Chapter 10:

Whether it was conceit, consideration, or otherwise, Buffy couldn't tell. Whatever the reason, Spike had provided her with her own motel room. She didn't know where she was exactly, just that he hadn't taken her out of California (yet, anyway), and she was now standing in the middle of a dingy, dimly-lit area, trying not to fall asleep on her feet.

"I trust you won't run," he said after shutting the door, smirking teasingly, moving close.

And so it was conceit.

Stretching her fingers, Buffy grimaced at the feel of chafing flesh beneath multiple layers of gray adhesive. Craning her neck to peer behind her, she stared both wistfully as well as apprehensively at the rather squalid queen-sized bed a few feet from her, before turning that same stare to Spike: silent affirmation.

With a nod bordering on compassionate, her subjugator reached around her body with both hands. Their faces inches apart, Buffy got the impression that he was going to kiss her again, and perhaps more alarmingly, that again she would respond in kind. Such an impulse was quickly driven out at the now-familiar click of Spike's dagger; yet she must have made some non-verbal sign of attraction because, lips at her ear, his next words were,

"You'd like that, would you?" before, with a swift motion, he cut through her ties.


Elizabeth said nothing, just let her arms fall, seeming to find her raw-and-reddening skin very interesting of a sudden. Though, Spike knew what she wanted. Had known, and abused it, the first day they'd met, with his fangs in her throat, and tonight, with his tongue in her mouth. He'd felt how easy it would be to overtake her: how she would accept it, how he would enjoy it. And now, the way she was breathing, blushing…all his assumptions had been correct.

He removed the remainder of tape stuck to her now-separate wrists, and brought her injured palm to his lips.

"That hurts," she stated simply, sedately.

"I apologize."

"No. You don't."

Azure orbs made a slow pass down Elizabeth's body: mussed blonde hair, weary green eyes, full lips glossing pink. A low-cut top, a silk skirt. All coupled with those strappy, impossibly-high-heeled shoes that women somehow managed to walk in . She didn't know how she looked, how she caused men to look. She didn't know, but Spike could fully appreciate her…assets, so to speak. And he snickered. Because she was telling the truth. Because he wasn't sorry―not at all.

Meeting her gaze, his own laced with suggestion, Spike replied, "Go to bed, luv."

She turned from him wordlessly, preparing to do just that, when the hand he still held caught his attention. The flash of gold, the shine of diamonds…

"Hold up."

On autopilot, Buffy did as she was told, exhausted and used to his antics by now.

"What?"

"Take them off," he demanded, gesturing to the rings symbolizing her marriage to Angel.

She shook her head.

"No?" he replied, by all appearances amused at the thought of her refusal.

"No," she confirmed, extracting her hand from his grip and, with more courage than she felt, showing him her back, moving to sit on the decidedly unclean mattress.

"You won't be needing them," he informed, coming to stand in her line of vision, "None of that exists. Not here. Not with me."

"If that's the way you wanted it, why didn't you just kill him?" she asked, bitter for all the wrong reasons. Because she already understood. Why her husband was in a coma and not in the ground. She knew what Spike was doing: chipping away at her, dragging her down to subservience. The fact that Angel had gotten involved was inadvertent, but convenient. For Spike, it was just another way to toy with her.

"I see the future, Elizabeth. And I've already told you: his death is not mine to make. Despite the look, what's left of your Liam is me practicing restraint. I could just as easily lose it. So, do yourself a favor."

Without waiting for agreement, he took the bands right off her finger and strode to exit the room.

"Now what?" Buffy asked him, tracking his departure, unable to move for some reason. Not until he spoke. Gave her…permission.

"Now, you're alone. Get used to the feeling for a while." Opening the door, he halted with one boot over the threshold. "And for the record," he said, holding her rings up for scrutiny before slipping them, and their connection to her spouse, into his duster pocket. Proving a point. "It's not people I have influence over. It's you."

She ripped her gaze from him, the resonance of his words all too realistic. She heard him scoff. She heard the door close. She heard the lock slide into place.

And so, Spike was gone.


Not for long, of course.

Buffy, too tired, too disgusted to shed her clothing or crawl beneath the comforter, had slept on top of the bed linens, and awoke to the sensation of being lifted.

"Liven up, dear. Time for all good doctors to rise 'n' shine."

Unsteadily, she was set upon her feet, but kept her eyes closed as long as his hands were on her. It was far too early to start with him again.

When at last his touch left her, Buffy peered with caution at her surroundings. The same room from the night before―now lit up bright by an overhead flourescent―was far more filthy than she had first perceived. Paper curled from the walls in long strips; spiders, roaches, and other various bugs lay dead on their backs in every corner. If it wasn't for the outside door being thrown open, allowing a cool breeze to enter, Buffy was sure she would retch at the acrid stench invading her nostrils: the air heavy and stale with sex, alcohol, and additional odors she chose to ignore.

The only thing she did not observe within the room's confines was Spike himself. She knew that he could not be far off, but didn't dare waste a moment of escape. Through apprehension and the sense that she had not slept nearly long enough, Buffy made her way toward the exit. Clearly, she had forgotten that the motel room she occupied resided on the second floor.

Her hands closed around the balcony railing, and she looked down, up. She'd been right about not sleeping long. The sky showed no signs of the approaching day, still swathed in black. The California skyline, dense with pollutants and smog, did nothing to allow what little light stars and moon provide to reach her. Buffy sneered at this environment which served only to make her more hopeless. This vast expanse of darkness seemed to be doing Spike's bidding. Just as everything did.

She again swung her stare around, and caught sight of the steps on her far left, leading down and out. She wondered if she should chance it, if she could vanish before her captor returned―

"Boo."

No. She couldn't.

Even through obscurity, Buffy saw her knuckles go white as she clutched the banister hard enough to make her joints sore. A slight incline of the neck, and there he was. At the corner of her eye, leaning against the stucco wall of the motel, smoking a cigarette and picking at the chipped polish on his fingernails as if he'd been beside her the whole time. And he probably had. She diverted her gaze once more, this time focusing on the pavement: far below her and as black as the night surrounding them both. So she couldn't get away. But she could prevent him from taking her any further...

"Good morning to you too, luv," he remarked, effectively curbing her impulses.

"It's morning?" she asked, for no real reason except to fill silence. Taking a step away from the edge, she wrapped her arms around her suddenly-cold body, the cool breeze of earlier turning frigid.

"Yeah. And we've gotta get going."

She looked at him in question, but said nothing at the sight of her bag by his feet. He was taking her further…

Spike tossed his cigg over the balcony and picked up her luggage. Watching her watching him, he gestured with the duffel,

"I was going to let you change, but there's no time for that now. Only a few hours 'til first light, and…"

He strode past her, not bothering to close up the room she'd used, not halting to see if she'd follow.

"And?" she asked, rooted to the spot.

He faced her with a raised brow, "They'll be coming for you."

A moment's pause, and then Buffy trudged after him, mumbling to herself,

"No, Spike. I don't think they will."