Author’s Notes: Hi everyone! Here is a new story, NC-17 eventually. I’ve been struggling with it for a while now but I’ve decided to take a leap of faith and start posting. 🙂 This story includes slight alterations to the ending of BtVS. AtS S5 occurred without Spike. The first few chapters of this story contain intentionally mixed up chronology. It is meant to reflect the character’s perspectives. I hope you stay with it.
Was he floating or merely dangling in darkness? He was submerged at any rate…lost in the great underneath…held securely in the maw of an all-encompassing amniotic nothingness like a babe in the womb. Wanting nothing. Needing nothing. Ah, sweet darkness. And quiet. Yes, silence was appreciated after that ruckus. All movement stilled. The uproarious clatter of sounds, once a churning forge of hell in his ears now echoed with the chimes of forgotten whispers. Slavering jaws nipping at his heels and a choking barrier of sulfur vomit crowding his throat receded from his mind.
Why was it so quiet? Something needed to be done. Wasn’t there something that needed to be done? The beasts were everywhere, pawing the ground with angry, screaming, fiery hooves. He could still taste their lingering scent. His mind struggled to its knees trying to surface from a syrupy thickness of empty space. No, not empty. A word. A buoy.
Spike opened his eyes slowly, his mind lumbered behind him at a dismal pace. He had only enough energy and mental focus to extend his hand and feel a limited radius of hard, smooth concrete floor. No Drusilla.
He roused, forcing himself to full alert, and pushed himself up to his elbows. Where was this place? A blank, nondescript box surrounded him. And no Dru. The tinkling of metal on metal was his first indication of shackles. His hands and feet were bound in heavy metal cuffs, anchored by solid chains to a wall mount. A sturdy tether for a feral prisoner.
There was a metal door, what looked like a comfortable chair next to it and a nasty cage with an open door. Mmm. Shackles, a cage and no Dru…pity.
Where was he again?
He remembered Drusilla, restless and moaning, dipping in and out of consciousness. The pain would not abate. She needed tending to. She needed him. Spike’s head teetered but not with hunger or with the urgency of action suspended. His mind swung from a weakly anchored pendulum. Thoughts floated, coalesced and dissipated, failing acrobats tumbling through space. He clung to one brief flash of focused thought before the undertow took him onto the blissful absence once again.
The light hurt his eyes, pooling around, drowning him but the sounds were the worst, heaving wails of mournful pain. Growling and howling. A deep and uncontrollable sorrow. Animal rage simmering on the edges of madness. Spitting, snarling, railing against confinement and separation.
These were his sounds. His mouth twisted in agony. His yelps of despair. And yet, somehow, inside himself he stood at a distance and watched this piteous thing in a cage rail at the absent moon. He was both the beast and the absent observer.
And the pain.
Blood and saliva foamed at his mouth. He fought an iron opponent but remained in Goliath’s grip. The heavy cage shifted position and scraped haphazardly over the smooth surface of the floor. His ferocity went nowhere, flung through the bars into an empty universe. His teeth gnashed in his mouth.
The scents assaulted him. Food. Blood pumping through fresh, healthy veins. Humans were near. Sounds again, swirling in his head. Words flowed and broke apart, scattering meaning beyond his cognition.
What? What was that?
A voice. Female. Unknown.
“Careful, Giles. Don’t hurt him.”
And then the tide again and welcome oblivion.
Spike rose to consciousness, pushing himself to the surface. This time a new word possessed his mind.
Still in Prague? Murky memories tiptoed over his mind, careful of the trip wires. A street. Cobblestones. Snarling, heaving, reeking peasants. Ripping his way through a sea of flesh to get to his darling. Kicking and spitting. Tearing a path of blood out of that hell. To silence and reprieve.
To this dark place.
He tried hard to remember. Dru in his arms. The cargo hold of a container ship. No. Not Prague. The container ship came after Prague, so not the mob. Anyway, those bastards were more the torches and pitchforks crowd, with a little of the old eastern block magicks thrown in for good measure.
His body became an ear, listening and feeling for the lull of the ocean. It had soothed even in the throes of Drusilla’s agony. No movement. No scent of salt air. No squawk of sea birds.
Not at sea. In port?
Another memory surfaced. The Hellmouth. They were headed for the Hellmouth. Sunnyville? Yeah, that was it, some innocuous Californian town perched on the vent of the underworld. It would be a balm for his dark lady. Something else tickled the corner of his recollection, that useless little git. The Annoying One.
Okay, now it was all coming back. Was this him? Did that little runt actually have some moves after all? Captured by a wolf in child’s clothing? Angelus would have sniggered at that. Paid good money for a front row seat. It would be put to rights soon enough. If that pudgy faced cretin touched one hair on Drusilla’s head–
The door opened and Spike sprang to his feet. Despite the seismic, squawking doggerel chewing at his consciousness, Spike focused on the very appetizing jailer. Not a vampire at all.
A small blond, human female entered the room carrying something in her hands. She smelled fresh and sweet. Edible. She looked over to him and seemed almost relieved to see him on his feet. Her expression looked oddly like one of relief.
“Can you speak today? Do you understand me?” Not exactly the voice of an angel, more like the voice of an hors d’oeuvres. Flat American accent. Something from a shampoo commercial. Time for some answers.
“What the fuck is this?” His deadly tones matched his somber glare.
“Well, that’s a start. This…” she held up a plastic jar.
Blood, that’s blood. His tongue snaked out of his mouth and traced the rim of his lower lip.
“…is breakfast. Catch.” The girl tossed the jar and he caught it. Good arm, good aim. Spike unscrewed the lid and the unmistakable stale waft of animal blood hit him. Pig swill. He hated animal blood. It was so coarse, but hemoglobin was hemoglobin and his stomach made its needs known.
“Drink up. I’m working on something more refined.”
He stared at her with sharp dagger eyes drawn. Taken prisoner by the Anointed One would have been a blow, but this female in pointy shoes and peasant blouse? This was ridiculous. Who had captured him? The bloody girl scouts?
“What the fuck is this?” His voice ground to any icy halt.
“And back to belligerent. At least you’re predictable.” She sighed and sat down in the chair. He glared at her. An audience? What was he, her extra credits science experiment? “Drink up, it’s not poisoned or anything.”
Spike sniffed the bitter liquid and drank it down, not once taking his eyes from the delicious, blood filled girl in the easy chair.
“I wasn’t alone,” he began. “Dark haired female. We were traveling together. She’s ill.”
“She’s not here.”
“Where is she? WHERE?” His rage exploded. He threw the plastic container with deadly accuracy straight at the girl’s head. She caught it easily. Not waiting to register that suggestive clue, Spike surged forward to the length of his chains, leaning out beyond their limits with his arms snared behind him. A rabid dog. “DRUSILLA!” Frustration and anger seized his face.
“She’s not here. I don’t know where she is.” Buffy lied with a neutral tone of voice. The vampire did not know her and could not tell that she was lying. Buffy swallowed her disappointment.
“Where am I?” Spike managed before he fell to his knees. The tide rose again. Deep searing pain enveloped him and then a welcome oblivion once more.
Buffy rose from her chair and approached him cautiously. She knelt down beyond his grasp and forced herself to be a neutral observer. She could not touch, could not soothe. He was unpredictable like this. He could do anything. He’d already gone for her throat more than once.
Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and he growled. He leapt at her with murderous venom in his eyes, snapping his jaws at empty air, wanting it to be her flesh. Buffy jumped backward in surprise, landing with shock on her tailbone. His face formed a cold mask of seething disgust. Who was this child keeping him in chains? She was just a flesh barrier to scramble over to get to Drusilla. The metal chains stopped him abruptly and he collapsed again to his knees.
A junkyard dog on a chain?
This is Angelus.