Found

by
Beetle

Part Four

“’Take your time, pet’, I said. ‘Sooner you’re in, the sooner you’re out’. Right.”

Spike lays back on the bed, glancing at the digital clock/radio; it’s going on two hours since the boy went in there. One, at least, since the slip-whish sounds of washing have stopped. Except for the occasional deep sigh, the boy is simply standing motionless under scalding hot water.

Which actually started running luke-warm, then tepid a half an hour ago.

Spike’s starting to wonder if maybe he should’ve gone and joined the boy, after all—-if he’d been mistaken to assume that’d be pushing things a bit too fast—-when the water finally cuts off.

“About bloody time,” he mutters, trying to school his face into an expression that doesn’t telegraph towering, murderous impatience, so much as it reassures that I would’ve waited eternity for you, love.

He’s still trying when the toweling sounds have stopped.

When the door cracks open and one dark eye peers out, he’s just about nailed it.

“Um,” the boy states with impressive indecision. Spike wants to hurtle across the room and grab the kid . . . fuck some spine into him, or something.

Self-control. Spike can do self-control.

“Well? Come on, out with it, pet!”

“M-my clothes--“

“Burned 'em in the alley behind the motel, as of an hour and fifty-five minutes ago. I’ll get you a new kit tomorrow night.”

“Oh.” The boy blinks and the space between door and jamb narrows. “Okay.”

“Oi!” The door stops and the tiny sliver of eye still visible locks on Spike. “You reckon maybe you’re done tryin’ to turn yourself into a prune?”

“Yes.” After nearly an entire minute of careful thought, and so low, even Spike can barely hear it.

“Then come out of there! You’re not hiding in that bathroom till tomorrow night!”

Spike expects an argument—-silly, but he does—-and is slightly disappointed when he doesn’t get one. He doesn’t even get a typically teenage roll of the eyes.

It’s as if the boy has no fight in him whatsoever.

Not that that’s unappealing, but he can’t stay like this if he’s to survive. No matter how well I protect him, there’s going to come a time he’ll have to stand on his own. Hopefully, not any time soon. . . .

“I--I’m only wearing a towel,” the sliver of eye says apologetically, finally opening the door just enough to emit one tall, broad-shouldered string bean of a boy.

He’s cave-dweller pale-—makes Angelus look like George Hamilton. His hair is thick and damp, falling into his face and obscuring his features but for the glitter of his eyes.

He's a few desperate shades above emaciation, but despite his gauntness—-the prominence of collarbones and the gentle shadowing of ribs and sternum—-his frame looks solid and strong.

A steady diet of human blood’d fill him right out.

Pleased, Spike beckons his boy closer. The kid sidles across the room--eyes darting everywhere but at Spike--clutching the towel around him as if it’s the shroud of bloody Turin.

When he gets to the bed, he perches gingerly on the edge, his hair curtaining his face from Spike’s view.

Stand on his own. Right, he’s barely up to making friends with the microwave. Any yob with a grudge against me’s gonna go through him first . . . like a hot knife through butter. . . .

Spike sits up runs his hand up the pale, unmarred expanse of back. The boy arches ever so slightly under his touch, and leans closer as Spike brushes his hair behind his ear.

“Look at me, pet,” Spike murmurs, when the boy still doesn’t open his eyes.

He’s slow to obey . . . not from insolence, but from fear. His eyes, when they meet Spike’s are as confused and frightened as they were the night Spike first saw him, walking tense and slump-shouldered down a dark alley.

“Why?”

Spike’s the one to be confused now, blinking warily at the kid like some odd sort of role reversal. “Why what?”

“Why me, William?” The boy looks down again; on the bedspread, his hand fidgets--actually looks alive, not like some dead, drowned thing, beached upon a faded burgundy strand.

“Why not you?” Spike demands angrily. But as soon as the anger waxes it wanes, with no sign of who it’d been directed at more. “Having second thoughts, are we?”

“No! No, I-—“ the boy risks another miserable glance at Spike. What he sees makes him cringe, and focus on the bedspread once more. “I’m nobody. Nobody wants me. I’m not human and I don’t know how to be vampire—-I’m pretty sure I don't want to be a vampire. I’m nothing . . . I’m—-“

“Mine.” Spike says, turning the boy’s face to his. There are tears running down his face that even Spike’s fingers aren’t fast enough to catch. “You’re mine. I’ll keep tellin’ you and showin’ you till you believe it. Till you know it up here—-“ Spike taps the boy’s forehead. “And in here.”

His hand settles over the boy’s heart, eliciting a shuddery gasp. He sways closer to Spike. His fidgeting on the bedspread has turned into the occasional twitch.

“You’re not nothing, pet, understand me?” The boy shakes his head, clearly unable to grasp what Spike’s telling him. In that moment, the idea of turning this kid, these broken up bits of boy into a vampire--in more than name and lack of soul--is too daunting to contemplate. “Look, I dunno who filled your head with that load of bollocks, but who’re you gonna listen to? Them, or me?”

“But he s-said I’m just a shadow—-“

“Well, I say you’re not. And I’m your Master, so there’s the end of it.” Spike’s leant in, stolen a kiss and pulled away before the boy’s lips part in surprise. The hand that was on the bedspread flies to his mouth.

“That—-it feels so different now that I’m warm, too.” The boy smiles and it’s still too small, too scared . . . but it’s genuine. “It feels even better.”

Spike doesn’t need to be told. The fear smell—-like cloves and heated iron--that surrounds the boy like a cloud has been leavened with desire, tart and bright as oranges.

The towel is suddenly leaving a lot less to the imagination.

This time, when Spike steals a kiss, the boy meets him halfway, his body curving and yearning toward Spike’s in a way that’s definitely not timid.

“You’ll see, pet.” He settles his hands on water-hot flesh and the boy moves closer: whether it’s desire, or his demon’s instincts, he straddles Spike’s legs with no prompting. He looks into Spike's eyes steadily, hopefully, and his arms wind around Spike’s neck--panick-y strong.

Nothing Spike couldn’t break, were he not so very inclined to do otherwise.

”I’ll show you, and I’ll show you till you ache from knowing just how mine you are.” Spike sends towel he’d been clutching sailing across the room, towards the telly. The boy doesn’t break gazes or shy away when the hand that’d been resting over his heart slides down his stomach to grasp his cock and stroke.

His head falls back a bit and a low rumbling starts in his chest. To Spike’s ears, it sounds almost like a growl. He chuckles, and darts in to kiss the boy’s neck and throat. Here, underneath the scent of soap and clean, warm skin, the boy’s scent is strongest: earthy, dark and sweet, like coffee and caramelized sugar. Threaded through it, like a discordant minor in a song composed of major 7ths, is the scent of dead roses and opium.

The boy’s tugging on the back of Spike’s shirt like he wants to take it off—-or tear it off—-but doesn’t quite dare, trying to hold still though it's obvious he wants to thrust into Spike's hand.

It’s all Spike can do not to push him down to the bed and take him. But he wants this boy willingly, wants the boy to want him bad enough to try some taking of his own.

"William. . . ."

He just doesn't know where he's supposed to find that kind of patience and willpower when the boy simply panting in his ear is enough to break his resolve.

“What--what happens when you don’t w-want me anymore?” Each breath is fast, shallow and shower-warmed. He moans when Spike’s other hand tangles in his hair and pulls his head back. Hazy gold-brown eyes seek out his own and the fingers clutching at his back tear shirt and skin with an audible riiip!

“That won’t happen,” Spike promises, licking Darla’s mark. It’s as readable to his lips and tongue as English is to his eyes . . . but not for much longer. Spike’s going to put his own marks over it as many times as necessary. “I'll never let you be cold or alone ever again.”

No one’ll ever guess the boy’d ever been anyone’s but his.

Across the room, the forgotten towel falls off the telly with a near-silent slither that’s lost under the sound of their breathing.

The sound of flesh on flesh.

The sound of fangs breaking skin.

Part Five

When Spike finishes drinking--not nearly his fill, but there's not much to this kid, as of yet--the boy has stopped breathing, but for the odd fitful gasp.

He sags in Spike's arms like an ineptly-made scarecrow; his muscles are lax and his erection has wilted. And no wonder: there's aught to the kid's blood and aught keeping him animated beyond the same magic that keeps his corpse preserved. Kid barely had enough blood to keep three synapses firing, let alone sustain a hard-on.

Spike takes a moment to remember the fleeting taste of the boy’s blood. Thin, bitter--tasting strongly of death and dark magic, it’d lacked the salty-sweet richness that comes with a steady diet of healthy human blood.

"Poor boy," he murmurs, laying the boy down gently. His dark eyes are dull and dazed from just the few perfunctory mouthfuls Spike had taken, but they follow Spike trustfully. Depleted blue-green veins are too close to the surface of his porcelain-pale skin. "Poor lost boy."

Pale pink-grey lips curve very slightly. "Not lost. Not anymore . . . Master."

The certainty in the boy's voice, and the trust that shines ever stronger out of his dark eyes makes something in Spike’s chest--can't be the heart; that's dead beyond resurrection--turns over. He hastens to give reassurances that, for the moment, seem to be unnecessary. "That's right, love. Not anymore . . . never again."

“Never again.” The curve of lips widens, is almost a smile, is almost radiant for a moment. Then the boy is blinking and frowning again. "Can I go to sleep now, William?"

"Not just yet, love. Got somethin' that'll perk ya right up, don't I? Make you feel strong and awake-—like bloody Superman." Spike stands up, careful not to jostle boy or bed, and takes off his t-shirt. The Docs get kicked off his feet and across the room, the jeans get skinned off in a trice and Spike's back in bed, gathering the boy to him. His breath, deep and unnecessary, catches when a soft, stuttered sigh tickles his skin.

"Go on, love. Drink.

For a minute, nothing happens--not even a stuttered sigh. Then the kid whispers something below Spike's hearing range.

"Speak up, love. Told you, you're not to fear me."

"I said, I don't know how . . . to . . . do that."

Oh, bloody--! "Bite."

Another full minute, then blunt and uncertain human teeth nip half-heartedly at his throat. And in the wrong place, no less.

It'd be cute if it weren't so bloody pathetic. So bloody wrong.

"Might help if you were in gameface, yeah? Let your demon come out and play? It’ll be alright, I've got you." The only person Spike's ever used this sort of tone and these sort of words with is Drusilla.

(Spike tells himself that now is not the time to examine why using them to calm and guide this boy feels even more natural.)

"I can’t." Another sigh, this time frustrated, and accompanied by a tentative lick that makes cool shivers dance up and down Spike's spine. "It m-made me do bad things so I put it away and I forgot it and I don’t remember how to bring it back,” the kid blurts out, struggling to twist away from Spike. It takes no effort at all to hold him closer, still.

"Don't remember?" Spike snorts, brushing the kid’s mouth with his index finger before tilting the kid’s still-human face back toward his throat. "Don't reckon those rats you've been livin' off of cut their little wrists to feed you, eh, pet?"

The boy lifts his hand as if it weighs a thousand pounds, then lowers it till his fingertips just graze the center of Spike's chest. He follows the trail of dark blond hair down to just past Spike' belly button and, with an exquisitely perverse sense of timing, stops. . . .

Spike grits his teeth and keeps a tight rein on the demon--who’s all for pushing the boy’s hand that last few inches lower, or simply turning the boy onto his stomach and taking him—-before it pushes him into something precipitous and Angelus-like.

Brute force, though it’d work a treat in the short run, would only make the kid as servile and spineless as a minion, which is the last thing Spike wants.

"M-my knife, when it was new--one slice was all it took and the blood would pour right out of them, like water." Jagged, bitten nails snag on Spike's skin without breaking it and the boy sits up, sneaking tense glances at Spike’s face. "But it got rusty and dull and c-crudded up, so now I have to saw and saw at them, and they won't stop squeaking and b-biting me, so I have to snap their necks before I--"

"Right," Spike declares, effectively halting this unwanted confession and catching the boy’s hand. He pulls it up to his lips, kissing the nervous fingers still before resting it over his unbeating heart. "What say I help you along, just this once, yeah?"

"How?" The boy asks, managing to look and sound contrite, intrigued and apprehensive all at once. In answer, Spike bites into his own wrist, briefly lost in the brighthotsharp pain . . . then there’s a steady, warmish flow of blood running down his wrist and dripping on his chest. He holds it out to the gobstruck boy.

"Go on, drink." Spike's voice is still gentle, but showing strain at the seams. "Drink." He orders when the boy just sits there looking mesmerized and puzzled.

There's a golden flicker in the boy's eyes, and another moment of hesitation, and he darts in to lick at the blood running down Spike's arm. Raspy kitten-licks that leave Spike panting and try his demon's patience nearly to the breaking point.

Now's not the time to play coy, pet! Spike's about to snap, when the boy's mouth latches onto the already closing wound and he begins to suck. Not the shy, polite sips Spike expects, but deep, purposeful mouthfuls, his eyes slipping shut as shudders deep enough to register on the Richter scale shake him.

Even his face quivers—minutely . . . like crystal under the onslaught of a high-C.

There's only the faintest prickling of the suggestion of fangs, and that's all the warning Spike gets before there's what feels like eight mouths' worth of fangs buried in his wrist--damn near to the bone. The boy's jagged, bitten nails also make themselves at home in the flesh of Spike's arm and chest.

Well, well, Spike thinks, half amused and half relieved, lances of pain and pleasure going straight to his cock. The kid’s got some bite to him, after all.

Pleased, he lets the boy drink his fill for most of a minute, then tangles his free hand in the boy's thick, soft hair.

A distracted growl is the only response he gets to not-so-gentle tugs.

Bite and balls, it would seem. . . .

"That's enough, pet,” Spike says mildly, with just a hint of steel in his voice. “Don't make me repeat myself."

For a few seconds, he's sure the boy's going to ignore that, as well--good for him, if he does, the demon hisses--but he withdraws his fangs, rather more carefully than he'd inserted them. He licks Spike's wrist attentively, until the bleeding stops and the wounds are nearly healed, then licks the rest of Spike’s arm clean.

When he faces Spike, there isn't a stray drop of blood on or around his mouth and his eyes are golden and guiltless in a sharp-planed predator's face. His skin is no longer corpse-white; it’s taken on a faint rosy flush. As he fills out, his facial ridges will be less prominent, but still strong.

"How do you feel?" Spike asks, brushing the boy’ s hair out of his face to get a better look at him. He’s pleased all out of proportion when the boy leans into his touch contentedly.

"Clearer." The boy licks his lips again, as if chasing down hints of blood he might have missed. "Stronger. Restless. Like I need to . . . fight and--and--"

"Fuck?" Spike adds with a smirk, pulling the boy against him. Not wilted, anymore, he’s pleased to note. The boy’s not shy anymore, either. He's grinding against Spike with no hesitation and no shame, a delighted little growl escaping him when Spike rolls them over and pins him to the bed.

"Yeah . . . that too." His gameface fades slowly away, till all that's left of it is golden embers in the depths of guileless brown eyes. His human face looks different, somehow; finished. He still looks young, still looks innocent. But it's no longer the innocence of a hunted rabbit . . . it’s that of an untried predator, ready for his first hunt.

Perhaps we’ll be going out tonight, after all. Spike grins. The idea of watching this boy--his boy hunt and feed--

Taking his boy next to the still-warm body. . . .

This appeals to Spike's demon very, very much.

The boy smiles-—a narrow, hungry sort of smile he wouldn't have been capable of even five minutes ago—-and the demon is there in it, alright. Present and very much accounted for.

"I wanna fight, and I wanna fuck, but most of all I want to . . . feed." This last isn't plaintive or hesitant, but contemplative, as if the boy's rolling the feeling around in his brain to be sure he hasn't mistaken it.

He licks his lips again, more gold lightening his dark eyes to Halloween-hazel, and tucks his face up into the curve of Spike's neck and shoulder for something too toothy and intent to be nuzzling. Spike pushes the boy's legs up and out, switching to gameface.

His first thrust makes the boy cry out and wrap his arms around Spike's neck. Soon, Spike's lost himself in the irresistible dance of take-and-claim, lost himself in this boy.

This strange, innocent boy who laughs, and peppers Spike with kisses that draw blood.

"Yeah," he breathes, in gameface again and holding on for dear unlife. "I wanna feed."

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