(Untitled)
By iyaorisha
Timing: immediately post-"Dirty Girls"
Pairings: None
Summary: Vignette of Spike's thoughts after the debacle at the vineyard.
Rating/Warnings: PG for implied violence.
Spoilers: S7 BtVS
Disclaimer: None of the BtVS characters or the world they inhabit are my property. They belong to Joss and I promise to put them back when I'm done playing with them.
Feedback: Brutal honesty is best (I enjoy floggings, I really do), but warm fuzzies are accepted as well. You can post a review here or email me at fanfic_by_iyaorisha@yahoo.com
*** The eastern sky isn't pinking yet. Nonetheless, he feels the sun. Maybe an hour away, an hour and a half if he's lucky. That's unlikely, given how the night's gone thus far. Time was, he'd be well on his way to shelter by now. No use risking getting crispified. Especially if you're already wounded.
He could go in. And what then? he asked himself. He won't sleep this day. Time was, he'd seek oblivion in a bottle, now he doubts anything would blot out the night. Few choices left. Join the puppy-pile of grieving Potentials? Help Faith sharpen weapons it's too late to use. Sit across the breakfast table watching the Nibblet pour vanilla soymilk on her Rice Crunchies while you try to stomach yet another mug of pigs' blood? Listen for the sound of Buffy's weary tread on the stair, her key in the door?
Smoking usually makes him feel better, but right now, his mouth aches as he inhales. A bruise the color of rotting plums covers the left side of his face. It hurts, but not nearly as bad as his side. Soddin' ribs cracked there. Still, of all who fought at Buffy's side tonight, he is the least scathed physically or psychologically. So why does he feel like shit?
'Cause he didn't make Buffy and the others leave soon enough.
'Cause the preacher man tossed him across the room like a rag doll.
'Cause he let her go in the first place.
Timing: immediately post-"Dirty Girls"
Pairings: None
Summary: Vignette of Spike's thoughts after the debacle at the vineyard.
Rating/Warnings: PG for implied violence.
Spoilers: S7 BtVS
Disclaimer: None of the BtVS characters or the world they inhabit are my property. They belong to Joss and I promise to put them back when I'm done playing with them.
Feedback: Brutal honesty is best (I enjoy floggings, I really do), but warm fuzzies are accepted as well. You can post a review here or email me at fanfic_by_iyaorisha@yahoo.com
*** The eastern sky isn't pinking yet. Nonetheless, he feels the sun. Maybe an hour away, an hour and a half if he's lucky. That's unlikely, given how the night's gone thus far. Time was, he'd be well on his way to shelter by now. No use risking getting crispified. Especially if you're already wounded.
He could go in. And what then? he asked himself. He won't sleep this day. Time was, he'd seek oblivion in a bottle, now he doubts anything would blot out the night. Few choices left. Join the puppy-pile of grieving Potentials? Help Faith sharpen weapons it's too late to use. Sit across the breakfast table watching the Nibblet pour vanilla soymilk on her Rice Crunchies while you try to stomach yet another mug of pigs' blood? Listen for the sound of Buffy's weary tread on the stair, her key in the door?
Smoking usually makes him feel better, but right now, his mouth aches as he inhales. A bruise the color of rotting plums covers the left side of his face. It hurts, but not nearly as bad as his side. Soddin' ribs cracked there. Still, of all who fought at Buffy's side tonight, he is the least scathed physically or psychologically. So why does he feel like shit?
'Cause he didn't make Buffy and the others leave soon enough.
'Cause the preacher man tossed him across the room like a rag doll.
'Cause he let her go in the first place.