Summary: Spike's life is a series of lies that he could almost believe. Slight AU.
Live in your Lies
William told his first lie when he was nine (and three quarters).
“My father isn’t here because he’s an explorer – he sent me an ivory pen from India just last week,” words, smooth and easy, thud thud of shame in his chest, because what sort of boy didn’t even have a father? Tom narrowed his eyes, flash of spite manipulating his little face.
“I heard he was dead,” he spoke loudly to attract the attention of his cronies, of the class who so loathed Weak William. Soft little boy with floppy blonde hair who hated to get his clothes dirty, ugly little embarrassment, horrid little blighter, make him learn, must teach him.
“No daddy, no daddy, you have no daddy,” and it was Lily who started the chant, vicious little twist to her lips as they circled William, sprawled on the gravel, a knee skinned and a lip swollen.
He cried. They laughed. He wouldn’t lie again.
His first lie to his mother was told when he was sixteen (and two months).
“Mother, please don’t worry. It’s only a bump – the lads and I were playing a game of ruggers and one is bound to have a bruise or two,” he pushed her hands away gently. Always gentle, she’s so easy to break.
“William I do wish you’d be more careful,” relief evident, she lays her head back onto the pillow. He strokes her hair until she shuts her eyes, words slurred before she succumbs to sleep and that rotten disease. “I’m glad you’ve finally found some friends – you’re such a lovely boy, you deserve them.”
William swallows thickly, copper tang on his tongue as he glances at the bruises on his wrists.
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
The first time he lied after he was dead was when he was twenty-four (three years undead).
“Name’s Spike – wanna find out why, darlin’?”
“My mouse changed his stripes,” Drusilla cooed, dragging her fingernails down his cheek, her tongue quick to follow. “But William mustn’t be naughty,” a sharp bite to his jaw, teeth and blood, Drusilla’s intrinsic cruelty coupled with her lips were a match made in the most beautiful part of hell. Spike slammed her against a wall, reveled in the delicious crack of bone on rock.
“Don’t answer to that name anymore,” he growled, taking her mouth, pushing his hands all over her as she giggled in delight. “Don’t answer to you anymore,” he said in her ear as he pushed the wood through her heart, a flutter of triumph at her look of surprise.
“Not how it should be, dearest,” she whispered. Ash in his mouth, wind snapping through his hair, Spike throws his head back and screams his name to the stars.
Spike told his first lie to Sunnydale’s slayer when he was 127 (though at this point, he could only guess – immortality makes time superfluous).
“This is between me and you – don’t involve anyone of mine, I won’t involve any of yours,” barely reigned fury and inherent darkness smothered in light, she a pretty little thing he’ll have so much fun breaking.
“Fine. Won’t go after your little brood. Promise,” a flutter of his eyelashes and a coy smile. Her fingers twitch around the stake. He’s gone before she can move.
Spike lied to himself for the first time when he was 128 (six months since a little bit of plastic and metal was shoved through his cranium).
“Bollocks. ‘M not in love with him. Just bored in this God forsaken little dump. Chip in my cerebral cortex fucking would drive any man to insanity,” desperation in his tone as he pulled the smoke into unmoving lungs, tasted the nicotine on the tips of his fingers.
A fun evening of fags and denial, washed over with a respectable amount of whiskey.
Spike lied to Xander for the first time when he was 129 (six blowjobs, three fucks and a kiss since it started).
“Don’t love you, either,” and the words were pushed from his gut, scraping up his throat as though he were retching glass.
“This isn’t – I use you. You use me. We’re like this big factory of Use and things are better like this. I can’t – not with anyone else,” Xander says, eyes fixed on the grime on the floor as he pulled his trousers up.
“If you can’t say it then you shouldn’t do it,” Spike said, superior lilt to his tone that brought Xander’s eyes to his in a snap, sharp flush of shame running through his face.
“This doesn’t deserve words,” he spat, slamming Spike to him, flesh and the scratch of calloused fingers over his skin, red trails and aches as he presses his mouth to Spike’s without asking permission. “Hate you,” Xander grunts as Spike pulls him inside.
Spike wishes he could believe his own lies. It would make things far simpler.
|Feed the Author|