The Hours: Vespers
Oct. 15th, 2009 11:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sevendeadlyfunCharacters: Spike
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She’s given him a clean slate, forgiven him more than he ought to be forgiven. So why can’t he do the same?
A/N: Blast from the past and in more ways than one. Fifth in my series of unseen moments just before the fall of Sunnydale. Takes place between Touched and End of Days. Previous stories in the series are here, but it's not necessary to read the entire series. Inspired by the opening hymn used during early Vespers services, Psalm 140.
He steps from the abandoned house just as the last working streetlamp flickers and finally lights. The futile gesture of civility draws a huff of disbelief from him. The pretense of order in Sunnydale was laughable even with the veneer of human society. Now? The valiant streetlight was nearer to tragedy than comedy.
He reaches into a pocket, lightly stroking the cool smooth metal of his lighter. He smirks as he pulls a lifted pack of fags from his pocket. The lawlessness of a city gone to the devils extends to all of them. Good, bad, indifferent, or reformed; they’re all scavengers now, picking at Sunnydale’s carcass.
Spike takes his time lighting up, pulling a long, slow drag from the cigarette. No need to rush. She’s long gone by now, just like usual.
He frowns at the thought. Bit unfair to be holding grudges over the past. She’s given him a clean slate, forgiven him more than he ought to be forgiven. So why can’t he do the same?
The easy road is that she’s a better person. The Slayer and all that, bound by sacred duty and Sesame Street and candy floss to be the better person. He tries to avoid doing things quick and dirty these days. Getting close makes the pit of his belly shake, a long low quiver that’s not quite pleasure and not quite pain. It’s an almost erotic charge and he suspects that might be the best reason to avoid the easy road
Besides, it isn’t true. History’s full of Slayers and not all of them were bloody saints. A precious few were, but that’s the person and not the power. Sanctified slayers sit cheek to cheek with slayers who just enjoyed the slaughter. Nothing about being a Slayer makes her a better person.
The light over his head blinks, a quick flicker. He looks up through narrow eyes and the light steadies, spilling a warm radiant glow around him. He drops the half-smoked cigarette and sighs.
Maybe she’s not a bigger person. Maybe it’s nothing to do with her. Maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s just small.
He feels that way a lot now. It’s uncomfortable, and he knows the discomfort marks him somehow. Buffy’s seen it. Been repulsed by it.
Spike leans back, relishing the satisfying thump of his head against the thick metal of the post. The light dims. Spike grimaces in sympathy, opening his mouth to apologize before quickly snapping it shut again. What the hell does it matter? It’s a sodding lamppost. Next he’ll be sharing a cup of tea with Angel while they talk about the terrible burdens of being strong and young forever.
He snorts at the image. If only it were so simple. Sit down, pour a cuppa, and have a chat. Easy.
Except it’s not and it never has been. Nothing between them has ever been easy. He’s not even sure who he means now, who he can’t forgive and why. Even with the chip and the First’s conditioning removed, his feelings are muddled. Confused in a way he can’t begin to describe.
Buffy. He has to focus on Buffy. Angel’s a demon for another day.
The lone streetlamp begins to hum, a loud vibration shuddering through the metal and into his body. Spike steps away, moving out of the circle of light. There’s no dramatic shower of sparks, no explosion. The lamp blinks off; the shadows rush in.
Yeah, Spike thinks grimly. It’s kinda like that.
He turns to go. It can’t be about forgiveness or being the better person. The soul gives him choices and he hasn’t been making them. He’s been weak, dodging the decisions and leaving it all up to Buffy. Time to set that on its ear. Time to take a stand.
As takes his first steps back towards the Summers’ house, he hears the click and buzz of electricity. Spike smiles as the surrounding gloom lessens. He doesn’t exactly need the light, but he can’t deny it makes it easier.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She’s given him a clean slate, forgiven him more than he ought to be forgiven. So why can’t he do the same?
A/N: Blast from the past and in more ways than one. Fifth in my series of unseen moments just before the fall of Sunnydale. Takes place between Touched and End of Days. Previous stories in the series are here, but it's not necessary to read the entire series. Inspired by the opening hymn used during early Vespers services, Psalm 140.
He steps from the abandoned house just as the last working streetlamp flickers and finally lights. The futile gesture of civility draws a huff of disbelief from him. The pretense of order in Sunnydale was laughable even with the veneer of human society. Now? The valiant streetlight was nearer to tragedy than comedy.
He reaches into a pocket, lightly stroking the cool smooth metal of his lighter. He smirks as he pulls a lifted pack of fags from his pocket. The lawlessness of a city gone to the devils extends to all of them. Good, bad, indifferent, or reformed; they’re all scavengers now, picking at Sunnydale’s carcass.
Spike takes his time lighting up, pulling a long, slow drag from the cigarette. No need to rush. She’s long gone by now, just like usual.
He frowns at the thought. Bit unfair to be holding grudges over the past. She’s given him a clean slate, forgiven him more than he ought to be forgiven. So why can’t he do the same?
The easy road is that she’s a better person. The Slayer and all that, bound by sacred duty and Sesame Street and candy floss to be the better person. He tries to avoid doing things quick and dirty these days. Getting close makes the pit of his belly shake, a long low quiver that’s not quite pleasure and not quite pain. It’s an almost erotic charge and he suspects that might be the best reason to avoid the easy road
Besides, it isn’t true. History’s full of Slayers and not all of them were bloody saints. A precious few were, but that’s the person and not the power. Sanctified slayers sit cheek to cheek with slayers who just enjoyed the slaughter. Nothing about being a Slayer makes her a better person.
The light over his head blinks, a quick flicker. He looks up through narrow eyes and the light steadies, spilling a warm radiant glow around him. He drops the half-smoked cigarette and sighs.
Maybe she’s not a bigger person. Maybe it’s nothing to do with her. Maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s just small.
He feels that way a lot now. It’s uncomfortable, and he knows the discomfort marks him somehow. Buffy’s seen it. Been repulsed by it.
Spike leans back, relishing the satisfying thump of his head against the thick metal of the post. The light dims. Spike grimaces in sympathy, opening his mouth to apologize before quickly snapping it shut again. What the hell does it matter? It’s a sodding lamppost. Next he’ll be sharing a cup of tea with Angel while they talk about the terrible burdens of being strong and young forever.
He snorts at the image. If only it were so simple. Sit down, pour a cuppa, and have a chat. Easy.
Except it’s not and it never has been. Nothing between them has ever been easy. He’s not even sure who he means now, who he can’t forgive and why. Even with the chip and the First’s conditioning removed, his feelings are muddled. Confused in a way he can’t begin to describe.
Buffy. He has to focus on Buffy. Angel’s a demon for another day.
The lone streetlamp begins to hum, a loud vibration shuddering through the metal and into his body. Spike steps away, moving out of the circle of light. There’s no dramatic shower of sparks, no explosion. The lamp blinks off; the shadows rush in.
Yeah, Spike thinks grimly. It’s kinda like that.
He turns to go. It can’t be about forgiveness or being the better person. The soul gives him choices and he hasn’t been making them. He’s been weak, dodging the decisions and leaving it all up to Buffy. Time to set that on its ear. Time to take a stand.
As takes his first steps back towards the Summers’ house, he hears the click and buzz of electricity. Spike smiles as the surrounding gloom lessens. He doesn’t exactly need the light, but he can’t deny it makes it easier.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2009-10-15 02:51 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-11-05 06:52 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-15 03:45 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-11-05 06:53 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-15 07:26 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-11-05 06:53 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-15 09:49 pm (UTC)Interesting idea - that Spike uses this time to meditate.
[Love the blinking on and off streetlight
no subject
on 2009-11-05 06:55 pm (UTC)