am Feeder17,"
"Bollocks." Shrugging off the wall, he began to pace again. "I am not a hostile, I'm SPIKE!" Damn right he was. Spike. Slayer of Slayers. William the freaking Bloody! Suddenly he felt very uncomfortable, disturbed by how often he had to remind himself of who he was down here. Stopping, he turned back to the girl again.
"And you are not a feeder," he continued. She opened her mouth to contradict, sending a hot flash of annoyance through him. Flinging up a hand, he snapped at her before she could speak. "Even if that's what you think you are now," he pointed, "it's not what you always were. So let's try again. What was your name?"
"I… I-I am Feeder17"
"I am not calling you Feeder17!" he snarled.
She flinched. She had drawn herself up into a snug knot, her knees crushed tight to her chest, wrists locked, rocking gently back and forth. Something in her eyes hit him hard, like a bloody baseball bat to the gut. There was fear there, and confusion. She looked… completely lost, like she had no idea who she was. He recognized that look. It had been… well, a hundred years or so, but he'd worn that look himself once. He grimaced. Yeah, once upon a time…
"Listen," he began, wishing desperately for a smoke, "We're getting out of here." His voice seemed to draw her back into herself, the cloud of her thoughts moving away from her face. "When we do, you need to put this shit behind you. And speaking from experience? Giving yourself a new name can be a big part of that." The girl looked up at him quizzically, bringing a sarcastic smile to his face. "Thought me mum called me Spike then, did you sweetheart?"
She blushed, and he swallowed hard. That blush would be the thing that killed them both. It was hard on him already, the not killing her. He'd only fed twice, and both times it had been close. His need was huge, and his control was frayed. Nor was this any place for her. She wasn't eating enough, wasn't sleeping enough, wasn't getting any exercise; everything about this place was keeping her run down. He had tasted it in her blood, under the drugs and the pain. If he didn't get her out of here soon, get her built up, she was going to fade. And then so would he.
He backed away from her warily until his shoulders touched the wall near the barrier, sliding down it and kicking his feet out in front of him. From there he could watch the hallway, would be able to see the commando boys coming and going, and then hopefully he'd see the pattern he had yet to discern.
"Think about it luv," he murmured softly, shifting slightly to get a better angle. "This is your chance to choose. Your potential."