The Dead Walk, Chapter 9
Oct. 9th, 2004 10:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thedeadlyhookWe return to post-AtS, Connor, Spike, Illyria. Shortly after the events of last chapter... Previous parts here.
Once the strange, emotional moment was over, the Hyperion lobby became eerily silent.
Connor remained where he was, slumped on the floor with his back against a pillar, hands on his knees. For a few minutes, Spike had tried talking to Illyria, something fairly light and pointless, obviously trying to budge her out of her mood, but the former god-king ignored him, lapsed into sullen stillness, refused to move or speak. Eventually, Spike gave up on her and began restlessly pacing the floor.
"So what now?" Connor asked tiredly. In truth, he barely cared. It was almost all he could do just to watch the vampire making his way across the floor, his long coat swinging, back and forth.
It was an effort just to summon up the energy to talk. He was a husk, hollowed out.
"Damned if I know." Spike answered him without looking. He continued his back-and-forth progress, hands on his hips, head down.
"What do you mean, you don't know?"
"Just what I said. Don't have the faintest bloody idea." Spike shot him a glare. "And what the hell are you looking at me for anyway?"
"Uh, I dunno.... you just... seemed to know what you were doing a minute ago." Connor didn't want to have this conversation. He wanted to get out of the hotel, this place where he felt too much, remembered too much.
"Yeah, well, that's what I do, isn't it?" Spike said sourly, eyes on the floor as he paced. "Look after the birds. Talk them down off the bloody ledge. Not that it ever changes anything. I mean, just look at her." He then waved an impatient arm in the direction of Illyria, still doing an impression of a statue with a frozen, spaced-out stare. "Pin her on the front of a sailing ship. She's all better now."
Connor glanced. "Um, I think she's in shock," he said. I know I am.
A snort. "Hardly. Right back to trying to commune with the shrubs again, I'd wager. Nothing's changed." He kept pacing, passing in and out of the dim pool of reflected light from the open front door. "Her majesty's gone for a little walk inside her own head. Bugger the rest of us. Bloody typical."
"I am not unaware," Illyria intoned suddenly. She otherwise didn't move. "You discuss me as if I were not here."
"Well, you are just standing there doing an impression of a hood ornament. Doesn't give a bloke a lot to work with." Spike stopped briefly, tried to lock eyes with her unfocused gaze, then snorted, shook his head, and continued to pace.
"Right. So either you've cracked for real this time, or you're tuning us out for fun, which is it?" Spike said.
A pause, in which Illyria did not blink or register in any way that she had even heard. "I am... assessing," she answered finally.
"Oh, bloody great," Spike muttered.
"This world is... empty. I do not lead here," Illyria said. "Humans are animals. No goal or meaning. There is nothing here but pointless existence." She paused. "I am... pointless. I am nothing."
Spike was silent. He kept pacing.
"Without meaning..." Illyria pursed her lips, the most movement she'd shown in the better part of an hour. "What reason is there to continue?"
"That's not--no. Wait. Life's not like that," Connor blurted. For some reason, he just couldn't let this pass. Life's not nothing. It's not... Angel showed me that. He proved it.
"Easy for you to say," Spike's disembodied voice carried out of the shadows as he reached the far end of his pacing route. His footsteps echoed on the marble floor as he turned and made his way back. "You've got people to go back to, don't you? Even without Angel. Isn't that right?"
Connor hesitated. The words were caught in his throat.
"I--I didn't always," he muttered. "I--I used to... be..." His throat closed up, choked by the memory of his own despair, the way he'd felt lonely even surrounded by the purest love.
"You used to be. Boo hoo. But you're not anymore, are you?" Spike reappeared from the dark area, his face painted in deep shadow. "You've got a home now. Can see that much just by looking at you. Loved ones. Friends. Switch it on and off, you do, but this is just a vacation for you. Walk on the wild side. Little side trip into Angel's world. Where it's ugly and scary and dark." He halted for a moment directly in front of Connor. "Not so much to live for here, is there?"
"You've got--" Connor looked from one to the other. You've got each other, he'd meant to say, but even thinking it sounded ridiculous. He had no idea what these two were to each other.
"Human attachments are not a purpose," Illyria said, as if reading his mind, but a curious flicker of expression crossed her face even as she said it. "They are impermanent and fragile. Easy unraveled and ruined."
The thoughts swirling inside Connor's head were leaden weights hammering his skull. He struggled to find a way to express what he was feeling. "No, that's not what I... What others think of you... that doesn't matter. Because sometimes even if... if people love you... you can't feel it. You have to--" He stopped, closed his eyes. The empty landscape behind his eyelids was painted in shades of red.
Horror and hostages. Bright hot sparks of pain and hate.
I can't feel anything.
I love you, son.
I guess I really am your son... 'cause I'm dead, too.
I really do love you, Connor.
"You have to feel that way about yourself," he managed. "That you're... that you're worth something. That you've got something worthy to give."
It's the only way you can possibly deserve what others are willing to give you. He couldn't put the rest of it into words. He knew he hadn't explained it very well, but it was the best he could do.
It seemed important. Somehow.
"Right," Spike said faintly. "Be all you can be. A regular giving tree." He was at the other end of the floor now, near the old weapons' cabinet. More scuffing sounds as he turned on his heel and began to walk back.
He emerged back into the light, stopped. "Fine. Time we got you home, then," Spike said. His voice was expressionless. From across the shadowed room, his face looked like a deathmask.
He stabbed a finger at Connor. "I didn't sign up to take care of you. Said that already. Angel was your dad. Not me." He pointed at Illyria then. "Already got one mental case on my hands looking after her." He waited for a beat, as still as Illyria, then returned to his restless pacing, crossing and recrossing the room, his form slipping in and out of the shadows.
Connor digested this terse message and pushed down a confused surge of disappointment.
Right, whatever, his inner college roommate spoke up. Blow this popsicle stand. Like he said, hardly the Ritz. And not like you care anyway, right bro?
"We probably shouldn't stay here much longer anyway," Connor said then, clearing his throat uneasily. He tossed his hair, sat up a bit straighter, put on his best casual air. His knees still shook, but he gripped them tighter. "I mean, that girl's probably called the cops by now."
"Soon as it's sundown, we'll leave," Spike agreed. He didn't bother to comment on the possibility of police, but kicked irritably at some loose stonework and the rubble went skidding across the floor and into the darkness. "Ain't it lucky old Spike's still here to do the cleanup. Good on everyone."
Connor frowned at this. He glanced at Illyria, who still hadn't moved, then back at Spike.
It shouldn't have mattered to him. None of it. He didn't even like Spike. He didn't like Illyria either. Honestly, she scared the hell out of him. They both did. All he really wanted was to get away from them the Hyperion, and all the bad memories the place had dredged up.
And actually, being back home to his family sounded great. He'd spend the rest of the summer playing wiffle ball and air hockey with his family, buying new computer equipment and furnishings for his dorm room at Stanford. Forget any of this had ever happened. Like a bad dream.
But it still nagged at him. Like there was something he'd forgotten.
Almost like... he owed them something.
Once the strange, emotional moment was over, the Hyperion lobby became eerily silent.
Connor remained where he was, slumped on the floor with his back against a pillar, hands on his knees. For a few minutes, Spike had tried talking to Illyria, something fairly light and pointless, obviously trying to budge her out of her mood, but the former god-king ignored him, lapsed into sullen stillness, refused to move or speak. Eventually, Spike gave up on her and began restlessly pacing the floor.
"So what now?" Connor asked tiredly. In truth, he barely cared. It was almost all he could do just to watch the vampire making his way across the floor, his long coat swinging, back and forth.
It was an effort just to summon up the energy to talk. He was a husk, hollowed out.
"Damned if I know." Spike answered him without looking. He continued his back-and-forth progress, hands on his hips, head down.
"What do you mean, you don't know?"
"Just what I said. Don't have the faintest bloody idea." Spike shot him a glare. "And what the hell are you looking at me for anyway?"
"Uh, I dunno.... you just... seemed to know what you were doing a minute ago." Connor didn't want to have this conversation. He wanted to get out of the hotel, this place where he felt too much, remembered too much.
"Yeah, well, that's what I do, isn't it?" Spike said sourly, eyes on the floor as he paced. "Look after the birds. Talk them down off the bloody ledge. Not that it ever changes anything. I mean, just look at her." He then waved an impatient arm in the direction of Illyria, still doing an impression of a statue with a frozen, spaced-out stare. "Pin her on the front of a sailing ship. She's all better now."
Connor glanced. "Um, I think she's in shock," he said. I know I am.
A snort. "Hardly. Right back to trying to commune with the shrubs again, I'd wager. Nothing's changed." He kept pacing, passing in and out of the dim pool of reflected light from the open front door. "Her majesty's gone for a little walk inside her own head. Bugger the rest of us. Bloody typical."
"I am not unaware," Illyria intoned suddenly. She otherwise didn't move. "You discuss me as if I were not here."
"Well, you are just standing there doing an impression of a hood ornament. Doesn't give a bloke a lot to work with." Spike stopped briefly, tried to lock eyes with her unfocused gaze, then snorted, shook his head, and continued to pace.
"Right. So either you've cracked for real this time, or you're tuning us out for fun, which is it?" Spike said.
A pause, in which Illyria did not blink or register in any way that she had even heard. "I am... assessing," she answered finally.
"Oh, bloody great," Spike muttered.
"This world is... empty. I do not lead here," Illyria said. "Humans are animals. No goal or meaning. There is nothing here but pointless existence." She paused. "I am... pointless. I am nothing."
Spike was silent. He kept pacing.
"Without meaning..." Illyria pursed her lips, the most movement she'd shown in the better part of an hour. "What reason is there to continue?"
"That's not--no. Wait. Life's not like that," Connor blurted. For some reason, he just couldn't let this pass. Life's not nothing. It's not... Angel showed me that. He proved it.
"Easy for you to say," Spike's disembodied voice carried out of the shadows as he reached the far end of his pacing route. His footsteps echoed on the marble floor as he turned and made his way back. "You've got people to go back to, don't you? Even without Angel. Isn't that right?"
Connor hesitated. The words were caught in his throat.
"I--I didn't always," he muttered. "I--I used to... be..." His throat closed up, choked by the memory of his own despair, the way he'd felt lonely even surrounded by the purest love.
"You used to be. Boo hoo. But you're not anymore, are you?" Spike reappeared from the dark area, his face painted in deep shadow. "You've got a home now. Can see that much just by looking at you. Loved ones. Friends. Switch it on and off, you do, but this is just a vacation for you. Walk on the wild side. Little side trip into Angel's world. Where it's ugly and scary and dark." He halted for a moment directly in front of Connor. "Not so much to live for here, is there?"
"You've got--" Connor looked from one to the other. You've got each other, he'd meant to say, but even thinking it sounded ridiculous. He had no idea what these two were to each other.
"Human attachments are not a purpose," Illyria said, as if reading his mind, but a curious flicker of expression crossed her face even as she said it. "They are impermanent and fragile. Easy unraveled and ruined."
The thoughts swirling inside Connor's head were leaden weights hammering his skull. He struggled to find a way to express what he was feeling. "No, that's not what I... What others think of you... that doesn't matter. Because sometimes even if... if people love you... you can't feel it. You have to--" He stopped, closed his eyes. The empty landscape behind his eyelids was painted in shades of red.
Horror and hostages. Bright hot sparks of pain and hate.
I can't feel anything.
I love you, son.
I guess I really am your son... 'cause I'm dead, too.
I really do love you, Connor.
"You have to feel that way about yourself," he managed. "That you're... that you're worth something. That you've got something worthy to give."
It's the only way you can possibly deserve what others are willing to give you. He couldn't put the rest of it into words. He knew he hadn't explained it very well, but it was the best he could do.
It seemed important. Somehow.
"Right," Spike said faintly. "Be all you can be. A regular giving tree." He was at the other end of the floor now, near the old weapons' cabinet. More scuffing sounds as he turned on his heel and began to walk back.
He emerged back into the light, stopped. "Fine. Time we got you home, then," Spike said. His voice was expressionless. From across the shadowed room, his face looked like a deathmask.
He stabbed a finger at Connor. "I didn't sign up to take care of you. Said that already. Angel was your dad. Not me." He pointed at Illyria then. "Already got one mental case on my hands looking after her." He waited for a beat, as still as Illyria, then returned to his restless pacing, crossing and recrossing the room, his form slipping in and out of the shadows.
Connor digested this terse message and pushed down a confused surge of disappointment.
Right, whatever, his inner college roommate spoke up. Blow this popsicle stand. Like he said, hardly the Ritz. And not like you care anyway, right bro?
"We probably shouldn't stay here much longer anyway," Connor said then, clearing his throat uneasily. He tossed his hair, sat up a bit straighter, put on his best casual air. His knees still shook, but he gripped them tighter. "I mean, that girl's probably called the cops by now."
"Soon as it's sundown, we'll leave," Spike agreed. He didn't bother to comment on the possibility of police, but kicked irritably at some loose stonework and the rubble went skidding across the floor and into the darkness. "Ain't it lucky old Spike's still here to do the cleanup. Good on everyone."
Connor frowned at this. He glanced at Illyria, who still hadn't moved, then back at Spike.
It shouldn't have mattered to him. None of it. He didn't even like Spike. He didn't like Illyria either. Honestly, she scared the hell out of him. They both did. All he really wanted was to get away from them the Hyperion, and all the bad memories the place had dredged up.
And actually, being back home to his family sounded great. He'd spend the rest of the summer playing wiffle ball and air hockey with his family, buying new computer equipment and furnishings for his dorm room at Stanford. Forget any of this had ever happened. Like a bad dream.
But it still nagged at him. Like there was something he'd forgotten.
Almost like... he owed them something.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-09 07:52 pm (UTC)You've nailed each of the character voices. You had me screaming, Yes! Your father!
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-10 08:07 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-09 08:06 pm (UTC)Life's not nothing. It's not... Angel showed me that. He proved it.
That line particularly - the fact that Connor understands Angel and what he did, and that he's trying to follow in his father's footsteps somehow. How he's slowly unraveling all the things inside of him and trying to piece them together - it's just amazing. I am totally in awe!
Spike and Illyria - their reactions were spot-on. Spike, taking care of her, because that's what he does with broken women (or gods) and I think nearing the edge, much like in s6 where he could see no way out. Walking and walking, because he just has so much restless energy. Illyria, just standing still, assessing. And coming to the conclusion that she's nothing - I saw it all in my head perfectly!
I have a feeling that this is one of those stories that I'll have to print out once it's finished, just so I can look it through again and again. *Sigh*
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-10 08:11 pm (UTC)I think part of the reason it comes off the way it does is that I'm more or less piecing this stuff together in my mind as I write, rather like Connor is. Someone made the observation, in one of the earlier chapters, that he's very like the voice of the reader, a little detached and (re)discovering things for the first time. He sort of works like that for me, as the writer, as well.
I'd be honored to know I'd made the cut for a printout archive. : )
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-11 08:45 am (UTC)This is sort of obvious, but I hadn't really considered it before:
This year Spike has for the first time been accepted as he is, he's had friends and been part of a team, and suddenly that has all been taken away. No wonder he's at breaking point.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-11 05:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-09 11:42 pm (UTC)...Fred.
Brilliant.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-10 08:12 pm (UTC)... I miss Fred.
(sniff)
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-09 11:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-10 08:13 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-10 03:29 am (UTC)Interesting developments in this one. It's nice to be reminded that Spike's helpful inclinations have their limits. Here, he seems to have decided that Illyria needs his help but Connor, tourist that he is, can bloody well look after himself; thanks for the blood, now piss off. :-)
Pin her on the front of a sailing ship. She's all better now.
See, I knew everything was fixed now! Oh, wait.
Her majesty's gone for a little walk inside her own head. Bugger the rest of us. Bloody typical.
Ooh, nicely put. I'm enjoying the uneven mixture of concern and frustration here; shades of "First I'll save her, then I'll kill her." I don't think we'll be seeing another round of tender knuckle-bandaging from Spike any time soon.
I am... pointless. I am nothing.
Gawd, Illyria is such a drama queen. (I'm reminded of the machine-people of the Matrix series, who see everything in terms of function and purpose, at least up until the final movie when I don't know what they were thinking.)
Switch it on and off, you do, but this is just a vacation for you. Walk on the wild side. Little side trip into Angel's world. Where it's ugly and scary and dark.
Harsh but not entirely unfair. But this could just as easily apply to a certain other dark side-vacationer of Spike's acquaintance, hm? I think somebody has a few issues to work out here...
Speaking of which, I see we've followed Connor's gruesome memories to their harrowing end point. I'm continually impressed at how you're finding unexpected ways to tie these in to the realtime events of the story. But now that Connor's finished his little stroll down memory lane, I wonder what life lessons he's going to extract for the benefit of the rather scary walking wounded? Wouldn't he be better off if he turned and fled while he had the chance?
Run, Connor! Run while you still can!
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-10 08:24 pm (UTC)Yes, there are some "issues" there. Not at all unrelated to the fact that Connor just happens to be Angel's son.
Ooh, nicely put. I'm enjoying the uneven mixture of concern and frustration here; shades of "First I'll save her, then I'll kill her." I don't think we'll be seeing another round of tender knuckle-bandaging from Spike any time soon.
Stay tuned for more of Spike's issues on that note.
Gawd, Illyria is such a drama queen.
That's why she's so fun!
Harsh but not entirely unfair. But this could just as easily apply to a certain other dark side-vacationer of Spike's acquaintance, hm? I think somebody has a few issues to work out here...
(wide-eyed innocent look) You think so?
I wonder what life lessons he's going to extract for the benefit of the rather scary walking wounded? Wouldn't he be better off if he turned and fled while he had the chance?
TBC, next chapter.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-10 11:42 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-10 08:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-11 11:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-11 05:39 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-12 09:53 am (UTC)Looking forward to the next chapter.