50_darkfics # 64: Ghost, Spike (A:tS)
Title: Ghost
Fandom: Angel: the Series
Author: xchristabelx
Characters: Spike
Prompt: #64 Ghost
Wordcount: 375
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It was indeed a lonely life as a ghost...
Author's Notes: Feedback is greatly appreciated. Reviews. Are. Love.
Ghost
It was indeed a lonely life as a ghost, if you could call it a life at all.
Spike opted for calling is less than an unlife, something that shouldn’t even be associated with the word life at all.
He wasn’t sure which part of it was worse, really. The nights, spent wandering around the endless corridors of Wolfram & Hart alone, or the days when he couldn’t do anything but watch others go about their daily lives, and either seeing him as a great nuisance or ignoring him completely.
He had once said that the office building was a bloody maze and now he knew every nook and cranny by heart. He’d been everywhere, seen everything there was to it and always, he walked alone.
At night Spike’s favourite place was the large window in Angel’s office. Of course only after Angel had left for his flat, because Spike wasn’t about to provoke an argument with his grandsire about why he was there.
He spent enough time of his ghostly existence wondering about why he was there at all as it was. There was no need to give anyone the chance to turn the knife in the wound some more. A wound most people thought he didn’t feel.
Often during the nights which Spike spent in Angel’s office he would go to the wall where an assortment of delicate swords and daggers hung amongst some battle axes and he would try to run his fingers over the blades, imagining the cold metal cutting into his flesh, drawing blood and making it run down his arms. It never worked, though, so he went back to the window and looked out over the city, taking in its millions of lights and its millions of sounds which only a vampire’s ears were capable of hearing from such a distance.
And the lights began to blur as the sounds became overwhelming and Spike’s hand came up to swipe at the tears leaking from his eyes angrily and utterly useless.
Ghosts couldn’t cry, they couldn’t feel. But as Fred had told him so many times, Spike wasn’t the average ghost, so he could feel and crave and cry. And cry he did and he hated himself for it.
A/N: Feedback and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.
Fandom: Angel: the Series
Author: xchristabelx
Characters: Spike
Prompt: #64 Ghost
Wordcount: 375
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It was indeed a lonely life as a ghost...
Author's Notes: Feedback is greatly appreciated. Reviews. Are. Love.
Ghost
It was indeed a lonely life as a ghost, if you could call it a life at all.
Spike opted for calling is less than an unlife, something that shouldn’t even be associated with the word life at all.
He wasn’t sure which part of it was worse, really. The nights, spent wandering around the endless corridors of Wolfram & Hart alone, or the days when he couldn’t do anything but watch others go about their daily lives, and either seeing him as a great nuisance or ignoring him completely.
He had once said that the office building was a bloody maze and now he knew every nook and cranny by heart. He’d been everywhere, seen everything there was to it and always, he walked alone.
At night Spike’s favourite place was the large window in Angel’s office. Of course only after Angel had left for his flat, because Spike wasn’t about to provoke an argument with his grandsire about why he was there.
He spent enough time of his ghostly existence wondering about why he was there at all as it was. There was no need to give anyone the chance to turn the knife in the wound some more. A wound most people thought he didn’t feel.
Often during the nights which Spike spent in Angel’s office he would go to the wall where an assortment of delicate swords and daggers hung amongst some battle axes and he would try to run his fingers over the blades, imagining the cold metal cutting into his flesh, drawing blood and making it run down his arms. It never worked, though, so he went back to the window and looked out over the city, taking in its millions of lights and its millions of sounds which only a vampire’s ears were capable of hearing from such a distance.
And the lights began to blur as the sounds became overwhelming and Spike’s hand came up to swipe at the tears leaking from his eyes angrily and utterly useless.
Ghosts couldn’t cry, they couldn’t feel. But as Fred had told him so many times, Spike wasn’t the average ghost, so he could feel and crave and cry. And cry he did and he hated himself for it.
A/N: Feedback and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.