Sins Series

Title: Envy (1/1)
Author: Tisienne
Disclaimer: Not Joss, just Tis. No money made here, and no rights either real or implied to the characters created by Joss Whedon and owned by him, Mutant Enemy, and whomever else.
Rating: PG, I think.
Summary: Pffft. Dunno.
POV: Spike’s.

* * * * *

Bloody hell, this is so not fair.

When did I become so sodding caught up in watching him?

Might be after the so-called ‘final battle’ in L.A…. might be when I found him wandering ‘round that New York alley, looking thin and starving and like he barely knew who he was, much less where.

Hell, might have been that first moment nearly five days later when his eye opened on the safety of the hotel room we’d holed up in and the brown was somewhat aware.

“Spike?” he said then, as though he wasn’t sure if he could actually trust what he thought he was seeing.

Watched him while he took in the fact that he was clean and dry and not sleeping in some dumpster or box, hiding from the light because it was too bright, too sharp, too jagged.

Watched his lips—too thin by half, much like the rest of him—while he made an obvious effort to string a few words together.

Was funny, that. Seeing Xander bloody Harris at a loss for something to say. Or it would have been if he hadn’t seemed so… lost.

“What happened ta ya, mate?” I remember saying, crouching down beside the bed, my hands in no way trembling as he swallowed hard and shook his head.

“Life… and death,” he whispered, his eye closing as though whatever he saw behind it was haunting him in the bad way.

Watched pain and some sort of longing sweep over his face, watched the too-pale cheeks twitch while his lips compressed into a grim line—a line too grim for the boy I remembered—and somehow, some way… maybe that was when.

Might be that was the moment I made him my new… what? Mission? Obsession? Don’t know what he is to me exactly, but… know I want to see him smile again. Want to see him taking joy from life, even with the brand new darkness that fills him so full it hangs about him like a…

Bloody hell, I was going to say shroud, but that word shouldn’t be applied to this boy. Not one for tempting fate after spending so much time on the bloody Hellmouth, am I?

So that was definitely a moment… not sure if it was the moment, though.

Guess it doesn’t much matter, in the end.

Want the bloke.

The bloke’s oblivious.

* * * * *

Kept him there, fed him up right, got him back to some semblance of what passes for health. Almost shouted in relief the first time he made a bloody stupid joke, but I couldn’t do that, right? Couldn’t let him see how thrilled I was to see that the boy I remembered so well was still lurking somewhere inside the depths of what he’d become.

Still don’t know how it happened or who did it to him. Don’t want to know. Doesn’t make a difference in any case, does it? What’s done is done and there’s no going back, no changing things. Have to just… bloody hell.

We’ll work it out.

Help him, teach him, let him rediscover who he was and lend him a hand in finding some way to blend that boy with who he is now. Not right to let this bloke go on with no joy, no happiness, no sense of having a purpose.

Won’t let him fade out. Lost enough already, haven’t I?

And some day when he’s feeling ready, I’ll take him to my Sire and see what the great poof thinks of this Xander Harris. Have a feeling Angel’s going to be bloody well surprised by how the lad’s changed.

But that’s not now. That’s later, and for now… we’ve got us some hunting to do, me and the boy.

“Get up,” I tell him, the slow, lazy swat on his arm not making him jump for a change and that’s a good sign, I’m thinking, “Got us some things to do, don’t we?”

I don’t watch while he rolls out of bed naked. Don’t try to peek as he pads across the floor, those big feet barely making a sound even to my ears.

I don’t look at him at all until the soft rustling of cotton against skin stops and I hear the nearly inaudible gust of displaced air as sock-covered feet are shoved quickly into shoes.

Know what he looks like starkers, don’t I? Spent days washing him, working to get the ingrained filth and stench from his skin after I found him.

Yeah, I know just what he looks like naked, though now—after nearly a month—he’s looking a good bit better. Fleshed out more, stronger… on his way to being something rich and fierce and stunning and when he is, I’ll…

Not do a sodding thing. Harris isn’t wired that way from what I recall.

Bloody hell, I am so screwed.

* * * * *

“Need ta get ya fed,” I tell him. “Goin’ ta need your strength if we’re goin’ ta hit th’ streets, yah?”

He shrugs, almost like he doesn’t care and I suppose he doesn’t.

Yeah, the boy who once traveled entirely on his stomach doesn’t seem to be hungry and I know that’s just a part of what he’s become, part of the changes, but he should be hungry. He should be bloody well starving by now. Used to eat every hour or two, didn’t he?

“Right, then. Come on, mate.” And I lead him off into the night, looking for the perfect meal to tempt him.

I’ll find it. I always do. And for an hour or a minute or even a moment… I’ll see a bit more of the boy I once knew and I won’t be able to keep myself from smiling.

* * * * *

His teeth are white, even now while covered in blood. Tiny red flecks drip to the white t-shirt and I don’t care. Happy to buy him another, aren’t I?

His hand—strong, thick fingers though thinner than they once were, hold the knife, splitting flesh, carving, slicing, digging deep as the juices flow.

He’s almost finished. I can tell. Know the signs by now, don’t I?

So I watch as another sliver of hot, red flesh disappears between his lips, his eye closed, face looking slightly dazed as he savors the flavor.

Just the tip of his pink tongue slips out, lapping the small tinge of blood remaining on his lips and I barely manage to swallow my groan.

Whatever else has changed about Harris, this is the most noticable for me. Gone are the days of carelessly shoving whatever he can find into his mouth and swallowing it nearly whole and… bloody hell, that thought is not helping with the not-so-little problem I’m sporting at the moment.

“Just about done there, mate?” I nearly growl, looking at anything—everything—but him.

“Yeah, Spike,” he finally says and I swear he almost sounds like he’s purring, “I think I’ve done all the damage I can do for tonight. You said something about hunting?”

And that’s a relief.

“Right. We’re off.”

I toss a few bills on the table and stand, pulling my coat around me to hide just how much I’m affected by the boy… and also because it’s bloody winter in New York. Might be a bit obvious if I strolled around in the sodding snow without a bloody coat, right?

I watch him get into his parka and I groan slightly when he reaches out and runs his fingers through the bit of juice still on his plate and licks them clean, his lips shining just a bit with the slick fat from the sirloin.

And as we leave the restaurant and head off to find whatever the prey du noir will end up being, I can’t help but look back through the window and sigh.

“Never wanted ta be a steak so bad in my life,” I murmur. And it’s true…

~End-- Envy
~Next: Pride