Title: The Cave
Author: Spike’s Heart
Pairing: Memories - Spike/Angelus, Spike/Buffy
Rating: R to be safe.
Setting: BtVS Season 6 - Grave
Disclaimer: If they were mine, I’d treat them nicer than Joss ever did.
Feedback: Yes, please!
Archive: Ask me, nicely.
Warning: Little bit of m/m vampire slash. Teensy almost PG-ish in nature. Just call me Disney. **grins**
A/N: It’s my therapy session, my issues.
Beta’d by: [Bad username: willshenillshe], who made it smooth, and talked me out of junking this entirely when it was stuck at 223 words for a day and a half.
Summary: Spike regains consciousness in Lurky’s cave, post-souling.
He feels pain before he can think, and screams before he can see. The very cells that compose his body ache from one injury or another. The hard ground stiffens his limbs; the burns and bruises go bone deep and make his flesh jump as air passes over his skin.
Heat. He remembers the oppressive heat as he strode through the little village, before he’d entered the cave, pushing at his body, and making him glad he had no need to breathe. So why was he shivering now? Shock, perhaps?
Ever so slowly, he remembers who he is – where he is. And why he’s there.
Can’t understand why he went through all that hell. Supposedly all soul-having now. Feels no different with a soul. What if Lurky just had him fight for a night’s entertainment, and shoved nothing into him. A placebo-soul. Just as painful, but no noticeable effect. Screwed again.
Hunger cramps. Bloody well starving, he is. Bad as the first few months after the damned chip. Can’t remember the last time he’d fed, and he’d lost so much blood during the trials. Ah well, more pain to add to the mix.
Fairly sure he’s losing chunks of time; must keep passing out. Not from hunger – been right near half-starved for years now and able to function perfectly well. His eyes close in an attempt to rest and heal; to ignore his needs, but it’s no good – there’s no rest in sight for him, not by choice anyway.
He hears something panting and realizes it’s him, the pain from his broken ribs making him take shallow un-needed breaths. If only he could drown out the incessant buzzing he hears maybe he’d be able to sleep.
More time passes – he’s yet unable to move from where he lies. He thinks of other beatings. Buffy, still at the forefront of his mind – his reason for coming here in the first place. She’d beaten him and left him near to dust in the alley, screaming out her pain and despair – pounding agony and self-loathing unseeing into a lovesick demon.
The Initiative bastards. They’d given Angelus a run for his money back in the day. Systematic, unfeeling, uncaring, unnoticing torturers – caring only for results, not the victim. Unlife or final death, either was acceptable in their pursuit of information.
Angelus, brutal bastard. Agony’s nothin’ but personal with him. Ripped into by fingers, fangs and cock – always watching, waiting for him to break. Every weakness visible, exploited.
He attempts to move, to rock his aching body onto its side, and his ribs are screaming no. More agony.
Tears form, his vision blurring more than swollen, blackened eyes can account for. Loneliness threatens to crush what fiery fists could not. He’s too weak to lift his own hands for comfort, to soothe. Wants someone to touch him. Needs someone.
He remembers hands and people and tries to sort the want of both. Mum’s hands, on his brow when fevered – cool cloth to help soothe little aches and pains. Buffy’s hands, small and deadly – scratching out her own comfort, rarely his. Neither the hands he craves now.
Big, meaty paws – Angelus! Break and bruise, rip and twist. And hold, tight. No escape from those hands, or arms. No desire to break free. Wanted and needed. Him. Not just a convenience; a hole to be used.
Screams rip free as he manages to turn onto his stomach, fuck the ribs. Can’t just lie there, waiting to die. Must struggle – always a rule with Angelus. Beaten into acquiescence, and beaten for it.
Panting from exertion, wishing for the heavy, comforting weight of Sire against his back. Not the tender agonies of Drusilla, but the solid feel of broad chest and hard cock against his back and between his splayed legs.
Slicked or un-slicked fingers roughly opening him wide to receive Angelus’ undivided attention rammed home balls deep. Thighs flexing, hips and shoulders held in the steel grip of Sire’s embrace – secure and comforting. Not alone.
Longing for the feel of thick fingers winding around once sable curls, yanking his head to the side and exposing his neck for the crunch of fangs. So rarely a reciprocal offering – a suckling circuit of shared power and… family.
Weeping now, for what was and what isn’t; body spilling unaided in memory. Darkness overtaking him once more.
When Spike comes to, his head is clearer and his body aches less. He has no clue as to how long he’s been unconscious, just knows he needs to leave the cave and feed. He manages to stagger to his feet and stumbles to the entrance, leaning heavily on the wall for support.
He knows he’s headed back to Sunnydale, and her… there’s guilt to be faced, head on. Can’t continue with his unlife until it’s done. Does he still love her? Always. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,” after all.
Will she see him, stake him on sight, forgive him, notice his shiny new soul?
If he survives Sunnydale, will he seek Angel out for guidance? Will he see him, notice his shiny new soul, embrace him? Stake him on sight?
Peering out into the night sky, Spike takes his leave of the cave, scene of his epic battle. Doesn’t know if the soul will make a difference to anyone but himself. Just has to be good enough. Hope springs eternal… even for vampires.
Enjoy! I hope.