TITLE: "Beware the Jabberwock" (2/?)
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com
SITE: http://www.verticalcrawl.com/mostly
ARCHIVE: My site, or anyone else's if you ask.
FEEDBACK: Hell yeah. Bring it on.
DISCLAIMER: We are mere figments of Joss Whedon's imagination. Get used to it.
RATING: this part, G.
PAIRING: S/B, bad case of angst.
SPOILERS: Through fifth season.
SUMMARY: Set seven years in the future, Spike is alone in New York, raising Buffy's
daughter.
NOTE:
I really hate how I wrote part 1. The rewrite wasn't going very well so I just dropped
it. Might have a look at it later on. Part two was beta'd by my friend Donna, english
major extraordinaire. Let's hope for the best, eh?
"Beware the Jabberwock" (2/?)
"Here it is."
I step into the room quietly, shifting the kid's weight in my arms. The place hasn't
changed a bit. "So who's been housekeeping?" I ask softly so to not wake the
sleeping child against me.
"No one, really. One or two guys stayed here at some point, but they left right away.
It's been vacant, mostly. It's all yours."
"Thank you, mate. I owe you one." I drop the heavy bag at my feet, the muffled
thump resounding in the empty room.
The skinny man next to me fidgets. "So... this is the kid?"
"Yeah..." I walk over to the stained mattress and carefully lay her down, the metal
frame creaking under her small weight. She curls up comfortably and settles into the
soft surface curving around her. This is more luxury than we've been able to afford in
a long time. I stand up and crack my back satisfyingly. Hell of a long drive.
"The slayer's kid, man... why'd you take her?"
I peer at my samaritan and snort to myself. What am I gonna say? The truth? Not
bloody likely. "I did her a favour."
He nods, not prying. Seems like three decades of absence hasn't made him forget
who can kick whose ass. I cock my head at him, noticing how he hasn't changed since
our Sid Vicious years.
Dawn is creeping closer, staining the sky with a faint pink. I stifle a yawn. "Gotta hit
the hay, pal. See you tonight," I hint. He closes the door behind him after a quick
goodbye. Old friend.
I swivel around on my heels, feeling oddly pleased. It's good to be home. Fucked if I
ever go back to Sunnydale.
Sunrise is uneventful at best and finds me lying in bed, giving the ceiling a good
stare. I'm quietly enjoying the warm feeling of my child's body nestled against my
hip, breathing softly. Legs crossed at the ankles and one arm tucked under my head,
I puff at my cigarette, flicking off ashes to the ground beside the bed. The building is
strangely quiet as all its nocturnal occupants turn in for the day. Four stories below,
commuters start their daily grind while I, for the first time in ages, allow myself to
think back. I stare hard at the peeling plaster above me, and the memories takes
shape effortlessly.
The floorboards crack and my head snaps up, my eyes meeting hers. My hands are
shaking, holding the infant to my chest protectively. I face her defiantly, not sure
what to do. She looks beautiful, her face and body still weary from the birth, making
her look so much older than she is. I can't help noticing her arms, a bit fatter than
they were, or the curve of her belly still shyly pressing against her nightgown, or her
breasts, ready to feed, to comfort, to soothe... There are no words. The conversation
plays between us wordlessly.
What are you doing here. - I heard you. You don't want her. - You're right. I'm giving
her up. - I'm taking her. She'll be safe. - This isn't right. - I won't do it if you don't
want me to. - Deafening silence. - Go.
In a fleeting moment she gives me her blessing. Tells me with her eyes what she
can't say. What she's too ashamed to admit. I walk passed her and out of her life,
smelling her nauseating dismay. Sensing her trust. Leaving her to cry alone is the
hardest thing I've ever had to do.
I'm pulled out of my reverie when the kid snakes her small arm around my thigh and
then resumes her peaceful slumber. I take in a sudden, hollow breath, blinking away
the tears that have crept up on me.
TBC
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com
SITE: http://www.verticalcrawl.com/mostly
ARCHIVE: My site, or anyone else's if you ask.
FEEDBACK: Hell yeah. Bring it on.
DISCLAIMER: We are mere figments of Joss Whedon's imagination. Get used to it.
RATING: this part, G.
PAIRING: S/B, bad case of angst.
SPOILERS: Through fifth season.
SUMMARY: Set seven years in the future, Spike is alone in New York, raising Buffy's
daughter.
NOTE:
I really hate how I wrote part 1. The rewrite wasn't going very well so I just dropped
it. Might have a look at it later on. Part two was beta'd by my friend Donna, english
major extraordinaire. Let's hope for the best, eh?
"Beware the Jabberwock" (2/?)
"Here it is."
I step into the room quietly, shifting the kid's weight in my arms. The place hasn't
changed a bit. "So who's been housekeeping?" I ask softly so to not wake the
sleeping child against me.
"No one, really. One or two guys stayed here at some point, but they left right away.
It's been vacant, mostly. It's all yours."
"Thank you, mate. I owe you one." I drop the heavy bag at my feet, the muffled
thump resounding in the empty room.
The skinny man next to me fidgets. "So... this is the kid?"
"Yeah..." I walk over to the stained mattress and carefully lay her down, the metal
frame creaking under her small weight. She curls up comfortably and settles into the
soft surface curving around her. This is more luxury than we've been able to afford in
a long time. I stand up and crack my back satisfyingly. Hell of a long drive.
"The slayer's kid, man... why'd you take her?"
I peer at my samaritan and snort to myself. What am I gonna say? The truth? Not
bloody likely. "I did her a favour."
He nods, not prying. Seems like three decades of absence hasn't made him forget
who can kick whose ass. I cock my head at him, noticing how he hasn't changed since
our Sid Vicious years.
Dawn is creeping closer, staining the sky with a faint pink. I stifle a yawn. "Gotta hit
the hay, pal. See you tonight," I hint. He closes the door behind him after a quick
goodbye. Old friend.
I swivel around on my heels, feeling oddly pleased. It's good to be home. Fucked if I
ever go back to Sunnydale.
Sunrise is uneventful at best and finds me lying in bed, giving the ceiling a good
stare. I'm quietly enjoying the warm feeling of my child's body nestled against my
hip, breathing softly. Legs crossed at the ankles and one arm tucked under my head,
I puff at my cigarette, flicking off ashes to the ground beside the bed. The building is
strangely quiet as all its nocturnal occupants turn in for the day. Four stories below,
commuters start their daily grind while I, for the first time in ages, allow myself to
think back. I stare hard at the peeling plaster above me, and the memories takes
shape effortlessly.
The floorboards crack and my head snaps up, my eyes meeting hers. My hands are
shaking, holding the infant to my chest protectively. I face her defiantly, not sure
what to do. She looks beautiful, her face and body still weary from the birth, making
her look so much older than she is. I can't help noticing her arms, a bit fatter than
they were, or the curve of her belly still shyly pressing against her nightgown, or her
breasts, ready to feed, to comfort, to soothe... There are no words. The conversation
plays between us wordlessly.
What are you doing here. - I heard you. You don't want her. - You're right. I'm giving
her up. - I'm taking her. She'll be safe. - This isn't right. - I won't do it if you don't
want me to. - Deafening silence. - Go.
In a fleeting moment she gives me her blessing. Tells me with her eyes what she
can't say. What she's too ashamed to admit. I walk passed her and out of her life,
smelling her nauseating dismay. Sensing her trust. Leaving her to cry alone is the
hardest thing I've ever had to do.
I'm pulled out of my reverie when the kid snakes her small arm around my thigh and
then resumes her peaceful slumber. I take in a sudden, hollow breath, blinking away
the tears that have crept up on me.
TBC