(no subject)
(Following from here ... )
Now this was a little more like it. Smog … traffic. Spike was the first to admit he’d always been very much an urban vampire. Screw forests and trees, give him a darkened alley full of puddles and rubbish any day. Night. Though this particular night wouldn’t be for too much longer, if the neon display clock on a nearby building was any indication.
So. Priorities. He’d tried calling Angel Investigations - which is to say he’d broken open a payphone and recycled some of the coins, but the number didn’t connect. Likewise Angel’s cell phone, or, God help him, Harmony’s. For a long moment he’d paused, fighting with himself over another number before hanging up, scooping the coins into his pocket and heading away. He didn’t think he could stand the idea that Buffy and the rest might be gone as well.
He’d wandered a little while - as yet he had nowhere to go, but his own agitation wouldn’t let him keep still - until he found himself staring pointedly, almost lustfully, at the necks of people going by. Dammit, he was going to have to feed.
And so here he was, some fifteen minutes later, crouched in an alleyway by an unconscious drunk with his game-face on and his teeth set carefully - if barely so - in the man’s wrist. He made himself drink slowly, steadily, pushing back the instinctive urge to rip open an entire vein and swallow it all. God, it was so good … when had he last had fresh, anyway? Too long ago.
He kept a weather eye on the man’s colour, a weather ear on the breathing and pulse … no, don’t think about 'pulse'.
He’s just a drunk, some bum who nobody’ll miss … Spike shivered, drank a little deeper. Just the one, just this silly bastard, not like he’s got anything to live for … Oh God, over the palate and down his throat, it had been much too long. Just this one, just this one …
No. He sat up, jerking his fangs away from the skin. No. He pulled in a useless breath, if only for the distraction using the muscles caused. One hand encircled the wino’s wrist, pressing down on the wound until the bleeding stopped. No. Not just one. It would never be just one.
“Sorry, mate.” he murmured, checking the man over. He’d come a little too close to taking too much, but the fellow should be OK. Spike closed his eyes briefly, willing his demon face to recede. Never just one. God. He fished around and snatched up the half-bottle of whiskey from the trash the man was using for a bed. Standing, Spike tore off the cap and threw his head back, sinking a long, long draft that emptied most of what remained. He glanced down, gave a shrug and finished the rest, tossing the empty back amongst the trash and walking away.
“Sorry about that, too.”
Now this was a little more like it. Smog … traffic. Spike was the first to admit he’d always been very much an urban vampire. Screw forests and trees, give him a darkened alley full of puddles and rubbish any day. Night. Though this particular night wouldn’t be for too much longer, if the neon display clock on a nearby building was any indication.
So. Priorities. He’d tried calling Angel Investigations - which is to say he’d broken open a payphone and recycled some of the coins, but the number didn’t connect. Likewise Angel’s cell phone, or, God help him, Harmony’s. For a long moment he’d paused, fighting with himself over another number before hanging up, scooping the coins into his pocket and heading away. He didn’t think he could stand the idea that Buffy and the rest might be gone as well.
He’d wandered a little while - as yet he had nowhere to go, but his own agitation wouldn’t let him keep still - until he found himself staring pointedly, almost lustfully, at the necks of people going by. Dammit, he was going to have to feed.
And so here he was, some fifteen minutes later, crouched in an alleyway by an unconscious drunk with his game-face on and his teeth set carefully - if barely so - in the man’s wrist. He made himself drink slowly, steadily, pushing back the instinctive urge to rip open an entire vein and swallow it all. God, it was so good … when had he last had fresh, anyway? Too long ago.
He kept a weather eye on the man’s colour, a weather ear on the breathing and pulse … no, don’t think about 'pulse'.
He’s just a drunk, some bum who nobody’ll miss … Spike shivered, drank a little deeper. Just the one, just this silly bastard, not like he’s got anything to live for … Oh God, over the palate and down his throat, it had been much too long. Just this one, just this one …
No. He sat up, jerking his fangs away from the skin. No. He pulled in a useless breath, if only for the distraction using the muscles caused. One hand encircled the wino’s wrist, pressing down on the wound until the bleeding stopped. No. Not just one. It would never be just one.
“Sorry, mate.” he murmured, checking the man over. He’d come a little too close to taking too much, but the fellow should be OK. Spike closed his eyes briefly, willing his demon face to recede. Never just one. God. He fished around and snatched up the half-bottle of whiskey from the trash the man was using for a bed. Standing, Spike tore off the cap and threw his head back, sinking a long, long draft that emptied most of what remained. He glanced down, gave a shrug and finished the rest, tossing the empty back amongst the trash and walking away.
“Sorry about that, too.”