Disclaimer - I'd love to be witty about this but.ah well. Basically, they
ain't mine. Joss, ME, Fox et al have that pleasure.
AN - no spoilers. Set sometime mid season 6 but no specific episode. And a big thank you hug to Trisha for the beta. As always. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------
Need.
It comes in so many forms. So many shades. Light to dark. From the shining of that first innocent kiss to the impenetrable black of deepest buried fantasy. Layer upon layer. The expected to the unacceptable. Desperation. Desire. Inevitable and undeniable. All consuming. Everybody needs something.
He needs...acknowledgement. Acceptance. He needs to see eyes that aren't continually plagued by doubt. A smile that isn't hesitant. To hear words that don't prevaricate. He needs the pretence to end and the belief to shine through. He needs the surety that she lost with her innocence. He needs what he fears she is no longer capable of giving.
That's the thing about need. It isn't rational. Just because he can't have it doesn't mean that he doesn't cry out for it with every iota of his being. Silently begging for it with every unnecessary breath, muscles uselessly straining to catch hold of that ephemeral, transcendent Grail.
Her love.
He believes in it even as she denies it. Feels it even as she turns away from his touch. Glories in every dream that shows him the reality of its attainment. Even as he wakes to a cold and lonely dusk. It is what makes a dead man alive.
How else could he face each night? Without it he would wither, fall to dust before her gaze. He has offered up his heart and knows it was accepted. Despite her denials. Despite her repeated rejection. Because this need cannot be so effulgent if it is a bad or wicked thing. The glistening tells him this is good. For him it is more. It is holy. He has found religion and it praises her name. He is an eternal martyr to her cause. A soldier of the true faith. A crusader against the legions of Hell.
He's a damn fool.
Bruised and bloodied in the hope of one soft glance. One generous word. Yet more likely to be ridiculed than praised. But he is a fanatic.
If his faith requires a suicide mission then he will die in battle.
If his god desires his sacrifice then he will fall on his sword with joy.
Although, really, a stake would be more effective.
A man in love once said it wasn't brains but blood. And the blood is up. A man in love is only half as willing as a man in devotion. For the devotee, it's about existence itself. He does not exist outside of her presence. He is a less than a shadow, for a shadow cannot be without a glimmer of light. And she is the sun itself. The very sphere that destroys him makes him whole.
Burn, baby, burn.
Cheaper than buying matches. And what a way to go.
Right now, right here, he has her. For a few moments as she sleeps, she is his. He can watch over her, protect her. Pour into her lap his every promise and dream. Whisper against her precious skull words of love, devotion and prayer. He can worship her with all he is. Spend millennia holding her in the few minutes she is unaware.
But she'll wake up soon. She always does. And her reality is not his. She doesn't allow it. His time is brief but he will make it last forever, in his mind. Wrapping her submission up in layers of his faith and placing it in the treasure box of his memories. Sheltering it.
Because she's as likely to kick him in the head on her way out as she is to touch him gently. More so. And he doesn't want the moment broken. So he must care for it in the only place she can't bruise it. She so loves to leave her colours on his skin.
That is her need. Her belief. He is the receptacle for her anger and pain, her fear and distress. She fills him with it night after night and leaves her darkness in him. It is her right. So she believes. And who is he to deny his God?
She has faith in him. That he is all that is evil and rotten, all that is despicable. And who is he to refute that?
He will always, always accept whatever second she allows him. Whatever role she allots him. Whatever temporary recognition she throws his way.
What choice does he have?
After all, she needs him. Everybody needs something.
AN - no spoilers. Set sometime mid season 6 but no specific episode. And a big thank you hug to Trisha for the beta. As always. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------
Need.
It comes in so many forms. So many shades. Light to dark. From the shining of that first innocent kiss to the impenetrable black of deepest buried fantasy. Layer upon layer. The expected to the unacceptable. Desperation. Desire. Inevitable and undeniable. All consuming. Everybody needs something.
He needs...acknowledgement. Acceptance. He needs to see eyes that aren't continually plagued by doubt. A smile that isn't hesitant. To hear words that don't prevaricate. He needs the pretence to end and the belief to shine through. He needs the surety that she lost with her innocence. He needs what he fears she is no longer capable of giving.
That's the thing about need. It isn't rational. Just because he can't have it doesn't mean that he doesn't cry out for it with every iota of his being. Silently begging for it with every unnecessary breath, muscles uselessly straining to catch hold of that ephemeral, transcendent Grail.
Her love.
He believes in it even as she denies it. Feels it even as she turns away from his touch. Glories in every dream that shows him the reality of its attainment. Even as he wakes to a cold and lonely dusk. It is what makes a dead man alive.
How else could he face each night? Without it he would wither, fall to dust before her gaze. He has offered up his heart and knows it was accepted. Despite her denials. Despite her repeated rejection. Because this need cannot be so effulgent if it is a bad or wicked thing. The glistening tells him this is good. For him it is more. It is holy. He has found religion and it praises her name. He is an eternal martyr to her cause. A soldier of the true faith. A crusader against the legions of Hell.
He's a damn fool.
Bruised and bloodied in the hope of one soft glance. One generous word. Yet more likely to be ridiculed than praised. But he is a fanatic.
If his faith requires a suicide mission then he will die in battle.
If his god desires his sacrifice then he will fall on his sword with joy.
Although, really, a stake would be more effective.
A man in love once said it wasn't brains but blood. And the blood is up. A man in love is only half as willing as a man in devotion. For the devotee, it's about existence itself. He does not exist outside of her presence. He is a less than a shadow, for a shadow cannot be without a glimmer of light. And she is the sun itself. The very sphere that destroys him makes him whole.
Burn, baby, burn.
Cheaper than buying matches. And what a way to go.
Right now, right here, he has her. For a few moments as she sleeps, she is his. He can watch over her, protect her. Pour into her lap his every promise and dream. Whisper against her precious skull words of love, devotion and prayer. He can worship her with all he is. Spend millennia holding her in the few minutes she is unaware.
But she'll wake up soon. She always does. And her reality is not his. She doesn't allow it. His time is brief but he will make it last forever, in his mind. Wrapping her submission up in layers of his faith and placing it in the treasure box of his memories. Sheltering it.
Because she's as likely to kick him in the head on her way out as she is to touch him gently. More so. And he doesn't want the moment broken. So he must care for it in the only place she can't bruise it. She so loves to leave her colours on his skin.
That is her need. Her belief. He is the receptacle for her anger and pain, her fear and distress. She fills him with it night after night and leaves her darkness in him. It is her right. So she believes. And who is he to deny his God?
She has faith in him. That he is all that is evil and rotten, all that is despicable. And who is he to refute that?
He will always, always accept whatever second she allows him. Whatever role she allots him. Whatever temporary recognition she throws his way.
What choice does he have?
After all, she needs him. Everybody needs something.