Title: Underfoot
Author: longerthanwedo
Pairing/Characters: Spike, Spike/Buffy
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Trodden on, William, always underfoot. A look inside Spike's insane mind (Buffy S7), as he looks back on his life.
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, or the plot. Just the words.
Author's Note: Quick idea I had, only 1,000 words. This is me taking a stab at writing like Insane!Spike. Lots of metaphors and fragmented sentences.
He came from the dirt.
Dirty William, bloody William, bloody awful, should be dead. Dirt poor without a speck of dust on his dirt-colored suit. Bloody awful. Poems as beautiful as the filthy ground below, worthy only of being stepped on.
Trodden on, William, always underfoot.
Dirt, nothing more.
Dirty poison.
The poison of Drusilla in his veins when he broke free of his grave. Grave, his life. He looked up at the night from his bed in the dirt. The coffin lid opened and he felt miles high, strength coursing through his body and mud under his fingernails. Weapons for teeth and the brow of a demon, always shielding his eyes.
Blood on his breath.
The blood came from dirt, from what he had been.
They tasted like dirt and he licked his lips, closed his eyes, because this was it. To step on someone else and feel their bones break. To be whole, whole and dead and soaring above life.
Soaring with a heart not beating and blood still flowing.
He was strong, but he fed on dirt.
The taste of it, the way only the scorned could satisfy his thirst. It tied him down. Bound him to the ground, where he looked up at the stars, fiery eyes, and felt the sky. Bound with ropes to the earth, where even the sun couldn't touch him.
Delusion, dirty delusion made him strong.
Dirt, he was nothing more.
Dirt dragged underground.
Tugged by armies of men in dirty uniforms with guns that shocked and boiled blood and they drove it into his head. Spike, who had pierced the ground, conquered the soil, and they killed him. They took away the stars.
Can't hurt, can't kill. Can't live, can't die.
Awful, the pain was awful when he tried to lift himself from the ground. Awful, bloody awful, he should be dead. Can't live, can't die, can't breathe.
Can't smell anything but the dirt.
There was the sun.
It was hazel eyes and hair like morning and a being that towered over him and made him cower, burrow deep. Standing tall, scorning him with blood-red lips. Dirty Spike, should be dead, should be dust. She was the sun and she was dangerous, white light and he couldn't look away. Blood red lips, he wanted to taste.
The lips, the blood. He wasn't sure which.
He couldn't see through the light.
Not his fault.
He was dirt, there were plants growing inside him, reaching, reaching up. For the sun. Every time, he stood up. struggled to his feet, and she pushed him back down, stomped. Dirty, should be dead, belongs in the ground.
"You're beneath me."
Who was he kidding? The sun didn't need anything.
Out of reach, he was out of breath, underfoot.
He thought.
He thought she would float forever, scorning and warming and holding him back. Never thought he'd see her, underground, inside his home, inside her wooden grave. Never thought she'd be dirt like him. He thought, I miss you. He thought, you're with me now. He thought, I can't see you. He thought, where's the light.
Dirt, now she was nothing more.
Should have known.
He should have known she couldn't stay dirt. Couldn't stay dead, couldn't stay dust, couldn't stay away. Clawed her way to the surface, she did, made her light shine again. But it didn't shine as bright, didn't shine as hot. Didn't push him away. One in the same. They were the same now, made of the same.
Dirt and blood, barely breathing.
Above him.
She prided herself on being above him. Dirty Spike, belongs underfoot, dirty, dirty. She claimed, yet she kept coming back. Letting her light dull for a moment and joining him, in his home beneath the ground.
"I may be dirt, but you're the one that likes to roll in it."
He spoke the truth, and she pushed him back with a face full of dust.
Rose into the sky again.
He wanted the sun.
All he wanted, and it had to be up, up, out of reach, out of touch, out of his life. Up, up in that room of her house, and all he wanted was to make her see. See that he was more than just dirt, worthy, worthy of more than being stepped on.
But he didn't know how. To get her to realize without dragging her down, he couldn't.
Tears in her eyes and he knew he didn't belong.
Dirt, nothing more.
It burned.
Burns on his skin and darkness all around and a demon who knew how to make him scream in pain. He stood tall, proud dirt on his face. Knowing that this was it, this was his chance. Chance to make it better. Make her see. Catch a piece of the sun.
He would make her see.
It was then.
Then that he wanted to be free of the dirt, then that he wanted the spark. Now, now the spark was all that was left, stinging and seeping into his head, in front of his eyes. Underground. A part of the dirt, the spark made him cry.
Awful, bloody awful, stuck here with evil in the dirt. Awful, should be dead, should be dust.
He could smell the darkness coming. The spark in him said, go to her, tell her. It said, make the sun chase the darkness away. He couldn't. Couldn't tell her, couldn't face her, couldn't let her see what he'd become.
Dirt, reaching towards the sun.
Futile attempts at life, love. Soul. The spark burned, but it made him feel worse.
Dirty William, should be dead, dirty, she sees that.
Dirt, nothing more.