Disclaimer: (Forgot this last time. Oh horrors!)
Obviously, Spike isn't my character. He belongs to Joss, Mutant Enemy, and UPN.
On the other hand, this isn't really Joss's Spike. This is the Spike that lives
in my brain. With the Black Flamingo of Ska, and the gophers. Good times.
Reviews: Please! They are the sweetest nectar to an
author's blood; they are sustenance, joy, and all that lovely stuff. And
peanuts!
Author's Note: This isn't as good as my other one,
"Given and Reaching", but it's the best I can do with my
television-diminished attention span. Short and sweet, yet redundant and
over-written. So maybe not short and sweet. Oh well.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Spike
subconsciously tore a few blades of grass from the damp earth, rolling them
between his fingers until they were dark with green blood, scoring them with
his nails until the pulp worked its way up under his black-lacquered claws. His
hand continued for a few minutes, bleeding the vital, the silent observers that
watched Buffy's grave, crushing each clump into a scarred, wet pulp before
tearing another from life.
Finally, he
turned from the writings of cold stone to the victims of his idle grasp. He
stared at the green mush in his hand. Intestines. Blood. The limp bodies of the
newly dead mashed together into communal rot. His pale fingers opened and the
corpses fell back to the rich soil of their succor, fell to the patch of soil
laid bare by his thoughtless fidgeting, by his body, while his mind dwelt in
letters and memories and pain. It was soft and dark, the dirt, shielded from
the silver light of Earth's lonely rock, Earth's cold stone follower of words
unread. Shielded by the gravestone whose words were old and tired with reading,
despite their newness. Dark, untouched by the sun that dries the damp and the
cold away. The earth that hid between the headstone and the light had been
protected. Protected from the light making it dry and warm and stealing its
darkness. It had been protected by the grass, by the strong young blades that
had grown in the sun and drank its sustenance without fear until they were tall
and pulsed with life. The strong blades that left their blood on his hand and
fell to the dark soil. No longer able to feed from day's bright heat, feed from
the light and heal, even after careless children or brutal warriors had crushed
them underfoot. No longer protecting. He had killed them. And now the earth had
no refuge from the day. Light would be forced into damp flesh, and it would be
changed. It would be warmed. And new blades would climb from deep inside,
painful reaching for the change. Blades soft and pale and so new. Without fear.
Vulnerable. Until they, too, grew tall and strong enough to bleed in the
fingers of men with tears wetting their skin.
Spike
looked at what he had bared to the sky. Without thinking. Without knowing what
he was killing and changing. His eyes strayed to rest once more on the stone
that hid the desolate light, that hid the warming light from the dark things
who sat in mourning.
"Damn,"
he muttered, feeling a strangeness in his voice.
He wiped
his hand dry on his coat. He rose. He left.
