Fic Challenge Entry: Bend it like Buffy
May. 30th, 2007 10:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sevendeadlyfunPairing: Spike, Dawn
Rating: PG-13 for a mild bit of adult language and themes
A/N: Written for thedarker_spike fic challenge. Inspired by fanbot's "Bend it like Buffy" manip
Rating: PG-13 for a mild bit of adult language and themes
A/N: Written for the
darker_spike fic challenge. Inspired by fanbot's "Bend it like Buffy" manip“You know, you don’t have to be here.”
He knows. It sounds so simple. Just leave, walk out the door, wave a hearty good fuckin’ bye to the subtle digs, the pointed reminders. Sounds so. Bloody. Simple.
But it isn’t. Nothing ever is anymore. It’s been…what? 20 some odd years since he roared into Sunnyhell with a bad attitude and a plan. Then it got complicated. People died and then they lived. People hated and then they shagged. People fought, and raged and through it all, he thought he could come to grips with it. What was it Darla used to say?
“Not like I’m forcing you, is it?”
Something about a whirlwind. He remembers that much. She was lovely and wise, but she did tend to prattle a bit. He wishes now he’d paid more attention. Not like now, when he can remember everything so clearly. “She speaks poniards and every word stabs”, which is funnier than it ought to be in this moment. He’s no Benedick and this woman standing above him is no Beatrice. No chuckles here.
“Does this remind you of Buffy? Huh, Spike? Is that why you stay? Just like getting kicked?”
No, he doesn’t like it. He agrees with her now, as violently as he disagreed her with back then. She is a lightening rod for pain and hurt and everyone around her suffers. Well, that’s not quite true. Not everyone around her suffers. Just him, because he’s not sure how to let go of his imaginary Dawn. The one that doesn’t taunt him or poke invasive fingers into his sore spots, but likes him as a friend, treats him like a man.
“Whatever. I don’t have time for this. Just keep out of my way, all right?”
She sounds frustrated. She does this when he won’t respond. No fun playing kick the Spike if he doesn’t react. She likes the reaction, the winces and the growls. He used to growl more, the Big Bad in action. Bleeding hilarious to remember. He though he could bring it back. He wonders if that alleyway took something from him. He’d created himself so carefully and in the end, he lost…something vital. Maybe it was the soul that did this to him. Bit o’ William the Bloody Awful Poet peeking through the curtains, all stammers and apologies.
He gets up, and strides towards the door. She is studiously ignoring him, in that special which means she’s monitoring his every move. It’s time, past time actually. He can feel his soul, not like the burn in SunnyD or the ache in LA, just feeling it. The weight and heft straining the fabric of his duster, fluttering like moths’ wings. William or Spike and it doesn’t really matter anymore, because it’s time. He pivots slightly on his heel, and calls up his old school smirk. Big Bad is in the building, all right.
“Dawnie luv? You’re nothing like your sis,” he says, pulling out a fag and lighting it. “She was much better at this sort of thing. Had a special talent, she did, for finding a bloke’s weak spot. You? Pet, you’re an amateur. ‘S all right, though. Effort counts for a lot, yeah? But, I’m done. So, do us a favor, Bit? Get bent.”
He almost laughs at the look of surprise on her face. He’s not sure which cheap shot put it there and he really can’t be arsed to figure it out. All that matters is he’s free. The door opens and she is silent and he is free.
He knows. It sounds so simple. Just leave, walk out the door, wave a hearty good fuckin’ bye to the subtle digs, the pointed reminders. Sounds so. Bloody. Simple.
But it isn’t. Nothing ever is anymore. It’s been…what? 20 some odd years since he roared into Sunnyhell with a bad attitude and a plan. Then it got complicated. People died and then they lived. People hated and then they shagged. People fought, and raged and through it all, he thought he could come to grips with it. What was it Darla used to say?
“Not like I’m forcing you, is it?”
Something about a whirlwind. He remembers that much. She was lovely and wise, but she did tend to prattle a bit. He wishes now he’d paid more attention. Not like now, when he can remember everything so clearly. “She speaks poniards and every word stabs”, which is funnier than it ought to be in this moment. He’s no Benedick and this woman standing above him is no Beatrice. No chuckles here.
“Does this remind you of Buffy? Huh, Spike? Is that why you stay? Just like getting kicked?”
No, he doesn’t like it. He agrees with her now, as violently as he disagreed her with back then. She is a lightening rod for pain and hurt and everyone around her suffers. Well, that’s not quite true. Not everyone around her suffers. Just him, because he’s not sure how to let go of his imaginary Dawn. The one that doesn’t taunt him or poke invasive fingers into his sore spots, but likes him as a friend, treats him like a man.
“Whatever. I don’t have time for this. Just keep out of my way, all right?”
She sounds frustrated. She does this when he won’t respond. No fun playing kick the Spike if he doesn’t react. She likes the reaction, the winces and the growls. He used to growl more, the Big Bad in action. Bleeding hilarious to remember. He though he could bring it back. He wonders if that alleyway took something from him. He’d created himself so carefully and in the end, he lost…something vital. Maybe it was the soul that did this to him. Bit o’ William the Bloody Awful Poet peeking through the curtains, all stammers and apologies.
He gets up, and strides towards the door. She is studiously ignoring him, in that special which means she’s monitoring his every move. It’s time, past time actually. He can feel his soul, not like the burn in SunnyD or the ache in LA, just feeling it. The weight and heft straining the fabric of his duster, fluttering like moths’ wings. William or Spike and it doesn’t really matter anymore, because it’s time. He pivots slightly on his heel, and calls up his old school smirk. Big Bad is in the building, all right.
“Dawnie luv? You’re nothing like your sis,” he says, pulling out a fag and lighting it. “She was much better at this sort of thing. Had a special talent, she did, for finding a bloke’s weak spot. You? Pet, you’re an amateur. ‘S all right, though. Effort counts for a lot, yeah? But, I’m done. So, do us a favor, Bit? Get bent.”
He almost laughs at the look of surprise on her face. He’s not sure which cheap shot put it there and he really can’t be arsed to figure it out. All that matters is he’s free. The door opens and she is silent and he is free.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2007-05-31 03:38 am (UTC)De-light-ful. I love this Spike showing some spine.
Thank you!
no subject
on 2007-05-31 03:45 am (UTC)no subject
on 2007-06-04 08:25 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2007-06-04 08:26 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-15 11:40 pm (UTC)