Title: Waiting to be Consumed
Author: Mad (marksandspence@yahoo.com)
Setting: AtS Season 5, AU
Rating: R…perhaps becoming NC-17 (violent situations, sexual content)
Summary: A visitor from the past reignites old conflicts between Angel and Spike…with a twist.
Disclaimer: Mutant Enemy owns most of the characters and certainly the universe. Anyone you don’t recognize, however, is MINE MINE MINE.
Feedback: Please! Attention makes my fingers work faster….
Author’s note: Yeah, it’s another OC. What can I say? It’s my thing. And frankly, so as not to disappoint anyone, I should be upfront with the fact that the story is mostly about her. But hey, she’s a vampire! And she lives in the Angelverse and interacts with all the cool kids that exist there. Mostly Angel(us) and Spike, but you’ll also see Fred, Gunn, Wesley, Lilah (?!), Dru, Darla and perhaps a certain blonde vampire slayer will make a guest appearance or two. I conceived of this story prior to the start of Season 5, just after I’d learned that Spike would be “moving” to LA. It’s a dark and slightly perverse story. I’ve borrowed a bit from some of the more traditional vampire myths/lore, but haven’t altered any of the existing vampire characters. Generally, it’s about revenge, redemption, remorse, love, friendship—the usual suspects. Totally epic.
*****
One lonely spider wished to play.
Two beetles gasped and ran away.
Three fireflies saw her web and fled.
“We won’t come in”, the four bees said.
Five rubber bugs stared silently.
Six ants refused to drink her tea.
Seven butterflies hid from sight.
Eight tea cakes sat without one bite.
Nine spotted moths appeared, but then…
In fear, they flew away again.
Miss Spider sobbed, “They’ve all dashed off.”
Across ten cups, she spied a moth.
She dried his wings, then tossed him high.
Next day eleven bugs came by.
Twelve flowers were their gift to say, “We’ve heard you’re kind. Come on, let’s play!”
—Miss Spider’s Tea Party by David Kirk (Callaway & Kirk Company, 1997)
Chapter 1: Miss Licia
Measured steps on bare feet lead her toward home. She is tired, hungry. A meal awaits. She pauses a moment by the door of the bar, unopened, listening. It is habit, unavoidable. There are some inside who call to her, unknowingly. The temptation is raw. A deep breath and she steps past, closing her eyes a moment. A smile crosses her lips as if she is recalling a pleasant memory. Open again, she glances at the pavement before her, carefully avoiding a small puddle in her path. She hears footsteps, a man runs past quickly, diving into a nearby alley. Her head turns to watch, though her feet continue to step forward. In a moment, she is knocked flat. Her hip slamming into the pavement, her bag tossed from her shoulder, spilling its contents across the sidewalk.
Of course, he was chasing the other. Running too fast to avoid the impact. He was knocked down as well.
Annoyed at the interruption, grouchy from hunger, she loses her typical placidity, and begins swearing loudly in a language foreign to the man on the ground next to her.
She glances at her groceries, strewn around her. The flour, sugar still in their bags. Eggs miraculously unbroken. Oh, but the molasses….sticky, brown goo oozing from the broken bottle.
“My molasses.” She whines. Her thoughts glide through her disappointment. This is the kind he likes—dark, heavy. No hermits tonight. She recalls the tremor in his voice when he told of his mother’s once monthly packages from home—always hermit cookies. They kept well. Not that he would ever complain. He never complains. But she had wanted to make them. He was so sweet, she almost wanted to cry.
“Bloody hell”, she mutters under he breath. Her accent is strange. Not strong, but not typical California either. Perhaps a hint of Slavic, long days past.
The man can’t help but exhale a quick laugh as he hurriedly attempts to reassemble the unbroken items into her bag. Lost in her own thoughts, she had barely noticed him until he spoke.
“Watching a bit too much BBC America, luv? Not really pulling that off if you don’t mind my saying. Best to leave the anglicisms to the English.”
Frowning, she turns her focus to the man before her. Leather jacket, blonde, blue eyes twinkling in amusement, not tall. Familiar. She knows him. Her voice catches in her throat.
He interprets her silence as displeasure and this sparks a twinge of guilt. He glances nervously over toward the alley, but knows another of his group is already there—they can do without him for a few seconds, surely. He starts to fish in his pocket for some cash—just a few dollars he had lifted off of the cheap bastard that supposedly pays his salary. Enough for a few drinks, maybe a nice scotch. He had been looking forward to it all day.
“Sorry ‘bout this. Here’s a few quid for the sticky stuff.”
He holds the crumpled money out. He only has a $20.
Her expression has softened, not because of the money.
She says, in a mild voice. “I bought that all the way across town—shops around here don’t stay open this late.”
He shrugs, not knowing what else to do, and waves the bill again.
Rushed, “Y’want it or not?”
She takes it from his hand, hoping to keep his attention a moment longer.
But his focus has already drifted. Without looking directly at her, he passes her the bag, now full again with her groceries, and takes a step toward the alley. Before he gets more than a few feet, she speaks.
“Spike?” She asks tentatively.
He looks back at her, frowning slightly.
“Sorry, do I know you?” He asks only because it is expected—a former politeness he can’t seem to kick. He’s missing the fight…
“It’s Licia.”
After a moment’s pause, admonishing her own stupidity,
“Of course, you never asked my name.”
He gives her a quick scan.
She is rather tall—his height if not a smidge more. Dark black hair, curly and long. Pretty enough. Handsome. Strong, dark features. Solid frame, dressed with a feminine chic. Killer curves—not like the women you typically see on the streets of LA.
Vampire.
That last bit means trouble—someone he knew before. And from the look she is giving him, someone who liked what she had seen.
An annoyed shout emerges from the alley.
“Spike. Could use a little help here.”
“Sorry, luv, have to run.”
Before she can censor herself, she blurts out.
“Meet me here tomorrow. I’ll give you your change in drinks.” She motions with her eyes to the bar a few feet down the sidewalk.
“Yeah, maybe.” He mutters as he runs off. Why did he say that? She’s trouble, no doubt.
She watches him turn the corner to the alley, then looks down at the crumpled bill. She smiles as she folds it neatly and stuffs it in the strap of her bra.
Spike.
She cannot help repeating his name over and over. Despite herself, she is smiling broadly. Acquaintances wouldn’t know her. There is a spring in her step, absent before.
Spike.
She lets her mind return. Well over a hundred years now. How can it be so clear? She had made a special trip into town. Delivering fresh eggs to the tavern. An uncharacteristic break in the rapidly cooling autumn weather—she hadn’t worn a coat. He ordered a drink while she was passing the egg cartons to the barman. Actually four drinks. She glanced over, then tried hard not to stare. She had never seen someone like him—fair and blonde; eyes bright, the color of summer sky. It wasn’t that she necessarily found him handsome. He was…unexpected.
Yes, she was looking forward to tomorrow.
**
Then tomorrow came and went. And another tomorrow, and another. He had stood her up. He wasn’t coming. By the end of the week, she had stopped pausing at the bar. A week after that, she found a different route home, one that wouldn’t take her past. The spot still smelled of molasses. She didn’t need the reminder. Probably for the best. She would surely disappoint him. Yes, definitely for the best.
**
She was dreading the conversation she was about to have. He had taken a bartending job at her bar. He, the one who defied logic. The one who refused to accept his release. She had been avoiding him for weeks. But this was taking it too far. She liked it there. Always found interesting people, always someone new calling. And they had fresh fruit. Yes, it was unavoidable.
She dragged her feat and paused before approaching the door. There was a long line. She knew the bouncer would let her in, but she wanted a moment to make a plan.
There was a commotion at the door. Someone being thrown out. The booming voice of the bouncer—a mountain of a black man with a deep, thick accented voice.
“We don’t take your kind in here.”
Must be a vampire, she thought. You can tell by the added threat in his voice. She felt a twinge of guilt. She had taught him how to tell. Or at least how to suspect. Rather selfish of her, perhaps.
“And what kind is that then?”
The ejectee was annoyed, but curious. Annoyed at the disruption, curious for the cause—could the bouncer really know?
The black man grinned broadly and said with a laugh reminiscent of a certain Hutt,
“English.”
He thinks his joke was quite clever and continues to laugh devilishly.
Before the vampire gets to his feat, Licia interrupts.
“It’s alright, Sebastian. He’s with me.”
Sebastian nods, frowning slightly. Licia turns and says in an even, unemotional voice,
“You stood me up.”
“Licia, right?” After a moment, half joking, “You stalking me or something?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is my bar.”
Great, a territorial vampire. Won’t be her bar for long, Spike thinks with a twinge of regret. But he needs to get in, so time to play along…
Looking at the entrance,
“Not bad. Music’s a bit naff. And the bouncer’s a fright. You train him to keep out your competition?”
She gives a slight acknowledging nod before glancing back affectionately, “He’s rather a rather good scarecrow.”
“So, that drink offer still on the table?”
“Of course.”
There it is again. The excitement, the desperation. Everything she felt the other night. She hadn’t let another vampire in this bar since she had adopted it almost a year ago. And now she lets in Spike. William the Bloody. She worries a moment about where the night might go. What will she do? What will she say? She glances around quickly as they walk to a clear table. Eh, there are other bars, other humans—that’s the glory of it.
They sit across from each other. A table between a small couch and an easy chair. She feels strange. Nervous? Excited?
Spike scans the bar. He’d been sent to find a guy—a witness. He figures he’ll make small talk until he spots him, take care of her on the way out. Hey, and maybe he’ll get that scotch after all. Not such a bad night.
The waitress comes by and they order. He gets a Jameson, straight up. She orders a vodka martini.
He thinks back to the night they met—he has to strain to remember the details. He hadn’t given it another thought until just now.
“So what’s a vampire do with molasses?”
Without hesitation, she responds “Why, bake, of course.”
“Right”, he responds skeptically.
She purrs, “Unless you can think of a better use for something sticky and sweet.”
He huffs a wry smile.
Their drinks arrive. The martini has raspberries floating in it.
“Martini’s on the house. $7 for the Jameson.”
Licia frowns in the direction of the bar as she pulls a $100 bill from her wallet. A brief reminder of why she’d come tonight in the first place. He was working.
“I’ll pay for both.”
The waitress just shrugs and takes the money.
“Passing up free drinks. Will the mysteries never end?”
“There’s no such thing as a free drink”, she responds matter-of-factly.
She’s a different sort, that’s for sure. He takes a sip of his whiskey before responding,
“What’s this going to cost me?”
“I owe you the drink, remember? Change for a twenty.”
He downs the rest of it. The waitress arrives in a moment with another.
“That one, however, is a different matter”, she smirks playfully.
“So you gonna tell me or what?”
“I’d prefer you at least take a guess.”
He squints, thinking.
“Lisbonne?”
She shakes her head.
“Rome?”
Another shake.
“Come on, luv. A hint. I’ve had a busy life.” Though he’s hardly trying. Better to draw this out as long as possible before his contact arrives.
“Romania”, she offers.
“Romania? God, I haven’t been there for….”, he’s truly focused now, scanning his memories.
“Perhaps we should change the subject and it will come to you.” She wonders if it might be better for him not to remember. “What brings you to L.A.?”
“Old friends. [beat] Old enemies.” Ah yes, the cryptic approach.
“I heard there was a Slayer in town a while back—did you come for her?”
“Nah. Moved on to other things. Not much interested in Slayers anymore.”
“I’ve never been interested in them.”
She has been rolling the next question around in her thoughts since she saw him. She takes a quick, unnecessary breath and asks serenely,
“Is Drusilla with you?”
She immediately looks down at her drink and fishes out a raspberry. She pops it in her mouth and closes her eyes ever-so-briefly, savoring the taste. Spike is watching her intently. Her questions swirling in his head, recovering lost memories. Waiting for him to answer, she plucks out another raspberry, never looking up at him.
His mind flashes back to another time. A harsh, masculine voice scolds:
“Get her to eat something.”
A biting female voice reminds him, “We need her alive.”
“Why do I have to do it? It’s your bloody faults she’s in this state.” He hears himself whine back, ever annoyed at the constant abuse.
His temper flaring, “You do as I tell you to do, William. Or I’ll send ye out to get staked by the hunter that’s chasin’ us, or better yet, I’ll do it meself.”
“Daddy!”
Angelus softens his voice, while still glaring at the new addition to their family, “Calm down, Drusilla my pet. All he has to do is get the dolly to eat her supper and everything’ll be fine.”
“Dolly’s broken and empty. The baby’s ridden the surf and can’t make it back to shore. Too small for a snack, won’t get bigger now. I want a new dolly!”
Darla responds with typical loss of patience, “There are no other dollies out here. We’re in the middle of NOWHERE. We’ll starve.”
Drusilla pouts in a whisper, melting him with her words, “Fix her, my sweet. Fix dolly for me.”
“Berries. She likes berries.”, he mutters as he stumbles out toward the entrance of the cave.
**TBC…**