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Title: Eye and Heart at Mortal War

Author: Willa
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Rating: NC17
Setting: Season 5, AtS
A/N: This is Angel's POV throughout the whole of the ficlet. Based on Sonnet #46

* * * * *

And this is what it's like when your mind says 'no' and your body says 'yes':

You find that against all better judgment and sense, what happens when you come upon your mad childe in a stable, drinking dry the blood of a shy little mouse. You'd had your own eye on him for a later snack, a nice punishment for his rudeness in bumping your shoulder.

No trouble to track him down; Darla can tell - and will tell, or taste the back of your hand - by the worn-down shininess on a pair of trouser knees and jacket elbows, by the cut of a suit two years gone, what a man's station in life is. Where he'll live. She can find out who he is. What he is.

And this one is prey. Was prey.

You make your plans. You have his scent in your nose, you can find him. You'll linger at his window and cozen with words until he lets you climb through, and then you'll drink him dry. First showing him, whether he objects or no, what it's like to have his prick sucked by a stranger until he comes screaming, harder and better than ever before in his virgin life.

Then, when he's weak and that fool's romantic heart is all aflutter, you'll change. Show your true face, sink fangs into the delicate flesh of his throat and drink your fill of what's left, what's best.

But now there's Drusilla, sipping him like sweet shandy and cradling him in her arms. So thin she is, such weak-looking arms, that could yet still snap a mortal man in half. One of her hands caresses his crotch, sweeping over the erection that lingers even as he dies.

You've half a mind to break her all over again for her daring. Her stupidity. It was fine entertainment the first time around. But what's left when you smash shards? Dust. Useless. And he needs her. Needs her visions, her viciousness, occasionally her quim when Darla won't oblige.

So you've no choice. But you do hammer her aside with a thick blow and send her tumbling into the wall. She laughs, thinking it great fun. Then you step closer to the wreck, the wretch that was to have been your night's entertainment.

He's so close to death you can smell it. See the black shadow of the Reaper a-tapping of his scythe in the corner. You look down at tousled curls, glasses askew over dulling blue eyes, and a mouth made for kissing that's going slack.

Then you tell the Reaper to go fuck himself, you're the goddamned taker of lives around here, and you bend to the man. Still not knowing his name.

You sup the rest, the last pint or so of that sweet blood, savoring the taste as it rolls over your tongue. But you drink slowly, oh, so slowly, your hand sliding down his trousers and onto the naked prick beneath. So hard that it lies flat against his belly, leaking clear drops onto skin going ashy in death. To die in the middle of bliss - ah, 'tis the best way out a man could have.

Not that you give a damn. You've stretched out beside him, lazily rocking your own hips against his thigh as you squeeze him, and drink. The women watch with eyes all dark and glowing and knowing, holding one another's hands in fierce excitement.

His taste is a wondrous thing. Blood has flavor - oh, it's all copper and salt, make no mistake, but there's tangs to it that differ from man to man. This one's bursting with richness and vitality, never yet tapped, just waiting for the right one to unlock it.

Such a pity that no one ever shall now.

Then: "I want him," Drusilla whispers, one finger touching the corner of her mouth. "Daddy, please. I want him for my pet."

You don't bother to answer. Drusilla shouldn't be off leading strings, let alone siring anything more than a poodle. And she's tried that, she has; you're just glad it didn't take. Doesn't stop her trying again and again. Daft wench.

"Want him," she murmurs again. "We can share, Daddy. I see you wanting him too."

Your hand is too busy working that thick cock to answer back, your mouth sealed to his neck and lapping up the droplets of oaky potential. But you begin to wonder... what if? And if, and if, and if? He's a plucky bastard, meek little mousy nature utterly vanished, dying and knowing it but pushing weakly back against your fingers and demanding more.

Pulling back just a little, you whisper: "Is that your true nature, then, boy?" Squeeze hard, hard enough to draw a gasp. "Do you like this, my hand on you?"

Shaky nod. "V-very much."

You can't believe he's got the strength of will to talk. It's impressive enough that you begin to think perhaps Drusilla's got the right of it. His potential might yet be realized, in a way. 'Twould be... interesting... to see what came of this.

Easy enough to dust him if he's none so good after all.

And why not let Drusilla play? She won't have the raising of him. That'll be all your pleasure to take. You're sure of this, as you squeeze him again and he comes in a great shuddering spasm, wetness all over your fingers and his stomach. Warm.

You raise your hand to taste. Salty. Sweet. Nigh good as his blood.

Will he taste the same, after? Better - or worse? Ah, but there's a question needs answering, and it decides you.

"Drusilla, sweetling, come here," you beckon, feeling lazy and benevolent. "I'm taking the last, but you'll give him his first, eh?"

"Daddy," she breathes out, letting go of Darla's hand. Her eyes are burned holes in a blanket, flaring dark stars as she draws near. You can smell the arousal on both the women, a sickly sweet perfume, and nuzzle your nose into the ruinous wound on this man's neck to mask the stink. This is better.

She sinks down beside him, her tiny thumb-knife already at the ready, poised over her flesh. "Can I, Daddy? For real and for true?"

The man's blue now, fading fast. Little rattles and chokes ooze from his throat as he struggles for the last air he'll ever need. "Quickly, then," you scold. "Or shall I make him for my own?"

"Oh, no, Daddy." She slashes her wrist and presses it to the indigo lips, fast as flashing lightning; and she laughs, a merry little bubble. "I want him for my very own."

Well, want away, little girl, you think. Perhaps if you're good and he's bad as I want him to be... you may borrow him.

But this little fledge - and so he shall be, for Drusilla's blood is pouring down his throat and you see him swallowing, slowly - is yours, all yours. And you'll be keeping him for yourself.

Yourself alone.


And this is what happens when a hundred years have passed, and more's happened than ever rightly should between two men, two vampires. There's hatred between you now, memories of torture with iron pokers and beatings of the woman you both loved. Thoughts of the nights you shared rolling and biting and scratching are nigh faded from your mind, and: you hate him, this William, this Spike creature who never would obey and now never will.

He's taken it all from you. Your women - the Slayer - the amulet - perhaps your hope of redemption. Is he sorry? Does he appreciate it? Hell, no, he stays in his dingy little basement playing video games and bitching about American beer.

The sound of him, the deliberate ruination of that elegant voice into a poor man's accent and stubbornly clung to throughout the years - it chafes you, rubs hard on the raw. You've worked so hard to erase the Irish from your own voice. To be a new man. He doesn't give a damn; he's just himself as ever and always, and this is his rubbing your nose in it.

Looking at him, there's always this thought in your mind, lurking or foremost: you wish you had left him to die on the straw. A perversity upon a Nativity. Blue and spent, soaking in his own spunk with his throat a ruin. Untied his breeches and exposed him. Letting him be humiliated.

You hate him. Dear God, you hate him so.

And most of all? you hate that you still want him.

Because you can remember what it was like, when he was young and you still had the training of him, before he rebelled and developed that 'hell-with-you' gleam in his eye.

How you taught him to kneel before you, naked, prick hard, but ah-! No touching allowed, not while you're circling him with leather whip, bringing it down on those beautiful shoulders. Forcing yourself between those lips, teaching him to relax his throat until he can take it all, until you can have his mouth as you do his arse, rough and fast. Bending him near double and plunging in, relishing that muffled roar of pleasure/pain.

And it makes you hard, rubbing against the zipper of your expensive slacks when you're supposed to be running a corporation. Not able to think of facts and figures for fantasizing about that mouth on you. It's uncomfortable and loathed, no matter how it gets you off because you're not supposed to do that. Not supposed to want it. Because you hate him.

Not want him.

Need him.

Ache for him.

Burn for him.

Jerk off in the shower, a bitter satisfaction - no pleasure - and come with the sound of his name on your lips. Lie in bed and stroke yourself, hard and cold, oil and seed glistening on your fingertips to ease the way, tasting humiliation and anger rich as his blood on your tongue.

It shouldn't be.

And they don't understand, not Gunn nor Fred (though you think that Wesley if any may have figured it out, may understand - could even sympathize, and you don't want his pity, but somehow it's good to know that there's another out there as dirty as yourself).

You don't know what to do.

You know that he knows.

It's in his eyes, when he talks to you. The words can be innocent and sweet as sugar pie, but oh, the look in his eyes lets you know you cannot trust him.

He brushes up against you when it's not necessary. Bursts the bubble of space you keep protectively wrapped around yourself. Batters at you with fists and words, mocking until you burn and burn and burn.

Tempting you with glimpses, here and there. The curve of a hip. The baring of teeth. The rocking of his pelvis as he pushes hands into his pockets and sways, ever-so-casually talking. It's not innocence, it's temptation, and it's aimed at you. You know it. He's taunting you and your happiness clause, because he doesn't have one and he can take what he likes without fear.

Maybe he wants you to lose your soul again.

Maybe that's why he starts to come around stinking of other men. Some familiar scents, some total strangers.

Once he smells of Wesley, and the ex-Watcher will not meet your eyes, nor his.

That's why it has to stop, has to come to an end before you go mad. And so one night when it's completely unexpected (to you), completely inappropriate (in everyone's eyes but yours), you walk out of your luxurious home and make your way downtown, on foot, to the little apartment you know he stays in.

You have his scent in your nose. You can tell by the way he walks, dresses, and talks, who he is. What he is. Where he'll be.

And when he opens the door and leans against it, all sinew and smirk, you know that he's been waiting on you tonight.

You grab at him, pin him against his door and kiss him hard, tear at him with your mouth until his lips are bruising dark as when he lay near death. And he's loving it - pulling at your shoulders, urging you closer, pressing his hardness against your own. You can feel his shoulders shaking, laughing at you, thinking that he's won. Smirking into your lips as you try to show this thing how much you hate him.

There's a hunger now, woken inside, and you have to taste him again. He helps you, peeling away clothes and stripping away layer after layer until you're naked body and soul alike before his mocking gaze. But while his skin is bare, his soul is still tucked away under that layer he's grown like a callus. Sneering at you.

He lets you take him. Bends his legs back pretty as a whore, rubbing your back and calling you "Daddy", filth that pushes you on, pushes you in deep, until you're spent and you feel his juices soaking at your skin, a salt-sugary acid. Wine gone bad.

Then - and you do, and you don't know why - you're sobbing between his thighs, crying as if you'll never stop.

He touches you once, just once, gently, carding his fingers through your hair.

So this is what happens when the heart over-rules the mind.

You don't know what happens next. It's not supposed to be like this.

But you're about to find out...

* * * * *

For those interested:

Sonnet #46

Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,

How to divide the conquest of thy sight;
Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,
My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.
My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,
A closet never pierc'd with crystal eyes,
But the defendant doth that plea deny,
And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
To 'cide this title is impannelled
A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;
And by their verdict is determined
The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part:
As thus: mine eye's due is thine outward part,
And my heart's right, thine inward love of heart.

Read the Companion Piece