On Me - Chapter 6
And thatís how it begins. Thatís how we fell into
this uneasy relationship based on common goals. Well, my goals to get fed, housed,
and paid, and his goals to fight the good fight and keep his hair intact. But
also based on that endless, sodding vampire need for fucking and release. We
work together during the night, going about the destruction of evil, but thereís
only one thing on both our minds. The minute we get alone in the apartment,
we come together in a mutual rage of need: hands, teeth, and cocks. But never
lips, soft touch, or words, and never looking at each other. Itís like mutual
masturbation without magazines. And itís awful, and I hate it, but I need it,
and it does in the place of anything else. And, like the rest of my sorry, god-damned
life, I make do with what Iíve got. Like Dru with her insanity, like sodding
Harmony, I make do, cus I donít have what I really need, what I really want.
I donít have Angelís love.
Itís like a frenzy. When Iím working with him, only half my mind is on what Iím doing, the other half is on Spike. I watch his hands; I watch his face; I watch his hair; I watch his crotch. I watch that a lot. I think about his crotch even more. Itís like madness. I have imaginary conversations with him in my head all night and then, as soon a day breaks and we go down the elevator to the apartment, I let rip. I canít help it. I tear at his clothes; I swallow his cock, as though there is no tomorrow for us. But there is. Tomorrow always comes, and then the obsession starts again. But itís killing me, and I donít know how long I can go on like this. The release we get from jerking each other off, or the blow jobs, is sometimes more like pain, than pleasure. And still we donít talk. Still we donít look at each other; still we donít kiss, never that; never that intimate connection between his mouth and mine. Only connections borne in hate and frenzy and lust.
The desperate physical acts seem to drive us further and further away from any sort of real affection. But the really weird thing is that as we grow further apart, strangely, in reverse proportion, Spike seems to grow closer to the others.
I often find him with Wesley, drinking tea together for Christís sake. They found some shop in LA that sells stuff from England, and I walked in on them drinking something called PG Tips. They spend hours talking about England, and I never realised how much of an Ex-pat Spike really is. Sure, he tends to fit in wherever he is. Moves right in and makes a home for himself. But, listening to him talk with Wes, he clearly misses his own country, and its very different way of life. But itís actually quite funny listening to the two of them, because they canít find a single place in England that they have both been to.
'The Cotswolds, Spike, you must have been there.'
'Nah, mate, canít say that I do recollect that pleasure.'
'Bath! Now, you must have seen the Pump Rooms in Bath, Spike? They are a marvel of Georgian Architecture.'
Spikeís actually gone a little paler at that.
'Camden Market, pet, itís the bloody bollocks for CDs; ya must have been there.'
'Gracious, Spike, I really donít think....'
'Union Street in Plymouth, mate, now thereís a place for feeding and fuckin'.'
And so it goes on; they really seem to enjoy the sparring.
He spends a lot of time in Cordeliaís company, too, and I guess it was all that practice listening to the Sunndydale girls, but they really seem to be becoming friends. If I hadnít have seen it, I would never have believed it. Of course, they do have a lot in common: selfish, opinionated, vain, funny, beautiful, and I can hear them now outside my office, laughing over something in one of the movie magazines they pour over for hours on end. And I canít believe it, but I am jealous of Cordelia. I am jealous of this easy friendship of theirs. Sure, Iíve just had Spikeís mouth round my cock, and Iíve just cum in his mouth, and Iíve just seen his throat swallowing with a sense of urgency. But I want that mouth smiling at me; I want that mouth laughing for me. I wander into the office, and Cordelia looks up. Spike, as usual, totally ignores my presence.
'Hey, Angel. Whatís up? Weíre going to see Tomb Raider tonight, wanna come?í
'Err, and that is?'
'Itís a film, you fucking pillock.' I donít look up, but I pitch my Ďtuning into Angelí senses even higher to see if I can sense his mood. I really want him to come with us; I really want to try and work beyond this place we are in now.
'Oh, well, I guessÖ.'
But just then, the phone rings, and itís another case, another human in trouble, another demon in this endless redemption trail I am following. So, I watch them go off together. Spikeís even changed into some of the new clothes I bought him, and they could be two kids going out on a regular date. And it breaks my heart for what I will never have.
I canít take it any more tonight. Iíve blown him, and heís brought me off and, as usual, we immediately parted: him to his bedroom and me.. .well, I need to get out of here, on my own for a while. Go somewhere where I canít hear my own screaming for affection, for connection. I grab my fags and duster, and head off into the tunnels. I think I may go and dust out a vamp nest the Watcher was rambling on about today. Feel like some action. Feel like killing something.
I head towards the old warehouse, and Iím feeling pretty good already. If ole Wes is right and the bodies that have been found indicate vamps in this old factory, Iíll be in for some fun tonight.
This is looking good. In fact, on a scale of one to ten, where ten is me getting to spectacularly kick ass, Iíve just gone decimal. As I come up the stairs of the abandoned factory, I can hear music and laugher, like vamps in party mode. Yeah, Spikeís just ready to party.
Oh, God. But not this kind of party.
As I come out of the shadows into the light of the fire theyíve built in the middle of the floor, my borrowed blood runs cold, and my last rational thought tonight is Ďtrust the bleeding watcher to get this wrongí.
Cus instead of a nest of nice little easy-to-dust-vamps, Iím facing about eight, very large, very mean looking humans, dressed in biker gear.
Oh shit - peroxide blond meets Hells Angels for a night of fun aní games.
At first, they get their kicks from just pushiní me around a bit, and that would have been humiliating enough, but, OK, Iím the Big Bad, and I can take eight fuckers and some shoviní. ĎCept for the sodding chip, that is. Cus, of course, the chip is meant to kick in and stop me hurting humans... so, I guess the theory was I wouldnít try. But no stinking, greasy, fat fuckers are gonna push me around without some of them going down. Thatís when the agony tears through my brain; thatís when I almost black out, and thatís when I think Iím in real trouble here. Thatís when I want to go home. Thatís when I want Angel.
So, Iím on my knees, screaming, when I see something guaranteed to make me shut the fuck up. The leader of this sorry group is standing off to one side and, when I look over at him, I swear I can hear duelling banjos in my head. Cus heís staring at me like Iím a bug on a pin, and heís feeling himself through his greasy, stinking jeans.
Heís been gone a couple of hours now; itís a relief not to know heís sitting next door. A relief not to want to go out and sit with him. A relief not to fear the rejection and hate. Because I so desperately want to just sit with him sometimes and watch TV or read, while he listens to his dreadful music, or have a drink together, anything but this constant silence and unspoken words. But I wonder where he is and what heís doing. He doesnít know LA, hasnít been out on his own since we got here. And Iím afraid to admit it to myself, but Iím worried about him, and I want him home, and I want him safe.
I want to go home now.
Iíve been here six hours now, and I can smell the sun coming up. Well, I would be able to, if my nose wasnít smashed, and my face covered in cum. Theyíve all had a turn, share and share alike. Then, when theyíd all had a go at both ends, they started again, and again, and again. Even with my vamp healing powers, Iíve injuries thatíll take days to heal. They tore me open fairly early on, so, at least the rest have been lubricated with my blood. I havenít vamped out or gone into game face, cus I know for a fact theyíd have staked me. But some of the things theyíve done to me tonight would have killed me if I had been human. Humans need to breath; humans tend to choke on pints of blood and cum in their throats, but I guess these fuckers donít care about killing me. My throat is swollen, not only with the endless thrusting cocks, but from the number of times Iíve vomited out their cum and piss. I keep repeating one thought in my head Ďthis will pass; this will pass; this is only pain, and it will be enduredí. But I donít feel like the Big Bad anymore. I just want to go home. I just want it to stop. And, for a moment, I think that it is over, that they are stopping, cus the last few having their fun fall away from me and join the others sleeping it off in the corner.
I curl up into a ball on the floor and wonder how Iím gonna survive this. I canít fight back; I can hardly walk, and I donít think thereís much chance they are gonna pick me up, wish me a good day, and let me go sometime soon. I lift my head slightly and glance around with the one eye I can still see out of, looking for any slim chance I might find a way to get out of here alive, well, dead technically, but I reckon being technically dead is better than staying here.
But as I glance over to the group, I have a sense of falling fast away from all hope, away from the chance I might get home, away from the chance of seeing Angel again. No chance to tell him that I am sorry, and that I love him, and that I donít ever want to be without him again, because over in the corner, the leader of the group who opened up the celebrations is staring at me again. And his dick is in his hand. But itís flaccid and the desperate jerking heís giviní it isnít having any effect. But itís not that, oh god, itís not that that terrifies me. Itís the thing in his other hand, the thing that he is bringing towards me, and itís the fury on his face that he canít get his dick up again, and itís the fact that he is planning to use his alternative on me.
My worry has now turned into blind panic. Itís about an hour from dawn and still no sign of Spike. I decide to take the car out and circle around in the hope I might find him drunk in some gutter. Itís been so long since weíve shared the blood, that I can hardly sense him at all if he gets too far away. But I have to try something. If I lost Spike now, I think I would die because, as bad as it is between us, at least I get to touch someone who understands me, at least I get to love someone, even if he doesnít love me back.
When he rammed the bottle in, I felt something rupture deep in my bowels, but my screaming didnít stop him. He just kept on ramming and viciously twisting it: this glass substitute for the dick that wouldnít work for him anymore. But oh, God, even this is not the worst, cus just as I raise my head and howl at the pain and the humiliation and the tears he can see on my shattered face, the bottle snaps, and he pulls out the jagged end, leaving a large shard still in me, piercing me and killing me. The blood loss seems to shock even this monster, cus he backs off, grunting slightly. I can feel the piece of glass ripping what is left of my bowel every time I try to move.
And thatís when they decide to kill me.