Title: A Doll Tragedy
Pairing: Spike & Angel (Mere implied)
Warnings: Sad, sad little dolls.
A/N: I hope you're happy. Your disturbing brutality is all I could think about at work.
Spike sighed with relief as the sound of footsteps faded away. Blasted photo shoots. He cautiously rotated his left shoulder and winced. Painful, but nothing a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix. He shuddered as he remembered the look of manic glee on that woman’s face as she tore his shirt off. Giving his bulge a loving pat, he once again gave thanks that his pants were painted on. At least he had been spared that final indignity. Luckily, tonight’s props had included whiskey. It had helped to deaden the pain of being handled so roughly.
Not enough whiskey to deaden this pain though. He peered into the darkness where he knew Angel was hiding.
“She’s done for the night. Get some kip, mate.”
“Aren’t you coming over here?”
For a second, he debated staying put and just ignoring him. Silently cursing his promise to Buffy, Spike crawled over and slumped down on the plastic sofa with a sigh. Shame that his accessories didn't include smokes.
Angel huddled next to him miserably.
“What did she make you do tonight? Were there…hobbits?”
Spike frowned as he noticed Angel’s uncontrollable shivering. Poor sod. The Scourge of Europe could handle a stay in hell but when faced with indentured modeling he had cracked completely.
“Never mind.” Spike held out his flask. “Take a sip of whiskey.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I can’t take anything. She kept both of my arms this time.”
Spike took a deep calming breath as he brought the flask to Angel’s lips. Buffy would want him to be patient.
“Oi! I said a sip! Bloody hell, ya just ‘bout drained it!” Oh, Buffy could just stuff it.
“Spike, this has got to end. She’s getting worse. She has me eating pizza. Everyone knows I don’t eat carbs.” Spike gritted his teeth as Angel’s voice took on a note of hysteria. “They make me bloat!”
Spike snickered softly. It was true.
“And have you seen Buffy lately? Spike, her Slayer strength is gone. The last time she looked that pale and weak was when I….” Angel swallowed and turned his head away.
Don’t encourage him. Don’t encourage him. Don’t encourage him.
“When ya what?” Christ. Damn this soul of his! It really had made him soft.
“When I drank from her.” Spike rolled his eyes. Wanker. “Spike, let’s face it! This whole thing is my penance. I deserve to have my strong arms taken away. That and worse.”
As Angel started to sadly sing "Even Now" (as he did every evening) Spike made a vow.
Tomorrow he’d find some way to get his own drawer.
My only possible response was one that I hope would do Angelus proud. I love the story (and its author) thiiiiiis much:
For doll!torture fic homage slideshow, "Diary of a Doll Torturer," click here. If I could have set it to Louis Armstrong singing "What a Wonderful World," I would have.