King of Beasts
King of Beasts
Fanged Four, Angel/Spike, no violence, no sex, a reflection.
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply.
The London sky was grey and a thin drizzle fell upon the concrete path, the wetness in the air settling like a fine blanket over everything, trapping the thick scent of animal musk. Behind the bars of the massive iron and concrete cage, the big cats paced fretfully, staring balefully out at the animals with the human faces come to take their pleasure at the Zoo.
Dru was enthralled by them, of course, and had to be kept a special eye on that she didn't take it into her head to nimbly scramble over the short wrought iron rail and slip between the bars of the cage. Even William, reckless as he could be (and usually at the most inopportune times), seemed to realise this and kept his arm firmly hooked through hers, placating her with sweets from the white paper sack he held, and promises of stealing one of the more docile animals, an otter, perhaps, and having it for dessert.
Angelus gripped the wrought iron fence, scenting the tang of pent-up animal frustration that permeated even the metal. The two lionesses paced simultaniously, covering the length of the cage in two directions at once, all the while staring out at the people beyond the bars, their eyes hungry. Taking in the powerful lines of their sleek skeletons, the lean muscle rippling along their sides, Angelus wondered what they made of the foursome standing before them. Darla idly rested a gloved hand on his arm, and hummed, bored with the dreary sight of the confined creatures and eager to seek out more lively amusements, but humouring him for now.
At the back of the lions' makeshift den were the cells in which they slept, dark holes with small, barred windows. When the wind blew right, a more concentrated smell of thick, confined wild beast whiffed forth from them. On top of their concrete den, the male lion lay. Unlike his female compatriots, he did not pace, did not betray that he was a live animal, instead of a stuffed specimen, by any movement save the slight twitching of his dark-tufted tail.
The beast was massive, with battlescars visible along his sides, dark lines etched in his thick, fine tawny coat. His enormous head was crowned with a mane of thick, dark fur and his golden eyes looked out, beyond the bars, beyond the creatures standing before the cage, across thousands of miles, seeing the golden plains of Africa. Angelus' own eyes grew amber as he looked intently into the beast's face, willing it to see and acknowledge him, and know its master.
The lion lay on the damp concrete, gaze fixed on the vision of its savannah, and never so much as flicked an eye to indicate it noticed their presence, the entire time they stood there, until Darla made a little noise in her throat to indicate she'd had enough, and was tired of the dampness spoiling her hair, and they'd gone to find warmer, more convivial accommodations, and dinner.
Over a century later, Spike watches as his grandsire sits at the meeting, listening to the humans he's sworn to protect, prattling on about the latest disaster. He watches, incorporeal and helpless, arms crossed, the smirk that so infuriates the older vampire on his face. He can call himself Angel and try to pretend all he likes, but Spike recognises the lion, beneath, staring out beyond the bars of the cage that binds him.
Fanged Four, Angel/Spike, no violence, no sex, a reflection.
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply.
The London sky was grey and a thin drizzle fell upon the concrete path, the wetness in the air settling like a fine blanket over everything, trapping the thick scent of animal musk. Behind the bars of the massive iron and concrete cage, the big cats paced fretfully, staring balefully out at the animals with the human faces come to take their pleasure at the Zoo.
Dru was enthralled by them, of course, and had to be kept a special eye on that she didn't take it into her head to nimbly scramble over the short wrought iron rail and slip between the bars of the cage. Even William, reckless as he could be (and usually at the most inopportune times), seemed to realise this and kept his arm firmly hooked through hers, placating her with sweets from the white paper sack he held, and promises of stealing one of the more docile animals, an otter, perhaps, and having it for dessert.
Angelus gripped the wrought iron fence, scenting the tang of pent-up animal frustration that permeated even the metal. The two lionesses paced simultaniously, covering the length of the cage in two directions at once, all the while staring out at the people beyond the bars, their eyes hungry. Taking in the powerful lines of their sleek skeletons, the lean muscle rippling along their sides, Angelus wondered what they made of the foursome standing before them. Darla idly rested a gloved hand on his arm, and hummed, bored with the dreary sight of the confined creatures and eager to seek out more lively amusements, but humouring him for now.
At the back of the lions' makeshift den were the cells in which they slept, dark holes with small, barred windows. When the wind blew right, a more concentrated smell of thick, confined wild beast whiffed forth from them. On top of their concrete den, the male lion lay. Unlike his female compatriots, he did not pace, did not betray that he was a live animal, instead of a stuffed specimen, by any movement save the slight twitching of his dark-tufted tail.
The beast was massive, with battlescars visible along his sides, dark lines etched in his thick, fine tawny coat. His enormous head was crowned with a mane of thick, dark fur and his golden eyes looked out, beyond the bars, beyond the creatures standing before the cage, across thousands of miles, seeing the golden plains of Africa. Angelus' own eyes grew amber as he looked intently into the beast's face, willing it to see and acknowledge him, and know its master.
The lion lay on the damp concrete, gaze fixed on the vision of its savannah, and never so much as flicked an eye to indicate it noticed their presence, the entire time they stood there, until Darla made a little noise in her throat to indicate she'd had enough, and was tired of the dampness spoiling her hair, and they'd gone to find warmer, more convivial accommodations, and dinner.
Over a century later, Spike watches as his grandsire sits at the meeting, listening to the humans he's sworn to protect, prattling on about the latest disaster. He watches, incorporeal and helpless, arms crossed, the smirk that so infuriates the older vampire on his face. He can call himself Angel and try to pretend all he likes, but Spike recognises the lion, beneath, staring out beyond the bars of the cage that binds him.