Always Mine

by SpikesKat

A bespectacled man bumps into you while you’re strolling through the streets of London with Darla and Drusilla, mutters at you to mind where you’re walking, and you want to retaliate… swiftly. No one speaks to you in such a manner. No one that is, except your sire, and even then, you can count on one hand the number of times she’s done so. 

It’s his eyes, though, that keep you from lashing out. That, and the wonderful scent of despair that clings to him. Death would be a blessing, and you’re not a saint, or any other god-like creature. 

You come out of your silent musing to catch the tail end of Darla’s snide comment and move Drusilla along when her eyes seem to linger on the man as he strides off. Ignore, too, her pout right before she suddenly gasps and peeks at you out of the corner of her eye, like she’s reading your mind. Instead, you paste on a smile and leer at the people milling about, murmur something about grabbing a bite to eat. 

It does the trick, you see, and while the women are busy scoping out their latest meal, you double back and retrace the man’s steps. Follow them all the way back to a stylish townhome showing signs of neglect. 

A light comes on in an upper window and you slip into the shadows as the curtain parts and his face appears. The glass makes it seem larger than life and you take a moment to study your latest – for want of a better word – project. There’s something vaguely familiar about the man’s features. 

“I know you,” you murmur aloud to no one, wracking your brain as to possible meetings. You’ve not been in the city long, so the choices are limited. 

The curtains eventually close and you move away to seek your own dinner before rejoining Darla and Drusilla. It wouldn’t do having to explain away your hunger because of your sudden preoccupation with Darla’s “drooling idiot”. She was already complaining about having to put up with Drusilla’s maddening ways, if you were to bring another home, there’d be no end to her temper tantrum. 

“Daddy’s home!” Drusilla screeches as you let yourself inside, and you just manage to hide your wince at the high pitch and the way she throws herself at you. 

“’Course I am, Princess,” you reply as you extract yourself and wander further into the house. “Where’s Darla?” 

“Upstairs.” She leans in conspiratorially and adds, “Grandmum was getting rather cross at your delay.” 

“Best not be keepin’ her waitin’ any longer then. Off with you. I’ll be there in a minute.” 

Drusilla disappears up the stairs and you head towards the study for a liberal dose of scotch. To deal with Darla’s incessant bitching, you’re going to need it. You don’t dally, however, downing two shots – then a third – before setting the glass aside and heading upstairs. 

Surprisingly, all you get out of her is a frown when you do show up sans shirt and proceed to strip out of the rest of your clothes before joining her. You don’t bother to ask why Drusilla isn’t in the room as well, though you get an explanation, of sorts, as you climb into bed. 

“I swear! It’s like she expects to— Really, Angelus. It’s been twenty years. Time for the girl to get out on her own.” 

You murmur something that could have been an affirmative as you take Darla into your arms and kiss her. You’ve learned long ago that it’s better to just agree with her when she’s in one of her moods, then quickly take her mind off things by screwing her into the mattress. 

Which you do. 

Several times. 

It’s only once she falls asleep that you wearily climb out of bed and go seek out Drusilla. A peek inside the room she’s chosen reveals her sleeping away the day. 

Something you should be doing. 

Sighing, you pull the door closed and find your own place to rest rather than returning to Darla’s room and chance waking her. You fall gratefully into bed and close your eyes. 

Sleep doesn’t come right away though. No, your mind is occupied by piercing blue eyes teeming with emotion and a full bottom lip that was just begging to be kissed… or bitten. 

The image follows you into your dreams. 

As does one of a small blond boy cavorting about in a pond, oblivious to the fresh lash marks covering his back, blue eyes alight with mischief as he wrestles with an imaginary foe. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

By tacit agreement, you and the girls go your separate ways once the sun sets. Darla’s still in a snit because she’d woken up alone; not even the fact that you weren’t with Drusilla – or that you’d asked your childe to go out tonight with the intention of finding a companion – was enough to get her mood to lighten. You think it might be time to persuade your sire to visit the Master’s court for a few days; she always did enjoy the fawning attention of her own sire. 

Your first stop is the townhouse from last night where you can pick up the man’s scent. Only to frown when you realize that it appears he hasn’t left his home. You sigh and settle in to wait, even though you hate waiting. 

Delayed gratification is all well and good, provided your prey is already within your grasp. 

But, there’s something about the man that has intrigued you and you’ve come to the conclusion that he’s going to be yours, and to hell with what your sire says. Besides, it would be nice to have a man around the roost, even the numbers out a bit. 

Another hour and you’ve had enough. With a growl, you take to the streets and seek out a meal. That you’re extra brutal as you drain your victim is due to being denied what you’ve come to think of as yours. 

It’s the same the next night, and then the next. The man refuses to leave the sanctuary of his home. 

Your temper is quick to ignite and the newest addition to your family, a floppy-haired brunette boy barely out of his nappies, very nearly found himself greeting the sun when he happened to get underfoot. Drusilla has very wisely kept him out of your way since then, the two only leaving her room to hunt. Even your sire has absented herself, hieing off to the Master’s side in a fit of pique after warning you that upon her return your attitude had better be more amenable – whatever the hell that meant. 

Finally, after nearly a week, the man emerges from his home. You pounce almost immediately; there’s no way that after your endless waiting you’re going to allow him to slip through your fingers. 

He struggles, naturally, but he’s no match for your superior strength and you easily drag him into the shadows out of sight of anyone who happens past. It’s there that you release him and take a step back; you have to get a good look at the man that’s been occupying your every thought. 

Blue eyes are blazing with hatred and not a little confusion and fear. His glasses have gone askew in the brief scuffle and you whisk them off his face before he can set them to rights. He looks as if he wants to retaliate but seems to conclude he’s no match against a larger foe. You smile, pleased. 

“What’s your name, boy?” You’re deliberately taunting him with the address, but you don’t care. You like the fire in his eyes and already imagine the day when they glimmer for an entirely different reason. 

“I don’t see that it’s any business of yours. Now, if you’ll be on your way, I’ll be inclined to forget this entire incident.” 

“Aren’t you the proper gentleman? Did you come by your manners honestly, or did you have to have them beaten into you?” 

Something flickers in his eyes and your own narrow. It’s there again, that niggling thought that you’ve met the man before. 

Even his, “Have we met?” and his tone being more confused than indignant lends itself to that belief. 

You pause and scratch your chin in silent contemplation. One brow raises as you assess the man before you with a critical eye. 

“I’m not quite sure,” you reply. “I rather doubt we’re kin.” You’re grinning when you add that, and the man before you smiles as well. 

It’s the smile that triggers the memory. A boy’s features superimpose over the man’s and you gasp, you can’t help it. You’re not one given to a belief in fate, but coming face to face with the boy you let live is almost karma. 

Just to be sure, you strip the man out of his shirt. Ignore his protestations as you flip him around and shove him face first against the side of the house. 

They’re there – faint marks long healed from where a strip had been taken to his back. You feel him stiffen, hear his breath catch, as you run your finger over each one, trace them almost lovingly. 

“Your da?” you ask; your lips almost touch his ear. 

He shudders and you hear his heart rate increase. He shakes his head vigorously in the negative. “No. Tutor.” 

“Harsh taskmaster?” 

“The worst.” 

You chuckle and lean in to sniff the man’s neck. 

“You never told me your name,” you say, growing serious once more. 

“Will—William,” he stammers out. 

The name rolls off your tongue as you repeat it several times. “Will. I like it.” 

“It’s William.” His voice is tight. He’s obviously angry again. 

You find his mood swings amusing and you’re back to chuckling. 

He’s definitely going to keep you on your toes, you think as you lean in and sink your fangs into his neck. 

But, you’ll never be bored. 

The End

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