Thanks go to Akai for editing assistance.
Devil's Logic
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"To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven"
JOHN MILTON ~ Paradise Lost, Book I
"Y'know what I heard someone call you today?"
"What?" Vicious asked in a bored tone, indifferent to what people thought of him.
"Some guy called you 'that white-haired devil'. Crazy, huh?" Spike laughed easily and took a swig from the glass of whiskey he was holding. The warm amber liquid swirled, buffeting the ice cubes against the sides of the vessel as he replaced it on the bar. Vicious curled his fingers around his own glass - vodka was his drink, deceptively clear and colourless.
"I've been called worse," he replied with a restrained shrug; he rarely did things to extremes.
"I know. I just thought you'd enjoy that one. White-haired devil - suits you pretty good, really!" A grin flashed across Spike's open countenance as he glanced over at his partner, whose profile was obscured by a curtain of silvery strands. Vicious didn't answer, just ran one long finger along the rim of his glass, and Spike suddenly wondered if he'd offended the other man. It was impossible to tell, with Vicious, whether this was his everyday silence or something out of the ordinary; and if he had insulted him, he'd never know about it. So there was no point in worrying about it really, was there? He knocked back the rest of his whiskey and gestured to the bartender to refill his glass.
"I'd rather be a devil than an angel."
The sudden pronouncement took Spike by surprise, and he looked questioningly at the other man, who was still staring straight ahead behind his veil of white hair.
"Why's that?" he asked as the bartender handed him a fresh glass of whiskey. It was rare for the other to volunteer information like this - even if it was fairly cryptic - and he intended to make the most he could of it. Vicious finally turned to face him, a slight smirk on his face.
"Because," he said in his soft, harsh voice, "Devils are just angels who refused to take orders. That's why they were cast out of Heaven - for rebelling against commands. I'd prefer to be an outcast by my own rules than a servant to authority."
Spike stared at him for a moment, and then gave a short, barking laugh.
"That's bullshit!" he accused. "You take orders from up above, just like everyone else!"
"For now," the silver-haired killer said, his tone placid yet certain. Spike looked at him, uncertain of what to say, as Vicious turned away again. In the end he said nothing, shrugging the words off as a deliberate attempt to get a reaction from him. It was the kind of thing Vicious would do. He grimaced slightly as he took another drink, the liquor searing his throat but leaving a warm glow all the way down his gullet to his stomach. A thought occurred to him.
"Anyway," he said, grinning to himself. "Devils have more fun than angels."
"I suppose," Vicious replied. But he seemed to have lost interest in the conversation, so instead Spike began to tell him about the girl he'd met a few nights ago, the one who'd been so very eager to please. The white-haired man continued to stare silently at the bar, but that wasn't unusual for him, and Spike had become well used to holding conversations by himself. It helped to have a glass in your hand.
Several hours later, when the bar closed, two professional killers walked out into the night, one of them swaying uncertainly on his feet. It was strange for Spike to be this drunk, but he was, and Vicious was supporting him; Spike's arm slung across his shoulder, slack fingers brushing against his throat. He half-led, half-dragged him along the street, through the pools of light shed by the street lamps, past the thick darkness of narrow alleyways, ignoring the man's drunken mumblings as his head lolled against Vicious' shoulder.
Finally he reached the building that Spike called home and pulled him up the stairs to his tiny apartment - how did the man live in this pigsty? His own apartment was a reflection of himself; tidy, no loose ends, nothing personal left lying around for people to gawk at. But then, he couldn't imagine Spike living in a place like that. This place suited him, right down to the peeling paint on the walls.
Going through to the bedroom, he dumped his burden on the bed. Spike sprawled bonelessly across the rumpled covers - probably unconscious already - and Vicious made to leave.
"Hey, Vicious?" The words were soft, little more than a slurred whisper, but enough to make him turn back. The other man beckoned him closer and he leaned over the bed, wondering if the idiot was all right.
"What?"
"I think m'be you are a devil." Spike raised his head slightly, fixing his partner with a dazed smile. "A white-haired devil..." He reached up with one unsteady hand, catching a few strands of that silver hair and twisting them around his fingers. Vicious jerked his head back out of range and Spike's hand fell limply to the bed again, his eyes slipping shut. Straightening up, Vicious let a cynical smirk play across his lips, though for whose benefit he wasn't sure.
"Of course I am," he said in a voice thick with sarcasm. "And maybe you're an angel, Spiegel."
But Spike was already asleep.