Fanfic: Shadow Dancing (1/1)

[smokingmirror]

Title: Shadow Dancing
Author: Avarice
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spike/Angel
Spoilers: Redefinition
Summary: Does Spike regain consciousness only to be killed?
Word Count: 1609
Date First Posted: 2001
Date Revised - 13-05-2011
Beta: Kita
Awards: Fabulae Favourite ML Best Dark fic
Notes: Spike POV, sequel to Points Of Departure, with italicised portions referring to events taking place in that fic. Improv fic - moonlight, bewilder, plush, broken.
Feedback: always welcome, as is constructive criticism.

It feels like forever since I last moved. A long, painful forever filled with nightmares I can remember all too clearly upon waking.

For some inexplicable reason, my more than humble existence before death flashes before me. Writing impassioned and desperate words in a little book, trying to capture the essence of emotion, trying to tether it with ink and paper.

How fucking human of me.

There are no words for my agony now. Only mindless, black pain.

// My teeth nip and lick his lips, gaining entry to that warm mouth. Despite his stoic and rather cold response to begin with, he soon warms to my advances. He needs this. I need this. The familiarity is there, and it is comforting. But solace would be nicer if he didn't taste like ashes. //

And I remember, I remember this pain. It seemed no one else but He could ever cause it.

It hurts. Understatement of the era. It fucking hurts so goddamn much. My first real urge is to throw up, followed closely by throwing up again. The thing is, losing that blood would probably kill me, and by the gods he's been the only one scheduled that privilege from time immemorial.

// Just how I remember him... curved, smooth flesh. The only angles are on his face -- the line of a jaw, the bridge of a nose, the corner of a lip. I trace fingertips over the ridges of his spine like a blind man reading Braille. My eyes are otherwise occupied; they search his face for any signs of retribution, of displeasure, of bewilderment.

All I see is myself reflected back. //

Eyelids open slowly, as if moving over sandpapery balls. I think I can move them and my left pinkie. At this rate, I should be up and about by the year two thousand and fucking eighty-six. Every part of me cries out for... for anything rather than this torture.

But then again, that's always been my bloody area of expertise.

Blurred darkness slowly focuses, and I'm sorry for regaining consciousness at all.

He is Here.

// He looks at me with a desperation I've only ever known to be within myself. A broken, hollow, gnawing need for... I don't know. What do souled vampires crave in their darkest hours? I discard his pants and touch him gently.

I don't know for sure what he craves, but I bet it has something to do with this. //

The moonlight only illuminates a third of his face... I can't see the blackness of his eyes, but they are unwaveringly trained on me, of that I am certain.

Fucker.

His fingers are steepled in front of that cruel mouth. I don't know whether he's laughing at me or not. Hell, he could have his dick out, having a nice old toss from the confines of his plush armchair, I don't know.

And that's it.

I never knew.

// The pain that rippled through my body as his cock tore into me was exquisite. I needed it. This was real. No bollocksed infatuations, no expressions of love, just reality. Reality and pain. Which makes sense, y'know, because reality is pain.

I grasp for purchase. I don't want this moment to end. Because if it does, and I have to return to my existence the way it is, I-

I can't.

I won't.

Denial is not just a river... //

He never would have made me. I know that much to be certain.

There was nothing remarkable about me before Darkness. The bastard wouldn't have looked twice. Looking at him through a haze of agony, I know it's true. Yes, I was that pathetic he would never have deemed me worthy of sharing that magical elixir that flows through his body.

He would have used me up and thrown me away.

But oh, to have his fangs at my throat when he did it.

That would have been worth a final death.

// He grabs my cock roughly, but that is not what gives me absolute pleasure. it is the sensation of his teeth cutting my flesh like razorblades. There is a world of hurt in his embrace, and I never could get enough of it. Even in the factory, I waited for the days when he would abuse my body. Because at least someone was touching me.

At least he was touching me. //

My right hand twitches as he sits there. Something has to happen. This can't stay like this. But when he gets up, I immediately wish for inactivity again.

Lying on my stomach, I can't see where he's going or what he's doing, but I can feel him walking around me. It's impossible to turn over. I know I must be incredibly light, but my limbs feel like dead weights.

Dead weights.

Ha.

So all I can do is just sit there as he takes in my divine humiliation from all angles.

But hey, he's probably been doing that for days.

// I know I want to give up. I always do when pinned under his giant body. Fuck Buffy and fuck Sunnydale and fuck the Initiative and fuck Harm and fuck France and fuck governmental technology and fuck being alone forever.

I just want him to drink. Until I'm unconscious, or forget, whichever comes first. Nothing else matters, not life, not existence, nothing but him and me, locked in this... this... //

The point of the stake traces over the muscles in my shoulders, ridges of my spine. It feels pleasant. Gives me tingles. Shoots things through my senses that, for the first time in days, hasn't been pain-related. What a joke, he idly traces a large cross on my back. I swear I'd laugh if I didn't think it'd cause me to cough up blood and die.

So who cares if with one gentle push, it would go through my paper-thin skin and kill me?

I certainly don't.

Besides, he'd never ruin his coverlet.

// Immortality itself is such a fragile thing. Anyone who says you can't kill something immortal just hasn't found the right angle. Things always die. It just depends on how long it takes to kill them.

I struggle, just because there's nothing else to do. He has never been one for favours. If he thought he was giving me one, then.... so I curse and scream and damn his name, like I have done a thousand times before. I think he likes the familiarity.

Thrash, thrash. He gets so heavy, you know? I can't do anything about it. It feels like sinking... or drowning. Now that I think about it, they'd be pretty fucking fabulous ways to die if it felt anything like this //

He begins talking. And I listen. It's not like I can do anything but. He talks about so many things; weakness, family, the endurance of obsession. All fascinating topics. But this is not Angel giving me a lecture. It is not Angelus scolding me. It is...

I don't know who, but I know who he reminds me of.

Me.

// It's almost over, and I can't shake my feeling of gratefulness. Why? Because I won't have to do this thing anymore. This existence thing. I'm tired. He's tired. We're all fucking tired.

But today, I can finally go to sleep. //

He talks about them so caustically. I'm glad. If I had to hear his sweetness and light version of things, I really would puke. But no, no Saint Buffy, no Divine Darla. Not here.

Darla, Cecily, Drusilla, Buffy.

He talks of their pride, of their arrogance.

And of revenge.

Reality hasn't looked this good in a long while.

// It's dark. Just so dark. My head falls back onto the bed. I can feel my blood leaving me with a rush. It is an intensely powerful experience. Brings memories of my turning back to me. Back when I had nothing, and her fangs gave me everything. Now, now finally they're giving me something again. //

I know. I know what he is, and what I am. I finally understand. And so does he. He asks for my help, and I nod, the tears on my face making my skin itch.

// I can't move anymore. I can't lift a finger, say a word or open my eyes. Consciousness is clinging by a thread. And I want him to use those scissors. But he doesn't right away, not before he can retract his teeth and... his voice is like a breeze through a graveyard.

And I know I'm not going to die. At least, not directly by him. It's all up to me. I hate it being all up to me, but that's how he's left it. His soft chuckle in my ear makes me want to wake.

And his words.... I know I will. //

He turns me over gently. When the dizziness stops, I search his face, and I finally know what I look like. Why I look like that.

And what I can do about it.

Examining my face, he nods slowly. And then says what was on the fringe of my dreams. What I know I've been wanting to hear for years.

// I am adrift on the sea of dark dreams. It will be tough to awaken from it, but I have his last words to me as an anchor.

I will return.

“You know you want to dance, William.”

Indeed I do.

~ finis