by Raksha



Well, o’course a big part o’ him was right outraged at the turn his life ‘ad taken just lately.  He batted away the automatic correction--unlife--before it could flit into the center of his consciousness.  After a century and more of meticulous specificity in his speech--“undead”, not “living” an‘ all that shite--surely to fuck he’d earned the right to a decent internal monologue without botherin’ with all that rot.


‘Specially, he snickered sardonically, when he’d finally managed to turn ‘is unlife into a life, even if it was one that‘d shame the entire race of vampires.  Could be, he told himself complacently, he’d just managed to take the long road ‘round to where he was meant to end up.  How the ‘ell could he know what he--William--would have turned into, if events had taken a different turn?


He was pretty hazy about his emotions and motivations around the whole Cecily thing.  He vaguely remembered appreciating the ways she was like him--careful, modest, exacting (don’t forget prissy, he snarked at himself)--and admiring the ways she wasn’t like him at all.  Cecily had been poised, confident, popular and at ease, awing the nervous, insecure twat that William had been.


And, o’ course, he’d been drawn to that lustrous brunette hair, and those big dark eyes….He smiled softly.  Some things never changed, did they?  She was a beautiful girl, and William always liked beautiful things.  But for the unlife of him, he couldn’t ever remember daring to fantasize about what was under those exquisitely tasteful gowns.  Hell, he’d never even had a wank while his flesh was warm.  What was really sad was that he had been pathetically delicate about matters of the flesh even compared to his peers in that notoriously strait-laced time. 


He vividly recalled being at one of the rare dinner parties he was invited to.  Eventually, as was the custom, the ladies had withdrawn, and the gentlemen had been left to their port in the dining room.  With high hilarity, the men, having drunk deep, had indulged in a common game; with many a bawdy comment, they had taken turns aiming their streams at a grape tossed into a chamber pot.


Young William had been mortified.  Not, he thought now, smirking, that he had anything to be ashamed of, equipment-wise.  It had just seemed so immodest, so…unseemly.  And William had been horrified, and fascinated.  Probably was meant to be a Nancy all along.  And if that was the case, he had all the more reason to be grateful to the fate that decreed that he be a vampire.  The Victorian era was a lousy time to be a pouf.


But, he would never know for sure.  Soon after, he’d had his encounter with destiny in the shape of Drusilla.  And, within 24 hours of waking from Dru’s bloody kiss, he’d had a right thorough introduction to sexuality from Dru and Angelus both, and, in spite of the omni-sexuality that his newly acquired demon added to the mix, he could honestly say that that had been the most startling component of his new life.  But it had conferred on him a freedom that he’d never even imagined.


At that moment, the oven timer went “ping”, and he was distracted from his train of thought.  Pulling the pan out and setting it on the stovetop, he picked up a fork and checked that the vegetables were tender, then poked fussily at the pot roast, making sure it was done right through.  Would’ve suited him fine if the thing were raw, but HE liked it well-done, so well-done it was going to be.


Satisfied, he set down the fork and turned off the oven.  Ah, perfect timing; his keen hearing caught the sound of quick footsteps in the corridor outside the apartment, and he hurried to remove the novelty apron (“Bite The Cook”) then gave a final look-over to the table setting.  By the time the key clicked in the lock, he was running his hands over his hair, unnecessarily smoothing the gelled-down locks.


The front door opened, and he heard the soft thump of a hardhat flung frisbee-style onto the sofa, and a sunny baritone called out “Daddy’s home!”  Spike exited the kitchen, pausing in the doorway for a moment just to savor the sight before him.  Then, with a “welcome home” smile that would have done Harriet Nelson proud, he hurried across the living room to fling himself eagerly into the open arms of the man of the house.





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