#149 - Triskele -For My Love - spikesdeb - BtVS

[spikesdeb.livejournal.com]

Title: For My Love
Fandom: BtVS
Prompt: Triskele
Warnings: Slightly gory, nothing too hideous
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Spike's had another bust-up with Drusilla and finds solace in a bottle. He's hoping the gift he's got for her will help her take him back.
Word Count : 898

Spike leant back against the wall of the building he'd holed up in to avoid the sunlight. He'd intended making it back before sun-up, but failed to take into account the three bottles of scotch he'd consumed in an effort to block out Drusilla's stinging words after their small disagreement. One bottle had let to another, then another, and even a vampire's metabolism, such as it was, didn't do well when swimming in alcohol. Sadly, his sense of direction had disappeared along with his rancour, and though he'd started home to beg forgiveness, he'd had no choice but to wait it out until night, collapsing in a drunken heap as soon as he'd shouldered down the door .

No doubt she'd be even madder now.

Or maybe not – maybe the bloody pixies would be singing to her of her daddy again, and she hadn't even noticed he wasn't there.

He knew he was a sorry excuse for a demon sometimes. Oh, he was all about the ripping and the rending, no worries there. Give him a pale neck and he'd bite a chunk out of it without a second thought. Thing was, he'd then want to write a sonnet about it – and that wasn't the vampire way. It had taken Angelus' scathing derision and more than a couple of beatings before Spike learned to keep that side of himself hidden. It was only Drusilla who saw through the swagger and the brutality to the sensitive William hidden inside the vampire Spike. Mostly she cooed about it, waltzing around and singing of her beautiful poet. But when she had the mood on her, she hurled abuse with tongue and talons and cursed the luck that had her turn a useless sap. If only he was more like Angelus, if only he knew how to make her hurt, if only he would gift her with something unique and imaginatively gruesome like daddy did...the list of his failings would go on and on.

So after another tirade last night he'd backhanded her into the wall and strode off leaving her screeching at his departing back.

As his head cleared, Spike remembered more of the previous night. He'd headed straight to the nearest bar and started on bottle number one, his growl and yellow eyes clearing a buffer around him as he sat in a darkened corner. He wasn't in the mood for company, unless it was called dinner, but he vaguely remembered dragging a piece of jailbait out the back and feeding before moving on. Yep, he'd taken the kid's rings, he remembered, patting his pockets and feeling the chunky silver jewellery knock together.

Another bar, another bottle, another mouthy bint thinking she could have a turn with the big bad. Still hazy, but yes – he'd fucked that one before feeding, her jet black hair reminding him of Drusilla...which come to think of it he kept calling her despite her objections. He was even thinking of letting the girl go after, except she kept on at him to call her by her real name, thinking she was pouting prettily when she was only pissing him off. He dumped her body down the nearest alley and wandered for a while until he found another drinking hole, settling down to his next bottle and a bout of maudlin introspection.

Time was a vampire could brood alone, the aura of danger surrounding him being enough to keep away the tempting titbits. But this new breed of teenagers seemed to get off on the danger and even a flash of fang wasn't enough to discourage them. He'd ended up with another bad girl following him out of the bar and throwing herself at him. He hadn't even bothered to eat that one, snapping her neck when her yammering became too much for his burgeoning headache to cope with.

Spike stretched out and stood, groaning a little as he shook of the last effects of the booze. He inhaled, scenting blood and wondered if he'd brought a snack back with him after all. The blood was congealed and bad, so whatever he'd brought along to snack on wasn't around to be breakfast. Didn't take long for him to find the source of the scent.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured as he crouched down and held out a hand, gingerly touching the rigid flesh in front of him. Three legs, wrenched off and bloodied at the end, bent at the knee and set stump to stump, fixed with rusty pieces of metal to form a triskele. As he ran his fingers over the gory creation, it all came back to him. Some half-formed idea of a suitable gift to placate his sire, something Angelus would never dream of in a million years. Tracking back to his kills and tearing off the limbs, bending them just so, fixing them with the metal pieces he'd scrounged up from the demolished walls of his temporary home. Insane? Possibly, but then Drusilla was on the right side of insanity very rarely and would appreciate the sentiment.

It wasn't poetry. Not words, anyway. But it did speak in a language that demons would understand.

Spike shrugged. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Maybe it was just the thing to soothe his lover's ire. Hefting his gift, he headed into the night, back to the hopefully forgiving arms of his ripe wicked plum.