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thatotherpervSunday is an oddly normal day. Spike is sort of expecting…well, *something* to happen, given the staring and groping and noisy sex that have thus far welcomed him into the Aurelius household.
So it’s sort of balance-throwing when Sunday passes with a boring and novel degree of normality. watching the telly and eating three squares and all that crap, and it’s almost enough to convince Spike that he was imagining all the dirty little bits of strangeness…but of course we know better, don’t we?
Told you he still has a bit of William in him. *pets*
So the day passes quicker than he would have expected, and Monday comes early, alarm blaring in his ear at 6 in the fucking A.M., and he comes conscious with a block of ice in the pit of his belly and a feeling of dread and…again. As in, “here we go again,” and “not this again,” and “prepare yourself to feel like a big fucking freak…*again*.”
at least this time he’ll be a better-dressed freak.
When he’s sufficiently armored up and shellacked and fortified with a June-Cleaver-worthy breakfast, he drags his feet and his backpack into Darla’s car…
what would she drive, anyway? let’s say a BMW. convertible. powder-blue. Z3? Yeah, Z3. that might not be a cool car anymore, but whatever, fuck it. that’s what I see.
And Spike thinks, maybe…with the car, and the clothes, and the neighborhood and the parents, maybe this time will be different. Maybe he can stop mouthing off to teachers and being a discipline case. Maybe he’ll find some mates, and have a girlfriend…or something along those lines. Maybe he’ll be invited to parties in mansions with…you know, celebrities and champagne, or is it cocaine…whatever the fuck they do in the good bits of LA Spike has never been to and never really dreamed of.
Maybe he can get through his first day in a new school without getting his arse kicked.
But you know how these things are bound to go…staring leads to whispering, which leads to tittering laughter and manicured pointing, which leads to the new boy glowering and hunching and bristling, and when the inevitable dickhead-swaggering escalated to jeers and chest-puffing and cockney swearing…
Spike gets his arse kicked on his first day in a new school. Again.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Angel is the one that shows up when the front office calls home. Darla is doing…whatever the fuck Darla does for a living. Let’s say she’s an art dealer or something. She did like pretty things, just look at Liam. But Angel’s unemployed or independently wealthy or…fuck, I don’t know. The CEO of a major corporation or a figurehead or…what-the-fuck-ever, the point is that Angel is the one that is reachable when the principal calls home.
I’ve always found it somewhat cruel and ironic that the kid that takes the beating gets sent home too. ‘cool off,’ my ass. but to be fair, Spike started it.
Yeah, you aren’t surprised. Neither am I.
so Angel shows up and sails past Spike without a word. Spike is hunched in a plastic chair, enjoying the lovely sensation of his face swelling like a corpse in the sun. He does give Spike The Eye as he passes, though. And Spike slouches and scowls till that makes him wince, and pretends that the bile isn’t trying to rise up in this throat at the look of disapproval on Angel’s face. again. He’s always mucking it up. they’re gonna boot him, and take back the clothes.
but if they think they’re taking his new boots, they’d better think again. they’ll have to pry them from his cold, dead fingers.
he can hear muffled conversation as Angel talks to the principal. the tones are polite and almost flirtatious, and he flinches bitterly when he hears laughter. Course *they’re* getting along famously. Come from the same world, don’t they? Spike’s the one on the outs here.
probably having a lark over the fact that you can’t trust gutter trash like him, and how silly they were for trying.
the door opens, and as Angel steps out, his smile fades quickly into a moue of disapproval over the state of Spike’s face. he doesn’t even speak or gesture for Spike to follow, but Spike isn’t exactly wanted at the school, is he, so he sort of slinks after, like a dog expecting to be beaten but hoping for some scraps anyway.
and by the time they reach Angel’s enormous cock-symbol of an SUV, he’s pissed off about that, so he hauls himself up into the passenger’s seat and slumps with his arms crossed, bristling. Nobody’s victim. Won’t even put on his safety belt, not that Angel cares. He doesn’t spare Spike a glance the entire drive home.
Spike is halfway up the stairs to his bedroom when Angel calls his name like he expects to be minded.
For a long moment, Spike just freezes there, giving Angel his back and hoping he won’t actually have to go back down the stairs. The total, eerie silence is only broken by the ticking of the hall clock, and eventually he pivots, descending the stairs and passing the poof without looking at him, straight into the living room in muddy boots.
He stands in the middle of the room with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his duster, trying to look pointedly bored, even though his face is on fire. If he’s going to be given his walking papers, he’s going to keep his dignity. And his boots.
He doesn’t look at Angel as he approaches, stubbornly, even when the man is looming over him, standing inches away. Everything goes still, like time slows to a crawl. Spike can feel Angel breathing on his face.
The moment suspends…lengthens…so when Angel twists his fist into the front of Spike’s shirt, the action feels impossibly sudden. It happens too quickly to prepare him for the way he’s suddenly hoisted up till his toes barely scrape the ground…far too quickly to brace himself for the blow he takes full-on in the solar plexus, a big hard fist in his gut.
And it isn’t the first strike he’s taken there today, so the pain is bright enough to blind him. When Angel lets him go, it’s with a little shove, and Spike crumples to the floor, winded and shocked and any minute now, enraged. any minute now. an-y min-ute. he’s just got to get his breath, and process the fact that Angel is the type of bloke that hits. he’d missed that, somehow, in his initial assessment .
“Figures.”
Spike doesn’t even try to make sense of that as Angel moves away, shoes loud in the kitchen. he’s just rocking up to sitting again when Angel tosses an ice pack in his lap. Then a tea-towel.
“Put that on your face.”
“Ta.” He sounds as bitter and scathing as he can with a lip that’s swelling up, and it hurts to glare, but he does.
Angel sits on the couch, and Spike lets out a little groan of relief as the ice settles on his aching flesh. Eventually, he can’t ignore the way Angel is studying him.
“What, you wanna kick me while I’m down? May as well, while you’re at it. Here. I’ll make it real easy for you to boot me in the nuts.”
Angel doesn’t really look impressed…amused, maybe, and when his eyes drop down to Spike’s theatrically sprawled legs, the lifted eyebrow makes Spike feel about three inches tall. Not to mention, a tad exposed. He pulls his legs Indian-style and looks away, face resting on the ice pack heavily.
“How did this happen?”
Angel doesn’t sound angry or disappointed, really, just sort of…well. Spike looks at him, but he’s just watching passively. “There was a bloke.”
Angel says nothing, and Spike can’t take the silence long, of course. He’s already on edge enough as it is, and nothing about this really makes sense. Angel hit him, but now he’s acting like nothing’s wrong. “He said something I didn’t like, so I told him to get stuffed, and….”
He shrugs the rest off. the story told itself.
“What did he say?”
Spike stares at the baseboard along the bottom of the wall. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Was it worth it?”
Spike is sullenly silent.
“You’re too small to mouth off like that.”
Spike straightens. “Oi!”
“You’re too small to mouth off like that,” Angel continues, ignoring him, “when you don’t know how to hold your own. If your little ragdoll impression was anything to go by, you probably didn’t even put up a fight.”
Spike’s cheeks turn a shade of pink that’s probably invisible under the developing bruises. he hopes. “I can hold my own,” he grumbles, but he can’t look Angel in the eye.
Angel doesn’t move, except to sink further into the couch. he gestures lazily with one hand. “How does that feel now?”
“Never better.” He doesn’t quite pull off the sarcasm because the split in his lip tugs as he talks. He winces, and winces harder at what that does to his cheek. Bugger.
His eyes are watering, so he doesn’t notice Angel getting up until he’s standing over him, extending a glass for him to take.
blind, he thinks it’s water until the burn of the whiskey bubbles back up with a choke, searing his sinuses.
When the coughing and sputtering and tear-wiping subsides, Angel is watching him like the smug bastard he is, mouth hung in a little smile. When Spike eyes the stuff suspiciously, Angel gestures. “Drink up. Have you feeling better in no time.”
It feels like a challenge, somehow, when it’s said with that look…when Angel’s already implied that he’s a pathetic little wanker that can’t even take care of himself. The liquor makes Spike’s eyes water and his throat burn, but he tries determinedly not to choke again, gulping it down in great droughts until it’s done. Angel’s watching the whole time, looking ever so amused.
The drink spreads warmly from his belly out through his limbs, finally going to his head so that he feels woozy and pleasantly numb.
“I’ll teach you everything you need to know. Christ knows we have the time to get in the basics, with that stunt you pulled. They want me to keep you home all week.”
“What the bloody hell are you on about?”
His tongue feels all thick against the floor of his mouth, and heavy.
“Fighting,” Angel clarifies, but Spike’s still pretty sure that doesn’t make sense, because Angel’s meant to be angry he was fighting, wasn’t he? He’s definitely meant to be angry, but he’s not, and Spike’s head feels a bit heavy, and full, like his brain’s grown three sizes.
Then Angel turns the tv on, and everything goes a little fuzzy for a while like maybe Spike falls asleep. He wakes up to the sound of murmuring. Darla’s home, and then she’s poking at his face with something that stings, and his head throbs a little. They say something to him, or each other, but he was so deeply asleep, and his dreams were bloody.
Eventually he stands and drags himself to his bedroom, ribs aching, and his face, Christ…he’s still fuzzy from the liquor but it throbs, dull and insistent.
He crawls into bed carefully, shedding his clothes and settling his bones gingerly, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt. Eventually, he settles for the fetal position and curls around his bruised middle. The pillowcase, with its high thread count, feels too rough against his cheek, but he pulls the covers over his head, and it’s not long before he’s out again.
He dreams he’s running away from someone. But then the world shifts upside-down, and they’re running away from him, instead.
TBC
I think this chapter was definitely rougher, but hopefully interesting nonetheless, haha.
So it’s sort of balance-throwing when Sunday passes with a boring and novel degree of normality. watching the telly and eating three squares and all that crap, and it’s almost enough to convince Spike that he was imagining all the dirty little bits of strangeness…but of course we know better, don’t we?
Told you he still has a bit of William in him. *pets*
So the day passes quicker than he would have expected, and Monday comes early, alarm blaring in his ear at 6 in the fucking A.M., and he comes conscious with a block of ice in the pit of his belly and a feeling of dread and…again. As in, “here we go again,” and “not this again,” and “prepare yourself to feel like a big fucking freak…*again*.”
at least this time he’ll be a better-dressed freak.
When he’s sufficiently armored up and shellacked and fortified with a June-Cleaver-worthy breakfast, he drags his feet and his backpack into Darla’s car…
what would she drive, anyway? let’s say a BMW. convertible. powder-blue. Z3? Yeah, Z3. that might not be a cool car anymore, but whatever, fuck it. that’s what I see.
And Spike thinks, maybe…with the car, and the clothes, and the neighborhood and the parents, maybe this time will be different. Maybe he can stop mouthing off to teachers and being a discipline case. Maybe he’ll find some mates, and have a girlfriend…or something along those lines. Maybe he’ll be invited to parties in mansions with…you know, celebrities and champagne, or is it cocaine…whatever the fuck they do in the good bits of LA Spike has never been to and never really dreamed of.
Maybe he can get through his first day in a new school without getting his arse kicked.
But you know how these things are bound to go…staring leads to whispering, which leads to tittering laughter and manicured pointing, which leads to the new boy glowering and hunching and bristling, and when the inevitable dickhead-swaggering escalated to jeers and chest-puffing and cockney swearing…
Spike gets his arse kicked on his first day in a new school. Again.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Angel is the one that shows up when the front office calls home. Darla is doing…whatever the fuck Darla does for a living. Let’s say she’s an art dealer or something. She did like pretty things, just look at Liam. But Angel’s unemployed or independently wealthy or…fuck, I don’t know. The CEO of a major corporation or a figurehead or…what-the-fuck-ever, the point is that Angel is the one that is reachable when the principal calls home.
I’ve always found it somewhat cruel and ironic that the kid that takes the beating gets sent home too. ‘cool off,’ my ass. but to be fair, Spike started it.
Yeah, you aren’t surprised. Neither am I.
so Angel shows up and sails past Spike without a word. Spike is hunched in a plastic chair, enjoying the lovely sensation of his face swelling like a corpse in the sun. He does give Spike The Eye as he passes, though. And Spike slouches and scowls till that makes him wince, and pretends that the bile isn’t trying to rise up in this throat at the look of disapproval on Angel’s face. again. He’s always mucking it up. they’re gonna boot him, and take back the clothes.
but if they think they’re taking his new boots, they’d better think again. they’ll have to pry them from his cold, dead fingers.
he can hear muffled conversation as Angel talks to the principal. the tones are polite and almost flirtatious, and he flinches bitterly when he hears laughter. Course *they’re* getting along famously. Come from the same world, don’t they? Spike’s the one on the outs here.
probably having a lark over the fact that you can’t trust gutter trash like him, and how silly they were for trying.
the door opens, and as Angel steps out, his smile fades quickly into a moue of disapproval over the state of Spike’s face. he doesn’t even speak or gesture for Spike to follow, but Spike isn’t exactly wanted at the school, is he, so he sort of slinks after, like a dog expecting to be beaten but hoping for some scraps anyway.
and by the time they reach Angel’s enormous cock-symbol of an SUV, he’s pissed off about that, so he hauls himself up into the passenger’s seat and slumps with his arms crossed, bristling. Nobody’s victim. Won’t even put on his safety belt, not that Angel cares. He doesn’t spare Spike a glance the entire drive home.
Spike is halfway up the stairs to his bedroom when Angel calls his name like he expects to be minded.
For a long moment, Spike just freezes there, giving Angel his back and hoping he won’t actually have to go back down the stairs. The total, eerie silence is only broken by the ticking of the hall clock, and eventually he pivots, descending the stairs and passing the poof without looking at him, straight into the living room in muddy boots.
He stands in the middle of the room with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his duster, trying to look pointedly bored, even though his face is on fire. If he’s going to be given his walking papers, he’s going to keep his dignity. And his boots.
He doesn’t look at Angel as he approaches, stubbornly, even when the man is looming over him, standing inches away. Everything goes still, like time slows to a crawl. Spike can feel Angel breathing on his face.
The moment suspends…lengthens…so when Angel twists his fist into the front of Spike’s shirt, the action feels impossibly sudden. It happens too quickly to prepare him for the way he’s suddenly hoisted up till his toes barely scrape the ground…far too quickly to brace himself for the blow he takes full-on in the solar plexus, a big hard fist in his gut.
And it isn’t the first strike he’s taken there today, so the pain is bright enough to blind him. When Angel lets him go, it’s with a little shove, and Spike crumples to the floor, winded and shocked and any minute now, enraged. any minute now. an-y min-ute. he’s just got to get his breath, and process the fact that Angel is the type of bloke that hits. he’d missed that, somehow, in his initial assessment .
“Figures.”
Spike doesn’t even try to make sense of that as Angel moves away, shoes loud in the kitchen. he’s just rocking up to sitting again when Angel tosses an ice pack in his lap. Then a tea-towel.
“Put that on your face.”
“Ta.” He sounds as bitter and scathing as he can with a lip that’s swelling up, and it hurts to glare, but he does.
Angel sits on the couch, and Spike lets out a little groan of relief as the ice settles on his aching flesh. Eventually, he can’t ignore the way Angel is studying him.
“What, you wanna kick me while I’m down? May as well, while you’re at it. Here. I’ll make it real easy for you to boot me in the nuts.”
Angel doesn’t really look impressed…amused, maybe, and when his eyes drop down to Spike’s theatrically sprawled legs, the lifted eyebrow makes Spike feel about three inches tall. Not to mention, a tad exposed. He pulls his legs Indian-style and looks away, face resting on the ice pack heavily.
“How did this happen?”
Angel doesn’t sound angry or disappointed, really, just sort of…well. Spike looks at him, but he’s just watching passively. “There was a bloke.”
Angel says nothing, and Spike can’t take the silence long, of course. He’s already on edge enough as it is, and nothing about this really makes sense. Angel hit him, but now he’s acting like nothing’s wrong. “He said something I didn’t like, so I told him to get stuffed, and….”
He shrugs the rest off. the story told itself.
“What did he say?”
Spike stares at the baseboard along the bottom of the wall. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Was it worth it?”
Spike is sullenly silent.
“You’re too small to mouth off like that.”
Spike straightens. “Oi!”
“You’re too small to mouth off like that,” Angel continues, ignoring him, “when you don’t know how to hold your own. If your little ragdoll impression was anything to go by, you probably didn’t even put up a fight.”
Spike’s cheeks turn a shade of pink that’s probably invisible under the developing bruises. he hopes. “I can hold my own,” he grumbles, but he can’t look Angel in the eye.
Angel doesn’t move, except to sink further into the couch. he gestures lazily with one hand. “How does that feel now?”
“Never better.” He doesn’t quite pull off the sarcasm because the split in his lip tugs as he talks. He winces, and winces harder at what that does to his cheek. Bugger.
His eyes are watering, so he doesn’t notice Angel getting up until he’s standing over him, extending a glass for him to take.
blind, he thinks it’s water until the burn of the whiskey bubbles back up with a choke, searing his sinuses.
When the coughing and sputtering and tear-wiping subsides, Angel is watching him like the smug bastard he is, mouth hung in a little smile. When Spike eyes the stuff suspiciously, Angel gestures. “Drink up. Have you feeling better in no time.”
It feels like a challenge, somehow, when it’s said with that look…when Angel’s already implied that he’s a pathetic little wanker that can’t even take care of himself. The liquor makes Spike’s eyes water and his throat burn, but he tries determinedly not to choke again, gulping it down in great droughts until it’s done. Angel’s watching the whole time, looking ever so amused.
The drink spreads warmly from his belly out through his limbs, finally going to his head so that he feels woozy and pleasantly numb.
“I’ll teach you everything you need to know. Christ knows we have the time to get in the basics, with that stunt you pulled. They want me to keep you home all week.”
“What the bloody hell are you on about?”
His tongue feels all thick against the floor of his mouth, and heavy.
“Fighting,” Angel clarifies, but Spike’s still pretty sure that doesn’t make sense, because Angel’s meant to be angry he was fighting, wasn’t he? He’s definitely meant to be angry, but he’s not, and Spike’s head feels a bit heavy, and full, like his brain’s grown three sizes.
Then Angel turns the tv on, and everything goes a little fuzzy for a while like maybe Spike falls asleep. He wakes up to the sound of murmuring. Darla’s home, and then she’s poking at his face with something that stings, and his head throbs a little. They say something to him, or each other, but he was so deeply asleep, and his dreams were bloody.
Eventually he stands and drags himself to his bedroom, ribs aching, and his face, Christ…he’s still fuzzy from the liquor but it throbs, dull and insistent.
He crawls into bed carefully, shedding his clothes and settling his bones gingerly, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt. Eventually, he settles for the fetal position and curls around his bruised middle. The pillowcase, with its high thread count, feels too rough against his cheek, but he pulls the covers over his head, and it’s not long before he’s out again.
He dreams he’s running away from someone. But then the world shifts upside-down, and they’re running away from him, instead.
TBC
I think this chapter was definitely rougher, but hopefully interesting nonetheless, haha.
