Summary: AU - what if Spike had waited a few more years before returning to Sunnydale?
Obsession was a beautiful thing. Something to consume thought and movement, something to drown in. Submerged in thick echoing laughter and pretty brown eyes, Spike found focus and direction – something easily lost in the sweeping circles of hands on a clock that would never stop, not for him.
Drusilla had been his first, tasted like sickly plums and bleeding raspberries in summer, looked like the porcelain dolls she so loved to crunch underfoot. She’d cry after, shivering child with a lust for carnage who cried when she realised she had broken her precious dollies. He liked to think that one day she’d realised she’s broken her favourite Spike, left him alone in a world of sun, and then she’d cry for him with nobody to comfort her. Wither up and lie in dust, skin like parchment stretched over old bones, too confused in her own mind to move before the sun came up.
Spike hated the fact that the thought upset him.
Spike was lost without It – without the whisper in his ear that pushed, shoved him towards his goal. He’d considered returning to Sunnydale after Drusilla left him, pluck a ripe young thing and make her his childe, something pretty to look at and fuck when he was bored. The plan was scrapped, he was too pickled in whiskey to drag himself to the Dosoto.
He wandered after he’d pushed past his grief and the wandering spanned over years, plots and plans whirring through his mind. He hadn’t the will to carry them out, but it passed the time. Before long he’d become a wretch of a vampire – without direction, barely enjoying the carnage he scorched into the earth everywhere he went, the streams of blood that flowed through cities after he’d left them. He hadn’t realised his name was picking up in the winds, not until his feet hit familiar soil.
Sunnydale. Not a bad place since the slayer (little blonde thorn in his side) had been offed. Some demon hybrid, Adam, cracking bloke. Spike had demanded to know where the guy was holed up – least he could do was buy him a drink. Metaphorically speaking, because no drinks had been bought since he’d arrived. Demons all around were buying him the good stuff due to his latent fame, gave him respect, something he’d forgotten the taste of. Unlife was good, finally looking up.
He was introduced to Adam on his third day back, flanked by stray fledges. Adam was the power in this town, that much was clear – seemed he got off on chaos, loved to throw a wrench in the machine and watch as the limbs all go a flyin’. On paper he seemed like a fun bloke, a laugh. However, reality disappointed. He was depressingly dull, bossy sod as well. Wanted to tell Spike all about his Plans for chaos, “use him as a champion of darkness”. Blah de fucking blah. Nothing to inspire, nothing to catch his interest. All a bit of a yawn, really.
“Look, mate ...”
“Mate?” Adam interrupted, tilting his head, the green slice of his skin sliding upwards in confusion. Before Spike could reply, something seemed to click and Adam pulled his lips from his teeth in a grimace of a smile. “I know this word. I can give you this. I will give you the slayer’s … mate. A token of my esteem,” he said, gesturing to one of his fellow hybrids. Ugly as sin, all of them. Spike could see where this was going and didn’t fancy to be presented with a potential ‘mate’ that drooled and smelled of rotting flesh.
“I didn’t mean …” and words failed when they returned, a snapping wretch slung over their arms, bleeding a deliciously familiar scent. He was in between the change – too much blood to be vampire, not enough to be human. An agonising limbo. Pretty twists of his muscles, twitches of pain. Bloody glorious, it was.
“Well this really is a treat. Quite a nasty little bleeder,” he crowed, walking forwards, pulling the lad’s head up by his hair. A pair of dark eyes met his, a start of recognition that prompted fury, tangible in the damp of the cave. He kicked, snarling. His own flat copper tang on his breath, dead blood, it was obvious he’d already screamed his throat raw.
Spike knew it then, felt the direction in his bones. This would be his second obsession. Dark eyes, dark hair and a loathing so pure it was divine. Lovely.
“Don’t remember your name, precious. Weren’t important enough for me to remember,” he whispered, grabbing the boy’s face in an unforgiving grip. “Important now, though. You wait and see.”
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