Dionysus
Here is the original inspiration from
coyote_william
for the Pantheon series - the representation of Spike as Dionysus. I've tried to cram as much reference in here as possible, but Dionysus just seems to have a little bit of everything in his domain.
"Dionysus"
Rated PG-13
Takes place during 'Dead Things' - prior to the whole 'let's frame Buffy for murder and not give Spike the common sense to realize that Katrina was dead for hours' scene.
She'll be coming tonight.
She didn't say it in so many words, but it's becoming a ritual for her.
First she'll go to work, come to the graveyard with rumpled polyester uniform hidden by one of her silly little peacoats that will end up on his recliner, wrists and forearms peppered by grease-spatter burns that he will kiss away. Usually she dances with the riff-raff of the night that he hadn't yet dispatched, or they'd waltz with some hulking demon until it was in pieces and they were mad for each other.
Slowly (or, depending on the mood she's in, quickly. Usually quickly.) he'll strip her. Not just of her clothing, but of her inhibitions, her hurt, and all but one of her pretensions. When she is with him, she takes exactly what she wants from him, that blinding, blazing ecstasy that is uniquely him, drawing her back into a twisted sanctuary.
And that is what he offers women, isn't it? Sanctuary? The chance to be themselves, without care or worry, freed from the constraints placed on them by others.
To Angelus, Drusilla was something like a performing dog that slavered for his attention. If Angelus wanted Drusilla insane, she went insane. If Angelus wanted Drusilla to see the future, she'd pull down the stars to get a better look at their alignment. If Angelus wanted Drusilla in his bed and calling him 'Daddy,' well, there she was.
But as much as she loved Angelus, the frayed edges started to show.
Daddy will be very cross to find we've had a lovely mass slaughter without him.
Even the insane could get stressed, feel pressured, he supposed. But in himself, Drusilla had found her playmate, her William that simply let her be what she was. She knew he'd go to the ends of the earth to protect her and heal her, loved her exactly the way she was, danced with her by a bonfire surrounded by corpses. He could make her happy.
I'm cold.
I've got you.
I'm a princess.
That's what you are.
Once Angelus had gotten all souled-up and pious and Darla'd buggered off, no matter how much Drusilla wept for her Mummy and Daddy, she had later relished the ability to push her own limits under his watchful eye.
With Angelus and Darla, Drusilla would never have gotten the opportunity to eat first, to carry her own items, the first items that really belonged to her. He'd gotten her Miss Edith on a whim after rampaging through the country home of some lesser nobility in Germany, and noted how sweet the dead girl looked as she clutched the doll in death. He later regretted it when forced to speak to the doll in Drusilla's playacting, but relished her uncomplicated smile when she glanced over to see him with Miss Edith in her arms.
Dawn also relished the chance to sneak away to his sanctuary. With him, she was in the presence of domesticated evil, far more exciting than a chaperoned visit to the Bronze.
I like how you talk to me like I understand things.
I feel safe with you.
Truth to tell, he liked spending time with the tart-voiced teenager. He'd wind her up with a few well-placed observations on those spastic barbershop quartets that called themselves 'boy bands,' or about her selective morality on the subject of nicking stuff, as she so put it, 'shoplifting.' Wind her up, then pop her balloon of its righteous fury at the right moment - about two minutes too late.
In some ways, they fulfilled a very basic need for each other - the confirmation that the other was real and mattered. The moment she said she felt guilty for what had happened to him at the hands of Glory he - well, he'd been indignant that she would blame herself, but mostly, he was glad that she sympathized with his pain.
Huh. I guess that's you, Nibblet.
Dawn later admitted to him later that his bland acceptance of her true origins helped - he'd hardly any memories of her before she was her, and he didn't treat her any differently. She liked that, the feeling that she was an adult, and that he afforded her the same type of respect that he might an equal. He knew how to make her happy.
It's big sister that's the riddle for him nowadays. Nightly, he follows her on the dance through the catchbasins of death that happen to resemble shady meadows. From then on, he can feel her begin to lose herself in the motions, see the disgust for this that she's feigned as long as he's known her begin to melt away, the mask of tragedy falling away to reveal satisfaction, a surge of energy.
From then on, she turns on him, focuses that energy on their revels, their celebration of life in two people dead in different ways. He's a hard worker when it comes to this, not for his own physical pleasure, but to see that abstract look of joy cross her face, the shedding of burdens to find the true woman underneath.
Are we having a conversation?
What? No! ...Maybe.
She's quick to remind him, though, quick to point out that the semblance of life that he's eked out in this world is a mockery of it, quick to snatch her warm flesh from his corpse when their nightly ritual is over. When he sees her outside of his crypt, in the 'real world' she shares with the Scoobies, the mask is back on, as flawless and as maddening to him as a glass wall.
He prays that they make it to the bed this next time, the altar of slick satin and prepared comfort and wine, instead of eternally cavorting over the Oriental field of carpets, feeling her tear at his flesh and relishing the sharp contact. She'll pull and push and kick and claw with sharp nails and bite with blunt teeth, and he'll praise her, howling in joy for the pain. And then she'll be gone.
Spike really didn't know what would make her happy.
Morose thoughts, indeed. Spike snapped out of his funk long enough to see that his glass of wine had been empty several minutes ago. Reflexively, he pours out another, the better to endure this evening's disappointments.
If he'd drunk more wine as a human, would he have been a better poet?
Women come to him to lose control, to be themselves in his presence, under his watchful eye, because they know that he won't abandon them. Why then, he thinks bitterly, hearing her furtive step and feeling his traitorous body rise, can't he lose himself with them?