Part Two: 
 Voyeur 

1885

Later he would try to figure out what he had done wrong this time, what he had done to deserve this.  Did it matter, in the end?  There were a thousand minor transgressions, both real and imaginary, that would have warranted such punishment.  Perhaps he had left his coat on the floor again or come home drunk sometime the week before, he couldn't remember.  Perhaps he had crossed his Sire somehow, with an expression, a glance, a careless word, some perceived impertinence.  Perhaps he had spoken to her without permission, or their Sire had discovered that some nights, after Angelus' special sessions with Drusilla, his youngest Childe crept into her room 
to bandage her wounds and coax her into sleep. 

In the end it made no difference.  Where there were no actual sins false ones were invented to take their place for, truth be told, he was no longer the disobedient Childe he had been as a fledgling.  No longer did he attempt to defy his Sire in thought and deed.  His rebellious nature hadn't changed, but Angelus had a way of getting what he wanted.  Angelus had a way of imprinting his wishes on Drusilla's skin. 

"Ah, Will," the older vampire said smoothly.  "Glad you're home." 

Will shrugged out of his overcoat, placed it carefully on the peg by the door 

(see what a good boy I am?) 

and entered the room hesitantly.  He had been in such a good mood only moments before.  Pleasantly full, slightly drunk.  But his Sire was sporting that look again.  That glint in his eye. 

"What?" he said suspiciously. 

Angelus assumed an innocent, wide-eyed expression.  "Nothing.  Just good to see you." 

Cut the bollocks, Angelus. 

"Yeah," he replied, trying his damnedest not to sound surly.  "Good to be here." 

"Come with me," he said, gesturing in the direction of her bedroom. 

Following his Sire, he scanned the room with nervous eyes and spotted the bed, blankets stripped away, clean sheets blindingly white.  He always did that.  The sheets were usually stained permanently, beyond repair, and quickly replaced.  But he would not allow the coverlets to become sullied.  Just one of his many quirks. 

He sighed and leaned against the doorframe.  He was too tired to argue. 

She stood before a window that reflected only white sheets and candlelight against the darkness outside.  Her dress simple, pale.  A virgin sacrifice.  Her favorite doll clasped tightly in her arms in the attitude of a demented Madonna.  Hair like silk strands falling past satin shoulders, over wide, clear eyes.  Beautiful. 

"Undress," Angelus said shortly. 

She complied instantly, taking care to lay the doll carefully on the bed first.  Angelus rolled his eyes and growled.  Snatching the doll from her resting place on the bed, he hurled it violently against the wall, where it shattered into a pile of torn fabric and porcelain dust. 

Her eyes filled with tears and her chin trembled almost imperceptibly, but she did not cry.  She knew better. 

She stripped herself of clothing quickly, lay down on the clean white sheets, and watched her Sire with apprehensive eyes.  He glanced at Will, who began to make his way dutifully towards the velvet-covered chair beside the bed. 

You've watched him fuck her a thousand times.  So what if this makes a thousand and one.  Just keep your mouth shut and soon it will be over. 

"Wait, boy," his Sire said. 

He stopped midstride and looked up in surprise.  "Don't you want me to-" 

Angelus waved a hand dismissively.  "No, not that, I'm tired of that." 

Will eyed his Sire nervously. This is either very good or very bad. 

"I want you to fuck her." 

This is... either very good or very bad. 

His body sat on the edge of the bed, completely independent of his brain.  He glanced over at her, pale, naked, trembling, on the bed.  She gazed back at him with wide eyes, half in confusion, half in hope. She had never had another lover.  But her split skin had good reason to wish for one. 

You want her, a voice whispered insidiously inside his head.  God, he wanted her.  He'd wanted her since the moment he first saw her and he'd dreamed of having her, dreamed of it in spite of the fact that it was madness, suicidal, absurd, expressly forbidden, dreamed of it for decades- 

But not this way.  Not like this.  Not with him watching, for fuck's sake.  It wasn't supposed to be this way. 

Wasn't sure what it was supposed to be like exactly.  That was a fantasy reserved for a different world.  A world where he had half the control over his unlife that he was supposed to have had, a world where he could make his own sodding decisions and kill, love, kiss, hate, fuck whomever he wanted to.  A world where he could come and go as he pleased without constant panic over what sort of harm might come to her in his absence.  A world without Angelus. 

He knew from the moment the demand was made that he would do it.  He would do whatever his Sire wished.  Not because he wanted her.  But because he loved her. 

It wasn't supposed to be this way. 

"Make sure to keep it interesting, Will," Angelus said, settling into the chair.  "We wouldn't want me to get bored."

Wasn't supposed to be this way. 

"Do you want the manacles?" 

He swallowed.  "No.  That's all right." 

Not like this. 

"You're sure?" 

His jaw tightened.  "Do you want me to do this, or would you rather?" 

"Temper, temper," Angelus warned, holding the leather manacles out to him with one hand.  "I think you should use them." 

"Fine."  Fine?  No, not fine.  You don't want to use them.  Tell him no.  Tell him to fuck off.  Be a man. 

Why?  So he can rip my manly throat out?  So he can- I can't even imagine what he'd do to her.  Just play along, Will.  Angelus always gets what he wants. 

They're just manacles.  It's not that bad.  What do manacles mean, anyway?  That she can't go anywhere.  And where the hell would she go? 

He snatched the shackles roughly from Angelus' grasp and fastened them with a trembling hand.  She looked up at him with apprehension. 

Wasn't supposed to be this way. 

"Angelus-" 

"Enough," he snapped.  "Inside her.  Now." 

He leaned over her, devouring the sight of her with his eyes.  He could taste her every sensation on the air, anger, fear, desire, shame. 

Not supposed to be like this, pet.  I'm sorry. 

He kissed her gently on the side of her neck, hands stroking her sides with careful urgency, as if they wished to commit to memory an experience that may never happen again.  Someone was trembling... was it her or was it him?  He couldn't tell.  She moaned softly. 

Sweet to you... good to you.  Not like him...  I'm a bleedin' romantic, a sodding undead Casanova.  He won't approve.  But do I make you feel good, love?  Do I make you feel better than he does? 

He slipped inside her slowly, relishing the sensation as she clenched around him.  He began to move back and forth, deliberately, carefully. 

Drusilla.  *My* Drusilla.  Feels so good.  Dreamed of this for decades.  If I pretend he isn't here... 

He never took his eyes from hers.  Friction beginning to build into delightful sensation.  Her face, so lovely. 

"Boring," Angelus said flatly.  "Will, what in hell do you think you're doing?" 

Will looked up at him in surprise.  "What you told me to do." 

"I told you to fuck her, not to make sweet tender love like a bleedin' romance ballad.  You can do better than that, my boy.  I've seen you do better."

As much was true.  It was another favorite game of his, to watch Will seduce a hapless virgin so that Angelus could drain her dry.  Sometimes Will was given a sip from the lass for his trouble; most often not. 

"Fine," he growled, and began to pump harder.  She whimpered softly and he looked quickly at her face, worried that he had hurt her.  But the look on her face bespoke nothing but pure pleasure.  Her hips bucked in a rhythm to match his own; her fingernails scraped shallow furrows in her palms as she clenched her hands unconsciously.  His lips covered her, pressing against her hair, her throat, her eyelids, her breasts.  The pace of her thrusts increased and her whimpers turned into delighted moans. 

"Will," she whispered. 

"That's enough," Angelus snapped, standing suddenly, taking his Childe by the back of the neck and pulling him off Drusilla, who let out a cry of protest as the contact was broken. 

Angry, Will jerked out of his Sire's grasp.  "What?  What the fuck do you want from me?" he raged.  "I'm doing what you told me to, you soddin' bastard-" 

Angelus struck him hard against the face for his insolence, splitting his lip and bringing a bright bloom of blood against the pale surface of his Childe's skin.  Will lowered his head obediently 

(second nature after so long) 

but lifted his eyes to look up at him in utter hatred. 

"That's not what I want," Angelus said evenly. 

Why not?  Because she's enjoying it?  Because I can make her come quicker than you can and you can't stand it? 

"What exactly do you want, then?" he snarled. 

"*Use* her, Will," Angelus said impatiently.  "Make her bleed." 

His eyes widened in shock.  He felt cold all over.  His mouth opened in protest, but no sound emitted.  He knew perfectly well what his sire wanted.  But he couldn't.  Couldn't.  He turned to Drusilla, staring at her in horror.  Her expression spoke fear, horror, despair, but no surprise.  After a quarter century with Angelus, she expected no better. 

If you don't he will hurt us both much worse than you can ever imagine.  Do it, Will.  This is the only way. 

Their Sire smiled. 

"I can't," he whispered hoarsely. 

"Do it, Will," Angelus warned harshly.  "Or I'll take her to pieces for you." 

He sighed and looked up at his sire.  "What do you want?" he asked, his voice lifeless. 

Angelus grinned.  "Oh, it's no fun that way, Will.  You decide.  I'm sure you can come up with something... creative.  I'll let you know if it's not quite up to my standards."  He gave Drusilla a pointed glance. 
"And then I'll pick up where you left off." 

Again, his meaning was clear.  If he tried to go easy on Drusilla- and Angelus would know if he was- his sire would be very upset.  And he would take it out on her. 

Can't. 

Smooth, perfect skin, so unblemished, can't hurt her... I'm sorry, darling, but I can't make you bleed the way he can. 

"Hurry up, Will." 

He picked up the cat o' nine tails with one shaking hand and straddled her, kneeling. 

Last night you drained three prostitutes and a magistrate.  You stick railroad spikes in people for fun.  You're wanted for fourteen counts of murder and those are from before you turned.  You are a sodding vampire.  Take the lash to this bitch. 

Different.  That was different.  Don't know why don't know how but it was.  This is Drusilla. 

"Are you going to do as I say, boy, or do I need to do it for you?" 

The lash fell against her weakly, only hard enough to slightly redden the skin. 

"You can do better than that, Will." 

Harder this time.  Red welts marred her skin in the lash's wake.  She stared at the ceiling, her face uncharacteristically expressionless. 

"Yes, that's better.  But she still hasn't bled." 

Whip falling now of its own volition; brain starting to shut down.  Jagged cuts appearing on her stomach, breasts, her neck, that pale, slender neck.  Her face so stoic, dead.  Why doesn't she scream?  He won't let me stop until she screams.  If she's trying to keep from upsetting me it's a bit late for that. 

"Do it as you fuck her." 

"Angelus..." 

"Shut up and do it, Will." 

He entered her again.  No pleasure this time, only rote.  Back and forth.  Not love, not sex, not even fucking.  A requirement.  Playacting.  The road of least resistance. 

"The lash, Will." 

Leather through the air, loud crack, more blood.  Grimy, sticky, his hands painted with it, drops scattering across his chest, his face.  She was so beautiful, so lovely underneath bizarre reddish-brown patterns. 

"Harder." 

"The lash or the fucking?" 

"Both." 

Increase the pace, the thrust of the hips, the strength behind the arm that wielded the whip.  She bit down hard on her lower lip, drawing blood.  She was clearly holding back screams. 

"Does it hurt?" Angelus inquired wickedly.  "Why don't you scream, Drusilla?  You always scream for Daddy.  Why don't you scream for Will?" 

He closed his eyes tightly.  So much blood. 

"Harder, Will." 

He pushed with his groin as hard as he could and a scream escaped her lips.  She was bleeding from inside now.  Sudden lubrication adding to the friction, her smell filling the room, faster, faster, and it felt 
*good,* oh, please, God, not that.  Anything but that. 

"And open your eyes." 

Cat o' nine moving of its own volition now.  The sight of her ruined, tattered flesh turned his stomach.  Her eyes screamed betrayal.  The entire world awash in a haze of blood and guilt and pleasure. 

(Sorry.  So sorry) 

She was screaming now, a wild, agonized sound ripped from her body by unseen iron claws.  Pain and surrender.  He could hear the last of her sanity breaking.  He was vaguely aware that there were tears 
running down his face, a raw, painful lump closing his throat.  A sound... his own voice... sobbing. 

He was weeping.  But, dear God, he was coming as well.  Coming in spite of himself, coming against his own will, but coming nonetheless. 

(Love you, Dru) 

He felt every muscle in his body tighten as he climaxed.  The whip fell from his nerveless hand and he resisted the urge to collapse against her, against her torn, ragged form, knowing it would only cause her greater pain.  He withdrew from her wearily, sat on the edge of the blood-soaked bed, and put his head in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.  Her eyes were dark, dead.  The bloodflow was beginning to slow. 

"No more," he whispered.  "No more, please." 

Angelus drew a watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it.  "I think that's enough for one evening, Will.  You did very well."  He stood up, lifted the boy's chin with one hand, and smiled.  "Next time 
will be even better." 

Finis