Forgot to mention on the last chapter that Passion4Spike hath waved her angst wand over that one, this one, and several other chapters further on. She's awesome.
Service Unit
Chapter Nineteen – Permissions
She was bringing him more blood. He could smell it. His stomach growled and his gums itched slightly. He tried to call up the demon again then clenched his hands in frustration when nothing happened. The worry that his demon would never again surface returned to him full force. What was he without it? Not a man and certainly not a monster. He was just so confused. He was owned… a thing… and his owner was Buffy… the woman he loved more than anything else in creation, and trying to reconcile those two facts was spinning his head right around.
Buffy stepped into the room and walked over to the bed, sitting down next to his knee as she asked if he'd slept all right. He considered for a few seconds, realizing that he had. There'd been no nightmares that he could remember, the first time that had happened since he'd been captured, so he nodded as he looked her over. She looked like she'd been crying for a long time, her eyes and face were red and puffy, and he wondered what had caused it. He didn't think he'd done anything wrong, recently anyway, being that he'd been asleep until a little while ago, but what else could it be?
He was most likely the biggest problem in her life right now, so her tears and vomiting must be because of him. Had she realized that he wasn't 'Spike' anymore? Was she disappointed that the creature in her bed was less of a man? Less of a demon? Less of everything he'd been before? Had she realized that he'd serviced hundreds of demons… had hundreds of cocks and other things shoved up his ass… and now his ass was in her bed, defiling it with his filth… was that what had made her sick? Realizing just what he was? What she'd allowed inside her home? Put in her bed? Was it possible she'd figured out that he wasn't anything close to the creature she proclaimed to love? Was her heart broken because she'd gotten his filthy, useless hide instead of the Spike she wanted? His dead heart twisted in his chest at the thought and his concern for her redoubled as guilt, confusion, and shame raged inside him for control.
Part of the shame he felt was because he was seriously falling down on his job as a service unit, considering that Buffy – his owner – had serviced him… given him pleasure… and he had yet to do the same for her. He'd been here at least a full day and hadn't even brought her to orgasm once. That was his entire purpose now, his only reason for existing. He wasn't supposed to be laying around in her bed being waited on hand and foot, making her cry, making her vomit, and causing her stress. Instead of being the one to cause her stress, he was supposed to be the one relieving it, and he would do his job and do it well… just as soon as she ordered him to.
His face must have shown his concern for her because she cranked up her smile a little more and assured him that she was fine. He wondered briefly if she was lying… because she didn't look fine at all… but then his training kicked in and reminded him sternly that whatever an owner says is the truth. Period. It was not his place to question anything! He was supposed to do as he was told and that was it. Order given – order carried out. There was no room for thinking or wondering, and there was absolutely no room for refusing.
Somewhere in his mind it occurred to him that maybe that line of reasoning was wrong. It felt 'off' somehow, not quite right, but he wasn't capable of fighting through to the dark corner where something had briefly contradicted his training. He stopped trying to locate whatever it was because she was talking again and he needed to pay attention so he could behave properly, follow the orders she gave, and hopefully prove himself useful enough to keep.
She'd praised him for sitting up on his own and he felt a wave of chagrin that he'd been praised for doing something so simple. He'd helped to save the world, more than once, and now here he was, being fussed over for sitting up on his own like he was an infant. He really was nothing. An absolute, unequivocal nothing. Clearly she could see that, or why else would she commend him for doing something any healthy child could manage before their first birthday? He had to do better! He had to… pay attention! She's still talking, you useless git!
She was holding a mug out to him and looking at him hopefully. Spike steeled himself, intent on acting properly and doing what was expected of him, and it was obvious that she expected him to take the mug and drink the blood – probably the easiest task he'd ever been ordered to perform. The aroma wafting off the mug called to something deep inside him and he took it from her, drinking it down quickly. The warmth suffused him as she replaced the empty mug with the full one and he lifted it to his lips. He kept the last bit of blood in his mouth for a few seconds, trying to figure out what made it taste so good. It was stronger than the blood he'd had yesterday and was all from one source, not two sources mixed together. It also tasted familiar, like he'd had it before – not just yesterday, but sometime long ago – and he could practically feel his smaller wounds healing as his body absorbed its power.
He swallowed it down and his eyes closed as he remembered where he'd tasted it before. China in 1900. His first Slayer. He smiled faintly at the memory then opened his eyes wide and stared at Buffy. She was giving him her blood. He didn't have time to consider all the ramifications of that because she'd asked if he wanted more. He did some quick mental calculations, taking in her size, her Slayer healing, and the amount of stress she was currently under – stress that had made her lose whatever nourishment she'd ingested – then he estimated the amount of blood she'd already shed for him. If she'd only mixed her blood in with someone else's like she had yesterday, then it wouldn't be a problem, but because she'd filled two large mugs with only her blood, she needed more time to rebuild her supply. And drinking straight Slayer blood meant that he didn't need as much anyway, so he shook his head.
His brain started trying to sort through vampire lore and law regarding freely-given Slayer blood, but it was interrupted by Buffy asking if it was all right for her to look at his injuries. He blinked and tried to fight the part of himself that was Service Unit 238, (for the sake of clarity, he suddenly decided to re-name that part Useless Piece of Shit Spike, Uposs for short) that was aghast she'd asked his permission, but again he failed. She owned him… still… and could do whatever she liked, so he nodded.
While she examined his back, he catalogued his injuries. There were a few sore spots on his back, his cock and balls weren't exactly hurting, but they did ache a bit, his wrists and anus were still slightly sore, and he felt small twinges from the backs of his knees and around his hipbones when he moved, but that was it. Overall, he felt better than he could remember ever feeling – well, since he'd woken up at the slave compound, anyway.
She had him lean back against the headboard then asked if she could look at the parts of his body that were covered by the blanket. Another struggle against Uposs was lost and he nodded. He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to her asking him instead of commanding him, but he wanted to… no, he needed to. He needed to get past… get over… get something … What he needed was his blasted demon to get off its arse and slash Uposs to bloody ribbons.
She asked if he was still hurting and he didn't know how to tell her that yes, he was still in some pain, but that it wasn't bad enough to make a fuss over. He'd had much worse, after all, and the pain he was still feeling was miniscule in comparison. He settled for shaking his head then nodding, hoping that would get the point across. She got it then asked him to roll onto his side so she could check the rest.
He did, and a sharp lance of pain went through him when he moved his knee up to his chest. He flinched then took shallow breaths until she instructed him to roll back over. She seemed to be satisfied with his external condition, but something inside him apparently hadn't healed yet, and moving like that had re-torn or re-ruptured whatever it was and it hurt quite a lot. He shook his head when she asked him about his pain, though, because it wasn't coming from his ass, it was coming from his abdomen, and she hadn't asked about his abdomen.
She covered him with the blankets and he looked down at them in surprise before he could stop himself, engaging in another battle with Uposs. It could understand being covered for sleep, especially since his owner had been with him, but why would she cover him now? This was actually the first time since he'd been captured that he'd been covered at all, except for when she'd put him in her bed yesterday. He'd woken up naked at the slave compound and naked he'd stayed. The only things he'd worn since then had been the hood, his restraints, the plug shoved up his ass, and various accoutrements on his cock and balls, but nothing that could be even vaguely construed as clothing. And blankets? The only blankets he'd seen had belonged to his renters and none of them had ever used one on him. Why would they? He was a thing… nothing more – and not even their 'thing', he was a rented thing.
And back in Sunnydale, long before his sojourn into the wonderful world of sex slavery, he'd never been what one would call modest. He could distinctly remember spending a lot of time in his crypt with Buffy, both of them just as naked as newly born babes, so again… Why had she covered him? It's not like she hadn't already seen his goodies… Was he unsatisfactory in some way? Was not only his behavior and demeanor unacceptable, but his physical form, as well? Did looking at his body – the body that would never be clean no matter how much it was scrubbed – make her sick? Had she lied to his trainer when she'd said that she found him appealing? It hadn't sounded like a lie… then… but what about now? Had he proven himself to be so worthless and disgusting that she couldn't even bear to look at him? That deep worry of being cast out into the street to starve returned with a vengeance. He had to do better! Had to prove that he could be useful to her, even if all she did was sit on his worthless face, riding his tongue until she collapsed from exhaustion. He had to…
His thoughts were interrupted when she took his hand in hers. Her hands were warm and her skin was soft against his as she said, "Good. Okay… um… I have some clothes for you if you want to wear them. You don't have to if you're comfortable being naked… and believe me, I really don't mind the view at all, so don't wear them on my account or anything, but I have them if you want them. Do you?"
He stared at her in complete shock. Firstly, because it finally hit that she'd touched him several times… the disgusting, filthy thing in her bed… so maybe she wasn't repulsed by him… by the things he'd done and that had been done to him… and secondly, because slaves weren't allowed to wear clothing. At all. But here she was, giving him the choice… remain naked as a slave should, or clothe himself like an actual person. He knew he wasn't an actual person – he was a thing – but perhaps… perhaps he could dress like a person and pretend that he had some redeeming qualities, some worth. Although… she'd said that she didn't mind him being naked… so should he remain so because she wished it? His mind started whirring and spinning in confusion. Buffy didn't mind him being naked because she liked looking at him… and yet she'd offered him clothing. What was the correct course of action?
Buffy squeezed his hand lightly and he blinked, his thoughts crashing to an abrupt halt. She nodded towards his bare chest, "It's okay for you to wear the clothes, Spike. Like I said, I don't mind the view of you without them, but I also don't mind the view of you in them. You look good either way, and I'm fine with whatever you want to do, so if you want the clothes, just nod."
He was suddenly immersed in a pitched battle, with Uposs demanding that he say no… that he conform to his training… that he behave as a proper Service Unit should. It took great effort – an effort that was bolstered quite a bit by the Slayer blood coursing through his veins – but he finally won that skirmish, telling Uposs to get bent. He raised his eyes to hers, nodding with conviction. He would wear the clothes, he would pretend to be an actual person, Uposs be damned.
He tried to follow what she said in response to his nod, but he was still reeling a little from the struggle, and she was talking rather fast. He caught something about chafing and underwear and then her voice lifted in query, but he wasn't sure what she'd asked. She held up her hand before he could puzzle it out, though, forestalling any reply he would have made, then left the room.
When she returned, she had a bundle of clothes clutched to her chest and she asked if he needed help to put them on. He knew how to dress himself, of course, but wasn't sure how he was going to manage it when he wasn't allowed to touch his body… or the clothing. Uposs reared up in fear at not being able to follow her command without breaking those rules and he stepped up and shouted it down. She'd given him permission to wear the clothes, so she obviously knew they would have to touch his body… and as for the rest? Putting them on without actually touching himself? Well… he would figure it out. He shook his head.
She picked up the empty mugs and started to leave then turned around and gave him the permission he needed to be able to don the clothing without breaking the no-touching-himself rule. And then she gave him permission to touch everything else in her apartment. He just watched her in shock as she went over the permissions she'd already given him. Then she told him he could move around the apartment, wherever he wanted to go… except for the guest bedroom. His brows furrowed even as he nodded. Basically, she'd just given him permission to do practically anything he wanted. But… what did he want? He wasn't allowed to want anything… at least anything that was meant to happen anywhere outside his thoughts. How could he possibly know what to do?
He didn't get a chance to decide that because she was talking again. He nodded his understanding at the permissions given for opening and closing his eyes and moving his body even as he felt ashamed that she was still treating him like a child… an exceptionally slow child. She restated the permission to move around the apartment with the exception of the guest bedroom, and he nodded as he wondered what was in there that she didn't want him to see. And then he slammed the door on that. He wasn't allowed to question an owner's reasons for doing things, either. If she wanted him to know, she'd tell him, and until then, it was none of his business what she was keeping in there.
Then she reiterated the permission for touching himself and the items in her apartment, but when she added that he could touch her, he blinked and barely remembered to nod. He had explicit permission to touch his owner whenever he wanted? That just wasn't done. Even slaves who weren't constantly restrained in some fashion weren't allowed to touch their owners or a renter of their own accord, not that he knew of any who actually wanted to. They would touch when ordered to, but because they wanted to? No. And even if they did, for some unknown reason, want to touch the creature that was responsible for the agony they were currently experiencing, they would never do so. The training was too strong – too deeply entrenched in every active service unit – that the thought would never even cross what was left of their minds.
He frowned at that. This was Buffy. Hell yes he wanted to touch her! He wanted to show her that he wasn't useless! That he could be what she needed… even if all she needed from him was a daily dose of stress relief. He would love to be 'Spike' again… to be more to her than a vampire-shaped sex toy… but until his demon woke up or came back or whatever and helped him chop Uposs into messes, a sex toy was all he could be. A memory suddenly surfaced and he sighed. Even Spike had been nothing to her but a vampire-shaped sex toy, and that was probably all she wanted from him now, so what was the point in fighting to get his demon back at all? It's not like he needed it to get his cock to rise or his tongue to work. He could service her every day for the rest of her life without his demon's input or assistance… so why bother fighting?
If he did fight, it would be a minute by minute struggle until his demon reappeared, and even if it did, he wasn't sure it would be strong enough to defeat this enemy. His demon had been gone so long and the enemy was deeply entrenched, its position well fortified. His shoulders slumped and his chin dropped to his chest in utter despair as the weight of fighting a losing battle settled onto him. Uposs might simply be too strong to be overthrown, and what would happen then? When his only use to Buffy was to bring her off to relieve stress? Stress that he'd caused her in the first place? Her love for him would wither and die, that's what. She could get the same stress relief from her detachable shower head… and it wouldn't need to be cared for or fed… it wouldn't need her blood… and it wouldn't lay there crying on her chest like a little girl. Buffy was a strong woman and wouldn't be able to abide a weak, useless lump of flesh that couldn't pull its own weight for very long.
He let the utter despair rest there for a few minutes, not even noticing that Buffy had left the room, then he slowly drew in a deep breath and raised his head, the Slayer blood in his veins helping him to gather up every fragment of strength he could find. He had to fight. He had to prove himself more useful than an implement one could pick up at any home improvement store. Even if his demon never returned and he couldn't ever truly be Spike again, he could be as close an approximation as possible. He had all the memories… he knew how Spike acted, how he thought, how Buffy expected him to react to things… What was it they said? Fake it 'till you make it? He'd probably never make it, but, he could… try. Just try. He shook himself and poked at all the discouraging thoughts with a sharp stick until they'd retreated to the back of his mind, then he squared his shoulders and looked down at the stack of clothes sitting next to his hip. On to the first skirmish, then. Try, you useless sod. Just try.
He slowly moved his hand and gripped the edge of the covers in his fist then lifted them away from his body. He kept telling Uposs that he had permission to do this, repeating it over and over in his head, not noticing that he was mouthing the words as well.
His abdomen twinged sharply when he swung his legs over the side of the bed and he had to pause for a few seconds, breathing deeply until the pain subsided. Then, with deliberate, controlled movements, he reached for the socks sitting on top of the pile and carefully lifted each foot, slipping a soft, warm sock onto them. He wiggled his toes and another barely-there smile graced his lips. Still fighting against Uposs, still admonishing himself to 'try', and silently chanting that he had permission, he maneuvered his legs into the sweat pants, another sharp twinge making him grimace and breathe until the pain lessened.
He stood up, pulling the pants up as he did, but as soon as he let go, they started to slip back down. He examined the waistband then pulled the string tight and tied it in a knot. They still hung fairly low on his hips, the puncture wounds his last renter had left visible just above the fabric, but they shouldn't fall off.
The t-shirt was next, and his irritation at Uposs's constant whining finally caused him to shout in his head, "You heard her give me permission! So shut your yap already! I'm not doing anything that I'm not allowed to do!" He stood there for a few seconds, waiting for Uposs to respond, but it was surprisingly silent. He nodded and picked up the shirt then slipped it over his head. Raising his arms to slide them into the sleeves caused another twinge, but it seemed to be just a little less sharp. He breathed through the pain then turned toward the end of the bed. Now all he had to do was make himself walk out of this room.