Out of Joint -- Chapter 3 (Part 4)
Nov. 23rd, 2004 06:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sharelleWhooo! I'm sailing right along! Thus, touch-ups to the last scene of Chapter 3 are complete! (The speed at which I post the next part depends very much on the time I have to myself to write over the Thanksgiving holiday.)
I'd also love to have the next chapter of "Mirror Darkly" up before the end of the weekend, if not sooner. (I've been neglecting my poor Hank!)
Hope everyone enjoys! (And previous parts are all here.)
(Chapter 3 – Part 4)
* * *
It felt strange, crying again.
It wasn’t the first time since the soul, and apparently it wouldn’t be the last. But for some reason, this time felt strange. Maybe because it was the first since becoming corporeal again. Every new experience had seemed more intense after that. Harmony’s knock-off designer perfume had smelled better than anything he could remember, once he had collected himself enough to realize he could smell it. That wretched otter blood he’d nicked off Angel had slid down his throat like bloody ambrosia. Even all those knocks the great Poof had served up back at the opera house had made him feel more alive than a dead man had any right to feel. And now this. Definitely more intense than he remembered.
The steady stream of tears felt especially hot on his cool skin. Spike could trace them with his mind, even if he could never see their tracks in a mirror. He could feel exactly where they pooled in the hollows of his cheeks and dipped beneath his chin to run, unchecked down his throat. The salt in them smelled as pungent as the ocean to his newly-awakened senses. After months of feeling nothing at all, the littlest things just seemed so much more noticeable. And the hits, that much harder.
He had never been ashamed to cry. Had done it on enough occasions – long, long before the soul. It should be dishonorable, somehow, for a swaggering Big Bad to openly shed tears over anything, but it had never really disturbed Spike’s secure view of his manhood – or his demonhood for that matter. Hadn’t given it much thought at all, to be honest. If he had been forced to think of a reason to explain it, he might have said it was because crying was the last thing he had been doing before he was turned. His final mortal act. Some small vestige of William that had remained, one of the only traces of the man which Spike hadn’t openly tried to bury beneath the demon.
That night in the London alley hadn’t been the first time he had wept over a lost love. Clearly, it wasn’t the last. In fact, his whole life, most of his tears had been shed because of love – losing Cecily, losing Dru, losing Buffy . . . having Buffy. Now this.
But Spike wasn’t just grieving the loss of someone he had loved, though he wished he could be that selfless. It was also for himself. For the feeling that, once again, he had failed to keep his promise. Failed her. Failed them both.
I’m counting on you. To protect her.
‘Til the end of the world.
Three times since those words had been uttered, that end had come and gone. Three times he had failed. Couldn’t stop a wormy little nothing-of-a-demon from bleeding the girl thanks to his own apparently piss-poor equilibrium. Wasn’t there when an incredibly brassed-off witch was bent on world destruction, and had even threatened his girl on a more personal level. And the one time he thought he’d gotten it right . . . done the champion deal and everything, given his life for the world, for them, and it still hadn’t been enough to save the one person he had sworn to protect.
"I'm sorry." He hadn't even realized he'd spoken aloud at first. "I'm so sorry, love."
The tears renewed themselves, so fierce and bitter they almost steamed against his chilled flesh. How many times had he considered greeting the sun over the anguish of his first failure? And now, again, knowing that even his apparent heroism hadn’t been enough to protect one-half of what made the world worth saving was almost too much to bear. Spike glanced out the window across from him. A wide pane with too-thin curtains. His mind was a jumble, and he wasn’t sure how long it would be before sunrise anymore. But he was certainly tempted.
Tempted to allow the very force which had claimed part of his heart, as well as his bruised soul, to come now for his body as well.
Dawn.
He could picture her, even now. His Nibblet. Shiny spun hair, impossibly huge blue eyes, the absolute picture of innocence, although Spike knew quite well that the childishness was just frilly window dressing. The girl was a tigress, brutally protective of those she loved, and brave as all hell. She had definitely grown.
They hadn’t exactly been friends at the end, though that had probably been for the best. He certainly hadn’t done anything to deserve her friendship after all the terrible things he’d done. To her. To her sister. And he would have been the picture of presumption to think he could possibly earn it back. Ever.
In fact, they hadn’t even spoken much during those last few months. He tried to recall the last words they had really exchanged. Was it the night she’d told him that Buffy’d left the house? Or had it been that offhanded comment about second-hand smoke? Had they spoken at all, really, since the night she threatened he’d wake up on fire if he hurt Buffy again? Spike couldn’t remember. He certainly hadn’t said anything to her the day of the final battle against The First. Should have. Especially since he’d had the gut feeling it’d be a one-way trip, at least for him. Practically promised himself it would be, if that was what it took. Should have told her to be careful, to take care. Should have at least told her what she sodding meant to him. Thrown it back in his face or not, at least she would have known.
He tried to picture her fighting off the demons who had made it through the seal and to the surface. Buffy’s sister, every inch of her. Chosen or not.
Tried to picture her dying, and the vision tore at his dead heart. He hoped, at least, she hadn’t been alone.
But that thought, however horrible, wasn’t even the worst of it.
This, this all around him. Was this her eulogy? All that was left to remember her? Thirty-odd boxes and a room filled with bloody storage? It was almost as though the Bit had never existed.
He knew it had been hard enough for Buffy to pick up the pieces after her mother died, and Spike couldn’t imagine what losing the rest of her family would do. She had been willing to exorcise the place of all magical elements to help Red through her addiction, even sentimental things which had belonged to Joyce, but how could it happen that Buffy would erase every aspect of her sister from the house on Revello Drive?
Then another thought. One even more terrifying. Even more wrong. The Nibblet had been seamlessly inserted into everyone’s lives when she had been created by those bloody monks. Could her death excise her just as neatly? Was that why Spike could still detect elements of Joyce strongly throughout the house, but not a single trace of Dawn?
Could it be that, since Spike had also been dead, however briefly, he was the only one left with a detached perspective? The only one unaffected by her disappearance? The only one left who could mark her place in this world?
That thought was too horrifying to even consider, but at the same time he had to know. He owed his girl that much.
Now there was no other choice. Now, he would have to see Buffy.
But of course it wouldn’t do for the Slayer to find a sopping Big Bad curled up on the upstairs floor, would it? He made up his mind to finally move his sorry ass out of the house and come back the following night. Spike slowly rose to his feet, gathering his duster around him like remnants of dignity.
And that was when he heard someone enter the front door.
* * *
To be continued . . .
I'd also love to have the next chapter of "Mirror Darkly" up before the end of the weekend, if not sooner. (I've been neglecting my poor Hank!)
Hope everyone enjoys! (And previous parts are all here.)
(Chapter 3 – Part 4)
It felt strange, crying again.
It wasn’t the first time since the soul, and apparently it wouldn’t be the last. But for some reason, this time felt strange. Maybe because it was the first since becoming corporeal again. Every new experience had seemed more intense after that. Harmony’s knock-off designer perfume had smelled better than anything he could remember, once he had collected himself enough to realize he could smell it. That wretched otter blood he’d nicked off Angel had slid down his throat like bloody ambrosia. Even all those knocks the great Poof had served up back at the opera house had made him feel more alive than a dead man had any right to feel. And now this. Definitely more intense than he remembered.
The steady stream of tears felt especially hot on his cool skin. Spike could trace them with his mind, even if he could never see their tracks in a mirror. He could feel exactly where they pooled in the hollows of his cheeks and dipped beneath his chin to run, unchecked down his throat. The salt in them smelled as pungent as the ocean to his newly-awakened senses. After months of feeling nothing at all, the littlest things just seemed so much more noticeable. And the hits, that much harder.
He had never been ashamed to cry. Had done it on enough occasions – long, long before the soul. It should be dishonorable, somehow, for a swaggering Big Bad to openly shed tears over anything, but it had never really disturbed Spike’s secure view of his manhood – or his demonhood for that matter. Hadn’t given it much thought at all, to be honest. If he had been forced to think of a reason to explain it, he might have said it was because crying was the last thing he had been doing before he was turned. His final mortal act. Some small vestige of William that had remained, one of the only traces of the man which Spike hadn’t openly tried to bury beneath the demon.
That night in the London alley hadn’t been the first time he had wept over a lost love. Clearly, it wasn’t the last. In fact, his whole life, most of his tears had been shed because of love – losing Cecily, losing Dru, losing Buffy . . . having Buffy. Now this.
But Spike wasn’t just grieving the loss of someone he had loved, though he wished he could be that selfless. It was also for himself. For the feeling that, once again, he had failed to keep his promise. Failed her. Failed them both.
I’m counting on you. To protect her.
‘Til the end of the world.
Three times since those words had been uttered, that end had come and gone. Three times he had failed. Couldn’t stop a wormy little nothing-of-a-demon from bleeding the girl thanks to his own apparently piss-poor equilibrium. Wasn’t there when an incredibly brassed-off witch was bent on world destruction, and had even threatened his girl on a more personal level. And the one time he thought he’d gotten it right . . . done the champion deal and everything, given his life for the world, for them, and it still hadn’t been enough to save the one person he had sworn to protect.
"I'm sorry." He hadn't even realized he'd spoken aloud at first. "I'm so sorry, love."
The tears renewed themselves, so fierce and bitter they almost steamed against his chilled flesh. How many times had he considered greeting the sun over the anguish of his first failure? And now, again, knowing that even his apparent heroism hadn’t been enough to protect one-half of what made the world worth saving was almost too much to bear. Spike glanced out the window across from him. A wide pane with too-thin curtains. His mind was a jumble, and he wasn’t sure how long it would be before sunrise anymore. But he was certainly tempted.
Tempted to allow the very force which had claimed part of his heart, as well as his bruised soul, to come now for his body as well.
Dawn.
He could picture her, even now. His Nibblet. Shiny spun hair, impossibly huge blue eyes, the absolute picture of innocence, although Spike knew quite well that the childishness was just frilly window dressing. The girl was a tigress, brutally protective of those she loved, and brave as all hell. She had definitely grown.
They hadn’t exactly been friends at the end, though that had probably been for the best. He certainly hadn’t done anything to deserve her friendship after all the terrible things he’d done. To her. To her sister. And he would have been the picture of presumption to think he could possibly earn it back. Ever.
In fact, they hadn’t even spoken much during those last few months. He tried to recall the last words they had really exchanged. Was it the night she’d told him that Buffy’d left the house? Or had it been that offhanded comment about second-hand smoke? Had they spoken at all, really, since the night she threatened he’d wake up on fire if he hurt Buffy again? Spike couldn’t remember. He certainly hadn’t said anything to her the day of the final battle against The First. Should have. Especially since he’d had the gut feeling it’d be a one-way trip, at least for him. Practically promised himself it would be, if that was what it took. Should have told her to be careful, to take care. Should have at least told her what she sodding meant to him. Thrown it back in his face or not, at least she would have known.
He tried to picture her fighting off the demons who had made it through the seal and to the surface. Buffy’s sister, every inch of her. Chosen or not.
Tried to picture her dying, and the vision tore at his dead heart. He hoped, at least, she hadn’t been alone.
But that thought, however horrible, wasn’t even the worst of it.
This, this all around him. Was this her eulogy? All that was left to remember her? Thirty-odd boxes and a room filled with bloody storage? It was almost as though the Bit had never existed.
He knew it had been hard enough for Buffy to pick up the pieces after her mother died, and Spike couldn’t imagine what losing the rest of her family would do. She had been willing to exorcise the place of all magical elements to help Red through her addiction, even sentimental things which had belonged to Joyce, but how could it happen that Buffy would erase every aspect of her sister from the house on Revello Drive?
Then another thought. One even more terrifying. Even more wrong. The Nibblet had been seamlessly inserted into everyone’s lives when she had been created by those bloody monks. Could her death excise her just as neatly? Was that why Spike could still detect elements of Joyce strongly throughout the house, but not a single trace of Dawn?
Could it be that, since Spike had also been dead, however briefly, he was the only one left with a detached perspective? The only one unaffected by her disappearance? The only one left who could mark her place in this world?
That thought was too horrifying to even consider, but at the same time he had to know. He owed his girl that much.
Now there was no other choice. Now, he would have to see Buffy.
But of course it wouldn’t do for the Slayer to find a sopping Big Bad curled up on the upstairs floor, would it? He made up his mind to finally move his sorry ass out of the house and come back the following night. Spike slowly rose to his feet, gathering his duster around him like remnants of dignity.
And that was when he heard someone enter the front door.
To be continued . . .
