The Adventures of Captain Peroxide and Deadboy
The Angel/Spike Zone of the BtVS Writer's Guild
TITLE: Through A Glass, Darkly
"For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face." I Corinthians 13
AUTHOR: Bridie
FEEDBACK: [email protected]
ARCHIVE: Sure...just let me know where
PAIRING: Spike/Angel/Angelus
RATING: NC-17 or maybe just R for a wank and language, M/M Slash
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: Other people own them...I'm not making any money...just having a little fun.
SUMMARY: Spike and a looking glass.
**A basketful of hugs to Mouse for kicking my ass and making me write again.**
He's never felt so alone in all of his existence.
Isolated. The crypt's gone. Really gone. Just a
charred crater in the middle of the cemetery. He's
not sure if it was Initiative soldiers or Harmony in a
snit. One hell of a snit. Cares as much about
either's reasons, which is not at all. The fact is,
his stuff's gone, and revenge isn't in the cards right
now.
Still too weak. Haven't been able to feed properly.
Wound up crawling back here. The scene of his last
great humiliation. The mansion. Angelus' home. And
he believes there is some sort of effed up
logic/reason/justice for him being here now. Alone.
No money to pay utilities, so it's dark in here, even
in the middle of the day. He's hungry. No money for
that either. He's made up his mind to agree to the
Watcher's cracked plan and offer his services for
money...blood...cigarettes. Whatever he can get out
of them.
Contact. Even with humans is almost welcome now.
Because this house is consuming him with memories.
Taunted/tainted. Wrapped up in them. Steeped in it.
Hating it because it isn't where he is now.
It's not healthy. Even for him.
Walking through the hated rooms. Hated hallway.
Shadows curling out at him, pulling at him, glimmer in
the hall mirror caught out of the corner of his eye as
he moves past.
Catches himself breathing. Stops. Turns.
Looks first at the wall in front of the
mirror....nothing there to catch a reflection.
Nothing moving in the dead house except him, and he's
dead too.
House of the dead.
Stray thought that all the portraits and mirrors ought
to be covered so the ghosts can't get out.
Involuntary chill.
Laughs, a little at himself. Moves to stand in front
of the mirror.
And sees.
The face.
The eyes are closed. But it's Him. And not Him now,
it's Him *then*.
Angelus.
Still as death. Eyes still closed. Could be a
picture, but he knows this is the mirror. In the
hall. In this damned house.
He lifts his hand, reaching out, his own movement
invisible, almost touching the chilled surface.
The eyes open.
"Angelusssss." The name hisses past his lips and he
snatches his fingers back as though burned. Brown
eyes focus on him and lock him in place before the
glass.
No question in his mind who this is. No soft soul in
those eyes. Those eyes. Staring back at him
painfully.
*Seeing* him.
And that does hurt. When was the last time someone
looked at him with that kind of recognition?
He blinks, lowers his gaze and steps back.
Then the voice.
"Look at me, boy."
Fuck. No. This isn't happening. He's lost almost
everything he's ever had in this world and feels his
sanity being stripped from him. His mind flayed with
each inflection. Because it's real. He doesn't doubt
that.
So he looks.
Sees the laughter in the face before it reaches the
mouth. Cruel mouth. Opening.
"Miss me, William?"
No. No. No. Yes.
This is the moment. Walk away and it's just a
hunger-induced hallucination. Respond, and
it's...something else.
Is there really a choice?
"Yer a ghost."
A flicker of something in those eyes. Lips harden to
a thin line. Eyes still fastened on him.
"Ya can't be a ghost....yer still the boogey man
locked away in Angel's head."
And then there is noise.
Everywhere at once he feels an audible rage swirling
around him. A white rush of sound, just as quickly
gone as it had begun. He's backed himself against
that far wall, panting with the effort to hold himself
there. To not bolt and run and never look back.
But he won't.
Because he can't.
Anger lingers on the air. He could lick his lips
right now and taste it. He knows....he
remembers....he's had to swallow enough of *that*
anger in his lifetime.
But he's waiting.
The next move, the next line....those aren't his.
Minutes, hours, hell maybe even years crawl past him
in the hall before the shadow in the mirror speaks
again.
"He didn't tell you, William."
He's smart; he should be able to figure this out. But
the emptiness in his belly is making his brain fog up
again. Wait. Was that a question?
"I'm banished forever, lad. Dead. A ghost." No hint
of emotion in that voice. And he could use a hint
about now. That, and a drink.
"The soul..." He can't quite finish the thought.
Knows the other will finish it for him.
"The soul is permanent. And you're already thinking
about that aren't you?" More than a hint. Tone
dripping with mockery.
"You're wondering how long before he comes back for
the Slayer. Or maybe, just maybe you're wondering if
since he has nothing to lose that maybe now would a
good time to pay you back for that little Gem of Amara
incident."
He may be tired, he may be hungry, but he's aware
enough to catch the growl at the end of that little
speech. Aware enough to straighten up a bit, break
the thing's gaze to glance around for a weapon.
Anything.
"Didn't know I was there, did you? So close to the
surface I could taste your rage. Hurt like a
son-of-a-bitch, Will, but I was rooting for you the
whole time. I kept believing one more blow would
knock the doors wide open for me. I was gonna kill
Marcus, then fuck you raw. It would have been great.
A proper reunion. Not like last time."
Last time. Last time. He remembered last time.
Remembering, he slumped to the floor. Fumbling in his
pockets. Cigarettes. Lighter. Small creature
comfort of the light and drag.
The Angelus thing looked down on him, almost
patiently. Which was worth a laugh in itself.
A bitter laugh bitten off at the sound of someone
knocking at the front door.
"Spike. Spike! You in there?"
Not really sure, you know?
"Listen, Spike. Giles wants you to be at his place
tonight. Be there, or...just be there!"
Brilliant. Watcher's sending the boy ‘round to fetch
him. Can't really get much worse, can it? And then
he looks up.
Brown eyes flicker to gold.
Worse, apparently, is a relative and flexible thing.
"Almost sucked dry, aren't you? Not feeding.
Stepping and fetching for humans. No sign of Dru.
What have you got left, boy?"
Nothing. But he won't admit it. Not yet.
"I got more than you right now, Angelus."
Truly eerie to hear a reflection chuckle at you.
"That's not saying much."
No, but it was worth saying.
Energy expended on the last drag of his cigarette,
stubbing it out. He's making every effort to keep his
eyes open. But it's hard. And if the thing in the
mirror could have gotten to him, he'd be ten kinds of
dead already. His hunger is a dull roar in his brain
as his eyelids drift down.
Angelus is pushing him in the wheelchair through the
mansion. They stop at the edge of the patio. Dead
vines climb like veins along the walls. No moon
tonight.
Angelus kneeling in front of him.
"You'll get better here. Nothing from the outside can
get in. Just you and me."
Large hands resting on his knees. And he can *feel*
them. Feel thumbs pressing in. Being dragged up his
thighs.
Oh god, he's not, he's not. Christ, he is!
One hand steady on his thigh, the other snug against
his crotch. Cupping, holding.
"Glad to see me?"
Eyelids snap open, gasping breath drawn in and
expelled. Half-hard, and that's his own hand pressing
down.
And those are his Sire's eyes gazing down on him.
How the fuck did he get inside his head like that?
"Because I never left."
This is beyond not fair. Supposed to wake fresh and
energetic from a little kip. Wakey, wakey, Spike's
brain. But sod it all, he's tired, and aching from
sitting on the floor, muzzy in mind and body from not
having eaten in...what is it now...days? Oh yeah, and
hard.
Angelus leering down at him isn't helping.
"Pull it out, boy."
He should fight this. He really should. Save his
strength for...something.
But he doesn't. Slim fingers fumble at the button
fly. When did he become so clumsy? Doesn't care as
he raises his hips to pull the jeans down around his
knees.
With a sigh of relief/resignation, he lifts his cock.
His poltergeist Sire wants a show? He'll give him
one.
One hand pulling his thigh outward, the other moving
slowly up his own length. Just a drop of moisture at
the tip, he doesn't have much to spare these days.
Doesn't matter. It feels good. Hasn't bothered to do
this in a long time, and the feel of flesh on flesh,
even if it is his own...maybe because it's his own,
feels blissful. And those eyes are on him. So
hungry.
Palm pushing inwards, fingers wrapping tightly and
he's pulling up and in. Thumb brushing against his
stomach, pushing his shirt up with the action.
Friction. It's all good.
"No."
Ah...command of the Sire. This is familiar. And
irritating.
"What?" He doesn't care if this shade-Angelus hears
the annoyance in his tone.
"That's my hand on your cock, Will. My hand."
Oh...getting the game now.
His hand moves down his thigh, cupping his sack,
toying, rolling his balls around. The other moves a
bit more quickly. Pulling down the foreskin, pulling
up and pinching...just there.
Mouth slack and open, he's breathing now, and somehow
he doesn't think he could continue without forcing his
lungs to move with him.
"Faster."
Almost a request. But not quite. And his hand begins
to obey as his body rebels.
Doesn't matter.
He's almost shaking with the effort. Panting and
never looking away from that face. The hand on his
balls strikes out to catch his weight on the floor.
Leaning on himself, and still pumping into his own
tightened fist. And it hurts.
His body is ravenous, and everything he has is being
poured into the motion of hand over cock. Red and
drooling just a bit more now. Just enough to slicken
his hold. And he groans at that.
Moisture. And he'd kill for anything right now.
Whiskey would be good. Blood would be better. Yes,
that was a sob tearing through his chest.
Throat tight with need and want and loss. All the
hate and rage and fear of the past weeks, hell months
is pouring down his arm as he savagely jerks off.
He's trembling now. The brown eyes locked fiercely
with his. Drinking in his effort.
"Harder. Almost there, Will. Come for me."
That fucking voice. Wrapping around his brain like
his hand is wound around his cock. Pulling at him.
He can feel that. Feel his sack drawing up. Feel his
thighs twitching. And oh fuck it hurts, and it
doesn't matter, because it's the sweetest kind of pain
that he hasn't felt in so long.
There isn't a bit left of him that isn't going to
shatter apart this time.
Eyes shut against the invasion he fists himself with
the last bit of fury in him and comes silently.
Pulsing over his own hand. Nothing left as he
completes his slide to the floor.
The face in the mirror smiles.
He's in the wheelchair again. Angelus is sitting on
the edge of the brick wall, watching him.
"You can walk now, you know."
And he can. He gets up. Tests his strength. And
walks.
"I told you that you'd get better here. It's this
house. And me, of course."
Of course.
"We'll stay here."
Yeah...that sounds good.
He was cold. One eye cracked open. Might be ‘cause
his trousers were down around his ankles. He moved to
pull them up and groaned at the pain the effort cost
him.
Stood. Feeling a little light-headed. So far past
hunger, that it's a part of him he accepts now.
Tucks himself in and sits back against the wall. Just
staring up and back at the face. This time he doesn't
even flinch when the banging on the door starts up.
"Spike! Get your sorry ass out here! You were
supposed to be at Giles' hours ago!"
The face smirks back at him.
He can hear the door opening. It's an odd noise, like
the footsteps, because they seem to be happening
somewhere else. Not really here in their house.
His gaze doesn't waver.
"Spike? Spike! Look at me! Didn't you hear me?"
No. What he can hear is the blood rushing through her
veins. It's a very sweet sound, yet somehow it
doesn't touch off his blood lust. Just makes him look
a little wistfully at the face.
"Spike, this is giving me the wiggins. You're just
sitting there staring at that mirror. Not like you
can see anything. And you should. You're a mess.
Spike?"
Those eyes darken, and the hallway feels colder. A
lot colder.
"Shit! What is going on here? Alright, Spike. Last
chance. I'm leaving."
Good.
And this time he can clearly hear the door close. Can
hear it lock. Can feel the hallway getting warmer.
"S'nice."
"Thought you'd be more comfortable. I knew you were
going to like it here."
He was just going to stare a while. Maybe shut his
eyes for half a mo'. Then more staring. Good to have
a plan.
They were both back on the patio again.
Or in the hallway.
He wasn't sure.
But the knocking was getting louder.
"Ignore it."
"Ignore what?" He almost managed a laugh.
"Good lad."
The front door splintering was a bit more difficult to
disregard.
The heavy footsteps were downright distracting.
It was the hand on his face that finally did him in.
"Spike. Spike...I need you to look at me."
Git, what did he think I was looking at? Oh. Wrong
one.
‘Cause I'm looking at the right one. And on the patio
he's licking my ear and whispering the most vile and
wonderful things into it.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
Not a bloody thing. All is right in the world. In my
world.
With a wrench he is pulled bodily up and away from the
wall. Away from the face.
"Angel?" Was that his voice dry and croaking?
"Stop, stop, only me." The other crooned in his head.
Desperately he turned to find those eyes. His captor
turning with him.
Shit. He knew. He saw. How could he see? This is
mine. Ours. Our house. A safe place.
That white noise of rage was back. This time it was
worse. It was both of them. And fuck, it was cold
again.
And Angel wasn't holding him up, so he fell, slumping
against his friend, the wall. Watching in horror from
what seemed like a long way away.
And Angel was moving forward. Body rigid with wrath.
Angel's arm was raised.
Angel's hand was breaking the mirror into a million
fucking beautiful, horrible pieces.
God no. God no. Please...just...no.
There isn't enough left for tears, so he's just curled
on the floor, his body hitching in a painful imitation
of sobs.
The last thing is gone. And there's nothing left.
But there's a touch. Soft after the fury that struck
the final blow.
It's an insult, really. But he'll take it.
That huge body is crouched down low to him. Christ!
Is he really so weak that the bastard can just wrap
him up like this?
Yes, it's possible. Because his body just sags like a
rag doll's in those arms.
And what little life he has left is apparently going
to be spent in amazement that the souled creature is
just going to hold him tenderly like this.
What? Until he expires? Worse than Passions. Worse
than he deserved.
Fading fast, but there's small comfort to be taken in
the thought that his dust is going to be a bitch to
get out of all those dark clothes.
Can feel his lips twisting in a parody of a smile.
The triumphant dusty revenge of Spike.
Hand to his mouth. What?
Something warm against his cracked lips. And he's
being sucked into this big space of....of fuck it all,
the best feeling he's ever had. And if this is dying
the second time around, it kicks ass over tit of the
first time.
But he's the one sucking. Drawing in huge mouthfuls
of blood and drinking it on down until he swears even
his toes are warmed by the stuff. Magic stuff, that.
And whether it's a sign of returning strength or final
madness, he almost laughs against the offered wrist as
mad Lady Macbeth wrings her hands in his brain... who
would have thought the old man to have had so much
blood in him.
But it is funny as hell. To him. And with a sigh he
lifts his head.
"With me again, Will?"
Stupid, great idiot. Pillock. Poofter. Wanker.
Sire?
"Yeah."