Closer to Hate: Part 2
by Sandycat
Disclaimer: Characters of Buffy and Spike belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and 'Grr Arg', not me. No profit being made.



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Part Two

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The world is fucked and so am I, or maybe it's the other way round. -anon.


* * *
Caught in an uncomfortable snare, somewhere between black despair and deep rage; Spike sat. He was so still in the dimness, that anyone mistakenly entering the apartment would have thought him a marble statue, abandoned mannequin couched in the darkness. The only sign of life in him was the relentless clenching and unclenching of his hands. Something dark smeared across it. The cuts had healed hours ago, but he hadn't bothered to rinse the blood off. The scent of it stirred his hunger pangs to agony, and he welcomed it, attempting to let the pain quench all thought.

She was in the bathroom, and he didn't think he could go in there. The muscles in his jaw tightened momentarily, as he envisioned her ashes on the floor. The sunlight seemed to have scorched his eyes only temporarily, and already he could make out vague shapes within the room. In a way he would have welcomed the blindness, a part of him he refused to acknowledge no longer wished to fight, wanted an excuse to give it up.

But always, his thoughts turned in this circle, coming back to her again, how a century of worship seemed to mean nothing, and how she had followed her precious Angelus to the gates of Hell itself.

*Centuries... * he mused, mind unconsciously seeking solace in memories of an earlier, less painful time.


* * *
He spied the girl for the first time that night, her dark gaze glittering at him from across the bar. She looked curiously out of place there, her eyes wide with wonder, a kind of innocent shock tinged with debauched joy; as she watched the outlandishly drunk patrons stagger about, groups singing loudly here and there, others affectionately assaulting the barmaid. At first he wondered why no one else seemed to notice her- she was a lovely creature, all pale porcelain limbs, night-dark hair and eyes... but then her gaze locked on his and all thought fled.

She stood, still staring at him; and inclined her head very slightly, face lighting up with a sudden impish, child-like grin. Then, pulling the hood of her cloak over her blue-black hair, she turned and walked out, seemingly oblivious to the staggering drunkards clustered around the doorway.

William, for his part, wasn't passing an opportunity such as this up. Gulping down the last of his ale, he made distracted excuses to the rest of the table, and rose, heading after her.

Outside, the cobbled road was deserted. Disappointed, breath steaming in the wintry air, he turned, intending to head back inside.

"Where are you going?"

He spun round sharply, and there she was, nestled in the shadow of a building across the street. Her voice, carrying to him, had a silvery, sing-song quality.

"Where would you like me to go, luv?" he asked, as suggestively as he could, walking over to her. Something about her made him uneasy, but there was excitement in that uneasiness, danger.

She didn't answer him, simply stared, until he was only a few paces away. Then the small sharp smile was back on her face. He couldn't seem to look away from her eyes, fascinated by the darkness in them, so black he couldn't distinguish pupil from iris. She raised a hand to his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw with a finger.

"Oooh... I know *you*." she sounded pleased, pleasantly suprised. In the part of him that was still thinking, William decided to play along with her little-girl act.

"How do you know me, pet?" he asked, an almost ominous feeling creeping over him; one which he dismissed instantly, pointing out to himself the ridiculousness of being frighted by a girl-child.

"My Angel talked to me last night. He went and left me all alone, but he sent you to take care of me."

She leaned further towards him, hand still cradling his face, till they were almost touching.

"Can I tell you a secret?" she breathed into his ear.

"Wha... ?" he had no chance to finish speaking, his words fleeing into a strangled moan as she sank razor sharp teeth into his jugular.

He remembered little after that, the darkness came swiftly, his whole being felt as if made of lead, and all he wanted was to sleep. And then that sing-song voice had intruded once more, liquid flowing into his mouth, sweet, intoxicating; as he suckled like a hungry babe. Opening his eyes there had been her face, a trickle of his blood still visible on her lip, as she watched him intently. Leaning over, he licked it off. She smiled, and spoke:

"You're my Angel now."


* * *
That was 200 years ago, give or take a decade, and they'd been together since. He'd never truly been alone, since the moment she'd made him. She'd been his glorious dark deity, adored, humoured, pandered to. And she'd thrown away two centuries of that after a few measly weeks with Angelus.



He wanted to rend the bastard limb from limb, castrate him, destroy everything he loved.



Perhaps he'd been wiser than Spike in that respect. Spike had been perversely pleased when he'd heard Dru telling Miss Edith that her Angel was burning. He was suprised the Slayer had managed to get out of the fix he'd left her in, but then, since the world was still here, it was really a foregone conclusion that Angelus was dead. Spike comforted himself with the fact that nothing he could do could compare to the torment Angelus was already enduring, even as the realization struck him that Dru would be experiencing it too.



He hadn't even thought of that till now, and his feelings were painfully torn. A part of him, one that he hesitated to acknowledge, raged at her for doing this to him; gloried in the fact that she would be suffering as she'd left him to suffer. The other part of him attempted to reconcile the Druscilla that had left him so painfully and abruptly, with the Dru he remembered; before Angelus had come back. She had needed him then, had she loved him? She couldn't have faked the emotion he'd sometimes catch glowing in the ebony of her eyes, surely? He'd loved her, as much as any demon could love; yet now he saw why Angelus had forsaken his humanity entirely, creating a chasm between demon instinct, and human soul.



Feeling not entirely rational, Spike stood, unsteadily. He needed to rid his mind of the unpleasant thoughts running through it, needed to form some kind of plan, some kind of...

"Shit."

His own voice sounded loud and strange to him, as he ran his hands over his face, as if he hoped he were sleeping, this all a dream.



Stumbling, he staggered back against the door, bile rising as he remembered that she still lay beyond. He'd been lapsing between consciousness and unconsciousness for the better part of three days, sitting alone with his thoughts for much of that time; and only now was practical reality hitting him.

She'd left him.

The hunger was shooting daggers into his gut, and he ignored it, filled with an unholy, rage-born energy; arms sweeping over the surface of the dresser Dru had claimed as her own, hearing the satisfactory smash of porcelain heads and limbs, as the rest of her dolls crashed to the floor. He imagined their empty glass eyes staring up at him as he strode over towards the apartments entrance, stopping to rip the crossbar off the stand of the full length mirror, throwing it to the floor, it shattered on impact, sending hundreds of sparkling shards skittering across the floorboards. Coldly, systematically tearing the furniture to pieces, he piled it on the bed, reaching underneath to grab the can of gasoline he knew was there.



He laughed humourlessly, and it sounded thin and sharp to his ears. Eyes terrible, he splashed the cans contents over wood and sheets, floorboards, finally tossing the empty can away. Producing his lighter from a pocket, he set it aflame. Standing at the beds foot, he watched with satisfaction as the fire spread, licking hungrily at the dry wood. Perilously close, heedless of his vampiric flammability.

"Goodbye, Ducks," he whispered, scarce loud enough to be heard over the noise of the blaze; then turned and stalked out into the night; imagining her dark eyes following him, every step of the way.


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