DIPTYCH, part II-2
This is the second part of the second panel of a G/S story, focusing on sixth moments of their relationship written for summer_of_giles . I tried to give the whole story a pictural quality. This part can be read as a standalone, but if you want, you can have a look at part I-1, part I-2, part I-3, part II-1 of Diptych too, to have a whole survey of the first panel of the story and better understand where do the characters come from.
Canon : I use it in my own way
Characters : we all know to whom they belong. Not us, alas. But at least J Whedon let us the right to play with them.
Length: around 7486 characters
Rating : this part R (to be sure)
Beta: the lovely shapinglight , who accepted to beta my English, which is not small work. All mistakes are mine.
Summary: winter can be interior too.
WINTERS
The cab moved slowly down the Magnificent Mile, stuck in the evening rush hour. The night banished by the glare of the red tail lights, the brightness of the head lights and the multicoloured flickering of the advertisement signs. The high sides of the buildings guided this viscous and roaring river, flowing like a stream of incandescent lava, between their towering banks, while wreaths of exhaust, hung over everything. Swearing the driver stopped the car once again. Spike turned his head away to observe the stocky outline of the El. It was still early, a thick crowd climbed up and down the stairs of the nearby station as an overloaded train pulled away making deafening clanking noises.
A weight leaned against his back and Giles' profile, his neck craned over his shoulder, appeared at his side. Already, a small miracle produced by the human's respiration, the sight of the railway was blurring, disappearing behind a disk of mist. Memories of old games sprung up, and Spike drew near the pane, his mouth almost touching the glass, lips half opened, ready, just for one second, to add to this obliteration of the world; but his gesture hardly outlined, froze. He drew back and shrugged, frustrated, then began to draw random patterns on the wet glass with his finger. The car moved off again.
***
The last clients were scattering. Footsteps then slamming of car doors echoed behind them. Some cars drove past them, their tail lights quickly disappearing round the corner of the avenue. At the door of the club, they turned towards Grant Park, still wrapped in a film of warmth and odours of grilled meat that protected them against the cutting coldness.
Their shadows were dancing over the bumps of the dusty roadway. Spike slowed down and the shivering flame of a lighter flared between his hands. The red tip of his cigarette hung for a moment in the air.
- Was in New York in 1947, heard Charlie Parker play, he was at the Spotlite, on 52th street in this time. It was also BB Shark's place...
He stopped, feeling a weird hesitation at the idea of going on.
- Pretty sure the rest of this story won't please you.
- I suspect you may well be right.
Spike’s unease increased; he glanced at Giles.
- Anyway, we shouldn’t let your poor taste in anecdotes spoil our last hours in Chicago, should we? Do you feel like walking up to the port?
Relief washed over Spike at the change in tone. A thin wisp of smoke escaped his lips as he hastily grasped the bait.
- You know, Watcher, there's a reason why I learned to drive as soon as cars made an appearance.
A northerly wind was blowing over the lake, carrying along whirls of dried leaves that ascended for an instant in the halo of the street lamps and then fell in rustling showers on the frost stiffened lawns. Before them, at a distance, the Loop projected high against the horizon, the geometric light of myriads of windows. Higher, far above the town, a vast sky opened on the dipping arc of the constellations. Spike had stopped on the brink of the jetty. A moon yellow as sulphur glittered on the surface of the water. The lake made an unreal spectacle, a wedding of light and darkness; a fragile universe flickered on its waves as the undulating images of the sky, the town and the walk bounced, stretched out and multiplied up to infinity on this dark mirror and from there projected in liquid lightness on the moving forms of the launches and the yachts.
Far, far away a child's voice fervently exclaimed:
« Mother, please, Mother can we go to see the boats? »
High masts jut out above a wall. The carriage had passed under an arch reverberating to the clicking noises of the hooves of their horse. Captivated, he had looked at the huge dock where the dull blue green water glistened under the pale rays of the winter sun. There, softly rocking against the wharf, sails at rest, stood the crowd of big sailing ships come from faraway countries whose names opened to him visions of warm colours, of motley multitudes, of scents of pepper, of cinnamon, of cloves, swarming with weird and terrifying animals. Between the wooden hulls, small steamers had dodged in, modest, their funnels blowing light curls of smoke. In one jump, he had left the cab, running along the wharf until he was gasping for breath, dodging mooring ropes, dockers and sailors, towards a majestic Indiaman.
« William, don't go too far away! »
The tiny voice of his mother had come to him through a hubbub of shouts from men and animals, of languages with new sonorities, of creaking coming from the carriages jostling to unload the boats. Her cheeks red because of the cold wind, she had laughed at the sight of this little boy with his dishevelled curls, joyous and vivacious, who was coming back to her, eyes shining and face aflame.
« When I'm grown up, I want to see the world, Mother. You'll come with me; we'll go to India and ride elephants. We'll visit the palaces of maharajahs but if man eating tigers want to attack you, I'll protect you. »
She had kissed him. Then, together, in the mingled scents of mud, tar and spices, they had watched the aerial ballet of the pulley blocks laying down crates of tea, swollen bundles while around them the throng of workers in coarse blue overalls bustled around the warehouses of red bricks.
- …. Spike!
The night closed down around him. Very near the quay, the greyish silhouette of a ketch pitched up and down in the black water lapping against its hull. Its steely halyards, abandoned to the breezes, clanked and vibrated through the deserted space of the port. Spike turned around, lost. A lump was forming in his throat, swelling, pressing against the walls of his breast. Something was pounding behind his temples, more painful than any firing of the chip.
- Spike, are you all right? For God’s sake, are you going to tell me what's happening to you?
Giles had grabbed his arm and was shaking him, looking worried. Frozen air suddenly filled his lungs and he took one pace back, abruptly freeing himself.
- It's nothing!
He saw the precursory pinch of his friend’s lips before his face clouded over.
- Fine! Keep on lying.
Without a word, they resumed walking, each one of them on his side of the alley, quickening their pace.
***
Stupid, stubborn creature!
Giles set down his book in irritation. Nothing he read was making sense while his thoughts stayed fixated on the object of his anger that was lying on the far side of the bed. His anger… it hadn’t receded since they had left the harbour and they hadn’t spoken or looked once at each other, him much too busy trying to keep his reactions under control, and Spike, closed off, rebellious almost hostile. Acting so weird at the same time… he would have to speak in the end though … All the fears that haunted him came back in a rush, heavy with threats, but a new wave of indignation washed them away. Idiot who never knew to keep quiet, and now that it was really important was stubbornly silent: Giles turned round in one sudden move and drew himself up on one elbow; he wouldn’t back off from the subject this time.
He almost jumped back in surprise at the sight of the face that was turned towards him; bloodless, distressed, a young unknown man was lying in his bed. It took him a few seconds before he could recognize his companion in the defeated and delicate features of the stranger. A chill certitude dawned in his mind: Spike must have looked like that at the moment of his death, the man Drusilla had caught in a London livery stable so many years ago. Shocked, he reached forward, expecting this vision to dissipate like a mirage but the icy fist his fingers touched was tangible enough. All his anger had vanished; he stayed there at a loss, not knowing what to say, all his questions suspended. A murmur came to his ears; a few anguished words said in a hoarse voice that he had difficulties understanding:
- I don’t know what’s happening to me
Spike had closed his eyes again. Behind his lids images of a world long gone to ashes whirled; he wanted… he wanted… what was that hollow he felt gnawing at his insides? Bitter tears welled up prickling his eyes. He bit his lips with anger. The familiar taste of blood shed on his tongue. Why couldn’t he ignore it?
The mattress dipped near him. There was a concerned sigh and a light fumbling amongst the objects on the bed table and then a handkerchief carefully wiped off his mouth:
- Damn it, Spike, you’re bleeding on the pillow…
There was another sigh and a little hesitation before Rupert’s voice softly invited him:
- Come near me
One hand caressed his shoulder, pulled at him. He didn’t resist. Thighs, then a belly and a chest clung to him. Two arms entwined him. He vaguely felt his companion shiver at the contact. A warm breath played in his hair and lips pressed on his nape. A wave of heat washed over him, forcing its way into his flesh, almost painful, budding in thousands of filaments which drove into his bones like tiny harpoons and moored him there, to the solidity of the body behind him. Slowly, he surrendered to the suffocating heat of the embrace that enveloped him whole.