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Part 4: Blood, Love & Rhetoric Section 4.1: Shock NOTES: This section coincides with the episode, "Villains." Brief scene of sexual assault. The
air is cool today the time is drawing near “Spike. Spike!” Something thumps against his chest and goes flying off with a clatter. But that’s not possible because he’s buried deep in the earth. Nestled under several feet of dirt. The weight of it presses at him from all sides, immobilizing him. Nothing can touch him here. But then again, how could someone be pouring blood down his throat if he’s in the bloody ground? Somebody is slapping his face. “Spike! Come on! Wake up.” What is this? Can’t they see he’s dead? Let a fellow rest in peace, yeah? “Dammit, Spike. Wake up! I need you.” Buffy? His eyelids flutter. Needs him. She’s grabbing the front of his shirt now. Lifting him up with both fists and shaking. Shouting into his face. He swallows at the blood running down his throat. Can’t move. Eyes won’t open. Useless. She lets go of him and he drops back to the floor. His head hits the concrete with a thunk. Hears it but doesn’t feel it. Is that a bad thing? Doesn’t know. She’s gone. He’s alone in the darkness. Right then. He tries burrowing back down into the safety of the earth. Moments… or years… or… some time later something cold splashes over his face and he gasps. A reflex. But there’s still blood in his throat and he chokes, coughing. Water is trickling down onto his neck, dripping through his hair. Tickles. He feels it. He stops breathing. Stops coughing. She’s come back to dump water in his face. Well… ta very much. He swallows more blood. Manages to pull his eyes open. It’s Warren who stands over him, holding an empty plastic bottle. “God, finally! I need to program you with some kind of… wake up… something…” Warren mutters, tossing the bottle aside and reaching out a hand. “Come on, get up.” Spike blinks. Oh. He lifts an arm and Warren grasps it, pulling him up and scowling at him. As soon as he’s up he starts to go back down again but Warren grabs him first and shoves him against the wall. “Can you stay up?” There’s almost an edge of concern to his voice. Spike nods and Warren lets go. Warren had waited until they’d gotten back to the lair and everything was secured before meting out Spike’s punishment. He’d been livid at the time. And the shocks had been… Spike bends down, putting his hands on his knees. The blood he’s been swallowing is from his nose, which is gushing freely onto the floor just now. Spike tries taking a few deep breaths. His head is reeling. He’s going to heave. As if sensing this, Warren steps back and watches him warily. He’s being careful with him. It must have been quite a show then. Enough to make the boy himself squeamish. Worried that he’d finally broken his favorite toy, more like. “Dude –– you throw up –– you’re cleaning it up. And we don’t exactly have a lotta time here.” Right. No time for throwing up. Spike nods again and straightens up. He wobbles a bit but manages to stay upright. Pain conditioning. Lovely. He presses the heels of his hands against his eye sockets. After a minute or two, he pulls them away and looks at his master. Warren is watching him closely. “You learned your lesson, right? You don’t ever come at me like that again, got it?” Spike sniffs, swallowing more blood. He nods. “All right then. Let’s go. We’ve got work to do.” Warren turns and walks away. Right. Spike stumbles after him. Work to do. At first it’s just screaming. Then there’s the pain. The awareness. And the knowledge that something –– a part of you, you’re not really sure what –– is broken. Then the screaming turns into words and despite knowing the truth of it deep, deep down, you respond. “Willow! Willow! Are you okay? Oh my god, are –– are you okay? Please wake up!” And at first you think it’s the person that you want to see most standing over you. The person you need most. Pulling you back. You trick yourself into thinking that if you just open your eyes, everything will be okay. Just a big joke. Ha ha. And then you open your eyes and you know that nothing is okay. Nothing will ever be okay… not ever again. Willow opens her eyes. All she sees is red. Red turning to sticky brown. She pushes herself up, hands pressing against flesh that is stiff and cold and not at all the way that flesh is supposed to feel. “Oh! Willow! You’re –– I thought you were ––” She pushes until she’s on her knees. Her head feels swooshy. Her face hurts. She’s kneeling over Tara. The thing that was Tara. Her hands are still pressed against it. She stares at her hands. The voice above her is choking and sputtering on words. “Tara… I think she’s –– Is she––? She –– she can’t really be––” There’s a hole in her love. She’s leaked out all over the floor. Soaked into the carpet. And now she’s all empty. Eyelashes over empty eyes. No light there. All gone. Perfect kitty-cat nose. Lips parted to form a permanent, startled, “Oh.” But empty of breath. Gone. All gone. Saying nothing. Not ever again. Forehead smooth as porcelain. No thoughts. Nothing. Gone. This –– this thing beneath her is cold and hard. Like Tara never was. Like Tara could never be. It’s a dead thing, lying in a puddle of dried blood and urine and –– She pulls her hands away. “You’re not her,” she whispers, “You’re not real.” “What? Wha –– Willow? What happened? Are you okay?” Calm seeps over her entire body. She can feel it, like stepping into a warm pool. A baptism. Flowing over her, filling her up. The magic hums within her, giving her purpose. Giving her power. She stands and turns to face Dawn. The girl is a wreck. Puffy tear-streaked face. Maroon streaks of blood on her hands from when she must have tried to awaken the sleepers. A bookbag lies on the floor behind her, discarded, books and cds spilling out of it like guts. She had been at Janis’ last night. The plan was for her to go to school from there and then come home after. So it must be afternoon then. She’s lost a lot of time. Willow goes to her room, pushing past the panicked teenager. “Willow!” Dawn trails behind her, begging like a little yappy dog. “What’s going on? Where’s Buffy? Should –– should I call Xander? Should I call the police? Willow? Please! I –– I don’t understand ––” Willow ignores her. She steps into the bedroom, closing the door in Dawn’s face. She has to find them. The ones who did this. The monsters responsible. No time for chitter chatter. Work to do. He is the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes. She blinks groggily and murmurs his name. "Spike?" Bloodshot eyes flicker to meet hers for a fraction of a second before he turns his attention back to the task at hand. Aside from that, he doesn't acknowledge her. His hair is damp and sticking out in all directions. He looks wild. Dangerous. She lifts her head up as far as she can to get a look around. She is strapped down to a very large, very cold, very dirty table. Naked. Naked!? Okaaaaay… that explains the cold… Oh, this can't be good. Spike is ignoring her. Busying himself at checking the straps to make sure they're tight. He doesn't look directly at her. "Spike? What the hell ––" A spatter of blood drops onto the back of her hand and for a panicked moment she thinks that it is somehow hers. Wait, no –– not hers. Spike tips his head up and sniffles, bringing a shaky hand up to wipe at his upper lip. The blood is coming from Spike. His nose is bleeding. There’s blood all down the front of his shirt. He weaves on his feet for a moment, grabbing onto the table to catch his balance. Then he reaches out a thumb and carefully wipes the drop of blood from her skin. The brief contact causes a strange little shiver in her. She’d forgotten how cold his touch was. He pauses to lick the blood from his hand. Sneaks another look in her direction. She thinks of Tara and closes her eyes. When she looks again, he has turned away from her. He moves to the far end of the room where he huddles on the floor, staring intently at his boots. He sniffs every so often to keep blood from dripping on them. Every few seconds he kinda hunches over and shivers. Again with the weird. Vampire’s can’t feel the cold, right? But hey, she sure can. She strains at the straps. No good. All she manages to do is remind herself that her back still hurts like a mother –– –– hey, wait a minute… she knows this place. She gazes up at the scorched rafters of the factory and snorts. "Oh, very original Spike. You brought me to the factory? You really are a creature of bad habit aren't you?" Nothing. She glances over at him. He's got his elbows on his knees, hands locked together behind his bowed head. Still apparently fascinated by his footwear. "So," she says, watching this new, crazy Spike for some kind of reaction, "You got the nerds to help you in some lame new attempt to prove your love for me? Is that what this is?" He doesn't move. "Come on, Spike. Okay. You love me. I get that.” …love me –– in your own crazy, strap me naked to a rusty table, evil vampire sorta way, she adds under her breath. She clenches her fists and jerks again at the straps around her wrists. Damn. "But this? Not the way to impress a lady." Metal clangs somewhere behind her. A door. She tries to twist her head to see what ‘s coming, but can't quite do it. She looks back over at Spike and sees that he has jerked his head up and sort of stiffened to attention. His eyes are still riveted to the floor a few feet ahead of him though. What's up with him, anyway? "Oh, hey, she's awake!" Suddenly Warren's upside-down head is looming over her own. Ew. She can see up his nose… And EW! He can see her… gah! She renews her struggles against the straps. "Ah, she's feisty, huh?" He grins over at Spike, who is still being Mr. Non-Responsive. Then his tone turns serious and he disappears from her line of vision. "You checked the straps again, right?" "Yeah," Spike replies, his voice hoarse and quiet. Wait a minute. Is Warren the boss? Why would Warren be the boss? Spike would never –– Warren reappears at her side and leers down at her. "Good. Perfect." He leans in and reaches to stroke her hair. "Don't worry baby. Daddy's gonna take good care of you." His hand traces across her collarbone and moves down to her breasts. Buffy closes her eyes and tries not to react. Slayer. Slayer. You're the Slayer, dammit. You will get out of this and you will kick his perverted little ass. You can wipe the floor with this little twit. She forces her voice to remain steady as he paws at her. "Sorry Warren. I'm not really your type," she can feel the strap on her right wrist loosening a tiny bit. "You see, I happen to be real." He laughs and moves his hand up again to stroke at her face. "Even better, baby. Either way, you belong to me n ––" Buffy whips her head around and snaps her teeth. She clamps down on his thumb before he can finish his little boast. She holds on. "Ow! Ow ow ow ow! Oh holy –– Spike! Spike! Get her off me! NOW!" Spike appears immediately behind Warren. She thinks she sees a hint of a smile on his face for just a second. It disappears quickly and then he does –– out of sight behind her. She sinks her teeth deeper and Warren screams. She's down to the bone now. Warren hits her across the face with his other hand. Yeah, good luck with that, asshole. She doesn't even flinch. Then there's a cool hand on her nose, pinching it shut. Another under her chin, gentle but firm, prying her mouth open. Warren's blood is pooling in her mouth and she splutters, trying to twist her head out of Spike's grasp. Her hold loosens and Warren rips his hand away. He doubles over, cradling the injured hand and whimpering. Spike immediately lets go of her. She cranes her neck to see him standing back a few feet away from Warren, watching him cautiously. The vampire keeps blinking, shaking his head from side to side. What had Anya said about rabies? Warren wheels on him. "Don't just stand there you idiot! Get me a… a rag or something." Spike disappears behind her again. When he returns, he hands Warren –– her shirt! Oh! She is so gonna stake him! Warren wraps the shirt around his hand. It turns red almost immediately. He marches over to Buffy, fuming. "Bitch! You're gonna pay for that." His fist slams into her face. Bracing, but not so much painful. Buffy spits his own blood back in his face. There’s a reason why it’s a classic. Take that, geek boy. Oh, he's really angry now. Turning all purpley-red and actually shaking. She takes a peek over at Spike. He's still just standing there, shoe-gazing. Still with the blinking. He looks kind of… nervous? Scared? Is Spike afraid? Of Warren? That can't be right. "Spike," Warren hisses. Spike's head snaps up. "Get me the stunner. It's over there by the tranq gun." Spike hesitates for a second and Warren slowly swivels his head to face him, eyes narrowed. "Now." Spike ducks his head and trods back out of sight. Warren turns his attention back to Buffy, his eyes shining just a little too brightly. "What –– you think you're better than me? You think you can just do that to me and get away with it? |
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