#dogcollar

Never mind that Brone had a soul now, apparently. Going around Los Angeles looking like one of those hooded buggers from Lord of the Rings, killing demons instead of people. This melodramatic, show-off, lover-stealing, ugly little freak.

So, with all of that.

He’s mighty confused why she’s come right to his door, sopping wet from the rain, and faintly stinking of cheap booze and sweat.

“Hey,” She uttered to him, gripping the doorframe. “Wanna beat the hell oudduv each other ‘till one of us passes out?” The blind vampire grinned that weird little grin of hers— one that looked more like a baboon bearing its teeth than anything that approached charming.

“Forward.” Spike scoffed. “Don’t you have someone else to ask for that? I’m sure Angel would love to pummel you if you asked.” He raised his eyebrow, making sure his voice dripped with appropriate levels of sarcasm to accommodate her.

“Ana’s gone, you great twit. Skipped town a week ago. I’d ask someone else about it, believe me, but most of my company’s on the squishy side.” Spike glanced Brone up and down. God, she looked awful.

“You know what? Why not. Been antsy m’self lately.” What with the chip in his head and all. At least he knew he could hurt other demons, but this was downright miserable. He could really use a good, somewhat-equal brawl these days. It was something they at least had similar views on— that being the merits of something raw and brutal as a good sock to the jaw.

He lets the other vampire inside.

——

They’d launched into it as soon as they were able, in a more open area of Spike’s crypt. Harsh, fast fists, thrown into bare ribs and knocked into skulls.

Spike had nearly stumbled over from the force of Brone’s fist hitting his diaphragm, all air knocked out of his dead lungs. He’s lucky he didn’t need them, what with all the damage Brone was inflicting on his previously very handsome and unblemished torso. He was doing the same, granted– At one point through this round, he’d managed to grab her right arm and snap it backwards. Brone’d roared like a wild thing about it. It was exhilarating.

Her movements were slower– More sluggish than he’d remembered. He’s not thinking about it, especially when she’s hurting him right back– Got a good snap of her teeth right on two of his fingers and damned near ripped the bones right out of the sockets.

Brutal. Both of them were brutal. He smashed his head against her forehead, though. Knocking her to the floor with a bit of blood following.

Serves her right. Serves her right for worming into his life even when she wasn’t even there. Serves her right for never leaving him alone. Bein’ in his hair and his clothes and his hands for all that time. He was different now, though, he was. Never touched a sword again. Shaved his head, let his roots grow in. All-natural. There wasn’t a trace of her anywhere. For once.

Brone panted from under him, hard and ragged. Spike could get a decent look at her now. One eye blackened, a split lip, bruises and all. She was clearly close to being finished. He’d figured he’ll throw her unconscious body back out into the rain and hope a truck or the rising sun would do her in proper.

She did something then that confounded him thoroughly. She threw her hand up behind Spike’s neck, and pulled him down to kiss him.

Only reason Spike kissed back was the adrenaline. Not his proudest moment, obviously. He often felt a little like doing something like that when he was hopped up on the thrill of the fight.

Once he did start all that, he felt Brone reach her other arm (the broken one) round his back, a clear whimper of pain emitting from her throat. Spike didn’t think of it at all, or anything else that made sense, until he heard her whisper. Wouldn’t have caught it until it was right in his ear.

“Ana…”

…Bloody hell, he was stupid. This whole thing was stupid, but this especially. He threw himself off of Brone like her skin was covered in something corrosive.

What’s an awful lot more stupid than all of that is that Brone was a rather embarrassingly well-known dyke. He’s known that for a hundred years, she was hardly shy about it, and the fact that she’d kissed him at all is making some old bizarre questions burble up in the back of his head.

He hates her. Has he mentioned he hated her yet?

He’s sick of this. Can’t go one step with these two without being used as yet another goddamned PROXY!

He kicks the half-drunken, beaten up vampire in the ribs, watching with a spark of satisfaction as she curled up with a low groan. Bit of pink bile dribbling out of her lips.

“That’s right. Foul git. I’m not gonna be a part of— whatever the hell you’re doin’ to yourself here. Right?” His shoulders rose and fell.

One of her eyes— that terrible, deep, blood-clot red— blinked open, up at him.

“…Fuck off.” Is all she muttered. “Jus’ fuck off. It’s none of your…” she trailed off, her whole body shaking. Shit, she’s gonna throw up.

He grabbed her by the back of the shirt, dragging her upright and away towards the door. “Out. Out. Fucking hell, mate. Find some other bloke to get at. I’m not gonna be that. Alright? See enough of you already.”

Brone stumbled. “Please. Please. Fine, I won’t— Just for the day, yeah? Gonna be gone soon as the sun sets.”

“No. Already said no.”

“You’re all I….” Brone muttered, all hoarse. “I jus’ wanted to…” She’d trailed off. Complete nonsense.

…What happened to you? He found himself wondering.

He doesn’t ask it. He opens the door, shoves her out, and slams it shut again.

He sank down against it.

Hands covering his face and pushing through his hair.

He tells himself he’s not gonna think about all that. He’s not gonna wonder what happened, or why Anastasia was gone, or why Brone was so drunk that she’d been trying to kiss him, for chrissakes.

He’s never gonna be free of her, is he.