Wayward by Devil Piglet

Part 5: Got To Give It Up

Nearly two days, and she’d not taken blood again since that first time. Spike was moving past edgy and straight to desperate. Can’t lose her, can’t kill her again…

“You’re just being pigheaded,” he told her angrily. “You do know that, right?”

Nikki sat curled up on the cot, face buried in the hollow between her knees. She didn’t respond. As her newfound strength had ebbed she’d stopped speaking, apparently preferring to conserve her energy for other pursuits.

Spike paced in front of her. “Not so tough now, are you? Afraid of a little bit of blood. What the hell do you care, anyway, if it’s blood or bourbon? What does it matter if it – if it makes you…other than dead?”

A sudden tremor went through her then. Raising her head, she snarled at him.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he taunted her. “Show the Big Bad what you’ve got.”

She sprang from the bed and launched herself at him, as she had half a dozen times already. She’d channeled all of her vigor from the blood into pummeling him on a regular basis. Not that he minded – much – but he didn’t have the answers she wanted.

She was on him now and he deflected her easily, sent her sprawling across the gritty floor. She struggled to rise but he was already there, pinning her wrists above her head while he crouched beside her and whispered bleak truths into her ear.

“We can keep dancing like this, you and me. I’ve missed it. I’ll wear you down, make it hurt. Or you can be a good girl and do what you must. Ends the same, either way: you’ll be drinking before the sun goes down.”

She twisted and managed a quick, sharp jab to his ribs. He grunted in real pain and glimpsed her shadow of a smile. Above them, the basement door creaked open.

She froze, and the gaze that before had been purely hateful was now panicked as well.

Deceptively light footfalls on the stairs while he tugged Nikki up and toward the cot. She tumbled there just as Buffy descended the last step.

“Hi, guys.” She looked drawn, tired but her eyes were warm. She held a bundle of clothing in her hands.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been down here more,” she said. “I’ve been running around, what with the working and the slaying and the…end-of-the-world preventing. Plus Dawn and Andrew are about to declare all-out war. One day they’re best friends, the next it’s all hair-pulling and ‘she won’t let me borrow her ‘Smallville’ tapes!’” She addressed herself to Nikki, and Spike could tell she was trying to put the other woman at ease.

But Nikki’s stare was dull and glassy. Buffy looked to Spike, then placed the clothes next to Nikki on the cot.

“You shouldn’t have had to wait so long, but none of the others are as tall as you. These – these belonged to my mother. I hope you like them.”

Long, listless fingers brushed the cotton shirt and khakis, then pulled back. Buffy moved closer.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. “I know these aren’t the best of accomodations. Giles is trying to figure out what’s wrong with you, so we can make you better. I just wanted you to know we’re working on it.”

She stepped back and motioned to Spike. He risked one last glance to Nikki, saw that her eyes had closed. He joined Buffy at the other end of the room.

“Spike, she’s…I wish I knew what to do.”

No, you don’t, he almost answered. Aloud he said, “Give it a bit more time, Slayer. Girl’s obviously been through a rough patch.”

“I know.” Buffy bit her lip. “But we can’t take care of her forever. Pretty soon The First is going to be back in the game and I’m going to need everyone focused on that. I can’t – I can’t afford – "

“Right,” he answered shortly. “’Round here you got to earn your keep. I know the score, Buffy.”

“Please don’t.” And when he looked at her then he could see the fear she hid from the others, the growing suspicion that she wouldn’t be enough. That none of it would be enough.

“Sorry, pet.”

Awkward silence ensued, and then Buffy asked, “Has she said anything about how she got here?”

“They almost had me, though. Didn’t think they’d fight that well with their eyes sewn shut.”

He didn’t want to lie to her. It was the one thing he’d never done. But then, he thought he wouldn’t hurt her either and next thing he knew he had her faded, nubby bathrobe beneath his frenzied fingers and she was sobbing out for him to stop –

“Spike?”

“Nothing yet. Traumatized, I suppose.”

“Right. I mean…of course.” She looked back at the wan figure on the bed, and Spike saw that softness in her gaze; that tenderness that was so infrequent, so fragile and precious to him. It could have been stamped out by now, eroded by sorrow and bitterness – so how could he fault her for not showing it more, when it was a triumph that it survived at all?

“Thank you…for taking care of her.” Buffy smiled slightly. “I think it’s good for you, actually.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that, and after a moment she reached out, gave his hand a tentative squeeze and walked silently up the stairs.

Spike turned when he heard the door shut. Nikki watched him through half-lidded eyes. He picked up the tall thermos of blood he’d stashed, and approached her. She was too weak now to do anything but edge away as he sat beside her.

Opening the thermos, he tipped the rim up to her mouth. She turned her face away.

Spike swallowed. Carefully, he dipped his fingers into the thermos. They emerged coated in crimson.

He painted her lips with the blood, tried not to think about the satiny feel of her flesh against his. Why am I doing this, why are you making me do this…?

She resisted its pull at first, but soon her breathing quickened. Harsh, jagged gasps as the scent and taste of the blood asaulted her senses. Spike waited.

Her small pink tongue darted out, flicked at her lips. Spike could not look away. She licked and licked, even as her eyes closed and a solitary tear escaped.

“That’s a girl,” Spike murmured. He brought his fingers to her mouth again and this time her lips parted, took his fingers inside before he could do anything else. She suckled frantically, hands rising to clutch at his.

His eyes drifted shut; he dropped his forehead to rest against hers. Nikki released his fingers with a small, forlorn whimper and he hushed her. More blood on his fingers, in her mouth, slippery on her sandpaper tongue and he kissed away the wetness on her face, brought her closer until they were almost joined, almost one.

“Drink – drink.” He lifted the thermos again and this time she took it, throat working as she emptied the container. When she handed it back to him he took it, set it down beside the cot.

He could see the loathing build in her eyes, for him and for herself. He hurried to distract her.

“Joyce’s clothes. You want to get out of those – other ones, don’t you?” He couldn’t stand to see them another day, another minute.

She nodded sluggishly.

“Can you…?” His mind, abruptly overcome with William’s daintiness, refused to finish the sentence. Nikki met his gaze for the briefest moment, then looked downward.

“Right then.” He took her lightly by the shoulders, moved her so that she faced away from him. I’m sorry, sweetling. This is wrong, so wrong but I don’t know anymore what’s right and you’re here now and that’s all that matters.

When his fingers slipped under her shirt and grazed the bare skin at her waist, she shuddered. He didn’t hesitate, just lifted until her arms were free and slid it over her head. He revealed a smooth expanse of back, onyx in the dim basement, and the delicate, seemingly vulnerable indenture of her spine.

His hand lifted, hovered. When he touched her – where the curve of neck met collarbone – she remained still and silent. He withdrew.

In a matter of seconds he’d covered her with Joyce’s cheery yellow tee. Pants were next, and he shucked them from her while studiously looking in the opposite direction. When he was finished he balled up her old outfit and fired it into the furthest corner of the room.

She seemed calmer now, more alert, but Spike wanted to rage and throw things and drop to his knees before her. Without meeting her eyes he said, “Got to get upstairs. Girls get a bit violent when they’re left to their own devices too long. Terrible thing about the coffee table. Harris says he won’t fix it again, full stop.”

He picked up the thermos from the floor and backed away from her. “Get some rest.” He didn’t turn around as he left, but he felt her gaze on him. Unrelenting.


Continued in Part 6: A Girl In Trouble (Is A Temporary Thing)