He had to give himself credit; it had been surprisingly easy to break Buffy Summers. Easier than he thought it would be. Spike doubted she was completely down for the count but it would be soon. One more push would be all that was required.

Who would have thought that it wasn’t violence or threats of torture that finally fragmented the walls she had put up to protect herself, but sex? The promise of sex; the danger of it. She had never struck him as the kind of girl to be frigid about such things. Angelus had, after all, delighted in describing in detail to him and Drusilla how she had practically begged for it. Acted like a cheap whore, he’d said, who told him he could do whatever he wanted to her.

Either Angelus had been embellishing their little sexual encounter or something had changed the Slayer. Maybe both. Whatever the reason for it, Spike was glad. He wasn’t one to shy away from any aspects of sex, desire, and the power that both of those things held and he planned to use this to his advantage to tease her, taunt her, drive her mad. The anticipation of how many times he would break her over the coming days brought a lewd smile to his lips.

Coming up to her side, he ran a finger slowly across her ribs. She flinched away, her skin covered in goose bumps. He could smell her fear heavy in the air, and it smelt delicious. Spike leaned in and brushed his lips against her cheek. Buffy turned her face away in disgust.

He took a step behind her and barely lingering, he started to move around to complete his circle before he came to a halt. It didn’t register with his brain at first, almost as though his mind tried to protect him from seeing that the Slayer he had, in some ways, put upon a pedestal had been tainted.

Ruined.

That was the only word that seemed to fit. She’d been ruined.

In his fantasies it was he who got to mark the Slayer. Slash her, stab her, burn her. Someone or something had beaten him to it. Yet it wasn’t even that which disturbed him as he looked at the ruin of her back. It affected him so deeply because he didn’t want to see her marred. For all his bravado and bragging about wanting to torture her, Spike couldn’t have done this. He’d kill her, he’d drink from her, but he wouldn’t leave her broken yet alive.

Even he wasn’t that sadistic.

Spike had an unspoken code of conduct when it came to Slayers, or even just plain old food. He wasn’t one for artistry or playing games in the name of a so-called “perfect kill”. He killed because it was necessary for his existence. Sure it was fun too, but he couldn’t remember ever having had the patience to break someone’s spirit, no matter how often Angelus had tried to convince him that it made the blood sweeter.

He didn’t understand how this could have happened to her in the first place. She was quick, agile, and full of fighting grace. She had almost seemed untouchable. Yet something had gotten close enough to inflict this on her.

Of course, it all fell into place now. The reason she wore unflattering clothes, the dejected attitude, the desperate plea for him not to subject her to this. Spike took a step closer and her back became completely rigid. He moved back again and the muscles remained tense for a moment before slowly loosening. She reacted instinctively like this to someone getting to close.

God, what had they done to her? This wasn’t the glory he had expected in taking down Buffy. He’d been ready for her holier-than-thou bitchery, her viper-quick quips, and her hot little body. He’d expected hate and heat and banter and bloodlust, and all he got was a broken mockery of a Slayer. Spike wanted to turn away, to forget he’d even seen it and pretend she was the same old Slayer. The one he had dreamed about killing so many nights. He tried to convince himself he could just carry on like normal. Keep up the torture, draw it out, and kill her. Except he couldn’t.

He found himself trying to speak “What...what did this...?”

Buffy laughed. It was full of bitterness and vile hatred and Spike didn’t doubt that there was no one on this Earth she’d rather kill then him right now. Her laughter was so soulless, it was barely human. Her head bowed forward, arms pulled above her head at a sharp angle, shoulder blades protruding obscenely from underneath the mass of scars and blisters.

Spike tried to imagine what her skin had looked like before. Smooth, tanned, the contours of her back rippling as she danced, or fought, or trained. He had imagined the Slayer in all her naked perfection so many times, the idea that he would never see it in reality brought a sharp twinge to his heart.

Staring at the welts, bumps, indentations and thin silvery lines that twisted across her shoulders, around and over her spine and down further, Spike felt his fists clench. In places her skin was pale and healed, in others it was pink and new, and in some it was red and angry. Old wounds had been re-opened.

“Why do you even care?” Buffy asked, voice scathing as she pulled on her bindings.

Spike blinked, he had almost forgotten his own question “I...don’t. I’m just curious.” His voice was dry and raspy as he spoke.

She yanked on the chains, rattling them “Well, I’m so glad I gave you something to stare at. I suppose this is just great for you. What you always wanted.”

It was far from that. What he had always wanted was the battle of a lifetime with a Slayer who seemed invincible. He wanted to trade punches, shove her up against a wall and bite her. He wanted to watch her as the life drained out of her and just before it did, kiss her with her own blood still smeared across his lips. That was what he wanted.

Spike’s hand reached out towards her. He couldn’t help it. It seemed unreal to him, and to make sure it wasn’t all just some ghost of a nightmare, he had to touch them. Had to feel her scars beneath his fingertips. He was surprised to see his hand was shaking as it got closer. He wanted to scold himself; he was a vampire, she was the Slayer and seeing her like this should have been sweet victory to him. It should have been what he wanted.

The tips of his fingers brushed against her rough, violated skin.

Buffy jerked away from him, shouting, “Don’t touch me! Don’t you ever touch me!”

It had been enough, though. They were as real as they appeared. Spike took a few steps back, and numbness enveloped him. He barely even noticed when she managed to rip one chain out of the ceiling. The strength of her fury didn’t surprise him; if this had happened to him he would have wreaked destruction upon anything and anyone in his path. Spike didn’t stop her as she pulled the other chain free. He just watched, detached.

Buffy whirled around to face him, her eyes hard and unforgiving, her face otherwise blank. They locked eyes for a moment before she lashed out at him with the chain attached to her wrist. He didn’t have time to block as it lashed across his face, ripping off a good portion of his skin, and sending him tumbling to the ground. Hot pain flashed across her face as he looked up in time to see her grab her jacket and run out into the sewer tunnel.

She didn’t look back and Spike’s eyes stared blankly after her.