Alone At Last
Sep. 15th, 2012 11:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shapinglightI posted five short fics over on my evil twin's LJ last night. There was an overarching theme (it was one of those Five Things Fics, except that I could only think of four and a contrast, but still...). Two of them I'm not posting anywhere else - one because it's a coda to a longer story that's only posted on that LJ, the other because it's (IMO) really nasty. The others can go up over here, though. The original title was Four Times Angel Wanted Rid of Spike and Once He Lost Him Anyway, so that gives you a bit of a clue.
Here's the first one.
Setting: a chateau in the Northern French countryside, the 1880s.
Rating: R, for language and various vampire nastiness. The Fanged Four are not nice.
Pairings: Mention of Spike/Drusilla, Spike/Darla, Angelus/Darla
Alone At Last
The hills to the east were black against a pale yellow sky, the broad sweep of the river like a milky mirror winding through the trees.
He'd given up shouting some hours ago. Instead he hung in silence, naked body buffeted by the freshening wind, listening to the birds building note by note up to a full-blown dawn chorus.
Any minute now, the first rays of the sun would be over the hill. It would hurt, he was pretty sure- burning to death - but at least he'd get to see another sunrise.
All he had to ask himself now was, had it been worth it?
His ears still rang from where Angelus had battered him around the head. His body ached all over, and not just because he'd been dangling upside down on the end of a piece of rope on a gusty night. His torso was black with bruises. His left wrist was broken - turned out Angelus's jaw was made of solid granite - and his lower lip was swollen and bloody. Not to mention, one of his fangs was loose.
Angelus's voice echoed in his ears. "You little bastard! I'll teach you to lay a finger on my woman!"
No point trying to tell him the bitch had seduced him - which she bloody well had, with her blonde hair and her gorgeous tits and her...her wiles. Angelus wasn't listening - didn't want to listen. He was having too much fun using his fists.
And fangs. There were big gashes on his neck and arms. In fact, he'd spent the first hour or so out here in the wind licking his own blood off himself and trying to think of ever more inventive names to call his grandsire.
Of course, that had been before he realised Angelus had bloody meant it when he said he wanted rid of him for good.
"I'm going to hang the little bastard out for the sun," he'd said, and done exactly that. And the bitch who was the cause of all this trouble, had laughed.
When he'd finally got bored with name-calling, he'd tried shouting for Dru. She'd come and rescue him, surely? But no Dru appeared on the battlements above to reel him back to safety. Probably, Angelus had locked her up on purpose. Either that or he'd distracted her with some toy or other. The mistress of the chateau and her children had still been alive late last night, and Dru did love playing with children.
So the night had passed. He'd shouted, he'd cursed, he'd almost begged, but not quite. And now - any moment - he was going to die. Again.
It wasn't fair. There was so much of the world left to see - so many people to kill. He hadn't even met a real Slayer yet, let alone fought one.
The light was so bright now he had to screw his eyes shut. Warmth struck his bare body. Here it came.
Suddenly, there was a tug and a jerk and he went flying up towards the battlements, landing with a sickening thud - right on his bruised thigh - in the well of shadow on the inside of them.
"It's all right, William." Her voice. "You're safe."
A blanket was thrown around his shoulders and he was dragged to his feet. A moment later, he was watching the first stabbing rays of sunlight on the flagstones from a safe place just inside the heavy wooden door that led out onto the roof.
"Quickly!" She took his hand in hers and drew him further inside. He limped after her - his ankle was swollen from where the rope had been tied around it - exhausted and angry, and shaking now. Bloody close call, that had been.
"Bitch!" he snarled. "This is all your fault."
"Shush! Oh, shush!" was her only response. She sounded frightened, and that frightened him. He fell silent.
She brought him to one of the little attic rooms under the eaves. Clean clothes were laid out for him on the narrow bed - a particularly tasty housemaid's bed, as he recalled - and a portmanteau stood ready, all packed.
She helped him dress, exclaiming over his injuries with soft sympathy. Once, he felt the press of her lips to one of the bitemarks.
"My poor William," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry he hurt you. I should have warned you what a jealous man he is."
When she looked up, her beautiful face was tear stained, and he found himself reaching out and touching her wet cheek with a gentle finger.
"The man's a brute. Why do you stay with him?"
"Never mind that." She buttoned up his coat for him. "Dru is waiting for you in the closed coach. Go to Paris for a month or so. I'll talk him round. Then I'll send for you when it's safe to come home."
He opened his mouth to protest that he wasn't afraid, but she was already hustling him down the stairs - it hurt to walk - down and down, to the grand entrance. The coach stood in shadow. There was no sign of Angelus, but his presence loomed over everything.
She kissed him. "Dear William, you're a sweet, sweet boy. Take care of Dru. And make sure not to return until you're sent for."
Then, she pushed him out the door and slammed it behind him.
No option then but to run for the coach and throw himself inside.
Dru was indeed waiting for him, all bundled up in furs. She held a dead baby in her arms.
"We're going on holiday," she squealed. "Isn't it exciting? And Daddy and Grandmamma will get their wish."
The coach lurched into movement.
"What wish?" he asked. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Dru was cooing at the little corpse in her arms.
"Time to themselves, of course, silly."
His shout could be heard all the way back to the chateau.
"Bitch!"
Here's the first one.
Setting: a chateau in the Northern French countryside, the 1880s.
Rating: R, for language and various vampire nastiness. The Fanged Four are not nice.
Pairings: Mention of Spike/Drusilla, Spike/Darla, Angelus/Darla
Alone At Last
The hills to the east were black against a pale yellow sky, the broad sweep of the river like a milky mirror winding through the trees.
He'd given up shouting some hours ago. Instead he hung in silence, naked body buffeted by the freshening wind, listening to the birds building note by note up to a full-blown dawn chorus.
Any minute now, the first rays of the sun would be over the hill. It would hurt, he was pretty sure- burning to death - but at least he'd get to see another sunrise.
All he had to ask himself now was, had it been worth it?
His ears still rang from where Angelus had battered him around the head. His body ached all over, and not just because he'd been dangling upside down on the end of a piece of rope on a gusty night. His torso was black with bruises. His left wrist was broken - turned out Angelus's jaw was made of solid granite - and his lower lip was swollen and bloody. Not to mention, one of his fangs was loose.
Angelus's voice echoed in his ears. "You little bastard! I'll teach you to lay a finger on my woman!"
No point trying to tell him the bitch had seduced him - which she bloody well had, with her blonde hair and her gorgeous tits and her...her wiles. Angelus wasn't listening - didn't want to listen. He was having too much fun using his fists.
And fangs. There were big gashes on his neck and arms. In fact, he'd spent the first hour or so out here in the wind licking his own blood off himself and trying to think of ever more inventive names to call his grandsire.
Of course, that had been before he realised Angelus had bloody meant it when he said he wanted rid of him for good.
"I'm going to hang the little bastard out for the sun," he'd said, and done exactly that. And the bitch who was the cause of all this trouble, had laughed.
When he'd finally got bored with name-calling, he'd tried shouting for Dru. She'd come and rescue him, surely? But no Dru appeared on the battlements above to reel him back to safety. Probably, Angelus had locked her up on purpose. Either that or he'd distracted her with some toy or other. The mistress of the chateau and her children had still been alive late last night, and Dru did love playing with children.
So the night had passed. He'd shouted, he'd cursed, he'd almost begged, but not quite. And now - any moment - he was going to die. Again.
It wasn't fair. There was so much of the world left to see - so many people to kill. He hadn't even met a real Slayer yet, let alone fought one.
The light was so bright now he had to screw his eyes shut. Warmth struck his bare body. Here it came.
Suddenly, there was a tug and a jerk and he went flying up towards the battlements, landing with a sickening thud - right on his bruised thigh - in the well of shadow on the inside of them.
"It's all right, William." Her voice. "You're safe."
A blanket was thrown around his shoulders and he was dragged to his feet. A moment later, he was watching the first stabbing rays of sunlight on the flagstones from a safe place just inside the heavy wooden door that led out onto the roof.
"Quickly!" She took his hand in hers and drew him further inside. He limped after her - his ankle was swollen from where the rope had been tied around it - exhausted and angry, and shaking now. Bloody close call, that had been.
"Bitch!" he snarled. "This is all your fault."
"Shush! Oh, shush!" was her only response. She sounded frightened, and that frightened him. He fell silent.
She brought him to one of the little attic rooms under the eaves. Clean clothes were laid out for him on the narrow bed - a particularly tasty housemaid's bed, as he recalled - and a portmanteau stood ready, all packed.
She helped him dress, exclaiming over his injuries with soft sympathy. Once, he felt the press of her lips to one of the bitemarks.
"My poor William," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry he hurt you. I should have warned you what a jealous man he is."
When she looked up, her beautiful face was tear stained, and he found himself reaching out and touching her wet cheek with a gentle finger.
"The man's a brute. Why do you stay with him?"
"Never mind that." She buttoned up his coat for him. "Dru is waiting for you in the closed coach. Go to Paris for a month or so. I'll talk him round. Then I'll send for you when it's safe to come home."
He opened his mouth to protest that he wasn't afraid, but she was already hustling him down the stairs - it hurt to walk - down and down, to the grand entrance. The coach stood in shadow. There was no sign of Angelus, but his presence loomed over everything.
She kissed him. "Dear William, you're a sweet, sweet boy. Take care of Dru. And make sure not to return until you're sent for."
Then, she pushed him out the door and slammed it behind him.
No option then but to run for the coach and throw himself inside.
Dru was indeed waiting for him, all bundled up in furs. She held a dead baby in her arms.
"We're going on holiday," she squealed. "Isn't it exciting? And Daddy and Grandmamma will get their wish."
The coach lurched into movement.
"What wish?" he asked. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Dru was cooing at the little corpse in her arms.
"Time to themselves, of course, silly."
His shout could be heard all the way back to the chateau.
"Bitch!"