William Fic, Part 6
Jan. 26th, 2005 10:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thedeadlyhookMore William and Buffy interaction. Previous parts here.
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
William Blake, The Tyger
The Center, Part 6
When the woman returns again, some hours later, she's wearing different clothing. A dressing gown of some heavy flocked material that covers her neck to ankles. She carries a thick crockery mug.
"Brought you dinner," she says brightly, and holds the mug aloft.
He turns away from her, arms folded. He makes sure his voice is flinty when he speaks. "How long am I to be prisoner here?"
"Huh? You're not a prisoner. It's just that..." Her brow crinkles. "You're sick."
"Sick," he repeats.
"Yep. You need help. And... we're doctors. Because you're contagious. And we have to isolate you so you don't infect anybody."
"So I'm under quarantine."
"Uh-huh." She smiles like a child hiding something.
He's not convinced by this story at all. "For what disease?"
"Um..." She thinks for an instant. It's amazingly transparent. "The plague?"
"The plague." He makes his words mocking. "I've somehow contracted the Black Death."
"Yep. So you see why you can't go outside."
"How unusual. Since I can't say I've noticed any symptoms. Unless I happen to be covered with suppurating boils." He lifts an eyebrow, watches her smile falter.
"Um...no. But it's, uh, it's in early stages yet." She thrusts the mug at him. "And hey, dinner!"
He eyes the mug with undisguised suspicion. Once again, he's come to believe that his current situation is no dream, and that his lack of strength earlier against this tiny woman was due to the potion the man had given him. Obvious.
"That would be drugged, no doubt?"
"What? No! Of course it's not."
"Oh? Isn't that how you and your--" he waves a hand toward the door, loath to describe her probable relationship with the other man. "--patron are keeping me here? I'm not stupid, you know. I've figured it out. You can keep your tainted drink."
She sputters briefly, upset. "T-That's not... that's not true."
"You drink some then."
She recoils visibly, then tries to recover. "It's--it's got medicine in it, for your--"
"I will not touch it."
She sighs. "Look, Sp--William. We're not trying to drug you. I swear. Angel and I are just trying to help you."
"Angel," he repeats. "Is that the--" The sodomite. He can't bring himself to say it, despite his suspicion that little would shock this woman.
"That's his name," she says. "And I'm Buffy."
"You are buffy?" He can't even guess what that description is meant to imply.
She frowns. "It's my name." She sounds a bit defensive.
Foreign name. "Miss Buffy," he says flatly. "Pleased to meet you." He's not actually pleased at all, but it's what one says. In response, though, she smiles brilliantly, as if he'd handed her a huge compliment.
Then she bites her lip, considers. Lifts the mug to her mouth. Downs a healthy gulp. "Um, tasty," she says, lowering the cup. The contorted face she makes renders her statement less than convincing.
She pushes the cup forward again, offering. "I promise, there's nothing bad in it." The drink has left her lips painted red.
He frowns, reluctant to let go of his suspicions. But he is hungry. Hesitant, with a pointed glare, he takes the mug from her hands and drinks the remainder down.
It's the same thick, warm drink that the man gave him. Oddly filling, considering it's all he's had in hours. And in the well-lit room he can now see the potion's color--dark red. It smells like a meaty syrup.
Another flash comes to him, looking into the empty cup. Like one of the visions he'd had before he'd been foolish enough to accompany the dark man here. Pictures of violence, of torn throats and screaming young women.
"What is this?" he asks. He can't help but think it looks rather like blood.
"Protein shake," she says immediately. "I mean... It's a special treatment. We're... very experimental with the herbal medicines and natural... um, stuff. It's good for you."
He returns the mug to her, suddenly repulsed, and turns slightly away. She is quiet and just stands there, watching him.
There are gaps in his memory. Disturbing. He still doesn't know where he is, or how he'd arrived there. Anything could have happened during that time, anything. He could have been missing for years, for all he knows. Entered the merchant navy, sailed away somewhere.
Perhaps he has been working as a butcher. It would explain his clothing, the odd thoughts of... slashed meat.
"I know why you thought you were drugged," she says, speaking to his back. "It's because I was stronger than you, before. Right? I guess that would be pretty weird for you."
He turns around again to face her. "You have another explanation then?"
"Sure." She tosses her hair confidently, but doesn't rush to say anything else for several seconds. He gets the distinct impression she is stalling. "Because... you like that."
"I like that," he repeats mechanically. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Right. You don't remember. Because you've had an accident. But... it's this thing you like to do. With me."
"Thing."
"Yeah. You... like to... like me to... you know. Be... really strong. With you." She studies him intently as she speaks, as if waiting for something. "Dressed as a teacher. A really... stern... school marm."
She's very beautiful. Flaxen-haired. Delicate-boned. Face colored with compassion.
There are women like her in the visions he's been seeing. Tawdry, penny-paper horrors. Exactly the sort of thing he normally avoids. He's never been one for following tales of criminals or gawking at trials. He's never once gone to a single public execution, even before they were abolished, when he was 21.
His brow furrows. Her own expression takes on a cast of the frantic, and she rushes to say more.
"Or, or you... we, uh... we like to meet up, in places where nobody would ever guess that... things are going on. And you and I--"
"Miss..." He closes his eyes.
He loves books. Poetry and literature. Paintings and lithographs. In fact, his father had owned several etchings of lovely unclothed women, kept them hidden in a drawer in his study. He'd discovered that secret not long after his father's death. He'd moved the drawings to his own room, traced the lines with his fingers.
Fit for worship, those bodies. Wonder and adoration.
Not... torn open and mutilated. Venus hacked to bits.
He can't quite keep his voice from trembling. "I no longer wish to speak to you, miss."
He turns his back.
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
William Blake, The Tyger
The Center, Part 6
When the woman returns again, some hours later, she's wearing different clothing. A dressing gown of some heavy flocked material that covers her neck to ankles. She carries a thick crockery mug.
"Brought you dinner," she says brightly, and holds the mug aloft.
He turns away from her, arms folded. He makes sure his voice is flinty when he speaks. "How long am I to be prisoner here?"
"Huh? You're not a prisoner. It's just that..." Her brow crinkles. "You're sick."
"Sick," he repeats.
"Yep. You need help. And... we're doctors. Because you're contagious. And we have to isolate you so you don't infect anybody."
"So I'm under quarantine."
"Uh-huh." She smiles like a child hiding something.
He's not convinced by this story at all. "For what disease?"
"Um..." She thinks for an instant. It's amazingly transparent. "The plague?"
"The plague." He makes his words mocking. "I've somehow contracted the Black Death."
"Yep. So you see why you can't go outside."
"How unusual. Since I can't say I've noticed any symptoms. Unless I happen to be covered with suppurating boils." He lifts an eyebrow, watches her smile falter.
"Um...no. But it's, uh, it's in early stages yet." She thrusts the mug at him. "And hey, dinner!"
He eyes the mug with undisguised suspicion. Once again, he's come to believe that his current situation is no dream, and that his lack of strength earlier against this tiny woman was due to the potion the man had given him. Obvious.
"That would be drugged, no doubt?"
"What? No! Of course it's not."
"Oh? Isn't that how you and your--" he waves a hand toward the door, loath to describe her probable relationship with the other man. "--patron are keeping me here? I'm not stupid, you know. I've figured it out. You can keep your tainted drink."
She sputters briefly, upset. "T-That's not... that's not true."
"You drink some then."
She recoils visibly, then tries to recover. "It's--it's got medicine in it, for your--"
"I will not touch it."
She sighs. "Look, Sp--William. We're not trying to drug you. I swear. Angel and I are just trying to help you."
"Angel," he repeats. "Is that the--" The sodomite. He can't bring himself to say it, despite his suspicion that little would shock this woman.
"That's his name," she says. "And I'm Buffy."
"You are buffy?" He can't even guess what that description is meant to imply.
She frowns. "It's my name." She sounds a bit defensive.
Foreign name. "Miss Buffy," he says flatly. "Pleased to meet you." He's not actually pleased at all, but it's what one says. In response, though, she smiles brilliantly, as if he'd handed her a huge compliment.
Then she bites her lip, considers. Lifts the mug to her mouth. Downs a healthy gulp. "Um, tasty," she says, lowering the cup. The contorted face she makes renders her statement less than convincing.
She pushes the cup forward again, offering. "I promise, there's nothing bad in it." The drink has left her lips painted red.
He frowns, reluctant to let go of his suspicions. But he is hungry. Hesitant, with a pointed glare, he takes the mug from her hands and drinks the remainder down.
It's the same thick, warm drink that the man gave him. Oddly filling, considering it's all he's had in hours. And in the well-lit room he can now see the potion's color--dark red. It smells like a meaty syrup.
Another flash comes to him, looking into the empty cup. Like one of the visions he'd had before he'd been foolish enough to accompany the dark man here. Pictures of violence, of torn throats and screaming young women.
"What is this?" he asks. He can't help but think it looks rather like blood.
"Protein shake," she says immediately. "I mean... It's a special treatment. We're... very experimental with the herbal medicines and natural... um, stuff. It's good for you."
He returns the mug to her, suddenly repulsed, and turns slightly away. She is quiet and just stands there, watching him.
There are gaps in his memory. Disturbing. He still doesn't know where he is, or how he'd arrived there. Anything could have happened during that time, anything. He could have been missing for years, for all he knows. Entered the merchant navy, sailed away somewhere.
Perhaps he has been working as a butcher. It would explain his clothing, the odd thoughts of... slashed meat.
"I know why you thought you were drugged," she says, speaking to his back. "It's because I was stronger than you, before. Right? I guess that would be pretty weird for you."
He turns around again to face her. "You have another explanation then?"
"Sure." She tosses her hair confidently, but doesn't rush to say anything else for several seconds. He gets the distinct impression she is stalling. "Because... you like that."
"I like that," he repeats mechanically. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Right. You don't remember. Because you've had an accident. But... it's this thing you like to do. With me."
"Thing."
"Yeah. You... like to... like me to... you know. Be... really strong. With you." She studies him intently as she speaks, as if waiting for something. "Dressed as a teacher. A really... stern... school marm."
She's very beautiful. Flaxen-haired. Delicate-boned. Face colored with compassion.
There are women like her in the visions he's been seeing. Tawdry, penny-paper horrors. Exactly the sort of thing he normally avoids. He's never been one for following tales of criminals or gawking at trials. He's never once gone to a single public execution, even before they were abolished, when he was 21.
His brow furrows. Her own expression takes on a cast of the frantic, and she rushes to say more.
"Or, or you... we, uh... we like to meet up, in places where nobody would ever guess that... things are going on. And you and I--"
"Miss..." He closes his eyes.
He loves books. Poetry and literature. Paintings and lithographs. In fact, his father had owned several etchings of lovely unclothed women, kept them hidden in a drawer in his study. He'd discovered that secret not long after his father's death. He'd moved the drawings to his own room, traced the lines with his fingers.
Fit for worship, those bodies. Wonder and adoration.
Not... torn open and mutilated. Venus hacked to bits.
He can't quite keep his voice from trembling. "I no longer wish to speak to you, miss."
He turns his back.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-26 11:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 10:36 am (UTC)Glad you like!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-26 11:48 pm (UTC)William seems to be cracking up just a little, though, what with the horror-movie clip shows. This is almost how one might have imagined Angel's resouling, before assorted flashbacks and Spike's example painted a different picture for us - the human personality abruptly reinstated, and then the memories of years of monstrous misdeeds gradually seeping back in.
Meanwhile, at least he has happy memories of looking through Papa's pillow-book collection. Poor William - Burton's Kama Sutra translation didn't appear until three years after he'd gotten himself vamped...
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 10:34 am (UTC)That's kind of how I'm thinking of it - after all, it's not that he's been turned human, he just doesn't have his memories of being a vampire right now. Newly souled Angel, when we first saw him and in "Becoming Part 2," reacted like he didn't know where he'd been or what happened to him... and then the horror...
Poor William - Burton's Kama Sutra translation didn't appear until three years after he'd gotten himself vamped.
Oh, I'm sure he and Drusilla had a copy...
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 01:53 am (UTC)One tiny quibble. I'm not sure a Victorian gentleman would say I've figured it out.. I'm no expert but that sounded slightly wrong to me.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 10:32 am (UTC)This is something I'm going to tackle next - Buffy's expectations about what she thought William would be like.
One tiny quibble. I'm not sure a Victorian gentleman would say I've figured it out.. I'm no expert but that sounded slightly wrong to me.
Well, technically he is still Spike in there, only with all the memories locked away where he can't get at them. I guess I was figuring he might have a bit of a slip here and there in his speech...
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 11:46 am (UTC)You've convinced me!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 01:58 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 10:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 05:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 10:29 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 05:22 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 10:25 am (UTC)Thanks!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 05:35 am (UTC)This part was lovely and funny, well.. until the last lines , suddenly remembering me how much he must be lost and full of fears.
But Buffy drank blood!
Did Spike want a 'normal' life , writing and enjoying poetry?
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 10:24 am (UTC)Did Spike want a 'normal' life , writing and enjoying poetry?
Oooh... I can't say yet. Soon.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 05:43 am (UTC)Poor William.
*kicks them all*
Won't even tell him what's going on!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 10:21 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 12:30 pm (UTC):)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 05:48 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 10:21 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 07:44 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 10:19 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 08:01 am (UTC)Boy, talk about a visceral sensation of what was going on. You completely engage the senses - now even smell.
We can see that William would abhor what Spike is, and Spike can't stand the memory of William, whom he sees as weak and flawed and snivelling. What they both need - or what Spike needs, to not get all multiple personality about it - is a way to integrate both his selves into a coherent whole. The alternative is to end up like Angel, constantly at war, seeing yourself as two different beings, demon vs. man.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 10:18 am (UTC)What they both need - or what Spike needs, to not get all multiple personality about it - is a way to integrate both his selves into a coherent whole.
I think so too, but can say no more until I finish. I'm still tweaking it in my head, exactly how I want it to go, so keep your fingers crossed for me.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 08:02 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 10:16 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 09:54 am (UTC)Why haven't they bothered to talk to him, rather than at or around him? Why did neither of them bother to ask the obvious questions right away; his name, what the last thing was that he remembered, what year he thought it was, where he believed he was? Like Herself, I wonder why haven't they been straight with him? The plague? Why didn't Buffy just tell him as much af the truth as possible, and that he was suffering from amnesia?
Also, since I'm in for a penny.... why Buffy so much stronger than William/Spike? Did you mean stronger as in ME's intelligence-insulting-sacrifice-of-character-integrity for-the-sake-of-a-cheap-laugh-troll-hammer-lifting level of strength differential, or just that William in Spike was so unprepared for her great strength that she easily over-powered him?
William's characterization feels absolutely spot on - his thoughts and his reactions to what he's seeing and hearing of his surroundings and from Buffy and Angel ring true. But Buffy seems off to me, as if she's playing the scenes for laughs rather than behaving as my gut tells me she would in this situation. I dunno...maybe Angel and Buffy are just being cocky; e.g., 'oh no, another spell, here we go again' kind of thing, and Buffy's attitude is just a reflection of her exasperation with Spike for bringing trouble onto himself (and by extension, those closest to him) and so she's not as sensitive to his feelings as she otherwise might be.
I'm still into this fic and eager to keep reading, but I'm feeling a bit exasperated with Buffy. Please don't hate me.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 10:16 am (UTC)...or just that William in Spike was so unprepared for her great strength that she easily over-powered him?
Yep.
maybe Angel and Buffy are just being cocky; e.g., 'oh no, another spell, here we go again' kind of thing, and Buffy's attitude is just a reflection of her exasperation with Spike for bringing trouble onto himself (and by extension, those closest to him) and so she's not as sensitive to his feelings as she otherwise might be.
Bingo. And it's not so much that she's insensitive, just that she thought she'd be able to quickly guess.
And of course I don't hate you. : )
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 10:33 am (UTC)Awwwwww - took on a whole new resonance.
Now you've made me want to shake Buffy by the shoulders - she and Angel need sorting out!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-27 10:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-02-06 07:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-02-08 11:03 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-07 11:43 pm (UTC)Really loving this, in a nail-bitey kind of way. ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-02-09 03:28 am (UTC)Hm, not exactly. There's a core that's the same in both, I think, the way I see William anyway - the astute perceptions, the snap convictions that he knows exactly what he's doing (sometimes off-kilter, but that doesn't change his conviction at the time), and the way his fascinations with certain women tend to sneak up on him, regardless of initial impression.