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thismazTitle: Gossamer Wings
Part 9 of the Blood on a Sundial series. Previous parts, in reverse order, are here or in my memories.
Fandom: BtVS
Prompt: #24 - Crab Apples
At:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
tamingthemuse
Disclaimer: here.
Note: One part of Dru's dialogue comes from episode 2.10, What's My Line, Part 2
Note 2: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sparrow2000 for talking through a tricky bit with me.
Rating: Pg
Word Count: 1,046
9. Gossamer Wings
Spike sat back against the stairs, numbly hugging his knees as he watched Ford struggle to haul painful breaths into his ruined lungs. Francine was keeping the remaining minions well clear, recognising that something very serious had happened, even if she had no comprehension of what it was. She had dusted four who had shown themselves unhappy with Spike allowing the humans to leave, or at their exclusion from the aftermath, but the disturbance had hardly registered on Spike's consciousness, absorbed as he was in his task. He rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled over to the broken body. Looking down into eyes slitted in pain. He grinned. "Nearly over," he promised. "At least for now."
Drawing a fang across his wrist, he let the blood flow. Then he bent his head and latched onto Ford's neck, whilst pressing his bloody wrist to Ford's mouth. A promise was a promise after all. Ford's heart stuttered to a stop just after his ruined throat managed to swallow a single mouthful of Spike's blood. Spike sat back on his heels, lay his hands on his thighs, threw back his head and howled.
By the time the sound of the latch clicking open heralded Angel's return he had sunk back into himself, exhausted and limp with sorrow, loss and the inadequacy of revenge.
Angel paused in his halting progress down the stairs and took in the scene. He bypassed Spike for the moment, instead going over to the last few minions, cowering all uncomprehending against the wall. They, recognising his power and his age, reacted predictably - straightening up and lowering their gazes to the floor, presenting themselves for inspection. It made Angel's task so easy. A series of fast jabs and they fell to the ground as dust, one by one. He turned back to his grandchilde.
Wearily he lowered himself to sit on the bottom stair and gathered Spike's hunched form into his arms. "I'm sorry. I should have known he'd never leave her alive. He's a Watcher. And for all his mild mannered ways...." He lapsed into silence, realising that Spike was not yet ready to hear his own apologies for this mess. Holding him close Angel gently stroked Spike's hair, soothing touches from a hundred years before and, at last, Spike let his tears run free. They sat like that for nearly an hour.
Eventually Spike raised his ravaged face to look at Angel, his eyes huge and questioning. "How could you stand it?" he asked. "What you did? How...?"
Angel sighed. "I don't know," he said. "It was different for me. She sent me away. In China... She set me free. That broke the bond. But even so... It hurt. Oh God, it hurt!" He shrugged. "I didn't think I'd survive it. But I did. I watched her disappear to dust under my own stake, and it almost killed me." He cupped Spike's cheek in his large hand. "I know you're hurting. And I find I can't walk away from that. But you need to get out of here. Buffy... She'll be coming back for the body. If you leave she'll assume that one of those piles of dust over there is you." Climbing awkwardly to his feet, he pulled Spike up with him. "Come, Childe, I need to get you out of town."
Without a backward glance, Spike allowed himself to be led, unresisting, up the stairs and out into the alley.
*****
Spike lay back against the silk and lace pillows of their bed, his body relaxed in the aftermath of lovemaking and watched his Sire dance around the room, dragging her partner's limp form with her. It was so good to see her strong and well. He ran his tongue around his mouth, savouring the flavour of her rich blood - the blood that made him, the blood that healed him, the blood that always tasted of home.
Dru stopped and opened her arms, watching the young stockbroker fall to the floor at her feet. She slowly raised her head, an expression of playful glee spreading across her face as she gazed at him from beneath her lashes. Stepping over the body she drifted towards him, light as a feather, or gossamer on a gentle breeze, and climbed onto the bed. Like an elegant panther, she crawled up the length of Spike's legs and he watched the hard, smooth muscles of her arm flex, entranced all over again by her wicked allure.
She was crouching over him and all he could see was her face, alight with laughter. "The knight and the knave, my love. You remember humanity too well. But so do I." Her laugher filled the room, echoes like wind chimes. "Do you remember, my sweet? How my mummy ate crab apples and lemons, raw? She said she loved the way they made her mouth... tingle." Her eyes turned wistful. "Little Anne... Her favourite was custard... brandied pears. And pomegranates. They used to make her face and fingers all red. Remember? Hmm? Little fingers. Little hands. Do you?"
Spike tilted his head back against the pillow so he could look at her properly. His body felt languorous, at peace. "I wasn't made then. I don't remember that."
Dru leant down until their noses touched and her eyes merged into one. "My baby boy. What will you do? Kitten's claws can be trimmed, but beware the cat." Cupping his face in her hands, she made a playful snatch with her teeth at the tip of his nose. "You have to wake up now."
Spike wanted to protest that, but his throat had seized and the words wouldn't come. He struggled to drag in enough air to form words, but it was thick as glass, or ice, and his tongue froze solid in his mouth. He shook his head, part denial, part attempt to free himself and he lost her eye, her eyes, as she pulled away from him.
Above him the ceiling faded from black to white as he opened his own eyes. His beautiful Sire was gone.
*****
From the television news he gathered that three days had passed as he lay lost in his drunken stupor. Empty bottles scattered haphazard across the floor, marked his progress. The mini fridge full of unopened cartons of cow and pig blood was evidence that he had Angel to thank for the hotel room and the booze. From the telephone directory on the bedside table, he gathered that he was in L.A..
Next Part
Part 9 of the Blood on a Sundial series. Previous parts, in reverse order, are here or in my memories.
Fandom: BtVS
Prompt: #24 - Crab Apples
At:
tamingthemuseDisclaimer: here.
Note: One part of Dru's dialogue comes from episode 2.10, What's My Line, Part 2
Note 2: Thanks to
sparrow2000 for talking through a tricky bit with me.Rating: Pg
Word Count: 1,046
9. Gossamer Wings
Spike sat back against the stairs, numbly hugging his knees as he watched Ford struggle to haul painful breaths into his ruined lungs. Francine was keeping the remaining minions well clear, recognising that something very serious had happened, even if she had no comprehension of what it was. She had dusted four who had shown themselves unhappy with Spike allowing the humans to leave, or at their exclusion from the aftermath, but the disturbance had hardly registered on Spike's consciousness, absorbed as he was in his task. He rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled over to the broken body. Looking down into eyes slitted in pain. He grinned. "Nearly over," he promised. "At least for now."
Drawing a fang across his wrist, he let the blood flow. Then he bent his head and latched onto Ford's neck, whilst pressing his bloody wrist to Ford's mouth. A promise was a promise after all. Ford's heart stuttered to a stop just after his ruined throat managed to swallow a single mouthful of Spike's blood. Spike sat back on his heels, lay his hands on his thighs, threw back his head and howled.
By the time the sound of the latch clicking open heralded Angel's return he had sunk back into himself, exhausted and limp with sorrow, loss and the inadequacy of revenge.
Angel paused in his halting progress down the stairs and took in the scene. He bypassed Spike for the moment, instead going over to the last few minions, cowering all uncomprehending against the wall. They, recognising his power and his age, reacted predictably - straightening up and lowering their gazes to the floor, presenting themselves for inspection. It made Angel's task so easy. A series of fast jabs and they fell to the ground as dust, one by one. He turned back to his grandchilde.
Wearily he lowered himself to sit on the bottom stair and gathered Spike's hunched form into his arms. "I'm sorry. I should have known he'd never leave her alive. He's a Watcher. And for all his mild mannered ways...." He lapsed into silence, realising that Spike was not yet ready to hear his own apologies for this mess. Holding him close Angel gently stroked Spike's hair, soothing touches from a hundred years before and, at last, Spike let his tears run free. They sat like that for nearly an hour.
Eventually Spike raised his ravaged face to look at Angel, his eyes huge and questioning. "How could you stand it?" he asked. "What you did? How...?"
Angel sighed. "I don't know," he said. "It was different for me. She sent me away. In China... She set me free. That broke the bond. But even so... It hurt. Oh God, it hurt!" He shrugged. "I didn't think I'd survive it. But I did. I watched her disappear to dust under my own stake, and it almost killed me." He cupped Spike's cheek in his large hand. "I know you're hurting. And I find I can't walk away from that. But you need to get out of here. Buffy... She'll be coming back for the body. If you leave she'll assume that one of those piles of dust over there is you." Climbing awkwardly to his feet, he pulled Spike up with him. "Come, Childe, I need to get you out of town."
Without a backward glance, Spike allowed himself to be led, unresisting, up the stairs and out into the alley.
*****
Spike lay back against the silk and lace pillows of their bed, his body relaxed in the aftermath of lovemaking and watched his Sire dance around the room, dragging her partner's limp form with her. It was so good to see her strong and well. He ran his tongue around his mouth, savouring the flavour of her rich blood - the blood that made him, the blood that healed him, the blood that always tasted of home.
Dru stopped and opened her arms, watching the young stockbroker fall to the floor at her feet. She slowly raised her head, an expression of playful glee spreading across her face as she gazed at him from beneath her lashes. Stepping over the body she drifted towards him, light as a feather, or gossamer on a gentle breeze, and climbed onto the bed. Like an elegant panther, she crawled up the length of Spike's legs and he watched the hard, smooth muscles of her arm flex, entranced all over again by her wicked allure.
She was crouching over him and all he could see was her face, alight with laughter. "The knight and the knave, my love. You remember humanity too well. But so do I." Her laugher filled the room, echoes like wind chimes. "Do you remember, my sweet? How my mummy ate crab apples and lemons, raw? She said she loved the way they made her mouth... tingle." Her eyes turned wistful. "Little Anne... Her favourite was custard... brandied pears. And pomegranates. They used to make her face and fingers all red. Remember? Hmm? Little fingers. Little hands. Do you?"
Spike tilted his head back against the pillow so he could look at her properly. His body felt languorous, at peace. "I wasn't made then. I don't remember that."
Dru leant down until their noses touched and her eyes merged into one. "My baby boy. What will you do? Kitten's claws can be trimmed, but beware the cat." Cupping his face in her hands, she made a playful snatch with her teeth at the tip of his nose. "You have to wake up now."
Spike wanted to protest that, but his throat had seized and the words wouldn't come. He struggled to drag in enough air to form words, but it was thick as glass, or ice, and his tongue froze solid in his mouth. He shook his head, part denial, part attempt to free himself and he lost her eye, her eyes, as she pulled away from him.
Above him the ceiling faded from black to white as he opened his own eyes. His beautiful Sire was gone.
*****
From the television news he gathered that three days had passed as he lay lost in his drunken stupor. Empty bottles scattered haphazard across the floor, marked his progress. The mini fridge full of unopened cartons of cow and pig blood was evidence that he had Angel to thank for the hotel room and the booze. From the telephone directory on the bedside table, he gathered that he was in L.A..
Next Part
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Date: 2007-01-07 05:49 am (UTC)