Breaking a Slayer

Breaking a Slayer: Chapter 3 Breaking a Slayer: Chapter 3   Disclaimer: I don't own them.   Spoilers/Ships: This is AU. Buffy/Spike/Angel.   Distribution: Sure, just let me know.   Feedback: Is always nice.   Rating: NC-17 with warnings for violence, sex, torture, blood play, slash and just general angst.   Spike arrived back in Sunnyhell nearly an hour before dawn. He drove past the crappy little hotel that now served the Slayer as home, but the light in her room wasn't on. bac back from patrol yet, he imagined. Her routine was unwavering these days. She functioned more like some mindless automaton than a flesh and blood person. He'd watched her slaying in Sunnyrest cemetery one night, absurdly appalled by the lack of any discernable emotion on Buffy's face as she slew vampires with nary a quip or comment. It was unnatural. She'd always been so full of life and bad puns, now it was as if he was looking at a ghost. Hell, she was fading away before his eyes. It was the only reason he'd gone after Angel in LA.   Driving swiftly to his crypt, Spike threw his scanty possessions into the DeSoto and zipped over to the mansion with time to spare. Let Angelus collect artwork and first editions, Spike wasn't interested in toting around any of that crap. Besides, he'd always been able to take whatever he needed from Angelus or his own victims before this. Not that anything from Angelus came without a price. Made dealing with Soul Boy doubly odd, in Spike's mind. The sire/childe bond was there, but the link felt tenuous and strained because Angel had never called upon it after the soul restoration. Felt like there were empty rooms echoing in Spike's head, waiting for occupants who'd never arrive.   The mansion doubled his discomfort as the physical manifestation of his mental state. He was thinking too bloody much, was the problem. Walking in here didn't bring back pleasant memories, but if he and the bloody pouf were going to work together, it made sense to be in the same place. He staked out a new bedroom and tossed his things into its forlorn emptiness, trailing footprints through the dust with every step.   Housekeeping done, at least for the moment, he returned to the great room and kicked back - boots propped up - on one of Angelus's expensive leather couches to suck down a tepid bag of blood before curling up to rest. Damn he was tired. He lay on the couch, half asleep already and thought of Buffy. Not the poor broken thing she was now, though, but the vibrant, in-his-face Buffy he'd so relished fighting and pissing off. She'd burned with an inner fire like nothing he'd ever seen. Now, she was barely alive. He couldn't stand to even look at her these days…it was why he hadn't fought harder when she told him to get lost. Closing his eyes, he conjured up the old Slayer, stroking his cock to unlife as he imagined her on her knees in front of him, begging him to spare her….   *"Spike, I'll do anything, just don’t kill me. I'm not ready to die, Spike," she crooned at him as she unzipped his jeans with her tiny hands. He hissed as she stroked his length, taking him into her inferno of a mouth, licking the end of his dick enticingly with her red-hot tongue before laving his balls. She stroked his cock firmly with her tiny fist, fingers not meeting around it as she licked lower, nipping at his perineum before rimming his ass with that talented tongue. He groaned at the intense pleasure, nearly spilling right then and she pumped his cock harder, tongue still lapping at his asshole. "Shit, Slayer, I'm gonna cum," he groaned, and she pushed one tiny finger into his sopping ass, capturing his dick in her mouth as she skillfully stroked his prostate with the perfect pressure. He screamed, "Buffy!" as he came, filling her avid mouth with cool dead semen and falling back onto her bed.*   Spike screamed, "Buffy!" as he spilled his cold cum into his hands and across his belly. Grabbing his dirty t-shirt, he wiped himself clean, then curled under his duster on the couch to sleep away the day, finally relaxed enough to do so.   *   Angel paced, trapped in the storefront until sunset and hating every moment that he wasn't on the road to Buffy. He had no idea how he'd let thicomecome to this. He'd thought he was doing the right thing in leaving, and her new relationship had seemed to prove it. Even this last time he'd seen her, when they'd said such terrible things to each other, he could have been resigned, if not happy, that she was out in the world experiencing life, as she should be, with its mistakes and lessons.   But now, knowing what she'd gone through completely alone, or alone except for Spike - and Powers only knew *what* was up with that - he realized that by removing himself from her life, he'd taken the only person she could really tell anything to. Giles loved her as a daughter, but his duties as a Watcher would always conflict with what was best for Buffy. Her friends had their own lives and had apparently started living them with a vengeance. She didn't get that option. He didn't understand how they could have abandoned her to slaying until he thought about the way he'd rationalized his own actions to himself. He was hardly the one to be casting stones.   Finally the interminable day was over and he could throw his bags into the car, fighting traffic to get to Sunnydale and Buffy, while dreading what he would find there. He prayed to whomever might listen that Spike had exaggerated the situation.   *   Buffy struggled to breathe around the stench of the Rathlar demon she was fighting. It was strong, but slow, its horrific smell generally enough to do in its prey without a need for speed or finesse. It had vastly underestimated its choice tonight. With a final roundhouse kick and a quick stab of her new knife, Buffy finished it, watching as it disintegrated into noxious slime that oozed into a fetid puddle near the edge of the cemetery.   Sighing and cleaning the befouled knife carefully on her filth-encrusted jeans, Buffy continued on her rounds, scaring up nothing further but a raccoon, out on a nocturnal patrol of its own. Finally, she gave up and headed back early to the motel, plodding along in an apathetic fog, senses alert for danger, but mind diffuse and focused on nothing in particular.   She climbed the stairs to her room, entering quickly and closing the door behind her. As she walked in, she realized with a sinking feeling that this time she couldn't escape - she had to do laundry *today.* She had no underwear left at all and was down to her very last pair of wear-ably clean jeans once she took off the goo-covered ones drying into stiffness on her legs. Blech. First things first, though. Shower-time.   Buffy stripped and walked to the shower. Turning it on, full strength, she stepped under the stinging hot spray, tossing her golden-brown curls under the water to rinse away the filth and sweat of her night's work. The hot steam melted into sore muscles, loosening the ever-present tensiont pat pained her thin body. She scrubbed the shampoo into her scalp, relishing the pleasure imparted by the clean warm water. Rinsing quickly as the warm water began giving way to tepid, Buffy turned off the shower.   Climbing out, Buffy toweled her hair dry with a quick rub before drying the rest of her body. She finger-combed her hair, looking at the sharp-featured stranger with short curly brown hair gazing out of the mirror. She didn't see much to recognize herself these days. Even her eyes, which she remembered as a murky green, now seemed more brown than anything else. Everything about her was dull and drab to her cynical eyes, from her hair to her too-pale skin and bony frame. *Nothing of interest here,* she screamed with every aspect of her being. Screamed as if anyone were listening, when in fact, no one was.   Gathering up her towels and filthy clothes, she dumped them on top of the loaded wash basket and strode to the broken down dresser listing drunkenly against one wall. She pulled out her last pair of clean jeans - well, cleaner than the other pairs, at least - stepping into them and sliding them up over her naked ass. Like all her clothes, they were too loose, hanging on her newly bony frame. She threw on a tank top, followed by her last clean flannel shirt - an indeterminate gray.   Nice thing about short hair, she thought as she crammed her stocking cap on her head - it dried quickly, and it was out of her way for slaying. She'd worn it long since her unfortunate Dorothy Hamill days, and was vaguely surprised at the curls that had sprung to life once the weight of the long hair was gone. Didn't much matter anyway, since she wore the cap every time she left the motel.   Grabbing her room key, soap and change, she hefted the laundry basket and stepped into the pre-dawn gloom. Sun wouldn't be up for at least two hours, more than enough to wash her clothes without needing to see anyone human. She alone frequented the 24-hour laundromat at these hours, at least, in her experience. She walked across the street in the silent darkness, once again thankful that slayer hours minimized human contact.   Striding to the far back of the room, she quickly heaved her clothes into two huge washers, feeding quarters into the slots and dumping in the soap. Buffy turned and sat in a particularly hideous day-glo-orange plastic chair and watched the water fill the washer and the cycle begin. It was easy having all dark clothes, no need for separation, she thought idly, mesmerized by the hypnotic swish of the water and soap against the glass. She sat and stared as the machines cycled through to rinse, thinking of nothing in particular. There was a comforting mindlessness to laundry. She could go through the motions of living, following the set routines of adult life, without the complexity of emotion to bog her down.   Buffy rose and moved the clean wet clothes across the room to the ds, fs, feeding the voracious machines her last few quarters and switching to a lime green chair to continue her vacuous perusal of her clothes, unaware that she was being watched.   *   Sam and Joe had stumbled out of Rudy's relatively early that night, bored and itching for some fun. They strode down the dark streets of Sunnydale encountering no one until they passed Mom's Scrub-a-Dub. Inside, at the far end of the laundromat, Sam saw a diminutive girl, staring vacantly at the dryers. *This could be fun,* he thought and elbowed Joe in the ribs to get his attention.   They entered Mom's and split, Joe stalking slowly parallel to the washers while Sam approached their prey on the dryer side. "Why, look what we have here, Joseph, my man," Sam sneered as he stopped in front of the girl, gazing down at her tiny frame with lust-filled eyes. "I always had a taste for chicken, and this one's just aching to be plucked, in't that so, sweet thing?"   Buffy's senses had come alert as the men entered the laundry, uncomfortably aware of their presence and her vulnerability. She looked up at the huge man leering at her and reluctantly made eye contact. "I don't want any trouble," she whispered, shaking with fear at his proximity. Then she felt a hand on her right shoulder and knew that the other man was behind her, cutting off that exit and forcing a confrontation.   Joe pulled her bonelessly to her feet and glared down at her, pulling at his belt buckle with his right hand while still holding her shoulder with his left. "Well, Sam, I figger' we should give the girl a chance…says she don't want trouble, after all…and I could use a good knob job tonight, what about you?" A wave of nausea rolled over Buffy as his scent and voice echoed through her head. She'd seen that belt before, had seen what lurked beneath it, as well. She shuddered uncontrollably in his grasp as adrenaline flooded her system and Slayer-senses snapped into focus.   As his right hand finished with the belt and reached for his zipper, Buffy snapped her left hand up to grasp Joe's meaty arm in a wrist-lock, wrenching his left hand off of her shoulder and twisting it behind him as she jumped quickly to her feet. Screaming wordlessly, Buffy pulled sharply up on Joe's arm, snapping both the radius and ulna in a single, brutal, motion. Joe screamed in surprise and anguish as Buffy dropped his now-useless and bleeding arm and shifted her weight to her right foot, catching him in the kidney with a vicious side kick. His gaze was ripped from the bloody bones protruding from his flaccid arm by the blinding flash of pain caused by the splintered ribs slicing into his kidney. He could feel the blood begin to pool in his abdomen before he hit the ground, almost unconscious and in shock.   Sam lunged at Buffy, who blocked with her left arm, then delivered three quick jabs to his scruffy face, breaking his nose and knocking two teeth halfway down his throat. Sam staggered back, coughing and spitting blood, then roared in rage, jumping forward to grab Buffy. She kicked the unfortunate lime-green chair directly into his legs and followed up with a roundhouse kick to his left orbit, shattering it and pulping his eye with her dirty black boot. He screamed incoherently in anguish, clutching his battered face with one hand.   *   Spike was bored. Bored, bored, bored. He'd gone looking for Buffy at dusk, but she must have been one cemetery ahead of him the entire night. He smelled the stinking remains of a Rathlar in one area and knew she'd been there recently. Finally, he decided to stake out the motel. Her room was dark, but sooner or later she'd return. He walked to the alley across the way, hoping she wouldn't notice him next to the laundromat. Suddenly he heard a commotion coming from inside.   *   Sam pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, drawing a wicked-looking butterfly knife from his pocket, and flicking it open with a practiced motion. He advanced slowly, glaring at Buffy from his good eye. Buffy backed away warily toward the front of the laundry. He staggered towards her at a bullish trot. Buffy centered, then knocked the knife from his hand with a graceful sweeping block with her left, stepping fluidly into a right-leg sweep and throw. His legs no longer beneath him, Sam sailed through the air, momentarily defying gravity, before he crashed head-first through the large window in the front of the laundromat.   Buffy turned and kicked a metal leg on the lime-green chair until it snapped off, then advanced on Joe, who had regained some semblance of consciousness and was groaning and attempting to claw his way up the side of a nearby dryer. He muttered, "I'm gonna rip you apart, Bitch," more in an effort to rally himself than to intimidate her. Buffy clubbed him in the head, screaming wordlessly as she struck over and over. Blood spattered her face and hands as she continued to bludgeon the fallen man.   Stepping over the unmoving Sam, Spike stuck his head through the shattered plate-glass window to see what the ruckus was about. His eyes were quickly drawn to the scrawny figure beating a man to the floor near the back of the place. At first, it looked nothing like Buffy, but then he got a look at the face. It was her. A feral, starved Buffy, but her nonetheless. Spike paused for a moment, wondering if he should try to stop her, but then thought of what Angel would say about his childe letting Buffy beat a man to death. The whole chip deal would be right off, that was clear.   The Slayer was totally around the bend, no humanity at all showed in her blood-spattered face. Spike grabbed the metal bar from her and yelled in pain when his chip flared as he jostled her inadvertently. She instinctively threw him across the room into the washing machines. He climbed warily to his feet, dropping the bar and backing slowly away as she advanced on him. "Slayer?! Buffy! I'm not gonna hurt ya! Buffy, it's me, Spike. Remember me, Pet? Got a chip in my brain? Can't hurt you? Can't fight back? Slayer?"   Buffy continued to advance on him, fear-crazed eyes recognizing nothing but another male threat. She cornered him at the end of the r wal wall at his back and no escape in sight. Buffy raised her hands and Spike grabbed her arm. She growled like a predator, entirely imed ied in Slayer instinct and looking around for wood, anything to attack this vampire in front of her. She found nothing.   Spike was actually beginning to get scared. This wasn't his violently intimate dance partner of the past…the woman who turned him on with every stake she thrust in his direction. This was a primal being, completely intent on his immediate destruction. He watched her flex her hands, and knew that if he let her, she'd rip through his stomach and pull his heart out that way. He'd seen her do it to a fledgling who made the mistake of trapping her with no stakes available. It wasn't a pretty death…not that any were. Desperate, he tried the one thing she'd never expect. He leaned forward slowly, dropping his hands non-threateningly to his sides, and kissed her oh-so-gently on the lips.   Buffy jumped in surprise, her consciousness waking up abruptly. *What was I…? What was I doing?* she wondered and then blinked, staring into Spike's deep blue eyes.   She shrank back from him and he held his hands up, saying, "Whoa, Slayer, you in there? I'm not comin' any closer, not hurtin' you. Just wanted to make sure you're ok." He didn't want to set her off again, Satan knows what she'd do to him, a sworn enemy, if she'd do this to humans. Spike slid past her and paced slowly to the man lying in a puddle of blood near the dryers, keeping his eye on the Slayer all the while.   He caught a scent off the man that tweaked a memory. Scent memory was amazingly strong in humans and even more so in vampires. Spike could vividly recall the smells of kills from over a hundred years ago. This man…this man's scent was on Buffy the night he'd driven her to LA. That was the connection. He looked up at her, realization dawning. "Buffy…did he…did they try to hurt you again? He's one of the ones from the bar, isn't he?"   Buffy looked frantically around at the destruction she had wrought. Blood covered her hands and shirt and there were two men….She looked at them and the realization of what she'd done to them washed over her. She backed away, trapped by the carnage of the scene in the same corner she'd pushed Spike into. Her hands began trembling uncontrollably and she shook her head back and forth in denial of the havoc she'd wreaked. "I…I w-w-was out of clean clothes," she stuttered. "I was just washing my clothes…. God, Spike, are they dead? Did I kill them both? Oh, God!" She bolted, running for the motel as if the hounds of hell themselves were at her heels.   Spike made no move to follow her, knowing that he could never catch the Slayer at full speed if she didn't want him to. Instead, he crouched over the broken figure on the floor. This one was dying for sure. He turned the beaten man's head towards himself and began licking the blood from his face and neck. Buffy had left him quite a meal, and he chuckled delightedly to himself as he savored the ambrosial warmth of fresh human blood for the first time in months. *Mmmm, nothing like it!*   He raised the man's broken arm to his lips, sucking hard at the ends of the broken bones to pull the bloody marrow into his rapacious mouth. When he'd wrung every scrap of blood from the now-dead corpse, he turned his attention to the man lying impaled on the window glass scattered across the sidewalk. Spike stalked towards the man, pausing to pick up a lovely butterfly knife he nearly stumbled over. Nice toy. He flipped it expertly shut and tucked it into his pocket. Might come in handy sometime.   The man was still alive, but looked as if he'd nicked an artery on the shards. Spike ripped off his dinner's shirt and lapped his blood like a hungry puppy, chortling with glee and practically dancing in place.   He'd been wrong to leave the Slayer alone…these were the best eats he'd had since he could remember! *Hmm, maybe she'd like to hunt for me now? Prob'ly not. Too bad.* He pulled a large shard from the man's neck and locked his lips around the welling hole. *Perfect aim, Slayer. Thank you!* The man's blood and life flowed into Spike's avid mouth and he sucked harder on the unconscious guy's neck, moaning in pleasure as the warmth spread through his undead body.   This was how it should be. Fucking Nirvana. He was a predator, not some pinch-thief stealing blood bags from the bank. He had to get that twice-damned chip out of his skull. *Oops, that means helping Angel with the Slayer. He's prob'ly gonna want to know where she went….* Finishing off his impromptu meal, Spike dropped him to the sidewalk and walked inside to gather Buffy's clothes from the dryers. He carried the basket to the DeSoto, tossing it inside. He glanced up at the room where Buffy had been staying and saw a ligehinehind the flimsy drapes. Bingo. He settled in with a smoke to wait for the Pouf to arrive from LA.   *   Angel returned from the ramshackle manager's office with the information they sought. Buffy was indeed in room 214. She didn't like visitors and was decidedly unfriendly, according to the night manager. The leer with which he imparted this information indicated that he'd attempted to breech that unfriendly exterior with little success. Angel's audible growl had intimidated the man into shutting up before Angel had to kill him, a fact for which he knew he should be more grateful than he was.   Angel stomped outside with none of his usual stealth, peering through the dark for his childe. Spike left his car and joined Angel on the stairs as they climbed slowly to the second floor balcony. "So, what's the plan, then?" his irrepressible childe asked as he lit up yet another cigarette, blowing the smoke in Angel's face.   "I just want to see her, talk to her. Make sure she's ok…" he trailed off, as Spike snorted his disdain.   "Bloomin' idjit," he cursed. "Chit's not ok, not even close. I told you what she did in the laundromat."   Angel sighed. "Well what would you have me do, Spike? If any of this is my fault, I have to help her. I'm all she has left now with her Watcher and friends away for the summer."   His broody look grated on Spike's nerves. "Well, better you than me, mate. Why am I here again? Can't be moral support - I don't have any morals. Certainly isn't 'cause I wanna be here. Oh, yeah, I remember, you're paying me. Right, let's get it over with then…." He knocked on the door and shouted, "Oi…slayer, you in there?"   Buffy crouched in the corner, eyes screwed shut and hands over her ears, unfocused and terror-stricken at the pounding on her door. It must be the police, here to take her to jail for murdering those men. She was covered in drying blood and shaking like a leaf, too hysterical to form a proper thought. She considered fleeing through the back window but couldn't summon the energy to even try to run. She rocked back and forth in the corner, refusing to answer the increasingly loud pounding on her door. Finally she looked up as the door crashed open from the outside. Standing there was the last person she expected to see.   To be continued…