Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. It's fiction.
Summary: Hidden in dark times is safety.
He threw back the beer and slammed the bottle down on the bar. He swallowed and grabbed at the stools when things began to swim dangerously. He groaned and slid to the floor, cursing the sluggishness in his veins.
When he awoke, it was to an unfamiliar sensation of weightlessness. He blinked to clear blindfolded eyes. His chest began to tremble with uneasy breaths and his fingers dug into his palms.
The gag, heavy on his tongue, stopped the words before they made sense. He choked and breathed hoarsely through his nose. In his mind was a meaningless mumble of ‘nonononotagainnononopleaseno,” but no one seemed to be listening.
His muscles froze of their own accord when footsteps neared him. He tried to buck away but his body swung and he realized, fingers clenching once more, that he was helpless.
His eyes squeezed tightly shut behind the blindfold and he clamped his lips on the whimpers and pleas that threatened to bubble around the ball-gag. He groaned low in his throat when rough fingers ran across his flesh. They left heated trails down the inside of his thighs, across washboard abs. He trembled in the wake of each touch and prayed to anyone listening that it would stop. But it didn’t.
He grunted at the first intrusion and keened wildly, straining against tested chains, at the next. Tears trailed down his cheeks like blood down his pale thighs. In the end he went limp. He collapsed into himself and barely blinked in the harsh light after the blindfold.
He got up, free of slings and chains, and stood with a downcast gaze.
“You will tell no one.”
He didn’t nod but he heard.
“Be where I want you and be ready.”
He trembled, knowing the beast would come to him again.
If asked, later, he wouldn’t know how he managed to make it home. It’s amazing a fledge didn’t take him out, attracted to the still-fresh scent of blood and semen. His eyes wouldn’t focus as he stumbled. When he fell, he lay still and listened to the door swing shut.
He lay there through the day and most of the following night. His body jumped at the tiniest sound and his eyes stayed shut. If death crept up on him, he would welcome it with his submission. But it wasn’t death who pushed tentatively on the door. Instead it was the bumbling limbs of one Xander Harris.
His voice was muffled like through layers of cotton. The body didn’t move. The boy crept closer anxiously, heart racing. It echoed but provoked no hungry movement, no reaction at all.
A hand, tentative, poked one shoulder but pulled back when cool flesh quivered. The body flinched in tandem and a fresh blood-scent filled the crypt.
“You need help, Spike, and probably some blood.”
What should have provoked a sneer or a smirk found nothing. The boy’s face flickered between confusion and worry.
“Get up,” he prodded, voice still soft but unbroken.
The body rose without conscious accord.
“Uhh… come on, then.”
Pale skin strained but didn’t move. He swallowed into the silence.
His voice was harder, clearer in the haze. The body responded and halting steps followed his as they crept from crypt to quarters. The boy muttered invitations under his breath and things began to blur together as his orders came more easily and the body obeyed automatically. There wasn’t any need to think when being told was enough.
He sat unblinking in the shadows. Light flickered at the periphery of but he was still and silent. Footsteps sounded outside the crypt and he trembled at their familiarity.
“You weren’t here.”
The voice was low and dangerous, a wicked tongue rasping half-truths and promises in his ear. He almost moaned but caught the sound in time to stop the gag.
“Tell me where you were.”
Cracked lips opened to respond. His tongue tripped over on one syllable.
The face hardened, like jade over steel. Dark eyes cut into his useless flesh until they consumed him. He began to tremble from the fear he couldn’t hide.
Anger was in the voice now, like a wicked promise of things unpleasant. He hurried to obey, tiny voices flickering in his head like words. Willing. Trapped. Monster. He didn’t know which to believe.
He was poked, prodded and positioned and went easily, limp like soft ivory. His skin glinted golden in a dozen lit candles until blood turned him crimson. Splinters dug into the unblessed parts of him, slithering deeper with an ache that didn’t stop. He drifted as the smell of burnt flesh filled the mausoleum. He stopped trying to breathe and let the air sit heavy in his lungs. He didn’t move at all when the door opened.
“…Let the monsters get you,” the voice said, falling away like footsteps as the door was propped open and he lay exposed.
By miracle or curse, sunlight and monster weren’t the first to find him. Instead clumsy footsteps blocked the coming light and closed the door. They stopped, on threshold, and stared.
Vague blue eyes, pointed already in that direction, absently noted emotions flickering across a stricken face. They fell closed when he was lifted, wrapped and carried.
He didn’t move voluntarily for three days. Commands were his safety. Without them he was trapped inside his head.
When Xander ordered him, “Think for yourself, Spike,” he didn’t know what to think at first. In the beginning there was only silence, before pictures and words and anger came too quickly to process.
He stared around himself, eyes wide for the first time in weeks. His mouth dropped open to find words but speaking wasn’t in the command and instead he fell into thinking. His fingers shredded the cushions and he shuddered at the first hint of a warm touch.
“Talk to me, Spike,” the boy prodded and finally dark blue eyes locked onto something real.
“Riley,” was all he managed before repressed action grabbed him and he was out the door.
The boy stared after him, sour emotion curling in his stomach. He debated calling his Slayer to warn her of the raging blond he doubted a simple chip could stop. In the end he only grabbed his coat and a single stake before following after.
Read the Sequel