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| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: Cage Opened Author: Spirit Pairing: Angel/Spike Rating: R Setting: Shortly after the besouled Angel returns to Darla in 'Darla'. A/N: Sequel to 'Soul Cage' He promised her the whirlwind. The lean form in his arms stirs and he clenches his muscles, preventing the inevitable movement and loss of touch. After a moment, there is stillness and he tries to close his eyes. These last moments have been of peace, of being something he isn't quite sure of, pretending to be someone he no longer is. And he's finding it all so tiring now; his demon burns, his soul demands and the tranquility is always fleeting. He can remember everything; the delicacy of virgin blood, the promise of meeting by moonlight and the crunch, crunch of bones torn asunder. He has done this, he has enjoyed this and now the shame rips across his conscience, stripping everything that was Him from his grasp. And whilst he hungers to feel the slithers of flesh grating against his throat, he cannot do it; trying is killing him each night and he wonders whether she was the one who called him here. They have spread their damnation across continents, and still She stands, in whatever form this rendition provides. She is the promise of death to his kind and he can still smell her fear lingering on his lover's flesh. And he knows it's an unbreakable circle - the death wish they all possess is opium to vampires. Want is as ingrained as the terror and each time a chosen one dies, there is a moment before her successor wakes with the strength of an army. Does she watch her soul leave, as surely as his own seemed to tear away under Darla's kiss? Did she close her eyes to the eternal, or embrace it like a lover? Did she feel as powerless as he is now? He stares at the door, daring it to open and reveal his sire, sharing his secret with her before he leaves. Because he is a creature of depravity and no curse can take those desires away. And his humiliation is almost complete; he has begged, he has pleaded and bitten his way back into her favour, only to learn too late that shame takes its toll on more than just his feeding. And when he rolls to the downy pillow alone, he wonders which is more distasteful to her, which impotent gesture matters more? He has his own bed now, she calls only when desire has overcome filth and for the moment, she loves him again. He has to earn it over and over and he is no longer sure that the prize is so precious. So when his bed is approached confidently, he throws back the covers and welcomes the other in. Ignorance is a happy companion to ill afforded lust. And within this tangle of limbs, no heart beats against his chest and the silken rasp of the sheets is the only noise he can hear. He promised her the view. His lips touch the long hair eagerly, smelling the death incased in each strand. And whilst this one covets his body, he can still believe that regaining his purity is possible. He can taste the hunger in each kiss, feel the driving flow of stolen blood as this body writhes above his own. And when the fangs brush almost tenderly against his throat, he wants to share in that passion, his mouth finding the moist hollow between neck and shoulder, licking at the saltiness and wishing he could suckle on copper fire. But the skin is still clean, unmarked by both his teeth and his temper. And he can smell the wound at the temple, knowing already that it is healing, that it will close by morning and be gone by the following night. How can change be so injurious and at the same time invisible? Why does he not bear the scars this curse has given him? Is that a part of his shame; that he cannot turn to the mirror and scream, 'look at what they did to me!' And yet before he weeps for himself, he needs time to grieve all those who passed before his feral self. His tongue creeps over the flesh, tasting the blood which congeals in both hair and skin. And he's almost humbled when blue eyes flash open, before settling back into a comfortable sleep, tongue still laving at his wound. Because the childe is no longer scared of the sire and equality has slipped in whilst the demon wasn't looking. And it occurs to him now that he no longer has to demand this childe's presence. This vampire comes eagerly into his room and he wonders what demons Spike trying to escape; what terrors his own childe impels on him. But he daren't ask, and he must dress and leave soon, feeding from the only thing he can before She returns. For the moment though, there is still the quiet, and he inhales the scent of death and warmth from the Slayer filled creature. His hands slide down the smooth sides, the feel of muscle and bone beneath his fingers urging him to other pleasures. His time here is growing short and there will be precious few nights left in which to share his bed. And for once, it isn't the demon's demands that call to him; he longs to spend a night beloved once more, able to give his dear one all he could. But he is able to do so little now, his worth less than nothing to her vampire eyes. And he has tried so damn hard to be what she wanted. He has bitten so deeply into his own flesh when she bid him feed. He couldn't do much more than scratch the surface of their prey, his soul becoming a millstone in their increasingly small pond. Vampires spare pity for no one, but he can't help wanting it all back. He can't help wishing she was more than the demon. That he wasn't so alone. His companion shifts again and raises his head. The expression is so relaxed, so expectant, that for a moment he wonders if he should stay; if this is worth the bleeding of his heart when she discovers his failings. He bends his mouth back to the wound, running his incisor along the edges, tasting the promise of his kind; tasting the potential that has finally been unleashed. And he's still unsure if he wants to own this, or simply feel that power rushing through his phantom veins once more. 'Up for it, pet?' Before he nods, before he gives in to the desire once more, he shifts back and feigns to look out the window. He can't see the moon and it seems wrong - there should be more shadows in this night. There should be something to mark its passing, because that feeling of finality is growing, and he is more certain that this bed will never creak with his weight again. 'I'm hungry,' he whispers. A hand creeps up into his hair, tangling in its depths and pulling him back from the empty window. He can feel the fingers curling round his back, smells the sanguine arousal and he wants so badly to take this easily offered comfort. He has traded filth for deceit and whilst this suggestion is given freely, he can guess how quickly it would fade were he to tell the truth. He cannot face that. He cannot lose again. He shakes his head. 'I'm hungry.' And that grin is at his shoulder, blood dripping fluidly down the side of a creamy neck. His hands twist into fists as he struggles to walk away from this solace. The fingers pull away from his back and he turns to see the self assurance of one who fights eternity. And it strikes him without warning - the death wish is everywhere, sought by mortal and immortal alike, it is only the choice of weapon that differs. 'You could have died.' Again the grin, the lack of fear about the future and his envy grows. It has been almost a century since he loved so freely. He can remember the Master's court, his insolence, his confidence that he was worth all she desired and more. And he fears that most of that was long gone before his soul damned him more deeply than any punishment she could devise. 'I didn't, I lived.' And he must leave now, must get to the waterfront and take his fill before she returns, because he can't bear this demonstration any longer. But those hands and that mouth are on him once more, lulling him with the promise of a moonless night. And he's too weak, too alone to do anything but take comfort in the act. The caresses across his skin are matched touch for touch as he ascends this final act, the hunger so strong it threatens to take the last of his control. And he glows at the crescendo, quivering in the shadows as he feels the stolen warmth of his kind for the last time. He bites into the bloodied temple, tasting the depths of eternity, trying to keep the memory in all there is to come. Because Heaven does not wait his soul; it does not seek the irretrievably damned. And he sees the chains that bind him to Earth as clearly as he feels the hands pulling his mouth away from the wound. He asks for neither and gains both. 'You've scarred me, you prick.' And there finally is the proof of change, that he can make things different than they are. So he runs his fingers firmly over the injured tissue, the icy-blue glare a minor concern. He has made a difference, he has the evidence in his hands and when he rises from the sheets, he thinks perhaps he may be able to become something; might lose this half-life forever. He turns back to the bed, aware of the amused, slightly irritated expression etched in marble and he is sorry, because this one has long outgrown his cruelty. He knows that with his departure, death walks with an animal's restraint and a poet's heart. He can see the three of them walking the night as one, delving town and country into their merry state of Hell. And whilst he longs for that, yearns for its simplicity, he has to believe there is a state of grace to which he can still belong. Because his time has ended here with them and whilst his future remains cloudy, he has finally achieved what he set out to do. He promised her the whirlwind. He gave her everything. ~finis Feedback |