7. The Burden of Power
Spike tried to put Velvet's disturbing comments out of his mind
as he
made his way on shaking legs up the stairs and back to the room where
Buffy had directed him to meet her. He realized that he was breathing,
quick shallow breaths that were unnecessary for any other reason than
simply to steady him – and they were failing at that.
He thought over the entire situation again and again as he made his way
to the living room, and realized with a sinking feeling that nothing he
could say was going to make this any better – not at the moment. His
mind replayed the words that Buffy had heard him say, and he cringed at
his own foolishness.
He had outright declared that he was not afraid of her, that he could
manipulate her into doing anything he wanted – and though his fearful
mind had no idea what exactly she had planned for him, he knew beyond
all doubt that she planned to firmly convince him otherwise.
*I'm bloody convinced already!* he thought ruefully. *Not likely that
*she'll* believe that, though!*
Her tone, her demeanor, everything about her in the basement had spoken
of barely bridled fury. He knew that she had just barely managed to
keep her anger in check. The question was...why had she bothered to
control it at all? He was her slave. She could legitimately do whatever
she wanted with him, and no one would correct her or say a word about
it.
He found himself confused, because she had clearly wanted to make a
point to him and to Velvet that she was the one in control, and yet he
knew beyond all doubt that when she had struck him, she had not used
her full strength. She had deliberately held back some of her Slayer
strength.
The question was, why?
He reached the living room, and took a deep breath before entering,
closing his eyes for a moment and fighting back a sick feeling of fear
that had risen in his throat.
*It's just Buffy,* he told himself. *Just Buffy. She wouldn't really
hurt you.*
He stepped into the room, keeping his eyes down as he had learned to do
during the course of his slavery, and immediately could sense her
there, her Slayer essence putting off an unmistakable sense of power
and authority to such an extreme level that it sent his demon screaming
for cover.
The rest of him desperately wanted to follow.
He chanced a hesitant glance up to her...and froze at the breathtaking
and terrifying image that met his eyes. Buffy stood straight and proud,
with no trace of the insecurity and self-consciousness that had plagued
her the night before. Her piercing eyes of jade were cold as they fell
on him, and her expression was hard, merciless, as she regarded her
rebellious slave dispassionately.
It seemed that the Slayer had remembered who she was.
He looked down quickly from that intimidating gaze, and his stomach did
a little flip as his eye locked onto the object in her hands – a thin,
hard leather riding crop.
Buffy's heart was pounding with mingled dread and anticipation as she
waited for Spike to show up. She glanced anxiously at her watch, and
noted with dismay that it had been twenty minutes since she had left
the basement. What was keeping him? And should she make an issue of his
lateness? Would that small concession somehow lessen her authority?
She really had no idea what she was doing, she realized again, staring
down wide-eyed at the distasteful object in her hand.
When she had left the basement, she had really had no idea what to do
to Spike, only that she had to do *something* to establish her
dominance to him – and she highly doubted that mere words were going to
do the trick. But as she had looked through the various weapons that
Riley kept on hand for punishing his slaves, searching for something
she could use, the thought of actually hurting him made her feel
terribly uneasy – almost sick.
It was not as if she had never struck one of the household slaves
before. Many times in the past, if one of them had mouthed off to her,
or deliberately disobeyed her, she had exerted her authority to put
them back in their place, so to speak, although that certainly didn't
mean that it was an easy thing for her to do. In some ways, she had
adjusted to life as a wealthy, powerful slave owner.
In other ways, she never would.
*You're the Slayer, Buffy,* she reminded herself. *Vampires are
*supposed* to tremble in fear before you.* She steeled herself, drawing
upon her true nature to shut out the traitorous sympathy that she felt
for Spike, in spite of herself. *Whatever you do is your right,* she
insisted in her mind. *You own him. You just have to make him
understand that.*
*It would help if *I* understood that first,* a second inner voice
whispered a moment later.
Buffy closed her eyes and forced back the softer emotions that weakened
her. Spike did not deserve her sympathy. He had played on her hurt and
vulnerability the night before, and had obviously fully intended to
continue to do so, to get whatever he wanted to make the best of his
new life as her slave. She had to make him see that he would *not* be
able to use and manipulate her like that. She had made the mistake of
allowing him to see her vulnerability.
It was something she was determined that he would never see again.
Spike wrestled with the fear that came over him at the sight of the
weapon in her hand. The fragile assurance he had tried to hold onto
that Buffy did not have it in her to hurt him, fled at the sight of the
crop, held in unyielding hands of iron, far stronger than their
deceptively soft appearance.
*Get a hold of yourself, mate,* he urged himself as he stepped
hesitantly a few steps closer to her, stopping a respectful distance
away from her. *Don't let her see your fear.*
*Oh, bloody hell. Too late for that.*
"You're late."
Just the sound of her voice, much colder and harder than he had
expected it to be, intensified the sick feeling in his stomach. "I'm
sorry," he said quietly. He knew any excuse he could come up with would
be useless, and probably only succeed in making things worse for him.
She didn't say anything for a moment, just looked at him.
Finally she spoke, her voice calm but commanding. "Come here."
He swallowed hard, and forced himself to walk a few steps closer to
her. As he did, she stepped steadily nearer to him until only a couple
of paces separated them. Breathless, having no idea what to expect he
waited for her to speak.
"Do you think you can play me, Spike?" she demanded, her voice soft.
"Do you think you can play mind games with me and fool me into doing
whatever it is that you want?"
Another question with no right answer. "No" would make him a liar.
"Yes" would make him dead.
"No" seemed the lesser of the two evils.
He shook his head slightly, not looking at her. "No, Mistress...I
didn't..."
A sudden, unexpected slap, harder than the one she had dealt him
earlier, rocked him backward a few steps. "Do not lie to me," she
ordered, her voice still calm and even. She paused before she said, in
a voice a little softer, "I didn't want to have to do this. I told you
I didn't. But you've left me no choice. I'm going to have to teach you
what trying to manipulate me will get you. Is that clear?"
He knew he was innocent of the offense she was accusing him of. He also
knew that to protest to that effect would only make matters worse. He
nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak at that moment.
"Take off your shirt," she ordered in a voice of quiet resignation, and
he was a little surprised by the command. *Of course,* he realized with
grim understanding. *Wouldn't do to ruin the brand new clothes right
off.* He wondered, however, why she had instructed him to put the thing
on in the first place, only to make him take it off again mere minutes
later.
Then it struck him...perhaps that *was* the point. Just another little
display of her power. He would do what she told him, when she told him,
whether it made sense to him or not – simply because she told him to do
it. He was her slave, and he was to obey without question.
And he did obey her, his hands shaking slightly as he fumbled with the
buttons but finally managed to take off the new black shirt, folding it
carefully and laying it over the back of the chair beside him.
"Just stand still and don't move," she ordered him, her hard, angry
eyes meeting his boldly, almost defiantly.
And why should *she* look at *him* with defiance? Wasn't she the one in
control? he wondered suddenly.
"You may think that you can get away with things because you think you
know me," she went on, and he could hear a bit of her anger – and
perhaps a little hurt – creeping into her voice in spite of her
otherwise emotionless demeanor. "But you can't, Spike. Whatever's
happened between us in the past is just that – past. And I'm not going
to let it effect my judgment now. I can see through your little games,
and I'm not going to put up with them! I'm not gonna let you make a
fool of me, Spike!"
By the time she had finished, her voice was trembling slightly, and her
anger was obvious. He winced inwardly. Her anger getting the better of
her at a moment like this hardly boded well for him.
She walked around behind him, slowly, with measured, even steps, and he
forced himself to keep perfectly still, knowing that she was about to
begin, and willing himself not to move, not to flinch. He had felt the
strength that the Slayer possessed during countless fights between
them, and knew that she had the power to do him serious harm if she
wanted to.
There was silence for a moment; he could sense her gearing up to
strike, braced himself for the blow, for the searing pain of the crop
across his back. And then – nothing. He froze, every muscle in his body
tensed in dreadful anticipation of the blow that did not fall.
"You think I can let you get away with talking about me like that to
*her* of all people, Spike?" Buffy continued unexpectedly, apparently
not even trying to hide her anger now. He could not see her face, but
he could hear her dangerous emotional state in her trembling, tearful
voice. "You think I can allow anything else to happen in this house to
make them disrespect me even more? I can't do that, Spike! I can't let
you get away with that, because if I do..."
Her voice trailed off, and he could hear her sniffing back tears. "I
can't. I have to do this, Spike," she said, and he realized suddenly
that she was not really talking to him. She was trying to convince
herself.
He heard the slight whipping sound of the weapon cutting through the
air as she drew it back swiftly for a powerful blow, and he braced
himself for the impact. A beat later than he expected it to, the crop
fell across his back. It was a stinging blow...but nothing like he had
expected. A normal blow with even a fraction of her Slayer strength
behind it would have left him bleeding, possibly knocked him to the
floor – but her blow did not draw blood, did not even move him.
"I *have* to!" she gasped, and her voice sounded weak and strangled,
almost desperate, as he heard her draw back the crop a second time.
As the second, ridiculously weak blow fell, he could hear the sound of
a soft sob behind him. He was stunned, and felt the overwhelming,
unexplainable urge to turn and offer his comfort – but he did not dare.
He heard her draw back the crop again...but the third blow never
landed,
and in the next moment he heard the hated weapon drop with a soft thud
to the floor, and the muffled sound of the Slayer's sobs into the hand
she held up across her mouth.
"Damn it, Spike!" she sobbed brokenly in frustrated confusion and pain,
burying her face in her hands and stepping back away from him.
Tentatively, he turned just slightly toward her, turning anxious blue
eyes full of a concern he did not understand on this woman who should
have held so much power over him, but had broken *herself* in her
attempt to wield it.
"Bu...Mistress," he began cautiously, correcting himself at the last
second. His voice was barely over a whisper, as he turned fully to face
her. This time, against instincts that should have seemed unnatural to
him, he did not dare to touch her. "Are you – are you all right, love?"
he finally asked, softly, hesitantly, not willing to set off her anger
again, but wanting to offer what little help he could. He was not even
aware of the pet name that had slipped past his lips, coming so
naturally to him.
She looked up at him suddenly, as if just seeing him for the first
time, and he watched as her eyes widened in a sort of shock, turning to
horror as she looked between him and the discarded weapon at her feet.
"I..." he tried again, stepping closer to her, telling himself firmly
that this was not going to be like the last time. "I'm sorry, love. I
didn't mean to..."
"Go," she whispered in a voice of defeat, looking down and away from
him, trying to hide the pain in her eyes.
He gave her a questioning look. "A-are you su..."
"Just *go*!" she snapped through her tears, glaring up at him through
tear-filled, shining emerald eyes, full of so many mingled intense
emotions that neither of them could have identified.
He paused for a moment, wanting to stay, but knowing that the choice
was not really his to make. He was hers to command. After a moment, he
replied softly, "Yes, Mistress," and turned to slowly walk away.