If You Could See The Real Me
by Phoenixstitch 01/08/2001
This was inspired by listening to sound bites from "Fool For Love" (5th season) that I recently got and ideas and reactions to this episode. I've always had a fascination with vampires and what it feels like being turned. We saw glimpses into Spike's past, though I doubt if he actually told Buffy in detail what happened to him and the type of man he was before to Buffy at the Bronze that night since he has a reputation to uphold and all. I judged that by her reactions to him that he was giving her edited versions of what we saw on screen—that she wasn't hearing what we were seeing. This is my take on what happened.
All the usual disclaimers of not infringing upon the rights of Mutant Enemy, the WB, Josh Wheldon, or anybody else—this is strictly for fun. NC-13, Some strong language and images, no sex.
***************
Sitting in the darkest back corner table of the Bronze she could find, praying no one that knew both of them wandered in, Buffy sat with her moral enemy who was thoroughly enjoying himself at her expense. Already she was wondering what kind of idiot she was for doing this. Buffy looked at him disgustedly. "Just tell me what I want to know."
Spike cocked his blonde head to regard her carefully since he knew she was hurt from fighting a nasty earlier this evening, and was still in pain. That was what was driving her to do this not the pleasure of his company. He knew that she only wanted information, not him—never just him as a man. But he was enjoying the novelty of the two of them here alone without her groupies. He'd take her company anyway he could these days. Trying to look bored, which he wasn't, he folded his arms across his chest, enjoying their 'date' so far. He held all the cards tonight, and they were going to do this his way not hers for a change. "I told you. No one's narrating on an empty stomach here."
Buffy shook her head in exasperation wanting to kill him right then and there. Her side was now throbbing along with her head. The blaring rock music with its pulsating beat was not helping. She was not in the mood for his stupid games. If she hadn't needed the damn information as bad as she did she would have said the hell with this and left. But she did need to know what he knew, what only he could tell her, and one thing she did know was that he loved to brag about his past killings. She had to understand what was wrong with her, why she was being so careless and getting hurt more and more often now. Looking at the smirk on his handsome face, she had to ask him, "were you born this big a pain in the ass?"
"What can I tell you, baby? I've always been bad," he smiled back, his eyes teasing, but then they changed as the memories came crashing back--the real memories that he kept trying to shove away.
Spike looked across the table at the Slayer, her beautiful face so serious, so scared, frightened of her future, of her destiny, and her inevitable death—the death he too was beginning to be fearful of. Buffy wanted him to tell her how he killed the other slayers. He was doing this because a larger part of him wanted her to be safe, and if his information could help her live just that much longer he would tell her what he had done. Though in doing so it was opening the floodgates to his memories he had locked away of who and what he was 'before'. The man before, the sad pathetic man that she would not understand him being since she was only able to see what he was now. She could not look beyond the facade he wore. Though wasn't that his own fault--the image he had created for all the world to see? He held bloody, nasty, dangerous Spike out for all the world to see, but William the man, he kept inside, hidden because William was weak, sensitive, imaginative, loving, and kind all the things a vampire couldn't be.
He sat there slowly drinking his cheap American beer as they waited on his chicken wings to arrive wishing he could tell her the truth, tell her the true story of how he became a vampire. But he knew she would laugh her head off, make fun of him like people in society back then had made fun of him so many years ago. Buffy would not believe that underneath all the bravo, and brass he had been a decent person once.
So he had lied, edited his past for her, his slayer. She wasn't ready for the truth. Maybe he wasn't ready either to face what he had been. He had grown and changed so much in the intervening years, learned how to be strong, self willed, ruthless when he needed to, yet part of him still retained hold of the sensitive man he had been despite the years with Angelus and Dru. Dru had been the only one to see him as he really was….
William left the gathering in tears after his beloved Cecily had rejected his love and had ridiculed his poetry to her. He ran down the London streets not caring where he was going, unmindful of people or anything around him. The only awareness was of his aching heart, his pain, and the anger of the her and her friends rejection of him, not seeing his genius or how hurtful they had been. He had misjudged both her and them. That they thought him a fool, that his works were garbage, and that he was beneath them had been the cruelest blows of all. True he didn't have a title, but his family was well off, maybe more so than many there. He did move in good circles and if anything it she that was beneath him. It had been a mistake to come to the literary social tonight, but his friend Peter had insisted. He would just have to explain to Peter tomorrow why he had left so suddenly and apologize for abandoning him.
His glasses were fogged and smeared from his crying, his hands ink stained, from his tearing the new written poetry he had written into shreds. He looked a fright and didn't care. After he had almost plowed through a group of well dressed people walking down the middle of the gaslight lit street, William slowed his blind running, and spotting some bales of hay near the entrance of an alley to sit down and think about what he was going to do next. He sat down on one of the rough dirty bales not caring if the hay clung to his gray wool tweed pants, and outer coat. Once seated he proceeded to destroy the rest of his work, mentally cursing his entire existence, and his own folly in loving a woman who would never love him back.
A shadow fell over him, and William looked up to see a beautiful, dark haired, well dressed woman standing in front of him watching him in fascination as the final pieces of torn paper fell to the dirty cobblestones to fly away down the street in the slight evening breeze. She was focused solely on him, seeming to like what she saw, and her regard shot sharp pains afresh through him.
Drusilla had noticed him after he had bumped into Angel, making her temperamental sire angry. It was the whirring kaleidoscope of images that his out of control emotions gave her that got her attention, and made her turn, and stop to see where he was going. She had felt the sweet sharp waves of his pain, and dark sorrow as well as his aching loneiness, and his overwhelming need to be loved. It answered and mirrored her own pain, her own needs. She was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. As she drew nearer she could see his handsome, chiseled features, his soft, lightly curled light brown hair, and deep blues eyes with endless depths behind his glasses. He was young, thin, and frail looking too, just like her. Undoubtedly, he was a scholar, a thinker, a real gentleman, so different from her powerfully built, and boyishly handsome Angelus.
Her luminous blue dark eyes were curious, holding great sympathy for his sorrows." And I wonder... what possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?"
William looked up at her warily wanting nothing to do with anyone. He did not want for such a beautiful lady to see him in such misery. "Nothing. I wish to be alone."
She drew closer, mesmerized by him, wanting him. She felt a kinship with him already. "Oh, I see you. A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength, his vision, his glory. (beat) That and burning baby fish swimming all around your head." She intoned, the visions in her head coming fast and furiously now.
William got up alarmed ,frightened by her strange way of talking and how close to the truth she was. He backed away from her, nervous. "That's quite close enough. I've heard tales of London pickpockets. You'll not be getting my purse, I tell you." He warned her trying sound tough.
Drusilla smiled a him, shaking her head because he didn't understand that it wasn't his money she wanted it was him and him alone she wanted. "Don't need a purse." She purred as she pointed to his heart and head in succession. "Your wealth lies here... and here. In the spirit and... imagination. You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine."
The young man stared at the lady in disbelief—she knew him. She knew what was in his heart, head, and soul. Now he was completely riveted by her insight into his character. No one had ever seen him like this before. But she also frightened him. There was an dangerous air to her, a menace he didn't quite understand to his very being and life. As much as he wanted to know more, he had to figure out how to get away from her—now. "Oh, yes! I mean, no. I mean... mother's expecting me," he told her hoping he wouldn't have to get rough to get away from this strange woman.
Drusilla stepped closer. She wanted this man badly now. He was perfect. He was hers. He would be hers. Her small net glove covered hand reached out to touch him, reaching for the collar of his shirt, opening it. She could hear his racing heart, smell his blood—it called to her, sang…, ohh such a sweet pure wine, full of such infinitely wondrous sweet music, but hidden under the seemingly quiet surface there were all these smoldering untapped passions, and burning fires, wants, needs, desires screaming to get out to be fulfilled…beautiful exciting things, unrealized dreams, and visions, …longings he had for impossible things that soared away only in his mind, so he could be free from his self-tormented existence.
"I see what you want. Something glowing and glistening. Something... effulgent," she said getting the thoughts off the surface of his mind easily.
William was beside himself. Finally there is someone who understands him. "Effulgent," he agreed, in awe now for this wondrous woman.
"Do you want it?" Drusilla questioned him, her eyes holding him firmly now, feeling all his wants and needs and wanting to keep this one for herself. He would join them and not be just a castoff. He would be hers, not Daddy's or Grandam's—hers.
William had never wanted anything more. He was beyond caring or fully understanding what she was up to. Thinking that she merely wanted to have sex with him. Being a chase man he had few opportunities to sample the pleasures of the flesh. He answered her, "Oh, yes!" He touched her chest, surprised at his own boldness even if she was a lady of the evening, they were still in public and could be see. But touching her felt so right. "God, yes," he almost whimpered, lost and wanting her.
Her handsome stranger was more than ready as Drusilla smiled and looked down at him for a moment then her face began to quickly morph and change with her fangs descending. William was taken aback, more confused than afraid of what has happened to his lovely lady. Somehow she has transformed into a hideous beast, a demon, a thing out of legend he has heard of—a vampire. Before he can react or scream or run she pulls back his shirt collar and buries her fangs in his neck.
William cried out in shocked pain as the searing sharp twin needles of her white fangs buried themselves into the tender flesh of his neck, but his cries quickly turn to moans of pleasure as he felt himself, his very life essence flow into her. He didn't care any more, he wanted this, wanted her, he wanted the pain that was his mortal life to cease to be. He wanted to feel his death overtake him…to be free at last…it was so liberating he thought as he got dizzier and dizzier because of the loss of blood. He could not feel anything except seeping icy coldness throughout his limbs, he was numb, boneless, floating flowing into her. His chest ached to breathe unable to, his heart beat quickly at first threatening to break out of his chest, then by slow steps it paused, floundered unsure, halted suspended between moments, and finally it was stilled forever on it's last final mortal beat. Colors, shapes, and impossible visions flashed across his fading consciousness that finally blended into a white nothingness shading into infinite grays then finally decreasing into a void of the deepest black oblivion as his dark goddess, dark angel of death ended his human existence.
Drusilla felt the almost lifeless man sag against her—there wasn't too much time now—quickly she must do this—quickly! She managed to hold him up against the rough brick wall of the dark alley, and pushed her tight sleeve up to get to her wrist so she could sink her fangs into it to open a vein. Before she could do so she felt her wrist roughly grabbed and held by a strength greater than her own—Angelus! He was going to spoil her fun—naughty bad Daddy! She spin and growled at him, her yellow demon eyes glowing menacingly.
"And what do we have here, my gal?" he asked looking at Dru's latest victim.
"I want him, Daddy. I want to make him for me to play with so that Miss Edith and I can have someone to play lots of wondrous games with. Can't I have him, please?" she begged sweetly, really wanting this one more than she had wanted anything in a long time.
Angelus looked at her bemused, and shook his head. His daffy childe wanting to make her own childe to keep by her side. The idea of her being a sire of anything, but simple minions scaring him. "Let me see him, my precious girl. Is he worth the effort? I can always get you another doll to have fun with or some nice young girl. Why him?" he asked taking the limb body away from her so he could at least see what she wanted to bring into the family.
"He has such beautiful things inside his head…they swim, and fly…crawl around and round like wiggling, crawly, burnt blustering worms…such dark bloody dreams, murderous dreams that even he does not know are there, so much red glistening blood and black fire, he bathes in it, but no one sees, no one hears the screams…he's all so very alone…no one cares…, but I hear his calling me to play among the thorns and thistles under the cold bright moon," Drusilla rattled on, glowing, dancing almost in ecstasy at what his mind had shown her.
Angelus looked at the young man who was close in age to what his Drusilla had been when he had turned her. Yes, the man was striking, handsome, comely even, his groin began responding in desire for this one. He sensed intelligence, smarts, and an eager mind, a sensitive mind that could be molded and shaped. If it did not work out he could always kill the lad. Now he had to make the decision before time ran out. He did by changing into his own game face, and tearing open his own wrist before Drusilla, or Darla could stop him. He pressed his bleeding wrist to the lad's mouth. The sluggish blood flowing and pooling in the open mouth of the young man until instinct took over, and the man began to swallow finally. He, like the newborn babe he was, began to latch on to Angelus' wrist and suck greedily.
William was just about the cross the veil into final death seeing a bright light in the darkness of the void he was in, wanting to go to it, be one with it when from behind him he heard whispers, a calling. Something, someone wanted him to come back. It pulled at him, making him want to go back the way he had come. He did, answering the newer call, the building unquenchable hunger, the raw need. His awareness increased moment by moment of something changing within him, within his mind, his being, his very body. He felt himself somehow changing, transforming, as if the very cells of his body were somehow being renewed, replaced by something other, and this something other that was doing it to him was not good—it was the very opposite—it was evil, he realized belatedly. His weakened consciousness rebelled at the invasion, horrified at the idea of this sinister, insistent invader trying to force him out. He could feel the essence of some horrific evil spreading through both his body and mind, trying to replace all that he was, and had been, trying to take what he was and remake it over into the demon's own image of what he had been except making it totally dark, sinister, blood thirsty, without remorse, consequence, or true feelings.
There was a stubborn core within him that refused to give up so easily. The fear of totally losing himself, giving in completely into the darkness was the motivation. He fought hard against the invader and won, letting it overtake just so much, no more, not letting the evil win. The raging battle between his good and the invading evil took moments, long minutes, or endless hours-- he was not sure, did not know when he awoke again to consciousness, awareness of the changes that had been wrought within his body, mind and even soul, for in the back of his mind, in the hidden parts, it still remained and he knew it.
In a strange room, William awoke upon a soft bed clad only in a nightshirt. It was dark in the well furnished room, and he was alone. He lay back against the pillows which smelled of lavender and other things trying to figure out where he was and how he had gotten there. His last memory was of being in alley with a beautiful dark haired girl who had suddenly changed into some sort of supernatural creature before his disbelieving eyes. He remembered her teeth, her long white sharp teeth going into his neck and her drinking his blood. He remembered wanting her to do it, wanting her to end his pitiful, empty, loveless existence, to be one with her--for in that one suspended moment he knew her, loved her, wanted to be with this glorious creature forever. He had heard other voices too talking to her as his consciousness began to fade and his heart had stilled. Then there had been this wondrous, thick rich coppery wine in his mouth that he was drawn to drink of, that he must have to live, to survive. It called him like nothing else had ever done. Sung to him of death, destruction, and of life, and rebirth—his rebirth, his own immortality if he would just drink deeply of it, and he did, feeling it fill all the empty places, promising that soon he would have all his needs fulfilled, be able to have adventures, and experiences that he dared not want before.
He still felt slightly weak and numb as he lay there. Experimentally, he brushed his hand to his forehead, and it felt like ice as did the rest of his body. He placed his hand against his chest and there was no heartbeat—none! He began to freak, as he could not feel any breath against his cold hand unless he forced one to happen. His neck still hurt a little and he could feel the puncture wounds, but they were healing. Then he noticed he could see in the darkness. He could see clearly—his vision was restored. He no longer needed his blasted glasses. He noticed a mirror on the vanity table and got up shakily on unsteady feet and managed to take the few steps across the room to it. He wanted to see how bad he looked, and found he cast no reflection whatsoever. It was like he was a ghost—was that what he was? A ghost now? But he felt solid real, he couldn't be a ghost? He tried to put his hand through the wall to test if he really was a ghost, and found he was more forceful than he thought as he buried his arm up to his elbow into the wallboard without any real effort or real pain. His strength was amazing. He had never been this strong before.
With his hitting the wall came running feet and the door of the room was flung violently open. The first to enter was a dark haired, powerfully built man, followed by a beautiful woman with golden hair, and lastly his dark angel, the women he remembered from the alley who had suddenly changed and bit him. The man spun around trying to locate him, anger and surprise on his handsome face.
"I see that you are up, son. What in heaven's name did you do that for?" asked the man with a slight Irish brogue to his rich voice as he pointed to the wall and the gaping hole now in it.
"To see if I was real or not. I thought myself a ghost and wanted to see if I could pass through walls," William replied in explaination which caused the man to stare incredulously at him and begin to laugh slapping at his knee at how ridiculous it sounded.
"Ohh, that's good, very good," he said, wiping tears from his eyes while the two women giggled behind their hands. "No, my lad, you're not a ghost. Do you have any idea what has happened to you?"
William stepped forward carefully to study his new companions. "No sir, I don't, not really but I do feel a bit odd and I seemed to have changed somehow. I suspect I am no longer human, am I correct?" he asked, watching them all begin to laugh again.
"Very. You are now as we are…you are a vampire, a creature of the night," Angelus told him.
William turned an even paler shade of white, muttering, "ohh dear," and promptly fainted to the carpet.
When he had next awakened, he was in bed surrounded by the three vampires who had brought him his first meal—a very pretty young blond haired girl. Instinctively he had known what to do and without hesitation he had morphed into his game face, sinking his new bright white fangs into the bared neck as the girl struggled terrified, and tried to scream and beg against her gags and bindings. He ignored her lost in the ecstasy, and divine rapture of what he was doing—the pure sensuality of it heightening all his senses, his awareness of everything—he felt alive, truly alive for the first time ever. He drank deep, draining her, feeling her strength, her life essence, her very being flow into him like nothing he had ever experienced. He only felt the slightest touch of remorse for killing the girl, but her death meant his survival—and the strongest will always survive. And to survive Angelus he had to learn how to be strong and hold his own.
Coming back to himself in the present as his spicy buffalo chicken wings were set in front of him by the waitress, Spike decided that—no, Buffy wasn't ready for the truth, and wouldn't believe him anyhow. Plus it had been bloody embarrassing with him fainting, and all when he found out that he was a bloody vampire. He was damned surprised that Angelus let him live, but Dru had begged, and then Angelus had gotten interested in him himself—the bloody bastard. There were some facts of vampiric life that even with the slayer's worldly knowledge of that were best kept unsaid—not that he wouldn't like to bring Angel down a peg or two in the slayer's eyes, but telling her this would no him no good either. He decided he better give her the edited version with basic facts and let her draw her own conclusions, which she already would do anyway. Maybe someday he could really tell her the truth of how it was, and how it felt, maybe then she'd really understand…and finally understand him.
The end for now.
Hoped you liked it. Let me know. Vbmacky1@yahoo.com
by Phoenixstitch 01/08/2001
This was inspired by listening to sound bites from "Fool For Love" (5th season) that I recently got and ideas and reactions to this episode. I've always had a fascination with vampires and what it feels like being turned. We saw glimpses into Spike's past, though I doubt if he actually told Buffy in detail what happened to him and the type of man he was before to Buffy at the Bronze that night since he has a reputation to uphold and all. I judged that by her reactions to him that he was giving her edited versions of what we saw on screen—that she wasn't hearing what we were seeing. This is my take on what happened.
All the usual disclaimers of not infringing upon the rights of Mutant Enemy, the WB, Josh Wheldon, or anybody else—this is strictly for fun. NC-13, Some strong language and images, no sex.
***************
Sitting in the darkest back corner table of the Bronze she could find, praying no one that knew both of them wandered in, Buffy sat with her moral enemy who was thoroughly enjoying himself at her expense. Already she was wondering what kind of idiot she was for doing this. Buffy looked at him disgustedly. "Just tell me what I want to know."
Spike cocked his blonde head to regard her carefully since he knew she was hurt from fighting a nasty earlier this evening, and was still in pain. That was what was driving her to do this not the pleasure of his company. He knew that she only wanted information, not him—never just him as a man. But he was enjoying the novelty of the two of them here alone without her groupies. He'd take her company anyway he could these days. Trying to look bored, which he wasn't, he folded his arms across his chest, enjoying their 'date' so far. He held all the cards tonight, and they were going to do this his way not hers for a change. "I told you. No one's narrating on an empty stomach here."
Buffy shook her head in exasperation wanting to kill him right then and there. Her side was now throbbing along with her head. The blaring rock music with its pulsating beat was not helping. She was not in the mood for his stupid games. If she hadn't needed the damn information as bad as she did she would have said the hell with this and left. But she did need to know what he knew, what only he could tell her, and one thing she did know was that he loved to brag about his past killings. She had to understand what was wrong with her, why she was being so careless and getting hurt more and more often now. Looking at the smirk on his handsome face, she had to ask him, "were you born this big a pain in the ass?"
"What can I tell you, baby? I've always been bad," he smiled back, his eyes teasing, but then they changed as the memories came crashing back--the real memories that he kept trying to shove away.
Spike looked across the table at the Slayer, her beautiful face so serious, so scared, frightened of her future, of her destiny, and her inevitable death—the death he too was beginning to be fearful of. Buffy wanted him to tell her how he killed the other slayers. He was doing this because a larger part of him wanted her to be safe, and if his information could help her live just that much longer he would tell her what he had done. Though in doing so it was opening the floodgates to his memories he had locked away of who and what he was 'before'. The man before, the sad pathetic man that she would not understand him being since she was only able to see what he was now. She could not look beyond the facade he wore. Though wasn't that his own fault--the image he had created for all the world to see? He held bloody, nasty, dangerous Spike out for all the world to see, but William the man, he kept inside, hidden because William was weak, sensitive, imaginative, loving, and kind all the things a vampire couldn't be.
He sat there slowly drinking his cheap American beer as they waited on his chicken wings to arrive wishing he could tell her the truth, tell her the true story of how he became a vampire. But he knew she would laugh her head off, make fun of him like people in society back then had made fun of him so many years ago. Buffy would not believe that underneath all the bravo, and brass he had been a decent person once.
So he had lied, edited his past for her, his slayer. She wasn't ready for the truth. Maybe he wasn't ready either to face what he had been. He had grown and changed so much in the intervening years, learned how to be strong, self willed, ruthless when he needed to, yet part of him still retained hold of the sensitive man he had been despite the years with Angelus and Dru. Dru had been the only one to see him as he really was….
William left the gathering in tears after his beloved Cecily had rejected his love and had ridiculed his poetry to her. He ran down the London streets not caring where he was going, unmindful of people or anything around him. The only awareness was of his aching heart, his pain, and the anger of the her and her friends rejection of him, not seeing his genius or how hurtful they had been. He had misjudged both her and them. That they thought him a fool, that his works were garbage, and that he was beneath them had been the cruelest blows of all. True he didn't have a title, but his family was well off, maybe more so than many there. He did move in good circles and if anything it she that was beneath him. It had been a mistake to come to the literary social tonight, but his friend Peter had insisted. He would just have to explain to Peter tomorrow why he had left so suddenly and apologize for abandoning him.
His glasses were fogged and smeared from his crying, his hands ink stained, from his tearing the new written poetry he had written into shreds. He looked a fright and didn't care. After he had almost plowed through a group of well dressed people walking down the middle of the gaslight lit street, William slowed his blind running, and spotting some bales of hay near the entrance of an alley to sit down and think about what he was going to do next. He sat down on one of the rough dirty bales not caring if the hay clung to his gray wool tweed pants, and outer coat. Once seated he proceeded to destroy the rest of his work, mentally cursing his entire existence, and his own folly in loving a woman who would never love him back.
A shadow fell over him, and William looked up to see a beautiful, dark haired, well dressed woman standing in front of him watching him in fascination as the final pieces of torn paper fell to the dirty cobblestones to fly away down the street in the slight evening breeze. She was focused solely on him, seeming to like what she saw, and her regard shot sharp pains afresh through him.
Drusilla had noticed him after he had bumped into Angel, making her temperamental sire angry. It was the whirring kaleidoscope of images that his out of control emotions gave her that got her attention, and made her turn, and stop to see where he was going. She had felt the sweet sharp waves of his pain, and dark sorrow as well as his aching loneiness, and his overwhelming need to be loved. It answered and mirrored her own pain, her own needs. She was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. As she drew nearer she could see his handsome, chiseled features, his soft, lightly curled light brown hair, and deep blues eyes with endless depths behind his glasses. He was young, thin, and frail looking too, just like her. Undoubtedly, he was a scholar, a thinker, a real gentleman, so different from her powerfully built, and boyishly handsome Angelus.
Her luminous blue dark eyes were curious, holding great sympathy for his sorrows." And I wonder... what possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?"
William looked up at her warily wanting nothing to do with anyone. He did not want for such a beautiful lady to see him in such misery. "Nothing. I wish to be alone."
She drew closer, mesmerized by him, wanting him. She felt a kinship with him already. "Oh, I see you. A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength, his vision, his glory. (beat) That and burning baby fish swimming all around your head." She intoned, the visions in her head coming fast and furiously now.
William got up alarmed ,frightened by her strange way of talking and how close to the truth she was. He backed away from her, nervous. "That's quite close enough. I've heard tales of London pickpockets. You'll not be getting my purse, I tell you." He warned her trying sound tough.
Drusilla smiled a him, shaking her head because he didn't understand that it wasn't his money she wanted it was him and him alone she wanted. "Don't need a purse." She purred as she pointed to his heart and head in succession. "Your wealth lies here... and here. In the spirit and... imagination. You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine."
The young man stared at the lady in disbelief—she knew him. She knew what was in his heart, head, and soul. Now he was completely riveted by her insight into his character. No one had ever seen him like this before. But she also frightened him. There was an dangerous air to her, a menace he didn't quite understand to his very being and life. As much as he wanted to know more, he had to figure out how to get away from her—now. "Oh, yes! I mean, no. I mean... mother's expecting me," he told her hoping he wouldn't have to get rough to get away from this strange woman.
Drusilla stepped closer. She wanted this man badly now. He was perfect. He was hers. He would be hers. Her small net glove covered hand reached out to touch him, reaching for the collar of his shirt, opening it. She could hear his racing heart, smell his blood—it called to her, sang…, ohh such a sweet pure wine, full of such infinitely wondrous sweet music, but hidden under the seemingly quiet surface there were all these smoldering untapped passions, and burning fires, wants, needs, desires screaming to get out to be fulfilled…beautiful exciting things, unrealized dreams, and visions, …longings he had for impossible things that soared away only in his mind, so he could be free from his self-tormented existence.
"I see what you want. Something glowing and glistening. Something... effulgent," she said getting the thoughts off the surface of his mind easily.
William was beside himself. Finally there is someone who understands him. "Effulgent," he agreed, in awe now for this wondrous woman.
"Do you want it?" Drusilla questioned him, her eyes holding him firmly now, feeling all his wants and needs and wanting to keep this one for herself. He would join them and not be just a castoff. He would be hers, not Daddy's or Grandam's—hers.
William had never wanted anything more. He was beyond caring or fully understanding what she was up to. Thinking that she merely wanted to have sex with him. Being a chase man he had few opportunities to sample the pleasures of the flesh. He answered her, "Oh, yes!" He touched her chest, surprised at his own boldness even if she was a lady of the evening, they were still in public and could be see. But touching her felt so right. "God, yes," he almost whimpered, lost and wanting her.
Her handsome stranger was more than ready as Drusilla smiled and looked down at him for a moment then her face began to quickly morph and change with her fangs descending. William was taken aback, more confused than afraid of what has happened to his lovely lady. Somehow she has transformed into a hideous beast, a demon, a thing out of legend he has heard of—a vampire. Before he can react or scream or run she pulls back his shirt collar and buries her fangs in his neck.
William cried out in shocked pain as the searing sharp twin needles of her white fangs buried themselves into the tender flesh of his neck, but his cries quickly turn to moans of pleasure as he felt himself, his very life essence flow into her. He didn't care any more, he wanted this, wanted her, he wanted the pain that was his mortal life to cease to be. He wanted to feel his death overtake him…to be free at last…it was so liberating he thought as he got dizzier and dizzier because of the loss of blood. He could not feel anything except seeping icy coldness throughout his limbs, he was numb, boneless, floating flowing into her. His chest ached to breathe unable to, his heart beat quickly at first threatening to break out of his chest, then by slow steps it paused, floundered unsure, halted suspended between moments, and finally it was stilled forever on it's last final mortal beat. Colors, shapes, and impossible visions flashed across his fading consciousness that finally blended into a white nothingness shading into infinite grays then finally decreasing into a void of the deepest black oblivion as his dark goddess, dark angel of death ended his human existence.
Drusilla felt the almost lifeless man sag against her—there wasn't too much time now—quickly she must do this—quickly! She managed to hold him up against the rough brick wall of the dark alley, and pushed her tight sleeve up to get to her wrist so she could sink her fangs into it to open a vein. Before she could do so she felt her wrist roughly grabbed and held by a strength greater than her own—Angelus! He was going to spoil her fun—naughty bad Daddy! She spin and growled at him, her yellow demon eyes glowing menacingly.
"And what do we have here, my gal?" he asked looking at Dru's latest victim.
"I want him, Daddy. I want to make him for me to play with so that Miss Edith and I can have someone to play lots of wondrous games with. Can't I have him, please?" she begged sweetly, really wanting this one more than she had wanted anything in a long time.
Angelus looked at her bemused, and shook his head. His daffy childe wanting to make her own childe to keep by her side. The idea of her being a sire of anything, but simple minions scaring him. "Let me see him, my precious girl. Is he worth the effort? I can always get you another doll to have fun with or some nice young girl. Why him?" he asked taking the limb body away from her so he could at least see what she wanted to bring into the family.
"He has such beautiful things inside his head…they swim, and fly…crawl around and round like wiggling, crawly, burnt blustering worms…such dark bloody dreams, murderous dreams that even he does not know are there, so much red glistening blood and black fire, he bathes in it, but no one sees, no one hears the screams…he's all so very alone…no one cares…, but I hear his calling me to play among the thorns and thistles under the cold bright moon," Drusilla rattled on, glowing, dancing almost in ecstasy at what his mind had shown her.
Angelus looked at the young man who was close in age to what his Drusilla had been when he had turned her. Yes, the man was striking, handsome, comely even, his groin began responding in desire for this one. He sensed intelligence, smarts, and an eager mind, a sensitive mind that could be molded and shaped. If it did not work out he could always kill the lad. Now he had to make the decision before time ran out. He did by changing into his own game face, and tearing open his own wrist before Drusilla, or Darla could stop him. He pressed his bleeding wrist to the lad's mouth. The sluggish blood flowing and pooling in the open mouth of the young man until instinct took over, and the man began to swallow finally. He, like the newborn babe he was, began to latch on to Angelus' wrist and suck greedily.
William was just about the cross the veil into final death seeing a bright light in the darkness of the void he was in, wanting to go to it, be one with it when from behind him he heard whispers, a calling. Something, someone wanted him to come back. It pulled at him, making him want to go back the way he had come. He did, answering the newer call, the building unquenchable hunger, the raw need. His awareness increased moment by moment of something changing within him, within his mind, his being, his very body. He felt himself somehow changing, transforming, as if the very cells of his body were somehow being renewed, replaced by something other, and this something other that was doing it to him was not good—it was the very opposite—it was evil, he realized belatedly. His weakened consciousness rebelled at the invasion, horrified at the idea of this sinister, insistent invader trying to force him out. He could feel the essence of some horrific evil spreading through both his body and mind, trying to replace all that he was, and had been, trying to take what he was and remake it over into the demon's own image of what he had been except making it totally dark, sinister, blood thirsty, without remorse, consequence, or true feelings.
There was a stubborn core within him that refused to give up so easily. The fear of totally losing himself, giving in completely into the darkness was the motivation. He fought hard against the invader and won, letting it overtake just so much, no more, not letting the evil win. The raging battle between his good and the invading evil took moments, long minutes, or endless hours-- he was not sure, did not know when he awoke again to consciousness, awareness of the changes that had been wrought within his body, mind and even soul, for in the back of his mind, in the hidden parts, it still remained and he knew it.
In a strange room, William awoke upon a soft bed clad only in a nightshirt. It was dark in the well furnished room, and he was alone. He lay back against the pillows which smelled of lavender and other things trying to figure out where he was and how he had gotten there. His last memory was of being in alley with a beautiful dark haired girl who had suddenly changed into some sort of supernatural creature before his disbelieving eyes. He remembered her teeth, her long white sharp teeth going into his neck and her drinking his blood. He remembered wanting her to do it, wanting her to end his pitiful, empty, loveless existence, to be one with her--for in that one suspended moment he knew her, loved her, wanted to be with this glorious creature forever. He had heard other voices too talking to her as his consciousness began to fade and his heart had stilled. Then there had been this wondrous, thick rich coppery wine in his mouth that he was drawn to drink of, that he must have to live, to survive. It called him like nothing else had ever done. Sung to him of death, destruction, and of life, and rebirth—his rebirth, his own immortality if he would just drink deeply of it, and he did, feeling it fill all the empty places, promising that soon he would have all his needs fulfilled, be able to have adventures, and experiences that he dared not want before.
He still felt slightly weak and numb as he lay there. Experimentally, he brushed his hand to his forehead, and it felt like ice as did the rest of his body. He placed his hand against his chest and there was no heartbeat—none! He began to freak, as he could not feel any breath against his cold hand unless he forced one to happen. His neck still hurt a little and he could feel the puncture wounds, but they were healing. Then he noticed he could see in the darkness. He could see clearly—his vision was restored. He no longer needed his blasted glasses. He noticed a mirror on the vanity table and got up shakily on unsteady feet and managed to take the few steps across the room to it. He wanted to see how bad he looked, and found he cast no reflection whatsoever. It was like he was a ghost—was that what he was? A ghost now? But he felt solid real, he couldn't be a ghost? He tried to put his hand through the wall to test if he really was a ghost, and found he was more forceful than he thought as he buried his arm up to his elbow into the wallboard without any real effort or real pain. His strength was amazing. He had never been this strong before.
With his hitting the wall came running feet and the door of the room was flung violently open. The first to enter was a dark haired, powerfully built man, followed by a beautiful woman with golden hair, and lastly his dark angel, the women he remembered from the alley who had suddenly changed and bit him. The man spun around trying to locate him, anger and surprise on his handsome face.
"I see that you are up, son. What in heaven's name did you do that for?" asked the man with a slight Irish brogue to his rich voice as he pointed to the wall and the gaping hole now in it.
"To see if I was real or not. I thought myself a ghost and wanted to see if I could pass through walls," William replied in explaination which caused the man to stare incredulously at him and begin to laugh slapping at his knee at how ridiculous it sounded.
"Ohh, that's good, very good," he said, wiping tears from his eyes while the two women giggled behind their hands. "No, my lad, you're not a ghost. Do you have any idea what has happened to you?"
William stepped forward carefully to study his new companions. "No sir, I don't, not really but I do feel a bit odd and I seemed to have changed somehow. I suspect I am no longer human, am I correct?" he asked, watching them all begin to laugh again.
"Very. You are now as we are…you are a vampire, a creature of the night," Angelus told him.
William turned an even paler shade of white, muttering, "ohh dear," and promptly fainted to the carpet.
When he had next awakened, he was in bed surrounded by the three vampires who had brought him his first meal—a very pretty young blond haired girl. Instinctively he had known what to do and without hesitation he had morphed into his game face, sinking his new bright white fangs into the bared neck as the girl struggled terrified, and tried to scream and beg against her gags and bindings. He ignored her lost in the ecstasy, and divine rapture of what he was doing—the pure sensuality of it heightening all his senses, his awareness of everything—he felt alive, truly alive for the first time ever. He drank deep, draining her, feeling her strength, her life essence, her very being flow into him like nothing he had ever experienced. He only felt the slightest touch of remorse for killing the girl, but her death meant his survival—and the strongest will always survive. And to survive Angelus he had to learn how to be strong and hold his own.
Coming back to himself in the present as his spicy buffalo chicken wings were set in front of him by the waitress, Spike decided that—no, Buffy wasn't ready for the truth, and wouldn't believe him anyhow. Plus it had been bloody embarrassing with him fainting, and all when he found out that he was a bloody vampire. He was damned surprised that Angelus let him live, but Dru had begged, and then Angelus had gotten interested in him himself—the bloody bastard. There were some facts of vampiric life that even with the slayer's worldly knowledge of that were best kept unsaid—not that he wouldn't like to bring Angel down a peg or two in the slayer's eyes, but telling her this would no him no good either. He decided he better give her the edited version with basic facts and let her draw her own conclusions, which she already would do anyway. Maybe someday he could really tell her the truth of how it was, and how it felt, maybe then she'd really understand…and finally understand him.
The end for now.
Hoped you liked it. Let me know. Vbmacky1@yahoo.com