Thralls

Author's Notes:
Spike has a problem. For those who adore Spike and demanded to have him grace this fic!


"What the bleeding hell?"

Spike felt like his head was the size of the entire state of Montana. And hollow as a melon. It throbbed and stung. Pounded. To make matters worse, he was *fucking* ravenous, too. His stomach rumbled, deprived of blood and food both. He muttered unhappily. He had to open his eyes. No way out of it. He pried one swollen lid open, narrowing it to a mere slit when confronted with the bright white walls and lights. And swore.

"Ghod damn it!" He howled. He'd been in this particular place before. And had hoped never to return. The bleeding Initiative. The blokes who had put the chip in his head. He still owed them for that. He looked around. No improvement in the decor since his last visit. Still white, still padded. No chairs, no bed, plenty of floor. Still locked in. He kicked out at the thick Plexiglas shield. It made a satisfying thump, but disappointingly, didn't break. Fuck-all.

He looked down. White overalls. Stretchy, unflattering, showed off his bits and parts, nothing to be ashamed of there, he had a good set, but clingy white? He shuddered. No taste, these people. Just another big mark against them. As if they needed any more. And barefoot, too. He wiggled his pale toes. Maybe he should have painted his toenails. Black, like his fingernails. A bloke never knew when he'd be showing off his assets, after all. He snorted. Yeah, like hell.

"Hostile 17." The cold voice was just as he remembered it, he let his head drop back down to the padded floor. He had a very good memory, a thing people tended to forget. They saw him as a mindless, ignorant vampire, one of the lower classes, a predator for sure, but not a very smart one. Hostile 17.

"Oh, just great." He muttered. "Now me day is complete. Tell me what you want, and let me go. Or I'll just escape again, like last time. Not too bleeding fond of these accommodations. And give me back my boots. Toes not ready for company to see." He pointed them in the direction of the camera.

"Well, *Spike*. I hope you'll feel more like staying around this time. I have a roommate for you." The woman's voice told him from the tinny speaker. He listened to that, but didn't miss the hissing release of the gas filling his cell. This too, was familiar, he thought as he passed out. Who knew what he'd find when he woke. Big, fat, smelly demon of a particularly nasty sort, most like. He hated this place.

^^^^^^^^^^^

Angel looked around at the remaining people in the room.

Gunn was still up against the wall, relaxed, his face not angry, not friendly, just patient, observant. Angel figured Gunn could have the axe up and swinging in less than a second. Just as cool collected, and deadly as ever.

Wesley on the other hand was rocking back and forth, small movements, showing his upset, his nerves. Now that Buffy had stormed out, taking Cordelia with her, Giles the Sunnydale watcher, moved to sit next to Wes. He put a hand on the other man's arm, and Wesley jumped nearly all the way out of the chair. He was shaking, as Giles tried to calm him, leaning down to speak softly in the other Englishman's ear.

Doyle stood, head down. Thinking, Angel guessed. Reliving the last few minutes, wondering undoubtedly, if he could have prevented it, intervened, kept Cordy, his princess, in the room, in the group. All the sort of things that Doyle worried about.

Fred still huddled into the smallest space she could take up, feet up on the cushions, arms around her thin legs, with Lorne's long arm around her.

And Lorne, frowning. An expression that was not often on his face, Angel hadn't seen it in a while. Their eyes met. Lorne cocked his head to the side. More interested than angry. Lorne wasn't just the jovial barkeep some thought him. Wasn't just the teller of tales, and reader of souls through excrutiatingly sung songs. More than Angel's friend. Lorne was a watcher of sorts himself. For the demon community as a whole. Lorne watched him now. Making no secret of it.

Angel took advantage of the lull in the conversation, to head over to the one free couch. He sat, and the men who had followed him also sat. After a moment's consideration, Riley perched on the couch next to him, feet together, posture stiff. Graham on the floor at his feet, facing the others ready to head them off if any were dumb enough to approach. Xander stood uncertainly for a minute, then Angel held out his hand, and the young man dropped down, putting his hand in the vampire's, his head coming to rest on Angel's knee. Angel stroked him, the dark hair, felt the nervous, whole body twitching of Xander.

Angel spread his legs, not titillatingly, just welcoming Xander between them, closer to him, as comfort rather than sex. Xander glanced around the room, saw all eyes fixed on him, put his head down, moved in at once, nosing his face against the strong inner thigh, taking in the musky scent, settling, quiet. Angel's hand cupped the back of the dark haired man's neck, massaged, finger's rubbing small circles.

His thralls settled, Angel gave his attention back to the room at large. Lorne was still watching him, red eyes alert, measuring, looking at Xander in particular.

"Next question?" Angel said softly, his fingers winding in the sweaty curls at the base of Xander's neck.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Spike felt like shit the next time he swam up to consciousness. He wold not recommend marketing this knock out drug, it's side effects were bad. Real bad. He barely managed not to groan, turning over onto his side before his empty stomach clenched and he began dry heaving.

"Hey. You OK, man?" The soft voice startled the vampire. Great, now he was too sick to even notice when he wasn't alone in the cramped enclosure. He lifted his head, eyes bleary and streaming with the force of gagging up his guts.

When he caught sight of who was in the cell with him he let his eyes close again. Red's old boyfriend. The one who went all furry three days a month. Then the smell hit him and Spike sat up.

"Whoa! What?" The young man scrambled backwards, coming up hard against the wall with a thump. Keeping an eye on Spike.

Spike covered his mouth and nose with his hands. Forbidding himself to draw another breath. For the first time in years his body was fighting him to draw in another unneeded lungful. Fighting to taste more of the drug that was coming off of the other's skin.

Spike knew exactly what it was. And why he didn't want any part of it. It was thrall scent, clear indication of a bloodmark. His blood mark. Any one else's and it would make him want to back away, nauseate him, not make him want to crawl over and stick his tongue all the way down the skinny git's throat. Followed immediately after, by sinking his fangs into the same throat and draining all the blood from his body.

He made the mistake of looking at the youth too long. His eyes met the eyes of his cell mate, and the kid's eyes, Oz was his name, widened. He gulped, raised his own nose into the air, and sniffed. Damn it. It was a piss poor time to be a werewolf, Spike thought sourly, bracing himself just in time to catch the leaping wolf-man.

He was betting they were on camera, he snorted. Of course they were. He just hoped wolf-boy had hearing as acute as some of the other werewolves Spike had known in the past. He plastered his mouth right up next to the man's ear and sub-vocalized.

"I bet they don't know your secret yet. Don't let them find out. Anything else goes. What ever we need to survive. Got it, sweeting?" He held the wolf immobile through an instinctive jerk. Then he felt the minuscule nod of agreement.

"You know what is happening here?" Spike hissed. Another head motion. No. Perfect. He backed off for a minute. Meeting the dark, dilated eyes.

Oz stared into the blue eyes of the vampire. Hot eyes, set off by the platinum blond hair, a stunning contrast, then his gaze shifted, down to the mouth, lovely, siren's mouth, he wanted to lick. Oh, no. Oz's brain did a back flip. Not going there, he told himself. Not, going.... he tilted his head way back, letting the cool nose of the vampire, of Spike(yes, the one Willow told sphincter tightening tales of), push into the side of his neck, locating his bounding pulse with the ease of the bloodhound that he was.

Spike bore him to the padded floor, on his back, hiding most of what was going on, the whispering that, suddenly, Oz was capable of hearing again.

"I need to bite you. Got no choice, mate. What we need to do to survive. Remember? If I wait, I won't be able to stop. They've been getting me ready for this. Starving me." Spike was whispering urgently. Oz realized a nod wasn't going to serve this time. Sometimes you just had to talk.

"Do it. I understand. Instincts and drives." Oz murmured, not moving his lips. He did. Three days a month Oz spent chained up in his basement, in a cage, because of drives not at all unlike the ones Spike had now.

"Yeah. Right. Can't believe I forgot that. Sorry about this." And Spike sank his fangs into the welcoming throat, relishing the spurt of hot, succulent, lycanthrope blood that filled his mouth.

Christ that was good. He was hard as a rock.

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