Faith (A Spangel A~Z Ficlet)
Fandom: Angel/Buffyverse
Rating: E
Pairing: William/Angelus, Spike/Angel, The Whirlwind(implied)
Characters: Spike, Angel, The Whirlwind
Word Count: 478
Warnings: Blasphemy, seriously, a lot of blasphemy. dark devotion, dark fic (kinda), mentions of The Whirlwind and their era of terror, a character study of sorts
Summary: Spike has never lost his faith, even if the scriptures changed over the years…
“God, yes…”
“There is no God here, boyo, save for me.”
And he was his God; for twenty years he worshiped at the feet of Angelus, lived by the teachings of The Scourge of Europe. Fell to his knees nightly to receive the damned Sacrament. Unholy Scripture writ across flesh as he prostrated himself before his dark Savior, devilish cries of ‘Allelujah tumbled from his lips under the skillful touch of his true Sanctus Dominus. Together with the Dishonored Mother, never a blonde curl out of place, and his Dark Princess, Sainted in her own right, a twisted Trinity the three of them made, the trio of demonic disciples followed their God across the continent and beyond, cutting a swath of blood and terror through countless villages and towns, leaving Hellfire in their wake.
They reveled in every sin they committed upon the Earth, no thought for the stains left on their lost souls, no care for the prospect of Hell and its torments. They were the torment, they were Hell and all its splendor. Out at dusk to slake their endless thirst, and back to their own private Heaven, their den of iniquity, at dawn to twine around each other, bodies writhing, biting, scratching, to quell their eternal lust. He took it all in, every lesson, every verse, memorized it, mapped out on his body as it was. Kept his faith for a century, assured in his belief in his Lord’s eventual return.
“Christ, please…”
“Mm, still just me, boy.”
Didn’t matter, Angel, Angelus, soul or no soul. No matter that he had been Protestant when he was just the awful poet, chalk it up to one more perversion of that old life, those Catholic Rites Angelus so beautifully subverted all those years ago. He followed him just the same. Walked his path, steadfast in his faith in the only Divinity that ever mattered to him. Still he knelt, still he prostrated, anointed himself with the Body and Blood of his Savior. Bodies still twined and writhed, expending lust only the other could quench. Blood came from bags and mugs instead of living chalices now, made sweeter during the throes of passion when shared straight from the source of his devotion. He prevailed, even now, even with the mission so vastly different from his first pilgrimage. Scriptures were re-writ, only with lips and hands instead of leather and shackles, sunk in deeper for all the care that went into every letter etched upon his flesh. Still they left blood and terror in their wake, but turned upon those that were like what they once had been, dousing Hellfire where once they would have lit the tinder. Together they found their sanctuary, wrapped in each other’s arms, whispered their sins into the only ears that could understand.
“Forgive me…”
“I can’t. But have faith, sweet boy, and someday…”