A Name for Himself

By Fyre


TITLE: A Name for Himself
AUTHOR: Fyre and Kirsty
EMAIL: Fyredansa@hotmail.com/ SSKNicol@aol.com
SUMMARY: 'Fool for Love' and 'Darla' - The Bits You Didn't See...
FEEDBACK: Spike fan? Let Kirsty know. Delirious over Dru? Tell Fyre. Or even better - email us both! (We need it - we're desperate, really. . .)
DISTRIBUTION: Temptation Waits, here - If anyone else wants it - just let one of us know (and watch us do the Snoopy Dance).
SPOILERS: 'Fool for Love' and 'Darla'
COUPLE: William/Dru, Angelus/Darla
RATING: R - railroad spikes used for unnatural purposes. . .
DISCLAIMER: It's not ours, otherwise we'd be having far too much fun. No poems were harmed during the making of this fic.
CLASSIFICATION: I could write more...possibly an explanation. I'm useless. I know :)
NOTES: Switches between Spike and Dru's POV (starting with Dru), and with a 'guest interlude' from Angelus and Darla. Italics indicate Kirsty's work, normal font indicates Fyre's. Improv used - #8 glow -- rain -- bound -- crave
DEDICATED: To my Groovy Co-writer - Kirsty
_________________________________________


Full of emptiness and soft loneliness, I was as I walked with father and grandmum.

"I'm full and warm - yet all alone." I tell them, longing for someone to share the nights with me, to hunt and play and kill with. Like daddy has grandmum, I long for someone.

Daddy looks to me, his dark eyes full of grandmum, as ever. He speaks laughingly. "That's not true, precious. You've got us."

"Not in the least." I say sadly, the moon whispering that something new and wonderful is coming. "You won't even have me just a little bit."

"All you have to do is ask." Grandmum says, the golden glow of her hair singing to the sound of the summer night. I know she is simply laughing at me, her mind wavering.

"No." I remind her, the darkness of her possessing my daddy glowing in her eyes. "His head's too full of you, grandmother."

There is a flicker of her anger, burning like blue. "Stop calling me that." Daddy laughs softly, a low growl, and grandmum hits him fondly, pulls him down the darkness of the street.

I follow, alone like always. "Don't be cross." I tell her back, her anger at daddy and me fading. "I could be your mummy."

Daddy throws a dark-eyed look at me, his dark angel's face traced by the fingers of the moon. "Well, if you're lonely, Dru, why don't you make yourself a playmate?"

The moon sings its delight. This is what it has been trying to tell me, it's words getting muddled and tangled in the cloud that surrounds it.

"I could. I could pick the wisest and bravest knight in all the land." I decide, agreeing with the gentle laughter of the stars. "...And make him mine forever with a kiss."

And then he was before me. The one the moon had whispered so clumsily about, and the stars scream that I must have him.

He appeared out of the darkness like a beautiful angel, eyes as pure and clear as the river, but there is a lilting darkness singing through his empty soul.

He runs, runs from his cruel, living demons, running only to come face to face with his dark demons, demons with faces and eyes and mouths and pretty, shining hair. Grandmum and daddy laugh, seeing only the child's shell.

The oily shadow shines in the pain behind his eyes. So dark, the blue of the sky that has gathered in his eyes should become the black of the night, stars gleaming there in place of the glittering tears he sheds.

His pain dances in me like needles, tingling through my skin. He doesn't even look to us, mumbling unheard words to heedless ears. Empty and lost, he conceals a darkness behind a mask of beauty.

****


And so here I am. A broken soul set adrift in a sea of. . .A sea of. . .brokenness? Good heavens that's pathetic. And so am I. And this bloody poetry is too! I'm tearing up each solitary piece, as it is nothing but hollow, mocking words -

'I am the master of my fate/I am the captain of my soul'

Pah! Nothing but worthless rubbish. Words that make a mockery of literature. Words I wrote for *her*. And now it is all meaningless.

I choke back a sob.

More scraps of paper flutter to the floor and I decide that I shan't even pick them up afterwards. Ha! The gutterats can put that in their pipe and smoke it!

Cold comfort, however, for a broken heart. . .

"And I wonder... what possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?"

A girl - No - a *woman* stands before me. She is quite, quite beautiful. I feel a sonnet. . .No! That's what got me here in the first place. And outer beauty is only a false perception. Goodness knows what she could be underneath. . .I choose to remain unmoved by her presence.

"Nothing. I wish to be alone."

I wish she would just leave, but she doesn't. In fact, she comes closer. Perhaps a little too close. She smells of perfume and something coppery. I can't quite put my finger on it.

"Oh, I see you. A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength, his vision, his glory." And she pauses, as if in careful thought. "That and burning baby fish swimming all around your head."

I start to back away from the obviously insane beauty. Perhaps she's escaped from one of those awful asylums? If this is so - then shouldn't the police be dealing with such uncomfortableness? I try to fend her off with a few bravely chosen words.

"That's quite close enough. I've heard tales of London pickpockets. You'll not be getting my purse, I tell you."

There. That ought to show her. But now she's *looking* at me, and I can see the oddest sense of clarity in her features, determined and perhaps even a trifle. . .smug? She smiles and the small gesture starts to worm itself into my wounded heart.

"Don't need a purse." And then she points to her heart and head as I sink deeper into her thrall. "Your wealth lies here... and here. In the spirit and... imagination. You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine."

I walk in unimaginable worlds?! How does she know this, see this? See *me*? It's as if she's looking straight into my soul. Perhaps, at last, she may see me as a kindred spirit? A man not deserving of this cruel world. A man, even!

My words come stuttering out, as conflicting emotions whirl through my thoughts - admiration, eagerness. . .fear.

"Oh, yes! I mean, no. I mean... mother's expecting me."

She's so close now, and - good Lord! She's starting to undo my shirt! This really isn't becoming of a gentlewoman. She'll get herself a nasty reputation acting like this, and I shouldn't wonder if I - ooh!

Just touch me, please! Right there.

So dangerously enticing, like a poisonous flower. So delicate, yet I'm sure that she could control any man with the crook of her finger.

"I see what you want. Something glowing and glistening. Something... effulgent."

Yes! Yes! Yes! Finally! Someone who understands me. Someone to share my passions with, to - dare I say it? - Love. I must be with her. Of course it would help tremendously if I knew her name.

I whisper her words under my breath, amazed at her profound vision.

"Effulgent."

"Do you want it?" she asks me.

I have never wanted anything more in my entire life.

"Oh, yes!" I reach out to touch her bosom, to make sure that this is real, not some fantastical apparition taunting my sensitive mind. It's not. Although she is a little cold. I'm sure that it's of no consequence. "God, yes."

I want it. I crave it. I don't know exactly what 'it' is, but I know that it is for me.

And now this Goddess looks upon me and - Hang on! Her face. . .It's changed, become twisted somehow. Not frightening, precisely, but I'd like to know what's going on.

Ow!

But it's too late for questions as her teeth are already buried in my neck. And bloody hell is it painful!

'Ow!" That really hurts! And now she's biting harder and it's almost becoming pleasurable. And. . . "Ow, ow, ow, ow..."

And then black.
****


Tiny, sweet crimson rosettes bloom on the white silk, the smooth marble of his beautiful throat tainted by his own fresh nectar.

Now, he sleeps.

My baby. My childe. My own angel.

And when he awakens, he will be the same, yet everything will be different for him. He will be my beautiful angel of light, as my daddy is my angel of darkness.

Soft waves of dark golden silk ripple around his face, motionless. Still as the grave, he is a statue, crafted from alabaster by an expert's hand, his hands folded across his silent, soundless breast.

I touch his closed lids, feel the flicker of life flee from him. His weakness and frailty of humanity has gone, soon to be replaced with the strength of his mummy's blood. I feel the power growing in him.

He rests in my soft bed, surrounded by silks and velvets. So different from the street where I found him, surrounded by the filth-coated beasts of the refuse, his timid face marred by diamonds of pain.

Empty eyes swirling with solitude and pain cried out to me, searching for something that he would never find on the sea of life. Buffeted by the waves of cruelty and rejection, he had been washed up on my shore, helpless.

Steered by the currents of fate, he waited for me here, not knowing why or how, only accepting that I am his and he was to be mine.

Looking to his heart through the blue, tear-tainted windows to his soul, his wishes and dreams sang to me, his fear tinged with hunger and confusion.

The beat of his heart matched that of the angry drummer boy, pounding in demand, begging for me to sup him, to let his life fill me, to make him mine and mine alone.

I was to be his angel of death and yet, he looked upon me as if I were simply a woman. A woman like the one who had sent him running, his thoughts tumbling and falling over one another, his feet tripping and stumbling in the dark streets.

Touching his breast, his spirit raced against my fingertips, his fear increasing, but also his hunger. His hunger for something...something effulgent. His mind whispered of his hopes as he reached out and touched me.

And when he touched me, I knew that he was to be mine for all eternity, that he would be mine, as I was my dark angel's. He would be my pet, my sweet, my eternal fair-faced, dark-hearted angel.

So I took him, without a fight. His beautiful veins burst open like a ripe, sweet fruit, his fresh, strong juices flowing over my lips and tongue, sating my hunger and filling me with his incomparable essence.

The taste of his fear and hate-filled life sang, the pain carried within him turning into burning pleasure, as his delicious heat coursed through me, until I could hear him slowing, faltering to a silent halt.

Then he sank in my arms, dying but for the salvation of my own juices. His small gasp trickled between his silky lips, screaming for me to feed him and make him all big and strong forever. Like daddy, grandmum and me.

So I suckled him like a babe, opening my breast for him, letting his strong mouth seal over it and draw on his mummy's sweet, life-filled milk. The blurring potion of our essences mixing to bring him immortality.

And then he fell into the sleep that would carry him to the other side, his eyes closed, leaving sooty smudges on his cheek.

So I brought him home, to our pretty rooms that overlook the river. Laying him in my bed, I knew daddy and grandmum were still out on the hunt, dining on all the pleasant luxuries of the city, so I could wait by my new sweet's side, until he awoke in his new life.

He waited until the dawn to wake. I knew that he would. Filled with a hunger by the time the darkness falls, he will be prepared for his first hunt, his first chase. His first night as one of us will be beautiful and bloody, the screams of the living filling our senses.

Daddy believes my sweet will be weak. He was a man of words and of poetry, which is only weakness to my dark angel. When he saw the weeping child, he laughed and mocked such frailty, but he did not see passed the tears.

My daddy only ever sees the outer shell of my sweet. Of other people. He never looks to the heart of a person, only caring how he can use them, use their weaknesses to hurt them. My daddy knew my weakness. My daddy killed all my family, all their warm faces gone.

I saw them die, long before they ever did. The dreams sang in my head that I was to blame, that I was the source of all this wickedness and I knew it to be true. When my daddy came to take me to his heart, to make me like him, I knew I was so evil I could not fight him.

I had believed myself to be a good girl for so long, and yet, I was bad. Even in the robes of goodness, I still became bad, bringing evilness to all those around me so I have found a childe who looked all sweet and gentle. He has an evil in him like I did.

Soon, they will see that. Soon my daddy will know that I have found a perfect companion, a dark-hearted, cruel monster with the face of a gold-haired angel.

Like me, he will look so gentle and tender, no one will believe the evil his beautiful, artful face conceals. They will look at him and see his heavenly eyes, the soft smile on his lips, the kindly angel's face and then...

Then, they will see death.

Opening his eyes, eyes the colour of the veins pulsing in a child's soft neck, he looks at me with an awe-filled intensity. His pale mouth curls in a smile that begs me to kiss it, to taste his mouth with my own.

So I do.

And my childe accepts me. His fresh, young lips open to mine, invading mine, his hands tearing in my hair. Drawing me onto the bed, I know I have chosen well, his body and mind hungry for me.

Then, when the cruel sun falls, we will go out, he and I. We will wander the streets and hunt and feed and my sweet Will, he will show his mummy how he can use all the darkness hidden inside him.

He will make me proud.

****


She's whispering again.

Silken promises of glorious hunts, and eternal nights. Nights where the screaming is so sweet and full, it rains into the blood. Promises that make the remnants of the boy I was shiver, and the demon I now am cry out with joy.

I think I'm going to enjoy this.

I'm looking at my new world, taking in all of the new smells, sights and sounds. It's amazing. There's so much I didn't know, couldn't see, but now I can. I mean, did you know that fear has a scent? Pure, intoxicating, and it clings to her - to Drusilla - wherever she goes.

A last testament to her previous 'meal'.

I chuckle. A delicious irony, don't you think? And as for the sights and sounds. . .I can *see* now. Really see. I may as well have been blind before. Now I see into the darkness, my new home. (Met the grandparents and everything)

And, only hours before I'm sure that it spoke to me. No - I'm not touched like my precious Maker, but there is something. . .When I lay there, the residues of my soul still slithering out I heard Her ask me what I wanted. And I wanted Her. I wanted to be strong, to exist without fear, to go against my very grain.

No longer William 'The Bloody Awful Poet'. No longer beneath any human woman. No more. Time to rebel, and I'm bloody well going to enjoy it.

"I'm hungry," I tell my delighted Sire. "Let's go eat."

****


My sweet, insane childe has sired a fool.

The boy is vicious and bloodthirsty - I'll grant him that - but I find the lad to be too impulsive. He has no finesse, and sooner or later that cockiness of his will introduce him - if not us all - to the sharp end of a stake. In brief - he is trouble. And 'tis a pity, because I could be makin' quite a fine hunter out of him, if he'd just listen to me.

But that, as I have found, is the problem. For some reason, the boy has decided that being turned has given him the excuse to act like an insolent little brat. Quite a pathetic creature during his mortal years, I hear, and now. . .now he's become a lot more interesting.

Yes - I'm admittin' it. He does present quite a challenge - one that I'm worthy of - and one that will be a joy to fulfil.

I saw him with Dru after the change - needless to say his lithe form has been carefully engraved on my mind - that is - until I find some paper and a good drawing tool. No charcoal for William, it's too soft to capture those firm lines and angles. Too blunt to etch out those prominent cheekbones. . .far too gentle for that. . .The boy will be needin' a sharp, straight line of discipline. And that - I can happily provide.

Watching his body move, almost rhythmically, as he worshipped her body. . . It was compelling. Such a nice, taught body - not like most of his contemporaries - all obsessed with fattening their feeble bodies with every piece of fare imaginable. It leaves them quite distasteful. Nevertheless the boy has managed to avoid this, and has left us with an unblemished complexion, a broad expanse of smooth skin covering a firm back. And this I can feel without even touching the childe! (Naturally, this will soon be remedied)

Even Darla would attest to such an adoring depiction, although I can see that she despises the boy. But her anger combined with my own potent lust will certainly be leadin' to a night to remember. Mayhaps siring the lad wasn't such an unwise decision after all.

However, our young William may have potential (and a firm arse), but with Dru as his Sire the boy will learn nothin' of any use. And that is why *I* shall be the one to teach him. Mayhaps I can knock some sense into his stubborn head. And if he refuses to co- operate. . .Well - That'll be rather unfortunate for him, won't it?

Either way, I'm feelin' that I will be the greater beneficiary of the arrangement. . .

****


So, Angelus' crazy little obsession has taken a new companion.

Her Sire was not amused, which lead to some frenzied lovemaking in his fury. His anger and animalistic passions go hand-in-hand.

Almost makes me wish the little bitch would make another 'unsuitable' childe. To have my dark Angelus in a fury is the most overwhelming feeling, to feel him pin me down, make me accede to his every whim by violence or otherwise. It's just so damn satisfying.

Perverted, of course, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

But I've seen the way he looked at the new member of our 'family'. We returned to find Drusilla getting better acquainted with the boy. If looks were the most important thing, I would agree that the crazy little bitch has made a superb choice.

Watching from the door of her bedchamber, it was sheer art. Poetry in motion. The smooth muscles of his back rippled, tapering down to a firm, rounded pair of buttocks that would make any man break every law in the Lord's good book.

Scratches scored the alabaster white flesh of his back, droplets of dark blood rolling down into the valley of his spine, trickling down the gully and directing our attention back to that eye-catchingly delightful rear, which was slowly rising and falling as he toyed with my preciously loony grandchilde.

Looking up to Angelus, I could see the dark lust in his eyes. He caressed the boy's smooth back with those dangerous brown orbs of his, taking in the soft, sculpted planes of the childe's sleek young body.

The flavour of his arousal permeated the air and I wanted him then. His anger at Drusilla, the scent of the two childer and his lust for the new childe were a heady combination, which meant that neither of us got much sleep during the day.

Already, he has accepted the responsibility of the training of this childe. Despite his fury at learning that his crazed childe had actually turned the sniveling street boy, he wants the boy to be his own.

In whatever way it takes.

We both know that his own childe is far passed sane. True, she is a dangerous and violent creature, but she lacks a sense of duty. She would never be able to give her own childer sufficient training or domination, to keep them under her own control.

So it is all left to her dark Sire. My favoured childe. My Magnum Opus.

And I am sure that my dear boy will leave no aspect of a Sire's duty undone with the beautiful childe of Drusilla. Dominating the boy's Sire is no challenge for him. She will obey his every word without question. But he wants a challenge.

This youth could provide it.

Despite what we saw of him, before Drusilla went after him, there was something in the feeble human that screamed rebel. With the demon as his ally, he could prove quite the dangerous young fledgling.

Beautifully formed with a perfect, sculpted face, he could be a demon to break hearts, but seeing him survive passed his first years will be an impressive feat in itself. It will be up to Angelus to make certain the rebellious spirit is curbed and controlled.

But if this fledgling draws my dark, brutal childe from my bed, if he takes my position as Angelus' favourite, he will surely regret it. He will wish he had never laid eyes on our pretty little Drusilla. I will see to that myself.


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