Fic:: Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
Oct. 18th, 2004 09:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ravenThis fic was not written to post, is all I can say. I wrote it knowing it was a hackneyed plot idea and not even consistent with canon, but I wanted it out of my system. I even reused the better ideas and turns of phrase in the other two fics. Unfortunately, last night at the party ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pr1ncess_sara declared her wish for a fic in the vein of Turning Tricks, only with Spike in it. Didn't say it was good, or anything, but this is it.
Fic:: Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
by Raven
PG-13, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, gen (Spike/Drusilla, Ripper/Ethan)
Spike was getting sick of London. It was the city he’d been born in, the city he’d been sired in, and the city he’d spent most of the intervening century in, but it was leaving something to be desired, these days. Drusilla didn’t think so, but bless her, she was forever distracted by other things and still hadn’t quite got over the miracle of electric light. A strand of fairy lights nicked from Woolworth’s one Christmas had kept her happy for a year. Like stars, she’d said, and he reckoned she ought to know. Drusilla could always see stars.
Spike couldn’t. The photochemical London smog put paid to that, and he was getting heartily fed up of the place. Tonight was no exception, what with the deserted killing fields and total lack of anything with a pulse. It was, he decided, just another thing to chalk up next to his general dislike of this place. Drusilla was safe at home where it was dark; the nights were short (damned low high latitude) and he wouldn’t let her put herself at risk.
So he was feeding for two, so to speak. One for himself, quick neck-break-blood-suck (and that made him think of Angelus, sort of) and one to keep for Dru. A knock on the head, something, anything to keep it quiet until the dolls’ tea party was over and she was ready to feed.
It was getting late – or early, depending on how you looked at it – and he was getting impatient. The fog was lifting over old London town, and that meant sunlight on the way. Humans, such wonderful creatures, were thin on the ground. He’d have to leave the back streets, soon – head out towards the green spaces and parks where there might be a tramp or two.
And would you look at that, he was in luck. Her Majesty’s Green Park, a weirdly lush green expanse bound by the city streets on all sides, and there were two humans wandering down by the park benches and trees. Spike wasn’t picky. Grab one, hit the other on the head, go home with a bloodstained kiss and a present for Dru.
Spike moved forwards.
And stopped.
One of them was watching him. Oh, not watching him watching him – poor dumb creature was still human, after all, and couldn’t beat a vampire at sheer stealth – but was at least peripherally aware of another, possibly undead presence among the trees.
Spike gave up the clandestine approach. Might as well get some amusement out of them, after all, and he skipped across to a bench directly in their path, waiting as they got closer.
Step by wicked step, they got closer. Despite his earlier wariness, the one on the left seemed to have no fear, and Spike grinned. Better that way, better the look of shock and fear that ran the gamut from oh-my-god-vampires-exist to oh-my-god-it’s-biting-my-neck to oh-my-god-I’m going-to-die, all in a split second. They died with an eternal look of surprise on their faces, unless he turned them, which he didn’t do often. Not worth it.
Although – his attention was on the two Happy-Meals-on-legs once more – for the first time in a hundred years, he was tempted. Oh, so tempted, because look, just look at that. On the one hand, like so many of them – punk rockers and anarchists, they called themselves, with leather slung over shoulders and fingers worn and callused from guitar strings – and on the other hand, different. A rule unto himself.
Spike smiled. “Hello.”
A whispered echo in reply. “Hello.”
Perfectly seductive, nicotine-and-tar voice, lips parted, mince and swing, and Drusilla would love this little present to the bottom of her dear dark heart. “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?”
“Something like that,” he agreed, eyes cat-like in the dim light, and Spike grinned. It got better. Green eyes and the taint of magic all over him, shot up in his veins together with the sleek taste of heroin and catnip and whatever else he had sharing space in his blood.
Blood. Time to cut to the chase.
One step closer, and the other one, the less fascinating one, was bristling. Spike frowned while he sorted out the dynamic, and eventually got it as hands slipped round the first one’s shoulders. Mine, they seemed to say. Don’t touch.
“You’ll do,” Spike said out loud. He would do, he had his own charms – and Spike would feed off him with pleasure, and keep the better prize for Dru.
He moved in and put on his game face, ready to bite, fangs skimming skin... and stopped. Something was digging into his back. Something that felt smooth, sharp, and – oh, fuck – pointy.
A pause, and then he felt the soft touch of breath on his ear. “Do it and you’re dust, love.”
A perfect voice, Spike remembered – still softly seductive, but now with Oxford consonants underpinning the Cockney. “Fine,” the vampire growled. “Let me go, why don’t you.”
Another pause, and then he was thrown off, safely away from the stake and the white hand that held it. In the soft light, Spike saw the long, sharp-as-glass fingernails, painted gleaming black. “Tell me something, pretty,” he said with difficulty. “What’s your name?”
Green eyes glittered, and the two of them moved closer together. Finally, Spike got his answer.
“Ripper.”
“And you?” Spike asked the other.
“Ethan.” He laughed suddenly, tossing the stake in the air and catching it. “Ripper, my love, it’s time to go home.”
“D’you think?”
Ripper had an effect on people; he seemed to make them want to ravish him or drain him down to the last drop.
Or both, Spike thought.
“I do think, yes,” replied Ethan.
“Right.” Ripper moved silently forwards until his lips were inches from Spike’s – a tossed glance over his shoulder signalled if you have a problem with this then fuck you – and held his gaze. Spike could hear him breathing, feel the warmth of the blood below his skin. “I’ll remember you,” Ripper whispered. And as he withdrew, added: “Nice hair.”
He tossed his head and walked off. Spike watched them go, wondering vaguely whether or not Ripper had been being sarcastic, and eventually deciding not. People like Ripper – like Spike – did not make light of their hair.
The dawn was on its way, and he shouldn’t have lingered, but somehow he couldn’t help himself. Ripper was still drawing his eyes, moving and mincing with absolute self-assuredness, and even in the dimness, the soft white skin of his neck demanded to be nipped and bitten.
As he watched, Ethan did it, and Spike heard Ripper laugh.
Perhaps it was a good thing, Spike mused, trudging homewards. Drusilla would have liked Ripper – but too much, entirely too much.
She was still playing with the fairy lights when he got back. “Poor Spike,” she said, without looking up. “Poor Spike nearly got killed tonight. Was the pretty boy rude to my Spike?”
“Dru-”
“Pretty, pretty boy,” she said without stopping. “He hurt my head, he did. Eyes like stars.”
“Drusilla!” Spike shouted.
She pouted but didn’t fall silent. “Pretty like stars, all shiny up in the sky, twinkle twinkle little star.”
For some reason, it made Spike think of his mum. The ancient killing fields of London, sometime infested with punk rockers and electric lights and stars that you couldn’t see, and Spike had had it up to here of it. “Drusilla,” he ventured.
“What?” she asked petulantly.
Spike paused. In the evening, he’d see about going north to Liverpool and getting passage. “Dru, we’re going to New York.”
Hopefully there wouldn’t be punk rockers there. And if he were lucky, he’d never see Ripper again in his life.
finis
pr1ncess_sara declared her wish for a fic in the vein of Turning Tricks, only with Spike in it. Didn't say it was good, or anything, but this is it.Fic:: Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
by Raven
PG-13, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, gen (Spike/Drusilla, Ripper/Ethan)
Spike was getting sick of London. It was the city he’d been born in, the city he’d been sired in, and the city he’d spent most of the intervening century in, but it was leaving something to be desired, these days. Drusilla didn’t think so, but bless her, she was forever distracted by other things and still hadn’t quite got over the miracle of electric light. A strand of fairy lights nicked from Woolworth’s one Christmas had kept her happy for a year. Like stars, she’d said, and he reckoned she ought to know. Drusilla could always see stars.
Spike couldn’t. The photochemical London smog put paid to that, and he was getting heartily fed up of the place. Tonight was no exception, what with the deserted killing fields and total lack of anything with a pulse. It was, he decided, just another thing to chalk up next to his general dislike of this place. Drusilla was safe at home where it was dark; the nights were short (damned low high latitude) and he wouldn’t let her put herself at risk.
So he was feeding for two, so to speak. One for himself, quick neck-break-blood-suck (and that made him think of Angelus, sort of) and one to keep for Dru. A knock on the head, something, anything to keep it quiet until the dolls’ tea party was over and she was ready to feed.
It was getting late – or early, depending on how you looked at it – and he was getting impatient. The fog was lifting over old London town, and that meant sunlight on the way. Humans, such wonderful creatures, were thin on the ground. He’d have to leave the back streets, soon – head out towards the green spaces and parks where there might be a tramp or two.
And would you look at that, he was in luck. Her Majesty’s Green Park, a weirdly lush green expanse bound by the city streets on all sides, and there were two humans wandering down by the park benches and trees. Spike wasn’t picky. Grab one, hit the other on the head, go home with a bloodstained kiss and a present for Dru.
Spike moved forwards.
And stopped.
One of them was watching him. Oh, not watching him watching him – poor dumb creature was still human, after all, and couldn’t beat a vampire at sheer stealth – but was at least peripherally aware of another, possibly undead presence among the trees.
Spike gave up the clandestine approach. Might as well get some amusement out of them, after all, and he skipped across to a bench directly in their path, waiting as they got closer.
Step by wicked step, they got closer. Despite his earlier wariness, the one on the left seemed to have no fear, and Spike grinned. Better that way, better the look of shock and fear that ran the gamut from oh-my-god-vampires-exist to oh-my-god-it’s-biting-my-neck to oh-my-god-I’m going-to-die, all in a split second. They died with an eternal look of surprise on their faces, unless he turned them, which he didn’t do often. Not worth it.
Although – his attention was on the two Happy-Meals-on-legs once more – for the first time in a hundred years, he was tempted. Oh, so tempted, because look, just look at that. On the one hand, like so many of them – punk rockers and anarchists, they called themselves, with leather slung over shoulders and fingers worn and callused from guitar strings – and on the other hand, different. A rule unto himself.
Spike smiled. “Hello.”
A whispered echo in reply. “Hello.”
Perfectly seductive, nicotine-and-tar voice, lips parted, mince and swing, and Drusilla would love this little present to the bottom of her dear dark heart. “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?”
“Something like that,” he agreed, eyes cat-like in the dim light, and Spike grinned. It got better. Green eyes and the taint of magic all over him, shot up in his veins together with the sleek taste of heroin and catnip and whatever else he had sharing space in his blood.
Blood. Time to cut to the chase.
One step closer, and the other one, the less fascinating one, was bristling. Spike frowned while he sorted out the dynamic, and eventually got it as hands slipped round the first one’s shoulders. Mine, they seemed to say. Don’t touch.
“You’ll do,” Spike said out loud. He would do, he had his own charms – and Spike would feed off him with pleasure, and keep the better prize for Dru.
He moved in and put on his game face, ready to bite, fangs skimming skin... and stopped. Something was digging into his back. Something that felt smooth, sharp, and – oh, fuck – pointy.
A pause, and then he felt the soft touch of breath on his ear. “Do it and you’re dust, love.”
A perfect voice, Spike remembered – still softly seductive, but now with Oxford consonants underpinning the Cockney. “Fine,” the vampire growled. “Let me go, why don’t you.”
Another pause, and then he was thrown off, safely away from the stake and the white hand that held it. In the soft light, Spike saw the long, sharp-as-glass fingernails, painted gleaming black. “Tell me something, pretty,” he said with difficulty. “What’s your name?”
Green eyes glittered, and the two of them moved closer together. Finally, Spike got his answer.
“Ripper.”
“And you?” Spike asked the other.
“Ethan.” He laughed suddenly, tossing the stake in the air and catching it. “Ripper, my love, it’s time to go home.”
“D’you think?”
Ripper had an effect on people; he seemed to make them want to ravish him or drain him down to the last drop.
Or both, Spike thought.
“I do think, yes,” replied Ethan.
“Right.” Ripper moved silently forwards until his lips were inches from Spike’s – a tossed glance over his shoulder signalled if you have a problem with this then fuck you – and held his gaze. Spike could hear him breathing, feel the warmth of the blood below his skin. “I’ll remember you,” Ripper whispered. And as he withdrew, added: “Nice hair.”
He tossed his head and walked off. Spike watched them go, wondering vaguely whether or not Ripper had been being sarcastic, and eventually deciding not. People like Ripper – like Spike – did not make light of their hair.
The dawn was on its way, and he shouldn’t have lingered, but somehow he couldn’t help himself. Ripper was still drawing his eyes, moving and mincing with absolute self-assuredness, and even in the dimness, the soft white skin of his neck demanded to be nipped and bitten.
As he watched, Ethan did it, and Spike heard Ripper laugh.
Perhaps it was a good thing, Spike mused, trudging homewards. Drusilla would have liked Ripper – but too much, entirely too much.
She was still playing with the fairy lights when he got back. “Poor Spike,” she said, without looking up. “Poor Spike nearly got killed tonight. Was the pretty boy rude to my Spike?”
“Dru-”
“Pretty, pretty boy,” she said without stopping. “He hurt my head, he did. Eyes like stars.”
“Drusilla!” Spike shouted.
She pouted but didn’t fall silent. “Pretty like stars, all shiny up in the sky, twinkle twinkle little star.”
For some reason, it made Spike think of his mum. The ancient killing fields of London, sometime infested with punk rockers and electric lights and stars that you couldn’t see, and Spike had had it up to here of it. “Drusilla,” he ventured.
“What?” she asked petulantly.
Spike paused. In the evening, he’d see about going north to Liverpool and getting passage. “Dru, we’re going to New York.”
Hopefully there wouldn’t be punk rockers there. And if he were lucky, he’d never see Ripper again in his life.
finis
no subject
on 2004-10-28 08:34 pm (UTC)And this is spiff, too.
I adore Dru'n'Spike. It's the only het pairing i can stand.
And a fun pre-Buffy encounter - nice!
The ancient killing fields of London, sometime infested with punk rockers and electric lights and stars that you couldn’t see, and Spike had had it up to here of it.
Lovely line.
no subject
on 2004-11-01 09:57 am (UTC)