RATING: NC-17 at least.
DISCLAIMER: No, I don’t own them, but if Joss says the Buffyverse was intended to be the source of fanfic, then I am by Joss gonna write some. No infringement intended.
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Now and Then
part 2

Later, she would wonder why she kept the news of Spike’s return from the others. She either saw or called each of them over the course of the day. Routine calls, nothing to make them nervous, something for them to remember if it were the last one. Part of her was eager to take on Spike. They had been at odds for years, and if he was going to give her an invitation to come and kick his ass, she was damned if she’d pass up the opportunity. It wasn’t like she hadn’t done a thorough job of it a dozen times before. And, yet, another part of her was uneasy. She was keenly aware that Spike was more of a force to be reckoned with than he had been in their previous battles, and she had to remind herself that the same was true about her.

Whatever Spike thought, she had faced the Big Bad all alone more times than she could count. Her friends helped, and she had no illusions about how long she would have survived as the Slayer without them: she had died at sixteen, and they had brought her back. But she had gone on to fight bigger battles against more deadly foes, and when it came down to it, it was usually just Buffy against whatever evil threatened: Angelus determined to wake Acathla; the First Evil; a dozen other threats to humanity. She had faced each of them by herself, her friends out of harm’s way.

And if she had anything to say about it, they would stay out of harm’s way tonight. Because no matter how many times she reminded herself that she had defeated threats far more deadly than one lone vampire, something inside her refused to settle down, anxious before this battle in a way she had not been since the earliest days of her calling. Every night she fought, there was a risk that it would be her last, and with Spike back in the game in a very real way, that risk was somewhat higher than normal. Buffy refused to expose her friends to those risks, especially since each of them now had obligations to mates and children who depended on them. The best way to keep her friends safe was to keep them in ignorance of what was about to happen. She knew them too well: if they thought there was a real danger to her, they would show up at Restfield no matter what dire threats she made. So, telling them was out. If she defeated Spike, she could fill them in later, suffering through their outraged protests that she should have let them know what was going on.

But that restless part of her, the part that was skittish at Spike’s new confidence, whispered that she might not be the winner, this time. Those odds she herself had calculated were long overdue to run out. And she couldn’t leave her friends undefended. So, she did the most practical thing.

It was late afternoon when she entered Willie’s bar and handed him an envelope with the terse instructions to deliver it to Giles if she wasn’t back in the bar before dawn. In addition to the cash incentive she gave Willie to ensure its delivery, the note contained instructions to Giles regarding further monetary reward.

"So, half now, half upon delivery?" he queried.

"That’s right, Willie," she said as she counted out bills. Five of them. Each of them graced by a portrait of Benjamin Franklin. "One grand to give him the message."

"Must be some message, huh?"

"Just see it gets there." He gave her a hurt look.

"You think I’d let you down? I’m truly wounded. You have my personal guarantee your message will get where it’s going."

Buffy took that statement for what it was worth. She was counting on Willie’s greed to ensure delivery. It was simply too easy a way to make another five hundred dollars for him to pass up.

That matter taken care of, she went home to have a light dinner, a solid warm-up, a quick bath and a routine patrol before she kept her rendezvous with Spike at midnight. She wanted every edge she could get.

Patrol was even more boring than usual. Only two fledglings rose, and they were dust so quickly she barely spared them a thought. Her attention was focused on the real battle before her. By the time she got to the Alston mausoleum at Restfield, she was calm, assured, prepared. By the looks of things, so was he.

He was leaning up against the entrance to the tomb, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

"Hello, cutie," he greeted her, coming forward and tossing his cigarette away. It landed on a nearby grave.

"No respect for the dead?" she mocked him, pulling out her stake.

"No respect for anything that can’t earn it," he returned. "Let’s see how you fare." He stood facing her, feet braced, half a dozen yards away. She nodded briefly.

And launched herself toward him, combat engaged.

It was over in seconds. He didn’t move to meet her. She moved too quickly to wonder why. She paid no attention to the brief flicker of light where the cigarette had fallen, didn’t have time to puzzle out why he was saying something in a language that sounded like it had never been meant to emerge from human throats. Then the light arced from the grave to his hand, releasing a bolt of green fire, which washed over her the barest instant before she would have tackled him to the ground.

The fire burned coldly, enveloping her completely in its chill embrace, sliding over her body, and peeling away from her like frostbitten flesh. Only, it didn’t take a layer of skin from her: it took every bit of strength she had. Buffy found herself face down on the ground. At Spike’s feet, incapable of rolling over, let alone standing back up. Her stake slipped from a hand that could no longer close about it.

It was Spike who turned her over. In order, she bitterly supposed, to see the look on her face when he killed her. The bastard had gotten more from his sorcerer friend than a chipectomy. He had bought a spell to make her utterly helpless, and idiot that she was, she had walked right into the trap.

Stupid, stupid, stupid way to die, she reproached herself bitterly.

Even breathing was an effort. She had to concentrate, forcing her lungs to inflate. She didn’t have much breath to spare for talking. Not that she’d let that stop her.

"Bastard," she gasped out. "Cheated!" He didn’t bother to deny it, simply laughed down at her.

"Of course I cheated! I’m evil! And you are so damned predictable, pet. Always that sense of honor, throwing yourself to the lions to save your idiot friends. Knew you’d come alone." He knelt beside her, and Buffy braced herself, expecting him to sink his fangs into her, draining her of her potent Slayer’s blood. She couldn’t imagine Spike passing up an opportunity to do that.

But he didn’t go into game face. Instead, he pulled some cords out of his pocket and began to tie her up. She glared at him as he pulled her wrists together, and bound them in front of her chest. He laughed outright at the look. "Oh, please. Don’t play the injured innocent. You threw down the challenge: you had to know I was gonna pick it up!" She still had no idea what he was talking about, but couldn’t summon the energy to ask him what the hell he meant. He was going on again, anyway.

"You know, that predictability is really going to get you in trouble some day," he said. As if she could possibly be in any more trouble than she was right now, she seethed inwardly. "I mean, leaving the note with Willie?" Her eyes widened in shock as he pulled an all-too-familiar envelope from his coat pocket. "I have to give you credit. Promising him an equal amount from Giles really should have ensured that he would deliver the note. Too bad for you I guessed you’d do something like that. You can’t blame him for preferring my two Clevelands to your five Franklins, though."

Buffy was stunned. Spike had paid Willie two thousand dollars to obtain her warning message to Giles. Now her friends would be utterly unprepared for whatever deadly game the vampire chose to play. She paled, and fought back the desperate tears that sprang to her eyes. What had she done? She had told herself she was keeping her friends safe. Had she, instead, put all of them into mortal danger? Spike noticed her distress, and grinned down at her. "Oh, don’t worry, pet. You’re friends are safe enough. And you know, I’d be regaling you with all the nasty little details if they weren’t." That was true enough, and Buffy felt a modicum of reassurance. Still, could she trust his word? Bitter at her helplessness, she felt her anger surge forward once more, overriding her fear.

"Liar!" she gasped. "Cheater!" It was repetitive, but she couldn’t manage words of more than two syllables at the moment, and not many of those.

"Well, you know what they say, love," he snickered as he made quick work of binding her ankles together, "All’s fair in love and war." He tested the knots, then lifted her up, tossing her over his shoulder and carrying out of the cemetery while whistling something that sounded suspiciously like Billy Idol’s "White Wedding."

When she realized that he had carried her to his car--he’d replaced the lost De Soto with a ‘64 Caddy--she expected to be tossed unceremoniously into the trunk. Instead, he opened the back door, and lay her down on the seat. The car was big and she was tiny; there was more than enough room for her to stretch out at full length. She realized that her head was on a pillow, and watched, stupefied, as Spike buckled her into restraints to ensure that she didn’t fall off the seat and onto the floor. Spike, concerned for her safety? Probably only because he wanted to inflict all the damage himself.

"All comfy?" he said. She glared at him. He laughed, openly, joyously. It was an exuberant, boyish sound, and it filled her with dread. "That’s all right, then. You just relax--not that I’ve left you much choice--and I’ll have you home in two shakes." He paused, as if a thought had just struck him. "Uh, that’d be my home, not yours, of course." And on that discomfiting note, he smiled wickedly and closed the door.

A moment later, he was behind the wheel of the Caddy, and was soon burning rubber as he peeled away from the cemetery at top speed. A moment after that, he leaned forward over the dash, and she heard a few metallic clicks. Shortly thereafter, she realized they had been the sounds of Spike loading a CD player, as Billy Idol’s voice filled the air.

Hey, little sister what have you done?

Spike joined in on the next verse.

It’s a nice day for a White Wedding. . .

Spike had a very pleasant singing voice. Somehow, she wasn’t in the mood to enjoy it. Which was unfortunate, because Spike had lied. Again. It took him considerably longer to get her back to his place than the proverbial "two shakes." He was currently staying at an abandoned country house. . .in the mountains, an hour’s drive from Sunnydale.

Buffy spent that hour relearning how to breathe. It was an effort at first, but gradually, she realized that the spell seemed to be easing up a bit, and the longer they drove, the more hopeful she became. Spike might be demon enough to know his way around a spell book, and perhaps he could master an incantation, if needed. But he was no sorcerer. The spell he cast could wear off earlier than he planned. Buffy began to consider possible strategies, which was a lot more comforting then speculating on the horrific things Spike intended to do to her. They had to be horrific: if Spike simply wanted to kill her, her bloodless corpse would already be lying in front of the Alston memorial. Or, even more likely, on Giles and Olivia’s doorstep. She refused to linger on such thoughts, concentrating instead on trying to find a way out of the trap he had so cleverly sprung. She methodically tested her limits, trying to move her extremities, just a bit. Surprise was about the only weapon she had against him, so she was going to have to cultivate it carefully.

Which shouldn’t be too hard, she thought resentfully. If I’m able to do much more than wiggle my fingers and toes by the time we get to his place, I’ll be very surprised, myself.

Even that faint hope was irrevocably dashed when they finally reached their destination and Spike lifted her out of the car.

"Good. The initial paralyses is beginning to wear off," he said jovially as he settled her in his arms and kicked the car door closed. "You should be able to breathe easier, now. Give yourself another hour, and you’ll even be able to move about a bit." He mounted the steps leading to a wooden porch effortlessly, her weight no burden to his vampiric strength. "Of course, you’ll be tied up and won’t be able to move any farther than I’ll let you, but beggars can’t be choosers." He fumbled the door open, despite the awkwardness of having his arms full of Slayer, and carried her into the cool, dark interior of the deserted house. "It’ll be days before I have to worry about you breaking free of those ropes," he added as an afterthought.

Days? Buffy’s stomach plummeted. Whatever Spike had in mind, it was going to be very, very long, and very, very drawn out. She didn’t fear death, was too familiar with it to accord it the deference it exacted from most mortals. And she had endured her share of pain. But the wounds she got in battle were one thing. She remembered how Spike got his nickname. And, though Angel would never reveal what he had endured when Spike had tried to reclaim the Gem of Amarra Buffy had sent to him, Cordy wasn’t so punctilious: she’d let the cat out of the bag years ago.

Spike enjoyed torture. And she knew he would particularly enjoy torturing her. He had probably brought her out here into the mountains so that no one would be able to hear her scream. He was probably taking her to a torture chamber right now.

Although, in her experience, torture chambers were usually downstairs, not up, and Spike was taking the broad staircase to the second floor of the house. Well, she could hardly expect a country house to come equipped with a torture chamber. Although, wouldn’t the stables be more convenient? It didn’t matter. She’d find out all too soon what he had planned.

The room he finally brought her to didn’t look remotely like a torture chamber, however. It must have been the master bedroom, at one time. A lovely king cherrywood four-poster stood in one corner, beside a very wide window across which the curtains had been drawn. The fabric they were made from wouldn’t adequately keep out the sunlight, but it wouldn’t have to: several heavy blackout curtains lay folded on a chair by the window, waiting to be hung. On the other side of the room was a fireplace. A comfortable looking wing chair had been drawn up before it. Well, they were in the mountains, and at this time of year, nights did get cold. Buffy tried to get a sense of the room, given that she couldn’t quite manage to turn her head, yet. But everything that came within her view was harmlessly, even invitingly, domestic. The four poster was covered in down comforters that were so thick and fluffy, they looked like miniature floral printed clouds. There were a mound of lace trimmed pillows in a matching floral print at the head, and she just knew that the sheets beneath them were part of the set. The place had the cozy look of a quaint bed and breakfast. She couldn’t imagine why Spike had brought her here. Perhaps this was his bedroom, and the torture chamber was accessed through a connecting door? Not that she had ever imagined Spike in anything as--there was no other word for it--fluffy-- as this bed.

A minute later, the mystery grew deeper as Spike lay her, she would swear tenderly, amongst the mounded pillows and heaped comforters.

"Let’s get you settled, then," he beamed.

"What. . .the hell. . . are you up to?" She managed to get out a complete sentence this time, though with great difficulty. He snorted as he pulled out a pocket knife and began to slice through her bonds.

"As if you didn’t know. Give it up, pet. Just lie there and look lovely for me." He busied himself getting her untied.

Look lovely for him? she thought in renewed alarm. What’s that supposed to mean?

A moment later, still whistling that damned Billy Idol song, he began to tug off her half-boots. Then he sat on the bed next to her, pulled her into a sitting position, and began to ease her out of her jacket. Buffy regarded him warily, still trying to figure out his game. Then she felt the chill of his cold flesh through the thin silk of her blouse as he slowly undid the top button.

"I’m not long on patience," he said. "That’s why I rushed the whole Feast of St. Vigeous thing, that first time." The blouse closed with French buttons, and his fingers skillfully slipped the first one through the loop, just above her collarbone. She had forgotten how to breathe again.

What the hell is he up too? she asked herself once more, panic beginning to rise.

"Dru always complained that I ruined her gowns," he said as another button was released. "Couldn’t be bothered with laces and hooks and buttons, even zippers." He grinned wolfishly, as a third fastening was freed. "Well, she’d start to complain. She didn’t care about them, in the end. See, it’s patience I’m short on, not stamina." Another loop of fabric passed over another tiny button. Her top was open to just above her breasts.

"So, by rights," he continued, fingers busy with the next bit of silk, "this blouse should be a useless scrap right now, and that skirt an utter ruin." Buffy began to shiver, as another loop was undone. "But you know? Eight years is a long time to wait. Even for a vampire. I just can’t bring myself to rush this."

Given what he was likely planning to do to her once he got through stripping off her clothes--probably something really painful involving sharp instruments or branding irons--Buffy couldn’t say that she was in any hurry, herself. On the other hand, she couldn’t just lie there and do nothing.

"You’re taking. . .quite. . .a chance," she managed. "That. . .I might. . .get free." Spike, more than anyone, knew how deadly she could be, how often she had beaten incredible odds, pulled herself out of seemingly no-win situations. Tricking him into killing her quickly seemed a whole lot preferable to waiting for him to torture her to death.

"Yeah, well, let’s just say the reward justifies the risks," he said, his smile more wolfish, more predatory, more hungry than ever. Another button slipped free.

The remaining fastenings didn’t remain closed for long. Spike removed her blouse, tossing it aside, then began to reach for the lacy black bra she wore underneath--And just why did I pick a lacy bra for this particular battle? she asked herself irritably. So I’d impress the attendants at the morgue?--when he noticed the closure.

"Front clasp, eh? How thoughtful, pet. Now, that has possibilities. Let’s leave it for the nonce, shall we?" With that he pushed her back on the bed and busied himself stripping off her skirt and stockings, with the same thoughtful deliberation he had shown when removing her blouse. He was whistling once more. Buffy made a mental note to go out and buy herself that CD, if she managed to escape, and smash the damned thing into a zillion pieces. Just as soon as she stopped shivering from the all too knowing, almost caressing, feel of Spike’s cool hands lightly stroking over her heated flesh.

Angel had cold hands, and just so had he touched her when they had been together. . .

Buffy forced the memory away, as she had gotten used to doing years ago. She needed to concentrate on more important matters. Things were not looking too good for her right now. She was lying in nothing more than her matching lace undies, sprawled supine on a very comfortable bed while Spike regaled her with his renditions of archaic punk-rock music not two feet away. . .and she couldn’t have held a stake if he’d tried to hand her one.

This, she decided, sucks.

A moment later, pique gave way to a renewed surge of fear.

"I’ll just put the toys right here," he said, setting down a large leather satchel, which gave an ominous metallic clunk when he put it on the hardwood floor beside the bed. Buffy couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath as cold terror washed over her. She had been lulled by the deceptive comfort of the bed into thinking that maybe Spike wasn’t going to hurt her too badly. She should have known that it was simply another brutal twist, another vicious mind game. He wanted her nearly naked so that he could apply whatever torture devices he’d brought to her bare skin. She tried valiantly to suppress a shudder, but couldn’t quite manage it.

"Cold?" Spike asked solicitously. She looked daggers at him, hating what she took to be his mocking tone. Then the edge of the quilt was drawn over her, as if indeed to ward off the chill night air. She frowned, more confused than ever. "That’ll have to do till I get the fire going," he said cheerfully. Of course, Buffy thought bitterly. The fire. Probably so he can warm up the branding irons he must have in that damned satchel.

As if he could read her mind, he bent down to the satchel, unzipped it, and began rummaging around inside. Buffy found her eyes glued to his movements, and her mouth suddenly dry. She licked her lips nervously.

"Gotcha!" he said to the bag triumphantly, as he extracted his prize. Buffy barely repressed a whimper. What had he found? Clamps? Scalpels? Knives?

When he finally withdrew his hand from the satchel and she could see what he was holding, her mind was so attuned to horrors, that she didn’t recognize what he had for a moment.

A length of crimson velvet?

Smiling, Spike turned back to her, and a moment later knelt beside her on the bed.

"A lot of folks don’t really understand the art of bondage, you know," he began conversationally as he tied one length of velvet to the bedpost on her right. "They’ll pick up those toy handcuffs that any fool could break out of at an ‘adult boutique’ and think they’re onto something wicked. But for proper bondage," he continued as he picked up her right hand, and began to fasten the other end of the velvet rope around her wrist, "you really do have to go to the folks who know their business. I suppose you were expecting chains, weren’t you?" he asked as he tested the knot, and satisfied, leaned over her to fasten another length of velvet to the other post. "And I did give ‘em a thought. But I don’t really think you’re the chain type. Now Dru was the chain type." He tested that knot as well, before treating her left wrist as he had her right. "Drove her wild every time, and damn near dusted me more than once, I was so exhausted before she was through. But you always struck me more as the velvet type." He finished tying her wrists and stared down at her, green eyes blazing, and when he spoke again, his voice was low, heated, as sensuous as the fabric he was describing. "The kind that can only be found in very, very expensive, very, very exclusive shops, pet. Not a dozen in the world can give you tempered steel enhanced by magic, pad the whole, cover it in velvet and still let it be soft enough and flexible enough to constrain without marring the flesh beneath." He smiled wickedly. "That’s you, pet; deceptive softness over the most exquisitely tempered steel, adaptable as hell yet never giving an inch until you want to. Well, tonight, and for as long as I can keep this damned spell going, I’m going to find out just how soft and how flexible you can be yourself. And just how much I can make you want to give."

She gasped as the import of his words, the seductive setting of the room, and a thousand tiny clues she should have picked up on suddenly registered.

A gasp cut off as he dipped his head and captured her lips with his own.

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