forthedog | (no subject)

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spike

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The asylum is whispering.

It always does. It's the wind through bars and broken windows, shredded cloth and hanging plastic, through abandoned rooms and hallways and past decades of cracked, flaking paint. Once he had thought of it as an unfriendly sound, malevolent and worrying, and it's still malevolent, but he no longer feels threatened and he certainly feels no need to worry.

In some ways, this is the closest to home that part of himself ever gets now. He's been spending more and more time here, wandering, listening to the whispers.

And then of course there's the company. Of more than one kind.

The place is technically abandoned, but abandoned is only ever a technical term in a place like Darrow. He and Spike aren't the only things moving in the dark.

In the building's large front atrium he stops, listening. "Cheerful fucking place, isn't it?"

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Spike, unfortunately, would never show the same restraint. As soon as the dust settled, he was game-faced and striding forward. While he didn't throw the first punch -- that one, he swiftly ducked, jagged teeth on full, grinning display-- he certainly threw the second, and the third, and added a swift knee to the teeth, for good measure.

"You're right, mate. This would be the perfect place to wind down, have a beer."

He always enjoys watching Spike fight hand-to-hand. But he's learned from unpleasant experience that a human going hand-to-hand with a vampire usually only goes one way. Instead he swings the blade at the one that lunges for him, teeth bared, and while he lands no deep cut, he deflects the thing's body and whirls aside. The machete is a clumsy, hacking tool, but he's found ways to give its use little hints of flair.

"Just needs a little love." He grins when it snarls at him, when it rears to spring again. "Some new carpet, some lighting, it'll be great."

"Saw a perfectly good couch in an alley, few blocks from here. Leather and everythin', hardly any questionable stains," he said, lifting one of the vamps fully off his feet and hurling him into a pile of debris. It landed with a snarl, a broken shard of wood piercing through it's shoulder, missing the heart but causing more than a bit of discomfort.

"It'd look perfect against that wall, there."

"You know what I want?" Another swing of the blade takes off the thing's arm at the elbow, messy with dead blood-spatter, and when it stumbles he hacks at its gut. "I want one of those blacklight posters with a fucking unicorn."

It's holding its intestines in now, but it's still mostly just angry. Angry and angrily surprised.

"'Course, then I'd have to get a blacklight."

"I was all hung up, what to get you for Christmas. Thanks, mate," Spike said, standing just out of range of the vampire's grasping fingers, where it lay still skewered on that shard of wood. The vampire snarled, heaved itself off of the makeshift stake and lunged at him, getting in a punch, and another, before Spike knocked him off his feet again with a powerful kick to the gut. It landed, again, this time skewered through the other shoulder. "Oh, come on," it snarled.

Laughing, Spike kicked another shard of broken wood into the air, caught it, and plunged it through the vampire's heart, just as vampire number three tackled him from the side, sending them both flying to the floor.

He glances at Spike long enough to make sure that he doesn't seem to be needed, then turns his attention to the one in front of him, just as it lunges again. He's enjoying this but it's still a bit too mobile, and he whirls aside, hacking at its legs as he does. He misses the one, but the machete's blade sinks deep into its knee and it goes down with a yowl of pain. Another sharp hack puts its other leg out of commission.

He could just take its head off now, finish this. Instead he kicks it onto its stomach and stomps hard on the middle of its back, hearing the crunch as a couple of its ribs snap.

Spike might've made a crack about playing with your food, only Mike presumably had no intention of making a meal of his prey. This was purely a game, now, one that Spike would enthusiastically participate in. The dance had always been his favorite part.

He was laughing when he landed hard on his back, lying sprawled for only a moment before flipping his attacker over and reclaiming the upper hand.

"Careful," he said to Mike, "You wouldn't believe what a pain it is, getting blood out of concrete."

"Nah, I think it adds to the ambiance." Another stomp, more cracking bone, and now he can sense fear as well as lethal rage. It's that fear that he chases, though he often doesn't get it - the fear of a much faster, much stronger creature, the disbelief of being taken down by something puny and weak.

The fear and the pain. It rushes into him, making him almost dizzy.

But he also knows better than to tempt fate too far, and the thing is still dangerous. He swings the blade down on the back of its neck, and with three hacks it's severed through to the floor. A second of nothing much, and then the body beneath him collapses to dust.

"You know, you and Angelus might've had quite the time, back in the day," Spike said, "before he got all bor--" He was cut off by a punch landing across his jaw. Letting out an annoyed growl, he looked down at the vampire he happened to still be straddling, and smashed the heel of his hand into its nose. "I'm trying," he said, landing another punch, "to have," and another, "a conversation here."

Reaching for the stake inside his coat, he plunged it into the vampire's heart. It looked up him, their yellow eyes meeting, before it collapsed into dust.

He takes a step back, still breathing hard, every nerve humming. He long ago accepted how close this kind of thing treads to arousal of a more sexual kind, and long ago made his peace with it. Now, with nowhere to direct it, he's trying to cycle it back down, focus on the satisfaction of it and not on how much he wants more.

"Glad you don't think I'm boring, I guess."

It had always been a dance. Sex and blood, a good fight and a good fuck would always land in the same category. It was the reason he'd fallen for Buffy. He knew that, always had. She'd punched him enough times, he couldn't stop thinking about her, dreaming about her. And the rest was history.

So, while he wasn't aching to get off, just then, he did feel a bit of that old tug, that desire for blood, for warmth and heat and life, that he knew quite well that Mike could provide.

But it was all bagged blood for Spike, these days. It was a sacrifice, a rather large one, he'd been prepared to take.

Instead, he fished out a cigarette as he pushed to his feet. "Don't get too excited, pet. Haven't known you all that long, in the scheme of things. I might lose interest, yet."

He sighs and sinks into a half-broken swivel chair, which creaks protestingly. He's learned to live without what this always makes him want - what he's been conditioned to want - but that doesn't mean he doesn't still want it. He reaches up and digs a thumbnail into the scars on his throat, trying to make it settle down.

Neil will just have to pick up the slack later.

"I really do like this place, though."

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