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.
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Date: 2005-01-27 10:25 am (UTC)Thanks!