Title: "Lascivious Grace"
Authors: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Spoilers: Hypothetical 4th season of "BTVS"
Rating/Classification: 'PG-13', B/S-ish, Spike POV, angst, humor, fluff.
Disclaimer: Grr aargh.
Summary: Spike has taken up residence at the Crawford Street mansion...what else of Angel's will he inherit?

Its not easy, you know. Living the un-life. Waking up every night, putting on my favorite jeans, and going out to slash a few throats. Even the blood doesn't hold my attention anymore. Ruby red drops. . . that don't taste like anything. I've lost my appetite. There's a soddin' t.v. advert for the Sunnydale Hospital Mental Health Clinic. . . says that that's the first major sign of depression. Whooo. Mayhap I should check-in.

Or not.

I found the mansion deserted. . . Soul Boy must've took off for parts unknown. Although why he'd leave Her, I don't know. So, I moved in. Took the place over. But I can't seem to erase his mark. This place reeks of my sire. Of his pounds and pounds of angst. He left it furnished. And I wonder if she sat on this sofa. . . how many times they almost got to shagging here before one of 'em remembered the strings attached and pulled away. Even found a book of Shakespearean sonnets on the mantel. Maybe he knew I was coming. Maybe he left it for me. To Spike, with love.


Dear Satan. . .'cos I wouldn't say 'God', of course. Its funny. Its actually fucking hilarious. I've turned into my father! I'm soddin' Brood Boy, Jr. Although he doesn't smoke. Oops. Burn marks on his couch. My couch now. Looks like I really don't have that far to fall. Just have to become all soul-having. . . start helping out the Slayer and her little band of Merry Men. And fall in love with her. Perish the thought.

Angelus really was my father, you know. Gave me my name. Taught me to be who I am. Slapped the shit out of me, of course. Turned me into a vampire, of course. But he was my da just the same. The real one died when I was just a wee boy. . .Mum never liked to talk about him. . .people in the village told me he was a wanker. Useless.

"Robert Kenyon. . . pah! He weren't no man, Will. He were a monster. Now go on with you. . . get to the mine."

I bet Mum'd think I'm just like the sod. Like fathers like son. Monster. And Coward. Hiding here in this dark house. . .afraid to go out there and run into any of them. The Watcher. The witch. The wolf. The wimp. Her.

Why'd he leave her? Tired of the "Romeo&Juliet"? Or maybe she told him to take a hike. . .'cos she was tired. Tired of not having someone to ease wot must be a raging ache. . .the Slayer probably hasn't had sex in almost 2 years. Must be as horny as Hell.

Not that I can really cast stones, can I? That advert says that another sign of depression is losing interest in shagging. I haven't lost interest, mind you. But my only bedmate these days is my hand. And the last chippy I saw--was my breakfast. Pretty. . .but not tasty. In any fashion. Not nearly as interesting as even my sire's ex. At least the Slayer has fire. And short skirts. And great legs.

That's all I do since I've been here. . . wake up, go grab a bite, come back, jerk off, and have a fag or two. "Was it good for you, too, Baby?"


Oh, and sometimes I read the sonnets. Take the book off the mantel. . . and listen to the night sounds coming in from outside. Which one tonight? Close my eyes. . . and pick a page.

"Sonnet 40"
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all,
What has thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call,
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest,
But yet be blam'd, if thou this self deceivest
By willful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robb'ry, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill will shows.
Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.

" 'Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes'."

Think he's trying to tell me something? He has his own solutions for depression, Shakespeare does. Maybe he thinks I should go all out. . . make the whole transition. Turn into Daddy. And take the Slayer for my own. Wot's Angel's is mine, after all. I always get his leftovers, don't I? Dru. . . this mansion. . . why stop?


Her voice. I'd know it anywhere. At the open doors to the garden. I don't want to look at her. But I'm powerless. . . sucked in. Poor gal. . . to think he's returned from wherever. Poor me for taking his place. "No. Me. Spike." Her eyes are all cat-like in the dark. Green. But she doesn't have kitty vision. . . can't tell the difference between me and him on the sofa. . .

"Oh." Disappointment? Pity. "Wh-when did *you* get back into town?"

She moves closer. . . oh, a short skirt! Black. Leather. My lucky night. Her hair is longer now. . . past her shoulders. Which are. . .bare. Luckier moi. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard to take the Great Poof's place. Brood. . .brood. . . and, hey, I could ease that ache she's got. . . ease it a thousand times without ever losing anything.


Except my heart.

"I've been here for a few days, Slayer." She sees the book in my lap. . . and oh, she's looking curious. "I can read."

"And in the dark, no less. Cute, Spike. Very cute." Ah, that sense of humor. Better than any clinic. "What is it?"

"Shakespeare. Sonnets."

She wrinkles her nose. At a genius. I'll bet she likes. . .the Backstreet Brats. . .or. . .Bratney Spears. Did I mention MTV was something else that I use to occupy the hours?

And she's quiet for a while. . .and I hear a clatter. Oh, lovely. She dropped her stake. So I don't have to fight tonight. Is losing the urge to kick ass another sign of depression? "I-is that the book I gave Angel?" she says suddenly.

Do I have to answer that? "Don't know, Pet." Hmm. . .wonder if there's an ad for a Compulsive Lying Clinic? "I just open it up to a random page and see wot the man has to tell me."

"Well, what does he have to tell you today?" Why is she not set on staking me? Why is she sitting down beside me like I'm harmless?

"Sonnet 40" is staring me in the face again. Laughing at me. I can smell her perfume. Or is it her shampoo? Strawberries. Ripe, fresh, strawberries.

"I'm not him, Slayer. You can't make nice with me just 'cause I took up residence here."

"You miss Angel, too, huh?" She laughs. Actually laughs at me.

"I do not."



But she doesn't repeat herself. Instead, she snatches the book away from me. . ."Slayer, you don't have night vision, do you?" I wonder. "And while I'm asking. . . have you cracked?"

"Nope. I'm me. All sane, all the time," she assures, squinting, trying to make out the words. "Come on, Will. . . what did you learn from. . .Will?" Does she always chuckle at her own jokes? Did that ever bug my dear old da? Cor, bet he didn't even get half her jokes.

"Shakespeare, tonight, says. . ." She's really beautiful. I mean, its not hard to see why he went and fell for her. Even when he was back to his bad self. She's got this sparkle in her eyes. . . and the strawberries, oh, the strawberries. How can you resist something you haven't tasted on your mortal tongue in two hundred years?

"He says, 'Take all my loves. . .my love, yea, take them all'. . ."

I can't believe I'm reciting it out loud to her. I stumble over the words. But she's listening. . .cheeks all pink. Chewing on her lip. . .and I see it. I totally see the dangerous path that Angel went down. And I think I'm headed there, too.

The book of sonnets and the angst isn't the only thing he left here for me.

"'Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes'." And I manage to read the last line again without any stops.

"We must not?" Damn, but her eyes are so bright. Like the sun.

"No, we must not." And I cover her hands with mine. . . shut the leather-bound pages of verse.

Exactly how Jerry Springer-ish is it to kiss your sire's true love? If I'm following in his footsteps. . . I might as well go the whole nine yards.

I guess the un-life's not so hard after all.



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