darcydodo | Wishverse Ficathon entry

OK, lesson number one, don't sign up for ficathons when you know you'll probably be busy, because you undoubtedly will be busy. In any case, though, here's my awfully short entry for

voleuse's Wishverse Ficathon, written for

challengetime, who requested Spike/Puppy.

There were days and there were nights, and they were both quiet, in their own ways, and they were both hellish, in their own ways. Days were soft, menacing; dusty shafts of light filtering through cracks that would have been boarded up long ago if there were any human caretakers left in this forsaken place, anyone to care about correcting building code violations. And in the days, Willow came, accompanied by the rustled creak of leather, boots whispering a gentle click on the floor outside the cell, and then the day was only quiet so long as he could contain his own screaming. The nights held the distant noise of the panic of human prey, the scent of their fear sliding bitter copper along the air, but he himself was left alone, to wrestle against the almost magnetic lure of the night, the song of blood that he could hear even in solitude behind these thick walls. Sometimes he contented himself with thinking that the torture was only what he deserved, for past crimes committed, and that Whistler had been wrong. He was never meant to be anything other than rat-eating scum. And now there weren't even rats.

He lost track of the time in which his flesh melted and open sores ran across pale skin, the days during which he provided entertainment to bored vampires. Grew so inured to his torture that he would fail even to cringe when Willow entered his cell, Xander a dark shadow at her side, hovering at the door, aiding in her tender ministries. Sometimes he wouldn't even open his eyes, knowing that nothing would change. It was his punishment, though not delivered from the hands of those who actually could claim a portion of his guilt. It didn't matter. Until the day that the sulphur flare and hiss of a striking match wasn't immediately followed by pain eating away at his already mottled and oozing chest, but instead was accompanied by the sour smell of nicotine, a long inhalation of air into lungs that were silent except for this purpose, and a bitter, English laugh.

"So was true, then, what they said, Angelus? Got yourself a pesky soul." No mistaking those tones. "Hate to see Darla so sad, and Dru needs you." There was a pause, but he didn't open his eyes. "Well, come to think of it, Darla couldn't actually care less, and Dru only needs your blood. The nice bat-faced fellow out there said we could help ourselves. But before that," and now the faint puff of air with each word was tangible right against his cheek, and the smoke coiled like a velvet caress past his nostrils, "I thought I'd show Red here a few techniques she's missing. I learned from the best, you know."

He did know, remembered a century of inflicting pain, on pathetic humans and on William himself, trying to shape his protégé into a creature of vicious appetites. He thought he'd failed, but now he wondered, after fifty years apart, what had taken hold, grown roots and flowered in the younger vampire's mind. There was a sick feeling in his stomach that he might find out, but at the same time he welcomed it. This would be true punishment. For this was what he had wrought.

The tongue against his battered skin was an unexpected shock, and his eyes flew open, arms instinctively snapping forward, to ward off or embrace he was unsure, but the chains stopped their movement before he could find out. "Spike..." the name croaked past lips unused to shaping words and halted the movement of the silver-pale head. Aware that he was being given at least relatively full attention, he coughed and tried some more words. "What are you doing?"

That apparently merited a snort and a glance from electric blue eyes. "I'm repaying you, Angelus, isn't it obvious? All those years of you fucking Darla and Dru and me... now I'm set to get back a bit of my own. Before I give you to Dru, that is." Spike's fingers slid against a raw wound, and he flinched. "Okay, maybe I'm planning to hurt you just a little. Like I said, repayment."

Ignoring the pain of Spike digging his fingers ever so slightly into his chest, he shaped more words. "I meant what are you doing here? You surely didn't come to Sunnydale just," he paused to cough, "for my sake, honored as I undoubtedly am. Last I heard, you and Dru were in Prague."

Spike nodded, moved his hand downwards. "Angry mob. They nearly got Dru, and she's been unwell ever since. She's dying, Angelus, just fading away, and I can't lose her." Did an edge of hysteria float on the vampire's voice? "That's why we need you. There's a musty old book says she needs her sire's blood to be cured. Dru just keeps talking of dead puppies, I can't get any sense out of her. But she's even crazier than before, she was sure that the Slayer was here. Made me promise to keep safe, but I hear she's not even in the state."

In the shadows, he could see Willow stir at the mention of puppies, roused from her drowsy stupor of boredom. "She was supposed to be," he muttered. "The Slayer. Supposed to come here, never showed up." Damn it, why was he talking to Spike? Didn't he have better things to do? Like be tortured?

"I'm sorry," said Spike, and he clearly wasn't sorry at all. "Must've been a real disappointment." Fingertips were reaching under cloth, now, stroking sensitive skin that hadn't yet been maimed by flame, steel, water, and cross. He whimpered softly, and cursed his involuntary reaction. "Puppy's unhappy," Willow murmured, briefly catching Spike's attention, and a sudden concern and a sneaking suspicious flickered across his face. "Puppy, eh?" He looked down again, thoughtfully. "She's broken you, hasn't she? Didn't think it was possible." Then, to himself, "I should listen to Dru more." Spike abruptly stilled his fingers with a grimace of regret. "As much as I'd like to inconvenience you further, I think we'd best get you out of here. Can't have you meeting an unfortunate accident before Dru's cured."

Torture me, he thought, wildly, aware that he was getting an unexpected reprieve, and not entirely sure why. It's what I deserve. From you, from Dru. But he didn't say it, merely slumped back against the wall, flesh still tingling from Spike's caress. Manacles were unlocked from his wrists, a leather-clad arm tugged him to his feet, supported him when he couldn't stand. "We'll get him back to you shortly," he heard, and he wasn't sure whether to feel relief or despair at the smirked promise that coated the words. "Maybe a bit worse for the wear. But I'll get him kicking again, promise, so you can have your fun. I just... need him for mine, first." Lips brushed his ear. "Ready to see your princess? I'm sure she can't wait."

And what sickened him was that he couldn't wait, either.