White Magic

by DreamsofSpike

It was a catharsis that Spike had not yet experienced, pouring out the story of all that had happened to him to his sire, held in the arms of the nearest thing he had ever known to a father. Spike felt a sense of calm and peace as Angel whispered gentle, soothing words to him -- and a sense of safety and protection, as he growled low in his throat unconsciously behind those words, offering a wordless promise of retribution to the one who had so devastated his child.

Spike knew that Tara and Dawn loved him, and he cherished the warmth and tenderness that both girls had lavished upon him since they had rescued him from Buffy's basement. Still, there were things that he could not quite bring himself to tell them, things that were too horrible for him to inflict them upon their sensitive hearts.

One day, he thought that he might reach a place where he could tell Tara more of what had happened to him. Dawn, however, could never know, he had already determined. He could never crush the precious girl with the nightmare images of just what her sister was capable of doing.

With Angel, however -- the words had simply come pouring out, as if something deep within him had simply been waiting, building, desperate to come out, yet only able to within the protective safety of his sire's presence.

Once Spike's tears seemed to have passed for the moment, Angel pulled away from him slightly, a troubled frown on his face as he looked his boy over as best he could from their kneeling positions on the floor. It bothered him to see that Spike still would not look up at him, clearly ashamed by the things he had told him -- but he understood.

"Let me see you," he ordered firmly, well aware that his childe would not want to obey, but needing to see the extent of the physical damage that had been done, as well as the emotional. "Come on -- get up. I need to see how bad you're hurt."

As he spoke, he rose to his feet, gripping Spike's arm and pulling him up with him. When Spike did not move, but did not say a word of protest, Angel reached down to grasp the hem of his t-shirt and pull it off over his head.

Then, Spike protested.

"No," he objected, shaking his head and pulling the shirt back down with trembling hands, before crossing his arms defensively over his torso, his head turned away. "No, I -- I don't want to..."

"Spike," Angel gently cut off his objections, placing his hands firmly but gently on his childe's arms. "I'm not gonna hurt you. You know that, right?"

Spike nodded, his jaw clenched with emotion as he fought against the shame of his own post-traumatic reactions.

"Okay -- I just want to see how bad it is. Okay?" Angel's voice was soft, coaxing, without the faintest trace of suggestion of anything else, and Spike finally lowered his arms, yielding to his sire's wishes.

Still, he flinched when Angel this time succeeded in removing his brand new black t-shirt, his head lowered in shame as the older vampire gave an involuntary gasp of shock and dismay.

The shower he had taken the night before had eased the horror of the sight somewhat, removing the dried crust of blood that had covered him until only recently; but even the time he had had since his rescue had done very little to help his injuries heal, with no blood to speed along the process.

His chest, his stomach, were covered in bruises in various degrees, indicating many beatings over a long period of time. Interspersed among them were other wounds, *open* wounds, cuts and burns and evidence of horrific tortures that had been inflicted upon the vampire, apparently, just for the pleasure of the sadistic, psychotic Slayer.

"Spike," Angel whispered, shaking his head, at a loss for any other words. Then, he added in a softer voice, barely a breath, aching with sorrow and compassion, "Oh, my William ...my boy..."

Spike flinched, his shoulders shaking slightly, Angel cleared his throat, straightening his own shoulders and attempting to regain control of his emotions. He knew how easy it could be to break down when faced with the sympathy and softness of others, especially after going a terribly long time without it -- and he knew that the last thing his childe's damaged pride needed right now was another breakdown.

"What about -- what about the rest?" Angel asked, wincing even as he said it, both because he did not want to embarrass Spike, and also because he was afraid to know.

"Worse," Spike answered simply, in a humiliated whisper.

"Miserable sadistic bitch," Angel muttered under his breath, and Spike heard that soft growl beneath the words again. Then, Angel raised his voice to declare, "She's not going to get away with this, Spike. I'm going to make her pay for this, I swear it. We're gonna get you strong again, and then we're gonna go to Sunnydale and..."

"You won't need to go to Sunnydale."

Angel frowned. "Why not?" As he spoke the words, he was suddenly afraid that he already knew the answer.

"Because -- in an hour or so -- she'll be heading here..." The quiet, restrained terror in Spike's voice was heartbreaking.

Angel was quiet for a moment, before correcting gently, "She'll be looking for you. She won't be heading here, Spike. The last place she'd ever guess..."

"She won't have to guess."

Angel's puzzled frown deepened with concern, as he asked quietly, a note of dread to his voice, "Spike -- what are you talking about?"

The younger vampire was quiet for a long moment, his head bowed, before he finally admitted in a voice choked with tears of shame and fear, "She -- she marked me...Sire. She -- she made me -- hers..."

The warning snarl that suddenly left Angel's mouth was no surprise to Spike, but he flinched backward anyway, as his sire moved toward him with a sort of predatory grace, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

"Not. Possible," he stated in a voice that was both soft and hard at the same time -- and utterly certain, and there was no doubt as to his meaning.

Spike swallowed hard, shaking his head as he whispered, "I didn't want her to do it, Sire...I would have stopped her -- if I could -- but -- but..."

"What did she do?" Angel demanded, and Spike knew that the fury in his voice was not directed at him.

Spike closed his eyes for a moment, wrestling with some inner conflict, before he finally reached down and unfastened his jeans, revealing the mark carved into his thigh to Angel's widened, startled gaze.

"What...?" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head, confused.

"She used -- a spell," Spike explained. "She -- she said it was kind of like -- the magic version of a vampire's claim. It -- it hurts me -- when she makes it. And -- and she can find me with it."

Alarm registered in Angel's gaze as he finally realized what Spike was getting at. "Does she already know you're gone?"

Spike's voice was quiet as he replied in a tone of carefully measured calm, "I'm wagering no. Not yet. Judging by my current lack of searing, agonizing pain." He was silent for a moment before adding, "She's at work. For another hour. Then -- she'll find out as soon as she gets home."

Angel blinked, taking that in, before swiftly moving toward the door.

"What -- what are you doing?" Spike asked him, uncertainty in his vulnerable blue eyes, as he hastily pulled his jeans back up and fastened them.

"We're gonna find a way to break that spell, before she can use it against you."

"In an hour?" Spike dubiously wondered.

Angel's tone was one of grim determination. "If that's all we've got."

**************************************

"So -- you're good now." Cordelia's tone was skeptical, but not harsh, as she observed the rather timid version of the vampire she had only seen a few times before. Of course, the version she had seen had been quite a bit more scary.

Spike shrugged self-consciously, not quite looking at her. "Not really," he remarked, apparently not sure of the answer himself. "Sort of."

"Yes," Tara stated for him, meeting the brunette's eyes firmly, a quiet challenge in her own.

Cordelia returned her gaze for a moment before looking back at the vampire, huddled on the sofa, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, as if he wanted to draw as physically far into himself as he possibly could.

"And -- and *Buffy*..."

Spike flinched, and Tara again replied, a bit impatiently, "*Yes*."

Cordelia nodded, taking that in. "I always knew there was a psycho under that violent, power-mad exterior."

That got a response from Spike, who looked up at her for just a moment to inform her, "She wasn't always. She -- she's different now."

"Oh, yeah -- since she -- died," Cordelia remembered, sounding a bit uncertain, searching Tara's expression to see if it was the right answer, and nodding with relief when the blonde witch gave her a nod. Cordelia rolled her eyes with a slightly dramatic sigh. "I'm telling you, I am *so* glad I moved away from the freaking Hellmouth to L.A. -- where all we have to deal with is your average, every-day vamps and demons, not psychotic undead Slayers."

This time, no one bothered to correct her once again incorrect definition.

Spike was sitting on the circular sofa, between Dawn and Tara, who both seemed to be feeling very maternal and protective, watching the unfamiliar faces in the room a bit warily, lest any of them should attempt anything that might bring further harm or trauma to their badly damaged friend.

Cordelia sat in a chair across from them, leaning idly back with her arms crossed, her legs gracefully crossed, the top one gently swinging back and forth. The strange little brunette that had been introduced as Fred mostly kept to herself, just sending nervous glances in the direction of the "strangers" every now and then.

Wesley and Angel were over by what had once been the reception desk, studying the image on a Polaroid photo that Angel had taken of the mark on Spike's leg, in order to spare his childe the humiliation of having to undress in front of Angel's coworkers, whom he had barely met. The former Watcher was comparing them to pictures in his books, as he rushed to try to find the ritual the Slayer had used, before she could return to her home in Sunnydale and discover Spike gone.

"I'm sorry, Angel," Wesley was saying in a soft, cultured voice that was tinged with regret, "but I'm not seeing anything yet that matches the symbol in this photograph..."

"Then look harder," Angel snapped.

Tara almost felt sorry for the mild-mannered Englishman, who really did seem to be doing his best to help -- but she understood Angel's frustration, born of fear for Spike, and what might happen to him if they could not find what they needed in time.

She recognized it -- because she felt it herself.

Still, she knew that Wesley did want to help, if only because it would help put Angel's mind at ease.

It was the other man -- the handsome black man who introduced himself as Gunn -- that had the blonde witch worried. Despite Angel's explanations that Spike was family to him, and besides that harmless to humans, he kept casting suspicious glances in the direction of the blond vampire, and it was obvious to Tara that he had a very black and white view of the whole vampires vs. humans issue.

*Sort of like someone else I know,* Tara thought wearily, reminded of her ex-lover's best friend, and the hard line ideas he had espoused of black and white, good and evil.

Her attention was drawn back to Spike, when she felt him tense at her side, his hand that was already clutching hers for dear life tightening slightly. When she looked at him, his eyes were fastened on the clock on the wall, which was inching ever closer to 2:00am, when Buffy would finish her shift at the Doublemeat Palace.

It read 1:35.

She gently tightened her arm around his shoulders, and he turned to look at her, a bit startled that she had noticed his rising fears.

"It's gonna be okay," she whispered, raising her hand to gently stroke through the hair at the back of his head, guiding his head down to her shoulder as she pressed a tender, sisterly kiss to his temple and repeated firmly, "It's okay, Spike. We're not gonna let her hurt you."

Spike gratefully accepted her comfort, burying his face in the soft between her shoulder and her throat, nestling in closer to her like a child seeking solace in his mother -- but he could not help but wonder, even as he drank in the words -- even if they tried, could any of them really stop her?

*************************************

It was 2:15 when Buffy left the Doublemeat Palace.

It had been a horrifically stressful day, very busy and tiring, and she just wanted to get home. She was utterly exhausted after a long day in the heat and grease of the Doublemeat kitchen, and she desperately wanted a hot shower and a good night's sleep.

And maybe an hour or so of stress relief with her favorite vampire toy in the basement.

At the very least, she needed to relieve him of the holy water gag in his mouth, and see what was left of his face.

*Teach him to run his mouth, the stupid little slut,* she thought viciously.

A cold smile crossed her lips at the thought of her helpless captive, waiting for her -- desperately, by this point -- knowing that she was the only one who could ease the torment she had left him in, and yet also knowing that her arrival was surely the herald of more torment. He was helpless -- hers to play with, to hurt, or even to kill should she so choose.

The very thought awakened her arousal, and suddenly she was very sure that she would be paying Spike a little visit before making her way up to the shower.

Buffy felt an overwhelming sense of relief, and anticipation, as she unlocked the front door and made her way through the living room, toward the kitchen, already reaching for the other, smaller key on her key ring -- the one that went to the padlock on the basement door.

She stopped short in the kitchen doorway, her mind taking a few moments to catch up with her eyes, widened in shock at the mess before her. The basement door had been removed completely, and was leaned up against the wall, the screws and hinges scattered on the floor beside the now-empty doorway.

She rushed down the basement stairs -- already knowing that she would find the underground prison of her own making empty.

*Dawn,* she thought immediately, her eyes narrowing with anger. *That nosy little brat has stuck her nose where it doesn't belong for the last time!*

She stormed up the stairs, determined to find her little sister, find out what she had done with Spike -- beat it out of her if she had to -- and then take care of her, before she had the chance to tell any of the others about what she had found in the basement.

This was a Hellmouth.

She could easily convince her friends that any sort of mystical mishap had befallen her little sister. Of course, she would have to act suitably broken up about it for a while -- but that was a mere annoyance, nothing she couldn't handle.

Right now, the first thought in her mind was locating her missing slave.

When she saw her sister's bed empty, Buffy froze in the doorway, her eyes widening in indignant disbelief -- disbelief that rapidly became fury, and fury that swiftly changed to impotent rage.

*Well -- not really impotent,* she reminded herself, a cruel smile crossing her lips, as she pushed back the long sleeve of her shirt, gazing down at the blackened mark on her wrist with a smile of satisfaction. *Not impotent at all...*