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Chapter 8:

As they emerged from the darkness of the basement, he noticed the color in her face. He had cleaned the blood off, but the left side of her face, where he had hit her with the frying pan, had begun to swell and she had a bit of a black eye.

The skin around her throat was an angry red. A bruise was forming; and around one side of her neck, he could see the outlines of his fingers on her skin.

"Your throat hurt?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Right. Let's go then." He headed out of the house.

Confused, she followed.

The night air was cool and brisk. Spike had to admit that it was nice to be outside, away from the confines of the Master's factory, motel rooms, or the strange house they had found.

Spike sniffed at the air, and found the scent he was looking for. He led her away from their new lair. They passed a small corner grocery, but it was already closed so Spike led her past that to a Doublemeat Palace. The place made his skin crawl, but it was the only thing open.

It wasn't very busy. Only a couple of tables had people sitting at them, and there wasn't a line. No one paid them much mind.

Hoping that the fluorescent lights didn't make him look too dead, Spike strode up to the counter.

"Yeah, a cone of chocolate ice cream," he ordered.

The Slayer perked up a bit at that. She'd been following him like a kicked dog.

"Uh, sir. We don't have ice cream." Spike was about to point to the picture, above the guy, of an ice cream cone, when the scrawny guy behind the counter continued. "We have frozen yogurt."

He didn't notice Buffy's face fall at that.

"Fine. Whatever." Spike actually wanted to slug the guy, but he had no idea which of the strange devices behind him contained the frozen yogurt, so he resisted the temptation.

They got the yogurt and sat down in a booth near the door.

"Didn't mean to say something bad about your mother," was all Spike gave her by way of an explanation.

She nodded and licked her yogurt. She was looking down at the cone and wouldn't meet his eyes. He leaned back in his seat and lit a cigarette.

"That make your throat feel better?" he asked.

Again she nodded, still not looking at him.

"Is something wrong, pet? Your ice cream not good?"

"It's not ice cream. It's yogurt."

"Don't you start," he said exasperated. "Does that really matter?"

She bit her lip, considering her answer. "Yogurt is good for you."

He laughed. "It's not re-"

"Excuse me sir," interrupted a very rude voice. Spike looked up to see a rather chubby Doublemeat employee standing over him. "You can't smoke in here."

"Do I look like I take orders from a guy with a cow on his hat?" Spike asked, he turned his attention back to the Slayer to make it clear that, as far as he was concerned, the discussion was over.

"Look, pe-"

"It's illegal. I'll call the police if you don't leave," the employee insisted.

Spike still didn't look at him. Instead he asked the Slayer, "If I killed cow boy here, would you try and stop me?"

She looked up at him startled, meeting his eyes for the first time since the fight.

"You can't threaten me," the employee squeaked and tried to move away but Spike grabbed his arm and held him in place all the while keeping eye contact with the Slayer.

"Yes." Her voice was still a little raspy, but it was also sure and deadly.

He smiled, seeing the life come back into her. "Why?"

"Because you can't just kill innocent people. It's wrong."

The employee was becoming increasingly nervous as he continued to squirm and tug on Spike's grip. He didn't understand why he wasn't able to break free from Spike's grasp, or even cause Spike's arm to move.

He chuckled, "How do you know he's innocent?" Before she could protest, he continued. "Have you looked in the mirror, kitten? Do you have any idea what you look like at this moment? What do you think she looks like," Spike looked at his captive's nametag, which identified him as the manager. "Matt?"

"I. . . um, She looks really pretty?" Matt sputtered.

"Like your women beat up, do you Matt?" Spike teased his victim.

A couple on the other side of the joint stood up and hurried out the door. Everyone else was making a great show of not watching what was going on.

"No!" Matt protested. "That is. . ."

"Shut up, Matt." Spike managed to make the man's name an insult. "Take a look, kitten."

He gestured to the window, where her reflection could be seen. As her fingers went up to trace the outlines of her black eye, Spike took another drag on his cigarette, and blew the smoke directly into Matt's face. Matt was looking a little pale as he looked into the window seeing Buffy and himself but no Spike.

"Now, I ask you," Spike turned back to Buffy. "If a bloke comes in here, looking the way I do, with a girl, looking the way you do, a person might leap to the conclusion that he had done that to her. That maybe this fellow was beating his girlfriend or wife.

"Now we both know what happened, but that's not the point. The point is that Matt here has threatened to call the police on me, not because I'm an abusive bastard. Not because I've beaten, killed, and raped who knows how many women, but because I'm smoking. So I ask you again, is Matt worth saving? Is he worth risking your life for?"

"You don't understand. . ." she searched for the words to explain to him why he was wrong.

Spike let go of Matt. "If you call the cops now, I'll use you as a human shield, and get you shot. If you call them once we leave, I'll come back and snap your neck," he told him calmly, but leaving no room for argument.

The manager stumbled backwards, nodding. Spike hoped fear would keep the fellow from calling the cops. He knew his appearance was distinctive enough, even if the man only remembered his hair and coat, and that might help the Master to track them down.

"How long have you been the Slayer?" he asked her.

"Since I was fifteen, almost three years now."

"So for three years you've risked your life, night after night. Not to mention all the time you spent in the Master's prison. And you did it for Matt the Manager. Not for some innocent sweet little thing. Is it worth it? Are these people, who don't give a shit about anyone but themselves, really worth giving up your life for?"

"You're evil. You have no soul. You don't get it."

He laughed. It wasn't like he was really trying to convince her. Just sow some doubt, make her wonder if maybe she should be a little more selfish.

"Well, you're right on all three points, although I'd work on your rhetoric. You want more ice. . . yogurt?"

"No." They got up to leave. "Were you really going to kill him?"

Spike was glad to get back outside, away from the smell of the Doublemeat Palace.

"Don't know. Wouldn't have bit him. Couldn't get through all that fat to a vein."

"Why didn't you kill me?" she asked. There was no hint of anger in her voice. Just curiosity.

"Wasn't ready to."

"No, the real reason. I want to know."

He studied her for a moment, wondering if she could deal with the real answer.

"Because you didn't care if you lived or died."

"I care," she whispered, but she thought about it as they walked back to their temporary home.

On the way back, Spike pointed out the market to her, and gave her twenty dollars so she could buy herself some food when they opened the next day.

When they got back, the Slayer was still deep in thought, so Spike turned on the television. He was disappointed to find out that the vampires had been too lazy to steal cable, so all they had were the broadcast channels.

She sat next to him on the couch, but she didn't say anything. He doubted she was really watching the telly either. She seemed lost in thought and he wondered whether she was thinking about whether being the slayer was worth it, or about if she really did want to live.

Eventually, she fell asleep. He lifted her up off the couch and carried her up the stairs to the room with the vampire-unicorns.

He laid her on the bed and unlaced her boots, slipping them off her feet. Her feet were a little red, and he could see blisters beginning to form. They would have to get her some socks.

Then he sat down next to her on the edge of the bed, and undid the knot that held her shirt closed. Underneath was the red lace bra he'd bought her, which did nothing to hide her breasts from his hungry eyes.

He licked his lips as the cool air caused her nipples to harden beneath the red spider-web flowers. He reached out his left hand, and carefully cupped her breast. She sighed and shifted in her sleep, pushing her breast more firmly into his hand.

He had to fight the temptation to fondle her breast, to circle her nipple with his thumb, or to suck it into his mouth.

Instead he unzipped the fly of his jeans, and began to stroke his cock. He held himself still so his movements wouldn't wake her. Only his right hand moved as it rubbed his aching erection.

His eyes were glued to her sleeping form. Once again, he had her completely at his mercy. He could do anything he wanted to her. He thought about quickly unzipping her jeans, and thrusting himself into her. He could do it before she was completely awake, and she would be helpless then. Strong as she was, he would have her pinned down, and he could plunge in and out of her. Her struggles would only make it better for him, as would her crying. Then, he would sink his fangs into her neck and kill her.

Or maybe he wouldn't kill her. Maybe he'd just take enough to weaken her. He would spend the entire night fucking her anyway it suited him. Maybe she'd beg him to kill her, but he wouldn't. He would keep her for as long as she pleased him.

He came with a shudder, biting his lip to keep from crying out. He took his hand from her breast and zipped himself back up. Then he pulled the blanket over her, kissed her on the forehead, and left.





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