Connor, Spike, Illyria... Post AtS Fic
Jul. 29th, 2004 11:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thedeadlyhookStill trying to think of a title for this one. This would be part, uh, four. Previous parts here.
They didn't have to go far. Spike was just inside the hotel.
Facedown on the floor, to be exact. He appeared to have no more than made it down the front stairs before collapsing, maybe not even that far. He lay in a crumpled heap near the the lowest step, his bad leg folded under him at a less than natural angle.
Connor followed Illyria as she stepped through the entry, descended the stairs. She circled the still body slowly, hands clenching and unclenching, then dropped heavily to her knees. She remained like that, stiff and unmoving, as Connor shifted uncomfortably, tried to avoid looking at anything.
The hotel.
The floor, check, he remembered that--big, marble waveforms covered with that rusty red pentagram stain that never did come out. The desk, the elevator, the big round theater seat, the stairs... all of it was familiar, but alien too.
In his mind, it was a movie set. Unreal. People moved about it in his memories like flickering shadows, actors on a stage.
That was exactly how he felt too, about his own memory-self. Connor 1.0. Demon fighting. Other dimensions. Theater summer stock.
Not really him.
"Is he dead? He's not dead, right?" he found himself asking, unable to move from his position in the doorway. The hotel's big double doors were broken now, hanging loosely from their hinges, and the early morning sunlight poured in through the shattered panels. Pooled on the floor close to where the unconscious vampire lay. Inches from the pale, still face.
Illyria was silent.
"Um... hello? Don't vampires... go all dust or something, when they're dead?" He was getting restless again, jittery. Decapitation. Stake in the heart. Daylight. Fire. The inside of the hotel was dark, cold. Past the sunlight in the entryway, it was all shadows, blackened, ruined, empty.
He really, really wanted to leave.
Down on the floor, Illyria was finally moving. She stretched out a gauntleted hand to touch a leather-clad shoulder, stiff-fingered, prodding, as if testing the doneness of a piece of meat.
"This is what human death looks like," she intoned. "The stillness."
"Uh, okay." Boy, the way she talks is really going to take some getting used to. Not that I'm planning to stick around that long.
"Human death. Half-breeds use it. Minor demons crawling into the bodies of the fallen. Breeding and clinging to a shadow existence." She continued poking with her fingers. Spike's body jerked with the force of her movement.
"Like vermin, swarming and feeding. Loathsome. Worth nothing." Poke. Poke. Poke.
Connor shifted on his feet again.
"My Wesley looked like this," she whispered then, and the sound of her voice jarred him.
It sounded like Fred's.
"So... still."
She leaned forward then and shoved hard with an open hand. Spike's body rolled over onto its back, slack, boneless. The leather coat fell open.
Connor's teeth came together with a hard click. He caught his tongue in between, and the slick hot taste of blood flooded his throat.
Mr Sayles, how are ya. Yeah, Mom would like a nice pork roast for dinner. No, not that one--I think there's a little too much bone and gristle there. Why do you even have that one in your case? Looks like someone took a big chunk out of it with their teeth or--
The sight didn't make him feel sick, that was the weird part. He just felt... like he'd received some information, like a notice in the mail. Well, that explains the limp. Spike's right leg had a... a big piece of the thigh was just missing, right over the hip, as if he'd been bitten by a shark.
Possibly he had. Something close to it, anyway.
Why the hell would he even walk around like that? And how?
"Charles also became still." Illyria's voice had grown loud. The slight Texas accent was there, it really did sound like Fred. He looked up, looked at her.
It wasn't Fred. It was not. Not as if he really knew Fred that well anyway, and there was nothing really familiar about this woman, this blue-haired creature with her leather and her bloodstains and filthy demon glowing fierce eyes, but she was shouting now, shouting, and she really, really sounded like Fred...
"I am tired of this stillness! It bores me!" She gave the vampire's body another hard shove. Then another. "Rise and speak to me!"
"Hey," Connor croaked. Dangerous, his senses screamed. Dangerous dangerous dangerous. He was suddenly aware of the axe hanging heavily in his hand.
She got to her feet, face contorted in a snarl, fists clenched. Grasped the leather lapels of Spike's coat, jerked his body upright. He hung limply in her grasp, like a broken doll, until she flung him back down again. His head hit the floor with a sickening crack.
"I command it!" she shouted. "Get up! Half-breeds are not fragile like humans! They do not... become still, a-and die..."
Without thinking, Connor leaped down the stairs then and grabbed her arm.
--and was brought up short by her hand around his throat.
"You dare to touch me," she hissed. "You are nothing. I could crush you." Her lips pulled back, showing even white teeth, a startlingly human feature in her blood-streaked face.
Connor kicked out, backflipped away from her in an acrobatic leap. Landed a short distance away, crouched and ready. His every instinct shouted at him to keep going, press an attack, go for a kill--
"Stop!" he panted, holding up a hand. "I-I don't--I'm trying to help you. Okay? Just... calm down!" He held a hand up, peace, waited for her to react. She stood there, head jerking like a bird's, not quite expressionless. Maybe angry. He couldn't tell.
"Look, what do you want?" he asked. "What do you want?" I want to get out of here, get away from these freaky people, get back to my life, get away--
"I want..." she began, and the voice was Fred's, no two ways about it. His stomach did a sickening flip.
She lowered her head. Spoke in that thin Texas twang. "I'm... all alone. Wesley is... gone, and Charles." Her face contorted, chin wobbled. It was all he could do not to gape at her, at the idea that she might actually cry.
"I get it," he said. "Fred. You want your friend back."
Her head came back up. The voice was icy again. "I am not Fred. I am Illyria, god-king, and I do not have friends." Her eyes shifted away then, and she lifted her chin high. "This one amuses me. I would have him restored."
"Okay. So... we'll fix him up. He's a vampire, so... so he probably needs blood." That's definitely a ten-four, good buddy, he thought, remembering again the gaping wound. Was there anyplace to get blood around the Hyperion? He couldn't remember. Maybe he'd never known. He'd never gotten blood for--
She looked uncomfortable. "I... have no knowledge of healing arts," she said haltingly. "When I was... damaged... my Wesley... healed me."
"It's okay," he reassured her. Internally, he groaned. "I'll... take care of that. Why don't you--" he glanced around. "--get him upstairs or something, make him comfortable. It's not safe down here."
Illyria's eyes narrowed. "You do not presume to order me," she stated, but she did as he asked, leaned down and heaved Spike's limp form into her arms. It was almost a comical picture, his much larger body draped loosely across her thin frame, tattered coat sweeping the floor like a debutante's dress. It reminded him of something from a movie poster. Beauty and the Beast... or vice versa. Whatever.
"Upstairs," he gestured. "I'll... be along in a sec." She nodded and began to climb the stairs. He made his own way to the kitchen, not wanting to think too hard about how he knew that it was exactly there, exactly where to find utensils in the drawers, a glass pitcher in the cabinets. He didn't think about it at all, in fact, until he found himself with a knife in his hand, leaning up against a countertop of industrial brushed steel.
Blood, he thought. Vampires need blood. The idea of what he was going to do sickened him a bit, but it was the only option he could think of, aside from walking away, walking out, leaving this whole nightmare scene behind.
Dangerous, he thought again.
If he walked away, what would she do. That creature who looked like Fred? He pictured her face, the pulled-back lips and glowing eyes.
He lifted his arm and held it over the pitcher, dug the point of the knife into the crook of his elbow. Held down a little surge of nausea as the blood began to flow.
They didn't have to go far. Spike was just inside the hotel.
Facedown on the floor, to be exact. He appeared to have no more than made it down the front stairs before collapsing, maybe not even that far. He lay in a crumpled heap near the the lowest step, his bad leg folded under him at a less than natural angle.
Connor followed Illyria as she stepped through the entry, descended the stairs. She circled the still body slowly, hands clenching and unclenching, then dropped heavily to her knees. She remained like that, stiff and unmoving, as Connor shifted uncomfortably, tried to avoid looking at anything.
The hotel.
The floor, check, he remembered that--big, marble waveforms covered with that rusty red pentagram stain that never did come out. The desk, the elevator, the big round theater seat, the stairs... all of it was familiar, but alien too.
In his mind, it was a movie set. Unreal. People moved about it in his memories like flickering shadows, actors on a stage.
That was exactly how he felt too, about his own memory-self. Connor 1.0. Demon fighting. Other dimensions. Theater summer stock.
Not really him.
"Is he dead? He's not dead, right?" he found himself asking, unable to move from his position in the doorway. The hotel's big double doors were broken now, hanging loosely from their hinges, and the early morning sunlight poured in through the shattered panels. Pooled on the floor close to where the unconscious vampire lay. Inches from the pale, still face.
Illyria was silent.
"Um... hello? Don't vampires... go all dust or something, when they're dead?" He was getting restless again, jittery. Decapitation. Stake in the heart. Daylight. Fire. The inside of the hotel was dark, cold. Past the sunlight in the entryway, it was all shadows, blackened, ruined, empty.
He really, really wanted to leave.
Down on the floor, Illyria was finally moving. She stretched out a gauntleted hand to touch a leather-clad shoulder, stiff-fingered, prodding, as if testing the doneness of a piece of meat.
"This is what human death looks like," she intoned. "The stillness."
"Uh, okay." Boy, the way she talks is really going to take some getting used to. Not that I'm planning to stick around that long.
"Human death. Half-breeds use it. Minor demons crawling into the bodies of the fallen. Breeding and clinging to a shadow existence." She continued poking with her fingers. Spike's body jerked with the force of her movement.
"Like vermin, swarming and feeding. Loathsome. Worth nothing." Poke. Poke. Poke.
Connor shifted on his feet again.
"My Wesley looked like this," she whispered then, and the sound of her voice jarred him.
It sounded like Fred's.
"So... still."
She leaned forward then and shoved hard with an open hand. Spike's body rolled over onto its back, slack, boneless. The leather coat fell open.
Connor's teeth came together with a hard click. He caught his tongue in between, and the slick hot taste of blood flooded his throat.
Mr Sayles, how are ya. Yeah, Mom would like a nice pork roast for dinner. No, not that one--I think there's a little too much bone and gristle there. Why do you even have that one in your case? Looks like someone took a big chunk out of it with their teeth or--
The sight didn't make him feel sick, that was the weird part. He just felt... like he'd received some information, like a notice in the mail. Well, that explains the limp. Spike's right leg had a... a big piece of the thigh was just missing, right over the hip, as if he'd been bitten by a shark.
Possibly he had. Something close to it, anyway.
Why the hell would he even walk around like that? And how?
"Charles also became still." Illyria's voice had grown loud. The slight Texas accent was there, it really did sound like Fred. He looked up, looked at her.
It wasn't Fred. It was not. Not as if he really knew Fred that well anyway, and there was nothing really familiar about this woman, this blue-haired creature with her leather and her bloodstains and filthy demon glowing fierce eyes, but she was shouting now, shouting, and she really, really sounded like Fred...
"I am tired of this stillness! It bores me!" She gave the vampire's body another hard shove. Then another. "Rise and speak to me!"
"Hey," Connor croaked. Dangerous, his senses screamed. Dangerous dangerous dangerous. He was suddenly aware of the axe hanging heavily in his hand.
She got to her feet, face contorted in a snarl, fists clenched. Grasped the leather lapels of Spike's coat, jerked his body upright. He hung limply in her grasp, like a broken doll, until she flung him back down again. His head hit the floor with a sickening crack.
"I command it!" she shouted. "Get up! Half-breeds are not fragile like humans! They do not... become still, a-and die..."
Without thinking, Connor leaped down the stairs then and grabbed her arm.
--and was brought up short by her hand around his throat.
"You dare to touch me," she hissed. "You are nothing. I could crush you." Her lips pulled back, showing even white teeth, a startlingly human feature in her blood-streaked face.
Connor kicked out, backflipped away from her in an acrobatic leap. Landed a short distance away, crouched and ready. His every instinct shouted at him to keep going, press an attack, go for a kill--
"Stop!" he panted, holding up a hand. "I-I don't--I'm trying to help you. Okay? Just... calm down!" He held a hand up, peace, waited for her to react. She stood there, head jerking like a bird's, not quite expressionless. Maybe angry. He couldn't tell.
"Look, what do you want?" he asked. "What do you want?" I want to get out of here, get away from these freaky people, get back to my life, get away--
"I want..." she began, and the voice was Fred's, no two ways about it. His stomach did a sickening flip.
She lowered her head. Spoke in that thin Texas twang. "I'm... all alone. Wesley is... gone, and Charles." Her face contorted, chin wobbled. It was all he could do not to gape at her, at the idea that she might actually cry.
"I get it," he said. "Fred. You want your friend back."
Her head came back up. The voice was icy again. "I am not Fred. I am Illyria, god-king, and I do not have friends." Her eyes shifted away then, and she lifted her chin high. "This one amuses me. I would have him restored."
"Okay. So... we'll fix him up. He's a vampire, so... so he probably needs blood." That's definitely a ten-four, good buddy, he thought, remembering again the gaping wound. Was there anyplace to get blood around the Hyperion? He couldn't remember. Maybe he'd never known. He'd never gotten blood for--
She looked uncomfortable. "I... have no knowledge of healing arts," she said haltingly. "When I was... damaged... my Wesley... healed me."
"It's okay," he reassured her. Internally, he groaned. "I'll... take care of that. Why don't you--" he glanced around. "--get him upstairs or something, make him comfortable. It's not safe down here."
Illyria's eyes narrowed. "You do not presume to order me," she stated, but she did as he asked, leaned down and heaved Spike's limp form into her arms. It was almost a comical picture, his much larger body draped loosely across her thin frame, tattered coat sweeping the floor like a debutante's dress. It reminded him of something from a movie poster. Beauty and the Beast... or vice versa. Whatever.
"Upstairs," he gestured. "I'll... be along in a sec." She nodded and began to climb the stairs. He made his own way to the kitchen, not wanting to think too hard about how he knew that it was exactly there, exactly where to find utensils in the drawers, a glass pitcher in the cabinets. He didn't think about it at all, in fact, until he found himself with a knife in his hand, leaning up against a countertop of industrial brushed steel.
Blood, he thought. Vampires need blood. The idea of what he was going to do sickened him a bit, but it was the only option he could think of, aside from walking away, walking out, leaving this whole nightmare scene behind.
Dangerous, he thought again.
If he walked away, what would she do. That creature who looked like Fred? He pictured her face, the pulled-back lips and glowing eyes.
He lifted his arm and held it over the pitcher, dug the point of the knife into the crook of his elbow. Held down a little surge of nausea as the blood began to flow.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-07-30 07:18 am (UTC)Meanwhile, in this chapter...
He lay in a crumpled heap near the the lowest step, his bad leg folded under him at a less than natural angle.
Man, Spike's a mess. If only someone were there to soothe his fevered brow... Ministrations, somebody! Ministrations!
In his mind, it was a movie set. Unreal. People moved about it in his memories like flickering shadows, actors on a stage.
For some reason, I'm envisioning this as something like Milla Jovovich's flashback scene in Resident Evil. Maybe you should roll that one next after the Dark City DVD is finished. :-)
"This is what human death looks like," she intoned. "The stillness."
I like this line. It evokes a kind of dispassionate curiosity that seems rather in character for the Blue Meanie.
Poke. Poke. Poke.
Awww, Spikey, no!
"I am tired of this stillness! It bores me!" She gave the vampire's body another hard shove. Then another. "Rise and speak to me!"
Still really liking your Illyria. She's hitting this mixed note of grief and, well, godlike bossiness. No wonder she's freaking Connor out so badly.
Obviously we have a parallel here between Connor and Illyria in terms of conflicting personalities, but in Connor's case his calm, rational self is still very much in control, and he doesn't seem to be having too much trouble figuring out which impulses are coming from which persona. What makes Illyria so sad, and dangerous, is that her motivations are such a scrambled mess; she doesn't seem to be able to tell what comes from Fred and what comes from Illyria. As per this:
"I am not Fred. I am Illyria, god-king, and I do not have friends... This one amuses me. I would have him restored."
Methinks the lady doth protest too much.
Anyways, Connor now seems to be stuck both babysitting Illyria and nursing Spike. It's a thankless job, but I gues somebody has to tend to all these mental and physical wounds. At this rate, when he finally tracks down Angel the old man's going to try and bum twenty bucks off him. :-)
(no subject)
Date: 2004-07-30 07:25 am (UTC)Aw, you just like that line about Illyria's face being all painted with blood, that's where you're getting this. I'll think of a title eventually. I'm working on it.
Man, Spike's a mess. If only someone were there to soothe his fevered brow... Ministrations, somebody! Ministrations!
I'm a sucker for hurt/comfort. Only... not exactly. You'll see.
What makes Illyria so sad, and dangerous, is that her motivations are such a scrambled mess; she doesn't seem to be able to tell what comes from Fred and what comes from Illyria.
We'll be delving more into this.
It's a thankless job, but I gues somebody has to tend to all these mental and physical wounds.
And yep, that's Connor... for now. TBC.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-07-30 07:29 am (UTC)I guess that was probably also the inspiration for my "Blue-Eyed Monster" suggestion. Well, I'll keep throwing 'em out there. :-)
I'm a sucker for hurt/comfort. Only... not exactly. You'll see.
Hey, better that than the deservedly less popular genre of "hurt/eat."
(no subject)
Date: 2004-07-31 02:43 am (UTC)This is luscious, by the way (this to the author.)
(no subject)
Date: 2004-07-31 11:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-07-30 09:07 am (UTC)I love it.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-07-30 02:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-07-30 02:07 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-07-30 02:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-07-30 02:25 pm (UTC)Also pathetic (and I mean it in the literal fashion) is "my Wesley"
and Illyria going into Fred-voice when she talks of him.
And I get my titles, usually, from my Beliefnet Buddhist thought for the day. And you thought I was so deep!
(no subject)
Date: 2004-07-30 02:56 pm (UTC)That Beliefnet site is big fun - thanks! (I couldn't find the thought of the day, tho...) Maybe there's something in that bit about "being caught in the devil's trap." Hm...
(no subject)
Date: 2004-07-30 05:55 pm (UTC)"We're caught in a trap, I can't walk out, because I love you too much baby..."
Not that anyone in your story really has that suspicious-mind thing going on. Not even Connor, surely. :-)
(no subject)
Date: 2004-07-30 07:05 pm (UTC)I should have another chapter up tomorrow-ish, if all goes well. Maybe even with a title.