DISCLAIMER: They are not mine. None of them.
RATING: R-ish (language, mostly).
PAIRING: A/S
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? I'll say yes...
FEEDBACK: Please. This is my first attempt at A/S fic (I usually write A/W, S/W, and S/W/A... I need to know if I should write any more slash, or stick with the het-fic and 3-somes.)
DEDICATIONS: to all the wonderful A/S writers out there... you totally rock!!!
NOTES: Okay, I don't remember what the ep was called, but this takes place at the end of the one where Glory beats holy fuck out of Spikey... Also (time-line issue), it's after 'Epiphany' (This may not make sense, but that's how it is in MY world...)
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He's all torn up. That's the only thing I can think as I watch him from the shadows. He's my boy, my childe, and he's all torn up. Somebody's hurt him, and this time it wasn't me; wasn't Dru; wasn't any of the demons he's pissed off in the last year or so.
No, this time, it was a God who did for his outsides, but... it was my own ex-girlfriend who ripped him apart deep down where no-one can see.
But he is-- regardless of anything else-- *my* childe. I can feel it, and I know the hurt he's feeling on the inside makes the cuts and scrapes and bruises seem like a hangnail by comparison. He's a sensitive one, my Spike is; always has been, to tell the truth.
Of course, it's not a truth he'd want bandied about, but that doesn't mean I don't know it. Hell, even Angelus knew, back in the day. Drove him crazy sometimes, sure, but for the most part? Well, let's just say it's easier to torment someone if they actually care while you do it. Still, in all those days, months, and years of loving him and punishing him because of it, my demon never twisted him up inside the way Buffy's done.
I wouldn't even know about it if Willow hadn't called me. She's the only one who gives a shit about my boy, apparently. She got worried when she found out the bitch-God had my childe, and not for whatever reason the rest of the little Sunnydale gang did.
So she called me, and told me they were going in after him, and... maybe it's because she gave me my soul back, but Willow seems to understand just how much my troubled, troublesome childe matters to me. She knew I couldn't get there in time, she said, but she thought I'd like to know what was happening.
I thanked her, of course; I remember that much.
I'm not sure of how I got to my car, or even how I managed to get on the highway, but at some point I realized I was only a few miles from the Sunnydale town line, and I could *feel* Spike's pain screaming in my own blood like a banshee. It wasn't as loud by the time I found his crypt.
Now, there's another thing. What the hell is wrong with him? He should
know that he doesn't need to live in some stinking, dirty old crypt! Would
it kill him to ask me for some help? I mean, he *is* still my childe, all
our disagreements aside. Yes, he had me tortured for a while-- hot pokers
and all-- but honestly, I kind of deserved it. The things he let that bastard
Marcus do to me were *nothing* to what Angelus did to him while he was
in that wheelchair.
Damn. I have to stop doing that. I may have a soul now, but I'm still
a demon. I can't say the things I don't like having done were 'Angelus';
not any more. The things *I* did to him. The words feel funny, even inside
my own head, but they're true, none the less. Trying to divorce myself
from the actions of one part of me is like a man killing someone, then
saying 'It wasn't me; it was my *hand*. *It* picked up that knife. *It*
killed that man.', right? It *was* me. I just don't like admitting it.
So my boy's holed up in this ugly, dusty crypt, and he's hurt, and it's making me crazy that I can't do anything about it. I'm just standing outside, in the shadows of the trees, watching through the window. Why do they even *put* windows in crypts? Oh, right. Sunnydale; got it.
I watch him struggling to find a comfortable position on that cold, stone slab, but he won't, and I know it. Hell, I doubt he can be comfortable there when he's *not* broken and bleeding. I want to run inside. I want to pick him up and hold him and tell him that I never hated him.
More than that, though, I want Buffy to leave, already.
Not that she's been there for long, but she's acting like some kind of stupid wind-up doll, and she's *touching* *him*? I can feel my true face coming out, and Gods, it's because there's a *Slayer* touching my *childe*! But she's stepping back now, and she's saying something, and my boy's shaking his head, and...
Oh, hell, could things get any worse? She *kissed* *him*! It's almost enough to send me running across the long, wide patch of sunlight between me and that crypt, but... she's leaving. She's leaving and I'm relieved.
The surprising part is that my relief isn't only because there's no longer a Slayer anywhere near my boy, but because... Buffy's gone. *All* of me feels that way, and it's an almost staggering thing to know.
So I stand here, watching him trying to lay still, and if he weren't in so much pain, it would be funny. Hell, it almost is, anyway. My boy's never been one to be quiet; he's got too much energy for that. It roils and writhes inside him until it *has* to burst out. I understand that, although truthfully, it always made me nuts. I could promise him the most vicious punishments in the world, but he still couldn't manage to control his twitching. Of course, part of that might have been because he enjoyed being punished, *and* the things that always came after. Not that he'd admit it now.
It feels like an eternity until night falls, but it finally does, and Spike seems to have calmed down at least a little, because he's just laying there kind of rigidly, and that tells me just how much worse he's hurting than I thought. Blood would help, of course, but not of the animal variety. Human would be good, but he doesn't have any. He's not likely to stumble across some anytime soon, either, what with that fucking chip in his head, and I don't think Giles pays him enough to buy it.
Yeah, human blood would be good, but Sire's blood is better.
He actually tries to get up when I walk into the crypt, and when he discovers that he can't, he actually looks scared. I'm not here to hurt him, though; that's been done already. "Spike," I say, walking slowly towards him, and he's still struggling against his own injuries.
"What do you want, you bloody pillock?" He tries to sound threatening, but I can hear the whimper in his voice. So can he, because he's getting angry now. "Come to do me in?"
He glares hotly at me, and I couldn't stay away, even if I wanted to.
"Yeah, you're a right bastard," he goes on, cringing slightly as I move closer, "Dust a bloke while he's down."
I don't know what to say, and so I say nothing. I just push my coat from my shoulders, and start unbuttoning my shirt. He seems to be thinking I'm here for some reason *other* than helping him, because his torn, twisted fingers are clenched as tightly as he can make them, and that scared look is turning to complete and utter terror, and... Gods! It's sad that it actually took me this long to figure it out. How could he even *think* that I'd...? Oh, right. Because I did that a few times. Well, more than a few. But even at my worst, I would never have taken him when he was in *this* much pain. After I fed him, sure, but before? Not a chance. Still, that's what he's thinking. I can tell.
He's still cringing when I sit down on the edge of the fucking sarcophagus, and he hisses when I reach for him. His eyes follow my hand when I pull it back, and they're unbelievably wide and golden when I slash harshly and deeply at my own neck. "Sire.." he says, like he doesn't believe it. He's watching the blood drip slowly down my chest, and I don't think he even realizes it when he licks his lips. He acts like he's stunned when I reach for him again, but he's not fighting me. Oh, no, *definitely* not fighting; in fact, he's trying to help as I pull him upright as gently as I can.
"Hush," I tell him, tangling my fingers in his bleached hair, "Hush, childe." My own eyes close when I press his full, cool lips to the seeping wound I've given myself, and when he finally realizes I'm serious, and drives his sharp, jagged teeth into me? I'm lost.
He amazes me, this boy of mine, because even in the midst of his own pain and confusion, he's determined not to have this be a one-sided thing. That's why he's raised one bleeding hand to my mouth, and Gods help me if I can resist him, because I take his fingers between my lips, one at a time, and the cycle is complete. His blood enters me in small, wicked drops, while mine flows into him with his quick, desperate gulps, and I sense so many things I never wanted to know. He loves Buffy, but only because she was once mine. Loving her makes him feel closer to me, and that just... floors me, because I was sure he hated me. I guess he doesn't. Or not completely.
Gods know what he's seeing in *my* blood. Maybe my fear for him, trapped in Sunnydale with a Slayer who's not really known for being terribly tolerant. Maybe the pride I feel, that he's managed to survive without any help from me. Maybe... maybe the fact that I love him still, and oh, fuck, did I really just let him see that?
I must have, because suddenly he tastes of hope, and his other hand-- the less broken one-- is in my lap, and Jesus-*fuck*, I really want to let him keep doing that, but... he's hurt. My blood is helping, but it won't fix him up all at once; it's going to take some time. Hell, with as beaten and destroyed as his body is, it might take a week or more of twice-daily feedings. Only problem is, I can't stay here that long.
My life is in LA. My childe is in Sunnydale. The decision seems obvious to me, but he's shaking his head, although he hasn't stopped drinking. "Yes," I tell him, and I know it sounds like an order, but fuck, it *is*. "You *are* coming back to LA. You *will* drink me as often as necessary to get you back in shape." And my fingers are tight in his hair, holding his lips to my skin, because I'll be damned if I'm going to let him argue his way out of this. "You will *stop* trying to say no to me, Will," I continue, "Because you know it won't do any good; it'll only piss me off."
It isn't until he's gone entirely still against me, even the hand in my lap, that I realize what I just said. Oh... shit. I called him Will. Fuck. I haven't called him that since before I got the soul. That was what I called him then-- back in the days when we hunted, and fed, and fucked. Together. Always together. Shit.
I wish I could pass it off as a slip of the tongue, but we both know that's not true, and I'll be damned if I'm going to lie to him. There have been enough lies between us, and I can't stomach any more. So, "Will," I say again, like I'm trying it on, and oddly enough, it fits. "Will..." And he isn't so still anymore.
His hand is moving over my pants again, and he's pushed his finger back into my mouth, and fuck if this isn't going to be the longest bout of foreplay either of us has ever engaged in, because there's no way in *hell* that I'm going to be touching him before he's fully healed. I've caused my boy enough pain already; it's time to change that.
I let him feel my intentions through the blood he's greedily sucking down, and I have to laugh at the disappointment he sends back to me, but the sound is muffled by his fingers, still in my mouth.
I know this isn't going to be easy. I know he's going to spend an annoying amount of time testing me. That's all right. I can take it. The important thing is, my boy will finally be right where he belongs, and... so will I.
I really have to thank Darla for that 'epiphany' one of these days.
End.