Chapter Two
Boys Don't Cry
Slamming the door to the training room behind him, trying not to think about the tears he had seen beginning in Tara's eyes before he left...trying not to acknowledge the ones streaming down his own face... Spike stalked angrily past Anya and toward the door. He was so caught up in the turmoil of his churning emotions that for quite possibly the first time in 3 years he did not even notice Buffy sitting at the table.
She noticed him, however,and his obviously precarious emotional state. By the time he reached the door, she was blocking his path, her arms crossed, her mouth forming a tight, straight, determined line.
He stepped back with a start when he saw her there, looking away guiltily.
"What's up?" she asked, her voice soft, but her eyes piercing.
"Nothing, Slayer," he muttered, moving to slip past her and into the street.
He winced as she caught his arm in a grip that was not quite painful, but reminded him that it could be without much additional effort. "Doesn't look like nothing," she continued softly, her mouth close to his ear.
He swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure. "Look," he said, reason sounding alarms in his head, warning of the danger he was placing himself in. He had never been one to back down because of danger. "It doesn't concern you, love. Now if you'll just leave me be..."
Her grip tightened. Okay. Definitely painful now. "Oh I think it does concern me, Sweetheart. What's got you so upset?"
"Please, Buffy," he finally whispered, his voice thick with tears. "Just let me go."
Buffy swore quietly in frustration, and released him roughly, with a slight shove toward the door. Relieved, he headed down the street toward his cemetery. He was greatly surprised that Buffy had not pursued the issue any further, but decided that at the moment he was not really up to dissecting the encounter. He just wanted to get to his crypt and the waiting bottle of Jack Daniels that was the only comfort in his life that he could count on at the moment.
That's not the end of that Buffy assured herself as she headed for the training room. Give him a little time to calm down and then I'll make him tell me what's going on
She stopped short right inside the door at the sight of Tara, standing by the wall, gazing out the one small window with tears streaking her soft face.
Concerned, Buffy headed toward her. "Tara?" she softly began, her tone a question. "Are you ok?"
Tara seemed startled. "Buffy!" she gasped. Then she seemed to remember herself, wiping quickly at her eyes, as she continued, "Yes...yes, I'm fine...I'm just...a little down is all. Don't worry about me." She headed quickly for the door.
"Tara," Buffy interrupted impatiently, standing between her and the door. "What's going on? Everybody's so emotional today...you...and Spike..." She paused, her eyes widening with recognition. She looked at Tara with a look that was 3 parts curious...and one small but very distinct part...suspicious. "What just happened here? Tara did he hurt you?"
"No...no!" Tara's eyes widened as the impact of the question hit her. "No, Buffy, he couldn't even if he'd tried, you know that. And he wouldn't...try. It's nothing like that."
"But it does have to do with him...doesn't it?" Buffy would not let it go.
Tara met her eyes for the first time during the conversation, and was disturbed by what she saw there. Beneath her carefully constructed veneer of indifference, there was a frightening gleam in her eyes ...of obsession. It was familiar to Tara; she had seen it in Willow's face frequently of late. Unwilling to admit the wrong she had committed, Willow had persistently called and made attempts to see her, despite Tara's insistent and often tearful pleas that she just give her space and leave her alone, let her process what had happened between them. But Willow could not let it go; a few nights before, Tara had come home to find Willow waiting on her porch, with tears and desperate explanations... and much the same look in her eyes as Buffy had now.
Tara realized uncomfortably that Buffy's particular obsession was leading to something else...jealousy. She began to wonder just what Buffy thought had happened in this room.
"Buffy," Tara began, looking at the floor. "Please. Nothing happened that you need to worry about, I promise. Do you really think I would make a move on him? I mean, really, Buffy? After you told me about you two, and with Willow and all?" There was genuine hurt in her eyes when they met Buffy's again.
"I'm not so worried about you, Tara," Buffy's voice softened, but there was a dark gleam in her eyes that made Tara suddenly frightened...and not for herself.
"Buffy, I swear," Tara went on urgently, shaking her head. "I mean, really, nothing happened at all. He didn't even know I was in here, and came in here I guess to be alone. And then, when he saw I was back here, he just turned around and left. I called to him, wanted him to tell me what was wrong, but he just left, Buffy. I swear that's all that happened." Tara was not used to lying, and she was not at all sure that she had convinced Buffy.
If she had failed, Buffy did not let on. She relented, a small smile edging about her lips, and said softly, "Ok. Sorry, Tara. I just...I just don't know what to think...I'd hate to think that he was being anything less than a gentleman toward you, and I saw him mad and you crying and I...I guess I just jumped to conclusions."
And with that, she turned and walked out again, leaving Tara to her fears.
He had just lain down on the bed...after smashing a lamp he had just acquired at the dump the night before against a wall, thereby alleviating about 2 of his frustration...when he heard the door upstairs slam open.
He quickly got up, preparing himself for the furious mood indicated by the slamming door. Bypassing the ladder completely, in a primal move no normal human girl could have accomplished, the Slayer dropped, catlike, onto the floor before him, crouched and on her feet.
When she stood, his eyes were automatically drawn to her clenched fist...and the stake she held in it. She advanced on him quickly, and instinctively he backed away, until his back hit the wall. She raised the stake and held it, the point pressing painfully into his chest, her eyes flashing fury as they met his.
"I know what you just did," she bluffed. "And I'm going to kill you." Her voice was calm, cold, barely concealing her rage.
He was breathing hard, fast shallow, unnecessary breaths. It was a habit of his in emotional situations of any kind...somehow comforting to him. He could not raise his eyes to meet hers. Some analytical portion of his mind thought the situation through while the rest of him stood there frozen in panic. He could resist, but the end result would be the same. He could plead with her, try to reason with her, but he knew the expression on her face to represent a state of mind which would not respond to reason. Let her do it he told himself, with a weary sense of defeat. Come on, lad, you always knew some day she would
"Before I do," Buffy continued in that same chilling tone, "I'll give you 30 seconds. Try your best."
Confused, his eyes sought hers, unsure as to what she was giving him time for.
"I'll give you a head start," she clarified, rolling her eyes. "Go ahead. Do your worst." Leaning in in a confiding way, she whispered, "You could do a lot of damage in 30 seconds!" And she raised her throat, rubbing it softly against his lips.
Sickened, he turned his head away. And he knew in that instant, completely and thoroughly, he was hers. That was all there was to it. Because even though he had longed for years to taste her, flowing through his veins, even though it would be so easy to take her up on her foolish offer (for a Slayer she really had no concept of just how much damage a vamp really COULD do in 30 seconds!), he knew beyond all doubt that he could never touch her...not like that. There was simply no way that he could bring himself to do it, no matter what she did to him. So he stood there, as the 30 seconds ticked endlessly away.
Finally, when he had counted in his head to 47, he chanced a look back at her. There were tears shining in her brilliant green eyes as she gazed at him.
"That's all I needed to know," she whispered, dropping the stake to clatter on the cold, concrete floor, wrapping her arms gently around his neck and pulling him into the searing heat of her kiss.
Desperately they clung to each other; he pulled her down onto the bed eagerly, urgently, their bodies hopelessly entangled before they even laid themselves down.
It was only moments before she threw her head back in ecstasy, in a blissful parody of her gesture before, exposing her fragile neck to his mercy.
And in that moment, he changed, and in her moment of vulnerability, sank his fangs deep into her throat, and began to drink of her very life. She struggled, with a soft, weak cry of terror, but was not strong enough to fight him off. Something about that did not seem right to him, but he could not think about it for the rush of victory and vindication he felt as her strength and life poured out of her and into him.
He relished the vengeance as her hot, powerful body began to slowly still, slowly becoming cool beneath his touch. Eagerly he drank, hoping to soothe the chill ache that filled his body. But something was not right. As her body slowly became cooler, robbed of its heat, its life, his remained chilled. More desperately he drank, and she became colder and colder...but so did he. He was shaking now with the cold, and he finally released her, his eyes widening in shock and horror as he realized what he had done.
"Buffy! Buffy, no!" he gasped, shaking her lifeless body. "Please! Please, no, I'm sorry, love!" He broke down in sobs, clutching her body to him desperately.
With a start he woke up, disoriented, shaken...freezing. Where was he? What had happened? But the first attempt to sit up reminded him, as reality flooded back in a surge of firey agony shooting through his ribcage. He lay back down with a soft groan, and a sigh of relief with the realization that it had been a dream; he had not killed his beloved. He was lying on the cold, concrete floor of his own crypt. One hand reaching down to carefully feel his battered torso, guaging the damage, he winced. No, she had nearly killed him, it seemed.
Rolling carefully onto his side, hoping the new position would give him a bit more leverage, he managed to slowly and painfully pull himself to a sitting position...and was stunned to see Buffy, lying on his bed, on her stomach, her feet up by his pillow, boredly watching some inane talk show on his telly.
It was not the first time she had beaten him to unconsciousness in a violent rage; it was the first time that she had been there when he woke up.
Slowly, cautiously, he braced himself against the wall and struggled to his feet, eyeing her anxiously. She did not even acknowledge him. He had no idea what to expect; this was new completely. He did not want to take a chance and anger her again, and he was not really sure what sort of a mood she was in.
As she seemed to be pretty thoroughly ignoring him, he thought it safe to take a moment to take stock of his injuries. His mouth and nose were clotted with his own dried blood, and very, very sore; he would be badly bruised by now, he knew. Moving downward, various bruises on his shoulders, arms, torso...his ribs...now there was a bloody mess! Purple, no, nearly black, bruises indicated that any mending his rib had done had been reversed, with a few cracks to the others as well. And when he hesitantly took a step toward the bed and nearly collapsed in agony, he knew there was something badly wrong with his left leg.
Clearing his throat nervously, he looked down at the Slayer. Still she ignored him..
"I...I thought I'd take a shower, love," he murmured, his voice low and supplicating. It's not permission he told himself, trying to spare his pride. I don't need her permission to take a shower in my own bloody home! But he stood there, waiting, until she acknowledged him by nodding her assent, before he would head toward the bathroom.
Painfully removing his blood-soaked clothing, he eased his body over the edge of the tub and into the shower, adjusting the water and then slowly, agonizingly, standing up straight. As the hot water beat down with a soft, soothing ache over his battered body, he leaned back against the wall for a moment, shaking violently as the memory of the evening came back to him.
It had begun much as his dream, with her storming the gates of his crypt as she did so frequently, and his scrambling to reach a less vulnerable position as she quickly made her way down to his bedroom. She had begun questioning him angrily about Tara, and the Magic Box, and what had gone on in the training room. He had no idea what Tara had told her, and tried to act as if nothing had happened; her reactions told him that Tara had done the same, so he stuck with it, but she was not buying. She had brutally beaten him with her fists until he had gone down under them, and then when she could no longer reach him with her fists, she had used her feet. The vicious kicks had been what had smashed in his ribcage, he remembered. The last thing he remembered was one tiny, powerful boot flying toward his face.
And then the nightmare. It did not occur to him to wonder why the thought of killing her as he had done in the dream was more disturbing to him than anything she had done to him in reality. After all, what more did he deserve, really? She was his glorious golden goddess, and he was fortunate that she allowed him even mere moments of her affection.
Yet, still, it hurt, and more than just physically. He loved her, truly loved her with everything in him, and she snatched that love from his outstretched hopeful hands and crushed it in an iron fist, then hurled it to the floor and trampled it mercilessly.
Drawing himself out of his reverie, he was surprised to find himself leaning against the wall with one hand, the other covering his face as he sobbed softly.
Unexpected, a soft hand snaked around his waist, and he felt the gentle pressure of her naked body behind him. She was not hurting him, but he could not help but tense at her touch, knowing that that powerful arm about his waist could turn from soft to cruel in an instant.
Tenderly she kissed his neck, her other hand reaching up to run through his hair, gently tugging his head back against her shoulder. This kindness now only brought on more tears, but he fought them back as best he could.
Never, never had she apologized for a beating. This was as close as she got to it--a tender embrace afterwards, trying to say with her body what she could not force out in her words. But tonight, tonight it was not enough.
He forced himself to pull away from her kiss. "Buffy," he whispered thickly, leaning forward slightly, and wincing as her arm about his waist tightened slightly, heedless of his shattered ribs.
"Shhh," she whispered, pulling him back against her. He was helpless to stop her, as even the slightest pressure on his ribs was agonizing to him. "Don't, Baby. Just be here with me. I want you so bad," she continued, her sultry voice a soft seduction.
In spite of himself he longed for her, but a part of him--a slowly growing part of him that could not help but rebel against the cruel way she used him--told him to resist. With both hands he tried to pull her arm away from his waist, saying in a slightly stronger voice, "Buffy--no." He did not sound sure, but the word was clear and unmistakeable. He repeated it a little louder, just to be certain she had heard him, "No."
But instead of releasing him, she tightened her hold just slightly, and he let out a gasp of pain. "Yes," she whispered, pulling his head back to kiss him again. "Don't fight this, Baby. I need you," and she stepped into the shower with him, pulling the curtain behind her.
A cold hopelessness washed over him with the steaming water, as he realized that he could never stop her. He was helplessly, totally hers, to be bent to her will as she pleased. He couldn't fight her off anymore, physically or emotionally, so instead he surrendered, turning with a hiss of pain to return her kiss with a vicious intensity.
If she was determined to ruthlessly plunder his body and heart of all she could take from him, with or without his consent, he would at least take what little he could get from her in the process. For a few fleeting moments, he could pretend that she was as much his as he was hers.