As The Romans Do
Helga Von Nutwimple
A/N: Wow. Got lots n' lots of e-mail after that last chapter. To clear some things up:
1. I am not on crack, but thanks for asking; Drusilla did sire Darla, in Angel episode 31, "The Trial". Darla had previously been resurrected by Wolfram & Hart as a human.
2. Yes, Spike had a soul when he put the amulet on. However, as Drusilla explains in Chapter Eighteen ("Midnight Descends"), Spike's soul was the fuel powering the amulet. For my evil purposes, when Spike says "My soul. It's really there. Kinda stings," in "Chosen", he is feeling his soul burn up. Later, when she touches him right before he dusts, his soul has already been burnt up.
3. The part of the Shanshu Scriptures that Angel read did only refer to a vampire with a soul. However, as Angel is told in episode 96, "Destiny"...
"You read a translation of the prophecy. It's like comparing the King James Bible with the original Aramaic, the Hebrew. Much of the flavor, the subtlety of usage, the historical context has been stripped away. Read the prophecy? You may as well have read a 12-year-old's book report on the subject."
Angel references this speech in Chapter Sixteen ("Prophecies On Prophecies"):
"Hell if I know," Angel muttered. "I read a version, but apparently that's like reading a twelve-year-old's book report on the subject."
He is also told that the entire Shanshu Scriptures have yet to be translated. So, through the magic of fanwanking, I'm saying that there's more to the Shanshu Scriptures than just the part about the vampire with the soul that's got Angel all hot n' bothered.
4. And while I'm being an explain-a-thon: during Spike and Angel's phone conversation in Chapter Seven ("Gilligan's Isle"), Spike thought they were talking about Angel being back together with Buffy; Angel thought they were talking about the Shanshu prophecy. So Spike had no idea Angel had become human until he was informed by Drusilla's minions (Chapter Sixteen), and Angel and Buffy still have no idea that Spike thinks they're together.
And now, on with the show.
22. Love Hurts, Baby
Consciousness came slowly, bringing with it the realization that the immediate situation, at least, had definitely improved; he was lying on his stomach across something soft, his wounds were bandaged, and a cold washcloth was being gently mopped across his shoulderblades.
It took a few tries, but he managed to get his eyelids open.
"Welcome back," Anya smiled. "It's encouraging that you've regained consciousness, although you do unpleasantly reek of bacon."
Spike groaned. "Kinda feel like bacon, pet."
"Well, let this be a lesson to you not to let your insane ex-girlfriends nail you to crosses."
"I'll keep it in mind." Spike hissed as the cloth hit a particularly tender spot. "Where's the Million Vampire March?"
"Off minioning somewhere. I made sure they all went away. And I've even located a spot on your body where you aren't burned or wounded that I can pat reassuringly, see?"
"Swell," Spike mumbled, his eyes fluttering closed again. "Anya?"
"Yes, Spike?" She peered at his face. "Oh. Well, I suppose passing out again is good, too."
She smiled and patted the spot.
He dances with Drusilla through the century.
She could dance, really dance, his Dru; sometimes it seemed she never stopped dancing, her hips twirling to a rhythm only she could hear, her thin arms swaying like charmed snakes above her head, the gorgeous darkness of her, wide-eyed and hungry, waves of deepest black rippling down her waist, sliding like silk through his fingers, his ripe, wicked plum, his bloodsoaked princess, his black goddess.
He thinks of her in purples and reds and blacks, bruise and blood and midnight, the pale satin of her skin as she writhed around him, against him, her fingernails digging into his flesh, marking him as her own. No one knew him like she did, every inch of his skin, every thought in his mind; he could never hide from Dru, never wanted to, wanted to be consumed by her utterly, wanted to die inside her, lived to please her.
She reminded him of a music box his mother had owned, a beautiful thing, inlaid with carvings that teased his fingers. It had fascinated him; he had spent hours winding it up. Not so much for the music... that was pretty, but he loved those molasses moments when the music ran down, the notes stretching and breaking, turning to dissonance, so indescribably chilling, and he'd loved the icy drops of fear that would creep up his spine, the delicious creepiness of that sound, the way something so innocent, so delicate, so pretty could turn malevolent with a mere slowing of gears.
No, it was no surprise that he'd grown up to belong to Dru.
Soft and yielding, icy and clawing like a cat, raving and shivering, moonlight-pale and gasping beneath him, she'd been the ultimate antidote to tedium for a man with a severe boredom allergy. Dru breathed violence, passion, mystery; he'd needed her more than blood, she was the blood, the reason he could live in the darkness, what gave it poetry. He belonged in the shadows, with her.
Raven waves spread out on the pillow beneath her head, hands and little bony fingers skipping across his skin, feather-light, murmuring nonsense words into his shoulderblades; the alabaster of her skin against the blackness of his duster, fucking her savagely in the gardens of Versailles, night always above them, Dru's beloved stars, all with the same name, so much confusion, and Spike fucks her harder because he knows they are all named "Angelus"...
Never having all of her. Never able to touch her deepest place, the shackled knot of chains within her, the place that screams for Daddy to hurt her, and he knows, he knows, that if he could just love her enough, if he could just work that knot free, she would be sane and his and his and his...
Crumbling to dust beneath him, the splintered wood clutched in the ragged wound of his hand...
And for a second, he'd seen it.
Sanity in her eyes.
Love in her eyes.
He thinks what she was whispering was "Thank You".
There aren't tears enough in the world.
Dawn... no, Tara, he should call her Tara now, fed a dollar into the jukebox... and any lingering doubts Wesley might have had about her transformation dissolved when something mournful, acoustic, and not sung by five matching boys began to pour out of the brightly pulsing machine.
He watched Tara because he couldn't bear to look across the booth, and not looking across the booth was like trying not to think about pink elephants. Illyria, true to her word, was in full-on Fred mode, somehow managing to make demolishing a Grand Slam Breakfast the most adorable, endearing, heartbreaking thing in the world, and he would... not... look.
Wesley was amused to discover that he actually missed Spike. Irritating, obnoxious, ascerbic, yes; but beyond those things, there was something about Spike that calmed Wesley.
Spike... adapted. It was one of his more intriguing qualities. Scream, cry, get drunk, lash out, yes, all these things... but at some point, Spike would quirk that scarred eyebrow and adapt. Sitting here in the Denny's at three a.m., faced with the shells of Dawn and Fred, faced with the realities of Tara and Illyria, Spike would have bitched and quipped and mocked and dealt, as he'd dealt with everything his vampiric existence had thrown at him, from madwomen to behavior modification chips to a soul to ghostdom.
And somewhere deep inside Wesley, there was a pleasurable twinge of thrill at just how much it would piss Angel off to know that Wes considered Spike any kind of a role model.
Tara slid back into the booth, picking up her slice of toast and casting a smile in Fred's... Illyria, dammit, Illyria's... direction.
"Can I have her metabolism for Christmas?"
"I would suspect that you already do."
Tara considered this. "So... where are we now?"
"Just outside of Oxnard." He stuck his fork into his eggs... then froze.
Yeah. You always know where you are.
It's my particular skill.
This is only the first layer. Don't you wanna see how deep I go?
"Wesley?" Tara said, and he looked up to find both her and F... Illyria staring at him curiously.
"I'm sorry. What?"
"Are we going to try and find the others... or wait for Spike to come back with Connor?"
"Perhaps we ought to give Spike a few more days, although it's possible he'll want to take Connor straight to Angel."
"He really shouldn't have smashed his cell phone," Illyria said in Fred's little mournful voice. "He's so touchy about Buffy. It's kinda sad."
He will not flinch. He will not flinch. He will not flinch.
"Yes, well." He flattened his palm on the formica, willed his voice to stillness. "We men can be rather illogical when it comes to love."
"Is that right?"
Oh, dear God. She was batting her eyelashes at him, her tongue twirling around her spoon, playful and teasing and Fred and this, this was the most evil thing the Hellbitch had done in millennia.
This is only the first layer.
Don't you wanna see how deep I go?
Wesley smiled painfully. "So I've found in my research."
"Research, huh? Sounds intriguing." And, oh God, the smutty little giggle, the one that pierced him in his heart... and areas of lower latitude.
Don't you wanna see how deep I go?
Tara looked between the two of them, and Wesley was struck again by how she was Dawn yet not Dawn, the subtle wrongness of her. This was something he really ought to research, a once-in-lifetime chance to explore the boundary between nature and nurture.
Unfortunately, he didn't much give a damn.
Don't you wanna see how deep I go?
Tara cleared her throat. "Well, if we're staying put for a few days... Illyria, maybe you and I could have some girl time, y'know? Go out. Get you some new clothes, a haircut... you ever thought about dyeing your hair? It's kinda fun."
Wesley was overcome with a gratitude so deep he almost leaned over and kissed her. "I think that's a marvelous idea."
Or rather, he did until he saw something that looked like genuine pain flash over Fred's... Illyria, dammit, Illyria's face. When she spoke, all the Fred had vanished from her voice.
"You wish me to modify the shell so that my human visage bears less resemblance to Winifred Burkle."
"I, ah... I think that would be a good compromise, yes. You would still look human enough for our purposes, yet... it would be..."
"Less painful for you."
Wesley smiled creakily. "Yes."
"Very well. The witch and I will modify the shell. I have a curious lack of interest in causing you pain, Wesley."
Don't you wanna see how deep I go?
"We'll adapt," Wesley replied.
"Hey, B."
"Hey, Faith," Buffy sighed. She hadn't realized she'd been instinctively following the smell of cigarette smoke until she reached the source.
Faith raised it for inspection. "Want me to put it out?"
"No. Please don't. I mean, you were here first, and..." Buffy sighed. "It's... kind of nice, actually."
"You miss Spike," Faith smiled knowingly. "That's cool. Been there."
Buffy's lips twitched. "Missing Spike?"
"Nah. Not that he ain't hot or nothin'. Just... missin' someone, wantin' little stuff that reminds you of 'em. Angel drew me a picture once. Picture of me, y'know? Dude can draw. Mailed it to me in jail. Every time I looked at it, was like I could feel him there. Somebody who gave a shit. Inspirational or whatever."
"Faith: A Tiny Little Division Of Hallmark."
"Roses are red, Violets are blue, somewhere this dead guy, gives a shit about you. Yeah, I could start a card line." Faith stretched like a cat, muscles working, joints popping. "Don't know about you, B., but I'm seriously hatin' this cave thing. All cooped up. When do we fight, already?"
"We're regrouping."
"Yeah, whatever. Gettin' restless. 'Bout to wear Wood's ass out."
Buffy smiled thinly. "Mmm, unnecessary information..."
"You don't wear prude as good as you used to, B. Don't know why you try. Relax a little." Faith passed over a silver flask. "Here. This might help."
Buffy turned the flask over in her fingers, examining the engravings that swirled around it. "This is... this is Spike's, isn't it?"
"Yeah. He gave it to me, night before it all went down. Think he knew he wasn't comin' out of the hellmouth." Faith smiled. "He's kinda alright. Not that I can say that in front of Wood."
"Still hates him?" Buffy took a little swig, made a horrible face.
"Killed his mom, y'know." Faith waved her hand dismissively. "Theirs is a hate for all time and all that shit."
"How are things going with you two?"
"They're pretty good," Faith grinned. "I like him. Doesn't take my crap, good in the sack, nice to me."
Buffy shot her a dubious look, and Faith laughed, her hand rising to toy with her neck. "What? Don't look at me like that, I ain't you, B. Everything doesn't have to be epic."
"Then why are you playing with that bite mark?" Buffy asked quietly.
Faith froze, then laughed nervously. "Habit, man. Forgot we matched, yeah? 'Course, you got yours from the nicer, souled-up version. Probably why it's prettier."
"Do you love him?"
"Aw, c'mon, B., I'd have to be wicked stupid to..."
"That wasn't an answer."
Faith lit another cigarette. "You know, you were right. I do miss Spike."
"Changing the subject?"
"Not really. Got stuff in common, Spike n' me. Wish I'd gotten to talk to him more. Y'know, before he broke my face to defend your virtue." Faith paused, a strange smile spreading. "Thought about that a lot, this year in Cleveland. You n' me. Angel n' Spike."
"What do you mean?"
"Good Slayer. Bad Slayer. Good Vampire. Bad Vampire. And then, me n' Spike both tryin' to get out of the evil thing, be better than we'd decided to be, havin' to work our asses off to get out from underneath the weight of the shit we did."
Faith sighed, tapping ashes. "Ain't our natures, know what I'm sayin'? Leather n' combat boots n' cigarettes. Want. Take. Have. Fuckin' n' fightin', grabbin' life by the horns and shovin' your knee in its balls, y'know? Laughin' out loud when you hear the bones break. Spike n' me, we're like that dirty old bar where you go to have fun but won't take your Mom. Got our own kinda charm, but don't fit too good into the white knight society."
Buffy chewed her lip, and Faith pressed her point.
"C'mon, B. It's right there. Angel believin' in me, pissin' you off. You believin' in Spike, pissin' Angel off. Spike and I both tryin' to be worthy of that belief, y'know? Usin' you guys like those carrots on a stick, leadin' us to the light side of the Force. Tryin' to live up to you guys, tryin' to measure up to the fairytale that is Angel and Buffy."
"You're in love with Angel."
Faith shot her a glance. "Duh, B. Not that it matters. For me or for Spike. That's somethin' else we have in common. Not bein' worthy. And that's cool."
"Faith, you shouldn't..."
"What, be realistic? C'mon. There's a list, right? Angel and you and Cordelia and that Immortal guy and Riley and Nina and way, way down at the bottom, like fallin' off the page kinda bottom, there's me and Spike. We know what we are, okay?"
"And... what are you, exactly?"
Faith shrugged. "The Mary Magdalenes to your Jesuses?"
"That's..." Buffy sputtered. "That's..."
"We keep tryin' to die instead of you guys," Faith chuckled. "Never does work out for us. Spike's got crap taste in jewelry and I've got a real high tolerance for drugs. So we'll just keep annoyin' the hell out of everyone, kickin' em in the head so they don't know how bad we want 'em to like us."
"Faith... does Angel know? How you feel?"
"Hell, no. At least I hope he doesn't." Faith stood, knees popping. "Cordelia's back, anyway."
"Faith, wait. It's not... with the not worthiness. You shouldn't think like that, it isn't like that, Angel and I aren't some... I mean, I love Spike..."
"No, you don't, B.," Faith smiled, squeezing her shoulder before turning to leave. "But hey -- thanks for sayin' it."