(no subject)
Title : Like Father, Like Son
Character : William,Spike
Setting : Pre-Series
Rating : PG-13
Spike was bored, oh so bored.... His plans for a Grand Tour with Drusilla hadn't worked out as well as he had planned. Oh, it had started out well enough in Paris and continued through Munich and the surrounding countryside but then Dru decided she missed her beloved Angelus and unceremoniously vanished leaving Spike with nothing but an empty inn filled with cooling corpses. As he glumly sat in the main room of the inn idly swirling a stein of beer he debated his future; should he get back on the Orient Express and head to Vienna and possibly Budapest or back to Paris and possibly London. He hadn't been home in quite a while, it might be amusing to see what's become of his remaining family or colleagues. Yes, that's the plan, back home to the Mother Country.
Several days later he found himself in the Gare du Nord and decided that he might as well visit Bruges, Mother had always expressed an interest in visiting the famous Minnewater and the swans; she had so enjoyed feeding the swans in Hyde Park when her health permitted it. Mother would definitely have been pleased with this plan; yes, he must always remember her as the frail sweet invalid, never what she had become later.
Settled in to a comfortable room in a slightly out of the way inn, just outside what the natives call "the egg", the ring of canals surrounding the ancient part of the city Spike decided to enjoy a brisk evening stroll. The bloody swans are nowhere to be seen in the twilight and even the good citizens of this town seem to be locked up in their homes enjoying their evening repast. He found himself outside a church called Sint-Walburgakerk and decided to amuse himself by sitting down in one of the pews and contemplating the damned fine pulpit.
As he stretched and considered his options for the evening he hears footsteps behind him. An older man but he can't hear the sound of his breathing so he slowly turned his head to face a nightmare, if his heart could still beat it would have leapt in his chest; he's gazing at the face of his Father.
It can't be, his Father died when he was only ten; he remembers his Mother in mourning although he wasn't allowed to attend the burial or to see the body. He had to have died, Mother always spoke of him in the past tense when she spoke of him at all. It has to be a quirk of nature, yes, that's what it is.
The Doppelganger of his Father sits down next to him and smiles. "Well young man, you look a great deal like I did at your age and judging by your attire, you must be British. Are you on a Grand Tour and how is my beloved Mother Country?" By God, he even sounds like his memory of Papa! All he can do is stare at this apparition. "Are you unwell young man, perhaps I can assist you" and with that Spike finds his arm being grasped and he's propelled out of the church. As the cold Spring air hits his face he finds himself coming to his senses and he pulls his arm away. "Who are you? What is your name?" he stuttered and finds himself dreading the answer. "Does it really matter, the night is young and I've been here quite a few years, I can show you the best hunting places. Let's make a night of it, shall we? I haven't hunted with an Englishman in years."
He found himself following the stranger down increasing dark and dank streets until they find a group of laborers sharing a bottle in a stable. The stranger walks up to the men, addresses them in their own tongue and holds his hand out for the bottle while shaking a purse in the other hand. The laborers gladly pass over the stoneware bottle while one of them reaches out for the purse and then the stranger strikes. In a matter of a few moments they all lie dead and he's feasting on the chap still holding the bottle. "Well, what are you waiting for young man. Surely by now you've learned how to feed haven't you?" The rich, delicious smell of blood overcomes the bizarre nature of this encounter and Spike grabs the closest body.
As they walk back towards the Stadhuis his companion stops to light a cigar and proffers his hand. "I don't believe we've introduced ourselves, my name is Arthur William Pratt." And Spike finds himself absolutely rooted to the ground. "But, but, Arthur Pratt died in London in 1867. You can't be Arthur Pratt, who are you?" "Ah my boy, I am Arthur Pratt; didn't Mama tell you what happened to me? I was on business in the city of York and decided to take in a stroll before retiring. While walking on the grounds of the Minster I met a most charming young woman who said she had lost her Sisters and being a gentleman I offered to assist the young lady. As we turned down a dark alley she suddenly grabbed my arm and told me to look at the stars and as I looked up she seized me and bit my throat. The next night I awoke in the crypt of a Benedictine monastery and over the years I found myself leaving England and deciding to travel on the Continent. My wife had always expressed an interest in traveling but her health was not what it should have been and I felt sure that there was little chance of running in to her or my Son. But, of course, I see that's not the case now is it? Tell me, how is dear Anne these days?"
Spike suddenly found himself running as if the Hounds of Hell were pursuing him. He ran and he ran and he ran until he was at the train station. He demanded a ticket to the first train out of Bruges and flung himself into the coach. How could his Mama have lied to him all those years, surely she must have known what had happened to Papa? Was the business about the mourning dress, the closed curtains, the covered mirrors all a sham; or was the fact that he simply deserted them enough to make her believe he was dead.
Spike stared out of the window of the train into the inky night and grimaced. Like Father, like Son after all.
Character : William,Spike
Setting : Pre-Series
Rating : PG-13
Spike was bored, oh so bored.... His plans for a Grand Tour with Drusilla hadn't worked out as well as he had planned. Oh, it had started out well enough in Paris and continued through Munich and the surrounding countryside but then Dru decided she missed her beloved Angelus and unceremoniously vanished leaving Spike with nothing but an empty inn filled with cooling corpses. As he glumly sat in the main room of the inn idly swirling a stein of beer he debated his future; should he get back on the Orient Express and head to Vienna and possibly Budapest or back to Paris and possibly London. He hadn't been home in quite a while, it might be amusing to see what's become of his remaining family or colleagues. Yes, that's the plan, back home to the Mother Country.
Several days later he found himself in the Gare du Nord and decided that he might as well visit Bruges, Mother had always expressed an interest in visiting the famous Minnewater and the swans; she had so enjoyed feeding the swans in Hyde Park when her health permitted it. Mother would definitely have been pleased with this plan; yes, he must always remember her as the frail sweet invalid, never what she had become later.
Settled in to a comfortable room in a slightly out of the way inn, just outside what the natives call "the egg", the ring of canals surrounding the ancient part of the city Spike decided to enjoy a brisk evening stroll. The bloody swans are nowhere to be seen in the twilight and even the good citizens of this town seem to be locked up in their homes enjoying their evening repast. He found himself outside a church called Sint-Walburgakerk and decided to amuse himself by sitting down in one of the pews and contemplating the damned fine pulpit.
As he stretched and considered his options for the evening he hears footsteps behind him. An older man but he can't hear the sound of his breathing so he slowly turned his head to face a nightmare, if his heart could still beat it would have leapt in his chest; he's gazing at the face of his Father.
It can't be, his Father died when he was only ten; he remembers his Mother in mourning although he wasn't allowed to attend the burial or to see the body. He had to have died, Mother always spoke of him in the past tense when she spoke of him at all. It has to be a quirk of nature, yes, that's what it is.
The Doppelganger of his Father sits down next to him and smiles. "Well young man, you look a great deal like I did at your age and judging by your attire, you must be British. Are you on a Grand Tour and how is my beloved Mother Country?" By God, he even sounds like his memory of Papa! All he can do is stare at this apparition. "Are you unwell young man, perhaps I can assist you" and with that Spike finds his arm being grasped and he's propelled out of the church. As the cold Spring air hits his face he finds himself coming to his senses and he pulls his arm away. "Who are you? What is your name?" he stuttered and finds himself dreading the answer. "Does it really matter, the night is young and I've been here quite a few years, I can show you the best hunting places. Let's make a night of it, shall we? I haven't hunted with an Englishman in years."
He found himself following the stranger down increasing dark and dank streets until they find a group of laborers sharing a bottle in a stable. The stranger walks up to the men, addresses them in their own tongue and holds his hand out for the bottle while shaking a purse in the other hand. The laborers gladly pass over the stoneware bottle while one of them reaches out for the purse and then the stranger strikes. In a matter of a few moments they all lie dead and he's feasting on the chap still holding the bottle. "Well, what are you waiting for young man. Surely by now you've learned how to feed haven't you?" The rich, delicious smell of blood overcomes the bizarre nature of this encounter and Spike grabs the closest body.
As they walk back towards the Stadhuis his companion stops to light a cigar and proffers his hand. "I don't believe we've introduced ourselves, my name is Arthur William Pratt." And Spike finds himself absolutely rooted to the ground. "But, but, Arthur Pratt died in London in 1867. You can't be Arthur Pratt, who are you?" "Ah my boy, I am Arthur Pratt; didn't Mama tell you what happened to me? I was on business in the city of York and decided to take in a stroll before retiring. While walking on the grounds of the Minster I met a most charming young woman who said she had lost her Sisters and being a gentleman I offered to assist the young lady. As we turned down a dark alley she suddenly grabbed my arm and told me to look at the stars and as I looked up she seized me and bit my throat. The next night I awoke in the crypt of a Benedictine monastery and over the years I found myself leaving England and deciding to travel on the Continent. My wife had always expressed an interest in traveling but her health was not what it should have been and I felt sure that there was little chance of running in to her or my Son. But, of course, I see that's not the case now is it? Tell me, how is dear Anne these days?"
Spike suddenly found himself running as if the Hounds of Hell were pursuing him. He ran and he ran and he ran until he was at the train station. He demanded a ticket to the first train out of Bruges and flung himself into the coach. How could his Mama have lied to him all those years, surely she must have known what had happened to Papa? Was the business about the mourning dress, the closed curtains, the covered mirrors all a sham; or was the fact that he simply deserted them enough to make her believe he was dead.
Spike stared out of the window of the train into the inky night and grimaced. Like Father, like Son after all.