This lovely was created by the wonderful Mandi. Thank you.

A/N: A huge thank you to those that have read and reviewed. Very appreciated.

Another huge thank you to the lovely betas, Megan and Angelic Amy.


Chapter 8

Spike, not for the first time in his existence, thought there was a lot to be said for the truth of the old saying ‘clothes maketh the man’. How strange it felt to have that fabric barrier between his skin and the world, to have only his weapons on display; his changeable face and his hands. Restricted weapons nowadays, but weapons nonetheless. He didn’t need a mirror to know he looked alright. The sweet-smelling blonde of the spells was proving to be a flattering reflection. If it hadn’t been for the niggling concern that Buffy was going to end up in a pickle due to her ‘humane’ principles and negligence in not reading the small print, he would have described himself as content. Because things could have gone so much differently for him if she’d been an apostle of the teachings within that tome, the one that would have given the Marquis de Sade a run for his money, let alone Angelus.

He didn’t know why he felt quite so sure that Buffy wouldn’t suddenly become a convert to its downright humiliating and demoralising tracts. But what he had seen in her eyes earlier, his knowledge of the girl she had been and her stubborn honesty, everything pointed towards the woman being as stalwart in her opinions. Spike thought it would take something extraordinary on his part to get her to shout at him, let alone bash him one. He had comforted the weeping slayer as best he could, held and soothed her until her sobs had abated and she’d staggered away from him and into the bathroom. A tearing sound from within had been followed by an unladylike trumpet and a sniffle; Buffy had blown her nose with the lack of femininity reserved for the truly distraught. The thought that she would string him up and use the canvas of his back as some sort of target practice… Spike didn’t think she had it in her.

As a judge of character, Spike would have once said he sat on the top bench of authority. In a total about turn from his life, in his unlife he was able to almost taste a lie, if told in fear and anguish. So he hadn’t tasted any in a while now. But today he had tasted anguish. The Slayer was in a worse state than he was.

Things were looking up for him; the Slayer seemed inclined to kindness and had provided more than he could recall anyone giving him, ever. The fact that owning him was causing her so much grief made the vampire admire her. In yet another about turn, his unlife was actually getting better, and it was all because the one chosen to be the instrument of death to his kind hated something more than she hated demons; injustice.

So, no, Spike didn’t think the Slayer was going to be changed in that way from her contact with the bloody manual. What he thought was that she would more than likely be upset when the dotted i’s and crossed t’s of his miserable existence were spelt out in front of her. And from what he’d seen so far, no matter how strong her scruples might be, she was balancing on a precipice and likely to implode at any moment. A no win situation.

How strange was it that his renewed enthusiasm for life had been brought about when the strongest warrior for the light was at her nadir? Even stranger that he felt no inclination to gloat or enthuse in any way about where life had brought her.

From what he could see they were two casualties of a life spent in the dark. Or, more accurately, he was a casualty because he had been forcibly removed from his rightful place in the demon world. The dark was where he belonged, with or without a muzzle. The Slayer, because her cosmic destiny had decreed that the warrior of light take her fight into dark, had spent her life in his environment more than her own. That must be hard, very hard. As hard as someone as evil as him trying to reach for a life in the light. Wasn’t natural, wasn’t right.

The Slayer was the strongest yet most fragile person Spike had ever met. Yesterday she had been so calm, so collected and benign. Today, just the evidence from a five week old incident had thrown her into floods of tears. This killer and nemesis to demonkind was nothing but a young woman undone by signs of torment, no matter who had suffered - even an unclean monster like himself.

He didn’t want her hurt. She’d bent over backwards with her caring and he was not one to let a debt go unpaid…unless he felt like it. But he didn’t feel like it now. Now he felt like seeing what he could make out of the opportunity that had been presented to him, and see how he and the Slayer could rub along together in the demon killing business. Though if she ever wanted him for more than that… Spike was unsure how he would feel about that. It was probably a moot point anyway, because if she read that file she would think he was a kinky homosexual into a side order of freaky; enough to put even the Slayer off.

With a sigh he glanced back at Tara. “So, you think this is alright, Glinda?”

***

Buffy entered the empty house. She’d expected it to be empty as Tara’s car wasn’t in the drive. Nor were there any tickly tingles telling her that Spike was near. So, empty house. Apart from her, that is.

Dropping the manual and file onto the coffee table, Buffy went into the kitchen and snagged a soda from the fridge before flopping onto the couch and reaching for the file. Not that she needed to read it; it had just been read out to her at the station – part of their full disclosure service. She’d been told exactly what Seventeen had been found guilty of over the years. Failing to save the lives of three owners. Ignore the fact that he had been severely injured trying to perform his duties in each and every incident; getting as close to death as it is possible to get… and not die. Each time he had been punished – detailed on another page that Buffy didn’t feel equipped to look at right now – and sent back to the auction. The heir to owner number three had detailed some specific extra duties that Seventeen had been found competent in performing – given the right incentive (see page 149 of the Owner’s Manual for Method 19 – Friendly Persuasion), and had recommended that he be given additional training.

Seventeen was sent back to the Initiative for his ‘training’. Buffy swallowed hard to hold back the bile that threatened to rise past the point of no return. They’d trained him to be a sex slave, for males only. She dropped the file and ran helter-skelter up the stairs and into the family bathroom, falling to her knees. Her head barely crested the side of the toilet bowl before her body expelled the physical symbol of her revulsion.

‘Oh, my god. Oh, my god. He was with Drusilla for over a hundred years and… and I know he used to get bothered when we fought. Heck, I used to get bothered when we fought. Perhaps he’s bi, maybe he didn’t mind… Oh, my god.’

‘And what the fuck is it with the Initiative and sex?’

Pulling herself up, Buffy rinsed out her mouth and made her way back downstairs. Several things were making her angry right now, and Spike’s treatment was not the least of them. Demons were either killed – or not. Shades of grey did not encompass enslaving the baddies to serve the goodies. Spike should be dust. No two ways about it. But he wasn’t and now she would do whatever she could to protect him – and use him.

Shoulders slumped, Buffy sighed as the whole messy situation came back into focus. She, Buffy Summers, wanted to bring down the Initiative. They were evil – and human. She hated everything they did. And yet, here she was in possession of a fruit of their labour. With a receipt and everything. ‘Hypocrite, much!’

She eyed the file with disfavour, pulling out the papers that had been thrust at her in the police station. ‘Where was I and what was I doing when the world changed? How could a law get passed making it an offence to stake vampires unless in self-defence? Does Giles know that the United States Government has practically made the calling of the slayer illegal?’ It was all there, printed in black and white. Reminders on the do’s and don’ts of vampire/owner etiquette. Reminders on what to do if you spotted a feral vampire (contact the police who would in turn contact the nearest Initiative team for a collection or termination). Reminders on everything under the sun.

It seemed as though someone had actually made legislation affecting demons…and forgot to let her know. The Vampire Slayer now had to adapt to a society that enslaved – there really was no other term for it – demon hybrids and used them atrociously. Who were the innocents that she was sworn to protect? Not the vampires who chowed down on people’s necks indiscriminately, not them. But how could she protect those same people when they were, by definition, no longer innocent? When they invited vampires into their lives, to be used in any way that they decided. Like she had. This time Buffy made it to the bathroom faster.

Buffy knew she’d been so intent on wallowing in her own misery, her own problems, that she hadn’t taken the time to open her eyes and look outside of her narrow boundaries. Once the Initiative had left Sunnydale she’d given them little or no thought, just glad to have them away from her hellmouth. They’d all been knocked back at that time, dealing with the disappearance of Oz and Riley’s turning. Everything had started to unravel about then.

It wasn’t until Willy had been forced underground – literally – that Buffy had become aware of the patrols that were sweeping through her town on a regular basis. Her reaction had been a disinterested shrug and avoidance. Until she’d found a patrol beating on Clem and ready to haul him away in one of their patented black SUVs. The grey, wrinkly skinned demon had looked at her so piteously that Buffy had extricated him – with a few well placed kicks and punches – and dragged him down to Willy’s for identification. Clem had turned out to be a regular there and Willy was happy to confirm his non-threatening-to-humans status. Which in turn had led to Buffy and Willy reaching a change in emphasis in their relationship. Sometimes she could appreciate a shade of grey.

Staring at the file once more, Buffy reluctantly opened it and continued to read, waiting for the return of Tara and her vampire.

***

The day had flown past in a montage of glee. Ethan only had to think about the looks on the faces of his – well, Giles’ – fellow council members to start giggling again. He’d cut through their protestations about the Slayer’s new pet with a droll decisiveness that he recalled Ripper using from time to time. It only took a hint or two about his morning’s reading activities to make a couple of them squirm uncomfortably in their seats before falling into line behind him. Delicious power.

Actually, he had no intentions of doing anything about the Slayer; the further he stayed away from her, given their less than sparkling past, the better. She had an uncanny knack of being present when his best laid plans failed to come to fruition. If nothing else, it only went to reinforce the fact that the filly was truly the Chosen of the side of Light. ‘Irritating wench.’

But her pet vampire was another matter. A small part of Ethan empathised with his fellow sufferer at the hands of the Initiative, but it would take more than a passing soft emotion to deter him from pondering how to make the attractive creature his. Technically, as Head Watcher, he held the papers of ownership in the name of the Council. At the moment he couldn’t see any advantage for himself in passing it over to the Slayer. Ethan preferred to dwell instead on the benefits that could come his way if he could somehow pry Seventeen away from the prissy bint and have him shipped to London. Perhaps it was time to take some legal advice.

Stroking a finger over the face staring insolently up at him from the file, Ethan looked at the other files open on the desk in front of him; one was labelled ‘Wolf Ram & Hart’ and the other read ‘Angel/Angelus’. Not even bothering to think about the trans-Atlantic time differential, the grinning mage dialled the number for the CEO of Wolfram & Hart, LA Division. ‘A little cat in amongst the plump pigeons should soon have some feathers flying.’

***

It was at times like this that Angel regretted most the break up of the team from Angel Investigations. They had been adamant that moving their operation into the den of the very thing they were fighting was morally and ethically wrong. No good could come from it. They’d be damned. Lose their precious souls.

The souled vampire missed being able to talk things through with people who had, once upon a time, understood him. Not that he’d talked a lot, just now and then, but he’d known that they were there for him when the moment took him. Now there was no one.

Their final less than amicable bust up had shattered them as surely as a demolition ball. His son had run away and no amount of investigation - traditional and mystical – could locate him. Fred had returned to Texas to continue her education and forget her time spent in the company of demons. Gunn had gone back to a much safer existence now that so many vampires were being taken off the streets and rehabilitated. ‘Yeah, right. Seems like I can at least thank the soul for something. Kept me from having my fangs drawn in a more permanent way.’

Wes was persona non grata with Angel, which still hurt him more than he’d ever admit. And Cordy? She was being cared for somewhere by the highly qualified W&H Medical Unit. If it hadn’t been for that prophecy he wouldn’t be where he was right now, he’d still be holed up in the Hyperion.

On impulse, Angel pulled open his top desk drawer and removed the copy he’d made of the short, but very sweet, foretelling of things to come. He seldom tired of reading the brief text.

The vampire with soul from the line of Aurelius shall gain his heart’s desire. Should his heart choose wisely rewards beyond dreams will be his.

His longing for this prize was almost a taste in his mouth. Angel knew that he had given much in his journey for redemption. There was not a doubt in his mind that, from the line of Aurelius, he was the only one that could possibly fit the requirements, therefore the prize was nearly as good as his. Nearly. If only he could decide once and for all just what his heart’s desire was.

Angel had almost decided to lapse into a brood when his phone pulled him back to the world outside his head. He picked it up and answered curtly. His expression changed to one of calculation and elation when he realised who was on the other end of the line.

“Rupert, how good to hear from you. How may I be of assistance?”

***

Spike and Tara hauled the bags through the door, both feeling the tension the moment they passed the threshold. Their heads turned as one to look at the blonde as she glanced up from the paperwork spread all over the coffee table. Green fire flashed in her eyes and Spike found himself dropping the bags he carried and bracing himself for an attack. Here was the Slayer, mission written all over her. And her well-known mission was slaying vampires. ‘Wonder how I pissed her off so badly without being here.’

Though there was no need to wonder really, not with the pile of paper spilled in front of her. ‘Right, read the fucking file then.’ He couldn’t see a stake though, not unless she had one tucked in the waistband of her pants…which he wouldn’t put passed her. She blinked and her eyes changed, softened.

“You’re back,” she observed. The sight of loaded carriers would usually have triggered some enjoyable study of purchases, but other more important matters were on her mind now. “Tara, do you think Willow would like to join us for dinner?” She smiled at the sight of Tara’s jaw dropping; Buffy knew it was time to build bridges, especially when she would need Willow’s help. She’d been angry with Willow enough for a lifetime and, whilst they’d probably never regain the ground they’d lost with each other, they should be able to be in each other’s company now; enough time had passed for that to be doable.

Tara was happily stunned. Something was happening, she could feel it. Buffy vibrated with directed energy and she wanted to have Willow come to dinner. She would go and collect Willow and pick up some takeaway to bring back with her; she’d eaten enough times with Buffy to know that a home cooked meal was unheard of. Nodding and grinning, Tara dropped her bags inside the living room. “Chinese?”

“Thanks, Tara. Use my card, okay?” Buffy smiled at her friend and watched her until the front door shut behind her. Then she turned her full attention back to the vampire and… ‘How fine you are. The vampire that I own, old enemy mine. I don’t know if this would have hit me so hard if I hadn’t known you personally before, if you were an unknown bloodsucker. Does that make me a bad person?’ Somehow the look he was giving her didn’t make her feel like a bad person at all. He didn’t look at her as if he thought she was bad, not now, not since she’d broken down and lost herself so completely earlier.

Spike had delicately brought her back to earth. And if the sight of his erection had wigged her a little, well, she was guessing that if he could ignore it so could she. With some more adjustment to that anomaly in her home, maybe she wouldn’t be so conscious of it, if it was to become a regular… She swallowed as the bile rose in her throat again. Somehow any connection between Spike and sex after the reading she had endured made her feel dirty, like she was contemplating using him herself.

Spike listened to her raised heartbeat and wondered what was going on, although looking at the paper littered table it didn’t take Einstein to work that one out. Which was just as well, considering he wasn’t there. The way she was staring at him made him feel self-conscious, something he wasn’t used to that he could well do without, given a choice. Everything was forgotten as soon as she smiled. Her next words changed his life forever.

“How would you like to help me take the Initiative down, Spike?”

***


A/N: Feedback greatly appreciated. The muse is being a bitca right now so there may not be a chapter next Monday. Will do my best, but can't promise.