Title: The Temporal & The Eternal
Author: Frawley
Date: 20th November 2001.
Category: Vingette.
Spoilers: Up till and including "The Gift".
Summary: Spike muses over his charge. Takes place during the months
between "The Gift" and "Bargaining".
Comments: A short piece started just before the premiere of the sixth
season... nothing major, it's really just a bit of a ramble. Since it
still works in the context of the show post-resurrection, I figured I'd
clean it up and post it.
Disclaimer: Joss owns most of it, I lay claim to the scraps. FOX can sod
off.
THE TEMPORAL & THE ETERNAL - by Frawley
---------------------------------------
Perched high up in the tree, he knew this would be the worst part.
Looking out at her, he understood that as plainly as he understood that
he could do nothing to prevent it. He would return here, and watch her,
for years to come. Come to know her, more so than now, with luck,
perhaps become part of some absurd little family structure that could
only ever form in this quaint little burg. Sunnydale - where little
noises in the night were a real cause for concern and reformed demons
were welcomed into the home. Sunnyhell - he was right, with that one.
Still, he found her there... came to care for her. Yet there would
always be that nagging difference - one clock would tick at a pace
double or triple to that of the other. Till the end - it might come
gradually, but it would come. Every moment, he would be aware of it,
every time they spoke, every time they did not, instead sitting in
silence together. This, though, this was the worst of it. Watching her.
Night after night, watching over her, unable protect her from the
inevitable. He would wind up like some twisted version of Peter Pan in
that blasted Robin Williams version of the fairy tale, and Dawn...
Didn't matter what promise he might have made to her sister, he could
never keep it. He'd try, probably end his horrid existence in the
process, but it was a promise he couldn't fulfill no matter how much he
wished for it. It was beyond him. She'd be his goddamn Wendy.
Christ. He was starting to sound like the bleedin' ponce in L.A.
Taking a well deserved pause in his thoughts - brooding was not his
strong suit - he rummaged through the pockets of his ever-present
duster, and brought out a bent cigarette. Bent, not broken, the best
news he'd had all day. Setting it between his lips, he sparked his
lighter. The low flame danced about in the wind, but stayed strong
enough to finish the job. Drawing in a few short puffs to get it going,
and watching the tip glow a healthy red, he snapped the lighter shut.
Inhaled again, longer this time. The stream of smoke brought inside was
enough to remind him what breathing was like - or at least, that's what
he told himself when he pondered as to why he bothered with the habit at
all. In reality, he supposed he wasn't much different from any other
addict, save that the end results weren't going to matter much in his
case. He just liked it, had started long ago in the hope that it would
calm him, ease his tendency to be rather high strung, and grew a need
for it. It was his addiction. One of them. Probably the least dangerous.
Looking back up, he choked out a mouthful of smoke - the niblet had
gone.
Retreating back into the tree, sliding down it, even at a speed faster
than human, he was caught. It had taken just a few seconds for her to
rush down the stairs, through the kitchen to the back porch, where she
was now waiting impatiently, glaring at him as only a pissed-off teenage
girl could. Arms crossed, one foot forward, oblivious to the fact that
her apparel - a plain tee-shirt hanging over Winnie the Pooh pajama
pants - did little to help her credibility. Long brown hair trailing
down her back, save a strand or two that flapped in the breeze, framed
her innocent portrait.
"Spike. What is it you think you're doing?" she queried. Her voice
coupled with her stance affirmed that she bloody well knew what he was
doing, and wasn't entirely appreciative of being babysat from afar.
"It just so happens that your backyard is a good place to come for a
quiet smoke. That is, when young girls who ought to be napping don't
interrupt".
A weak lie - but best not to admit defeat, no matter how futile the
cause. She saw right through him, but it didn't matter - 'twas just
another game for them. He'd play the big bad, was a natural fit, since
to nearly anyone else he was the soddin' big bad, but for her, well -
she'd play along, but she knew he had a soft spot for her. Warm spot in
a dead heart.
It wasn't going to fly this night, though. For whatever reason, she was
pissed.
"You're watching me". Statement. Fact. Non-negotiable.
"Yeah".
She stared at him another moment. He couldn't help but notice that
pissed off was when she seemed most like her sister. Same look, same
stance, same self-assuredness. Same everything, in those instances.
"Next time, use the bloody door. You are invited, you know".
A toss of the hair, and she was gone, retreating into the house. The
door was left hanging ajar. He paused for a second, amused that his
slang was worming its way into her vocabulary - six months prior, she'd
never have thought to employ 'bloody' as part of anything that passed
through her lips.
Amused, and warmed by the sentiment. He missed Buffy - more than he
thought possible, screw the cliche. He missed her till it burned, but
the bit warmed him, kept him going at the worst of times. She could
bring him up out of the depths of despair - like she'd done this very
night (alright, so maybe it wasn't quite the depths, but down far
enough) - with just a look, a glance, a few words. In that, again, not
unlike her sister.
At this point, he very much owed his existence to her.
Maybe she was the one watching over him.
--
- Frawley
"Don't feed the vampires..."
http://frawley.cjb.net
Author: Frawley
Date: 20th November 2001.
Category: Vingette.
Spoilers: Up till and including "The Gift".
Summary: Spike muses over his charge. Takes place during the months
between "The Gift" and "Bargaining".
Comments: A short piece started just before the premiere of the sixth
season... nothing major, it's really just a bit of a ramble. Since it
still works in the context of the show post-resurrection, I figured I'd
clean it up and post it.
Disclaimer: Joss owns most of it, I lay claim to the scraps. FOX can sod
off.
THE TEMPORAL & THE ETERNAL - by Frawley
---------------------------------------
Perched high up in the tree, he knew this would be the worst part.
Looking out at her, he understood that as plainly as he understood that
he could do nothing to prevent it. He would return here, and watch her,
for years to come. Come to know her, more so than now, with luck,
perhaps become part of some absurd little family structure that could
only ever form in this quaint little burg. Sunnydale - where little
noises in the night were a real cause for concern and reformed demons
were welcomed into the home. Sunnyhell - he was right, with that one.
Still, he found her there... came to care for her. Yet there would
always be that nagging difference - one clock would tick at a pace
double or triple to that of the other. Till the end - it might come
gradually, but it would come. Every moment, he would be aware of it,
every time they spoke, every time they did not, instead sitting in
silence together. This, though, this was the worst of it. Watching her.
Night after night, watching over her, unable protect her from the
inevitable. He would wind up like some twisted version of Peter Pan in
that blasted Robin Williams version of the fairy tale, and Dawn...
Didn't matter what promise he might have made to her sister, he could
never keep it. He'd try, probably end his horrid existence in the
process, but it was a promise he couldn't fulfill no matter how much he
wished for it. It was beyond him. She'd be his goddamn Wendy.
Christ. He was starting to sound like the bleedin' ponce in L.A.
Taking a well deserved pause in his thoughts - brooding was not his
strong suit - he rummaged through the pockets of his ever-present
duster, and brought out a bent cigarette. Bent, not broken, the best
news he'd had all day. Setting it between his lips, he sparked his
lighter. The low flame danced about in the wind, but stayed strong
enough to finish the job. Drawing in a few short puffs to get it going,
and watching the tip glow a healthy red, he snapped the lighter shut.
Inhaled again, longer this time. The stream of smoke brought inside was
enough to remind him what breathing was like - or at least, that's what
he told himself when he pondered as to why he bothered with the habit at
all. In reality, he supposed he wasn't much different from any other
addict, save that the end results weren't going to matter much in his
case. He just liked it, had started long ago in the hope that it would
calm him, ease his tendency to be rather high strung, and grew a need
for it. It was his addiction. One of them. Probably the least dangerous.
Looking back up, he choked out a mouthful of smoke - the niblet had
gone.
Retreating back into the tree, sliding down it, even at a speed faster
than human, he was caught. It had taken just a few seconds for her to
rush down the stairs, through the kitchen to the back porch, where she
was now waiting impatiently, glaring at him as only a pissed-off teenage
girl could. Arms crossed, one foot forward, oblivious to the fact that
her apparel - a plain tee-shirt hanging over Winnie the Pooh pajama
pants - did little to help her credibility. Long brown hair trailing
down her back, save a strand or two that flapped in the breeze, framed
her innocent portrait.
"Spike. What is it you think you're doing?" she queried. Her voice
coupled with her stance affirmed that she bloody well knew what he was
doing, and wasn't entirely appreciative of being babysat from afar.
"It just so happens that your backyard is a good place to come for a
quiet smoke. That is, when young girls who ought to be napping don't
interrupt".
A weak lie - but best not to admit defeat, no matter how futile the
cause. She saw right through him, but it didn't matter - 'twas just
another game for them. He'd play the big bad, was a natural fit, since
to nearly anyone else he was the soddin' big bad, but for her, well -
she'd play along, but she knew he had a soft spot for her. Warm spot in
a dead heart.
It wasn't going to fly this night, though. For whatever reason, she was
pissed.
"You're watching me". Statement. Fact. Non-negotiable.
"Yeah".
She stared at him another moment. He couldn't help but notice that
pissed off was when she seemed most like her sister. Same look, same
stance, same self-assuredness. Same everything, in those instances.
"Next time, use the bloody door. You are invited, you know".
A toss of the hair, and she was gone, retreating into the house. The
door was left hanging ajar. He paused for a second, amused that his
slang was worming its way into her vocabulary - six months prior, she'd
never have thought to employ 'bloody' as part of anything that passed
through her lips.
Amused, and warmed by the sentiment. He missed Buffy - more than he
thought possible, screw the cliche. He missed her till it burned, but
the bit warmed him, kept him going at the worst of times. She could
bring him up out of the depths of despair - like she'd done this very
night (alright, so maybe it wasn't quite the depths, but down far
enough) - with just a look, a glance, a few words. In that, again, not
unlike her sister.
At this point, he very much owed his existence to her.
Maybe she was the one watching over him.
--
- Frawley
"Don't feed the vampires..."
http://frawley.cjb.net