TITLE: Writer's Block
RATING: PG (I swore, ooooh….)
SUMMARY: After that BOMB DIGGITY AWESOME episode last night- title anyone? This came to me. I have always loved Spike, now I love him even more. In fact anyone who brings me Spike on a silver platter shall have tea and cakes for supper.
DISCLAIMER: Mr. Joss Whedon sir, you are a god, please don't hate me or sue me, 'cause you're the king and my little stories aren't worth the court fees.
DEDICATION: For my favorite Floridian writer, Jer. Ha! Weren't expecting that, were you? But you know I love ya.
After sitting on the porch for around half an hour, Spike had finally been thrown out. It was because she'd started crying, didn't want him to be there. Too humiliating, it was, for any strong person to cry in front of someone else. And the Slayer- this Slayer in particular- was a strong person if he'd ever met one.
Now it was 3 in the afternoon, and he still hadn't settled down for the night like a good lad should. The remembrances of the previous night had haunted him long after daylight crept over the outer walls of his dwelling, trapping him effectively inside. Harmony, thankfully, was snoring quietly in the dust-smelling bed, having fed well while the Slayer was out for the night. Spike found himself dismayed by her presence, wondering how he'd sunk to shacking up with a shallow simpering airhead like her, realizing tonight that this kind of woman was the kind he'd loathed since that night, since Dru had found him.
Christ, and he'd cried over her. Sensitive fool that he always had been, he'd cried over the pitiful bitch. Pathetic, unseemly, and yet- one person on the face of earth had understood. Now, she was gone, and he was back to his old habits.
But no, he wasn't- not really. He could give a damn whether Harmony loved him or not, so long as she stuck around for a few laughs, a source of protection and the occasional shag. She was just a pastime, or maybe a friend at the most. Sort of a twisted daughter figure, if you were into that sort of thing, which on second thought was too hideous to contemplate.
The thoughts and emotions kept roiling in his head, enjoyable in their way, frustrating in their ability to incapacitate him. He always had been a sentimental type. Sure it could be a big pain in the ass from time to time, a hindrance to his formidable reputation, but William the Bloody- Awful Poet, he reminded himself with a quirk of a smile- would have it no other way. The ability to feel, and feel deeply, was what made existence worthwhile.
He glanced at the dusty timepiece kept next to the telly, wondering why he still was so wide awake. He supposed it was because his brain was unwilling to let him sleep. So what to do now, pent up in the crypt as he was?
The answer came to him like a familiar feminine voice, wafting to him through the still air of centuries. Write a poem for mummy, love, and you shall have a kiss.
Old habits die hard, even after a hundred and fifty years.
From the drawer of an antique night-stand which wobbled like an elderly horse, he produced a pen and some paper. Of course he'd put it there for a reason.
"Been so long, I don't remember where to start," he murmured to himself once the pen had frozen at the top-left corner of the paper. He picked it up, and examined the dot it left behind. That first word, that first sentence, always the most difficult.
But he stared again at the blankness of the page- not a piece of paper, his mind named it automatically, but a page. A page needed to be filled. Words plucked from the air and pinned down for preservation like trophies on a hunter's wall. A bloke couldn't just leave a page blank, it was downright disrespectful.
And suddenly it kicked in, the old secret passion that had long since found its outlet in consummate love and violence. Well now, no more love, no more violence- what was left?
Spike, the Slayer of Slayers, stole the words from his memory, and began to deposit them on to the paper.
It felt good.