Drawn To The Fire
1900 -- China, The Boxer Rebellion
I don't know why I came back here. I didn't expect her still to be here. But the emptiness of the room strikes me and I sink to the ground, weeping like the baby that was my undoing. I thought I could do it. Just go back to the way it was before. Before...before this...this thing claimed my body as its residence. Taking away my life and plunging me into a darkness so deep and so painful...one I can't escape no matter how I try. My life has been taken before, but not like this. There was pain then too, exquisite pain. Soft lips giving way to sharp teeth piercing my neck, sucking until the pain began to lessen as my senses dulled and my heart slowed. She lowered my head to her breast, wetness touched my lips and I drank and I was thankful. When I awoke I felt no pain, only hunger and desire and strength. I was strong and powerful. Invulnerable. Invincible.
And for years, decades, I was. I travelled the world with her at my side. Feasting and wreaking terror wherever we went. And loving every single second of it. Until Romania. Until it all came crashing down around me and I was forced to relive each and every death I caused. Each bit of suffering I inflicted upon innocents was revisited on me tenfold. I couldn't escape them, faces, voices everywhere. Screams and pleas and cries for mercy. All of which I'd relished in my previous life. All of which haunt me now.
I miss it. Not the killing. Not the suffering. The power. When I walked into a room people knew about it. My kind and humans, both recognised that I had something unique. Now I cower in alleyways and feed off rodents. How the mighty have fallen. I thought if I came here she would take me back. But I disgust her now. As I disgust myself.
I look up as the door creaks open. There he stands, a cocky look on his face and his shirt open. His body is as thin and wiry as I remember it. His muscles are a little more well-defined now. He looks as if he's been carved out of stone. Hard and chiselled. I remember how I used to bend that body to my will. I remember him kneeling in front of me as I drew a whip across his pale skin until it ran red with his blood. I remember turning him around and forcing myself into his mouth. I remember licking his wounds as I thrust into him from behind. I remember.
He smiles now. He looks older, though that isn't possible. Perhaps being the man of the family has changed him. Although, Darla is more of a man than he'll ever be. He walks further into the room and leans one hip against the table. He takes a swig from the bottle in his hand and then discards it, shattering it on the floor. I watch the candle-light dance on the shards of glass for a second before I look back up at his face.
"What you doin' on the floor? Not your style to be scrabblin' around in the dust."
I look into his eyes and instantly I know she hasn't told him. He doesn't know who I am. He thinks I'm still Angelus, scourge of Europe. And maybe I am. Here and now, maybe I can be Angelus again. I can get that power back. I stand up slowly, never taking my eyes off him. He keeps his gaze even but I can tell he's excited. He's started to breathe. He always falls back on that needless habit when he gets aroused.
I walk around him slowly so I'm standing behind him. He turns to face me, still watching my eyes intently.
"So, William...ye killed yerself a Slayer did ye?"
"I did."
"S'pose ye think ye're a big man now?"
"Well, I don't like to brag..."
He flashes that cocky grin.
"Let me tell you somethin', William. Ye're not a big man. Ye're not a man. And ye'll never be a man."
I watch his blue eyes flash with anger. Before he has time to answer I put my hand on his shoulder and forcefully shove him to his knees. I look down at him and he looks up.
"Ye'd do well to remember yer place in this world."
He holds my stare for a good long moment before dropping his eyes to my crotch, positioned right in front of his face. He runs his hand up my thigh slowly and cups me through my trousers. The material is thick and I thrust forward against his hand seeking out more sensation. He acquiesces by quickly unbuttoning my fly and letting my trousers fall into a pool around my ankles. My undergarments follow suit and then nothing lies between his skin and mine. He wraps his hand around the length of my shaft and squeezes slightly. I'm hard already. I've missed this. Human contact. Raw touches and soft caresses. His hand continues its torturously slow movements. I reach down and grab the back of his head roughly. He needs no further encouragement, taking the whole of me into his mouth. My head falls back and a guttural moan escapes my lips, unbidden. I keep my hand on his head as he sucks me rhythmically. Every tiny little bit of pressure lightens my heart. I can feel myself getting close and I start thrusting against him, trying to extract all the pleasure I can from the act. And then I come. My hips shudder spasmodically as he swallows deeply.
He leans back on his haunches and then stands up, facing me. That's new. He knows to wait on his knees for me to tell him what to do next. Seems the boy has changed in the time I've been gone. Suddenly he reaches out and pulls me toward him. Our lips collide in a savage kiss. His tongue forces its way into my mouth, tangling with my own in a tussle for dominance. His teeth drag over my bottom lip, nipping slightly. I can still taste the remnants of the Slayer's blood on his lips, rich and sweet. I feel bile rise in my throat and keep it down by sheer force of will. One of his hands grabs the front of my shirt and rips it open. His chest rubs against mine, that simple feeling of skin against skin sets something off in me and I pull him tightly against me before wrenching my lips from his.
I turn him around, no longer able to look into those clear eyes. I bend him over and slam him into the table, yanking his trousers down at the same time. Then I'm inside him. The familiar tightness, the initial resistance and then unrestrained welcome as his cries of pain morph into moans of pleasure. I keep on going, keep on thrusting.
Then I feel it. My face changes. My forehead becomes more prominent and my teeth turn into long, sharp points. The face of the monster. The face of what I was. Still am. The face of what Spike is. I pump harder into him. I can no longer see, my eyes are full of tears as he comes. I pull out of him and quickly pull up my trousers. I turn my back as he begins to stir.
"You off then?"
"Goodbye Spike."
I walk swiftly out of the room. In the street once more I look around at the carnage. I wish it had been me to face the slayer tonight. Maybe then she would have put an end to my sorry existence once and for all. They say when one slayer dies another is called. Well, perhaps one day I'll meet my slayer.
I pray it is soon.
1999 -- Sunnydale California
I don't know why I'm here. I shouldn't be here. Not tonight. Not all those other nights. The forecourt is illuminated by the fluorescent motel sign. I look up at her window. The curtains are drawn. They're always closed. Like she has something to hide. With every step up those stairs I find another reason why I shouldn't be here. Despite that, here I am, standing outside her door, my hand raised ready to knock.
My fist falls to my side as I flash back to that alley. It all happened so quickly. So why is it I can remember every detail? The noise behind me, the soft fabric of a well-tailored suit jacket in my hands as I swung him around, the sharp realisation that he was a human, my voice shouting for Faith to stop, the sound of the stake moving through flesh and bone, the look in that man's eyes.
That look will haunt me forever. Although I wasn't holding the weapon that killed him, I know I'm just as guilty as Faith. Had the situations been reversed tonight it would have been me with the stake in my hand. Me with the blood on my hands. On another night...maybe I could've stopped it. But not tonight. Tonight I wasn't even in my body. I wasn't myself. I'm not myself when I'm with her.
Yet here I am. I lift my hand again and this time it makes contact with the door. I hear a slight shuffle from inside and I know she's looking through the peephole. Checking for the police probably. Then the door opens and there she is. She looks just the same as she always does. How can I feel so different when she looks the same?
"Didn't expect you to come here tonight."
Her voice smoulders and my heart starts racing. I offer her no reply and she stands aside to let me in. I walk in to find the room in disarray. The bed is unmade. There's a familiar smell in the air. Blood and sex.
I turn around and look at her. Searching for a sign of...something...anything. But she stares back evenly. Those dark eyes reveal nothing. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. I could leave now. Go to the police. Tell them everything. But when I open my eyes again I know that's not what's going to happen.
I move towards her slowly. I reach my hand up, behind her neck and pull her lips down to meet mine. As her mouth moves against mine I can feel my mind shutting down. My senses dull and my body numbs. Only the basest sensations reach my brain. Heat. Breath. Need.
I stopped trying to convince myself that this was something more a long time ago. For a while I was sure I must be falling in love with Faith. I had to be. Why else would I be in her motel room night after night sweating and grinding and hurting? It took a lot for me to accept the fact that I was here because she was sex.
I used to delude myself that Faith 'understood me'. She was a slayer. She was the only one who knew what it felt like to be me. But that wasn't it. I didn't come to her to discuss the philosophical points of slayerdom. I came here because I wanted her. Maybe not even her. I wanted a ...I want a warm body. Inviting lips. Strong arms and flexible hands. I wanted someone to look at me and to see lust in their eyes. Her lust isn't just for me. I've seen the same look in her eyes when she looks at Angel. Or whenever Cordelia's wearing her cheerleading outfit.
I don't think she ever tried to justify it in her mind. She never needed to rationalise it. She just let it be what it was. What it is.
Her lips drift down my neck. A scrape of teeth on my shoulder. A hand on my breast. We fall onto the bed and she's on top of me. Her weight presses down on me, warming me, crushing me. Then her lips are on mine again. The taste of lipstick that isn't my own. A hand between my legs. Moving faster. Harder.
My fingernails sink into the flesh of her back as I rise up to meet her, crying out into the darkness. The cry rings in my ears as I fall back onto the bed. She looks down at me questioningly. Then I remember. Those hands tracing over my heated skin. Those hands killed a man tonight.
I shouldn't be here. Tears stream down my face as I push her off me. I jump off the bed, stumbling as I make my way to the door. I yank it open and welcome the cool night air that wraps around my overheated body. I pause to look back at her. But she's not looking at me. Her eyes are downcast. Looking at her hands. Maybe somewhere beneath those dark eyes she does feel something. Remorse. Guilt. Shame. I hope so.
Because I do.