Untitled
R for language, slight darkness. I've never written Spike this honest before, so I hope it's good.
He can feel the cotton against his hair, the silk against his back and the grip of leather on his calves. He lies there, unbreathing, undead, as he should be. He feels the air hold think and stale above his head, everything as physical as it gets runs a deep tear into his mind like a clean, but well-used scalpel. He feels stupid.
Most of all, he feels his soul.
Spike wants to smoke, but his bones won't heed the call of his muscles, so he's left himself in an awkward position with his legs crossed while he's on his back. A hot, deep drag of a fag seems to remedy all unease (pity that his laziness is overpowering), and releases whatever age-old tension in his joints as well as the clench-grit of his teeth in his mouth. Whoever threw out this bed, was a complete retard.
He wonders if it can all be taken back. The soul. The words. The dreams. The monster inside twists and turns and squirms beneath the lock of the essence of his humanity. Somehow, he wishes he could wrap his cold fingers around a young, teenage neck until it pops out of place –snap— and not feel pangs of guilt flood every fibre of his being. To taste blood straight from the jugular without thinking of consequences, of what she might think.
She, he thinks with a mental huff. It's always about the girl.
Spike would rather not think about it. About her. But now, his existence is for her, with her, to sickeningly protect those unready next generation of slayers. He couldn't have cared less about them, bugger them, he'd fucking hand them over to the stupid First Evil in gift wrap, if Buffy didn't have that ol' hero heart in her. He doesn't know why she fights so hard, why she keeps going on. Some part of him wishes that she'd stayed dead, because she was happier where she was.
Ok, yeah, he's becoming a fan-fucking-tastic huge softie. It's the soul, he thinks, the soul, but actually, it's William. He's always been William. Even Peaches would tell him that. It was the poet, love's bitch that stuck with him for a bloody hundred and twenty plus years. Love is a stupid thing. It made him stupid. Love makes everyone stupid, and it wrenches worlds apart and rearranges your backbone if it wants. It hurts, but damn, Spike thinks it's beautiful, for everything she's worth. It makes his heart itch, it makes him want to kiss her and taste her skin. He misses the physical contact wit her, but he knows she'll never touch him again because he loss control of his passion and rage.
Is he brooding?
Spike finally shoots up from the bed. He frowns. Yuck, I'm acting like my poofy Sire, he thinks impishly. He can't get any lamer than that.
He kicks himself off the bed, taking his coat and taking along a head full of thoughts. He despises himself. He loves that bitch so much.
But he'll never find another love like her.
Bugger. He needs a smoke.