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Dark They Were

by Minim Calibre

His head felt like he'd tried to attack a busload of schoolchildren, and he wasn't sure if it was the chip, the soul, or the vodka.

He was beginning to understand why the poof was always brooding. This soul-thing was a bitch.

He grabbed the bottle, drained it before dropping the thing to shatter on the pavement. It was the second bottle he'd emptied that night. It wasn't helping drown out the bloody screaming. Maybe noise would help. Noise, more alcohol, and a willing body. He knew of a few places in Los Angeles that might fit the bill.

The club he chose was dirty, illegal, and out of the way. The crowd was the usual lot of pale-faced wanna-bes in black. He knew the type. Had himself a bleeding wet bar of them once, until she butted in, the bitch. He pushed his way to the bar, well aware of the attention he was getting from both genders. He'd have something beneath him tonight, oh yes.

If it silenced the voices, especially that one particular voice he'd spent his unlife trying to escape, he wasn't about to be picky.

A slender young thing no older than the Niblet caught his eye, her long hair whipping around her body as she moved to the throb of the bass. Flushed face, eyes big and black... He wondered what she was on, wondered if the pain from the soul would cancel out the pain from the chip long enough for him to drink her and find out.

Wondering was enough to answer the question. He closed his eyes against the blinding explosion in his head and stumbled backwards into someone. Turned to offer a flip apology and was met by a stare cold enough to make Angelus seem a friendly chap.

The demon, frustrated, battered, and caged by conscience and wire decided at that moment to rattle the bars. Eyes flashed yellow as he leaned towards the man, flitting back to blue at the unexpected pressure of wood against his chest.

And here he'd been thinking his luck couldn't get any worse.

This was not how it was supposed to end. Neutered, saddled with regrets and remorse, and on the receiving end of a chestful of wood from some pansy in PVC trousers.

He'd forgotten that there always seemed to be some new, lower level of hell ready and waiting whenever he thought he'd hit bottom. He said the only thing he could think of that might get him out of it.

"Hang on! It's not what you think--I've got a soul."

"Funny, you don't look like Angel. Not unless he's somehow managed to shrink by a good six inches and lose at least three stone."

The voice was even colder than the gaze, low and edged with boredom, but at least the man had paused. Spike tried to focus on getting out of the situation with his skin intact, forcing down panic and the voice that kept telling him it was no more than he deserved.

"So... you know Angel, then?" was the best he could come up with.

There was no response.

He pressed on. "Look, I know you don't believe me, but it's true. I've got a soul, which I really didn't want, and even if I didn't have the blasted thing, I still couldn't hurt you because I've got a nice little piece of hardware that keeps me housebroken, so how about you let me go; I'll do my thing, and you can do yours."

A feral smile spread across the man's face.

"You must be Spike. Why should I believe a word you say, and more to the point, even if what you're claiming is true, why the devil should it stop me from killing you?"

"Oh. Heard of me, have you?"

He heard his voice, heard the mix of pride and shame tinting it, and was tempted to step into the stake to shut himself up.

"William the Bloody, origins traced to the Order of Aurelius. Former cohort and lover of Drusilla. Killed two slayers, and was considered to be rash, bloodthirsty even for a vampire, and quite dangerous up until his capture by government forces and the subsequent behaviour modification implant. Despite the fact that he has been working along side the current Slayer, due in large part to his twisted sexual obsession with her, he remains a demon with a history of violent and devious behaviour, and is not to be trusted. Have I missed anything?"

A laugh of disbelief left Spike's mouth as he realized that once again, things had gone from bad to worse. "What, you a Watcher or something?"


Great. The pansy was a Watcher. Ex-Watcher. Who knew Angel.

He had a very bad feeling about this.

The pansy was talking. Voice harsh and prim, asking again for a reason why he shouldn't just dust-to-dust him.

Spike couldn't think of one. Could think of a thousand reasons why the chap should go through with it, why Buffy should have gone through with it. Couldn't think of a single thing that justified his continued existence.

"Look, if I was any threat, I'd have broken you in half by now."

"The fact that you are not a threat at the present somehow fails to negate any desire I may have to push you off this mortal coil."

But he'd lowered the stake to his side and shoved it into his belt while he responded, his voice and eyes flat and uninterested.

"Leave. Before I think the better of it."

Every instinct told Spike that he should do just that. Unfortunately, he wasn't listening.

He cocked his head and looked at the fellow. Tall, not overly large. Breakable. Old enough that he shouldn't be wearing PVC trousers and a tight mesh shirt--good-looking and slim enough to get away with it. Come to think of it, the chap was at least a decade older than most of the crowd. Must like them young, just like he did.

"So, you looking for a schoolgirl or a schoolboy this fine evening?" Spike sneered.

The man had as many levels of cold as Spike had levels of hell.

"I thought I told you to leave."

"Can't just leave when there might be poor defenseless girls and boys in danger, now can I? Got a soul now, remember?" He decided to ignore the fact that getting laid by something young and fresh was more than half of his reason for entering this particular establishment.

He didn't see the blow coming; the hard fist in his stomach sent him staggering backwards. If he'd been human, he'd have been flat on his ass. Man was stronger than he looked. For the first time since getting back from Africa, Spike felt like laughing. Nothing like good old fashioned physical pain to distract from the nastier emotional kind. He wondered how far he could go without getting himself killed.

"Touched a nerve, didn't it? That why you're an ex-Watcher? Couldn't keep your hands off the goods?"

He was prepared for the blow, which came in the form of the back of a hand hard across the side of his face. Pain blossomed, pure and sweet, and he reached out his hands to steady himself, gripping the mesh of the shirt like a lifeline. Oh yes, this was what he needed.

//It's what you deserve, you deluded idiot. Thought you could be something more than a pathetic, drooling fool and presumed too much as usual. You're nothing, but you just don't want to see that, do you? Doesn't matter how many of them you kill, rape, torture. You'll never escape yourself. Go on, you know just what you need to do.//

The noise was back. Bloody fucking hell.

//Shut up, William.//

William wouldn't shut up; William never shut up, and now he was too loud to drown out, even in the din of the club. Sniveling, whining, pathetic pansy. There was no way in hell Spike was going to do what William wanted. No way.

"Shut up," he growled, out loud this time for good measure.

William wasn't going to shut up, and he sure as hell wasn't going to listen. Spike's hands moved under William's direction, creeping, curling, burying themselves in the man's hair, tugging him down so cold lips could press hard and needy against warm ones. Christ, maybe he did have a death wish.

Or maybe not. Sharp nails dug into his back, and the whisky-flavored heat of the chap's mouth wasn't going anywhere.

William was suspiciously quiet.

The man broke the kiss abruptly. "You're not what I came here for, but you'll do. Come with me."

Something in the tone of it made Spike unwilling to argue with the clipped demand. Besides, William was still too shocked to speak.

//Didn't figure on that, did you, William?//

He let the man lead him across the dance floor to the exit, the slender figure's graceful zigzag through the crowd turned into a strange jerking serpentine by the strobe. Midway across the room Spike stopped, cocking his head and frowning.

"Hang on," he shouted over the noise. The man turned his head slightly, the livid red scar on his neck catching the flashes of light until it looked like it was pulsing. Spike shook the vision from his mind and closed his eyes.

"What is it now?"

Spike opened his eyes and met the man's gaze. "You could at least tell me your name."

"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Is that all?"

The man didn't wait for an answer; he just continued to wind his way to the door, Spike in tow. The name sounded almost familiar, though Spike was damned if he could think of where he'd heard it. Wesley pushed open the door, and they emerged from the darkness, the yellow-orange glow of the streetlights almost as bright as day.

The cabbie gave them a knowing look of disgust. Stupid bastard. Spike hissed, wanting to show the man something that would wipe the look right off his face and make him wet himself to boot. A sharp pinch on the leg reminded him that now wasn't the best time to go making an ass of himself in public.

//You say that like there's ever been a time when you weren't making an ass of yourself. You're pitiful, beneath contempt.//

//Sod off, William.//

Pity Wesley didn't look like he had any interest in small talk. If Spike had to listen to himself for much longer, he was going to grab the stake from the belt and shut William up for good. Thankfully, it wasn't a long cab ride.

They walked without speaking to what Spike figured was Wesley's apartment. Wesley unlocked the door and issued the required invitation.

"Come in. You'll be disinvited after you leave, just so you know."

Spike looked around the living room. The place was tidy to the point of pathological neatness, except for the books, notepads, and grainy surveillance photos of Angel and some ragged whelp strewn across the coffee table, a half-empty bottle of Bushmill's next to them. Other than that small mess, it was a lonely, frigid space, all touches of humanity wiped from it like fingerprints from evidence.

"If you're done taking note of my taste in decor, the bedroom is this way." Wesley's voice broke into his thoughts.

"Yeah, I'm done."

The bedroom was dark. Dark wood headboard and bedside table, dim light through a dark lampshade. A few more personal items here than in the living room, but they looked like relics from some earlier time--a thin layer of dust in contrast to the sterile cleanliness of the rest of the place. Spike noticed a pair of stockings wedged beneath a chair. Either Wesley was more of a pansy than he'd thought, or Spike wasn't the only visitor he'd had lately. A hint of musk and overpriced perfume still clung to the place, so Spike was betting on the latter.

"Get undressed, I'll be with you shortly."

Wesley walked out. Spike took off his clothes and waited impatiently, hoping Wesley'd be back before William started in on him again.

When Wesley came back in, a strong-looking set of chains and manacles in hand, Spike remembered what they said about being careful what you wish for. Pity it hadn't happened when he was in Africa. Somewhere in the back of his mind, William was giving a perverse prayer of thanks to whomever was in charge of Spike's choice in partners.

The unpadded iron was cold against his wrists and ankles. He expected Wesley to flip him over on his stomach and latch him to the bed, and was surprised when Wesley gave him a perfunctory push onto the mattress and tied him down face-up instead.

"Doesn't this defeat the purpose?"

"Not in the slightest. I want to see your face when I fuck you." Wesley's voice with its clipped and almost priggish timbre had the curious effect of making the vulgarity of the words a pleasant threat.

He stripped, but didn't seem to be in much of a rush to carry the threat out. Wesley's fingers traced the sharply-defined muscles of Spike's stomach with detached intimacy, then moved to caress the curve of his lips.

"How many people did you kill, I wonder. How many families did you destroy? Did you like the flash of fear in their eyes? The sound of them begging? Or did you toy with them like an overfed cat? Do you think you'll somehow be able to make it right now that you've... changed, or do you even care?"

The words hit like tiny flails while the fingers explored the angles of his face. Wesley leaned closer, breathing softly into Spike's ear, lips almost touching the lobe.

"When push comes to shove, you're still nothing more than a demon. You'd do well to remember that."

//You're a thing. An evil, disgusting thing, and even he can tell.//

Wesley looked at him, a bitter twist to his lips. "Still, I've had worse."

He covered Spike's mouth with his own, teeth capturing and playing with the soft flesh of dead lips while his hands slipped down and toyed with the smooth skin behind Spike's balls until Spike heard himself whimper and beg, heard William's prissy schoolboy voice come out of his mouth. One finger traced the opening while a knuckle pressed up just so, and Spike jerked against the restraints, eyes closed in guilty ecstasy.

His pleas grew louder, turned to sobs when he felt Wesley's weight shift off of him. It seemed foolish when he heard the opening and closing of a drawer and felt the cool slide of lube against his ass. Nails dug into his cheeks, spreading them before Wesley entered him, pushing slowly at first, then harder and faster, the taut skin of his stomach brushing against Spike's cock with every thrust. Spike felt tears streaming down his face as he came, the frantic motion of his trapped body enough to send Wesley over the edge.

They stayed entwined and shuddering for just a moment, then Wesley got up, unlocked the restraints, and tossed Spike a towel from the hamper.

"Clean yourself up, then get out."

Spike didn't say a word; he just dressed and left, William's voice echoing in his mind, mulling over rhymes for bitter.

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Minim Calibre

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