Dust

SETTING: Up the alley.
RATING: NC-17 when I can get the boys in the mood and in position.
DISCLAIMER: The boys aren't mine. *pouts*
WEBSITE: www.colddeadseed.com ( for Spangel, Spuffy, Spike, James and writers far far better than me.)
FEEDBACK: Mmmmm, yummy. Yes please.


DUST

Part 6.


Aghast, erect, insane with anger, Angel’s howl turned into an animalistic roar that shattered stone in both directions through the giant cavern which cored the earth. Not even Illyria’s presence pacing nearby had any effect on the outpouring of rage until finally the demonic features softened – along with the erection – and Angel dropped to the ground with a defeated cry.

“You have three….”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” warned Angel with a snarl. “This stops here. Now. I’m not being tortured any longer by a bunch of impotent Gods who are trying to play one last game with me as their patsy. Spike isn’t here …”

“He is …”

“Then find someone else who is willing to put up with this shit to find him.”

Illyria regarded Angel much in the same way she regarded most of the insignificant creatures she had encountered over the millennia. Angel met her haughty stare with his own fierce fanged glare of obstinance, which – although only practiced over a few hundred years – left Illyria in no doubt that he was just as pig-headed as she when his will was being tested.

It was of no consequence of course if the vampire declined to continue with this game. Illyria knew her future was already mapped. Yet there was a tug of miniscule anxiety that creased her brow as she looked at Angel crouched in a tense bundle on the ground, still flicking into vamp form occasionally, cursing and tucking his parts back in his trousers whilst try to regain some sense of control.

It may have been right to accuse her of having little understanding of emotion, but with total detachment comes some insight into the overall picture. Thoughts of blonde hair, black leather, mutual testing and a strange possessiveness over a clipboard almost made Illyria smile. Instead, her frown deepened and she hauled Angel to his feet.

“You have spent time in Hell, yet you do not wish to spend another day on this trivial puzzle?

Angel hit Illyria, barely causing her face to flinch.

Illyria hit Angel and he flew back a full ten metres, hitting the doorway over Door 14 with a sickening crack, falling forward to land painfully face down on the damp dirty stone floor.

“Twenty seconds. You will do this.”

But as Illyria raised Angel up she saw the first ever sign of fear she had witnessed in him.

“I can’t,” he whispered, no longer disguising his terror. “What happened … in that last room. I can’t do it again. I can’t do this with him.”

“You are not doing this with Spike. You are doing this for Spike.”

Being flung into the far wall of Room 14 was no less painful for Angel than cracking his back on the doorframe of Room 14, but the recovery to leap to his feet to face the figure in front of him was significantly quicker. At first Angel thought that he was still swaying from the force of hitting the wall, but after a few seconds he realised that it was Room 14 Spike who was wobbling alarmingly.

“’Lo tosser.”

Spike then proceeded to throw up on Angel’s shoes.

It was a sign of Angel’s fragile state of mind that he was quite pleased at this turn of events, being grateful that this Spike was completely unappealing and not at all interested in trying to take either of their trousers off.

This Spike also had an accessory in the form of a large, almost empty bottle, which he clutched as if it were his most precious possession even as he dry reached again by Angel’s feet and the unmistakeable waft of whiskey and bile almost made Angel join him.

“Drunk Spike. I should have anticipated this one.”

Feeling on steadier ground with a pathetic swaying slurring Spike, Angel removed the stake from his coat and looked at the figure’s back as he retched and spluttered, fingers splayed over the cold stone floor.

It was easy to end it for this Spike. Just a quick stab in a familiar place and then on to the next one.

Instead, Angel turned and left. Pathetic drunken Spike was too familiar. He had never dusted an unaware vampire by stabbing it in the back and he certainly had no intention of starting with Spike, not matter how certain he was that this version had a one dimensional personality and was incapable of ever sobering up.

Illyria was nowhere to be seen but Angel stood for a minute and frowned at the vast chasm stretching both above and below him, gnarly rockfaces and caves dotted as far as the eye could see which made him thankful that he only had a maximum of 22 rooms to search through before he located Spike. Standing before room 15 his mood lightened at the thought that surely the real Spike could not be too far away, then he could leave this godforsaken – an ironic description to use – place and never mention or think of what happened in room 13 again.

Room 15 Spike blinked at Angel when he entered the cave. He raised his eyebrow when the stake was raised threateningly, then opened his mouth to speak.

The scream of pain made Angel yelp and jump back. Spike had crumpled to the ground and was holding his head, howling in agony.

“Spike?” Angel pocketed the stake and knelt in front of him in one swift movement before it registered that this might not be the real thing. He forgot about realities when Spike raised his head, his eyes wet, red and sore from pain, the veins on his temples raised and throbbing.

“What just happened?” It was hard to keep the concern out of his voice.

Spike shook his head, seemed to regret it, then took a moment to compose himself before speaking, the effects of the excruciating pain leaving him momentarily speechless .

“Fucking chip.”

“Oh.” Angel was surprised on a number of accounts. He had begun to think up the versions of Spike he would encounter in the remaining rooms, but one that was chipped hadn’t occurred to him. Obviously these snapshots of Spike's life could happen here without the triggers needing to be present - such as humans he had just harmed. It all just added to the confusion.

Angel was astounded at the crippling effect of the chip on Spike. Had it been this bad for him through all the years he had it implanted? None of the descriptions he had heard from Buffy and her friends indicated that it was so devastating. Angel didn’t know quite why he should have been made aware of the extent of Spike’s debilitation, but he suddenly felt as if he had been a very poor Sire in not understanding what Spike had gone through, unsouled or not.

“Get it out, Angel. I can’t stand it any longer.”

No sooner had he spoken than the chip took hold once more and Spike grabbed his head in both hands, flung it back and let out a blood-curdling scream that ricocheted around the dark walls.

The stake came out again. Angel hesitated, went to plunge it into Spike’s chest while his eyes were still closed from agony, hesitated again, then stood up to leave.

“Angel, please.” Spike’s voice was raspy and desperate and it stopped Angel before he could step outside.

Angel didn’t try to hide the stake. He turned and looked back down at Spike, then regarded the weapon. Surely it should be easy when this Spike wanted escape so badly? But the imploring eyes did him in and he spun and strode out quickly, yelling at no god in particular, but rattling the surrounding cavern walls to get their attention just the same.

Distracted, he walked into Room 16 quite unprepared for the sight he saw. In the centre of the room a beast was greedily lapping at a large pool of blood, its limbs spread wide like a giant preying insect as it plunged its face down into the dark rippling pool of crimson.

It was absorbed by the feeding but raised its head up long enough to hiss at Angel and let him know that the blood belonged only to it and was definitely not for sharing.

Had Angel ever fed like that? Memories of bodies lying with their ribcages wrenched apart and bloodied organs being gorged on without resorting to utensils or even hands made Angel shudder. Of course he had done this, been like this, but it was not an image he wanted to think about or to see being played out before him. Never had he ever seen Spike look so much like an animal. A demon possessed by bloodlust and savouring fully the ripe rich red nectar as he lapped it preciously.

In his primitive beastly pose, face ridged, fangs bared as he drank, Angel was embarrassed when he realised that he thought Spike looked almost as beautiful now as the serene Spike in Room 2. This embarrassment – or maybe it was the mere recognition of his beauty – stayed Angel’s staking hand as he backed out of the cave.

“Come on Spike. Where the hell are you?”

In his eagerness to end this fiasco, Angel almost ran into Room 17. It was not an indulgent beast which stopped him dead in his tracks this time. No, it was something far worse.

Angel knew immediately and even though this was one incarnation of Spike which he had assumed – hoped - might turn up if this was indeed a showing of the different versions of Spike (plus a few other unspeakable deviations which didn’t bear thinking about) it was still a shock to see him.

“Angelus?” As soon as the word was spoken Angel regretted not being able to nod in affirmation, but that didn’t mean he had to deny it just yet, so he stayed non-committal and simply walked into the room a bit further and stared.

This Spike was accessorizing too. Nothing substantial like beer bottles or dramatic like a pool of blood, but with triple the impact and infinite connotations. Room 17 Spike was standing awkwardly, trying hard to appear at ease, and perched on his nose was a pair of thin wire rimmed glasses.

At first glance Angel had felt his cock jolt with excitement. By the time he had taken four steps toward him to inspect the figure closer it was rigid and throbbing.

What was it about one stupid insubstantial piece of wire and glass which turned him into a silent staring wreck who couldn’t summon up the power of speech, yet could expand from nil to ten inches in his nether regions at the first glint of gold framing blue?

“Angelus?” repeated Spike, for it was Spike standing here in appearance anyway. Blonde short locks, black t-shirt were the rule of the day for all the caves it seemed, but this figure was 100% the William Angel knew and … desired.

“Shall I help you read tonight?”

Angel shook his head emphatically then stopped as he saw Spike – William – produce a book from under his duster.

“You must keep up with your studies or you’ll never learn how to read.” The pout and resulting lowered glance over the top rim did Angel in and he capitulated immediately and allowed himself to be lowered down to the floor. Angel sat dumbly as William made himself comfortable sitting between his legs with the book in his lap and arranging Angel’s arms loosely around him.

Such was the surreal nature of this scene that William’s words were completely lost on Angel at first. He was reading from a very basic text book – one which was instantly recognisable to Angel, though he didn’t have the foggiest idea how that book had come to be here. If he closed his eyes he could almost smell the musty room filled with burning oil lamps and drapes heavy with dust and soot, the perfume of the ladies as they swept out into the night and the unmistakeable aroma of male arousal both from himself and the figure between his legs.

“ … will never learn, Angelus!”

Angel flinched as William twisted around to face him, leaving only inches between their faces.

He mockingly shook his head sadly. “I said that if you do not pay attention you will never learn, Angelus. Now, are you ready to move on to the next chapter or have you not quite mastered this one yet?”

“I …. Uh …” Angel blinked and imagined that he saw his own look of bewilderment reflected in William’s glasses. God, this was all so familiar! His mind spun back to an earlier room which contained a fledgling, which technically was William too, but this one – this spectacled temptor who flirted outrageously, if not overtly – this one he remembered oh so well.

In holding back his desire for William, Angelus had of course set himself up to be not only a target for Darla’s ire, but also a malleable sucker for the moments when William wished to assert some control and influence over him.

It had started innocently enough, even if that inoffensive remark to William about needing to learn how to read was fully wrapped in lies and deceit. Once the idea – and the lie – had been planted it was merely a matter of ensuring the girls were sent out to hunt a suitable distance away before summoning William to his parlour for his ‘reading lesson’.

It was a crock of shit of course, and they both knew it. Angelus needed reading lessons no more than a vamped William needed to wear glasses, but the fallacy of needing lessons gave Angelus the excuse to summon William to him and shut themselves in a confined space, and that in turn led to William claiming that his eyesight was still poor even as a vampire, thus donning glasses was necessary. Other consequences soon were apparent.

Shunning tables and chairs, so a pattern began of sitting on the floor or bed with William ensconced between Angelus’ legs allowing him to peer over his shoulder and of course take in the full scent of his hair, his skin, his neck, his blood, and of course the occasional close up of those blue eyes framed in thin gold.

It was the one time when Angelus conceded some power to William. He would still thrash him ‘til he was nothing but raw bloodied flesh and a mass of broken bones. William was still not allowed to have any control over his actions and permission was to be asked before he attempted anything rash, but in those first early months the private reading lessons were the time when William was handed all the power.

He was impressive, Angelus had to concede. William assumed not only the role of teacher, but also that of seducer with gusto and skill. Angelus had been impressed by the way William engineered their positions so he was always close and between his legs. It was also striking how the ruse of pretending to teach Angelus to read never became boring, with William able to inject just the right amount of touch and cajolement with his body and words to keep the normally short fused Angelus interested.

And he was very interested.

When William made him follow each ‘new’ word with his finger, it was interesting when the smaller hand covered his, stroking his hand with a thumb as a sign of feigned encouragement each time Angelus pronounced a word correctly. It was also fascinating the way William would let him hold the book sometimes, even when it lay in his lap, allowing Angelus’ fingers and the backs of his hands to brush over breeches that did little to hide the erection straining beneath the fabric.

But always the most erotic moment was when Angelus stumbled over a word and William had to turn his head in order to gently chastise him. Without fail he would make sure that Angelus had enough time to take in not only his blue eyes gazing faux sternly over the thin glinting gold upper frame of the glasses, but also the way the startling blue disappeared when he blinked slowly and attention turned to the length of his lashes and the way they fanned out so delicately over the amazing bone structure of his face.

It would have been so easy to kiss him, to take him right there and then. God knows they were both hard and leaking in anticipation. If they had gone with their initial instincts how different their existence in the 20thC might have been.

For at first the game had been enjoyed by both. Anticipation kept them in a mutual state of hardness and the teasing touches and coy innocence they both feigned kept the mood light and fun. But limits aren’t something a vampire understands or copes with at all well. As Angelus feared, Darla was the most astute sire and she lessened her outings or came home long before dawn to vent her wrath if she found the two males together, which was always the case.

Angelus knew he could not claim his prize, but he also knew he would not forego their little reading sessions together. His desire to be near William even outgrew his need for carnal lust.

But as Angelus practised restraint, William began to lose his inhibitions and voice his need for more. His hands began to overtly wander as soon as they were alone. The coy glances became none too subtle leers of lust and the pretence of reading was discarded along with any sexual repression he may have felt after being newly turned.
When Angelus couldn’t – wouldn’t – reciprocate, William took to taunting him. He altered his name, his accent, he wore the glasses as often as possible, despite the attention it garnered from Darla and Drusilla. The reading lessons stopped and bitter recriminations replaced the gentle teasing words that lit their cold hearts in the early days.

Angelus being souled broke the link emphatically, but really the damage was done with his inability to tell William why he could not give in to his desires. Pride stopped him admitting that he had no control over what Darla would do. Fear for William’s existence wasn’t something Angelus could express without compromising his standing. And there was always that instinctive feeling warning that once he succumbed to William’s charms he would never ever feel fulfilled with another being again. Pride and fear … repressive enough to humans, but to a vampire they proved eternally cruel.

“…Angelus!”

“Huhwhat?” Angel stared in bewilderment at the soft lips he had been kissing so recently. His hands rested lightly on the body he had been groping with a fierce desperation not an hour ago. Confusion reigned. He could dismiss Room 2 Spike as something bizarre and definitely not Spike, and Room 13 Spike could be disregarded for a multitude of reasons relating to the fact that it was so obviously NOT Spike, but this figure was real. This scenario was real. It had happened. The passion and ardour Angelus had experienced, now Angel felt glimpses of too and it was extremely disturbing. Could he explain this away by using that old excuse of blaming residual Angelus emotions?

Angel pushed William away from him and leapt to his feet.

“Angelus? What are you doing?”

William rose slowly, cautiously eyeing the stake quivering in Angel’s clenched hand.

“I don’t understand what is going on.”

That made Angel laugh bitterly. “No kidding. Try magnifying your confusion by 22 and you’ll get an idea of how I feel.” He backed out and hit the doorframe in frustration, then rested his head wearily against the stone and turned to face the remaining caves.

“Fred, Wes, Gunn …. they’re all dead, so why can’t you just let me get Spike and leave here in peace.”

“You have importance to the fate of your world.”

“Then let me get back to it.”

“Spike is important too.”

“Then give him back to me and we’ll both be on our way!” Tired, irritated, Angel finally turned to face Illyria. “Why is it necessary to do this to me? What does this prove?”

“That is what you must find out.”

Angel thought about this for a moment. “I have to find out what this stupid exercise proves? Apart from the idiocy of the gods and their strange collective sense of humour?”

Illyria merely did her creepy smile and nodded towards Room 17.

Angel went to walk away, then halted mid-stride and turned back. “I want to ask one question. Can you answer it for me?”

“I cannot,” said Illyria immediately, “But when you have been in all the caves you may ask a question of one of the occupants and they will answer you truthfully.”

Frowning, Angel swept his eyes along the line of doors. “But the real Spike is in one of these remaining caves, so I won’t need to ask you a question once I’ve found him, will I?”

The aggravating smile was his only reply, and still frowning, Angel trudged off to confront Room 18 Spike to see if he could provide some respite from this infuriating puzzle.

It wasn’t Spike any more than the occupants of the other caves had been Spike, nevertheless the way this one clutched at his chest and moaned agonisingly intrigued Angel enough for him to linger to see what the matter was.

Eventually, Room 18 Spike looked up, the pain and confusion evident in his eyes fading momentarily as he recognised the figure by the door.

“Is this how it hurt for you, Angel?”

“What’s wrong?” asked Angel, curious despite his determination not to be.

“I’m wrong.” Spike winced as if a shot of pain was coursing through him. “This … it scorches my every thought. If I’d known … If you’d warned me ….”

“Oh. OH!”

“Help me. I can’t do this.”

“You can. You have. You’ll be fine.”

“It doesn’t want to be inside me. I’m too dirty to carry it.”

“Spike, trust me. You can cope with a soul far better than I ever did, far sooner, and it will be far more at ease with you than it ever will be with me.”

“It’s ripping me apart but what else can I do to make myself worthy of love?”

Spike’s distress tore at Angel and it took immense willpower to stay his hand from stopping Spike pawing and clawing at his chest. Angel even imagined that he could sense the soul – new and powerful and ill at ease in its new cavity surrounded by so much demonic essence. This Spike was different again from the earlier version in Room 3 who was clearly insane from his trials. For this Spike the soul was new, but he was coherent enough to be trying to cope with it. The former had simply succumbed to the madness caused by the inner conflict.

Angel turned to go, then stopped and looked back at where Spike was doubled over with the intense effort to control his soul.

The stake came out. He raised it high over Spike’s back …


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