Buyer Beware by Just_Sue

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Chapter 6

Author's Notes: WARNING: The beginning of this chapter contains material that is unsuitable to be read by anyone who is too young to be reading this anyway. Nor is it suitable for anyone who is likely to be made upset by reading m/m rape and torture. I do not intend to offend anyone so please scroll down to the first *** if you wish to avoid.

It was inevitable really. After the traumatic events of the last few hours, Spike’s mind didn’t rest long in the solace of sleep. He never thought of this as a nightmare on waking; it was a re-enactment that he swore he felt throughout his entire body. Every thrust of the red hot pokers piercing his abdomen and shoulders, every nerve ending throwing anger and pain his way as flesh parted and cauterised. The stench of his own burning flesh choking him. Angel’s contained and calm voice whispering distorted truths in his ear. Telling him what a disappointment he was as a vampire. Mocking him over his vanity as Spike’s hair was shaved roughly from his head. Whipping his body into a vision of torn and bloody strips.

Followed by the rape.

Spike knew what it felt like to be taken without his consent, by strangers who had never known him - nor ever would - as anything other than an object that existed purely to give them pleasure. Sometimes they’d even allowed him to feel pleasure as well, not often, but sometimes. The vampire wondered why those moments when his body found release were also the ones that made him feel the most desperate. When it was driven home to him that he was allowed nothing of his own except his thoughts. Thoughts that were usually poor company.

Angel had prepared him thoroughly before the act itself. The clever bastard had known just how to hurt him. Lube slickened fingers had slowly but firmly pushed past the resistance Spike couldn’t keep up for long, not with his energy gone along with his blood. His arse had been invaded and stretched, made ready to accept the cock of his grandsire. It had taken time, but then, Peaches was in no hurry. Even when Spike had broken down and begged for Angel to just get it over and done with, the elder vamp had just laughed, “But, Will, this is what I want.”

Later there had been objects designed to stretch, and sometimes to stimulate. Spike’s unwanted erection had made him weep with shame as something long, smooth and wide was continuously manipulated by Angel, sending unasked for sensations through his prostrate to his balls. By the time his oppressor eventually took him it was almost a relief, even when his grandsire ripped his fangs into the tender flesh under his right armpit and started draining him. Spike’s orgasm had been intense and the pinnacle of the disgust he felt towards himself.

That was on the first day. The first of a week in Angel’s Machiavellian possession. Every single day the same as the one before. Every moment between torments attached to a drip that fed blood straight down his throat, denying him the taste of his food. The blood that miraculously - or so it seemed - healed the majority of his injuries so that Angel could start all over again from the beginning. Spike hadn’t bothered begging after the first day. It was the only thing he could deny the orchestrator of his pain.

At the end of the last day, Angel had left him hanging there, more dead than he had been at any other time in his unlife. This time there was no healing blood. Just the added anger of his master because Seventeen hadn’t made his client happy. Spike secretly believed that maybe he had; there was nothing to tell this Angel apart from the Angelus of old, not as far as he could tell. As Spike was given no opportunity to defend himself, and Angel’s law firm looked after the establishment, it came as little surprise when he was taken back to the auction.

For almost a week now Spike had managed to fight back the memory, had not woken himself with his own screams ringing in sensitive ears. Now it was back.

***

Angel was not a happy camper. ‘Why do I have to do everything myself if I want it done properly?’

One of his lackeys, Smith, had been sent to the auction with one purpose only; purchase Seventeen and bring him back to Angel. The useless idiot hadn’t even managed to do that. Instead, Spike was now owned by the Watcher’s Council and in the possession of a woman whose description matched Buffy’s too closely to be a coincidence.

The hours Angel had spent anticipating all the things he’d be able to visit upon his latest form of stress relief were to be left unfulfilled. That was unacceptable. Buffy had no right to interfere in his plans, even if she was ignorant of them. The souled vampire had spent considerable influence to get William just where he wanted him. It had been only a few weeks earlier when he’d eventually meted out his vengeance on the younger vampire.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, or so they said, and Angel had waited until his was the temperature of ice. The torture he’d suffered at Spike’s hands years ago had not been forgotten – or forgiven. It would never be forgiven. Now, when Angel was in a position to visit the full force of his wrath upon the much diminished vampire, his manoeuvring and manipulation had been set back on the brink of achievement.

Angel had waited this long. He could afford to wait a little longer. This latest hiccup would be forgotten once he achieved his long held ambition, once he became the master of Spike’s continued misery.

Seating himself behind his ornate desk, Angel occupied his mind with amended plans and viable options. He vowed not to rest until his revenge was complete. However long it took, Angel would possess Spike. And besides, there was the little matter of the prophecy to consider too.

***

As Buffy dashed down the stairs and into the still lit basement, her eyes were automatically drawn to the figure thrashing and whimpering amongst twisted sheets. Without conscious thought, Buffy found herself beside the bed and reaching towards the agitated vampire. Only to find herself abruptly twisted and thrown onto the mattress, pinned down beneath a tangled quilt and a snarling demon.

“Slayer!” the vampire above her growled. Golden amber eyes latched onto hers, his nostrils flaring slightly as the beast drew her scent deeply into his redundant lungs. Buffy held her breath and fought her instinctual urge to throw Spike off, to drive a stake through his chest and watch as his ash dirtied her floor.

“Slayer?”

Spike came back to himself and into confusion. He didn’t know how he found himself in this position, on top of the Slayer who was now in his bed. From the wary look on her face he’d done something wrong. Moving with all the speed he could muster, Spike removed his body to the end of the bed, trying to untangle his trapped legs from the clutch of the quilt. Would the new rules stretch to ignoring what seemed to be an unknowing attack on his new master? The vampire wrapped his arms around his knees as he drew them to his chest, his eyes watching the still prone figure of the Slayer.

Relieved that this latest state of affairs appeared to have resolved itself without any real effort on her part, Buffy pushed the offending quilt out of the way before propping herself up on her elbows to regard the wretched vampire. The fear was flowing from Spike in almost tangible waves and Buffy had to repress a sudden impulse to pull him into her arms, to try and sooth away his anxiety. The ridiculousness of that made Buffy smile. A smile that earned an immediate response from Spike as surprise and tentative hope found their way into his blue eyes.

“I won’t do that again in a hurry,” Buffy wryly promised. At the unasked question from Spike, the tilt of his finely boned head said it all, Buffy filled him in. “You were having a dream or something. Didn’t sound like a good one, whatever it was.”

“Slayer, I didn’t mean to…”

“My fault… again. Shouldn’t have tried to wake you like that.” Buffy couldn’t help but deepen her smile. “If it happens again I’ll just throw something at you, a dumbell or something.”

“I’m sorry. I woke you.” Spike seemed determined to find fault with his unconscious actions.

With a wriggle and a twist, Buffy freed her legs from the tenacious quilt before standing. “Nah, couldn’t sleep. My brain was too full, not a normal Buffy state. You?”

“Can’t remember,” Spike mumbled and looked away, not wanting her to see his dissembling reflected in his eyes.

Buffy let the obvious lie go. There were more pressing matters. Like, how long was it gonna take Spike to stop acting as if she was going to take him apart piece by piece? All this emotion was grating on her already frazzled nerves and Buffy just wanted to be past it, to be in a place where they could exist in some sort of equanimity with each other. Knowing that there would be no chance of rest until she’d sorted through her scattered thoughts, Buffy felt the urge to have a nightcap, maybe two. Pulling the tangled quilt from around her, she pushed herself from the bed and headed once more towards the stairs.

Halfway there she glanced back and beckoned to her vampire. “Fancy a drink?”

***

Ten minutes later Buffy was curled up comfortably on the couch in the living room, letting the calming effects of the soft lighting and chill music wash over her as she sipped from a cognac glass holding a generous measure of Tia Maria and ice. Spike had yet to join her. Once they’d left the basement, and he’d seen the mess on the floor from her now defunct snack, he’d immediately grabbed some kitchen towelling and started to clean up. Buffy had thought about trying to stop him but if he wanted to help out that was fine by her.

On the coffee table before her was a pad and pen, waiting to be filled with a shopping list for tomorrow. Yet another thing she’d not thought about was clothes and toiletries for her acquisition; she’d have to take Spike with her if only for trying on footwear. If they hit the mall early evening there should be minimal sunlight problems and it might even be fun to shop for him. Maybe she could ask Tara along as well, let Spike see a friendly face. A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention.

Spike had been grateful for the simple distraction of cleaning up the splattered mess on the kitchen floor. He was starting to believe that the Slayer was being open and honest with him. And it scared him. She’d thrown the damned rule book out the window and was making it up as she went along. So far he liked it, and that was strange enough in itself. Liking something in his unlife was a novel experience lately.

Throwing the last handful of soiled paper towelling in the bin, Spike proceeded to wash his hands and slowly made his way into the living room. The sight of the Slayer tucked up on the couch wearing a slinky black robe and nursing a glass sent a jolt straight to his manly bits. ‘Fuck, she’ll think I’m nothing but a walking prick if I don’t start getting this under control. Why does she have to look and smell so damned good?’
Without further thought he approached the Slayer and knelt on the floor beside her, waiting for her to notice him.

Buffy smiled at the vampire as she rose and moved to the drinks cabinet that had once housed her mother’s favourite tipples, now containing her own preferences and those of her once close friends. “What do you want to drink, Spike? I’ve got Jack Daniels, vodka, Glenmorangie…”

“Please.” Spike watched as the Slayer poured a good measure into a cut crystal whiskey tumbler and placed it on the coffee table. A warm hand on his shoulder turned his eyes from the glass of smoky liquor to those of the woman.

“Do you want to stay there? There are plenty of other seats if you don’t want to use the couch.” Buffy didn’t think he was on the floor by choice; giving him options was the best she could do right now, at this time of night when the dawn was fast approaching. She watched the brief play of emotions that crossed his face before he gracefully repositioned himself at the other end of the couch, reaching for his glass and studying it intently. Buffy resumed her seat and picked up the pad and pen.

“We need to get you some clothes and other stuff tomorrow,” Buffy informed the vampire. “So, what do you think you need? I’ve got down pants, boots, tee shirts, coat, and shirts. What else. Oh, toiletries, that’s a must. What else?” She looked up from the pad to see Spike still staring at his drink as if hypnotised.

It seemed to be becoming a theme with him, the words ‘how long’. How long since he’d been in the company of a female? How long since he’d received kindness? How long since he’d had alcohol? How long since someone asked him what he wanted? Spike doubted that the Slayer had a clue about how much she’d already given him in such a short space of time. Glinda, too. Now he was afraid that he’d do something to ruin it.

When there was nothing to lose it was easy to not care, to strive for an end to the pain and misery. And now? The Slayer that he’d hated and tried to kill was treating him like … something. Not a monster, more like a man. Definitely not like a slave. It was frightening and new. Something more to be learned in his long existence of new experiences. He had to learn how to be what the Slayer needed, to pay her back as much as he could for all that she’d already given. With a slightly trembling hand Spike raised the glass to his lips, inhaling the scent of malt before taking a small sip. ‘Bloody hell. Best whiskey in the world in my book. When did the Slayer start drinking?’ His thoughts ground to a stop and he lost himself in sensation as the liquor drifted down his throat.

Buffy studied the preoccupied vampire, noticing the more subtle changes in him. There were lines around his eyes that made him look older than she remembered. The joy had left him. Not surprising when a wild creature like Spike had been effectively neutered with the chip. She was somewhat disappointed that he was not how she remembered him; dealing with the familiar would be so much easier. But she doubted that she was as he remembered her either. So much had happened to both of them since their last meeting.

It soon became apparent that the altered vampire was not going to answer her question. In an unlooked for accord the two of them enjoyed their drinks, half listening to the background music and lost in thoughts of yesteryear and today. When they went their separate ways, Spike took the glasses out to the kitchen and rinsed them. The Slayer yawned a goodnight to him before climbing the stairs and finally finding her rest.

Surprisingly both slept well for the remainder of the night and well into the next day.

***

The US Air Force transporter landed for a routine fuel stop at RAF Lyneham in Wiltshire, England. Five men disembarked, one in handcuffs. They were swiftly escorted to a black PSV with dark tinted windows which pulled away at the maximum speed allowed the moment the group were safely inside.

Ethan Rayne’s first sight of his homeland in many years was taking place under circumstances dictated by the Initiative. For now he had no option but to play along with their games, but the disciple of chaos vowed he would do everything in his not inconsiderable power to thwart them – when the opportunity arose.

***

The Head Watcher had been distracted, carelessly so. His fellow Council members had been aghast at the large sum spent at the vampire auction outside LA.. It was not as if they couldn’t afford it – indeed, it hardly made a dent in their large accumulation of capital – but discovering that the only currently active Slayer had spent over a quarter of a million dollars on William the Bloody had produced a storm of reaction. Some were even now insisting that Buffy stake the once notorious vampire, an argument that Giles had managed to dispel, though not without much debate.

He had not, however, convinced them to relinquish the deeds to the vampire into Buffy’s hands; the majority had stood firm in their insistence that Seventeen should remain Council property and only on loan to the Sunnydale Slayer. His sarcastic comments on the uselessness of a vampire bodyguard that failed to defend its charge fell on deaf ears; for some reason the idea of passing Seventeen to the next Slayer appealed to the narrow minded of the Council. At this point Giles simply hadn’t the energy to go through, yet again, the fact that the Slayer line now passed through the incarcerated rogue slayer, Faith. Tomorrow would be soon enough to start again with the seemingly imbecilic members of the Council.

How he was going to explain this to Buffy was the cause of Giles’ lack of awareness for his surroundings as he made the short walk from Council Headquarters to his mews cottage. When the tranquilliser dart hit him, just as he was about to fit his key into the lock, he barely had time to mutter, “Oh, bloody hell!” before slumping unconscious to the ground.

To a casual observer there would have appeared a shimmer reminiscent of heat haze, nothing more. No one would have seen the prone body being picked up and taken to a black PSV. Nor would they have seen his place being taken by a thin faced, some might say weaselly, middle-aged man. The glamour held firm as Ethan took the place of Rupert Giles and gave the Initiative their ‘man’ in the Council.

Everything was going to plan. In a few weeks it would be time for Operation Conquer to go into the next stage.

Time for blood to flow.

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