Stolen Screams

He didn’t go past the threshold – Angelus didn’t care for people breathing down his neck when he worked - but the git liked an audience, and Spike knew Angelus had timed that crack of bone, yeah that one, just for him, coaxed out that bitten-off moan from the Watcher just because there were other ears than his to appreciate it. Fucking exhibitionist.

He looked over the hulking bulk of Angelus’ shoulders and, for the briefest of instants, saw what Angelus saw.

When he came later, buried deep in Drusilla as she clawed and bit in a frenzy of despair, still sulking that he’d hurt her precious fucking Daddy, it wasn’t half as satisfying as that messy, secret climax earlier when the helpless, hopeful agony in the Watcher’s eyes was all he’d needed to spill.

I promised the Slayer I’d keep you alive. It’s me who’s going to hurt you the most, he’d wanted to shout, or whisper soft and secret in the Watcher’s ear. Not him, no matter how deep down his throat your blood trickled as he licked clean every cut he made, no matter if it’s his hands that are following the knife along, squeezing and patting every sore, aching throb of a hurt. Me. He’s going to kill you when you babble out your secret – and you will – he’s going to end the pain, stop the suffering, halt the hell; going to give you blackness, emptiness, a grave six feet, I’m going to top all of that. I’m going to stop him. I’m going to save you.

I’m going to give you mercy.

And if you knew whose fault it was you got to live, waking in pain to a world your maudlin mourning for a treacherous bitch nearly ended, you’d hate me most. Wouldn’t you?
Wouldn’t you? Yeah. You would.

And every time Giles screamed after that, it was just for him. Just for him...

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