Untitled Spike fic
Mar. 8th, 2007 10:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cowboyguyAlrighty. See, I've had this short Spike fic sitting on my hard drive for over two years, and I don't think I ever actually posted it anywhere. So guess what? I'm posting!
It's set in Season 7, just after Beneath You. So naturally, it's crazy basement Spike. The fic is from his point of view, so it's very... well, crazy. There are parts of it that even I don't fully understand anymore. But I wanted to post it anyway, even if I'm not completely satisfied with it. Anybody wants to help me with it, I'd gladly accept!
Please comment if you read it though, because I’m looking for some constructive criticism, here.
From beneath you, it devours. He doesn’t understand. Not one bit… because it started with his insides and is working its way out.
It makes him sick, this slow devouring of his mind, his body… the spark. His soul expired a long time ago. All bad now. He didn't think it would be this difficult. Didn't think he'd be haunted and tortured every moment of every day. He'd hoped he could come back and be good and help.
And he still doesn’t understand why. Why it chose him, why he hurts so much, why he has visitors every day when none of them are nice to him.
“William’s a naughty boy. Hasn’t done his schoolwork for ages. That’s why he doesn’t understand!” his old teacher's voice bombards his ears, every bit as harsh and intimidating as it was over a hundred years ago.
The sharp sting of the old man’s hand on his face makes him flinch, but he does not run. Naughty boys get what they deserve. One lesson he remembers.
"You never did study when you were instructed to, just sat there scribbling away, writing poems and letters to your young loves. Little William, the pathetic boy whose brash and cocky attitude crumbles at the sight of a pretty girl."
Sharp fingernails make bright tracks across his cheek, drawing blood from dead flesh. He whimpers in the semi-darkness, touching the angry red marks. Then he backs up against the wall as the beating starts again.
“No! William’s a good boy! Won’t hurt anymore. Please stop!” he pleads, covering his face with his arms as he slides down to cower in the corner.
“Spike.”
He knows her voice, has heard it many times over the past months. Listened as she talks to him, calls him names, screams to him all the things he tries so hard to forget. Pathetic! Useless! Crawling around in the darkness like a brainless worm!
“Hurt a worm last night,” he giggles. “Wasn’t hardly helpful. Upset the girls. Not bad anymore, couldn't do it. Can't kill. Costume didn't help...” He looks up slowly, and she’s still standing there, clothed all in black, cold and silent.
“You did something else last night,” she says. “You told the Slayer things you weren’t supposed to. It wasn’t in the order, and you know what happens when you do something to upset me.” As she speaks, she crouches down next to him, golden hair shimmering as it slides down her shoulders.
He nods slowly, a whimper of dread escaping his lips as he anticipates the pain of blows landing on his face, shards of metal digging into his chest and arms.
Wasn't supposed to be like this. He would be fixed, and she would love him. Truly. Not be her toy anymore. The plan didn't go right. ("And she shall look on him with forgiveness...")
Dimly he is aware of a voice calling his name. Suddenly the torture stops and he recognizes her voice again. “Spike, stop! You’re hurting yourself!”
What…? First she hurts and then she loves? No sense in that. Unless… more mind games.
“Spike… Spike!” She’s more insistent now. Pay attention, little William.
She looks different now, not shrouded in darkness.
“What are you doing?” she asks, that look of mixed revulsion and concern in her eyes.
He looks at her quizzically. “Been a bad boy. Disobedient.” Her eyes still hold that expression, and he wonders…
Tentatively reaches out his hand and touches her shoulder, and his hand doesn’t go through her. Blood, tears, love, pain, all at once flash in front of his eyes and he recoils, dropping his hand.
“Don’t do that,” she murmurs gently. “Don’t hurt yourself, okay?” She picks up his hands and he sees blood, red fingernails, tainted hands.
Teacher… it… and her… all him. He clenches his fists and drops his head onto his knees, watching the blood drip down onto his pants. Dark blood. Black blood, black stars in a black sky. “No more hurting…” he whispers.
Pain in his arm and he sees her touching, pulling away the shredded fabric of his shirt to see the deep cut down his arm. Jagged scrap of metal laying at his side. She reaches to examine the red streak and he gasps as bright fireworks go off in his eyes. “Hey! No touching!” Pulls his arms to his chest. “Don’t--don’t--don’t hurt. Not again. Please…?”
She stares at him for a moment and he can see the concern, the confusion, glittering in her eyes, reflections of his own. She opens her mouth to speak and it comes out in a horrified whisper, “Spike, what happened to you?”
Obvious, isn’t it? He holds out his arms to her, displaying all his self-inflicted wounds. Raises his head, bares his pale neck to her so she can see the red-black burn marks from where he draped himself over the cross in the church. “Little William’s spark is burning again. Gotta show it. Can’t hide what he must be punished for.”
And still, she’s staring at him. Not polite to stare. Did her mother teach her nothing? No, mustn’t say those bad things. He’s seen her mother, here in the dark. She brought him hot chocolate with the little marshmallows, smiled at the joke and remembered what he liked.
“How did you get your soul back?” She’s interrogating him now, harsh, angry. All-business Buffy. “And why? What did you think it was gonna do, make everything better?!”
…Didn’t he do what she wanted...?
“The world doesn’t work like that, Spike. And now look at you. Something new is coming, and you're just sitting here in the school basement, and can’t even help me fight it.”
“How many ways can I tell you what I shouldn’t?!” Screaming now, voice thick with anguish. Pacing, like the tiger he saw at the zoo when he was a boy. Tiger came back from Africa and he was broken, too. But the tiger lost his spark and stopped searching for it. William's trying desperately to hold onto it. “Spark’s burning from the inside out and all these things deep, deep inside me are squirming out and screaming," he rambles. "Tearing my flesh, ripping through. Not from beneath." He pauses for a moment, lips moving silently as if trying to remember a lesson. "Good boys try to help. Do what's right, keep the bad parts away from pretty little girls. I staked other vampires, killed all your demons, hurt… hurt everyone, and they’re the only ones who come back. Creatures of the night don’t come out of the shadows, but the sun and the stars… burn everyone who doesn’t-- who can’t-- who shouldn’t be here anymore! Killed the bad boy inside and all that's left in me are embers, pain, tears, and bad blood. And it’s always talking, whispering in my ears, can’t shut it out…” Arms flailing as he paces the cement floor, gesturing at the air, at himself, at her and her shadow.
“Spike…” They’re both talking at the same time, the dark one and the other, gentler but always surrounded by the dark. One voice dripping with malice, the other soft in complete disbelief.
Be quiet, William. No more outbursts. Respect your elders – no, protect. Protect the girl. The child who thinks she’s seen the world. Keep her away from the bad things. He can try.
“Buffy…” Voice strained, digging his fingernails into his legs, trying not to break like one of Dru’s porcelain dolls. Doesn’t want to join Miss Edith in the corner, blindfolded and out of the game.
“Buffy… Go.”
“Spike, you need help.” Different Buffy now. The one who cares. The one who always wants to do the right thing.
“Can’t save the damned, pet. Go rescue the people who need it.” He turns away and leaves her, disappears into the black and, when her footsteps don’t follow, he wraps himself in shadows and tries to will the wounds not to heal.
Focusing on the pain makes the spark and all its whispering shadows a little easier to bear.
It's set in Season 7, just after Beneath You. So naturally, it's crazy basement Spike. The fic is from his point of view, so it's very... well, crazy. There are parts of it that even I don't fully understand anymore. But I wanted to post it anyway, even if I'm not completely satisfied with it. Anybody wants to help me with it, I'd gladly accept!
Please comment if you read it though, because I’m looking for some constructive criticism, here.
From beneath you, it devours. He doesn’t understand. Not one bit… because it started with his insides and is working its way out.
It makes him sick, this slow devouring of his mind, his body… the spark. His soul expired a long time ago. All bad now. He didn't think it would be this difficult. Didn't think he'd be haunted and tortured every moment of every day. He'd hoped he could come back and be good and help.
And he still doesn’t understand why. Why it chose him, why he hurts so much, why he has visitors every day when none of them are nice to him.
“William’s a naughty boy. Hasn’t done his schoolwork for ages. That’s why he doesn’t understand!” his old teacher's voice bombards his ears, every bit as harsh and intimidating as it was over a hundred years ago.
The sharp sting of the old man’s hand on his face makes him flinch, but he does not run. Naughty boys get what they deserve. One lesson he remembers.
"You never did study when you were instructed to, just sat there scribbling away, writing poems and letters to your young loves. Little William, the pathetic boy whose brash and cocky attitude crumbles at the sight of a pretty girl."
Sharp fingernails make bright tracks across his cheek, drawing blood from dead flesh. He whimpers in the semi-darkness, touching the angry red marks. Then he backs up against the wall as the beating starts again.
“No! William’s a good boy! Won’t hurt anymore. Please stop!” he pleads, covering his face with his arms as he slides down to cower in the corner.
“Spike.”
He knows her voice, has heard it many times over the past months. Listened as she talks to him, calls him names, screams to him all the things he tries so hard to forget. Pathetic! Useless! Crawling around in the darkness like a brainless worm!
“Hurt a worm last night,” he giggles. “Wasn’t hardly helpful. Upset the girls. Not bad anymore, couldn't do it. Can't kill. Costume didn't help...” He looks up slowly, and she’s still standing there, clothed all in black, cold and silent.
“You did something else last night,” she says. “You told the Slayer things you weren’t supposed to. It wasn’t in the order, and you know what happens when you do something to upset me.” As she speaks, she crouches down next to him, golden hair shimmering as it slides down her shoulders.
He nods slowly, a whimper of dread escaping his lips as he anticipates the pain of blows landing on his face, shards of metal digging into his chest and arms.
Wasn't supposed to be like this. He would be fixed, and she would love him. Truly. Not be her toy anymore. The plan didn't go right. ("And she shall look on him with forgiveness...")
Dimly he is aware of a voice calling his name. Suddenly the torture stops and he recognizes her voice again. “Spike, stop! You’re hurting yourself!”
What…? First she hurts and then she loves? No sense in that. Unless… more mind games.
“Spike… Spike!” She’s more insistent now. Pay attention, little William.
She looks different now, not shrouded in darkness.
“What are you doing?” she asks, that look of mixed revulsion and concern in her eyes.
He looks at her quizzically. “Been a bad boy. Disobedient.” Her eyes still hold that expression, and he wonders…
Tentatively reaches out his hand and touches her shoulder, and his hand doesn’t go through her. Blood, tears, love, pain, all at once flash in front of his eyes and he recoils, dropping his hand.
“Don’t do that,” she murmurs gently. “Don’t hurt yourself, okay?” She picks up his hands and he sees blood, red fingernails, tainted hands.
Teacher… it… and her… all him. He clenches his fists and drops his head onto his knees, watching the blood drip down onto his pants. Dark blood. Black blood, black stars in a black sky. “No more hurting…” he whispers.
Pain in his arm and he sees her touching, pulling away the shredded fabric of his shirt to see the deep cut down his arm. Jagged scrap of metal laying at his side. She reaches to examine the red streak and he gasps as bright fireworks go off in his eyes. “Hey! No touching!” Pulls his arms to his chest. “Don’t--don’t--don’t hurt. Not again. Please…?”
She stares at him for a moment and he can see the concern, the confusion, glittering in her eyes, reflections of his own. She opens her mouth to speak and it comes out in a horrified whisper, “Spike, what happened to you?”
Obvious, isn’t it? He holds out his arms to her, displaying all his self-inflicted wounds. Raises his head, bares his pale neck to her so she can see the red-black burn marks from where he draped himself over the cross in the church. “Little William’s spark is burning again. Gotta show it. Can’t hide what he must be punished for.”
And still, she’s staring at him. Not polite to stare. Did her mother teach her nothing? No, mustn’t say those bad things. He’s seen her mother, here in the dark. She brought him hot chocolate with the little marshmallows, smiled at the joke and remembered what he liked.
“How did you get your soul back?” She’s interrogating him now, harsh, angry. All-business Buffy. “And why? What did you think it was gonna do, make everything better?!”
…Didn’t he do what she wanted...?
“The world doesn’t work like that, Spike. And now look at you. Something new is coming, and you're just sitting here in the school basement, and can’t even help me fight it.”
“How many ways can I tell you what I shouldn’t?!” Screaming now, voice thick with anguish. Pacing, like the tiger he saw at the zoo when he was a boy. Tiger came back from Africa and he was broken, too. But the tiger lost his spark and stopped searching for it. William's trying desperately to hold onto it. “Spark’s burning from the inside out and all these things deep, deep inside me are squirming out and screaming," he rambles. "Tearing my flesh, ripping through. Not from beneath." He pauses for a moment, lips moving silently as if trying to remember a lesson. "Good boys try to help. Do what's right, keep the bad parts away from pretty little girls. I staked other vampires, killed all your demons, hurt… hurt everyone, and they’re the only ones who come back. Creatures of the night don’t come out of the shadows, but the sun and the stars… burn everyone who doesn’t-- who can’t-- who shouldn’t be here anymore! Killed the bad boy inside and all that's left in me are embers, pain, tears, and bad blood. And it’s always talking, whispering in my ears, can’t shut it out…” Arms flailing as he paces the cement floor, gesturing at the air, at himself, at her and her shadow.
“Spike…” They’re both talking at the same time, the dark one and the other, gentler but always surrounded by the dark. One voice dripping with malice, the other soft in complete disbelief.
Be quiet, William. No more outbursts. Respect your elders – no, protect. Protect the girl. The child who thinks she’s seen the world. Keep her away from the bad things. He can try.
“Buffy…” Voice strained, digging his fingernails into his legs, trying not to break like one of Dru’s porcelain dolls. Doesn’t want to join Miss Edith in the corner, blindfolded and out of the game.
“Buffy… Go.”
“Spike, you need help.” Different Buffy now. The one who cares. The one who always wants to do the right thing.
“Can’t save the damned, pet. Go rescue the people who need it.” He turns away and leaves her, disappears into the black and, when her footsteps don’t follow, he wraps himself in shadows and tries to will the wounds not to heal.
Focusing on the pain makes the spark and all its whispering shadows a little easier to bear.
