Happy Halloween and Blessed Samhain.
Big thanks to justsonya for being an awesome beta. I'm glad I creeped you out a bit. ;)
This is for wiseacress's challenge for scary fic. I guess I would rate it R since it's dark and has a few bad words. It's Spander, future AU. More background inside story.
For purposes of this story, imagine current AtS season but down the road a bit. Spike is now corporeal, Xander has moved to L.A. Spike and Xander are together. That's about it. Prepare to be creeped out (I hope).
Xander woke to darkness. Silence. His body numb.
He could neither see nor hear, yet he sensed someone was near.
He tried to focus, but couldn’t grasp anything. Dazed. Lethargic. Then, sudden movement, a pinprick in his arm. His world turned hazy.
Sleep overtook him, but Xander did not dream.
“He’s been missing for two days.”
“Maybe he met someone.”
“Fuck you, Angel.”
“You want my help… why?”
“Look... I’ve checked all of my sources. You know this city. You think I’d come here if I didn’t have to?”
“Fine. We’ll look later. Right now I’ve got work to do.”
Awake. Xander was aware of his body. Stretched. Restrained.
As before, he couldn’t see or hear, but he knew someone was with him. His body went rigid as he felt.
Soft, delicate touches along his neck. Just the slightest caress--firmer than flesh... familiar.
Fangs. Spike had teased him like this during sex. Grazing his flesh, but not biting. This was not Spike. Xander knew Spike. They’d played games, but not like this. Handcuffs, blindfolds, blood. But always consensual. Always aware. Always safe.
This was not Spike.
Xander gave up trying to see and pushed his mind away from the touch. He focused on his other senses. Whisky. He smelled whisky. Spike.
No. Not Spike. Under the whisky was something else. Spicy. Different. Not Spike.
He listened closely, but all he could hear was his own breath and heartbeat. Vampire. As if the fangs didn’t already give that one away.
“ ‘I have gone marking the atlas of your body / with crosses of fire. / My mouth went across: a spider, trying to hide. / In you, behind you, timid, driven by thirst.’ ”
Xander could not identify the voice whispering to him. But the words he recognized. Poetry. Spike had whispered poetry to him so many nights as they made love. He knew these words.
“ ‘I who lived in a harbour from which I loved you. / The solitude pierced by dream and silence...’ ”
Is this a dream? Is that what this is? No. If it were, I’d be able to wake up.
“ ‘Between the lips and the voice something goes dying...’ ”
Spike. Please. Help me. Xander couldn’t stop the memories the words invoked. Spike. On him, in him, loving him. The two of them curled up in Xander’s bed, Spike reading to him. Neruda. Love poems.
“ ‘My toy doll, only a few drops are left trembling.’ ”
Xander wanted to say something, to stop the voice, but he couldn’t. He was mesmerized by the words. This poem was fresh in his mind. Spike had recited it just a few days before.
“ ‘Sing, burn, flee, like a belfry at the hands of a madman. / My sad tenderness, what comes over you all at once? / When I have reached the most awesome and the coldest summit / my heart closes like a nocturnal flower.’ ”1
Xander was shaking. A tear rolled down the side of his nose, but he did not speak. He tasted the salt of sweat and tears on his lips. Where was he? What did this stranger want from him?
He felt fangs return to his neck and slowly enter his flesh. No. Please, no. Only Spike. The fangs stayed in his flesh, but no blood was drawn. Then another prick to his arm and darkness embraced him again.
Spike and Angel had looked everywhere. They’d been to Xander’s workplace, his apartment, scoured the neighborhood. Angel had talked to his contacts, but they’d known nothing.
They returned to Angel’s apartment just before sunrise.
“It’s been 48 hours now. We can report it to the police. There’s no reason to think it’s anything supernatural,” Angel said as he poured them each a glass of whisky.
Spike said nothing. He sat on Angel’s sofa and downed the whisky. His face was blank, but Angel could see that he was scared, hurting.
“We’ll find him, Spike. I promise.” Angel watched as Spike fell asleep. His empty glass slipped from his hand and landed on the rug.
Spike woke slowly. Despite the darkness, he knew he wasn’t on Angel’s sofa anymore. He felt groggy, as though he had been drugged. As he returned to consciousness, his senses began to kick in. Xander.
Spike could hear his lover’s heartbeat and smell his scent. But the scent was tinged with fear. He could just make out the shape of someone across the room. A body, motionless, limp, suspended by... chains?
Spike tried to call to Xander, but was still sluggish from whatever drug ran through his body. He then tried to move towards him, only to realize that he, too, was shackled. What the fuck?
Just then a soft light came on above Xander. He was naked and bound at wrists and ankles, his body spread in an X-shape. The sudden illumination made the rest of the room seem darker. Spike could see nothing except Xander, but he sensed someone else. No heartbeat, no breath, but something. Someone.
Angel stepped into the light, just behind Xander. He leaned into the boy and ran his tongue up Xander’s neck. He smiled, looking right at Spike.
Xander’s eyes opened slowly. He squinted in the light, blind after sleep and so much time spent in darkness. The vampire had returned. Xander could feel him pressed against his back. Perhaps he never left. Xander could not be sure. He felt a tongue, but no fangs this time. Is it someone else? Is there more than one? Spike, where are you?
From across the room, Spike watched Xander. He could hear Xander’s heartbeat increase as the boy woke and realized Angel was behind him, touching him. He watched Xander squint, trying to see if anyone else was near. I’m here, Xander. I’m here. Spike could feel the drugs wearing off and knew that he’d be able to speak soon. Angel had chained him, but hadn’t gagged him. Why?
Angel moved around Xander and stood face to face with him. Xander’s eyes widened. Angelus? Angel looked over his shoulder and smiled at Spike, knowing that he could smell Xander’s fear and hear the boy’s heart racing.
“ ‘You kiss my blood stained lips and smile.’ ” Spike was stunned. Those words were his. Angel turned back to Xander and saw that the boy recognized the poem. “ ‘I weep, longing for the taste of you.’ ”
Angel pierced his own lip with his fangs and pressed his mouth to Xander’s. Xander squirmed and kept his mouth closed tightly.
“Oh, come on, Xander. I know you like this. You’ve done it before.” He kissed Xander again. “ ‘You kiss my breast, where my heart beats not.’ ” Angel moved down and kissed Xander’s chest, running his tongue along his left nipple. “ ‘I bite, thrumming to life in time with you.’ ”2
Xander’s heart was indeed thrumming. Spike could hear it. Xander’s fear had pulled him completely out of his drugged stupor. “Angel.”
Spike. He’s here. Hope filled Xander’s heart.
Angel turned and faced him. “Such lovely words, William. I saw the look on the boy’s face. You used to write such beautiful words for me.” He turned back to Xander and caressed his face. “Such a lovely boy, I understand why you love him so.”
“Angel? What the hell are you doing? Let Xander go.”
“I don’t think so, William. He’s far too delicious.”
If Spike were alive, his heart would have stopped beating right then. Xander was shaking, remembering Angel’s fangs in his neck. Had he drank from him? Xander didn’t know, he had passed out.
“No. You haven’t tasted him. You wouldn’t. He carries my mark.”
Angel calmly turned to face Spike. “You’re right, I haven’t. I was tempted, but he’s yours. You should... do the honors.”
“The honors?” Both vampires turned and stared at Xander. He had remained silent up until then. His voice was raspy, his throat dry.
“Yes,” Angel said. “My William is going to turn you tonight.”
“No.” Spike’s voice was firm. “I won’t turn him. Ever.”
“You’ll do whatever I tell you to boy!” Angel turned from Xander and stepped into the darkness. Xander couldn’t tell what was happening until he heard Spike scream in pain.
“No,” Spike whispered. “I won’t turn him.” Another scream, followed by a rattle of chains and thud on the floor. Then Angel was dragging Spike’s bloody body before Xander’s feet.
“You’ll turn him or I’ll turn him while you watch. I’ll keep you chained up, starving, bleeding, and make you watch me as I take him again and again. The most cruel and painful tortures you can imagine will be the warm-up for what I’ll do to him.”
Tears flowed down Xander’s face, but his voice was strong. “Do it, Spike. I’d rather it be you.”
Spike looked Xander in the eye. He could see the boy’s fear, but it was fear for Spike, not for himself. His beautiful Xander. Strong, ever the hero. “I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you,” mocked Angel. “Shall I compare thee to a Summers day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.3 How sweet.” He paused, then with force ordered, “Turn. Him. Now.” He yanked Spike to his feet and held him before Xander.
Spike looked in his lover’s eyes. “I love you.”
“I know. Do it.” Resolve. Determination. Forgiveness. Xander would get through this. Spike will protect me. Willow can ensoul me. They won’t let me hurt anyone. “Please. Do it.”
Tears rolled down Spike’s face as he leaned forward. He saw where Angel had sunk his fangs into Xander and bit over the marks, attempting to erase Angel’s violation of his love. He held Xander in his arms as he drank. As Xander’s heart slowed, he pulled away. He cut his wrist and pressed it to Xander’s mouth. “Drink my love.”
Xander drank as Spike held him and whispered, “ ‘I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.’ ”4 He wiped the tears from Xander’s cheek. “I’ll be here for you when you wake up, my love. I’ll take care of you. Forever.”
As Xander slipped into the darkness, Angel pulled Spike from him. “Enough.”
Spike turned to Angel, fire in his eyes. “Why? Why are you doing this?”
“Why not? I want him.” Angel smiled. “I’ve been watching you. For weeks. So sweet together. He’s made you my William again.” Angel pulled a stake out of his pocket. “But we can’t have that now, can we?”
1 “XIII I Have Gone Marking...,” Pablo Neruda (from Viente Poemas de Amor)
2 Untitled, original work in progress, Moosesal
3 “Sonnet 18,” William Shakespeare.
4 “Elm,” Sylvia Plath (from Ariel)
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