Chapter Text
There was a bruise at the corner of Spike's mouth. It was a faint, barely-there shadow and Xander probably wouldn't have even noticed it in the first place if Spike hadn't tilted his head and pursed his lips in just the right manner for the light to catch it. But he had seen it, and now he couldn't stop staring at the faint discoloration with its concurrent mild swelling, which was bad because it looked like he was staring at Spike's mouth.
But he wasn't staring at the vampire's mouth; he was staring just to the side of it, at the bruise. The distinction was important. He had no interest in the vampire’s mouth. None at all, not ever, no matter how much an old memory tried to insist otherwise. There was nothing to think about.
Except for the mysterious origins of the bruise.
He kept wondering what had hit Spike there hard enough to cause the faint blue impression. Usually, it took Slayer or demon strength to damage the bleach-blond, but they hadn't fought anything that could hit that hard in days. At least, not that Xander was aware of. So, either Buffy and Spike had gotten into it- which seemed unlikely at this stage of their lives- or Spike had a run-in with a demon and hadn't seen fit to complain about how a demon couldn’t go five steps in his own town without running into some sort of riffraff.
At least, that’s what he would have done before. Before he had left to mysterious destinations and came back nuttier than a fruit cake. Though still just as fruity, Xander smirked in his own mind. Still didn’t solve the case of the mysterious bruise, though.
It was possible the poor bastard wouldn’t be able to remember such an encounter even if he had run into trouble. Ever since Buffy had found Spike in the school’s basement, he’d apparently spent most of his time either muttering to himself- or to people that weren’t there- or having brief moments of insightful, yet cryptic, advice. Buffy didn’t seem to think he was dangerous, but Xander remembered all the things Spike had shown himself capable of even when he’d first been de-fanged, and soul or not, he didn’t trust the vampire as far as he could throw him. Which, even as skinny as Spike looked, wasn’t going to be very far because he was all solid muscle underneath his black leather duster.
Speaking of, where was Spike’s iconic coat? The vampire hadn’t been wearing it when he’d invaded Buffy’s home- just that tight blue shirt that mapped the curves and angles of his abdomen- ‘helping’ them, and he hadn't been wearing it down in the creepy basement of horrors when they’d gone looking for Willow. And he wasn’t wearing it now. Xander hadn’t seen it when they’d retrieved him from his hidey-hole earlier that evening either.
And that was another thing. Buffy hadn’t just brought Spike up out of the basement of the school; she’d brought him to Xander’s apartment. His home. Not hers. He could understand why- Buffy didn’t want Spike living under the same roof as Dawn, just in case- but that didn’t mean Xander couldn’t grumble and gripe about it. He had never been the vampire’s number one fan and he doubted he ever would be.
Deciding he didn’t actually care all that much about the coat, he closed the door behind Buffy and Dawn, and turned to the vampire that had been left on his proverbial doorstep. “I need a beer. You want a beer?” He headed to the fridge before the vampire could answer.
“I can go,” Spike said again, continuing the discussion from earlier. He made a weird jerky movement, like he wanted to walk toward the door, but also didn't want to incur Buffy’s wrath by disobeying her orders to ‘stay put’.
“No.” Xander popped the tops off two bottles and handed one over to the vampire. “Buffy said to stay here, so you’re staying here.”
Spike eyed him from over the rim of the brown glass. “You're actually gonna hold me here 24/7? Keep me from going out?”
Xander snorted. “Fuck no.” Like he could actually keep a determined vamp from doing what he wanted, chipped or not. “But at least now I can say I tried. Do whatever the fuck you want.” With that he plopped himself down on his couch, determined to get in some good, quality TV time and ignore the blond vampire cluttering up his living room.
“Right. I’m off then.” Spike set the undrunk beer down on the bar top by the door and swept out of the apartment.
“Try not to get dusted. Buffy’ll be pissed,” he called after the vamp. The door slammed. “Good riddance,” Xander muttered, taking another deep draught of his drink with the determination of a man that knows intimately how well alcohol can help one forget one’s troubles. Leave it to Spike to be the one to break Xander’s vow to never become like his father.
*
Spike entered the club with an uncharacteristic sense of relief at the loud noise and crush of sweaty bodies. One thing he didn’t miss about being human was most definitely the lack of gross bodily functions and how wet they always seemed to be. There was a reason he had vastly preferred Drusilla to the exclusion of almost anyone else. Angelus had been the one with the taste for warm, soft human flesh. Spike had been quite content to keep it within their little group, for the most part, though he had ventured outside of it from time to time when the mood suited him. It happened more often as hygiene standards as a whole had risen through the last century.
As William Pratt, he had been uncomfortable at social gatherings, large and small alike, due to always having felt out of place amongst those who had been considered his peers. Hell, he’d been out of place amongst those that upper society had deemed fit for him to associate. The family name and his higher education had made him too good to slum it with the lower classes, but he’d been too awkward and his job too base for him to be taken seriously by those of a higher social status. Ultimately, it left him sitting alone in darkened corners at society gatherings that he’d been obligatorily invited to and that his mother insisted he attend, failing to put his feelings adequately into poetic verse.
After he’d become William the Bloody- and then Spike- he’d cared less about fitting in with the humans, but still found it difficult to be around large gatherings of people, though for an entirely different reason. He’d never realized how bad people had smelled during his time as a human. Oh, they still smelled like delicious food foremost, but late-19th century London, and the rest of the world, hadn’t had much in the way of sewer treatment and large groupings of humans produced large amounts of waste. It had overwhelmed his newly heightened senses in the beginning. If he had not had first Dru, and then Angelus, to focus on, the smell might have sent him around the bend and into seclusion.
Angelus had been the one to teach him to filter out the bad scents and focus on the good ones, the important ones. He’d learned the smells of fear-sweat and anger and lust and euphoria. He sought to be the cause of most of them. Still, too many people had meant too many disgusting biological human odors. If it wasn’t blood or terror he was scenting, it wasn’t worth it to the demon. Ripping apart that gypsy camp had led to a feast of delightful scents, Spike remembered with both fondness and disgust. Remembrance of the Boxer Rebellion and the Chinese Slayer evoked a similar response.
Shaking his head to clear it, he wove his way through the crush of bodies until he’d reached the dance floor. The club was dark, smokey and thick with the heavy odor of lust. He slipped easily among the writhing bodies, moving along to the heavy beat until he came to the center of the floor. It didn’t take long before another body, hard and searing, pressed itself against his, moving vaguely to the same beat. It never took more than a song for Spike to gain a partner.
Large, proprietary hands ran up his shirt, feeling the hard muscle underneath with ardor-filled appreciation. One hand slipped into the unbuttoned gap that left a large amount of his chest exposed, fingers slipping down to tease at a nipple. The hand was damp and smelled of salt and char. Spike repressed a shudder of revulsion. This was what he needed; what he wanted. It was blood and heat and instinct.
Human-blunt teeth nipped indelicately at his ear. Hot breath curled over his neck. Spike ground his hips back into the body behind him. The torso was soft, but not overly so, and the hard length pressed against his ass was made all the more obvious for it. He reached a hand behind him, grasping a hip firmly and encouraged the man that was feeling him up to rub against him harder.
“Jesus, you’re so hot,” came the voice, a little higher than he’d expected. The hand that had been in his shirt pulled back and started working on his buttons, one-by-one, until it fluttered open, leaving Spike’s torso exposed to anyone who might have cared to look. Used to being put on display, Spike just leaned his head back onto a rounded shoulder and lost himself in the feel of the touches the other danced across his body.
One hand stayed on Spike’s chest, feeling along the smooth muscle there with its sparse hair, squeezing lightly over a pectoral. The other trailed back down ribs and abs to the low-riding waistband of Spike’s jeans. They lingered along the edge, playing with the indentation of his navel, and combing through the trail of dark blond hair between the two.
“Want to go somewhere more private?” The voice tried to husk into his ear, missing the sexy tone it was likely going for by more than a mile. Not that it mattered to the vampire. He’d gotten lucky on the first try it seemed. This one would do nicely.
Spike grinned, reached down to grab a hand, and tugged the man off the dance floor and toward the back door that led to the alley that was generally used by patrons of the club for more ‘private’ moments. The man, unable to believe his luck at scoring such a beautiful creature, stumbled along behind him. Cool air washed over them as they let themselves outside. There was already one couple busy making out by the door, hands buried in pants, moaning heavily. Spike led his partner further down, to the other side of a dumpster.
He pushed the man against the brick wall and licked his lips, pleased as the man’s eyes dilated at the movement. “What do you want?” He whispered hoarsely; already sure he could guess what this representation of masculine mediocrity would ask him to do.
The man hesitated for a moment. “Suck me,” he said, and then looked surprised at his own forthrightness.
Spike’s grin widened and he dropped to his knees. The air was heavy with the scents of refuse and desperation, but that suited Spike just fine. In a matter of moments, he had the man’s pants undone and his sweaty dick in his mouth. It tasted mostly of salty skin and bitter precum, and Spike wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or disappointed that his mark washed regularly.
Was it penance if he found pleasure in any part of it? Even just that the man tasted clean, and Spike wouldn’t have to feel like washing his mouth out with Listerine directly afterwards?
He sucked furiously, using every trick he’d ever learned in his one hundred years of sucking cock and taking advantage of his lack of needing to breathe to bring the man off quickly. He turned his head slightly, purposely stretching the side of his mouth that had been bruised the night before. Thick fingers threaded through his hair, holding him to the man’s groin tightly, when Spike opened his throat and swallowed around his prick. The man above him groaned, thrust reflexively, and then Spike was swallowing the sea; salt and bitter coated his tongue.
Pulling off as soon as the man was done, Spike stood, buttoning his shirt back to partially closed. The man leaned against the exposed brick wall, panting. “Holy hell, where the fuck did you learn to suck cock like that?”
Spike grinned at him, curling his tongue around an eye-tooth. “I assure you, there was nothing holy about it.”
The man groaned. “Fuck, and you’re British.” He ran his eyes over the blond’s lean form. “Can I do anything for you?” It was clear he wouldn’t have minded getting his hands down the back of Spike’s pants as well as his front.
“Nah, mate,” Spike said. “Though…” Here he hesitated, playing coy.
“Yeah?” The man was gratifyingly eager.
Spike looked up at him demurely though his eyelashes. “You ain’t got anything on ya, have you?”
The man appeared confused for a moment. “Got anything… Oh!” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small glass vial of white powder. “You mean this?” Spike nodded, thanking his lucky stars for the post-nut stupidity of men. “Sure.” He carefully tapped some out onto the back of Spike’s hand, and Spike, less carefully, sucked it up his nose.
“Ta, mate.” He turned and headed back into the club, leaving the man staring after him wistfully. Now that he’d taken the edge off, it was time to find some actual catharsis, as temporary as it might be. He would need it if he was expected to be stuck with Harris for any length of time.
At least the screaming inside his head had quieted. For now.
*
It had taken over a month for Spike to get back to Sunnydale from Africa. At least, he thought it had. Having one’s soul unexpectedly shoved back into their demonically possessed body was a bit disorienting, to say the least. He remembered the trip only in flashes.
He remembered, after the burning pain of having his soul lighting within him, being curled up on the cool stone floor of the cave and sobbing, wretchedly and whole-heartedly, clawing bloody furrows into his arms and torso, screaming, and begging for the demon shaman to take it back. Please, please, please… I take it back. I can’t. Oh God. No. Nonono…
The next thing he can recall is sand and being on his knees, staring dully at the horizon, and wondering if greeting the sun one last time wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all. He would be warm, at least. But he hated being burned. Worst feeling in the world to him, burning. Would rather have a stake through his heart.
Things got fuzzy again, but he’d obviously decided that he didn’t need a tan that badly, because there was an almost comforting darkness, the smell of salt, and a gentle rocking lulling him back to sleep. How he’d gotten himself on the ship, he had no recollection.
It was dark, dark, dark for a long while after that. He woke, sometimes, to the scurrying of rats, starving and unable to help himself. By the end of that voyage, there had never been a ship so clean of rodents, he was sure.
He vaguely remembered falling over the side of the boat and floating to shore, near the Port of Hueneme. California. Spike had made it back to the States. He had stumbled through the night, eventually passing a sign that said ‘Welcome to Oxnard’ and that was when a memory had hit him with the full force of an eighteen-wheeler.
Spike was, for once, not tied down to the hideous Barcalounger that had been his bed for the duration of his stay with Harris. They’d gotten drunk, he couldn’t remember why, and next thing he knew, Xander was recounting his adventures at the Fabulous Ladies’ Night Club. He’d been a dishwasher there for over a month, Spike recalled him saying, and no one had spoken more than a few words to him. He’d lived in his broken-down car, scraping together the money necessary for repairs to the scrap heap.
That was, until a dancer had called in sick, and management had been left scrambling to find a replacement. Just Xander’s luck that he’d been out back, shirt off due to the oppressive heat of the kitchen, and the owner had told him he’d do. He’d tried to refuse, but the promise of an extra two hundred for the one-time favor, and keeping any tips, had proved too big of an enticement for the brunet. He squeezed himself into the costume and had done his best to mimic the movements he’d seen the other dancers perform.
He must have done something right, he had said, because he’d left that night several hundred dollars and three phone numbers richer. He’d spent the rest of that summer learning the finer points of pleasing a woman and what pleased him in return. He had finished the story with a smile full of such smug self-satisfaction that Spike couldn’t help but attempt to knock the boy down a peg or two.
It had started subtly enough, he thought.
He joked that maybe Xander’s interest in the male dancers’ movements hadn’t been as innocent as the boredom the boy had claimed it to be. Harris had brushed him off, secure in the knowledge that he knew what he liked, and nothing could shake his foundation of solid heterosexuality. And that was when Spike had started reeling him in.
“You ever wonder about it?”
Harris eyed him through a haze of alcohol. “Wonder about what?”
“If you’d like it.” At the boy’s questioning look, he added, “being with a man.”
“Fuck no.”
Spike peered at him from underneath his lashes, knowing it made him appear demure; less dangerous and more corrupted innocence. Angelus had loved that look, and to this day, so did most men that were so inclined. He wondered if Harris would feel the same. “Even if you were the one doing the fucking?”
Harris gave a noise of disgust. “Still no.” The look he gave Spike was suspicious. “Why?”
The vampire shrugged carelessly, set his can down, and stood slowly from his seat, taking care to appear as non-threatening as possible. He felt a thrill run through him as Harris allowed him to get closer. He hadn’t felt like this in some time; not since before the soldier-boys had caged and chipped him. Spike was on the hunt again and Harris was his prey.
He crouched in front of the brunet on the sofa. “Well, you apparently watched those dancers closely enough to imitate them so well as to convince a bunch of horny women to depart with their precious money. No easy feat, I’m sure you’re aware.” Slowly, oh so slowly, he placed the tips of his fingers onto a jean-clad knee. “Maybe you watched them so carefully for another reason.”
“Spike…” Xander’s voice carried a note of warning.
“Come on, Harris,” he coaxed, trailing his fingers a little higher. “It’s just you and me here. You can tell old Spike anything you want. Who am I gonna tell?”
The boy’s breath was coming more rapidly now; his heart pounded harder. A smirk threatened to take over Spike’s face, but he held himself in check. Appearing as anything other than genuine at this juncture would lose him the game. He fell forward a bit to kneel, bringing his chest into contact with Harris’ knees. “Who would believe me even if I did,” he breathed.
Unconsciously, the boy’s legs had fallen open, allowing Spike to wedge himself between hard thighs. He had both hands on Harris’ legs now, lightly massaging his way up to the crease of his hips. A groan escaped from the man above him; a light sheen of sweat graced his upper lip and forehead.
“Spike.” The reproach had all but fallen away, replaced by a huskiness that matched the beginnings of the erection the vampire could see pressing against the front of Xander’s jeans. The sharp smell of arousal started to fill the air.
“Xander.” Spike trailed his lips up one thigh, thumbs rubbing small circles into rough cloth on either side of the dick stirring beneath the material. “Let me show you how good it can be.” He pressed his mouth lightly to the zipper of the jeans and looked up at the boy, keeping his gaze soft. “Let me show you how good I can be for you.”
There was a shift in Harris’ gaze. A surrender of sorts. Gotcha, Spike thought triumphantly.
“Fuck,” Xander groaned. “Yes. Please, yes.” He curled a hot hand around the back of Spike’s neck, surprisingly gentle. “Suck me, Spike.”
Ducking his head down to hide his grin, Spike quickly opened Harris’ jeans and pulled his dick out, swallowing him down with barely a glance. Harris was already half-hard, a thick and pleasant weight on Spike’s tongue. He went slow, drawing out the experience, experimenting with pressure and suction, but never hesitant. Never shy nor particularly careful. Spike had always had a particular talent for knowing what a person wanted and giving it to them.
He worked the cock in his mouth until he felt the balls underneath draw up and fingers dug themselves into his hair, pulling sharply. Then he did the move that had caused the countless men before Xander to fall at his feet and took Harris deep into his throat without any hint of hesitation or discomfort.
Harris moaned, long and loud, coming hard. Spike swallowed once, twice, then slowly pulled back to suckle gently on his length until Harris was empty. For a moment, all was quiet, except for the panting breaths Harris took as he tried to get his breathing under control.
“Jesus,” Harris said, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.
Spike tucked Harris back into his pants. “Don’t think he had much to do with it.”
At the sound of Spike’s voice, Xander seemed to come back to himself. He stared down at the vampire, horror creeping across his face. “Oh, God.”
“Pretty sure he didn’t have much to do with it either.” Spike stood, frowning to himself. “Or is it 'she', you think? Like in that movie with the skeeball obsession and New Jersey,” he mused, absently wiping at his chin.
Harris groaned, leaning forward to put elbows to knees, face buried in his hands. “No, no, no.”
“It wasn’t that bad for a movie about religion.” Spike seated himself back on the Barcalounger. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “There was blood and strippers in it, too.”
“What have I done?” Harris’ voice had acquired a rather desperate, high pitch. “I cheated on Anya. I cheated on her with a guy. I cheated on her with a guy vampire.”
“‘Course, there was death in the Bible as well.” He tapped ashes onto the concrete floor contemplatively. “And whores. Perhaps that movie was more representative of the Good Book than I originally thought.”
Suddenly, Harris’ head whipped up to glare at him. “You.”
Spike could feel the smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. “Me,” he agreed.
Harris lunged at him. Startled by the unexpected movement, Spike launched himself up over the side of his chair, barely dodging out of the way of the sweaty, grasping hands in time. “You did this.” Xander lunged for him again.
“Me?” He did a half-turn, keeping out of range of Harris’ flailing limbs. “Sod off. I didn’t hold my own face to your crotch and beg for a suck. That was all you, mate.”
An incoherent sound of rage was Spike’s only warning before Harris full body tackled him to the floor. His head banged loudly against the washing machine. He hissed at the contact, not because it had been painful, but to play on the boy’s sympathetic nature at the rough treatment. He wasn’t going to be able to fight back by his preferred means, after all.
A fist slammed across his cheekbone. So much for the sympathy then. “You. Did. This.” Harris raged at him from behind clenched teeth while raining blows down upon him between the words. “It’s all your fault!”
Unable to do anything else without risking his chip igniting, Spike put his arms up over his face. While he had a high tolerance for pain, and even enjoyed it under the right circumstances, it still wasn’t fun healing broken bones and cartilage. Harris had just enough force behind his punches to do some real damage to the vampire’s face.
Eventually, Harris seemed to tire himself out and the punches stopped. Instead, he grabbed the collar of Spike’s shirt and pulled him in close. “We never speak of this again,” he hissed. “This never happened. Or I don’t care how fangless you are, I will stake you.” Red-rimmed brown eyes glared down into blue.
Spike held his hands up in surrender, affecting a suitably faux-cowed demeanor. “All right, all right. I give. Not a peep.” When Harris continued to glare at him, unmoving, Spike grinned and rolled his hips. “Unless you want to continue doing what we didn’t do?”
“Ugh.” Disgusted, Harris dropped him and got up from the floor. “I’m going to bed. Get in the chair so I can tie you down.”
Picking himself up from the floor, Spike brushed himself off. “Only a poof would want to tie another man down in a reclining position when going to bed,” he muttered to himself.
“What was that?”
“Nothin’.” Unable to help himself, he added, “tosser.”
Xander gazed heavenward, to all appearances looking like a man praying for the strength to not kill the demon in his presence. “Just get in the fucking chair and shut up.”
Spike looked at him.
“Don’t even say it.”
“You said it, not me.” Still, deciding that he’d pushed things with Harris far enough, he got in the chair and kept quiet while the boy tied him up for the night. Harris smelled of recent orgasm and despair. Spike turned his face into his opposite shoulder, away from Harris, hiding his grin. The scent satisfied the demon. He felt as if he’d just completed a successful hunt with Harris as the unsuspecting prey.
La petite mort. It was something. He fell asleep grinning triumph.
*
It had been his first cogent memory not filled with unspeakable horror since the return of his soul. It had also given Spike an idea. That night with Xander had been one of the few times since he’d gotten the chip that he’d felt powerful. In control. For all that he’d been the one with a dick in his mouth, he’d dictated the terms of the encounter. He’d gotten the boy to give in to his base desires. The white hat wasn’t so starched and perfect after all. Spike had felt almost euphoric at the time for having brought the boy down from his high horse. For just a moment, the knight had stumbled and shown Spike what was really underneath that holier-than-thou attitude.
But now, Spike focused on a different part of the memory; when Harris had gotten so angry and had beaten him. On where the boy had gotten retribution against the one who had wronged him. That was what he needed. Atonement. He needed to pay for his sins. His soul craved absolution. But how did he get it?
First, he needed to get back to Sunnydale. If anyone could grant it to him, it would be Buffy, the Chosen One. If she was worthy enough to be the Slayer and had gone to Heaven when she died, that had to mean she was pure enough to grant him his penance. And if she didn’t, perhaps he could find a way to earn it.
Spike made his way north under the cover of darkness. It took him longer than it should have. He was underfed, exhausted, and sometimes his memories superimposed themselves over the current landscape and he forgot where he was. Nearly four nights after he’d stumbled back onto American soil, he found himself in the basement of the high school where he’d once taken an axe to the back of the head from a fiercely protective mother. He had no idea how he had gotten there or why he’d chosen the school basement as his final stop to rest.
Somehow, the memories felt sharper than they ever had before when he was down there. Blood, screams, and tears ran across his vision in a near-continuous stream. Eventually, he was granted a reprieve from the onslaught and he knew he needed to get out of the basement before they started again. He cleaned himself up in the school showers and went out into Sunnydale proper.
He’d meant to go to Buffy. Find her, ask her for help, and beg her for the absolution he needed. Instead, Spike had come across a club rife with the scents of copper and lust, and once again the memory of sucking Harris off came to the fore. He wasn’t ready for Buffy. She’d never accept him as he was, when he hadn’t even begun to try and earn his penance on his own. How could she know he was serious if he didn’t try to make amends on his own?
He knew what he could do to start atoning though. He had forced blood and sex onto countless humans in his time. Perhaps it was only fair to have them do the same to him, he told himself.
Spike stole the wallet of one of the patrons waiting to get in- mentally adding it to the tally of crimes he had to pay for- and easily charmed his way past the doormen with a smile and a couple of fifties. Spike wound his way around the dance floor to the bar, purchased a double whiskey, left a hefty tip for the bartender to keep them coming, and studied the rest of the club for a likely subject to mete out his justice.
An opportunity presented itself around the time he’d finished his second drink. There was a man, large with muscles sculpted at a gym, and he was harassing two women in the far corner of the dance floor. A few seemed to have noticed, but no one had stepped in, yet. Normally, he wasn’t one to insinuate himself into the role of savior, but it wasn’t the women he was after anyway. He set his glass down on the bar top and wound his way towards the little group, moving sinuously through the crowd.
Spike hadn’t hesitated. He clamped a hand down firmly on the larger man’s shoulder. “I think they’d like you to leave them alone now.”
The man whirled to face him. Over his shoulder, Spike could see the girls’ looks of relief turn back into ones of concern when they saw how much the other guy outsized him. He tried to shoot them a brief grin before turning to face the man again.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Spike shrugged. “No one, really. Just a concerned citizen.”
“I suggest you take your concern elsewhere. I’m busy.”
The vampire fought not to roll his eyes, then wondered why he bothered and did it anyway. The point of interfering was to piss the human off anyway. Humans never seemed to appreciate an eye roll when it was directed at them. “Just as soon as you take yours off those two ladies right there.”
Gritting his teeth, the man stepped closer to Spike, clearly attempting to use his greater height and bulk to intimidate him. Spike sighed. He’d seen more intimidating Pekingese. They had viciously sharp teeth for such small animals. Her blood was hot and filling, power thrummed through him... No! Don’t think about China. “Are you going to leave them alone or not? I don’t really feel like attempting to converse with Neanderthals when there’s much more pleasant pursuits about.”
Lie, but the rage that ran across the man’s face was exactly what he’d been looking for. He pulled back his fist, and Spike watched him thrust it forward and let it hit him. He went with the punch just enough to not cause too much damage, and then swung around to aim his own fist into the man’s side.
His head exploded as flesh connected to flesh. Crying out, he dropped into a crouch, clutching at his head. Apparently not one to let an opportunity escape him, the man Spike had taunted kicked out at him, connecting solidly across Spike’s back.
The vampire flinched. The ache in his head wasn’t actively building anymore, but it was still painful. He felt himself roughly grabbed under his arms and pulled up to stand. The guy had clearly called a few of his friends over to help him grab the interloper. He felt himself dragged out of the club. A cool breeze blew over them and helped to clear his head. At least the women were being left alone now.
Saved the damsels and earned some bruises. His old self would be proud.
They shoved him roughly up against the brick wall and pinned him there. “This will teach you to interfere.” If his head hadn’t still hurt, he would have rolled his eyes again at the lameness of the line. As it was, by the time they left him lying in a heap in the dirty alley he was bleeding from several shallow cuts and had two cracked ribs.
It felt amazing. The pain dulled the images that had plagued his mind since the return of his soul. He felt… not clean, but closer to it than he’d been in a long while. He went back to his basement, caught a rat, and slept deeply for the first time in weeks.
Two days later, the feeling of relief was gone, and he’d started talking to himself. His old self. The self of the leather duster and bad attitude. He’d black out and wake in strange places with no memory of how he’d gotten there. And through it all, the guilt continued to eat at him.
Soon, just getting into a fight wasn’t enough. He needed more. And so, he got bolder. Sought harsher punishments. Anything to gain even just one moment of peace from his own tortuous soul.
During one memorable night, he picked a fight at a local biker bar, got his ass beat, and then went across town to the ‘nice’ gay club and let two men double team him in the back parking lot, greedy hands pressing into the bruises that were already forming. He finished the night off by drinking enough to pass out in his basement corner and awoke retching, unable to actually vomit up the liquor that was poisoning him.
The first time he was mistaken as a rent-boy, he didn’t even blink, just took the money. The man had handed him a twenty and thanked him for the blowjob. Spike smirked and pocketed the cash for a future alcohol purchase. Or maybe smokes. He was running a bit low.
That was far from the last time he’d gotten paid for his services. He gained a reputation at his favorite clubs for being available for a fuck or a fight, whichever suited. People looked at him with a mixture of disgust, and pity, and lust. He didn’t care. All he wanted was to forget, for a few moments, all the horrible things his demon had done, and still wanted to do.
He found his way to a fetish club that catered to the BDSM crowd, and edged on just this side of propriety, and got himself put on the list as a rather willing and fetching sub. He begged them to tie him down and flog him, paddle him, do whatever they wanted as long as they made him hurt. Still, it didn’t feel like quite enough. It wasn’t long, however, before offers to perform outside the normal bounds of the club rules started to roll in and he accepted their invitations carelessly for more private venues.
And it was in those places that Spike found a kind of solace.
Spike let himself be tied up, tied down, shoved face first into mattresses, smacked around, and carved into. His only restrictions were not to cut anything off or break any bones. He’d be no use to the Slayer if she came to him in need and he couldn’t move due to a broken ankle or a missing limb. He needed to be ready for her.
Depraved men and women paid handsomely for the privilege of living out some of their deepest and darkest desires. Spike reveled in the brief feelings of atonement he felt after each session. For at least a few days, his soul quieted, and he felt lighter. Almost whole, synced with the conflicting desires of his soul and his demon. Penance and pain. Water and blood.
Eventually, inevitably, the feeling would wear off and he would be itching again, his soul whispering atone, atone, atone with every passing second and his demon counterpointing with its desire for violence.
*
The first time Spike was offered drugs in lieu of cash for his services, he had hesitated. The cash had been nice, it paid for cigarettes and booze, which kept him nicely numb during the in between times. But the coke and whatever else was on offer would numb him to what they wanted to do to him and even in his search for penance, he wasn’t sure he could be completely sober for what was about to happen.
He accepted, sucked the fine white powder up his nose, and let them chain him to the stockade in the basement. Not a cross, thankfully. It would have been difficult to explain the spontaneous combustion that putting his skin to a cross would have created. Distantly, Spike wondered if he had a thing for basements and bondage. Sure, he was a vampire, and he liked the security of being underground and away from the sun as much as the next photosensitive demon, but this was the second time in less than four years he’d made a habit of being tied down and abused in one.
And then the pain began, and soon after he floated away somewhere above his body, and he didn’t think much of anything for a long time. They gave him something else halfway through the session, he vaguely recalled later. The effect was reminiscent of the mandies he’d taken in the early ‘70s before they’d been outlawed, and he spent some time happily chattering away and laughing inanely at the woman with the scalpel before he drifted away again. When he came back, he was hanging by his wrists, blood dripping from cuts made all over his body and leaking out of his ass. He couldn’t even remember them touching him there.
Spike ached for days afterwards, even with his vampiric healing, which had slowed from his diet of rats and other small animals he found. He couldn’t bring himself to visit a butcher’s shop for blood, and he still wasn’t ready to face the Slayer and her groupies. So, slow healing and delayed reflexes it was.
It became somewhat of a regular thing after that. The same person always approached him, always with the same deal. Spike found himself waiting eagerly for his next session with the group. The drugs they provided let him escape from the hell that was his memories, quieting his tortured mind, and the bloodletting relieved the heavy burden of guilt from the newly implanted soul. Soon, he was taking whatever pills or tabs they had on offer almost faster than they could hand them over.
Word had gotten around at how well he could take a beating and come back from it, looking for more. Spike was welcomed into almost every club he walked into. He’d become something of a living, walking legend amongst the humans of Sunnydale’s seedy underbelly. He lived in a haze of sex, drugs, and pain. Time lost meaning. Some days, he even forgot who he was. Those were the best ones.
Then Buffy- the real Buffy- found him during one of his not-so-great days, and everything fell apart like marbles scattering across a chessboard; light and dark passing by him. Chaos with no meaning; no strategy, just trying to avoid the inevitable defeat as long as possible. His grasp on reality had already been tenuous at best, but now, with her back in his unlife, he couldn’t be sure when he was talking to the Other and when he was having an actual lucid conversation with a real person.
Her appearance, however, did spark within him the desire to take a look at his own. Well, as much as he could. His hair had grown longer, and he had been leaving it to curl naturally, to give himself a more youthful and vulnerable appearance. His benefactors liked that about him, he had been told. He’d died at twenty-six, smooth-faced with wide, blue eyes, a vulnerable look to him before the demon had put a cruel twist there. No wonder he'd been picked on by his so-called peers when he'd been alive. Too pretty by half for a man, some of them had said. They hadn't thought he was pretty after Drusilla and he had paid them a visit.
It wouldn’t do to have Buffy think of him that way, either. Soft. For her, he needed to be strong. It was time to be Spike again. Hopefully, he could remember how. Hopefully, the Other would leave him alone long enough for him to prove himself useful to the Slayer and her merry band of righteous demon butchers.
He bought some bleach for his hair and picked up some new clothes with the cash he'd stored away and never did much with at a local department store. He cleaned himself up and then, when he heard of some nasty beastie eating pets and people, he went to Revello Drive and offered himself unto the Slayer’s altar to be judged.
Harris was there and rightfully suspicious, though Spike couldn't help but roll his eyes at him. It had been some time since Spike had seriously meant to harm any of them and done more than threaten. One would think the boy would have figured that out by now. It was moot anyway since he had the chip. He couldn’t hurt them whether he wanted to or not.
At the Bronze, when the woman asked if any of them hadn't slept together, he saw the quelling glare Xander leveled at him and had to roll his eyes again. He hadn't brought up that incident even once in the nearly four years since it had happened despite numerous opportunities to do so; why the boy seemed to think he would bring it up now of all times he had no idea. Still, it was nice to know the boy hadn’t forgotten about their encounter either.
Then Anya nearly outed him to the entire group, and he panicked trying to shut her up. Buffy told him he hadn’t changed at all, and when he accidentally stabbed a man trying to protect her, his chip didn't send fire searing down his veins like it was supposed to, and all he could think was that he needed to atone. Bad, bad Spike. Bad William. No hurting the flock. Must accept his punishment like a good, little Anglican boy. He found an abandoned church nearby and quietly lost his mind, thoughts swirling deeper and deeper into the abyss. The clothes hadn’t helped. The accent, the mild demeanor, none of it had made a difference. He was still a monster. Still hurt people even when he didn’t mean to. He was still broken. Wrong. Not a man.
Buffy found him and he tried to tell her about the clothes, but it got all twisted up and he didn’t know what else to do but offer himself to her service, as he’d been doing for several weeks now. That always made things better, he knew. He was good at it. She'd said so before, once, and the scores of women before and since had told him the same. He could go down on them for hours if need be. They liked what he could do for them. She had liked what he could do for her. He could be good. William had been good. He could be good-Spike.
Except she didn't want him anymore. "No," she had said to him and he knew then that he was too much of a beast and her too pure a woman to sully herself on him. He was unclean. Unworthy of even touching her in service. How far had he fallen that his human soul was worth less than the pure demon he had been before? Was his soul even there? But he’d felt it burning inside him. Maybe that had just been him burning. He hated the feeling of becoming ash. The process made his skin crawl. But maybe that’s what souls were supposed to feel like. Smoking ember on the inside. His outsides should match, he thought, and hung himself on the cross.
During the following weeks, he continued to go out when he felt lucid enough to do so, seeking subjugation at the hands of the humans he had once brutally slaughtered without thought. He licked and sucked and fucked until it all ran together again, until he could only tell the time by the drugs he'd taken, and the where and how he woke up.
All that had led him to here, quietly losing his mind in the tiny room given to him by a man who hated him for what he was and what he'd done. Who had called him a thing after Spike had slept with his ex, conveniently forgetting how he had let this thing suck him off and had enjoyed it. A man that had said that Spike disgusted him.
Buffy had come for him and stuck him here and he loved and hated her for it because now he had to try. He had to try to keep it together, to not let the Other speak too loudly to him, and to not let on what his nighttime roaming actually entailed.
And to make sure they didn't realize that, slowly, his chip was failing. Soon, he'd no longer be safe for them to be around. At least, they would think so. The soul wouldn’t matter, he knew. To them, he was only Spike- a monster- and that was all he would ever be.