TITLE: "Sleep" (1/1)
AUTHOR: irevi
EMAIL: irevi@hotmail.com
DISTRIBUTION: If you want it, ask.
RATING: PG
PAIRING: Slight B/S, *very* slight S/Dr
FEEDBACK: Yes! Reeeeeview. Please? I'll give you a cookie.
SPOILERS: "Older and Far Away"
SUMMARY: Spike watches the Summers, long after he's been finally released from the house.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Nine o'clock. He finally escapes out of the house, grateful for the chill of night air in unbreathing lungs, for the muted drone of Sunnyhell life without the insulation of drywood walls, for - God and the Devil knows why - being out of the Summers house. Slows at the end of the driveway as three leave for the hospital, hearing the front door click shut somewhere behind him. Stands, fumbling now through his pockets for a fag and his Zippo, leisurely sucking this poisoned, clouded air into lungs that wouldn't remain stained.
If he thinks about it, he can hear both Summers girls go upstairs. He can sense the hesitance in their steps, the slight hitch - what if the curse was re-cast, what if those trinkets were really stolen, what if they hate her, what is what if what if? And he chuckles as he hears first one, then two bedroom doors shut, since the two witches have stayed inside still. Offers a raised eyebrow to Tara as she slips out of the front door, changing it to a grudging nod. So she knows. He watches her leave, and returns his attention to the house again. Stands still.
Eleven. He's still there, beside a growing pile of fag-ends. Still listening to the goings-on inside the house, or perhaps the lack thereof. He can hear the soft, slow drag of slumbering breath, bedsprings squeaking as occupants toss and turn. He nearly laughs at this absurd thought, of him standing outside the residence of these two people, one he once swore to kill, and one he once swore to protect. Looks in the windows, and sees the ghosts of Slayer and vampire. A monster, not a man, but... Thoughts drift to distant memories, of blood and scotch and fists and fangs and the growing addiction that was loving the Slayer.
One o'clock, and he's just run through a memory of the door shutting in his face. Can't shut him out of her life, but can lock him in it, if only temporarily. Vaguely, he can hear the quickening of breath and heartbeat inside: nightmare. Shifts, fishes another pack of fags, lights one of its contents, starts on the next portion of his cigarette mountain. Nightmare ceases, and the clouds move again, revealing another set of constellate stars that he doesn't know the names of. Thoughts of naming the stars, and his beautiful dark goddess, his princess, only that was long ago, before the Slayer became his drug, filled his eyes and his heart. Another nightmare, different room, and he can almost see the tears that come with it. Loss. The witch. The Slayer's nightmare, he knows, comes only at her waking, of opening blind eyes to see the satin interior of the box where she'd been locked to rest in peace. Locked in. Temporarily.
Four-thirty. Probably drawn in enough cyanide and tar to kill the rodent population of this side of California, and now there are empty packs lying on the sidewalk, too, alongside the remnants of fags. Turns his attention from the now-quiet dreams inside the house, and toward the streaks of rose dazzling the horizon. His goddess had loved watching the flowering sun, the blooming lines of color across the night sky. He watched them, now, and knew that if he didn't leave soon, he would be lying with his cigarette butts, like so much ash trapped in the grooves and cracks of the cement. Can't stay to guard them any longer, and so he leaves, the only evidence of his existence on Revello Drive stirring idly on the sidewalk.
AUTHOR: irevi
EMAIL: irevi@hotmail.com
DISTRIBUTION: If you want it, ask.
RATING: PG
PAIRING: Slight B/S, *very* slight S/Dr
FEEDBACK: Yes! Reeeeeview. Please? I'll give you a cookie.
SPOILERS: "Older and Far Away"
SUMMARY: Spike watches the Summers, long after he's been finally released from the house.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Nine o'clock. He finally escapes out of the house, grateful for the chill of night air in unbreathing lungs, for the muted drone of Sunnyhell life without the insulation of drywood walls, for - God and the Devil knows why - being out of the Summers house. Slows at the end of the driveway as three leave for the hospital, hearing the front door click shut somewhere behind him. Stands, fumbling now through his pockets for a fag and his Zippo, leisurely sucking this poisoned, clouded air into lungs that wouldn't remain stained.
If he thinks about it, he can hear both Summers girls go upstairs. He can sense the hesitance in their steps, the slight hitch - what if the curse was re-cast, what if those trinkets were really stolen, what if they hate her, what is what if what if? And he chuckles as he hears first one, then two bedroom doors shut, since the two witches have stayed inside still. Offers a raised eyebrow to Tara as she slips out of the front door, changing it to a grudging nod. So she knows. He watches her leave, and returns his attention to the house again. Stands still.
Eleven. He's still there, beside a growing pile of fag-ends. Still listening to the goings-on inside the house, or perhaps the lack thereof. He can hear the soft, slow drag of slumbering breath, bedsprings squeaking as occupants toss and turn. He nearly laughs at this absurd thought, of him standing outside the residence of these two people, one he once swore to kill, and one he once swore to protect. Looks in the windows, and sees the ghosts of Slayer and vampire. A monster, not a man, but... Thoughts drift to distant memories, of blood and scotch and fists and fangs and the growing addiction that was loving the Slayer.
One o'clock, and he's just run through a memory of the door shutting in his face. Can't shut him out of her life, but can lock him in it, if only temporarily. Vaguely, he can hear the quickening of breath and heartbeat inside: nightmare. Shifts, fishes another pack of fags, lights one of its contents, starts on the next portion of his cigarette mountain. Nightmare ceases, and the clouds move again, revealing another set of constellate stars that he doesn't know the names of. Thoughts of naming the stars, and his beautiful dark goddess, his princess, only that was long ago, before the Slayer became his drug, filled his eyes and his heart. Another nightmare, different room, and he can almost see the tears that come with it. Loss. The witch. The Slayer's nightmare, he knows, comes only at her waking, of opening blind eyes to see the satin interior of the box where she'd been locked to rest in peace. Locked in. Temporarily.
Four-thirty. Probably drawn in enough cyanide and tar to kill the rodent population of this side of California, and now there are empty packs lying on the sidewalk, too, alongside the remnants of fags. Turns his attention from the now-quiet dreams inside the house, and toward the streaks of rose dazzling the horizon. His goddess had loved watching the flowering sun, the blooming lines of color across the night sky. He watched them, now, and knew that if he didn't leave soon, he would be lying with his cigarette butts, like so much ash trapped in the grooves and cracks of the cement. Can't stay to guard them any longer, and so he leaves, the only evidence of his existence on Revello Drive stirring idly on the sidewalk.