WALLS OF FLESH
SUMMARY: Buffy asks Spike some intimate questions. Spoilers up to middle of Season 5, especially for "The Body" and "Crush".
Disclaimer: the usual. Don't own them.
Archiving: list archives fine, everywhere else ask first.
Pairings: Buffy/Spike, Spike/Angelus/Drusilla.
Rating: R. Darkfic.
Notes: the quotes Angelus is reading aloud come from Sir Thomas Browne, (1605–1682), "Religio Medici". Not one of the most thrilling books ever, but suitably creepy. The little poem is by Anon. shrug Whoever they were. . .
Thanks to: My beta reader, Jess. Any good bits are the things she told me to include - all remaining mistakes are entirely my own fault.
Little girl, elbows on knees, leaning forward. "Make me understand."
Yeah. Like it was that fucking simple.
All flesh is grass, William, is not only metaphorically, but literally, true -- Irish lilt to the voice, too long ago. He blinked. Maybe. Doesn't mean I have to wait for the fucking cow, though, does it?
"What d'you want me to say? How easy do you want me to make this? And why me? Haven't you ever spoken to anyone else?"
Flare of anger behind those curiously placid eyes. He wondered briefly if she was on anything. Job like this'd drive anyone to the Prozac.
"No. I... I don't remember myself, you know?"
No.
He didn't say it aloud. He knew why she'd never spoken to anyone before, of course. Morbidity. Too much fear, too much fascination and it automatically made death a forbidden subject. You could always go the other way, of course, become so entranced with it that you just let it engulf you whole. Then what? When you were walking around forever frightened, no more than a shell, then what?
He saw in her eyes, as if seeing it for himself, the body. The Body. That was not how it was referred to; in fact, she would have probably eviscerated anyone who referred to it in that way. But, in the end, it was just that - a body.
The fact that it belonged to her mother was inconsequential, really. Well, at least to him. He didn't care. She obviously did. Obviously.
Indecision on her face - tell him or not tell him? - And he really didn't give a fuck either way. But - staying silent. Saying nothing. Let her sweat.
"Maybe you never heard. I... I got turned a few years back. Obviously, not permanently." A nervous laugh, then a pause - waiting to see if there was any interest.
He showed none. He knew.
She carried on regardless. "I don't remember the grave. I'm trying to, but I don't." Bubble-gum pink lips curl in a smile, and she was suddenly too close again.
Fuck it, what was it about her that made him so jumpy? He kept himself perfectly still. "And? Tell me why I should care."
Toying with her hair, "you said you loved me."
Sharp pain where his heart used to beat. Walls of flesh, childe, listen to me! Walls of flesh, that's all this is, don't be frightened. No, wait -- And a sudden flailing of bare limbs, trying desperately to get away from whatever was coating them in a sickly sweet sheen. "And you laughed in my face." Numb all the way over. He didn't know if he cared anymore, or if he should. Maybe it was this - this request. Not this. Anything but this. That's what she wanted, of course. Never settle for anything but the entire world. You want me? D'you realise you'll fucking own me, you stupid bint, if I tell you? And how much was he owned already? Two people watching him flail and curse desperately, struggling to get away, one giggling to herself, the other reading from a bloody book --
Not a hint of remorse on her features. "I did." Cat-lick smile. "Tell me anyway."
She'd taken more from his sire than just a soul. She'd absorbed him into her, until that same cockiness was there, that same coldness and selfishness. Had she been as self-centred before she fucked him?
And still - something tugged at him. Maybe it was the hint of genuine fear in the half-closed eyes, the memory of such sharp loss, the fear of an even greater loss. Maybe it was the arrogance and desperation that reminded him of himself. Maybe it was just that he wanted to hurt her, and if he needed to cut his nose off... so be it.
"Walls of flesh, you want me to explain that to you? What the bloody hell do you know about this?" The end 's' was hissed and lasted much longer than he'd intended. He clamped his mouth shut as if it would betray him.
Round eyes, staring at him guilelessly. She truly believed that he'd tell her, and that she could use him.
Yeah baby, use me. We'll see.
"Are you going to speak English, or do I need to call Giles for a translation?"
It struck him that the crypt was unaccountably silent. No Harmony annoying him. No strange obsessive robots. No minions or any life at all. It was comforting, in a way, to be this alone with her. Not like death at all.
"Ever died, Slayer?"
"Yeah." A slight sneer.
He stood, then; unbuckled his belt matter of factly. Wide eyes got even wider, but he didn't pay any attention. The jeans slid down his hips easily without the belt in the way. He wasn't wearing anything underneath them.
The little girl posture shook a little at the evidence of his obvious arousal.
"Is this some kind of sick joke?" her voice trembled, then caught.
He'd turned in the light and there, on his inner right thigh, was a pale scar.
Her hand snaked up involuntarily to fondle her matching one on her neck.
He pulled up his jeans again and did up the belt. Sat down. Lit a cigarette. A sneer. "Ever died, Slayer?"
"Transmigration of souls of men into beasts - is he listening?"
A giggle. "My pretty boy is sleepy... maybe he should take a nap."
"Eh. Dru, now's not the time to let him sleep. You all right, there, boy?"
A hand waved in front of his face. He waved it away. His eyelids felt unaccountably heavy. If the noise would just go away...
"Hey, no sleeping yet. Damned sassenach..." More cursing, still in Gaelic.
Quiet sense of outrage at the use of the Scottish term. Inappropriate, really inappropriate. He would have pointed it out if it had mattered. It did not, though, not really. Nothing much mattered anymore.
"Oh, damnit, Dru, don't let him fall asleep. He'll be dead in no time. Boy? Boy? What's your name?"
"Billy," someone whispered in a woman's voice. "He's my Billy."
"Billy? Idiotic name. William? William, you still awake there?" Strong hands at his jaw, clenching. "William?"
"Fuck off," he muttered, trying to prise himself away.
The fingers tightened. "If you weren't so far gone, I'd give you the hiding of your life. You'll not be speaking that way to your elders and betters, you hear?" Not really listening for an answer.
He sensed that perhaps that lesson would come later. Perhaps he wouldn't enjoy that one.
"William!" Definite annoyance there, the lilt getting stronger.
Worry as well, maybe? What could worry Satan himself? "Get thee behind me, Satan!" Only it came out as a murmur.
"God in Heaven. He's a regular little church-goer. Maybe this'll sound familiar, then, William - all flesh is grass."
More giggling. "Why from the sheep do you not learn peace?"
"Shut up Dru. William? Listen to me. Listen."
He was listening. He'd done nothing but listen since he arrived here, in this dingy little hotel room. Listen to that dark-haired girl's insane murmurs, listen to this idiot's rambling assessment of his form… listen to them all make such an astounding variety of noises, most of which he was unaware that a human being could actually produce.
That was the catch, though, wasn't it? Some part of him wondered if he should be scared, but he decided that he really didn't have the strength. He could barely concentrate on the Irishman's speech.
"You're dying, William. In a few minutes, you're going to be very dead indeed."
Oh. Why?
He squinted, realising only now that he'd closed his eyes.
Blood.
Everywhere.
The woman was still giggling. "The parson asked me that, daddy, don't you think that's sweet?" She licked her lips. "He was very sweet. And I said - I said -"
It came to him - an old poem, from long ago. "Because I don't want you to shear my fleece." He coughed with the exertion. It felt like someone was sitting on his chest. He looked back down.
Blood.
Everywhere.
"Drusilla, either shut up or leave, I don't care which. William, I'm going to try this again, after which I'm just going to let them bury you. You hear, whelp?"
Bury him?
Bury him?
"I'm not dead!" It came out as a croak.
"Of course not. You'll be dead in about ten minutes. Less, if you continue to struggle." He focused, finally, on the man's face hovering above his. Funny, he wasn't aware that Satan looked that good. Lucifer, the most beautiful of all the angels, was thrown down... the bringer of light... the proud, challenging the throne... His brain was still working, at least. Not that it explained the insane dark-haired beauty that watched from the corner. Oh God. Watching him. Watching him. She was covered in blood. His blood.
I'm going to die, he thought, and he was more frightened by that thought than he honestly imagined he had the strength to be, much less the inclination. I don't want to!
"Don't want to..."
"I don't give a fig about what you want. Listen. When they bury you, you'll be dead. But then you'll wake up. Do you understand? You'll want to come straight out, but don't do that if you feel light above you. William?" Hands on him, shaking him gently. "God, Dru, I don't know why I let you talk me into this. We could just keep him in the mansion with us until he rises."
She giggled again, watching something only she could see. "No. We have to give the baby boy back to his mummy. The stars tell me to..."
"Yeah, well, just hope that your stars come out early tomorrow night, or we're gonna lose this one. He doesn't look smart enough to understand. Boy? Do you understand?" Dark eyes peering at him with false care.
He thought he saw specks of gold in them.
He had never been a very religious man, but he'd done things by rote because It Was What One Did. So - he'd gone to church. Learned all those prayers. . . Our Father -- He moved.
"William --!"
The girl's voice was barely above a whisper. "Who bit you?"
He shrugged. "Does it matter?"
Such fury in such a small body. "WHO BIT YOU?!"
"Dru. On her knees, in front of me." A hint of a smirk. "These things don't heal, you know." He nodded towards her neck. "On humans, they fade, but once you're dead - that's it. Scar tissue's the best you're hoping for."
She wasn't listening. "You said - you said Angel was your sire."
Growl. "That wasn't what you asked. I'm not talking about that."
No. Not talking about the strong arms around his waist, keeping him still, stroking him, while that chit of a girl, all dark hair and wide eyes had knelt in front of him and --
After she'd bit, and the screaming had begun, then Angel had pitched in. Blood, bubbling from a thick wrist, male, definitely male, thrust against him, until he had no choice but to drink, at least a little. And afterwards that voice, desperately trying to tell him something before he died --
"Tell me?" Fluttering of the lashes.
No. It wasn't going to work this time. But - just a little push... "You don't want to know. Why don't you ask Drusilla where Angel bit her?" He knew, of course. Underneath the navel, that soft sweet skin of the belly. Wholly asexual, wholly predatory, but she didn't have to know that. No. Let her suffer.
Sure enough, misery in her eyes. She steeled herself. "Then what?"
A shrug. "Then I died."
"Dru -- Dru, get back, don't touch him!"
The slam of a door; hasty turning of a lock.
The world was spinning. Something was dripping on the floor - oh, wait, that was him. He looked down at himself. Nothing missing, as near as he could figure out. That was a relief. It would have been a shame to die without his bollocks...
Die?
He looked around. The man had disappeared, presumably to run downstairs and get the book that he had thrown out of the window. Probably trying to steal my soul, he thought, although the passage that the man - Lucifer? - had been trying to read to him sounded vaguely familiar.
The woman was still there. She was smiling.
"Oh, hello," as if she'd never seen him before. "Have you been a good little boy?" There was still blood on her lips from where she'd bitten him. Blood, and something suspiciously white on the corner of her mouth. She caught his gaze and licked her lips. Cat-lick smile. Like the man. Was it something in the air?
Her smile got wider. "Have you been very good?"
He was swaying, he knew, but at least he was moving. Get out of here. Find a doctor. Find a... Find a priest, mate. You're done for.
The man had returned.
Something razor-sharp touched his side, raking him. "Dru - no!" The man grabbed her wrists and slapped her hard, throwing her to the other side of the room. She crumpled silently, like a puppet that had its strings cut.
"Damnit, now he'll have extra marks. Couldn't you wait a few hours, Dru? God in Heaven."
Something slick slid against him.
I'm falling.
He was.
"William?" More blood against his chest; something cold and sticky and bubbling against his lips. He closed his mouth against it, found a finger forced in, slick with whatever it was.
It was just salt and water, his brain decided. He knew he was right. He also knew that he was wrong. It tasted far too good for just salt and water.
"William? You listening?"
"Mmmmmmm..." He sucked on the finger for all he was worth.
Abruptly, it was taken away. "William. Pay attention. Promise me you'll check if it's light outside before you rise."
That made no sense. And the panic was returning. He was doing morally deviant things that friends of his had recently been thrown in jail for, and to top it all off, he was dying.
Blood.
Everywhere.
"Stop drifting!" A quick, firm slap on his cheek, not to hurt, he guessed. His head span. Now what? This was making no sense. He wanted to go back to the pleading and the screaming and the crying he'd been engaged in an hour previously. Possibly the orgasming too, although he was unsure at which point he'd stopped screaming because of that and had started reacting to the teeth in him.
Teeth in me?
"For fuck's sake! Fuck this, we're just going to have to hope for the best, eh, Dru?" Someone patted him on the head. "Let's hope this toy of yours is smarter than he looks."
I'm smart, he wanted to say. I went to school. He didn't. Because a few seconds later, he was blissfully dead.
"Then what?"
"What d'you mean, then what? I died, innit. What more do you want?"
She frowned. "I remember dying. Drowning. I know about that. Tell me... the other stuff."
A quick shake of the head. "Trust me, luv, you don't want to know the other stuff."
And, still, she insisted. And so he told her. Everything he remembered thinking in the aftermath, after he screamed and came in Dru's mouth and she looked up at him with those guileless gold eyes. Everything he remember Angel saying as cold, cold hands held him down, and endless explanations, trying to stop him panicking, trying to keep him sane.
"He overdid Dru, you see." Her eyes were very wide. Now, she shut them.
Drusilla - created in such pain and delirium that she could never leave it, once turned. Angelus had been impressed with his childe - she'd turned out so much better than Penn had. Penn, who'd taken Angelus as his father and had then promptly left. A waste of good blood, Angelus had called him afterwards.
But William… no, William was an experiment of sorts. Angelus had told him so, later.
Thwack!
The learning of the lesson.
Barely three days old, terrified, naked, and in more pain than he thought was possible, William cast about in his mind for something - somebody - to pray to for deliverance. Whatever little comfort he found seeped through his fingers like sand, scattering on the ground. He howled in pain and anger.
Angelus was teaching his childe a lesson.
"I created you for a purpose, boy!"
Thwack!
"I will not be spoken to in such a manner! You will learn the proper way to address your sire!"
William did not recall off-hand what he'd said that had angered Angelus so. Likely, it was nothing, a mere trifle. The point of the lesson was not to teach him manners, but to teach him his place.
His place - looking after Drusilla, and being completely subservient to Angelus. That's why he'd been left with all his marbles, more or less. To --
Thwack!
-- serve a purpose. Much like a cabin boy.
William's lower lip curled in derision. Charming.
Thwack!
If that was what was expected of him, it was going to be a long eternity.
"He didn't love you?"
The way she said it. Like she pitied him.
"Oh, he loved me all right." Just to watch her wince at that. "'S 'matter of fact, I wouldn't be surprised if shagging him gets him all desouled, anyway." Pure bluff, but, then, she'd never know, would she?
The point, though - "he needed me lucid. He needed me awake and at his side. At his back, if need be. So, when the turning comes around, he's not flaying me alive or some such bollocks. He's trying to explain things to me, like he fucking cared." His face shows his contempt of the word, and he doesn't bother to hide it. "Sense", slayer. I was dying in his arms, having just committed several acts her Majesty would no doubt love to have me put away for, for a very long time, and your ponce of an ex-boyfriend was trying to explain his view of vampyrism to me. While I was bleeding all over the place."
He reached for his cigarettes again; stopped. He could deal. Yeah. Sure. "'Course," real casual, "that was before he took me as his childe. Or - acknowledged his duty as my sire, I should say. But that happened ages later. He was an intolerable wanker for such a long time."
She said nothing for a long moment. Then, "go on."
"With what?" He openly gaped. "You want to know the rest?"
"Tell me. Everything. At the turning… did he... did he..." Despite herself, she flushed.
"Fuck me? No. Not then. I was too far gone. Drowning would have been nice, luv. It took me an hour and a half to die, from beginning to end. And THEY WERE TRYING TO BE NICE."
Yeah, fuck that. Angelus trying to be nice - Angelus trying to endear someone to him. So he could unload Dru later, but he hadn't known this yet. Hadn't known that he hadn't mattered, that all that had mattered would be keeping Dru occupied. The girl with the caretaker toy.
He remembered that, now. Remembered that glorious obliviousness to his lack of worth, remembered the way Dru looked at him the way a child would look at a harvest moon. Remembered the pain of his cuts and bites, and the vague wonder that Angelus had cut himself too, to let him feed. He'd cut himself - didn't that show he cared? That he was loved?
And Drusilla continued to watch and to laugh, and to talk to the moon. Maybe the moon was the only one who'd truly understood. She'd hid her face from them all the following night when he finally rose. Darkness all around, abated only by a few stars.
Drusilla's face had glowed. "Let's go find my doll," she'd said, and he'd stared at her in incomprehension and pain.
Angelus had arrived barely moments later. "William? You made it?"
Yeah, you wanker, he thought back at that impotent memory. I made it. Wasn't that obvious?
And the little chit, asking that horrible, horrible question. "What was the grave like?"
He didn't remember.
Cold earth around him - he'd broken through the coffin; it took three fingernails, but he'd broken through, he'd clawed and bit his way through the wood, and remembered ancient stories told to him at dusk about the nosferatu and wood and soul harvesters and saying your prayers, or the big bad was going to come and get you.
Well, the big bad got me all right. "I don't remember."
She tipped her head to one side, like a bird. "Liar." No reproach. Just fact.
A sigh. "Why d'you want to know about the earth, Slayer? And what do you want to know about it? The way it smelled?"
God, it smelled of him and of plants, something unbearably fresh. Blood, wounds, all bandaged, and he could smell them. He was so hungry. He could gnaw on his own wrist.
"What it tasted of?"
Salt. Tears on his face as he finally clawed his way through, exhausted, terrified beyond belief. I didn't know, I didn't know his brain kept chanting. He hadn't known. If he'd known, he'd have wanted to stay dead. This - this was worse. The taste of earth against his lips, fresh with new life. And him - trapped below it. Buried alive.
Walls of flesh, William, are you listening? The man's voice was faint. Blood on his lip where he bit through it. He swallowed hungrily.
Father? Not knowing what else to call him. My lord? Terror, in the pit of the stomach. All the silence and nothing, not your own breathing, not the beat of a heart. He was dead. Anyone? I'm listening...
But it was too late now.
"What do you want to know, slayer?"
There was a curious emptiness in her eyes as she stood, finally. "I don't know. I don't think... I don't think I want to know anymore."
Revenge tasted sweet. "Why not? Scared of death?" Watching for the wince, for the crumbling, for the sudden memory of a woman with grey-tinged curly hair and a big smile lying on the couch.
Nothing. She could have been carved from stone.
"No." She shook her head. "Scared that if you tell me more I might pity you too much to stake you." She pulled out the stake from her sleeve. "Right now, I pity you just enough." She even sounded a little sorry. Paused. "Did you ever love me? I mean, really?"
He didn't make a move to turn away. "I don't know. What do you think?"
"I think I remind you too much of being alive. And of what came after."
He shrugged. "Your prerogative. I don't give a fuck." A sneer. "Gonna stake me, then, slayer?"
She moved toward him slowly, a little reluctantly.
Not yet... not yet...
He didn't move away from her. "Go on." His voice was hoarse. "Go on. End what Angelus and Drusilla started."
She made the mistake of looking in his eyes and saw the memory of that first moonless night. Twin pairs of dark eyes greeting him as he climbed from the earth, divesting himself of his garments to be naked as a new-born.
She saw it all - the wonder of that first night, of the first kill. Aren't you entitled a little slack after you've been dead? He'd died. Couldn't he have a little fun?
She looked at him and saw the savage lust for the hunt, the thirst for revenge and for hurt and for pain - saw it in him because she held it too in her own heart, and could not excuse it away by saying that it was not beating.
She'd hesitated a touch too long, and the moment was gone. William had died. And Spike? She wasn't sure. But it didn't matter anymore. Because now she was left with the stench of rotting corpses in a Sunnydale morgue, sister and mother and friends and Watcher, and no chance of another birth.
She wouldn't ever - ever - want anything like that to happen to any of them. Not to be a vampire. But to live again, even if they were cursed...
Speculation written in her eyes for an instant, but he saw it. She wouldn't kill him. She couldn't risk changing her mind one day.
And, worse still, there was no pity there. Just a hunger to understand how you survived being buried alive.
A random thought - is that what you were most afraid of? Not of death itself, but of someone with grey-tinged hair clawing a coffin lid too heavy to lift, screaming for you? Not just scared of getting there too late the first time. Scared of not knowing to be there the second time.
He didn't even notice when she left, only that a small smile was on his face afterwards. One thing she hadn't realised. Luv, I wasn't buried alive. I was dead.
And death - like most things - you got over in time.
fin