Disclaimer: Joss, as usual, owns all.
Summary: Insane in the basement. Angst, slash, and self-mutilation warnings.
He was so drunk. So very drunk. It made him giggle inside himself, just thinking about how extremely drunk he felt. And Spike didn't giggle, ever. This was the last bottle. He picked it up, looking at the golden liquid, only a few drops at the bottom of the bottle. He rolled over on the cold floor, and looked at the droplets, they glistened down there, like treasure. He held the bottle upside down, and let the drops roll onto his hand and down his wrist. He looked at then and laughed, too.
"Spike took a trip to the vet's," he said. "And now he doesn't chase the other puppies any more."
He closed his eyes, and pressed his fingers against his chest, feeling the welts and the scars. "Spike kills the other puppies," he said. "Spike kills all the other puppies and eats them, shreds them, and swallows their viscera, rapes the pretty ones – rapes them until they can't speak, or see, but still, inside them, he can hear their groan. And then he takes them again – and again – and then, when they don't hurt anymore, he drains them dry…
"Drains 'em dry," he repeated to himself, laughing again. He raised his whiskey-stained hand to his lips, and licked off the few drops.
And then he slept. He was completely numb from the alcohol, his chest no longer aching; his soul absent from his thoughts, momentarily not hurting him.
When he woke, he didn't feel the hangover. Drusilla stood over him, her eyes on his chest. She knelt beside him, and he thought he could feel her breath, icy, against his cheek.
"Do it again, Spike," she said. "Do it again!"
He looked at her, at her insane, beautiful smile.
"Always wanted to make you happy, princess," he mumbled. He scratched at himself with his own fingernails, raking at the semi-healed, pus-filled welts. He tore at what passed for scabs and scar tissue, and the pieces of flesh fell down, scraps of skin and scab on his legs and on the floor. He began to bleed, though slowly. Maybe he didn't have much blood left to give any more.
"Oh, yes, Spike, get that horrid thing out of you!" Drusilla crooned, holding her dark fingernails only inches away from his skin.
He looked up at her, and she smiled at him, and laughed, and sang, "hunt and catch, hunt and catch" swaying back and forth like a cobra before his eyes. He leant up toward her body, and then she flickered out of sight.
Spike groaned, and threw himself onto the floor, raking at his chest. Get it out, get it out, get it out, the words rang in his mind, although he couldn't quite say whose they were, or where they came from.
He lifted up his lighter, and flicked it on over one of the wounds. The skin smoked, a rank stench rising from it, and Spike closed his eyes to the pain, flicking off the lighter before it made him ignite.
"Can't burn away to ash and cinders, first have to give Buffy what she deserves… have to get it up, get it hard, get the job done, give the girl what she needs…"
His fingers fumbled at the waistband of his jeans, and then he pulled them away, aching all over. He lay back again, against the cool earth, and shut his eyes. He could feel his chest weeping blood and other fluids, trickling against his skin.
"William," a voice said, beside him, and his eyes flickered open. A young girl, maybe fourteen, stood in front of him, her face framed in blond curls.
"Look at you William, look at how hurt you are, why it's almost as bad as what you did to me," she shrieked as she spoke, and he remembered her, remembered taking her as she walked outside her house, remembered tying her to his bed, and letting Dru slice her open, so that she could see what colours lay beneath the girl's miniscule, milky breasts. He remembered Dru lapping up the blood, and he remembered raping her, squeezing her slashed and bleeding breasts, and racking her body with his thrusts.
He remembered how she had shrieked.
The girl in front of him touched her breasts, and he watched as blood seeped up through the white bodice she wore, and stained under her arms and along the outline of her tits.
"I don't remember my name, anymore, William," she said. "I only remember the pain. I remember how my head was filled with nothing but screams, as you bent over me, and –" she smiled viciously. "As you rammed your cock up into my gee, my virgin, dry gee. And you girlfriend looked at me – and she was laughing."
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and innocent, "Did you enjoy it, William?" she hissed.
She leaned closer to him; pressing her face up until her lips almost met his, "well, did you?"
Spike tried to stand up, but the pain in his chest was too much for him, and he nearly passed out. Except vampires can't faint.
"No, please, no…"
"I don't remember my name, and you don't even have the grace to enjoy – you destroyed me and you don't even smile at the memory, you're truly worthless, you understand?"
Spike closed his eyes, and he could feel her laughing. He was weak, shaking all over, as he tried to struggle up. He hadn't had any blood in so long.
"Of course, I always said you had your uses, but then, Darla never did agree with me," Angelus said, looking down at Spike.
"Every family has its black sheep, of course, but, now, Darla, she said, did it have to be quite so black as you?"
Spike tore at his chest again, and Angelus smiled, "I used to like tasting your blood, though – I used to like taking you as well.
"I liked you better when you were on all fours and begging me to take you, and yet shaking, in fear of the pain, yes, I liked you like that."
Angelus walked around Spike's writhing form, "yes, I liked you when you were weak. You are weak, Spike, you know, have you any idea how weak you are?
"You were always weak from the moment I laid eyes on you," he said, "you were weak and petty, and useless. And you always will be!"
He stopped walking, and smiled. He crouched down by Spike's head, and reached out a hand towards him. "Oh poor William. It's probably my fault, you know, that you can't get anyone to screw you the way you want. It was probably me, tying you up and taking you at night, that probably hurt you."
He leant closer to Spike, his smile small and comforting. "It's never about the girl, you know, it's never about the pain, and it's never about how horny you are, it's always about me. You can't forget how you used to lie, still and terrified, every night, waiting to hear my tread.
"You're still afraid of me, Spike, every moment, you're trying to be appease me. You and you soul," he laughed, again, and reached out, as if to ruffle Spike's hair.
And then, he too, was gone.
Buffy had brought him blood. She gave him the bag, quickly, and embarrassedly, and said, "I'll come back – later – Spike."
But when drank it, he couldn't taste it in his mouth. And he couldn't feel the plastic against his skin, or remember Buffy's voice, echoing in this place. For a moment he knew that Angelus wasn't really there. And then Drusilla came out of the shadows, smiling at him, and his hand was at his chest again.
Sometimes he wondered if this was the reality. Had he always been insane in the basement, waiting for them to come to him, wanting solid hands on his flesh, but knowing that no one would ever touch him? Had he always known that he didn't deserve to be touched?
His soul told him. And he listened.