S is for Sire
Author's notes- thanks to Ayla for being a great beta, but who didn't read this as it has spoilers for season seven's final. I know I haven't updated recently but here's something to tide you over until I come back from Wales where I'm going to for three weeks to celebrate my grandparent's golden wedding. Anyway here it is.
Disclaimer: The title is stolen from the poem "M is for Mother" but I don't know who wrote that. I don't own anything, not even my shoes. Don't sue me, I have no money.
Warning: mild slash. Don't like, don't read, don't flame.
Rating- this part pg-13 the rest (if there is any) mild R.
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The door I was leaning on opened slowly and I fell into the building. I had been knocking for hours or maybe just moments. The sun was about to rise, I felt ill inside at the thought of being out there when it did. I fell into the building and on to the floor. He stood above me, I could tell though my eyes were shut. He gave a slight gasp at my state. Covered in blood, clothes shredded, face emaciated, I must be a sight for sore eyes. He nudged me slightly in the side to see if I moved. Undoubtedly he regretted the action as I started to vomit on his floor. The tears welled up in my eyes and I willed them not to fall, but to no avail. My whole body shuddered with the force of my tears. Sighing heavily he pulled me into the foyer of the hotel. It was then that he realized I had a pulse. After nearly dropping me in shock, he deposited me on the round red couch. He pushed the hair that was stuck to my face with blood off my forehead.
"That was a fun filled trinket you gave Buffy." I said sullenly.
"What happened, Spike," he asked me, "how did the fight end?"
"The little girls got away while I siphoned the sun into the Hellmouth like a mirror and burst into flames! That's how it ended, you pillock!" I screamed.
"Then what happened?" asked Angel with a hint of urgent desperateness.
"I waited for hell's fires to kick in as I knew I was dead. But the PTB seemed to have forgotten about me. I spent months in the dark, without a form and with an itch in my non-corporeal neck that my nonexistent hands couldn't scratch and suddenly I was back here stuck in this body that was doing all these foreign things that it just shouldn't be able to do. It's so claustrophobic in here with all these noises." I burst into a fresh batch of tears, ashamed at crying in front of him but to angry and scared to stop. "Did you know this would happen? Did you know?" I said on the verge of hysterics.
"Christ! No, Spike, would I do this to you? Do you think I'm that unfeeling?" he said hurt obvious in his eyes at the accusation. "I would never do that to you. I know how you felt about being human."
He pulled me closer to him; I cried in earnest into his shoulder. Since when did Angel wear denim jackets, I wondered as I clung to his lapels. I was suddenly reminded of those girls in the airports that cling to their lovers' lapels and have to have their fingers physically uncurled from them. A sudden wave of guilt swept over me as I thought of how many of the said girls I had eaten. Heightened emotions made the blood sweeter. Sweating as my stomach flipped, I thought I might vomit again. "I don't deserve this. I should have gone to hell, I was wicked. I was the big bad damn it! Instead I'm thrown back here. And it all hurts, much more than eternal torture. I don't understand what they want with me." I wept into his neck.
"You're not evil, Spike, you never have been. Hell, you even seeked out your own soul. It's supposed to be a reward." Said Angel softly as he stroked the back of my head. "There was a prophecy wherein the vampire with a soul fought in the apocalypse and was made human as a reward."
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I felt so badly for the boy in my arms. He was my son, my childe, my lover, my world and I had managed to destroy him. The boy in my arms was just that, a living, breathing boy at age twenty-two. He coughed, a cold he'd had for a hundred and some years rearing it's ugly head. He looked up and met my eyes with his own dark blue orbs. "I went out in a blaze, you would have been proud. Or, at least, you would have been less ashamed of me. I know you never loved me, I know you were embarrassed by me, but you always took care of me, you did the right thing. And I did the right thing for once too. I saved the world. I should have died a hundred years ago, old and alone in bed. I should have been killed the night you turned me, I would have if it hadn't been for your mercy. I should have died a million times since from drunkenly passing out in allies before the sun came up, but you dragged me away from the light. Instead I died doing the one noble thing I ever did. And it should have ended there. You could have been proud, not loathed my memory. As it stands I have to follow my own act. I am and always have been a waste of space as a human. I'm a loser, there are no two ways about it. This is supposed to be a reward?"
I didn't know what to say. I felt like a father when his baby asks him why the world sucks. How could I explain to him why people go hungry and children die? How could I explain why this was supposed to be a good thing? I hated myself for making him not feel loved. The fact was that without a soul I had loathed him for making me feel so human: weak in my love for him. I had been harsh, and cruel, and had never once told him what he'd meant to me. But I had never NOT been proud of him. He was my golden boy. Not knowing how to utter any of this. I simply held him closer. I could feel his pulse, hard and sharp in his chest.
"I hate you." He said sullenly as his sobs subsided. "This is your fault, stupid ponce with your stupid feminine necklace."
I rolled my eyes, glad to hear some faint traces of my childe's spirit. "What can I do to help you?"
He looked up at me, his eyes still strangely dark. Slowly, Spike tilted his head to the side exposing a length of flesh. He cocked one of his eyebrows in that trademarked fashion of his. "How 'bout it?" he asked. "A few sips and I'm done. I'm off the mortal coil."
I recoiled at his words. "Spike, sweetheart, I, I can't do that. I, I, I can't tur-"
"I'm not asking you to turn me, Sire." He interrupted with a bitter edge. "Do you honestly think I'm that callous? I know you could never do it, that you'd view it as hurting me. I'm not asking you for that. For while it's what I really want, I know it would destroy you. I'm asking you to please kill me. I can't do this mortal thing, I'm no good at it. I have no human grace. I won't die old and alone in bed anymore: I've experienced to much to live like that again. So all I'm asking you is to please kill me." He said his piece evenly as though it were common sense and not him begging for death.
"No!" I said as I manhandled his head into a straight position. "I can't kill you! You're a good man, Spike. You'll get use to this in the end. Remember, you resented being turned at the beginning and wished for life or at least death?"
"I am aren't I?" he asked absently. "A man I mean, not a one good necessarily. What was it you used to say to me? 'We might walk men but we're not,' well I am. A man that is." His eyes were suddenly darker than ever. He shook his head slowly as he said. "You're not my sire." He pulled away from me, trying to get out of the position he'd placed himself in on my lap. It felt like he'd ripped my un-beating heart out of my chest. I knew he never liked though he always loved me, I knew he felt abandoned when I got my soul, however, I never thought he would disown me. Just because he was a human didn't mean I couldn't be his father. Or did it? Suddenly he voiced my thoughts. "Are you?" he asked after only a moments pause. "Because I don't know what the hell I am. All I know is that the minute I found myself on the corporeal plane I ran to you. I thought you could help me. I don't know if you're my sire. I know you never really liked the mantel even when you were. I don't know who you are." He said sounding totally crestfallen and tired as he stood on his own two feet. "All I know is that I want my sire, and I wish you were."
My William standing there sounding so dejected pulled on a part of me I tried so hard to stamp down upon. The demon within me roared as it witnessed, what it considered to be, its kith and kin tremble so. And without thinking I reached out and dragged him roughly to me. I heard a bone in his wrist snap at my force, but it didn't matter as it would heal momentarily. My visage faded into that of my true nature as I bit deeply into his neck. He clutched my shoulders and sighed in an oddly contented way. I drained him leaving only enough to turn him. I tasted so much of myself in his blood that it made me wonder if this was William at all or if the PTB had truly made Spike human. It didn't matter as in a moment he would be my childe, my Spike. Ripping savagely into my wrist, I wasted no time getting blood down his throat. He couldn't die I wouldn't let that happed. I watched as he nursed and worried the wound. When he was thoroughly done I picked him up and carried him up to my room. I laid him down and waited for him to rise. He rolled over, still hours from rising, and he muttered softly the word sire before stilling again. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Should I go on or is this done?
Author's notes- thanks to Ayla for being a great beta, but who didn't read this as it has spoilers for season seven's final. I know I haven't updated recently but here's something to tide you over until I come back from Wales where I'm going to for three weeks to celebrate my grandparent's golden wedding. Anyway here it is.
Disclaimer: The title is stolen from the poem "M is for Mother" but I don't know who wrote that. I don't own anything, not even my shoes. Don't sue me, I have no money.
Warning: mild slash. Don't like, don't read, don't flame.
Rating- this part pg-13 the rest (if there is any) mild R.
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The door I was leaning on opened slowly and I fell into the building. I had been knocking for hours or maybe just moments. The sun was about to rise, I felt ill inside at the thought of being out there when it did. I fell into the building and on to the floor. He stood above me, I could tell though my eyes were shut. He gave a slight gasp at my state. Covered in blood, clothes shredded, face emaciated, I must be a sight for sore eyes. He nudged me slightly in the side to see if I moved. Undoubtedly he regretted the action as I started to vomit on his floor. The tears welled up in my eyes and I willed them not to fall, but to no avail. My whole body shuddered with the force of my tears. Sighing heavily he pulled me into the foyer of the hotel. It was then that he realized I had a pulse. After nearly dropping me in shock, he deposited me on the round red couch. He pushed the hair that was stuck to my face with blood off my forehead.
"That was a fun filled trinket you gave Buffy." I said sullenly.
"What happened, Spike," he asked me, "how did the fight end?"
"The little girls got away while I siphoned the sun into the Hellmouth like a mirror and burst into flames! That's how it ended, you pillock!" I screamed.
"Then what happened?" asked Angel with a hint of urgent desperateness.
"I waited for hell's fires to kick in as I knew I was dead. But the PTB seemed to have forgotten about me. I spent months in the dark, without a form and with an itch in my non-corporeal neck that my nonexistent hands couldn't scratch and suddenly I was back here stuck in this body that was doing all these foreign things that it just shouldn't be able to do. It's so claustrophobic in here with all these noises." I burst into a fresh batch of tears, ashamed at crying in front of him but to angry and scared to stop. "Did you know this would happen? Did you know?" I said on the verge of hysterics.
"Christ! No, Spike, would I do this to you? Do you think I'm that unfeeling?" he said hurt obvious in his eyes at the accusation. "I would never do that to you. I know how you felt about being human."
He pulled me closer to him; I cried in earnest into his shoulder. Since when did Angel wear denim jackets, I wondered as I clung to his lapels. I was suddenly reminded of those girls in the airports that cling to their lovers' lapels and have to have their fingers physically uncurled from them. A sudden wave of guilt swept over me as I thought of how many of the said girls I had eaten. Heightened emotions made the blood sweeter. Sweating as my stomach flipped, I thought I might vomit again. "I don't deserve this. I should have gone to hell, I was wicked. I was the big bad damn it! Instead I'm thrown back here. And it all hurts, much more than eternal torture. I don't understand what they want with me." I wept into his neck.
"You're not evil, Spike, you never have been. Hell, you even seeked out your own soul. It's supposed to be a reward." Said Angel softly as he stroked the back of my head. "There was a prophecy wherein the vampire with a soul fought in the apocalypse and was made human as a reward."
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I felt so badly for the boy in my arms. He was my son, my childe, my lover, my world and I had managed to destroy him. The boy in my arms was just that, a living, breathing boy at age twenty-two. He coughed, a cold he'd had for a hundred and some years rearing it's ugly head. He looked up and met my eyes with his own dark blue orbs. "I went out in a blaze, you would have been proud. Or, at least, you would have been less ashamed of me. I know you never loved me, I know you were embarrassed by me, but you always took care of me, you did the right thing. And I did the right thing for once too. I saved the world. I should have died a hundred years ago, old and alone in bed. I should have been killed the night you turned me, I would have if it hadn't been for your mercy. I should have died a million times since from drunkenly passing out in allies before the sun came up, but you dragged me away from the light. Instead I died doing the one noble thing I ever did. And it should have ended there. You could have been proud, not loathed my memory. As it stands I have to follow my own act. I am and always have been a waste of space as a human. I'm a loser, there are no two ways about it. This is supposed to be a reward?"
I didn't know what to say. I felt like a father when his baby asks him why the world sucks. How could I explain to him why people go hungry and children die? How could I explain why this was supposed to be a good thing? I hated myself for making him not feel loved. The fact was that without a soul I had loathed him for making me feel so human: weak in my love for him. I had been harsh, and cruel, and had never once told him what he'd meant to me. But I had never NOT been proud of him. He was my golden boy. Not knowing how to utter any of this. I simply held him closer. I could feel his pulse, hard and sharp in his chest.
"I hate you." He said sullenly as his sobs subsided. "This is your fault, stupid ponce with your stupid feminine necklace."
I rolled my eyes, glad to hear some faint traces of my childe's spirit. "What can I do to help you?"
He looked up at me, his eyes still strangely dark. Slowly, Spike tilted his head to the side exposing a length of flesh. He cocked one of his eyebrows in that trademarked fashion of his. "How 'bout it?" he asked. "A few sips and I'm done. I'm off the mortal coil."
I recoiled at his words. "Spike, sweetheart, I, I can't do that. I, I, I can't tur-"
"I'm not asking you to turn me, Sire." He interrupted with a bitter edge. "Do you honestly think I'm that callous? I know you could never do it, that you'd view it as hurting me. I'm not asking you for that. For while it's what I really want, I know it would destroy you. I'm asking you to please kill me. I can't do this mortal thing, I'm no good at it. I have no human grace. I won't die old and alone in bed anymore: I've experienced to much to live like that again. So all I'm asking you is to please kill me." He said his piece evenly as though it were common sense and not him begging for death.
"No!" I said as I manhandled his head into a straight position. "I can't kill you! You're a good man, Spike. You'll get use to this in the end. Remember, you resented being turned at the beginning and wished for life or at least death?"
"I am aren't I?" he asked absently. "A man I mean, not a one good necessarily. What was it you used to say to me? 'We might walk men but we're not,' well I am. A man that is." His eyes were suddenly darker than ever. He shook his head slowly as he said. "You're not my sire." He pulled away from me, trying to get out of the position he'd placed himself in on my lap. It felt like he'd ripped my un-beating heart out of my chest. I knew he never liked though he always loved me, I knew he felt abandoned when I got my soul, however, I never thought he would disown me. Just because he was a human didn't mean I couldn't be his father. Or did it? Suddenly he voiced my thoughts. "Are you?" he asked after only a moments pause. "Because I don't know what the hell I am. All I know is that the minute I found myself on the corporeal plane I ran to you. I thought you could help me. I don't know if you're my sire. I know you never really liked the mantel even when you were. I don't know who you are." He said sounding totally crestfallen and tired as he stood on his own two feet. "All I know is that I want my sire, and I wish you were."
My William standing there sounding so dejected pulled on a part of me I tried so hard to stamp down upon. The demon within me roared as it witnessed, what it considered to be, its kith and kin tremble so. And without thinking I reached out and dragged him roughly to me. I heard a bone in his wrist snap at my force, but it didn't matter as it would heal momentarily. My visage faded into that of my true nature as I bit deeply into his neck. He clutched my shoulders and sighed in an oddly contented way. I drained him leaving only enough to turn him. I tasted so much of myself in his blood that it made me wonder if this was William at all or if the PTB had truly made Spike human. It didn't matter as in a moment he would be my childe, my Spike. Ripping savagely into my wrist, I wasted no time getting blood down his throat. He couldn't die I wouldn't let that happed. I watched as he nursed and worried the wound. When he was thoroughly done I picked him up and carried him up to my room. I laid him down and waited for him to rise. He rolled over, still hours from rising, and he muttered softly the word sire before stilling again. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Should I go on or is this done?