Rewards, by M. McGregor

Chapter 7

Xander was in a daze for the rest of his workday. Luckily, and he wasn’t entirely sure that luck was natural, Xander’s workload was light, and he was able to sleepwalk through most of his responsibilities. He spent the last half of his day mulling over everything Buffy had said, everything Buffy had done, and what all of that might mean.

As the day grew to a close, he found himself growing more and more nervous. Anya and Faith were at home, and he had no idea what he would find when he got there. Likewise, Buffy would have met with Riley, and would likely want to talk to him about that.

He wasn’t sure what he was hoping for. For Buffy and Riley to break up? If they did, he knew he’d feel horrible. But if they didn’t, what would he do? Buffy seemed almost enthusiastic about her new feelings, and from the way she’d gleefully begged him to pull and tug at her new rings, he was sure she wasn’t going to quit just because of Riley.

If she could even make that decision. The reward was the reward, and according to that parchment, denying the reward could put Buffy and Faith into extreme danger.

Then there was Anya to think about. Anya, who Xander loved. Anya was his rock. She’d been the one to stand beside him during his hardest times of self-doubt and failure. The last year had seen the Scooby gang growing apart, and Xander had often felt like he was being left behind. It was Anya’s presence that kept him strong. Her love had snuck up on him, but he knew he felt it powerfully.

She was, he realized, a match for Buffy, something he never would have believed was possible. He was deeply, madly in love with her.

Trouble was, Buffy was still Buffy. Still the girl he would drop everything for.

So what did it mean when he had two girls he would drop everything for? It was immovable object meets irresistible force. Buffy was the girl. Anya was his girl.

Only now Buffy was just his. That’s what she’d said.

“I’m not your girlfriend. I’m just yours.”

He was hard pressed to think of a single thing that could have stunned him as much as her saying that. It was like a dream.

There were other things to worry about. Willow had seemed more astonished than anything else, and he wasn’t sure she quite understood the full impact of the situation. Honestly, he wasn’t so sure he wanted her to understand it. How could he explain to Willow that Buffy had straddled him on her girlfriend’s bed and begged Xander to pull at her magical nipple rings?

It would be funny, if it wasn’t so weird.

Giles would be even worse. He foresaw much stammering, cleaning of glasses, and bumbling British phrases. There could even be hitting involved. Giles was very protective of Buffy.

Oh no. Hitting. What if Riley decided to make things physical? He’d be deader than Deadboy inside of a minute.

Of course he could always order Faith to protect him. And Buffy, for that matter. He had two Slayers that could act as his personal bod—

No, that wasn’t even something he should muse over, even as a silly fantasy. They were people, not meant for him to toy with.

Although, wasn’t that precisely what he was meant to do? Wasn’t that the whole twisted point of this situation? Wasn’t that what Buffy was nearly begging him to do? To not feel guilty, and to just enjoy with her, the way she was trying to?

It was nearly impossible to think about it without guilt. Xander would have brief moments of entertaining the idea. He could do anything with them. Do anything to them. His every fantasy could come true.

But how could he take advantage of that, and what would it mean if he didn’t? What constituted rejection of the reward? If he didn’t take advantage, would that mean something bad would happen to them?

These were the thoughts that continually swirled through Xander’s head all through the day, and that continued to fill his mind as he made his way home. As he stuck the key into the lock, he was trying to figure out if it was okay to at least enjoy the memory of the sex he’d had that morning, or if that made him a deviant.

Then he stepped inside, and stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth dropped open, and he stood there, blinking in astonished surprise.

Firstly, his new apartment, previously furnished haphazardly and with many labeled boxes scattered about, was now decorated, organized, and completely moved in. His apartment, the one he owned, the one that was not his parents’ house, actually looked like a grown-up lived there.

Except for the Babylon Five collector’s plates on proud display. A display that had not been there when he left.

The real surprise, however, was not that Anya had finished moving them in that afternoon. It was obvious she hadn’t done the work on her own, and it would have been pretty impossible for her to move all the furniture around on her own.

No, Anya had help. Slayer help.

A Slayer with dark eyes, long black hair, and legs. Oh boy did she have legs. Long ones. With an ass at the top. A curvy one. An ass he could almost see from beneath the frilly white laces of the almost ludicrously sexy parody of a French maid’s uniform that she wore.

Huffing, Faith blew a strand of hair out of her face. It had been annoying her for some time. Most of her hair was done up in some kind of complicated twisty-bun thing. It was definitely not her style, but at least it kept most of her hair out of her face. Most, but not all. A single lock seemed purposefully free, and harassed her as she worked, constantly dropping in front of her eyes.

Sighing to herself, Faith took a look around her new cell. Xander’s apartment was looking even better. The various boxes that had been scattered about the room were gone, their contents carefully arranged, organized, put away, and displayed.

She wondered how Xander or Anya would actually know where anything was. Faith had put most of their things away for them. Everything from kitchen utensils to Babylon Five collector’s plates had been unpacked and put away. Anya had offered only minimal supervision, and seemed perfectly happy with letting Faith decide where to put things.

Faith felt a flush of heat at the thought of the other girl. Her still-pierced nipples ached deliciously; remembering the sweet torture Anya had put her through. That’s how she’d gotten into this mess, or rather, how she’d gotten into cleaning it up.

Anya hadn’t been kidding when she’d made her deal with Faith. Not that Faith had been in any position to judge that one way or the other. Delirious with the need to cum, the need to feel that incredible sensation of pleasure/pain in her tits, Faith would have agreed to damn near anything.

So there she was, standing in the middle of Xander and Anya’s apartment. Vacuuming.

Vacuuming! Her! Faith the Vampire Slayer!

That wasn’t the worst of it. No, maybe doing some household chores for Anya in exchange for cumming so hard she thought her eyes were going to pop out wasn’t so bad. The bad part, or perhaps the naughty part was her outfit.

Gimmel, the Hellmouth, or the fucking magical pixies, whatever was behind all the stuff that had been happening to her seemed to have a hell of a sense of humor.

Just as Anya had started explaining where things would go and what Faith would be doing, there had been that flash of light. In the blink of an eye, Faith had lost the binding leather sleeve that kept her arms locked together behind her back. She’d been relieved, for about half a second.

Now she was dressed in a leather and lace maid’s uniform that clung to her body, pushed up her boobs, showed off the curve of her ass and looked fucking ridiculous. Or fucking hot. She was beyond the ability to judge.

Maybe wearing the outfit would have been okay too. A little humiliating, but she was finding that the feeling served only to heighten the incredible arousal that seemed hardwired into her.

She would have been okay with the heels, too. They were more like boots, really, made of shiny black leather and trailing up to mid-thigh they were held tightly on by leather cords that showed off her smooth white skin beneath it. The heel of each was at least five inches, with a platform that gave her a dizzying sense of height. She was extremely grateful for the unnatural grace that came with being a Slayer; otherwise she was sure she’d have fallen over at once. The material was stiff, and she could barely bend her knees, forcing her to roll her hips exaggeratedly in order to move.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t ended there. The body of the uniform had a stiff corset built into it, one that cinched her waist, held her back straight, and seemed to thrust her breasts up and out. Her nipple rings poked out of two little slits, and a glittering golden chain connected them.

The corset meant she couldn’t bend over normally, and had to bend over at the hips, presenting her ass for anyone who happened to be around. There was no one, what with Anya having retreated to her bedroom to catch up on her studying or something like that, but the thought was always in Faith’s head.

It made cleaning, unpacking, and the other chores she did more difficult than they needed to be. Bending over with her knees and back forced straight was frustrating, and again, were she not the Slayer, would have been uncomfortable, at the very least. As it was, it was mostly just annoying.

And maybe just a little exciting. It made her feel trapped, almost vulnerable. Like she was made more to excite others than to actually accomplish the chores she’d agreed to. There was a sense of surrender to the ensemble that had her breathing heavily more than once as she did her work.

Finally, there were the cuffs. One around each ankle, connected by a bar about two feet wide. It was the final annoyance that served both to arouse and frustrate. Faith was forced to move in an awkward swinging gait, rolling her hips from side to side in order to take mincing steps. She spent most of the afternoon tiptoeing around Xander’s apartment, putting things away, organizing them, or otherwise unpacking.

It wasn’t lost on Faith what she was doing, or that her uniform was oddly appropriate for the job at hand. She was acting like Xander and Anya’s servant.

Sure, she’d gotten something out of the deal, but it was a shady deal, at best. Faith had been crazed with lust, and she had no idea that “helping” Anya meant doing it for her.

Then again, she didn’t feel that bad about the idea. In fact, she’d readily agreed when Anya said she was going to leave Faith to it. Part of her felt like she owed them something. Anya had been decent to her, more decent than Faith had any right to.

And Xander…

He’d seemed to care about her. Had looked her in the eyes and asked her if she was okay. Told her it could be different.

He didn’t look at her with fear and hatred in his eyes, the way she knew he should. Were it not for Angel, Xander would have been a dead man. The first person she’d ever killed on purpose, in cold blood. Sometimes she almost believed she had killed him, so strong was the image of his pleading eyes, begging her silently to…

To what? Not to kill him?

That’s what should have been in his eyes, back then. That’s what she should have seen. Utter and complete fear, pleading with her to let him live. It was a look she’d later seen much more of. A look she’d seen in the faces of her victims.

Standing in the middle of Xander’s apartment, dressed like a girl in a fevered wet dream and doing chores for the girl whose pussy she’d eaten for almost an hour, Faith squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to cry.

She had no right to feel sorry for herself. Those images she saw, those faces that haunted her, they weren’t close to what she deserved. Those lives had ended because of her, and she could never give that back. Could never really atone. Forgiveness, atonement, these things weren’t really something you could get. She knew that.

Their eyes stared at her. Sometimes it was a brief look, a quick flash as the horror of what she was doing registered in their minds. They were the quick kills, the ones who had gone swiftly. Then there were others, the ones she’d let linger, some sick part of her enjoying the power she held over them.

She could see Wesley’s eyes, half-mad from pain and fear, with that glint of fiery, resistant anger in them.

Despite her best efforts, a tear slid down Faith’s cheek. She shuddered an inward breath, attempting to compose herself. Self-pity wasn’t a privilege she deserved. Not a privilege a murderer deserved.

Why was it that his eyes burned more than all the others? Why was it that she saw them imposed atop each other? Xander’s eyes as she squeezed the life from him, and Xander’s eyes as he quietly promised that things would be different.

Different. That’s what it was. There was something different in those eyes. That silent pleading for mercy, she hadn’t seen it in Xander’s eyes. She’d seen fear. Fear for his life, that was the same as the others.

But the pleading. He hadn’t been pleading for him. His eyes didn’t hold that natural, powerful force in all people. That selfish, burning desire to live by any mean’s necessary.

His eyes had been pleading.

But for what?

Whatever it was, it was why she felt an almost guilty feeling of peace at doing something for Xander. Cleaning his apartment, unpacking his things, that was the smallest of things she could do for him. She owed him so much more. Owed Buffy so much more.

Owed Lester Worth and all the others more than could ever be repaid.

Faith was so confused. It felt good to be able to do even such a little thing to make up for the thing she’d done. It had felt good when she surrendered herself to the police to take responsibility for the things she’d done. But she wasn’t supposed to feel good. She was supposed to be punished.

She wasn’t supposed to enjoy the punishment. She wasn’t supposed to let out little moans of pleasure when she was forced to bend over, fully aware of her bondage, aware of how it thrilled her to be so vulnerable.

She wasn’t supposed to feel peaceful at the thought of doing things for Xander.

Above all, she wasn’t supposed to feel that fluttering twisting in her stomach when she reached up to feel the thick collar that completed her outfit. The collar that read: Property of Alexander Harris. She wasn’t supposed to shiver at the thought of him claiming her as his own, to be responsible for her, to protect her and guide her. To trust her. To trust him.

Those things were not meant for her. Faith didn’t deserve them. They were Buffy’s. And Buffy was Xander’s.

Faith was just along on the “Two Slayers for the price of one” sale.

Faith busied herself with the chores, throwing herself into the tasks as a means to banish her dark thoughts as well as secretly and guiltily enjoy the peaceful feelings that arose when she did so. She dusted, she swept, she scrubbed counters, and when Anya was around, utilized her Slayer strength to rearrange furniture to best suit Anya’s tastes.

She stood in the middle of the living room, pushing and pulling the upright vacuum cleaner back and forth along the carpet. It was fairly difficult with all the restrictions she had on her movement, but thankfully her arms were almost entirely free. Her sleeves were bare below the shoulder, which had fluffy lace things surrounding them. It was only her hands that were covered in delicate white lace gloves, secured onto her hands by thick metal cuffs that were fused onto her wrist. She was just glad they weren’t connected to anything else, although both supported thick rings that suggested they could be used to secure her to anything. The thought was thrilling, but then she had so few thoughts that didn’t get her excited.

Perhaps it was the noise of the vacuum, or perhaps it was that she was lost in her own racing thoughts, but Faith did not hear the jingling of keys in the lock, or the slight squeak as the door opened. She was too busy focusing on making sure she reached every spot of the carpet, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth, and only occasionally blowing her hair out of her face. She would push the vacuum cleaner over a spot of carpet a few times, take a few careful steps forward, and repeat the process. It kept her constantly aware of her bonds, and thus constantly aroused.

So when she finally exhaled, feeling slightly proud of herself for finishing and flipped off the machine, she was startled to hear someone clear their throat.

Faith tried to spin, Slayer reflexes attempting to react instinctively. The upper half of her body whirled, but the lower was too restricted, and her eyes went wide as she realized she was losing her balance. Her arms flailed, and she let out an embarrassingly feminine squeal that she would dwell over afterwards. Her left foot came off the floor, but with her knees unable to bend she tipped awkwardly backwards. The high platformed heels were no help in gripping the soft carpet, and she toppled backwards. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut in anticipation of a fall that would be more embarassing than anything else.

Then she was suddenly stopped. She felt strong arms holding her up; her body pointed diagonally like a toppled tree. She opened her eyes, and looked up into his. Xander’s. Those strange eyes that never said what she expected.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and she was breathless with the sincerity of the question. Faith opened her mouth in astonishment, but couldn’t think of what to say. “Sorry if I startled you.”

He knelt on the floor, cradling her in his arms, holding her just off the ground. Faith stared up at him, making no move to get up, and struggling to think of what to say. All the old things she might have said in the past seemed wrong, like she would be just the same old person. She was struggling to be something more, something different, like he’d said.

Besides, how was she supposed to be cool when she was wearing a corseted maid’s uniform, heeled boots that kept her legs perfectly straight, and a tiny little skirt that showed more of her ass than covered it?

“I cleaned,” she said. She regretted it at once. How stupid was she?

To her surprise, he smiled at her. “I noticed. Anya’s idea?”

Faith wanted it to be her own idea, suddenly. She nodded anyway. “Yeah. Sort of.”

“But it was your idea too?” he asked. “Because you didn’t have to if you didn’t want to.”

“No,” she said, too quickly. Too damn quickly. “No, I wanted to. I did.”

His smile widened, and he grunted slightly as he bent over her to get up. He held her up with one surprisingly sturdy arm as he pushed against the floor with the other. He leaned her back onto the precarious perch of her heels, and she felt a shiver at the loss of his arms around her.

Xander stood face to face with her, and she was only a little shorter than him in the heels. She swallowed. Once, when they’d stood that close, she’d kissed him.

She teetered slightly, distracted by the memory, and his hands reached out to grasp either side of her waist, made thinner by her corset. He steadied her gently. “Whoa. Standing kind of an issue, huh?” He glanced down, which gave him an eyeful of her cleavage. Blushing, he quickly looked back up to her eyes.

“Kinda.” She put her hands on his, telling herself it was so she could balance easier, and not so he wouldn’t remove them. “Helps being a Slayer.”

“Right,” he replied, doing his best to look at her eyes and not the rest of her. She felt a grin tug at the corners of her mouth at how cute he was being, and then frowned slightly. Cute? “Slayers. Good balance.”

He was speaking in a husky voice, almost a whisper. His mouth was slightly open, breathing heavily. She wondered if he was hard.

“Most of the time.”

Xander’s mouth was the one to twitch into an almost-grin. “Yeah, well, I think you can claim extenuating circumstances.” He glanced down again, and then quickly back up. “Do they hurt?”

She shrugged, which made her tightly confined breasts bob. “When they first went through,” she replied, assuming he was talking about the two gold rings peeking out her front, connected by the gold chain.

“Through?” Xander frowned, stepping back slightly, although his hands remained on her, worried she might fall. He looked down at her feet. “What are y—” His eyes went wide as they roamed back up her body, stopping on the rings. “Oh. I, uh, didn’t mean—”

“Oh.”

“They did hurt though? The um, the rings?”

Faith blushed, and looked down at the floor. “Yeah. Kinda.”

“Sorry.”

She shrugged again. “Was a good hurt.”

Xander lowered his head slightly, trying to catch her eyes with his. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Nothing to worry about.” Faith cleared her throat, and found herself adding, “Felt kinda good.”

He made like he was going to move away, but she kept her hands on his. It was a silent and almost guilty gesture on her part, enjoying him standing there with her. Despite the absurdity of what she wore, despite the way he would glance down without realizing it, despite the awkward nature of what she was to him and the horrible things she had done, she was enjoying him.

The way he could stand there, hands on her hips, steadying her physically seemed to be steadying her emotionally as well. The concern in his eyes didn’t seem fake, like she’d seen in so many eyes before.

He’d said it could be different. It was different. Scary different, but beautiful different too. The scary part she could deal with, the scary part she deserved.

The beautiful part terrified her, because murderers weren’t supposed to have beautiful things. This was Buffy’s.

No. Buffy was Xander’s.

So was Faith, but she didn’t deserve to be Xander’s. Didn’t deserve to be anyone’s. It was all a mistake, and she shouldn’t be there. She should be in jail, getting punished. Not standing in front of Xander in kinky bondage gear and wishing he never took his hands off of her.

She didn’t move, just stood there, hands on his, and tried not to look into his eyes. If she looked into his eyes, she would try to search for that strange thing she’d seen in them, and who knew what Xander might see in her if she tried?

“Are you really okay?” he asked, lowering his head close to hers. “Quiet’s not something I’m used to seeing on you.”

“Guess I changed.”

He looked at her face for a long time. Long enough that her eyes flicked up out of instinctive curiosity, a feeling of defiance almost flushing through her. Her eyes met his, and she froze. Xander stared into her, and she thought she could feel him seeing into the shameful core of herself. He would see what she really was, see that she was a liar, and see that she was the same as ever.

Then he nodded, and a small, sad smile touched his lips. “Yeah, I guess you did.”

Her breathing quickened, and a feeling akin to panic rushed up inside of her. Her brow furrowed, and she swallowed. “What?”

“Changed. Guess you changed.”

“I did?” The tremor in her voice made her blush red with shame.

“Seems like it,” he said with a little grin. “What with the lack of murder-death-kills.”

Normally any reminder of her crimes made her feel the sickly cold metal of her own knife sliding into her gut, twisting her insides with the horror of what she’d done. This time, with that silly little grin on his face, and that strange look in his eyes, she huffed out a tentative, almost frightful chuckle.

“I-I,” she tried to say it. It had to be said. It couldn’t be different unless she said it. She squeezed her eyes shut, and pursed her lips together, angry with herself for being such a coward.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I know.”

She shook her head angrily, and felt hot tears in her eyes. He didn’t know. How could he? What she was supposed to say she couldn’t say, and she knew it must mean that somewhere, deep down inside, she didn’t mean it. That somewhere she was still the murderer. That she would always be the murderer.

“You don’t,” she managed to say, eyes still tightly closed, her chin touching against her collar as she put her head down, shaking it from side to side. “I’m…I can’t…”

“Faith?” his hand slid from beneath hers, and she was sure the pain of it was evident on her face. He was pulling away, and she was going to lose that mysterious difference that she didn’t even understand.

Only instead of pulling away, his fingers touched under her chin, raising her eyes to his. She opened them tentatively, and was too afraid to wipe the tears away. She realized her hand had followed his, and she held his wrist gently, pleadingly. Pleading him silently to…

Her eyes widened. To help her.

There it was. In his eyes. The thing she’d seen. Back then, it had been mixed with the fear for his own life, and earlier that morning, it had been mixed with the confusion of what was going on. Now she saw it, clear and undiluted. A silent plea.

To let him help her.

She made the decision in a heartbeat, and ran headlong over the cliff.

“Help me,” she whispered. Her eyes matched his plea, begging him. His hand cupped the side of her face, and she held him there with her own. His hand was warm and comforting, rough and calloused from construction work and gripping stakes. It was gentle, commanding, and willful. She stared at him, drawing strength from him, from the Difference.

“Tell me what you want to say,” he ordered. He grew blurry in her vision as fresh tears filled her eyes, and she blinked hard, letting them spill down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and it came out as a sob. “I’m so sorry about it all, Xander. I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Her arms were around him, and he held her tight, held her close as she sobbed her shame and horror into his shirt.

Xander’s arms held surrounded her, holding her closer than anyone she could ever remember. She sobbed against him, finally telling someone what she’d kept bottled up inside of her for years. Someone had finally helped her to say it.

It would never be enough, but Faith was sorry.