'Sleeping Beauty
Poisoned and hopeless
You're far beyond a visible
Sign of your awakening'
Weeks pass and she still dreams. The only difference is that this time she wakes up before she starts screaming.
The streets are crowded at night ans she shudders, her eyes searching for Spike. She knows that he's out there somewhere, making someone his meal, but he promises her that he doesn't kill them and she doesn't have it in her to not believe him. She hopes that she'll never have to.
He's beside her in a moment, with his trademark smirk and swagger, such a different person from the one that pushed her against the alley wall and took her while crying his tears into the hollow her neck. He's not the broken man that she ran into in May, drunk and sobbing for lost love. She gives him a brief smile and he kisses her lightly before grabbing her own small hand in his, and moving her down the crowded street.
They have an aparatment now, a small place on Chartes Street. It's near everything and she likes it, the noise and the dirt and danger. In a way it reminds her of Sunnydale. He takes her towards Decatur St. and they enter Coop's Place. She has a cigarette and an omlette, and he downs his beer.
They don't talk much. She eats and he watches. When it's time to leave he pays the bill and they head back out into the busy night.
* * *
It's well past midnight when he sits beside her on the stairs of St. Louis Cathedral. She likes to come here at night and smoke and he doesn't like for her to be alone, so he follows. They still don't say a word, their hands growing clammy from the mist. It's August now and Summer's almost over. The nights are painfully hot and she sweats profusely, small glistening drops that make a trail across her soft skin and dip below the line of her tank top out of his line of vision.
She leans against him, grateful that he's no longer wearing the duster, just a cotton shirt open at the neck. She never would have pegged him for one to wear blue, but it brings out the color in his eyes so she doesn't mention it for fear that he might revert back to his standard black. Besides, it's such a dark blue it could almost pass for black. Almost. If you were colorblind.
Finally she breaks the silence when she's had her third cigarette of the night, and the bustling main street seems father away, "We have a life here."
He nods, and his fingers trail down her neck. His voice is throaty in the stillness, "Yea, pet. We do."
She doesn't say anything and for a few minutes he thinks she's going to pull out another cigarette, "It's not like the ones we had before."
He swallows and she turns in his arms to face him, her hair is stuck to her face and neck in places where it escaped from her ponytail and her hands are moist on his arms. For a minute she seems like she's going to kiss him and he leans forward in anticipation, but she just brushes her fingertips across his mouth and asks, "Do you miss it?"
The question floors him and he struggles for a few minutes to find an answer, "Sometimes."
"Oh."
He's silent for a while, his hand trailing up and down her arms and she revels in the cool sensation against her heated skin, "Do you?"
"Sometimes."
"You should call them."
She pulls away when he says that and he watches her face close up like a pair of shutters. She's facing the other way now but he can tell what he said to her made an impact, so he says it again.
She shakes her head and he lets it go, but he knows that she won't be able to forget it easily. He drops a cool kiss on the side of her neck and she shudders in remembered pleasure. His blunt human teeth are on her earlobe and he suggests, "Let's go home."
Both of them know that he doesn't mean Sunnydale.
'Poisoned and hopeless
Sleeping Beauty'
Poisoned and hopeless
You're far beyond a visible
Sign of your awakening'
Weeks pass and she still dreams. The only difference is that this time she wakes up before she starts screaming.
The streets are crowded at night ans she shudders, her eyes searching for Spike. She knows that he's out there somewhere, making someone his meal, but he promises her that he doesn't kill them and she doesn't have it in her to not believe him. She hopes that she'll never have to.
He's beside her in a moment, with his trademark smirk and swagger, such a different person from the one that pushed her against the alley wall and took her while crying his tears into the hollow her neck. He's not the broken man that she ran into in May, drunk and sobbing for lost love. She gives him a brief smile and he kisses her lightly before grabbing her own small hand in his, and moving her down the crowded street.
They have an aparatment now, a small place on Chartes Street. It's near everything and she likes it, the noise and the dirt and danger. In a way it reminds her of Sunnydale. He takes her towards Decatur St. and they enter Coop's Place. She has a cigarette and an omlette, and he downs his beer.
They don't talk much. She eats and he watches. When it's time to leave he pays the bill and they head back out into the busy night.
* * *
It's well past midnight when he sits beside her on the stairs of St. Louis Cathedral. She likes to come here at night and smoke and he doesn't like for her to be alone, so he follows. They still don't say a word, their hands growing clammy from the mist. It's August now and Summer's almost over. The nights are painfully hot and she sweats profusely, small glistening drops that make a trail across her soft skin and dip below the line of her tank top out of his line of vision.
She leans against him, grateful that he's no longer wearing the duster, just a cotton shirt open at the neck. She never would have pegged him for one to wear blue, but it brings out the color in his eyes so she doesn't mention it for fear that he might revert back to his standard black. Besides, it's such a dark blue it could almost pass for black. Almost. If you were colorblind.
Finally she breaks the silence when she's had her third cigarette of the night, and the bustling main street seems father away, "We have a life here."
He nods, and his fingers trail down her neck. His voice is throaty in the stillness, "Yea, pet. We do."
She doesn't say anything and for a few minutes he thinks she's going to pull out another cigarette, "It's not like the ones we had before."
He swallows and she turns in his arms to face him, her hair is stuck to her face and neck in places where it escaped from her ponytail and her hands are moist on his arms. For a minute she seems like she's going to kiss him and he leans forward in anticipation, but she just brushes her fingertips across his mouth and asks, "Do you miss it?"
The question floors him and he struggles for a few minutes to find an answer, "Sometimes."
"Oh."
He's silent for a while, his hand trailing up and down her arms and she revels in the cool sensation against her heated skin, "Do you?"
"Sometimes."
"You should call them."
She pulls away when he says that and he watches her face close up like a pair of shutters. She's facing the other way now but he can tell what he said to her made an impact, so he says it again.
She shakes her head and he lets it go, but he knows that she won't be able to forget it easily. He drops a cool kiss on the side of her neck and she shudders in remembered pleasure. His blunt human teeth are on her earlobe and he suggests, "Let's go home."
Both of them know that he doesn't mean Sunnydale.
'Poisoned and hopeless
Sleeping Beauty'
