TITLE: "Beware the Jabberwock" (3/?)
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/mostly
ARCHIVE: My site - anywhere else, just ask.
FEEDBACK: Why, yes please.
DISCLAIMER: Harriet is mine, as well as the storyline. The rest belongs to Joss et al.
No infringement is intended.
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.
Sorry it took so long so whip this one out.
"Beware the Jabberwock"
03.
The living have no idea how easy they have it. Walking around, all puffed up and
sated, oblivious to the fact that the world around them was custom-made for their
weak little senses. Bloody pampered and still whining about how unfair life is. Really.
Try unlife.
While our foodstuff strolls about comfortably, we demons, perhaps a bit embittered at
this, do our very best at making their lives miserable. It's an age-old tradition. A
slightly perverted circle of life. Hide your kids: the meanies are out and they're
famished.
My senses are assaulted every day; it's not something I have a choice over. Every
live body that walks by carries its own heavy, ripe stench which either teases my
appetite, or suppresses it completely. Sunnydale was a sodding bouquet of roses
compared to what the wind carries around New York City these days. You'd want to
kill people too if you had to smell this. On hot days, it's enough to drive you mad.
Then there's the noise. Will you bloody creatures shut up once in a while? The
constant hum of conversation, music, tellies, cars, dogs... Everything melts together
when I don't pay attention to it, but I like to imagine a life where absolute silence is
an option. You know, be able to kick back and enjoy a quiet moment, perhaps only
listening to her breathing, or the quiet play of her fingers against rough pages... They
have it so easy. Makes me sick.
All this to say, I bloody hate the supermarket. Smelly, loud, neon-lit supermarket. At
some point it became ridiculous to break in every other day. I had to be more subtle
with my transgressions. These days you'll find me here with the kid during late but
regular business hours; I keep my mind off the pathetic portrait I must paint for my
kind by letting myself be amused at how cranky people get when they're tired. The
insomniac crowd and me, we get along famously.
At the check-out line, I lean against the candy rack and pluck a tabloid magazine
from the display before me. 'THEY WALK AMONG US'. I chuckle at the headline.
Vampire gossip, brought to you by the makers of Batboy. Gotta give it to 'em.
A sweet smell grabs my attention; a fetching mix of favourite, well-worn clothes,
peppermint, and me. It becomes stronger, then a voice dances over it. "Daddy," she
singsongs, and I peer down at her, standing next to me with her coat hanging off her
elbows. She looks up at me from under her blonde lashes, a soft smirk gracing her
face, not quite convincing but impossibly promising.
I flip the magazine onto the purchases piled up on the counter, and extend my hand
to her. She produces three watches, two wallets and a gold ring. I whistle approvingly
at the loot, freeing the greenery from its leather folds and pocketing it. I give her
back the rest. It will be pawned off tomorrow, except for the watches, which she will
add to her growing collection. The busy cashier glares at us pointedly. I grin cockily at
her, with no small amount of pride thrown in for good measure. My girl did good.
My hand shoots down and I grab the small fist inching its way out of my pocket.
"Harriet," I scold between clenched teeth, not looking at her. "Rule number one: no
matter how cute you are luv, you do *not* pick another pick-pocket." I can practically
hear her pout as her hand retreats.
Quickly like only a young child can, she switches her attention to something else, in
this case a steak I picked up for a later snack. She focuses on the thined blood
pooling at a corner of the packaging. Her tiny index finger pokes softly at the
shrink-wrap; not enough to pierce through it, but enough to leave a small indentation
in the soft plastic. This mesmerizes me, this little thing she does, so much so that I
am jerked back to awareness when the homeless man ahead of me dumps change on
the steel counter, letting the little metal circles clatter about, impossibly loud. I bite
back a comment, cursing myself for getting so easily distracted. Small wonder I'm
still alive. What with the brat and all...
"Who's Buffy Summers?" comes the small voice next to me, conversational.
Suddenly I remember this one time, back when I was that fool William, when I found
myself perched high up on a ladder. I was introduced to vertigo, and a stunningly
strong attack of it at that. I'd trembled for days afterwards.
Her words had the same effect.
I am suddenly very aware of my body, and of the floor tilting under my feet.
"W-Wha?" I croak out, the store swimming around me in a blurred whirl as I turn to
her.
I taught her too well; what was previously inside my pocket now flips easily between
her fingers, tattered and familiar. I snatch the addressed envelope from her, tripping
all over myself trying to sound casual. "She... she's... um." I clear my throat. Gah. "A
friend. She's a friend." I shove the letter back into my pocket, where it's been for the
past four years. My hand is trembling.
I need a drink.
TBC
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/mostly
ARCHIVE: My site - anywhere else, just ask.
FEEDBACK: Why, yes please.
DISCLAIMER: Harriet is mine, as well as the storyline. The rest belongs to Joss et al.
No infringement is intended.
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.
Sorry it took so long so whip this one out.
"Beware the Jabberwock"
03.
The living have no idea how easy they have it. Walking around, all puffed up and
sated, oblivious to the fact that the world around them was custom-made for their
weak little senses. Bloody pampered and still whining about how unfair life is. Really.
Try unlife.
While our foodstuff strolls about comfortably, we demons, perhaps a bit embittered at
this, do our very best at making their lives miserable. It's an age-old tradition. A
slightly perverted circle of life. Hide your kids: the meanies are out and they're
famished.
My senses are assaulted every day; it's not something I have a choice over. Every
live body that walks by carries its own heavy, ripe stench which either teases my
appetite, or suppresses it completely. Sunnydale was a sodding bouquet of roses
compared to what the wind carries around New York City these days. You'd want to
kill people too if you had to smell this. On hot days, it's enough to drive you mad.
Then there's the noise. Will you bloody creatures shut up once in a while? The
constant hum of conversation, music, tellies, cars, dogs... Everything melts together
when I don't pay attention to it, but I like to imagine a life where absolute silence is
an option. You know, be able to kick back and enjoy a quiet moment, perhaps only
listening to her breathing, or the quiet play of her fingers against rough pages... They
have it so easy. Makes me sick.
All this to say, I bloody hate the supermarket. Smelly, loud, neon-lit supermarket. At
some point it became ridiculous to break in every other day. I had to be more subtle
with my transgressions. These days you'll find me here with the kid during late but
regular business hours; I keep my mind off the pathetic portrait I must paint for my
kind by letting myself be amused at how cranky people get when they're tired. The
insomniac crowd and me, we get along famously.
At the check-out line, I lean against the candy rack and pluck a tabloid magazine
from the display before me. 'THEY WALK AMONG US'. I chuckle at the headline.
Vampire gossip, brought to you by the makers of Batboy. Gotta give it to 'em.
A sweet smell grabs my attention; a fetching mix of favourite, well-worn clothes,
peppermint, and me. It becomes stronger, then a voice dances over it. "Daddy," she
singsongs, and I peer down at her, standing next to me with her coat hanging off her
elbows. She looks up at me from under her blonde lashes, a soft smirk gracing her
face, not quite convincing but impossibly promising.
I flip the magazine onto the purchases piled up on the counter, and extend my hand
to her. She produces three watches, two wallets and a gold ring. I whistle approvingly
at the loot, freeing the greenery from its leather folds and pocketing it. I give her
back the rest. It will be pawned off tomorrow, except for the watches, which she will
add to her growing collection. The busy cashier glares at us pointedly. I grin cockily at
her, with no small amount of pride thrown in for good measure. My girl did good.
My hand shoots down and I grab the small fist inching its way out of my pocket.
"Harriet," I scold between clenched teeth, not looking at her. "Rule number one: no
matter how cute you are luv, you do *not* pick another pick-pocket." I can practically
hear her pout as her hand retreats.
Quickly like only a young child can, she switches her attention to something else, in
this case a steak I picked up for a later snack. She focuses on the thined blood
pooling at a corner of the packaging. Her tiny index finger pokes softly at the
shrink-wrap; not enough to pierce through it, but enough to leave a small indentation
in the soft plastic. This mesmerizes me, this little thing she does, so much so that I
am jerked back to awareness when the homeless man ahead of me dumps change on
the steel counter, letting the little metal circles clatter about, impossibly loud. I bite
back a comment, cursing myself for getting so easily distracted. Small wonder I'm
still alive. What with the brat and all...
"Who's Buffy Summers?" comes the small voice next to me, conversational.
Suddenly I remember this one time, back when I was that fool William, when I found
myself perched high up on a ladder. I was introduced to vertigo, and a stunningly
strong attack of it at that. I'd trembled for days afterwards.
Her words had the same effect.
I am suddenly very aware of my body, and of the floor tilting under my feet.
"W-Wha?" I croak out, the store swimming around me in a blurred whirl as I turn to
her.
I taught her too well; what was previously inside my pocket now flips easily between
her fingers, tattered and familiar. I snatch the addressed envelope from her, tripping
all over myself trying to sound casual. "She... she's... um." I clear my throat. Gah. "A
friend. She's a friend." I shove the letter back into my pocket, where it's been for the
past four years. My hand is trembling.
I need a drink.
TBC