Disclaimer: Nothing's mine except the plot, yadda yadda yadda.
Set post NFA. Yes, I've been bitten once again by that particular bug. Mainly pairs Spike/Illyria but contains some m/m implications and a couple (very very brief) scenes of torture. Just so you're warned ;)
Apparently, it's her first time in a place like this. Loud pounding music. Stench of tequila, scotch, and cheap beer. Demons and vampires milling around because Spike's dragged her to a demon bar—she can't exactly get into a human one all blue-like and he doesn't want to see her change into Fred.
Why's he here, you ask? More importantly, how?
He's here to get plastered, obviously. As for how, well, Spike's already got two bottles worth of hard liquor in his system. So it's quite reasonable that he doesn't remember exactly how he ended up here. With her.
Spike squints into the depths of his shot glass, as though the alcohol will reveal the answer to him. Surprisingly, it does, and he finds that he remembers some bits. He remembers waking up with a throbbing pain in his side and discovering that he could only see out of one eye. He remembers panicking for a short period of time before realizing that his left eye was only swollen shut and that, no, he hadn't pulled a Xander.
He was, however, missing half of his right pinky. He stared and pondered this for approximately eight seconds before deciding that he was left-handed, anyway, so it didn't really matter and besides, Blue came in moments later to let him know that he'd lost a hell of a lot more than half a pinky.
She didn't have to tell him, but she did anyway, rambling about how Gunn fell first and then Angel. She was going to say something else, too, but by then, Spike had staggered out of bed and punched her, hard enough to knock her several steps back.
She cocked her head, stated that he was feeling anger. He retorted that those were some bloody keen powers of observations she had and fuck, but he wanted to get right pissed.
Pissed? she wondered.
You know, wasted. Drunk. Wanna come?
Okay, so he pretty much remembers it all.
He thinks it, odd, though, that he doesn't remember seeing Gunn or Angel go down. No, he just woke up in a bed feeling like shit and was told by some blue god that hey, sorry, but your friends are gone. Yup, every single one. Take my word for it…'cause I mean, they sure ain't bloody here. And I don't count as a friend, of course, 'cause I'm just an arrogant chit wandering around looking like another dead friend.
Spike chuckles. Even to his own ears, the sound borders on hysterical. He glances up from his drink at Illyria, who is staring at her own shot of whiskey—she's still on her first—as though it's a fern she's about to bloody mind meld with.
"Will you drink the damn fucking thing already?" Spike snaps.
Illyria looks up, eyes slightly wider in surprise. She hesitates, tilts her head back, and empties the glass. Her brows draw together and she licks her lips.
"It sends fire down my throat."
"Well, yeah, that's the whole point, pet."
"I am not your pet. I wish for more of this liquid fire," she says firmly.
The neck of the bottle clinks loudly against the rim as Spike fumbles to get the liquid fire inside Illyria's glass. Filling up the goddamned tumbler is the equivalent of pouring a large bowl of water into a funnel that's been flipped upside down. He congratulates himself when he only causes a few puddles on the tabletop.
"You've been housebroken long ago, Blue," he says. "And 's called whiskey. You'd best remember that if you're gonna drink it, y'know."
"I am not housebroken, half-breed, nor do I care for the names of things in your world. Names are meaningless, faceless."
Spike raises an eyebrow. "Are they now? So if I tol' you that the pretty bloke over there's named Wesley, too, you wouldn't care?"
There's a flicker of something it those unnaturally pale, ice blue eyes. Spike's lying about the pretty bloke, naturally—he has no idea what the man's name is, though Spike's fairly certain there are a few Wesleys out there somewhere in L.A.
He's actually quite glad that everyone who owns his heart
-DruBuffyAngel-
has such unusual names.
Well, with the possible exception of Drusilla. But he doubts there'd be anyone who could ever remind him of his girl, not even someone with the same name.
Illyria seizes the bottle off of the table and tips it into her glass sullenly. Spike swears she's pouting, but it's hard to tell.
The moment the nearly-empty bottle touches the tabletop, it's snatched up again by Spike. He slams back a drink. And another. And another. And pours Blue another, too. Or, at least he thinks he does. He's not sure if any of it made it into her glass at all. Any moment now and he won't even be able to comprehend the word pouring.
Of course, this is soon a non issue because one hour and twenty minutes later, Spike's no longer pouring anything at all as they've both taken to drinking straight out of the bottle. One hour and thirty minutes later, Spike's called her everything from "Blue ducky" to "Baby" and she has yet to complain. Another two hours and the ceiling's spinning wildly. There are now also three Illyrias. This is when he realizes he is thoroughly drunk.
Because there are three Illyrias and each one looks very fuckable.
Bloody hell.
He shakes it off and takes another drink. "So what d'you wanna do now, 'lyria?"
She frowns, appearing to deconstruct the question. "Do?" she asks finally, that one word slow and carefully enunciated.
"Well, y'know…'s only us. What're we 'sposed to do, you supposhe—" He frowns and tries again. "Suppose. Yeah. Yeah, I mean, we fight the bloody good fight 'n' all that rot or do we jus'…rot?"
He thinks he should mourn the dead or something, too, pay his respects and whatnot. But why should he? They're dead. It's over for them.
Then again, maybe he's only feeling sorry for himself. Sorry that he's got no one left but Blue. Sorry that he's the one who made it out and the others got to rest in peace. Sorry that he's got the burden of slogging through the endless days.
Sorry that everything he's ever had was taken away from him, and now he's got nothing. And he can't even blame Angel 'cause Angel was taken, too.
Illyria regards him with intense eyes. She misses twice before managing to press the bottle to her mouth.
Spike studies that mouth and finds himself wondering what blue lips taste like.
He's had lots of different lips over his time. Human, vampire, warm, soft, cold, harsh, demanding. He's even had Slayer lips, can you beat that?
-Angel can-
But he's never had blue lips.
Do they taste like blueberries?
He giggles. Blueberries. Blueberries aren't even blue, now that he thinks about it. He clearly recalls them being green-yellow on the inside. This fascinating discovery was made when Lorne dragged the entire team to an important meeting of some sort at a posh and terminally fancy restaurant where they were each served fresh fruit and whipped cream for desert.
Angel gave Spike a patronizing look when the blond pointed out this fact to him. Not five minutes after, Spike caught the hypocrite biting a blueberry in half and studying it intently.
But blueberries are blue on the outside and Spike supposes that the surface is what matters.
Spike wonders, as well, if Blue is green on the inside.
Those lips move and he realizes she's saying something.
"Wassat, pet?"
"You lust for me." There's a hint of surprise in those slurred words.
Yeah, sure. Course he lusts for her. 'Cause the bar's melted into an enthralling swirl of dizzy colors. 'Cause he's lonely and she's the only one right in front of him now. 'Cause hell, for someone whose hair color makes Spike's look as though it's part of the natural spectrum and who struts around like a lone rooster in a henhouse full of horny hens, she's damn fine looking. And yup, the surface is certainly what matters right now.
His empty glass tips over when he leans across the table, but he hardly notices. He grabs the whiskey from her hands and takes a swig. "What of it?"
She tilts her head to the side and opens her mouth.
Spike slams the bottle on the table. Clambers unsteadily over the remaining distance between him and Blue and presses his lips to hers before she can utter a word. And before he knows it, his tongue is halfway down her throat and he finally knows the answer:
Blue lips taste like nothing.
"C'mon." Seizing her roughly, he pulls her out of the backdoor of the pub and shoves her against the hard brick wall.
Spike's not sure if this is at all a good idea. Because really, Illyria is nothing more than a shell and he's about to fuck a shell.
Then again, he's fucked plastic and wires, so perhaps a shell is one step up.
Mama Smurf holds him back. "You doubt yourself."
Spike snorts. "Yeah, I do. Doubt m'self greatly. I think this is the worst fucking idea I've ever had. I think that I shouldn't be doing this 'cause in some way, it's quite perverted. But ya know what? I'm drunk, I feel like throwing up, and my dick's hard. So you wanna fuck or not?"
She stares at him for a minute or two, unblinking. Then, clearly deciding that yes, she does indeed want to shag, she pulls him toward her so violently he loses his footing and falls against her.
She takes his lower lip between her teeth, seeks out every nook and cranny with her tongue. He runs a hand through her hair, over her jaw and, though he's sparred with her many times before, it's only now that he realizes Blue's skin is hard. It's like running a hand over leather-covered rock.
His fingers slide down to her thick, body armor-suit thing she always wears. He fumbles around for buttons or a zipper or bloody something, but he can't find anything. He growls and curses. How the fuck do you have sex if you can't strip the—
"Oi!"
Spike jumps back, startled, when the deep red suit begins to melt away, revealing more blue
-shell-
skin.
He blinks six times total before concluding that this particular event is not a result of his blurred triple vision.
It should be very disconcerting. In a way, it is. But either the image can't fully penetrate the thick queasy fog in his head or he's always been fucked up from the start, he doesn't know.
Doesn't want to know.
All he knows is that he wants her and he wants her now. So he shoves her against the wall, harder this time, with a sharp crack. Buries his face in her neck and inhales deeply.
She smells of nothing, too.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
A dull pounding in his skull wakes him up the next morning. Afternoon? Whatever. The pain in his ribs is still there, too, but he can see out of both eyes now.
He can see out of both eyes, very clearly, Fred lying sprawled out beside him, her brown hair a tangled mess.
Spike gives a shout and scrambles backwards, tumbling off the edge of the mattress and onto the ugly carpet floor with a dull whump. The white cotton sheets, which he is still gripping in his hands, slide down after him. Feeling obstructed, he kicks them off.
Fred
-Illyria, you wanker, Illyria-
sits up with a startled look. "Is there a problem?" Her voice is wrong, too deep; Fred's usually warm brown eyes are cold with only a hint of concern.
"Change back," Spike says shakily. He makes an attempt to close his eyes, but doesn't even come close to succeeding. "Change. Back. Change back, you stupid fucking bitch—" His motor skills make a sudden reappearance and he launches himself at her. By now, she's gone back to being blue, but he's beyond noticing, much less caring.
They hit the wall together, sending down a light snowfall of cheap plaster. Knuckles split the third time they make contact with her face. Snarling. He swears he hears Illyria snarling, too.
Doesn't matter.
His ribs crack. Spike growls, grabs a handful of that fucking hair and pulls. Hard. Ripping.
Yes, that's right. He pulls hair. So what? He's pissed right now. And he's not Angel. Spike doesn't give a shit about fighting fair, playing by the sodding rules until he was in a fix so desperate that even if he resorted to fighting dirty, it wouldn't have done a single bloody thing.
He doesn't know why Angel did it. If you end up dust, does Hell spit you back up just 'cause you decided to sacrifice yourself rather than poke out the other bloke's eye?
Not fucking likely.
Illyria grunts and kicks him off. Spike slides across the carpet and scrambles to his feet, shaking off the blue strands attached to his fingers.
He rubs his sore ass and elbow and quietly thanks God that he didn't slide across on his stomach. Spike's gotten splinters down there once, but never rug burn. He's not looking forward to gaining experience in that area.
The room spins again; the pounding in his head grows stronger. Suddenly nauseous—perhaps the hangover catching up—he stumbles his way into the bathroom and manages to reach the sink before retching. Nothing comes up, naturally—he hasn't had blood since the fight in the alley and there's no human food in his stomach.
After finishing throwing up nothing, he glances at the shower and decides, why the hell not. Spike kicks the bathroom door shut and twists the taps, hoping that there's some hot water in this damn place. He sticks his fingers under the spray. It's not even lukewarm.
He sighs and steps into the shower anyway, jumping a bit as the unexpectedly cold water hits him. It's always colder on your body than it is on your finger.
Water is cruel that way.
The freezing temperature should wake him up, but it only seems to amplify his exhaustion. He leans against the shower stall and slides down, pulling his knees to his chest. He wishes someone were here to hold him. And yeah, he could call in Blue, but he doesn't necessarily want to shower with her right now. She's not cuddly, to say the least.
He wants someone else. He wants strong, familiar arms that wrap around him, letting him know that he's safe.
-"hush, boy, go to sleep"-
But there is nothing. No one.
So he wraps his own arms around himself and stares dully at the wet, dirt-crusted tiles. His vision blurs and he manages to stifle a sob before letting go altogether, allowing cold, bitter tears to fall freely. He tries to convince himself that he's crying for the others, that he's not crying for himself, for all that he's lost, but he eventually gives up on that, too.
Might as well start accepting he's a narcissistic ponce now.
When he finally shuts off the water and steps back into the room, Illyria's not there anymore. He shrugs it off. No big deal. Really. It's not as though he liked her anyway.
Of course, like and need are two entirely different things.
After hunting around for his clothes and getting dressed, Spike sits down on the bed and lights a fag. Every so often he glances at the door because, fine, he'll admit it, he doesn't want her to leave, okay? He's a social creature, always has been.
The thought of being alone for all of eternity scares him deeply.
He taps his fingers compulsively on the tiny table beside the bed. When the drumming of his nails begins to give him a headache, he pulls out his lighter. Spins the wheel, flicking the flame on and off. Impulsively places his index fingerover the flickering yellow-orange and watches as the odor of
-burning flesh fills his nostrils. intoxicating scent of blood. drip, drip, drip, goes the liquid red, falling from nail-less fingers. crimson-stained pliers hang carelessly from Spike's hands-
-he screams nicely, Angel does-
Angel used to tell Spike
-"you look pretty in chains, Will, anyone ever tell ye that?"-
Angel never realized that he
-"look pretty in chains, Angelus. anyone ever tell you that?"-
-Angel flinches. drip, drip, drip, goes the fucking guilt and shame-
-Spike breaks his sire's fingers for that look-
Spike's never told anyone after getting his soul that he still gets off on the memory of torturing his sire. Doesn't much regret it, either. Spike only regrets his innocent victims.
Angel was neither innocent nor a victim.
-"karma's a bitch, daddy"-
His finger is black by the time Spike pulls always from the flame. Hurts like hell, too. Though he's not certain that's an accurate analogy. If a scorched finger is hell, then what is this, this thing that he holds onto?
-the Devil is blue and goes by the name of Sex-
Ten minutes later, the door swings open and Spike ignores the utter relief he feels. He sprawls out on the bed as though he's been completely relaxed all along.
Illyria strides over to him, holding out a paper bag. "I noticed you had not fed since the battle."
Spike pauses in the face of this unexpected gesture. He takes it and pulls out the blood bag. "Cheers," he says softly.
"The man downstairs refused me entrance in my original form last night," she says, sitting down beside him as he rips open the plastic and takes a swallow. "I was forced to assume the Burkle persona in order to…to 'get a room.'" She sounds like she's quoting those last three words. Probably quoting the man downstairs.
Spike nods to show that he heard her. When he glances up from his breakfast, he notices she's staring inquiringly at the smoke clenched between his fingers.
He hesitates, then tosses the empty plastic bag on the floor and offers her a cigarette. She plucks it curiously from his fingers and examines the thin white cylinder.
Spike takes it from her hands and puts in her mouth for her. Lights it. She coughs on the first drag.
Six minutes pass in absolute silence, and then she's holding out her hand for another cigarette. He hands her one and lights it again, too. Studies her for awhile and realizes she reminds him of himself.
Spike smiles. She's gonna be a Spike carbon-copy soon enough. Drinking and smoking and shagging her way to the end of the earth with Spike the Original.
Yeah, he's gonna mold her, all right.
Like Angel molded him.
-"you'll be learnin' your lesson someday, boy"-
-smell of his blood fills the room. searing pain across his back-
-sometimes it feels like this is the most attention he'll ever get from his sire-
It'd be nice to leave a mark.
Spike's never really left a mark, not a lasting one. Not even with the Slayers he killed. Not even when he got a soul 'cause Angel got there first.
Spike will always be known as Angelus's childe, the Slayer's pet, the vampire associate of the CEO of Wolfram and Hart.
He's left marks before, though, on Angel. Purple-blue bruises around thick wrists and up along the insides of strong thighs.
-"sshh. don't rattle the bloody chains, Angel"-
-"there's no one here to listen. besides, if you stop putting your tongue there maybe i won't move as much. and who told you to tie me up in the first place?"-
-"you did, you sodding idiot. will you stop rattling the fucking things? or i'll leave you here and call up Watcher boy. might like to wank off to the real thing, he will, 'stead of sitting in his shower with only his imagination"-
-"leave Wes alone. and will you stop worrying? it's not like anyone can hear"-
Spike never told Angel that that was the problem. That no one's ever there to listen. To witness Spike leave his mark. The marks never stayed, either. He's left even more on Dru. A few on Buffy, even. And he's walked—or limped—away with countless marks on himself.
But they've never stayed. Nothing's ever stayed. Not even the things he's never owned, things he's only held briefly.
Because ultimately, there is nothing.
Ultimately, there are only blue lips.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
Half of L.A. is a smoldering, ruined mess, now. Broken rubble and burning wood. Scattered, bloody demon parts amid the chaos.
-no more thirty-floor lawyer castles-
The other half consists of two-bit whores and staggering drunks; half-assed, crumbling buildings that masquerade as hotels. Bars and pubs—some demon, some not—line the streets with their boarded-up windows 'cause the owners are too cheap to replace the broken, empty space. Not that there'd be any point; the windows always end up breaking again.
By the end of the third week, they've gone to nearly all of these bars six times and Spike is shagging Blue on a nightly basis. Yes, that's right, he's fucking a god. He's never done it with a god before.
-what, Angel doesn't count?-
-Angel's not my god-
Oh, but he was. Angel was his god
-god pretended to be noble-
-god didn't realize there was someone out there who wasn't fucking blind and had half a brain-
and Dru was his goddess
-"you taste like ashes"-
and Buffy
-"that was real"-
-"i won't forget it"-
was his saint.
They're all gone now. One dust, the other two somewhere he doesn't know. But who cares about that? Who cares about the goddamned details?
-hell doesn't care if you poked out his eye or not-
He doesn't have them.
-hell just wants to know whether heaven is willing to drop you into its fiery, eager arms-
That's the point, that's what's real.
-and it knows heaven isn't particularly concerned if you poked out his eye or not, either-
He doesn't have them.
He does have Blue, though. Blue hips and blue lips.
Spike makes her put on some clothes now. It's too fucking creepy to watch that weird melting thing she does.
So she puts on clothes and he takes it off. Scatter the fabric on cockroach-colored carpeting.
Tries not to think about the fact that he's one sick fuck.
-hide hide hide-
-hide and seek and find your savior-
She held him once, only once, when the dreams were too much
-two piles of dust with a mess of blood-stained spun-sunshine-gold hair and staring green eyes lying in between-
-"you failed us, Spike. couldn't save anyone. but at least we're together, now"-
-"who do you have?"-
and he woke up in shivering sobs rather than the usual silent tears. And it's stupid—he has no idea why he dreams. It's not like he remembers the fight. It's all nothing more than quick flashes of red and black and screams.
This is probably why his mind whips up all of these wild, devastating fantasies.
-ignorance isn't always bliss-
But other than that once, they sleep separate, each on their own side of the bed. Hollowness between them.
That way, she feels of nothing, too. And each night, he is worried that that will change. That those blue lips will no longer taste of doughnut holes, the sapphire skin no longer smelling of distilled water mixed with empty air.
Because that would mean he will no longer be able to close his eyes and fill that doughnut hole with gods and goddesses and saints; dilute the water with leathervanilla and wickedblackrose and sunshinegold.
It usually works, that, especially if he's had enough to drink.
And he always has enough to drink.
He doesn't think he'll ever be sober again. Doesn't ever want to be sober. Sober means truth and truth means he will lose what little he has.
He will lose the shiny play-pretend world he has built. Because that world is nothing more than a window on a run-down pub.
That world is non-existent beyond his little mind. Sometimes not even that.
So he drinks, as he does now. Sit in the corner booth. Exchange one bottle for another. Pass it back and forth between Illyria and him. Throw down some money. Get more tequila.
Blue's never gonna be sober again, either.
He imagines that's good, too. Because Spike's not the only one pretending. Blue's an impassive bitch, but even she can't control herself in bed.
Even she lets Wesley's name slip out once or twice.
And Spike would like to be real to her, to be more than a simple, faceless fuck, but that's exactly what she is to him so he can't exactly justify complaining.
Spike glances outside at the streets. He doesn't want to be here anymore. Too many memories.
-"think we should get out of here when this is over, peaches?"-
-"i highly doubt we'd—i mean, sure. sure, Spike. when this is over, right? we'll go anywhere you like"-
Not enough forgets.
-"hey, Angel? who's Conner?"-
-"how do you know about Conner?"-
-"you talk in your sodding sleep, that's how. who is he?"-
"Wanna go to Vegas," Spike says suddenly.
Illyria looks at him over the top of her drink. "Vegas?"
"You know, Las Vegas. Just east of here." Feeling a sense of déjà vu, Spike smiles wryly. "Wanna come?"
One last bottle of vodka later, he steals a car—a rusty, broken down, red Dodge Daytona—and drives off with Blue beside him. He intends to stop for blood thirty minutes later, but when he does,he and Bluesomehow end up in the backseat.
The car smells like vampire fluids after that, but he doesn't care and Illyria doesn't seem to mind, either.
"What is this Vegas?" she asks.
"Just a city." Spike takes a swallow of beer and swerves to avoid crashing into a truck. "Lots of casinos and rich blokes and wankers trying to get rich. Pretty lights at night. You'll like it." He rifles through the few CDs he's acquired since the lawyer building fell down. Sticks in Kiss This by the Sex Pistols. Spike is attempting to get Blue to acquire his music tastes, now that he's succeeded where booze and smoking are concerned.
It's another five hours before he stops at a scruffy motel in Las Vegas. The sun is creeping up, but he manages to make it inside without any smoking or sizzling. He pays for a room in cash and tries not to look at Illyria masquerading as Fred. He's learned over the past few weeks or so to ignore it.
He's learned to ignore a lot of things.
Spike heads down the hall, goes up a few stairs, and turns a few corners until he reaches their room—#215. The walls are yellowed and stained, the linoleum floor peeling.
Illyria steps through the entrance, Fred tucked away once more. Spike waits until the door swings shut, then smashes his mouth against hers. Breaks the skin, makes her moan. Screw the clothes. Tonight
-today, it's morning now, you retard-
is the night
-day-
day, all right, day. Today is the dayhe doesn't care about clothes. Doesn't need them anymore to make believe.
-if blueberries are blue on the inside and green outside-
-would they still be called blueberries?-
He throws her on the bed and she pulls him down on top of her. Rips off his shirt, his black jeans. Her fingers squeeze, like steel cuffs
-"do you trust me?"-
-"never"-
around his wrists. He'll bruise later. Illyria will, too.
-they're both already scarred, anyway-
Spike leans down and kisses those lips again, just to make sure they haven't gained a flavor somehow. They haven't.
Blue lips still taste like nothing. And nothing means everything to him.
Because you can't lose nothing.
Fini. Any and all reviews will be very much appreciated and be worth five gallons of Hagan Daz's Rocky Road. ;)