'Hold me close and hold me fast,
The magic spell you cast,
This is la vie en rose.'
"If only we could have known how ugly it was going to get."
Spike pressed his palm against the cold window pane of the hotel room. The rain had stopped outside but the seedy little neighborhood was still shell shocked, holding it's breath, waiting for the next storm that they knew inevitably would come. He turned away from the scene of wet pavement and blinking red lights, back towards the faint outline of the man on the bed. His breathing was shallow, his wrists red from where they'd chafed against the thick ropes. Something like remorse flitted through Spike but he pushed it back and buried it in the depths of his psyche where he'd buried everything else. These days, since she'd been gone, he rarely felt anything. Convenient, he thought, when one's in his line of work. Besides, he reasoned, it wasn't as if the bloody bastard had spilled so much as a tear over what he'd put them through.
Two more bottles of Jim Bean sat on the motel table. He moved to one and opened it easily, staring at the amber liquid as it sloshed about the inside of the bottle. He took a swig of it, to kill the pain that the memories always brought, "Of course, it's easy now to be altruistic. When all's said and done I can pretend that I would've changed it, would've given her up for her own sake. But I've never been like the poofter and I don't intend to start taking after him now."
'When you kiss me heaven sighs,
And though I close my eyes,
I see la vie en rose.'
His eyes fluttered closed and for a moment her image glowed brightly behind his eye lids before dissipating into inky blackness. He swallowed hard, his eyes opening to stare at the cracked yellow walls of the motel room. He could almost taste her on his mouth, even through all the alcohol; he could almost smell her scent beneath the stale air of the room, could almost feel the glide of her skin against his.
Despite all the years that had passed she still haunted him, keeping her promise as surely as if she was still breathing.
"I'm going to kill you, y'know that?" Spike turned to the man on the faded bedspread. He was still and sweating, a far cry from the composed machine that he'd first encounter, a lifetime away from the grand manipulator who's never known fear. Now he was just a man.
"Twenty years ago," Spike paused to take another drink of the alcohol," Twenty years ago I might've cared. If it were twenty years ago, you might've seen tomorrow morning -- as far as things stand, you won't see past tonight."
'When you press me to your heart,
I'm in a world apart,
A world where roses bloom.
And when you speak, angels sing from above,
Every day words seem to turn into love songs.'
Spike flopped down in the flimsy motel chair and reached for his pack of Marlboros. He drew out the white cylinder slowly, testing it's weight between his fingers as he stared, sightless, at the shadows which gathered in the room and fell over onto him. He melted back into them, letting the darkness hides him, protect him; in the dark, he was invulnerable; in the dark, he wasn't Spike, he was a demon; in the darkness he wasn't any conscious impression at all, there were no scars, no fears, no desires, no shattered hopes and dreams, just one consuming mindless mission: revenge. In the dark, he could kill.
When he spoke his voice was hoarse and flat as if it came from very far away, "Do you know what changed twenty years ago? What it was that made me the killer again?" Spike took a long drag on the cigarette, savoring the nicotine, the smell of burning paper and tar, the metallic taste in his mouth, "Twenty years ago you took away my soul."
'Give your heart and soul to me,
And life will always be la vie en rose.'
* From William Shakespeare's "Othello" 3.4 v.160-163.
The magic spell you cast,
This is la vie en rose.'
"If only we could have known how ugly it was going to get."
Spike pressed his palm against the cold window pane of the hotel room. The rain had stopped outside but the seedy little neighborhood was still shell shocked, holding it's breath, waiting for the next storm that they knew inevitably would come. He turned away from the scene of wet pavement and blinking red lights, back towards the faint outline of the man on the bed. His breathing was shallow, his wrists red from where they'd chafed against the thick ropes. Something like remorse flitted through Spike but he pushed it back and buried it in the depths of his psyche where he'd buried everything else. These days, since she'd been gone, he rarely felt anything. Convenient, he thought, when one's in his line of work. Besides, he reasoned, it wasn't as if the bloody bastard had spilled so much as a tear over what he'd put them through.
Two more bottles of Jim Bean sat on the motel table. He moved to one and opened it easily, staring at the amber liquid as it sloshed about the inside of the bottle. He took a swig of it, to kill the pain that the memories always brought, "Of course, it's easy now to be altruistic. When all's said and done I can pretend that I would've changed it, would've given her up for her own sake. But I've never been like the poofter and I don't intend to start taking after him now."
'When you kiss me heaven sighs,
And though I close my eyes,
I see la vie en rose.'
His eyes fluttered closed and for a moment her image glowed brightly behind his eye lids before dissipating into inky blackness. He swallowed hard, his eyes opening to stare at the cracked yellow walls of the motel room. He could almost taste her on his mouth, even through all the alcohol; he could almost smell her scent beneath the stale air of the room, could almost feel the glide of her skin against his.
Despite all the years that had passed she still haunted him, keeping her promise as surely as if she was still breathing.
"I'm going to kill you, y'know that?" Spike turned to the man on the faded bedspread. He was still and sweating, a far cry from the composed machine that he'd first encounter, a lifetime away from the grand manipulator who's never known fear. Now he was just a man.
"Twenty years ago," Spike paused to take another drink of the alcohol," Twenty years ago I might've cared. If it were twenty years ago, you might've seen tomorrow morning -- as far as things stand, you won't see past tonight."
'When you press me to your heart,
I'm in a world apart,
A world where roses bloom.
And when you speak, angels sing from above,
Every day words seem to turn into love songs.'
Spike flopped down in the flimsy motel chair and reached for his pack of Marlboros. He drew out the white cylinder slowly, testing it's weight between his fingers as he stared, sightless, at the shadows which gathered in the room and fell over onto him. He melted back into them, letting the darkness hides him, protect him; in the dark, he was invulnerable; in the dark, he wasn't Spike, he was a demon; in the darkness he wasn't any conscious impression at all, there were no scars, no fears, no desires, no shattered hopes and dreams, just one consuming mindless mission: revenge. In the dark, he could kill.
When he spoke his voice was hoarse and flat as if it came from very far away, "Do you know what changed twenty years ago? What it was that made me the killer again?" Spike took a long drag on the cigarette, savoring the nicotine, the smell of burning paper and tar, the metallic taste in his mouth, "Twenty years ago you took away my soul."
'Give your heart and soul to me,
And life will always be la vie en rose.'
* From William Shakespeare's "Othello" 3.4 v.160-163.