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Title: Methods Author: Delamore Pairing: DB/NB Rating: R   With method acting, you'd sometimes reach this symbiotic tension wherein reality found itself imitating art and wherein this reality made the art all the more real. Nick's still not sure he understands. And anyway, in this case, it's bizarro art--an alternate universe where Angelus wasn’t hinged on Buffy, where the unflappable sidekick found himself the lead. And the stickiness flooding your mouth was no longer semen but something far more revelatory. The reality of a fictional monster consuming his bewildered host. Shades of Dustin Hoffman, sleep-depriving himself Marathon Man-style. The Method in extremity. Nicholas is certain this phenomenon has been studied, published, and catalogued, but only recently has he developed an interest in the topic. All actors have their tics. Alcoholism, drug dependency, sex addiction--just the usual, pesky gamut. Red, red, red and the copper tang of coins and plasma and platelets; there was so much heat. Nick arches his spine, cat-like and pained, tries to pull his hands from under David's. No give. Angelus wouldn't give. Taking and giving. In acting, there was taking and giving. In life, same thing. And Nicholas always gave what he could; anything he took in return was completely incidental. So David took him wholly, fully. Nicholas, wanton and bruised, prostrating on the trailer floor; David, bruising and dictative, wearing too much dark velvet. And David probably hated Nicholas, some part of Nicholas, some part of himself, fragments of an unbidden malevolent specter. David gleams with Angelus, from the core outwards. He draws on something unseen to create the character, and it never quite leaves him. Warm crescent of mouth on his shoulder. Nick stretches his head to the side, leaves his neck vulnerable. David nuzzles. Presses his pelvis to Nick's back as though he could push inside him. And really, he can. Nick’s meant to speak with Joss about all this; Whedon could illuminate the whole Method thing. It's got something to do with Stanislavsky, but he vagued out all the helpful minutaie from his acting classes. He should ask Joss. He will. Nick tries to explain the trembling palsy-hands, the inexplicable bruises that require concealer. Tries to explain the abrupt reappearance of his stutter, why it ruins otherwise perfect scenes. But of course, the set knows anyway. On lunch breaks, David’s trailer looms emptily, David unreachable to even his assistant; but Nick’s trailer occasionally gives off short, strangled sounds. Pain, lust. David takes no pleasure in discretion. Angelus surely wouldn’t. So David hits and he bites. He fucks Nick against the bathroom sink, over the kitchen table, beside the unruffled bed. Most days after lunch, Nick will scramble his lines, will miss his marks with accuracy, and concerned parties will speak with him in hushed tones. He is costing them money. They blame him. Because David’s never been stronger. Every motion, every flick, every sniff, every blink. The response is overwhelming. Angelus arm-wrestles the fans into complete submission. There is talk of a spin-off for David, maybe a year down the line. The big-wigs grant David his indulgences, rubbing their meaty hands together in anticipation of another breakout show. What's a little vice to keep your potential frontman happy? Tonight, David is long and rough. Earlier, Xander escaped from Angelus, into the hands of Drusilla. Nick wonders what Angelus might've done with Xander, what would've been better done to him instead of to Buffy. He'd have to ask Joss. Tomorrow. David isn't letting him go tonight. So there is pain and there is bloodshed. David is weak and polluted with his character; an inner darkness that needs exorcism regularly. And like Xander, Nick is Dependable. He cannot prevent David from getting into character, but he can suffer for it. Alyson does what she can to hold his raw pieces together, but her soft hands can never be enough. And sooner than later--it’s a cliched thing, sure-- Nick knows he must speak with Joss about writing Angelus out. -End