Take What You Want
Title: Take What You Want
Author: PokerKitten
Setting: 1935/1880-1900
Companion piece to You're The Top
Disclaimer: Joss, ME, Fox yadayada own the characters; I'm just messin'.
Take What You Want
An accident, a weird coincidence; that's all it was. There had been no way of knowing he'd be here, not with the whole damned, damnable world at his disposal. Same continent, same country, same city, same district… same street.
So why tonight of all nights had he felt himself drawn towards the bright lights and crowds, leaving himself open to temptation and torment? Lured away from his usual safe haunts of dark, rat-infested alleys and squalor, exposing himself to the dangerous dazzle of life and vitality. Skulking in the shadows of one of the very few unlit doorways, guts churning as he watched the pretty people disgorging from the Alvin Theatre; almost as if he was waiting for something momentous to happen. Or for someone.
And yet when that someone had emerged onto the sidewalk, the shock had been physical; like a supernatural blow to the belly, making him stagger and cower further back into the gloomy recess. His instincts had screamed at him to run, but his body stubbornly refused to co-operate. Shaken, but unable to act; mesmerised by the unexpected and yet somehow inevitable. His boy. Here. Now.
If only he were to glance this way, if he would just sniff the night air, all would be lost. Or won. For one brief, sharp moment he almost dared hope the handome figure across the street would sense him, save him, free him from his miserable burdens… But no, he had to endure, deserved to suffer. There was no easy escape for him.
Besides, it looked as if the boy had troubles of his own. Composing himself a little, he watched as the crowds bustled around the apparently innocuous young man. Little did they know… But he appeared lost in thought, motionless, eerily out of time. What could be distracting him? Was it possible that he had picked up on his grandsire's presence, afterall? No, his cocky exuberance would have won out and he'd have been across the street in an instant, grinning, clapping him on the back, the decades of separation melting away in happy acceptance. He closed his eyes for a moment, basking in the memory of the bantering, locked horns, locked limbs…
And when he opened them again, she was at his side.
Still together, then? He should have known. The lad's unflinching loyalty and devotion were traits he had mocked often enough in their time together, and yet had secretly admired. There had been no bending or breaking him; you might imagine you had gained the upper hand, subdued him to your will, knocked the shining idealism out of him. But if he liked you, loved you, there was no shaking him. Even if his love manifested itself in strange and unusual ways, far removed from his delicate and human Victorian sensibilities. Foul-mouthed and annoying, yet eager and willing. Submitting when it suited him, taking the pain, giving the pleasure. Only a deep betrayal could ever make him lose faith.
He shuddered, remembering everything he had made him do; what the lad had allowed him to do. Remembering, too, the times he had observed him fuck and bite others; the pride, possessiveness and jealousy that had burgeoned inside him as his protégé seduced and slaughtered. And those perfect times when he had been drawn to the lad as he lay quiet and alone, pleasuring himself; a voyeur, furtively watching him stroke and tease his slender body.
Eyes glittering, he forced himself back to the present. Ah, his boy's demeanour had changed now. A touch and a few words from his mate had revived him, it seemed. Back straightening, expression brightening, the predator revealing itself; if not to the poor fools around him, most certainly to his grandsire. The couple were moving through the theatre-goers, silkily swift. Powerful, in control. Picking off their prey from the crowd.
He was compelled to follow but dared not get too close; in truth could not bear to watch. Slouching against a wall, hundreds of yards away from the killing spree, fingernails biting deep into the palms of his hands, drawing blood; he didn't need to see to bear witness. But he could hear, feel, sense with every fibre of his being how charmingly and efficiently they brought the young lives of those innocent, defenceless women to a bloody end. He had made them what they were now; lovely but ruthless killing machines. All the suffering and soul-searching in the world could never make amends for this!
As the laughter reached him through the chill night air, he could picture vividly the way he would be throwing back his head, raising his hands in delight and triumph, his dark lady wrapping herself around him. The bloodlust always had made him hard. And the words he had spoken to the fledgeling over a century ago, the lesson he had tried to in vain to teach him, came back to haunt him.
"You can take what you want, have what you want... but nothing is yours."
Oh how very wrong he had been! This world was theirs for the taking and having; it belonged to them. And as for him? He had lost almost everything, but they were still his, and that was the greater part of his shame and misery. They were bound to each other, all four of them, not just these wayward children; connected, for as long as any or all of them walked this earth. And maybe beyond; he couldn't be sure it would ever end.
And still harder to acknowledge, let alone accept, was this unfulfilled ache, this pull, this yearning. For what he wanted but could no longer take. For his beautiful, deadly boy.
"Oh Will" he groaned, as he turned tail and fled. "My darlin', damned-to-hell Will."
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