5. Making Friends
Buffy woke up the next morning with a vague sense of unease – as if she
knew that something was wrong but could not quite remember what it was.
Then all at once it came back to her, and she laid back in her bed with
a groan, closing her eyes tight.
*Spike.*
And more specifically, what was she going to *do* with Spike?
She had been vaguely aware at some point the night before when Riley
had come to bed. He was not here now, which was quite ordinary. It was
9:30; he would already have been at work for a couple of hours by now.
She got out of bed and got dressed, thinking over again the confusing
events of the night before, cringing at the memory of her behavior –
wrong in so many ways.
Not only had she allowed herself to break down in front of Spike,
allowing him to see just how miserable and weak she had become, but she
had allowed him far too close before she had stopped his unexpected
advances.
*Not very mistress-like, Buffy,* she lectured herself. *Got to be
firm...got to maintain a certain distance. Like it or not, you made the
choice to buy him, so now you have to live with it. He's your
slave...not
your friend....not your shoulder to cry on.*
And what was up with that, anyway? she wondered. In her emotional state
of fthe night before, she had not thought to notice how odd it was that
Spike should be trying to comfort her at all. Now, however, in the
light of day and a calmer frame of mind, she was amazed that he had
done it at all. The last time she had seen him before the auction, he
had wanted nothing more than to kill her.
So why was he...?
Her eyes widened, suspicion rising in her. He probably thought that he
could play on her emotions, act like he cared and get her to trust him
and confide in him, as a means of somehow managing to hurt her...or at
the very least, as a means of self-protection. She wouldn't be as
likely to hurt him if she actually cared about him, would she?
Her expression softened a bit with sympathy at that thought.
If the latter was indeed his reason, she really could not blame him. He
had to be very much afraid of what his fate might be, here as a slave
in the household of his mortal enemy. She tried to imagine what she
would feel if their roles were reversed – and knew that she would be
terrified.
*That's because he's an evil, soulless killer, Buffy!* she reminded
herself. *Anyone would be terrified to be at the mercy of an evil,
soulless killer. If your roles were reversed, you'd be dead already!
Stop sympathizing with him, he doesn't deserve it! He doesn't feel like
humans do, anyway. He's not a person, he's a cold, evil, undead thing!*
But then, unbidden, the memory of the feel of his hands on her,
tenderly trying to ease the pain that had been caused by someone who
had once claimed to *love* her, came to her mind.
How tender and understanding he had been with her, not berating her for
her weakness or belittling her tears, as Riley did so frequently! A
little voice in her head reminded her that Spike did not have the
option of berating or belittling her, but the fact was that she could
not remember the last time anyone – besides her sister, of course – had
made her feel like her feelings mattered. She couldn't remember the
last time a *man* had made her feel...
*Not a man, not a man!* her inner voice chanted. *Stop this, Buffy, or
you're going to end up just like Riley, sleeping with some disgusting
thing that's not even human, just because he's got *really* pretty
eyes, and unbelievable abs, and..."
Buffy's eyes widened in shock at the turn her thoughts were taking.
Even her rational inner voice was turning against her, she thought with
frustration. She did not need to think about how attractive Spike was –
but why had she never noticed it before? she wondered. For the next few
moments she waged an internal war with herself in her confusing,
conflicting thoughts.
*You're a married woman, stop thinking this way about a vampire slave!*
*That's never stopped *Riley*! Spike is yours now, you can do whatever
you want!*
"No!" she said aloud, softly, and glanced around, glad that no one was
around to hear her talking to herself. That was all she needed, for
Riley to hear from his vampire whores that his wife was losing her
mind. * You're only thinking this way because he caught you at a
vulnerable moment,* she told herself silently. *He's not a man, he's a
vampire, and he's your slave. Nothing more.*
She shook her head, trying to put the troubling thoughts from her mind
and just finish getting ready for the day. She would have to show Spike
around the house today, get him familiar with where everything was, and
find him some work to do.
But as she put on her clothes and headed downstairs, a single question
occurred to her. *If he's not a man,* she wondered, her sense of unease
deepening at the thought. *Then why do I feel more like a woman this
morning than I have in months?*
Spike awoke with a start in the tiny, dark basement room, feeling
disoriented and confused. Where was he? He suddenly remembered as it
all came back to him – the auction...the Slayer...Finn...*the Slayer*!
He sat up in the bed, cringing at the memory of his behavior the night
before. Now, with a little distance between himself and the events of
the night before, he could not believe that he had let his sympathy for
the obviously hurting Slayer take such control of him, as to make him
do such a foolish and potentially dangerous thing as he had done. And
why should he feel sympathy for her at all? he wondered. She was his
enemy! She had nearly killed him many times, and now she had bought him
and was keeping him here as a slave! Why should he feel anything for
her but hatred?
And why could he feel nothing for her but compassion?
He glanced around the dark room as his enhanced vision became adjusted
to the darkness. There was no light in the room at all – perhaps Finn's
extensive studies into vampire attributes had convinced them that it
was unnecessary. There were no windows, which would obviously be of the
good during daylight.
But it made it next to impossible to have any idea what time it was.
Since becoming a slave, he had adjusted himself to the schedule of a
human, as all of his previous masters had required. His internal clock
was telling him that it was probably morning, but he had no idea what
time. Was he required to be up and about by a certain time?
He was reminded again with an uneasy feeling that he had absolutely no
idea what was going to be expected of him here. He rose from the bed
and went to the door, turning the smooth handle – no locks on the doors
of the slaves – and walking out into the dimly lit hallway, which was
already abuzz with activity.
Fifteen or twenty slaves were bustling about, in various stages of
getting ready for the day. He felt a little self-conscious for some
strange reason, very aware of his utter lack of decent clothing. All he
had was the single worn pair of jeans he wore. Buffy had promised to
get him some clothes today, but as of yet he had nothing.
He stood there outside the door to his little room for a few moments,
watching the activity before him. He reached out and caught the arm of
a female vampire who was walking quickly past him toward the bathroom
at the end of the hall.
She spun around to face him, smoothly slipping out of his hold on her
arm and giving him a questioning look, eyebrows raised. He noticed
immediately that she was very attractive. She had long, silky dark hair
and large dark eyes that drew a man in if he wasn't careful. He could
only imagine the men that must have literally fallen for her, victims
under her spell, in the days before her slavery.
In some ways she reminded him of Drusilla, except with more attitude,
and a *lot* more make-up, and...well...not insane.
"Can I help you?" she asked slowly, meeting his eyes with a direct,
bold gaze.
He gave her a patented disarming smile that tended to work with almost
all females he came into contact with. "Just a bit new here, love," he
shrugged. "Was wondering what I'm s'posed to be doing right about now?"
She smirked as she looked him up and down, clearly unimpressed. She
laughed softly, "Well, well. Looks like Mistress Finn's finally decided
to try and beat him at his own game, huh?"
His eyes widened as he realized just what she was saying, and his mind
went back to the events of the night before. He had not really intended
at that moment to make any actual sexual advances on his mistress, had
only wanted to comfort her, but either way, Buffy had made it perfectly
clear that she would *not* have been interested at all.
"Don't worry about what you're supposed to be doing, cutie," she
remarked, looking him over again, a little more appreciatively this
time. "I'm pretty sure *she'll* find *you*. What's your name, honey?"
"Spike."
"Spike?" she repeated, laughing. "No...*really*?" she gave him an
apologetic grimace, the laugh still there in her voice.
Irritated, he said dryly, "Really. And what should I call you? Quick
now, love, before I come up with something of my own."
A slow smile spread across her face at the annoyance she could see
behind his smirk. "Velvet."
It was his turn to laugh. "Velvet. And you're laughing at *my* name,
when yours sounds like he bought you straight out of a bleedin'
whorehouse!"
Her eyes flashed with anger, but she still smiled and shrugged. "Yeah,
well...wasn't my idea," she replied. "Master likes to pick out his own
names for his...girls. Got a great imagination, too," she added with
obvious sarcasm, leaning back against the wall beside him. She looked
back at him with a smirk of her own, "And I wouldn't talk, *Spike*,"
she went on, glancing suggestively at the front of his well-worn jeans.
"Did she pick that out, too?"
"No, it's not like that, love," he laughed, a bit awkwardly. "Trust me,
it's not like that at all. See...she hates me," he explained
matter-of-factly. "In fact...don't get too used to seeing me around,
pet.
I'll probably be dust before long, if I keep up the way I've been
going."
Velvet shrugged. "Not likely, honey. She hates *him*...and she hasn't
killed him yet."
"She does?" he replied, glancing at her and trying not to show his
interest in what she was saying. Why *was* he interested in what she
was saying, anyway?
"Yep. That marriage is a joke," she informed him, lowering her voice a
little as she met his gaze. "He hardly touches her, they hardly ever
talk. He's down here all the time. Or you know," she shrugged
carelessly. "We're up there. Either way. And she knows all about it,
but he doesn't think she does. I don't think it'd bother him if he did,
though. Bastard," she muttered, and though her tone was calm and
unconcerned, he could hear the underlying hatred in her tone. "Wish she
*would* kill him."
He shrugged slightly, looking down but watching her out of the corner
of his eye as he said in a quiet, even voice, "Doesn't sound like
you've got it so bad, love." He had a feeling he knew where this
conversation was going, and he wanted to find out as much as he could
about the dynamics of this household.
Knowledge was power...and he could use whatever little bit of that he
could get.
She laughed, a soft, bitter sound as she gave him a sneer, disbelief in
her eyes. "No. Doesn't *sound* that bad, does it? I'm even a favorite
of his, if you can believe that."
He nodded slowly, looking at her. "I can," he replied with a small,
encouraging smile.
"Problem is," Velvet went on, looking away from him but maintaining her
cool expression and tone. "Finn has quite the...um...appetite. And I
guess
you could say he's pretty generous," she shrugged with a sarcastic
smile. "He gets off on making a girl scream..." she paused, her smile
fading. "One way or another. And you'd better be grateful, too," she
added, bitterness creeping into her tone. She finally looked at him
again, and her dark eyes were chillingly expressionless over her
brittle smile. "It's quite an honor to be one of his favorites."
"I'm sorry," he said softly, meeting her gaze firmly, his deep blue
eyes searching hers, and suddenly she looked away again.
It didn't matter. His mind was racing. He thought that he was beginning
to understand. "Soddin' wanker couldn't do things like that to Buffy,"
he commented, mostly to himself, not really aware of whether or not
Velvet was hearing him. "She would never have let him. So he had to
turn elsewhere to satisfy his little kinks."
"Looks that way," she replied flatly. Suddenly, she moved away from the
wall, turning to face him, her arms crossed over her chest defensively
as she met his eyes boldly.
He could see instantly that she regretted her openness, was already
feeling foolish and vulnerable for having told him so much so quickly,
and she intended to strike first before he could use the information
against her.
He had read her well in a matter of moments, and it was clear that
while Velvet tried to put on a tough front, tried to make herself
invulnerable in the painful situation she had found herself in...it was
all a façade. She was not-so-secretly tender and vulnerable, far
too
open and needy for her own good.
She gave him a challenging look as she said, "She might feel a little
differently now, though." She took a step closer to him, a smirk coming
over her face as she spoke slowly, "All that repressed anger and sexual
tension, just building and building, month after month...*years*,
actually."
Her voice was soft, almost mesmerizing as she leaned in closer. "And
then here *you* come along..." she went on, giving him another
suggestive
look. "Sexy little number like you," she went on. "Completely in her
power...to do whatever she wants with..."
In spite of himself, her words were beginning a little sick, nervous
feeling in the pit of his stomach, and his eyes widened a little as he
considered what she was saying.
Her smile widened in amusement at his reaction, and she went on with a
slow nod, "Bet she's got some issues to work out. Might wanna take it
out of a sexy vamp so she doesn't end up killing her own husband." She
nodded again, looking away thoughtfully for a moment, before looking
back up at him with a falsely bright smile.
"Yeah. You're probably right. You'll be dust in a week." She stepped
back with a satisfied look, leaning back against the wall again.
"Hey, now!" he protested, frowning as he advanced toward her. "Just a
minute, there, love! I don't think the Slayer's like that at all!"
"And you know her well enough already to decide that?" Velvet
countered, crossing her arms again and raising her eyebrows
challengingly.
"I bloody well do!" he snapped, stepping closer to her until he was
right in her face. Though her back was to the wall, she kept smiling,
kept holding his gaze, didn't even flinch. "I've spent plenty of time
around the Slayer in my day, and I'm not afraid of *her*!" he informed
her in a contemptuous voice.
"You're not?" Velvet said, all wide-eyed innocence, still holding his
gaze.
He gave a derisive little snort of laughter. "Not a bit! Why, Little
Miss Goody-Two-Shoes couldn't lay a hand on me when I first got the
chip, before all this even happened! I certainly don't think she's
going to now. And if she tries...well, I know how to handle *her*." He
didn't feel nearly as confident in what he was saying as he was trying
to appear.
"You do?" Velvet prompted him, her lips turning upward in just the hint
of a smile.
"I know her well enough to know how to push her buttons, pet. She might
want to dust me now...but before I'm done I'll be the one *telling* her
what she wants! I'll have her right where I want her!" He didn't
actually believe a word he was saying; he was scared out of his mind
and knew it, but he wasn't about to let *her* see that.
His mouth often expressed a bravery that he did not really feel, and
this was no exception.
"You will?" Velvet replied, and he was just beginning to register the
oddness of her sudden change in behavior, just keeping her own mouth
shut for the first time since he had met her, and leading *him* to keep
on talking...
Velvet suddenly glanced over his shoulder at something – or someone –
behind him, and the sick feeling returned with a vengeance.
*Oh, bollocks.*
He turned slowly away from Velvet's cruel smile of
self-satisfaction...to
face Buffy, standing directly behind him, her own arms crossed over her
chest, her lips pursed in an expression of controlled anger, her
eyebrows raised as she gave him a cool, questioning look.
She did not look pleased.