Non-Sequitopia

by
Misanthrope7842

         
         
         








Part Sixty-Six   Calculations

Spike dropped his arm and rolled his shoulder, the burning of hyperextended muscles fading slowly. He took a deep steadying breath and frowned, scenting the air again. It smelled wrong. He knew what Xander meant before he left. When Xander had finished with him, the room had been permeated with the scent of Xander's come. But now, something was off. Sure, the slight lingering smell of his own fear was relatively unfamiliar, but it was more than that.

It was Xander. Xander smelled wrong, just as he acted wrong. A brief moment of clarity, the guilt and blame lifted for a solitary second and Spike could see it, smell it.

He smelled muskier than normal, stronger, wilder. This wasn't simply more of the smell that Spike craved, the pure scent of sunlight and sex that was his Xander. This was heavier, almost sour. It wasn't Xander's smell. Spike felt the same prickle he had the night before and cursed himself all kinds of fool for not having placed it before now. It was the feeling he got when magic was in the air, when Dru got a vision, or when the witches had been up to something. And it was happening here, in the apartment.

In his home.

To his Xander.

Spike was certain now that something was wrong. It wasn't just his failure to be good enough for his boy coloring his actions, someone had done something to him. He would fix it, this he knew, but he had no idea how to fix it, whatever it was.

Xander knew about scenting; he'd scented Spike the night after the demons... But he hadn't brought it up since the first time he claimed Spike, saying it put Spike on a level beneath him that he didn't want to revisit, that he didn't need to debase and humiliate Spike just to prove the vampire belonged to him. Spike didn't see it that way, of course, but if Xander didn't want to do it, then he wasn't going to ask for it. Once his sense of smell began to improve, Xander told Spike that his scent was so stong on him anyway that there was no need to do it again. In deference to his wishes, Spike hadn't reminded him of the symbolism behind the act so he had never taken the time to do it again, and as long as he smelled like Xander, Spike didn't bother to ask him to.

He reached to unfasten his other wrist, then awkwardly bent over to release his ankles, one hand on the floor for balance, the other struggling with the leather restraints too tightly fastened, noticing how odd it was not to have Xander rubbing the reddened skin, subconsciously aiding Spike's nonexistent circulation as he would for a human sub. That kind of unnecessary after-care that his Master provided him with was one of the reasons he knew something had happened to him. Well, that and the glowing green eyes and god-awful stench of magic.

Spike left the dungeon warily. Even though Xander said he could, he knew permission didn't always mean it was okay. In the living room, Spike crouched down in front of their bookshelves, and couldn't help but grimace at the unorganized state, books of poetry burried underneath a large collection of out-dated comic book price guides. Xander had promised that as soon as things slowed down he would build them some more shelves, but of course, things had yet to slow down. Spike trailed his fingers across the carefully organized spines along the bottom shelf, where they kept their small Hellmouth collection: the few books they each owned detailing various supernatural aspects that just might crop up again some time. These books were never touched unless necessary, kept seperate and clear, both of them superstitious enough to know better than to tempt fate.

Spike scanned across the shelf, finally pulling out the deep red leather-bound demonology text he'd nicked from Giles. The Watcher had four different translations, it wasn't as if he couldn't spare this one. Besides, it had a nice little section on himself.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for, so he flipped randomly through the pages, pausing when a small slip of paper fell out from the 'F' section. Spike recognized it as the bookmark he'd placed after he'd killed the Fakals demons in the bar. He'd meant to research them, see if they presented any threat to himself or Xander, but he'd gotten dristracted and forgotten. Now everything seemed to come back to them; first the re-scenting, just like the morning after he'd killed them, and now this second reminder.

He remembered their telepathy and wondered if they had the ability to modify behavior some way. The book, pompously written and even more pompously translated, some footnotes taking up entire pages, had a very limited amount of information on most species, especially this one. Of the three pages devoted to them, two and a half dealt with their social structure. They lived in small clans, led ostensibly by a King, but more practically by their High Priest. Once the King died, the Priest would metamorphose into a larva-type creature and the new Priest would be called, his mission to feed his King until the moment of Ascenssion. At this, the author, being a poncy and useless bugger, launched into a lengthy sumation, detailing the inconcievability of such an ascenssion happening.

"The Council's records provide no further information on this ascension. However, a once-reputable source laughingly claims the existance of a prophesy regarding a re-ensouled demon playing a crucial role."

"Bloody fucking hell." No wonder old Rupes had four copies of the book. The former Watcher had to be the world's foremost leading expert in the area of souled demons, and had probably been trying to determine what role his Slayer would undoubtedly play. Unfortunately, the next page began the section on Fyarl demons, and no further information could be gathered.

He glanced at the clock, noticing for the first time that the sun was due up in less than an hour. He preempted his rising panic that Xander hadn't come home, by panicking over his next course of action. He picked up the phone, hand shaking and mouth gone inexplicably dry, and dialed the number from memory.

A surprised sounding, high-pitched voice answered with a muffled grunt on the third ring.

"Niblet."

"Spike! How-"

"Love to chat, Pet, but is Red around?"

"No. There's some girl gang taking over Sacramento. Apparently, like, all of them got called, and she and Buffy went to go stop them from going all Faith on us. Before Faith, not now Faith, because she's good again. Like you. Why?"

"She got email, Bit?"

"Yeah, hold on." Dawn rattled off Willow's email address and Spike copied it down carefully, pulling Xander's lap top out of his briefcase with one ear on the hallway, and the other trying not to not listen to whatever Dawn was saying about the life and times in L.A. "Are you and Xander fighting?"

"What?" Spike looked up from the computer, as if he could intimidate Dawn into talking by staring at the phone. As if he could intimidate Dawn at all.

"You're upset. Is it Xander?"

Spike snorted. "You could say that."

"Is he being mean to you?" She demanded. "Because you know I'll kick his ass."

"Not anymore, Niblet. Been training him."

"Ooooh, is he all muscley again?"

"Look, Dawn-"

"I'm sorry, Spike." She laughed at what she took for unnecessay jealousy. "Like he'd ever look at anyone else. And you know I wouldn't try to-"

"I know. Look, I have to get some things done here. You tell Red to give me a call, right?"

"Absolutely. And Spike?"

"Yeah?"

"He loves you, even if he's being a jerk."

Spike hung up the phone, and slowly crossed the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and withdrawing a packet of human blood. He heated it quickly, then drank it without tasting it. He wanted to believe Dawn, that Xander wouldn't look at anyone else, touch anyone else, let anyone else touch him. But his words looped around in his head, a constant reminder.

'I'm really beginning to wonder if you're worth it.'

'You think I can't find someone?'

'Do you honestly expect me to go through this crap every night?'

In the back of the closet in the dungeon, Spike's small trunk still sat, unopened since they'd moved in. He didn't take it into their bedroom when he moved the rest of his things, although he didn't know why. He kept a few mementos of his time with previous lovers, sodding romantic fool that he was, in the bottom of the trunk. Maybe that was why. There was even an old handkerchief of Cecily's that he'd taken from her at a party, before she'd humiliated him. Underneath that, though, was an old family Bible of Dru's that she'd taken when she fled to the convent, and kept even after. She'd of course perverted the pages with records of deaths of her victims, but she'd also recorded some of the more useful visions she'd had and spells she'd learned through some source or another. You tourture and turn a girl about to become a nun, you get mixed results.

He didn't know what he was looking for, he only hoped that something in there would strike him as useful. There had to be a spell, something to make Xander see he was being controlled, amnipulated. And Spike knew he was, otherwise he'd go insane with the overwhelming thoughts that Master no longer loved him, no longer wanted him, was at that moment enjoying a warm fuck with a living, breathing human that he could take in the sun and teach to obey and submit to him better than Spike ever could.

Something had happened to Xander, something supernatural, and there would be a cure that would bring his Master back to him. His eyes landed randomly on the page containing the Third Psalm, scrawled in Drusilla's child-like handwriting, written in peacock blue ink he recognized as having come from a pen with a dark red design he'd found at a gas station half way to Brazil. He bought it for her, hoping the design would distract her long enough to stop her incessant sobbing over his betrayal of their Sire. She had written an account of the attack, how Spike had taken her from her Daddy. He had enough experience picking through her descriptions of crying stars and dripping moons, and it turned out to be a very accurate, almost sympathetic account of the situation. And an rather lucid rationalization of exactly why the Bible's pages didn't burn her hands when she touched them.

He scanned the rest of the book, but kept flipping back to the end of the passage. She'd written something else, followed by something in what appeared to be German. Dru didn't speak German. Neither did he. He typed it into the e-mail, hopin that Willow could help him translate it, and scanned over what was written before. It seemed Miss Edith told her he'd have to do it again, betrayal that wasn't betrayal. Not to her this time, their time was drawing to a close, but to another, a 'raven kitten who took care of him'.

Stupid buggering doll and stupid bloody buggering fucking prophesies.



Part Sixty-Seven   Information



Spike paced the living room in full Big Bad form, chain smoking and fangs bared. His thoughts centered around one point.

Someone fucked with Master.

He gathered his thoughts. Master told him to do whatever he wanted, as long as he didn't wash. He didn't want to wash. He wanted to kill whoever cast a spell on his Master. But Master told him not to leave the flat. He already searched every inch of space for evidence of the spell and found nothing. He had enough experience with both magic and sorcerers to know that the vamps that had stolen their hair had caused this, and they would pay. His clenched fist flew from his side and hit the wall, knuckles coming away bloodied. He'd momentarily forgotten that this wall was an outside wall, not made of easily giving drywall, but steel and concrete. Spike continued pacing, smoking and growling, licking the blood from his hand and imagining the tortures he would inflict upon whoever thought they had big enough wrinklies to fuck with Master.

Spike didn't have to wait long for Xander to return home. It was just passed the normal time for him to come home on a work day, and he was dressed in a suit, obviously having been at the office earlier in the day. He smelled of the office, shampoo, and strangely of blood. Spike watched him from across the room as he cleaned his reddened knuckles in the sink. It was a bad day for hands.

He'd cut his hair. For the first time since they'd packed up and left Sunnydale, Xander had gotten a haircut, very short, no longer falling over his forehead. Spike hated it.

"You go out, think you've got a nice restaurant, and all you get are people milling around you, loud and never shutting the fuck up, you know? No, you don't know, because you weren't there. You were here." He fixed a piercing gaze on Spike. "You did obey me, didn't you?"

Spike nodded.

Xander let out a strange barking laugh, unlike any Spike had ever heard from him before. "Of course you did. You'd never upset your Master, now would you?" Xander mocked him.

Spike fought with his emotions, knowing this was not his Master, his Xander. It didn't mean the cruel words didn't hurt. The sense of magic was stronger now, as was the strange smell. Spike knew he had to find a way to convince Xander of his condition, but didn't know how.

"Xan- Master, are you feeling okay?"

"Why, yes, thank you." Xander replied viciously. "I went to get a steak. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find real beef in California?"

Spike did not point out that there were steakhouses on three different corners in town.

"And I ask for it rare. Rare. So this pimplely-faced kid brings me this charbroiled piece of meat that's been cooked. I said rare. You think he'd listen. So I tried to show him."

"You beat up your waiter?" Spike asked cautiously.

Xander hit him. Not hard, nothing more than a slap, but still, it came from nowhere, and fast. "No, you stupid prick. Let me finish my story. And shut off the water works, I'm so not in the mood for a Big Unbad pity party." Xander dried his hands and dropped the wet towel in the bathroom floor. That clenched it for Spike. No matter what short-comings Xander might have, he was fanatic about towels on the floor. His mind made up, knowing what he had to do, Spike watched for an opening.

"The manager guy, what a loser, can't even get a real job," Xander continued, back to Spike, but still to close to the wall for Spike to make his move.

"So he comes over and tells me I'm causing a disturbance. Me! He's the one who can't hire cooks who can fix me a fucking rare stake, and I'm causing a disturbance?"

"You like them medium-well." Spike interjected, hoping this would do it.

Xander was in his face in an instant. "What was that?" He snarled, spittle flying from his lips.

Spike conked him on the back of the head. Taking advantage of vampire speed and coordination, he caught him before he slumped to the ground. "Sorry, pet. Have to fix you now." Spike dragged him through the doorway of ther dungeon and muttered, "And I have to quit getting in these bloody messes where I have to knock out my dark-haired beauties. Once was more than enough, and I didn't even plan it this time."

Spike carried himover to the cross, where he'd been restrained just the day before, and debated whether or not to tie him up. Xander stirred, and growled at Spike, then bounced to his feet, fury in his eyes, showing more coordination and better recovery time than Spike had ever seen from his human. He was speaking, or attempting to speak, but all Spike heard were grunts and whines interspersed with growls. The demon nature was aware enough to know that this was dangerous; Xander's situation was deteriorating rapidly, and he had to fix it now.

"Xander, luv, calm down. I need to fix you. Someone's been playing with the mojo."

Xander launched himself across the room, teeth snapping at Spike's throat. It was only due to Spike's barely superior strength that he fought Xander off, and he managed to chain him to the cross with a minimum of blood loss.

"Xander, Pet, I'll be back. Gonna go fix this now." He closed the door and left the apartment, knowing Xander was going to wear himself out trying to get free, and hoping he had enough sense left not to hurt himself.



Part Sixty-Eight   Recon



Spike stood just outside his building, took a deep breath and steadied himself, knowing his usual kill-until-you-get-results tactics were not going to help him this time. He needed answers, and he needed them quick, and he needed the information, not the bloodied head of his enemy on a shiny platter. Although that would be a plus. For the second time in the recent past, Spike found himself thinking back on the lessons his Sire had tried to teach him. The best way to get fast information was too... bugger all. It was to let Angelus ask the questions and kill everyone else when he gave the nod to do so. He'd have to do this one on his own, then.

Spike used every bit of his preternatural speed to get him to the demon bar. If he was going to find out what happened, he'd find out there. He opened the doors, taking a formidable stance, silhouetted by a streetlight against the murky interior.

"Right, then," he spoke loudly. "Anyone who wants to make a new enemy, try to leave."

No one moved.

"Good, those of you with brains, pay attention. Someone has been very, very bad." He strolled into the bar, but remained between the crowd and the door, preventing any attempted escape. "Someone has leveled a threat against my house, and by extension, the Order of Aurelius." Spike heard a dismissive noise come from his left and dusted the first vamp he saw by ripping off his head.

"Any more interruptions? Perhaps rumors of a falling out amongst my Sire and his childer have grown out of control." He grabbed another one of the now-cowering vampires and dragged him up by the neck. The young one was obviously fresh out of the grave, as he struggled to breathe against the hand crushing his useless windpipe. "You wouldn't know about that, would you?"

The vampire trembled in his grasp. Spike staked him. Two down, a dozen demons left to intimidate.

"Good." He schooled his features for the upcoming lie. There was no time to waffle over the past. He needed all the help he could get, and this was the best way to do it. "Regardless of what you may have heard, things have never been better between myself and Angelus." Spike emphasized the name, drawing on the power of memories and rumors of his Sire's ruthlessness. "In fact," he added, "If this little matter isn't resolved within the next few hours, well, he'll be here to help me sort it out, and you can see for yourselves how we still work together. Of course, I could be lying. Anyone want to chance it?"

Silence reigned as Spike finished his diatribe. "Now," he lowered his voice to nearly a whisper. "Who has something to tell me, and who will we get to kill?"

Several of the demons rushed forward to confess their sins, rather than face the wrath of a reunited Scourge of Europe, even though most of them hadn't even been born, let alone turned when Spike and his Sire were at full force. But now with Spike being far more powerful, both in reputation and skill now than he was over a century before, and news of Angel's work in L. A. travelling far and wide, no one seemed to be ready to risk it. Spike ignored them all, focusing his amber eyes on the one demon attempting to make an escape through the back. He pointed to two of the remaining vampires. "You want to continue to enjoy your unlife, you come with me. Make one move that I haven't instructed, you'll wish I had staked you here and now." The vamps followed him silently.

He stalked his prey for a few blocks, recognizing it as a Fakals demon. The same kind he had killed in the bar. The same kind that knew about Xander from reading his thoughts. He fought the urge to rip the demon's throat out before he could ask his questions and followed him silently, signaling for his new minions to remain close.

Once they left the city proper and then the residential areas that surrounded it, past the sites that Xander's crew had been working on, a developing new subdivision of tract housing, past the planned area for the new industrial park, on and on out into the cleared countryside, hiding became more difficult. In town there had been alleys and doorways; here there were only open fields and the occasional grove of trees, left standing for landscaping purposes. But it worked both ways; he couldn't really hide, but neither could the demon. Spike allowed the demon to move far enough ahead of him to be available only by stretching his senses to the limits, knowing that stealth was a key here. His minions stayed close, not able to track as well as he, and so followed his instructions to remain out of sight.

The demon knew he was being followed. He was still young in his clan, and his telepathy only worked in the vaguest of senses. He could pick out strong emotions, but nothing specific. The only thing he was getting off the vampires following him was rage, seconded by a strong amount of fear. However, he knew that this was the Weak One, and his High Priest had instructed him to watch for any unusual behavior from him, such as an attempted escape or sudden shift in mood. This rage was a certain shift from the confusion and misery formerly prevalent, and the demon decided that the best course of action was to lead the Weak One to the lair. The vampire was supposed to be drawn there by his human, in a few days, but the demon figured that the earlier, the better, and the clan could begin their feast as soon as he led him into the trap awaiting him. Perhaps then the ban on feeding inside the cave would be lifted, and he could indulge in a full meal once more.

When the destination became obvious, Spike followed the demon deep into the woods that hadn't been slashed- and -burned, back into the caves. He followed more closely now, using the camouflage and scents of the forest to cover him.  He was pleased that the two he'd chosen to come with him had the makings of more than simple cannon fodder; they followed silently and had required no further instruction so far. Perhaps, if they could be trustworthy, as far as demons went, he could have a couple of minions after all. He could keep them in bottled blood and intimidate them into feeding exclusively at the bar, and they could do his biding when it was required. Perhaps something good would come out of this after all.

The tingles signifying powerful magic multiplied with every step towards the caves. This was definitely where the spell was being cast. The demon headed for a cave, brightly lit from within by what had to be a very large fire. Spike attacked, grabbed the demon form behind, wrapping an arm around its neck and baring his fangs.

"What do you want with the boy?"

"Vampire," The demon hissed. "How kind of you to join us. We thought perhaps we'd have to wait for your pet human to lead you here." A sick smile split the demon's fluctuating face, right before Spike's fist split the smile. A small trickle of deep purple blood oozed forth, but the grin did not falter.

"What are you after, then?"

"Vengeance." Spike bristled at that, knowing that Xander had done nothing to the demons, and therefore it was him. His fault.

The demon continued talking. "You, vampire, killed our emissaries. Without them, our master's power has remained locked. He will use you. He will feed off the misery you give from losing your pet. We know you're losing him, we've watched you. He's leaving you. You will submit to our Master, and he will slowly destroy you."

Spike had heard enough. He'd confirmed these were the demons tormenting his Xander, using his Mate to get to him. He pulled back on the demon's head, attempting to snap his neck. The rubbery flesh simply slid back in place, not harming the demon, but seriously pissing him off. The attack came, but was slow and unskilled against Spike's rage- enhanced speed. Spike bent and grabbed his knife, dodging what blows he could, and stabbed the demon through the eyes, driving the blade in so hard it came back out the other side of the skull. Spike withdrew, shaking off the blood and sheathing the knife once more.

"And this is the way we kill them." He addressed his minions. "We go in, I give the signal, you kill anything you see. Afterwards, we'll talk compensation. As in my not killing you."

Recon was finished, now it was time to play.



Part Sixty-Nine   Guilt



Spike entered the cave and found a natural outcropping of rock for his minions and himself to hide behind, then watched the small group of demons scurry to fulfill the whims of the one who was obviously their master. Maybe recon wasn't finished quite yet. He reassessed his knowledge of these demons, for once trying to formulate a plan and more importantly, stick to it. This was far more important than any Saint's day feast or piece of admittedly miraculous jewelry. This was Xander.

The demons were shape-shifters, weak spots in the eyes, telepathic, voices like cats in a blender, and apparently, possessed delusions of grandeur and fed on misery. Fun group of guys. Remember to tell the Watcher when this is done and Xander is safe.

Xander will be fine, he will not be hurt, he will not be mad, he will be fine.

"Master?" One of his minions hesitantly asked.

Spike turned his glare on him.

"You're speaking, and we can't hear your instructions." The minion visibly cringed, awaiting his punishment for questioning this Master.

Spike shook off his reverie, having been completely unaware that he had been speaking his thoughts aloud. "No matter, follow my lead and kill anything that moves."

The one in power wore ceremonial robes and the air of one who demanded more than he deserved. He was also wearing a large glowing crystal pendant around his neck. That was Spike's goal; it emanated Xander's new scent, the underlying pure sunshine smell topped with the rancid scent of this magic.

He shimmied out from his bolt hole and grabbed the closest demon's neck, silently instructing his minions to do the same, trying to even out the odds. He decided to go all out, if you're going to make an impression and all that rot. Now knowing how much force to use, he ripped the head completely off the body and tossed it toward the leader.

"Seems you wanted my attention for something."

The Master shouted something at his clan and seven of the cave's remaining occupants advanced on Spike, while the high muckity-muck Priest Too Good To Fight, stood and watched, an expression of disgust still on his face after he'd side-stepped the head.

Spike wasted little time attacking. This time he knew how to kill them. This time he had no doubts, and he was on the offensive, and he was less than pleased, and here he had absolutely no interest in the decor, and all this was flowing from his mouth in a Xanderesque babble again without his knowledge.

He ripped through flesh with clawed fingers, his dagger, and when the occasion called for it, fangs. His minions unfortunately had not fared as well, only managing to take down one of the demons before they both were killed. Too bad, they were good minions, but it had worked to his advantage. As each new demon fell under Spike's assault, the crystal pendant glowed brighter, the scent of magic grew stronger, and more of Spike's secrets tumbled from his lips.

The demons became harder to defeat with each painful memory acknowledged, feeding and gaining strength from his obvious torment, but Spike fought through the feeling of betrayal, and the anger he feared from Master when he woke up.

"I tied him up with his own toys. I'm not allowed to touch his things. He won't forgive me, never forgive. Oh, God, I'm so sorry, sorry, so sorry."

Spike pushed on, even when shame and secrets were uncontrollably spilling forth he repeated in his head that it was the spell and the faces of everyone he ever killed were not in front of him.

He ripped Dawn's head off her tiny body, and he sobbed, repeating in his head that Dawn would not bleed purple foul-smelling slime. But every transgression against the girl came out in choked sobs, from what he did to her sister to the time he nicked her lavender nail polish just to keep part of his only friend with him.

He apologized to Joyce as he blinded her with his bare fingers. He sobbed over Dru's body when he sliced through her face with his dagger. Nameless victims he didn't even know, couldn't atone for with their names because he didn't care about them other than the fun they could bring him and his Dark Goddess or his proud Sire appeared and fell under his hand for a second time, wrenching confessions from him.

All the time he knew it wasn't happening, he knew it, this wasn't like with the First and its tricks, he was not really killing again. He couldn't be.

"Master will be so upset, hate me, always hated me before. I didn't know, didn't know how to stop it, couldn't stop it, it hurt so bad and I couldn't stop but he won't care he'll always be too good for me always be too good I'm hurting him making him unclean destroying him because I love him always always destroy what I love."

Not even aware anymore of what he was saying, Spike knew his misery fed the High Priest but was powerless to stop. The flames jumped higher with every agonized sob from him, the temperature rose and the cloying scent of magic grew heavier, but Spike couldn't stop himself from speaking. All his concentration focused on killing these demons and freeing Master left no room for paying attention to his darkest fears.

The Priest stood still as another of his clan fell, drinking in the pure misery pouring forth from this Weak One, confident in their abilities to capture him. When there were only three left between himself and the vampire, though, he began to fidget.

When down to two, he screamed. "It can't be! There is a prophesy!"

Spike grabbed the next demon in his way, the Priest's thought having enough force to break through his visions momentarily. "You see, me and my mates? We don't tend to play by the rules, and we do *not* like prophesies."

He pulled the dagger from the last demon's eye and was pinning the leader to the wall by his throat before the body even hit the ground.

"You. Fucked. With. Master."

And Spike plunged the knife into the demon, ripped the crystal pendant from around the bloody neck and wiped the ichor off on the ruined robes.

"Won't do it again, now, will you?"



Part Seventy   Pendant



Spike sat at the mouth of the cave, cigarette burning out in his left hand, watching the stars travel slowly across the sky. The fire behind him kept the early morning chill from reaching him, as if he could feel much of anything right now. It also served the purpose of disposing of the bodies.  He hadn't wanted to take any chances, left no possibility of survivors coming back to claim vengeance. Again. For a while he had watched them disintegrate to an oozing purple mess, but soon the stench became too much for him to bear, and he turned his attention back to the one body he hadn't tossed into the fire. The body of the Priest.

The pendant hadn't stopped glowing as Spike stomped the demon's head to a pulp. The glowing continued even now, after his clean-up efforts, and the feeling of pins and needles Spike associated with powerful magic never lessened as he wrenched the crystal from the sorcerer's neck. That meant that more than likely the spell had not been tied to the High Priest, but to the talisman. It was a smart move to make, ensuring that if an amateur was involved the spell would not be broken, even after the death of the sorcerer.

Spike, having more experience with magic than he was comfortable with, was not an amateur. He was a pissed off Master Vampire whose Consort had been bespelled and suffered. He knew that smashing the crystal would break the spell, but would it return everything to the way it had been before, or would Xander be trapped this way forever? Spike lit another cigarette off the butt of the last one, and watched a few more stars wink out above him.

Spike had always been ready to kill first, ask questions later, and this time it looked like he had slaughtered his only chance at an answer in his enthusiasm. He weighed his options carefully. He could take the pendant and go home to research, but Xander's mental state was deteriorating rapidly; he'd already gone pre-verbal. Certainly there had to be a point of no return, a time when Xander would not be able to come back from the magic that had come over him. It had only been a few days, and he was already this bad; research could take far too long. And the death of the original spell caster surely would affect the rate at which that happened. He made his decision, jumping up and dropping the crystal to the ground. He never had been good at brooding. He lifted his boot, grinding the amulet beneath it into a fine powder. It was time for Spike to face his Master.

Dawn wasn't far off, and Spike knew he should be getting home. He needed to check on Mast- Xander. But in truth, his boy was either fine, or he wasn't. He was either fixed, or he wasn't. They were either over, or they weren't.

He'd always heard that victims didn't remember the time they spent possessed. He hoped that maybe that would be the case with Xander. Perhaps when he let him down from the restraints, Spike could just tell him he'd had a fever, that he'd been sick for a few days, and Xander would have no memories and nothing to feel guilty for.

It wasn't for his sake that he wished amnesia on the boy. Spike knew how badly hurt Xander would be if he thought he'd hurt Spike. There was a distinct possibility that his days of dominating Spike were over if Xander thought he could lose control. It was what made him so good. He always had control of himself, of Spike, of the situation, even when he hadn't any idea what to do. If anything threatened that ability, Spike knew he would stop.

The thought alone made him shiver. The depth to which he had begun to crave what *that* Xander offered surprised him. If it hadn't have been influenced by the spell, it would have been nearly perfect. Spike hadn't felt that level of submission, total ownership, since Angelus. And that brought him full circle, back to the problem he'd had before this started. One problem at a time. First, Xander, then... whatever this was.
* * *

Spike entered the lobby just as the sun broke the horizon. He stood back in the shadows, watching for a moment as the sky turned pink around the edges of the apartment building across the street. Too many close calls, and never had Spike been so happy to take cover in the underground hallway to his home. His safe home with his safe Xander.

The scent of blood hit him hard when he opened the door to the dungeon. Spike panicked for a moment at finding Xander unconscious, hanging limply from the restraints, his face a little more bruised than when he'd left, but Spike calmed when he focused on the sound of the slow but steady heartbeat. Spike unfastened the restraints gently, the flesh of Xander's wrists and ankles reddened and in places ripped jaggedly from where he had twisted in the attempt to free himself. Spike was grateful he had the presence of mind to ensure Xander couldn't gnaw his own arm off, and then released a snort of near-hysterical laughter brought on by the stress of the situation.

He took Xander's limp body over to the bed and laid him down, then found a bottle of water and a bag of blood for himself. He drank the blood cold while he wet a cloth and began stripping and cleaning his lover. He cradled Xander's larger form in his lap as he worked, getting skin to skin contact with as much of him as he could. He needed to reassure himself that Xander was still here with him. His smell was closer to normal, buried under the clammy smell of old sweat and sickness, but still there.
Once Spike began cleaning his wounds, there really wasn't all that much blood, the smell so strong due to the spell, not the quantity. The wounds would heal quickly, and Spike licked them to speed the process. He tried not to, but even though the taste of Xander's blood was still faintly tainted with magic, it was so good, and Spike let out a little moan, tears stinging his eyes as he realized how close he had come to losing him.

Xander's heart sped the slightest bit, and he stirred in Spike's arms, stopping the vampire's impending breakdown.

"Wake up, Xander. Come on back to me now." Spike tried to control himself, but felt his face shift with the thought of someone taking this away from him.

"Ech. Hurt." Xander croaked.

Spike held up the water bottle and tilted it back for Xander to drink. "Better?" Spike asked when Xander had sipped most of the bottle.

"Sorry." Xander struggled to speak, voice harsh from having screamed his throat raw. Not for the first time, Spike found himself grateful that the walls to their apartment had been well soundproofed. Xander explained it as knowing the vampire liked loud, and he didn't feel like pissing off the neighbors with his nocturnal roommate's punk at all hours. Of course, that explanation came not long after the first time Xander had brought him off with only the flogger, so the insulation had other uses as well.

"Sh. Rest." Spike shushed him. While Xander's heart beat was strong and his smell closer to normal, he was pale and shivering.

"Sorry." Xander repeated.

"Sleep." Spike shifted off the bed, covering Xander with several of the blankets piled at the foot of the bed. Xander closed his eyes and Spike sighed in relief, only realizing how badly he was shaking when he tried unsuccessfully to light his cigarette, preparing for the vigil he would stand next to his lover's recovering body.







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