Fallacy

Notes: these two people crop up every single time... Darcy and Donna, who have more than their fair share of brilliance. Thankyou. PS. thankyou to Rune who mentioned this scene in her fic, it made me get a move on *g* Summary: What happened in the seconds before Spike and Angel met up again in School Hard?

I hate lying. I don't want to. It used to be easy.. back in the old days. But existence used to be a whole lot easier in those days too. Funny what a soul will do to your sensibilities.

All is darkness, except for the slivers of light which steal in through windows. They dance over strong shoulders and highlight cropped white hair. They touch him, and in that, taunt my inability to do so.

I hold that damnable Harris boy by the scruff of the neck, and I'm grateful for the action. If they were not occupied, the tremble in my hands would be evident. Xander's terror and confusion is rank in the air. Thick, mortal fear... and yet somehow, still indignant.

He commands his group with a vicious authority. Efficient, lethal, brutal. The quintessential pack leader. The ultimate predator.

Have I been destitute so long that I have forgotten the simple and beautiful clarity of his life?

Have I been gone so long that he has learnt to grow and exist without me?

That thought, however irrational, angers me and my grip on the boy's neck tightens. Xander's fear level shoots up another notch or five, and the struggles increase.

My throat constricts as he half-turns, creating a terrifying silhouette of the demon he is. That is, terrifying for mortals.

No one understands. I've been a demon far longer than I've been a man. And I wouldn't exactly call my last hundred years of wretched existence humanity.

There was my demonic existence; seven-score years of decadence and the hunt.

And there was the century of pain and misery following my ensoulment.

I don't remember what it was to be a man, but I remember what it was to be a monster.

There was a purity and instinctual pleasure.. of satisfaction and purpose that I had never felt before, or -- despite Buffy -- since.

I had him. And somehow even through all the selfishness of my previous existence, it still revolved around him. Always my boy...

Suddenly I feel inexplicably afraid. I can't lie to him, this ruse is useless. His perception is something I could never fault.. always too smart for his own good... or maybe just smart enough... He's.. family...

I grind my teeth together in frustration. No, I must. I'm not like him anymore. I'm different. A freak. And not his sire. This pitiful excuse for both a demon *and* a human has nothing to do with him.. Disgustingly familiar guilt sweeps through me, and I remember who I am now, and why I am here.

A surge of relief that his ridged countenance is showing floods my body.. I know that if I had to look into that face with its smooth, high forehead, carved cheekbones and eyes that would be indigo in this light... I could not do it.

He turns to face me fully, and instant recognition sparks in those yellow eyes. My caged demon howls in my head.. my childe...my childe... my childe....

Who am I kidding? They already are. I steel myself for my 'performance', as a grin plays at the corner of his mouth. He opens perfect lips to speak, yet I can still only think of one thing;

How I have dreamt of feeling this again.... It starts as a stirring in my blood. Soon the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

My fingers slip ever so slightly on my six foot metal namesake, and I *hate* myself for it.

How can he *still* do this to me after so long? You'd think one hundred years without him would've flushed that garbage out of my system.

But no. They are as potent as ever, and battle with each other for supremacy.

It still amazes me that even after so long, he is able to elicit these responses, and that they manifest so automatically. I have long since discarded the notion that I have *any* control where he is concerned.

My hands shake again as he draws closer. If I were any sort of man of faith -- which is a laughable concept, demon or not -- I would describe his presence as the feeling of being visited by god.... or what I would imagine that to be like if I didn't already know I was hellbound.

That which creates you.. molds you in his image... he who meters out rewards and punishment...

He who you love, hate, fear and serve beyond logic and reason.. he who you would sacrifice all for....

I have never known a religious god. But if this is its definition, there is no argument.

It's shameful to admit, but it's all I can do not to run and prostrate myself at his feet and hug his ankles like a fucking two year old who's found a lost parent.

I am ready to fall to my knees before him in worship of the perfect embodiment of my universe when I smell it.

And I'm not talking about the terror rolling in waves off that walking entree he's holding... I'm talking about smelling pure, full-blown sire *fear*, which he's presumably trying to mask with the boy's.

Confusion, uncertainty, and even a small amount of arousal taint his scent, but the most powerful emotion I pick up is fear.

What on earth could make my sire afraid?! My ridged brow furrows, and I wonder whether I'm imagining things.

I turn to face him now, and finally look into the visage of my personal messenger of darkness. Even in the shadows of the doorway, what little light there is plays off fashionably short hair, and GQ-esque clothes. Always a slave to fashion... I look at him for what seems like forever, when in reality, it's more like half a second.

I glance quickly down to the boy in his arms, and notice his grip is so light... in fact, he's barely touching him. Come to think of it, it looks as though he just has his arm around the mortal's shoulders, rather than holding him with any kind of force. I know he's strong, but my sire would never be so blasé about a victim....

And it starts... this tight little fist of anger that's been growing steadily over the last century or so begins to overpower my other emotions. My confusion, my joy, my distress, *my* fear... are all quelled by that which I have since come to realize powers my every action.

My normally ice-cold blood goes from simmer to boil, until all my destructive emotions coalesce and form one word in my mind.

Oh yes, the time is now. I allow myself a small grin as my second longed-for dream of the past century is given form. It seems my sire is going to have to learn that I'm not stupid all over again.

Payback's a bitch, *daddy*, and you're about to get yours in spades.


	The Adventures of Captain Peroxide and Deadboy The Angel/Spike Zone of the BtVS Writer's Guild Home Updates Stories Resources Extras News Music Forum Contact Guestbook Links Full Version Fiction by: Title Author Pairing Rating Title: Fallacy Author: Avarice Rating: PG-13 Pairing: like this is a tough one.. S/A Major Spoilers for: School Hard Improv: indigo, tremble, ice, faith (not the character) Notes: these two people crop up every single time... Darcy and Donna, who have more than their fair share of brilliance. Thankyou. PS. thankyou to Rune who mentioned this scene in her fic, it made me get a move on g Summary: What happened in the seconds before Spike and Angel met up again in School Hard? -- Fallacy I hate lying. I don't want to. It used to be easy.. back in the old days. But existence used to be a whole lot easier in those days too. Funny what a soul will do to your sensibilities. All is darkness, except for the slivers of light which steal in through windows. They dance over strong shoulders and highlight cropped white hair. They touch him, and in that, taunt my inability to do so. I hold that damnable Harris boy by the scruff of the neck, and I'm grateful for the action. If they were not occupied, the tremble in my hands would be evident. Xander's terror and confusion is rank in the air. Thick, mortal fear... and yet somehow, still indignant. Not unlike him so very long ago... I gather what courage I possess to look upon him. He commands his group with a vicious authority. Efficient, lethal, brutal. The quintessential pack leader. The ultimate predator. Just like I taught him to be. He is magnificent. Have I been destitute so long that I have forgotten the simple and beautiful clarity of his life? Have I been gone so long that he has learnt to grow and exist without me? That thought, however irrational, angers me and my grip on the boy's neck tightens. Xander's fear level shoots up another notch or five, and the struggles increase. My throat constricts as he half-turns, creating a terrifying silhouette of the demon he is. That is, terrifying for mortals. To me? It's like coming home. No one understands. I've been a demon far longer than I've been a man. And I wouldn't exactly call my last hundred years of wretched existence humanity. There was my mortal life, replete with shame and disappointment. There was my demonic existence; seven-score years of decadence and the hunt. And there was the century of pain and misery following my ensoulment. I don't remember what it was to be a man, but I remember what it was to be a monster. There was a purity and instinctual pleasure.. of satisfaction and purpose that I had never felt before, or -- despite Buffy -- since. I had purpose. A reason. An existence. I had him. And somehow even through all the selfishness of my previous existence, it still revolved around him. Always my boy... Suddenly I feel inexplicably afraid. I can't lie to him, this ruse is useless. His perception is something I could never fault.. always too smart for his own good... or maybe just smart enough... He's.. family... I grind my teeth together in frustration. No, I must. I'm not like him anymore. I'm different. A freak. And not his sire. This pitiful excuse for both a demon and a human has nothing to do with him.. Disgustingly familiar guilt sweeps through me, and I remember who I am now, and why I am here. A surge of relief that his ridged countenance is showing floods my body.. I know that if I had to look into that face with its smooth, high forehead, carved cheekbones and eyes that would be indigo in this light... I could not do it. He turns to face me fully, and instant recognition sparks in those yellow eyes. My caged demon howls in my head.. my childe...my childe... my childe.... This deception must be realized, or things will go badly. Who am I kidding? They already are. I steel myself for my 'performance', as a grin plays at the corner of his mouth. He opens perfect lips to speak, yet I can still only think of one thing; I hate lying. * * * * * How I have dreamt of feeling this again.... It starts as a stirring in my blood. Soon the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. He's near, and every fibre of my being knows it. My fingers slip ever so slightly on my six foot metal namesake, and I hate myself for it. How can he still do this to me after so long? You'd think one hundred years without him would've flushed that garbage out of my system. Those feelings of awe... subservience... and rage. But no. They are as potent as ever, and battle with each other for supremacy. It still amazes me that even after so long, he is able to elicit these responses, and that they manifest so automatically. I have long since discarded the notion that I have any control where he is concerned. My hands shake again as he draws closer. If I were any sort of man of faith -- which is a laughable concept, demon or not -- I would describe his presence as the feeling of being visited by god.... or what I would imagine that to be like if I didn't already know I was hellbound. After all, how far am I off the mark, really? He is my god. What are the defining characteristics of a deity? That which creates you.. molds you in his image... he who meters out rewards and punishment... He who you love, hate, fear and serve beyond logic and reason.. he who you would sacrifice all for.... I have never known a religious god. But if this is its definition, there is no argument. He. Is. My. God. It's shameful to admit, but it's all I can do not to run and prostrate myself at his feet and hug his ankles like a fucking two year old who's found a lost parent. I am ready to fall to my knees before him in worship of the perfect embodiment of my universe when I smell it. Fear. And I'm not talking about the terror rolling in waves off that walking entree he's holding... I'm talking about smelling pure, full-blown sire fear, which he's presumably trying to mask with the boy's. I begin to turn towards him but stop halfway. Fear. He has never been afraid.. and now he stinks of it. Confusion, uncertainty, and even a small amount of arousal taint his scent, but the most powerful emotion I pick up is fear. What on earth could make my sire afraid?! My ridged brow furrows, and I wonder whether I'm imagining things. I turn to face him now, and finally look into the visage of my personal messenger of darkness. Even in the shadows of the doorway, what little light there is plays off fashionably short hair, and GQ-esque clothes. Always a slave to fashion... I look at him for what seems like forever, when in reality, it's more like half a second. I glance quickly down to the boy in his arms, and notice his grip is so light... in fact, he's barely touching him. Come to think of it, it looks as though he just has his arm around the mortal's shoulders, rather than holding him with any kind of force. I know he's strong, but my sire would never be so blasé about a victim.... Don't tell me he's been playing with his food again..... And it starts... this tight little fist of anger that's been growing steadily over the last century or so begins to overpower my other emotions. My confusion, my joy, my distress, my fear... are all quelled by that which I have since come to realize powers my every action. Hatred. Seething, undeniable hatred. My normally ice-cold blood goes from simmer to boil, until all my destructive emotions coalesce and form one word in my mind. Revenge. Oh yes, the time is now. I allow myself a small grin as my second longed-for dream of the past century is given form. It seems my sire is going to have to learn that I'm not stupid all over again. I'm not going to heaven. I have no need for gods. Payback's a bitch, daddy, and you're about to get yours in spades. * * * * * "Angelus!" "Spike." "Well I'll be damned..." * * * * * End