Not So Bright As Gold by Willa Spike's mouth goes dry.
Part of the Slashed Sonnet Series available here
Cigarettes taste bitter when they are smoked alone, one after another. His fingers draw them from the crumpled pack without thinking, lighting each fresh one with the embers from the last, smoke trailing in uninterrupted streams from his nose and mouth.
His wounds are one great mass of hurt, throbbing soreness from scalp to toes. Smashed against walls, pounded into the floor, hurled into staircases - there's little that hasn't been done to him this night. Blood - some of Angel's but mostly his own - has dried thick and tacky down the insides of his coat and in gory streaks across hands
and face.
Fred wanted to see to him when he slunk back in. Her with her fluttering hands and that great brain ticking away behind her eyebrows.
He wouldn't let her.
He's stolen Wesley's office and a pint of good whisky instead, cracked the window a bit - with his fist - and sat down by it. The winter air in LA is never chilly, but soon it is cold as only a place where the dead can abide.
Good.
He sits and smokes in silence. Feels of his wounds, and thinks against his will...
*
~for is not life a many-splendoured thing?~
*
"Come here, boy. I've a lesson for you."
William stiffens, every muscle and nerve on instant alert. He has learned to dread those words, spoken in a mocking lilt that he swears the bastard thickens just to chip at his hide. And he aches yet from the last lesson learned at Angelus' hands, his hips creaky in their sockets.
Darla is about, somewhere. Can't the man take his pleasure with her of a night, just once? Thought they were meant to be lovers. A fine lover, if you please! But no, he hears her low chuckling from the bedroom and knows that tonight will leave an especially bitter tang in his mouth.
He stands reluctantly, unable to resist one last pat of the porcelain dolly in Drusilla's arms, or a caress to her shining curls. She looks at him, eyes sparkling. "Daddy's calling my prince away," she whispers, pretending to pout. "Can I come and play, too?"
Lord, no. Please no.
A meaty hand reaches down to lift his dark queen daintily to her feet, light as frost and butterflies. "Would I be denyin' this beauty anything she desires?" Angelus teases.
He looks at William and smiles slowly, fangs descending. A kiss to Dru's hand leaves a bloody imprint that has her gasping, other fist pressed to her breast.
"William has much to learn," he tells her seriously. "But we'll see he gets it right, won't we?"
Drusilla raises her palm for him to lap away the pooling crimson. "Very right, Daddy," she croons. "You'll teach him to be a proper wicked gentleman."
"A well-trained servant," comes Darla's soft Colonial drawl. He sees a gleam behind them that may or may not be her leg, bared and shining in the candlelight.
Angelus' hand closes over the back of his neck. "You see? It's all planned out, then. Come on then, William. We'll not keep the ladies waiting." The fingers squeeze. "Will we?"
Soft laughter is the ugliest music to his ears. And oh, yes, this will be a bitter lesson indeed.
*
~and it's a hard thing to set your heart out to be broken~
*
He is bare from the waist down. Darkness surrounds them, blocked out by lack of windows and a thick door, but he can hear the mad maelstrom of the storm outside and it is nothing compared to the savage frenzy Angelus is visiting upon him.
His thighs are parted by ruthless hands, held up high and wide to expose his manhood, his arse. He knows Angelus can see in the dark, better than he can, and every part of his body is on view for the vampire's pleasure. A cool, wet tongue rasps at the hole he so likes to abuse, plunging in with a mockery of fucking.
But there is something different to it now. He has slowly begun to see, time and time again in these past weeks.
The urgency is those hands is not one that wishes to punish, but one that seeks madly for pleasure. And he knows - must know - from the way William cannot stop himself from writhing and howling - that he has discovered within himself the need for this brutal adoration.
Angelus cannot show love - he is, as is William, a monster, and it is beyond them - but he can want, and adore, and obsess. And William can want to be consumed by that mouth, those thick, talented fingers that slide deep within and know exactly where to press and pull, and -
If he could call out to God, he would. In thanks? In curses? For somehow, in a way he cannot comprehend, he has become this creature's own - and he is glad of it! Yes, and screaming out his pleasure into the night of a world whose rules he no longer need obey.
Angelus has set him free with this passion.
*
~and raindrops sound louder on the roof when you're alone~
*
They have slept in better places than this, but Angelus has taken a queer fancy for living rough for a few days. Away from the women, who are merrily spending all the coin they care to and drinking deep in Paris. He declares that William would come with him, offering no real choice.
Not that he needs to. He's kissed Drusilla goodbye, then turned to follow Angelus wherever he would lead.
It has been a trip neatly cut from his better fantasies. The hunt - the kill - the savagery of men unbound by any sort of law has been theirs to revel in. Their comings together have been of such heat and blazing light that he thought he would shatter to dust.
They have squabbled only once, over his name. He supposes he will never get Angelus to cease calling him 'boy', as if he had not been near thirty years a man and ten more a vampire, but he won't suffer being called William, or even yet Will. That man is long dead. 'Spike' is what he's chosen for himself, earned by right, and by damn it is who he shall be.
Angelus does not agree. But for now, for these few days, they have put it aside and he amiably addresses him correctly.
Spike is pleased. This new man he has become holds to none of William's old morals and horrors. He feels no shame at leaning back in his master's lap on the carriage ride, rubbing catlike against the man's swelling erection. He savors the saltless taste of skin that does not sweat when he nips with blunt teeth, then fangs - delicately, delicately, never to break the skin. Relishes every rough jerk that tears his clothes aside, sets bruises on his limbs, holds him open wide and breaches him deeply.
Spike is the one who can curl up with his master in an abandoned barn loft and suckle his cock until it bursts in his mouth. He can submit to being jerked about and held, careless and cherished as a favorite old doll, until they must bury beneath molded hay and sleep through the long merry-mocking sunlit hours of the next day.
Spike can find happiness in this, his sort of unlife.
And he is Spike.
He is.
*
~and there's a deceiving warmth to the face of a corpse~
*
A good rough sponge runs lazily down William's back, dabbing away the last of thick suds that smell refreshingly not of lye, but rather chamomile and herbs. He inhales appreciatively, and brushes a kiss over Angelus' fingers when they stroke across his cheek. The two men lean together, lips meeting roughly. One fang pierces his lip and a drop of blood falls heavy, plop, into the tub of steaming water.
"Sweet," Angelus whispers, his words tingling on both mouths. Spike finds his own lips curving into a smirk.
Bold now, knowing without having to ask, he lifts one dripping hand and grips his master's fingers to guide them down and below the water's surface. Angelus chuckles. "Frisky, are you?"
Spike knows very well that's what he wants. Come boldly to the throne of grace, ye good and fallen men! Angelus would not have set this up, not been so gentle, had he not wanted the proof of violent desire it should wake for him alone.
To Spike the contrast is delicious, sweeter than the pearling drops that already form at the tip of Angelus' bared prick, richer than burgundy wine and more savory than the heart's blood of the pure.
"Would this be what you want, then?" Angelus grips Spike's cock beneath the water, thumb and fingers gliding slick and hard. Spike throws his head back in abandon, hissing. So good - so right - he makes it hurt so well -
Beads of water condense on the both of their skins from the heat of the tub bath, and Angelus' smile has become crooked and ravenous as he enjoys the mockery of passion's sweat. Spike knows he will soon be lifted bodily from that warmth and tossed on the floor, the bed, it doesn't matter.
Within himself, he is always empty - hollow - longing for something to fill the void. In the moments when Angelus is buried to the root within him, that darkness goes away. Just for a little bit.
Hungry now, he nips at the air millimeters from his master's nose. The great dark eyes gleam at him. "So it's to be that way, now."
Spike growls playfully.
And then, ah, at last, he could not have waited longer - he is being lifted by strong arms, and spun about, and the deep black pit within him begins to spiral away...
*
~and there's nothing so cold as the house of the dead~
*
Romanian nights are dark and unpleasant. Spike has thought of hunting, but there's something in the air that puts him off. Something he doesn't like.
Staying in happens to be no treat either, but it's the choice he ends up stuck with. Torn between Angelus and Drusilla, and neither of them fit for Bedlam this night.
Angelus has locked himself in their stolen chambers, key on the other side, and will not let him in. Spike kicks the wood.
"Either you open this damned door or I break it down, do you hear me?"
"I told you, I'll see no one," comes the answer through thick slats of wood and iron. Spike hears two soft thumps against the door's other side. Fists striking the barrier - but wearily, as if Angelus has barely the strength for what he insists on.
"Sending me away, then?" He digs around in his pocket for a small tinderbox. Ah, there it is, a tiny cold round of metal. God, how he needs a cigar. As if caring for his black princess wasn't enough, now his better love, his Angelus, has to go barmy on them as well. "Get a grasp on yourself, man!" He leers at the wood. "Or I'll do it for
you. What would you say to that?"
"Nothing. I would say nothing. Go. Will you not? If you'd only go --"
Spike considers this. "Don't think I will." He bangs the door himself for good measure. "Listen, you oaf, Drusilla's weeping her poor pretty eyes out down here. Says you took her dolly away. One that Darla got for her special before she left the village."
He hears a sharp breaking, a sound of brittle laughter. "I did. I have it - here, just here."
Spike rolls his eyes. There'll be no fun at all to be had tonight, he can see that much clearly. "What in hell possessed you to do such a thing? She's gone wild. Says it wants her back, it's crying for her, all that rot. Give it over and I'll leave you be."
Silence.
The door opens just wide enough for Spike to see the wide, crazed eyes from every nightmare he's had in twenty years. He backs up a little, all unaware.
Angelus is holding a small bundle. Terribly small. Blood-smeared.
Angelus thrusts the small, dirty mound at him. "She'd mostly finished playing already." His voice cracks. "I didn't - I couldn't -"
"Right." Spike cannot stop staring at the thing. He swallows. "Hand it here, then." He extends his hands, carefully watching Angelus' face. "Give it over. I'll see it disposed of."
"Disposed of! Thrown away. Will you burn it, or bury it?" Each bone stands out in Angelus' face; his eyes blaze pitch-light bright. "Or will you devour what's left? Each small finger and toe. They're blue, William. Cold. And they won't be rising again -"
A fist shoots through the slender opening in the door and seizes him by the collar. He is dragged close enough to smell the fierce white whiskey on his master's breath. "It will not rise again, William - will it?" He begins to shake, fingers jarring Spike's neck. "Tell me that it won't."
"How should I know that?" Spike snarls back, angry now that he's let Angelus upset his nerves. It's only a dirty peasant infant, after all. One of dozens they've shared amongst them before, mere teatime snacks. "Give it here."
"That I will." The bundle is pushed into Spike's free hand. "Have at it. Be what I made you to be. And may God have mercy on my soul."
"Let me -" Spike falters. "Let me come in. Whatever's come over you, let me-"
"No!" Angelus backs away. "Stay out, Will."
"Look! I've something you might like better." Desperate now, he scrabbles in another pocket and finds it - a slim, ornately carved stake. He holds it up, enticing.
Angelus draws close again, eyes huge. "Are you - will you?"
"It's the one I took off that Slayer I done," Spike whispers. "Kept it as a souveneir. A prize. It's yours, if you'll only open the door and let me in."
And Angelus begins to laugh. Laugh so hard that he shakes with it, hair flying forward into his face. "Cruel and beautiful killer, you're tearing the heart from me! To kiss those pretty lips one more time," he chokes, "Is it worth a man's soul? Get away from me, Will! I swear to you, the hunger I feel - I could devour you whole, drain you dry from cock and veins, and I would not be able to stay my hand. These hands... get back! Back, or I'll not be responsible for myself."
He stumbles, then, staring wide and blind. "But I am..."
Spike tries to push the door open. It's heavy, and sticks. Has he got it barred somehow?
"Responsible," Angelus murmurs, gazing down at his fine hands. "What these have done to you, yourself. Made something so beautiful and pure into a monster."
That stings sharp and deep, the horrified disgust in his voice. "And what are you yourself, then?" Spike flings back. Dammit, he does have something heavy before the door! The gap won't widen enough to let him in.
"The father of Hell," Angelus whispers. "Can't you see it, Will?"
Spike closes his eyes briefly. Holds out his hand, palm open. "I see a man I love in pain. Let me help you."
"No." Angelus thunders forward and slams the door; Spike snatches his fingers back just in time. "Help yourself if you will - help that madwoman I created - but leave me alone! Just leave me alone..."
But Spike is the one who's left alone. Black despair up here, dark madness down there, and he in the middle of it all unwanted.
Slowly, he slides the Chinese slayer's stake back into his pocket. He doesn't understand. Why won't Angelus - ?
And now, now he is growing angry. Casting him aside as he would so much filth? The vampire can be a fool, but now he's acting the stupid bugger. And so far gone with this odd fit of madness he doesn't remember he hasn't got any soul!
Behind the closed door, Angelus is laughing... and weeping.
Spike doesn't know what has happened. Doesn't want to find out.
He stuffs the limp 'dolly' under one arm, heedless of blood-stains on his jacket, and takes it downstairs. Drusilla has already forgotten it as he passes her, all-enraptured with cooing at a mouse enticed from the wainscoting.
He thinks to toss his small bundle in the rubbish heap, then pauses.
His own hand trembles once, a fine quiver.
Bollocks!
But in the end he plants a tiny stake through the small, still heart,
and burns it well away from the manor house.
Not for Angelus' sake.
Or so he tells himself.
It's just in case.
*
~and there's an emptiness here where something has now gone forever~
*
When he wakes the next night, Angelus has disappeared. No letter, not that he was best at writing those in the first place.
But no sketch, either. He'd leave those in place of temporary goodbyes. Drawings of William spread out before the fireplace, clad in nothing but his skin, loosely gripping himself for the pleasure of the artist. Or with knees drawn damn near up to his chin. Turned on his stomach, legs splayed wide.
Neither is there a new dolly for Drusilla, either china or flesh.
The night is yet forbidding but he won't stay there a minute longer. Abandon them, will he - abandon him? Then let him come back to an empty house brimful of rotting corpses - bastard!
He drags Drusilla out into the night, in the saddle before him on the one horse yet remaining. Leaves all her clutter and claptrap behind. Wants to set a match to the old wooden foundations, to watch it burn, but - no. Let it moulder. Let him find their monument.
She weeps and claws her face, not understanding. "Daddy's left us," she wails, "The monster inside him's eaten all up, and it burns!"
"I'm bloody sure it does." Spike takes a cruel grip around her waist. There's a small and vicious pleasure in the way she squeaks, the way she finally looks at him again with the beginnings of stars in her eyes.
"Will you be bad to me, then?" she asks, faltering. "Will you make sure that I'm properly raised?"
Spike grinds his mouth to hers, biting and feeding until her lips are a ruin and she is squealing for delight. "Always, princess," he vows with a tongue coated in blood. "Starting now. We're getting the hell out of here."
Drusilla pats her pretty hands together as they begin to gallop. She looks back over his shoulder, bites him daintily, and whispers, "Goodbye for now, Daddy."
Goodbye.
Spike's face goes gray and angry. He'll not say a word as they depart that place. Whatever happened, his master - his beloved - hell, he might have helped! If he'd only opened the door. Let him in. He'd have gone gladly onto his knees. Rubbed and coaxed the misery out of him.
But Angelus, ever so wise in his own mind, did not see fit to share. Therefore, he'll share no more of himself.
And he will no longer answer to the name of William. Not ever.
*
He's come to the last cigarette in his pack and it's smoldered down to the filter, mostly unsmoked as he stares out into the filthy LA night. The streets are as dirty and the people poor as nineteenth-century Romanians, so desperate for life that they'll chance death day and night for a taste.
Angel claims he's here to help them. Teach them, show them a better path.
Spike knows better. And he could help, if he were only let.
But he's not.
He downs the last burning shot of whiskey and grinds his teeth against the burn. Lets his cigarette fall down the bottle's neck and sizzle out in dregs.
It's fitting, he thinks. Smoke and strong drink. Night skies and rain. Blood and love. All of it threshed together and their pleasures denied forever.
A bit of both, really, he hears himself murmur.
And then there's nothing left to say, or think, at all.
Not a single thing.
* * * * *
For those interested...
Sonnet #21
So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
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