thedeadlyhook (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thedeadlyhook) wrote2006-03-01 08:04 am
thedeadlyhook) wrote2006-03-01 08:04 am
I Come Bearing Fic...
...because I am weak. And because I haven't decided if this flashback scene will be making it into the next chapter of "Does It Have to Mean Something?" or not. I've sort of gone flashback crazy, lately.
Anyway, rough, first-drafty, but it's the sort of thing that comes to you in one piece, you know?
And yay,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
seasonal_spuffy has begun!
February 2002
She pushes open the crypt door. Quietly, which is unusual for her. No sudden bursting entrance, no aggressive display to let her captive audience know who's boss. Not this time.
It hadn't actually occurred to her before, not until this exact moment, that she'd been doing that. Marching into his crypt wearing the same attitude that she'd typically use at Willy's bar. Heads up, demons. Slayer in the house.
Hesitant, she pauses on the threshhold before stealing inside.
The upper level of the crypt is empty. Dark. She can't help but be surprised--this time of night, he's always here. Always waiting, even if he tries not to look like he is. Candles burning, TV on. A warm pool of light for her to walk into.
She drifts from shadow to shadow, through the cool stone and the blue moonlight. Between the pieces of misplaced furniture and the strewn trash on the floor. Sure sign that he hasn't lingered here, that. The places where he spends time are always tidy. Or at least comfortable. Welcoming.
She works one glove off her hand with her teeth and places the naked palm facedown on the silent TV.
Cold.
She stands still for a moment, senses stretching. Trying to tell herself that she doesn't actually feel him, that she doesn't know perfectly well that he's there.
Just not... here.
She stops pretending, and takes a deep breath. Steps to the entrance to the lower level, and descends.
He's there. On the bed, although she can barely see him in the gloom--no candles are lit in here either. The moonlight descending from above is all the light there is.
Her night vision isn't great, but... good enough. She knows the place.
She finds a candle, matches at the bedside. Stumbles as she moves because the floor is cluttered with clothes. Probably dropped them as he walked, let them fall.
Light flares with the match, and she can see him.
Asleep.
For which she feels almost obscenely grateful. Not just for her sake, but... his.
He looks... pretty much like she feared he would. Bruised. Split lips, puffy eyes. Misshapen look to one cheek, his browline. Swollen mess along the edge of his jaw. She lifts the candle, brings it close enough to him to get a good look, then replaces it on the bedside table, swallowing past the hard lump in her throat.
She's seen him now. Seen what she's done, and... and he's sleeping, which is good, at home, or-or what passes for his home anyway, a cold stone gravesite that still has skeletons in it here and there, and exposed roots sticking out of the walls--hey, vampire, that's homey, right?
She sits down on the bed. He doesn't move--not that she'd expect him to. He sleeps like...
Right. Like the dead.
Not that she really has any business knowing how he sleeps. Which is kind of why she's here at all.
It's been hours since she talked to Tara. Hours since she cried herself into a near coma of exhaustion, desperately glad that everyone else was out Bronzing, or doing whatever they were out doing, because explaining any of that? Not something she was up for. Never mind the reason.
Reason as in... right in front of her. Right.
Although even that wasn't exactly true. The real reason was in her own mirror.
Why do I feel like this?
She reaches out a trembling hand. Lets her fingers caress along his shoulder, a part of him that's not bruised--no, she'd been pretty good at restricting her attack to his face. Not that she really wants to think about that, either--that she'd gone after him to hurt, not to kill. A killing rage she could've rationalized somehow, understood. Killing demons was what she was supposed to do.
Because they hurt people. Killed them. And enjoyed it.
Mesmerized, she lets her fingertips ghost across his swollen lips and she shivers.
There's nothing wrong with her. That's what Tara said.
She's not a demon.
..........
In other news, "Welcome to the Hellmouth" on the FX rerun this morning. Damn, but is Angel being all glib and slick and Angelus-like, or what? It's really sad, in a way - I still can't help but see Angel as a tragic character, in that both here and even at the end of his own series, he ends up reaching for the Angelus aspects of his personality to help him do something he really feels strongly about (defeat the Black Thorn, help the Slayer), because even though you suspect the one thing he'd love to do more than anything is just be himself, live life at face value, he always ends up fronting because when he's upfront and true and wears his heart on his sleeve, it always ends up a disaster. (pets Angel)
I guess that's another way and a reason he has to feel irritated by Spike, come to think of it, but that's a longer essay for another day.
Anyway, rough, first-drafty, but it's the sort of thing that comes to you in one piece, you know?
And yay,
seasonal_spuffy has begun!February 2002
She pushes open the crypt door. Quietly, which is unusual for her. No sudden bursting entrance, no aggressive display to let her captive audience know who's boss. Not this time.
It hadn't actually occurred to her before, not until this exact moment, that she'd been doing that. Marching into his crypt wearing the same attitude that she'd typically use at Willy's bar. Heads up, demons. Slayer in the house.
Hesitant, she pauses on the threshhold before stealing inside.
The upper level of the crypt is empty. Dark. She can't help but be surprised--this time of night, he's always here. Always waiting, even if he tries not to look like he is. Candles burning, TV on. A warm pool of light for her to walk into.
She drifts from shadow to shadow, through the cool stone and the blue moonlight. Between the pieces of misplaced furniture and the strewn trash on the floor. Sure sign that he hasn't lingered here, that. The places where he spends time are always tidy. Or at least comfortable. Welcoming.
She works one glove off her hand with her teeth and places the naked palm facedown on the silent TV.
Cold.
She stands still for a moment, senses stretching. Trying to tell herself that she doesn't actually feel him, that she doesn't know perfectly well that he's there.
Just not... here.
She stops pretending, and takes a deep breath. Steps to the entrance to the lower level, and descends.
He's there. On the bed, although she can barely see him in the gloom--no candles are lit in here either. The moonlight descending from above is all the light there is.
Her night vision isn't great, but... good enough. She knows the place.
She finds a candle, matches at the bedside. Stumbles as she moves because the floor is cluttered with clothes. Probably dropped them as he walked, let them fall.
Light flares with the match, and she can see him.
Asleep.
For which she feels almost obscenely grateful. Not just for her sake, but... his.
He looks... pretty much like she feared he would. Bruised. Split lips, puffy eyes. Misshapen look to one cheek, his browline. Swollen mess along the edge of his jaw. She lifts the candle, brings it close enough to him to get a good look, then replaces it on the bedside table, swallowing past the hard lump in her throat.
She's seen him now. Seen what she's done, and... and he's sleeping, which is good, at home, or-or what passes for his home anyway, a cold stone gravesite that still has skeletons in it here and there, and exposed roots sticking out of the walls--hey, vampire, that's homey, right?
She sits down on the bed. He doesn't move--not that she'd expect him to. He sleeps like...
Right. Like the dead.
Not that she really has any business knowing how he sleeps. Which is kind of why she's here at all.
It's been hours since she talked to Tara. Hours since she cried herself into a near coma of exhaustion, desperately glad that everyone else was out Bronzing, or doing whatever they were out doing, because explaining any of that? Not something she was up for. Never mind the reason.
Reason as in... right in front of her. Right.
Although even that wasn't exactly true. The real reason was in her own mirror.
Why do I feel like this?
She reaches out a trembling hand. Lets her fingers caress along his shoulder, a part of him that's not bruised--no, she'd been pretty good at restricting her attack to his face. Not that she really wants to think about that, either--that she'd gone after him to hurt, not to kill. A killing rage she could've rationalized somehow, understood. Killing demons was what she was supposed to do.
Because they hurt people. Killed them. And enjoyed it.
Mesmerized, she lets her fingertips ghost across his swollen lips and she shivers.
There's nothing wrong with her. That's what Tara said.
She's not a demon.
..........
In other news, "Welcome to the Hellmouth" on the FX rerun this morning. Damn, but is Angel being all glib and slick and Angelus-like, or what? It's really sad, in a way - I still can't help but see Angel as a tragic character, in that both here and even at the end of his own series, he ends up reaching for the Angelus aspects of his personality to help him do something he really feels strongly about (defeat the Black Thorn, help the Slayer), because even though you suspect the one thing he'd love to do more than anything is just be himself, live life at face value, he always ends up fronting because when he's upfront and true and wears his heart on his sleeve, it always ends up a disaster. (pets Angel)
I guess that's another way and a reason he has to feel irritated by Spike, come to think of it, but that's a longer essay for another day.