My angel with the Blood Red Wings
This is a fic inspired by a manip darkwaif did and posted over at darker_spike. Gorgeous work. Check it out here
Anyway, this is called "My angel with the Blood Red Wings". Just a little fic, something I threw together here when I got home.
Author- Nyghtpet
Title- My angel with the Blood Red Wings
Pairing-Spike/Buffy
Rating- PG-13
A/N: Mid-Season Seven, when poor Spike was chained to the wall. Post-Sleeper
Spoilers-none
Warning- none, unless the word "bitch" offends you.
Disclaimer- Not mine, although I wish Spike were. I would keep him a very happy boy, if he only knew. Joss is Boss, we all know this.
Feedback- Please, Please, Please. Be as honest as you want, I can take it. I am a glutton for feedback.
He tries to be a good man, but deep down he knows he will never be the innocent he was. The animal is a part of him now, soul or no, and no amount of absolution will fix that. But we were all innocents once, none of us will ever get that back. It is a good thing to lose that innocence, albeit sad.
His broken crystal eyes cut me inside, and I want nothing more that to heal that hurt, mend his eyes. But he flinches at tenderness, and he has a right to be apprehensive. Especially from me. I had a large hand in breaking those eyes, that heart, in sake of my own selfish pride. He gave me anything I wanted of him, let me take my pleasure, and in return I trampled him into pulp. He put his bad-boy persona on to hide the pain, but I knew what I was doing to him. At the time, I didn’t really care. I was too caught up in what I had been denied, what I was charged to do. And I needed to take my pound of flesh for it. I took way more than a pound from him.
His cot is cold, the sheets a dull comparison to the blue in his gaze as he stares fixedly at the floor. I want to touch him, comfort him, but all he would do is move away. So I pick absently at a lint ball attached to the sheets, decide just to be there for him. Maybe finally this time we will talk about it. But neither of us knows what to say.
I look at the shackles he’s in, and can’t bear the thought. These are not for him, not for this moment. I reach out as I pull the key from my jacket pocket, and take hold of one of them, very careful not to touch him directly. He looks up, about to protest, but a pointed look from me stops him from fighting it. We communicate a lot with out speaking anymore, afraid of what we’ll say, or what the others will hear.
I undo the chains and toss them against the wall. The air feels lighter now, as if those chains had held more than his hands. Suddenly it’s awkward, and the need to speak is pressing. We can’t take it.
“Buffy,” he starts, but doesn’t go any farther. We are both at a loss, needing each other close but unable to trust ourselves. I sense the desperation in him, to take back the last year of both our lives and start over. To hold me, bury himself in me, and for me to want to do nothing but the same to him. To get lost in each other, and forget about the impending danger and responsibility we both have.
I stroke his hair, and it reacts like I struck him. I want to cry, and yell at him to stop it and grow up, and kiss his pain away. “Please don’t luv, I don’t deserve it.”
“Yes, you do. And I want to.”
“I just wore you down, that’s all. Kept at you until you gave in, even though you still hated me. I know you did.”
“No Spike. You wanted to give me everything, all of you, and I was too much of a bitch to accept it.”
“Well, yeah. But I wasn’t going to be the first one to say it.”
There. The tension is lifted a slight margin. We crack smiles, small laughs expelled on puffs of breath. I know it is short lived though, and it was now or never. I slide my hand down to his neck, and rub my thumb against the hairline. He sighs, and presses his head into my touch.
“I’m not a good man, love. You deserve more than me.”
“Wrong. You are a good man. And we deserve each other. No matter how bad we both screwed up.”
He regards me carefully then, trying to figure out if I meant what I said. I keep my face open, trying to convey that I meant every word. He turns his face further, into my hands and rubs against it, like a big cat. It warms me inside, and I expect him to start purring as I stroke his sharp cheekbone. His forehead furrows, fighting the emotion I know is rushing up, because it is rapidly rising in me as well.
I go to him, wrap my arms around his shoulders and let him cry. There are no tears, no sound, just the wracking sobs that his body needs to let go. He arms circle me, hands kneading my back, and a few seconds later his body begins to relax. I pull away slightly, and lay gentle kisses under his eyes, putting our foreheads together.
He kisses me on the lips, and it feels so right, like coming home. I pull him down on top of me, and we spend the evening kissing, holding each other, until we fall asleep.
I wake later that night, his head tucked under my chin, like a mother and child. He’s mine, and I’m his. But unlike others, I don’t have to look out for him, he can look out for himself. My equal.
I rub my hand up and down his back, and he pulls me tighter, molding to my body. As I lay there, I forget about the problems at hand, the evil we have to face. Right now, it is just he and I, in the darkness. Just like he told me, a long time ago.
Anyway, this is called "My angel with the Blood Red Wings". Just a little fic, something I threw together here when I got home.
Author- Nyghtpet
Title- My angel with the Blood Red Wings
Pairing-Spike/Buffy
Rating- PG-13
A/N: Mid-Season Seven, when poor Spike was chained to the wall. Post-Sleeper
Spoilers-none
Warning- none, unless the word "bitch" offends you.
Disclaimer- Not mine, although I wish Spike were. I would keep him a very happy boy, if he only knew. Joss is Boss, we all know this.
Feedback- Please, Please, Please. Be as honest as you want, I can take it. I am a glutton for feedback.
He tries to be a good man, but deep down he knows he will never be the innocent he was. The animal is a part of him now, soul or no, and no amount of absolution will fix that. But we were all innocents once, none of us will ever get that back. It is a good thing to lose that innocence, albeit sad.
His broken crystal eyes cut me inside, and I want nothing more that to heal that hurt, mend his eyes. But he flinches at tenderness, and he has a right to be apprehensive. Especially from me. I had a large hand in breaking those eyes, that heart, in sake of my own selfish pride. He gave me anything I wanted of him, let me take my pleasure, and in return I trampled him into pulp. He put his bad-boy persona on to hide the pain, but I knew what I was doing to him. At the time, I didn’t really care. I was too caught up in what I had been denied, what I was charged to do. And I needed to take my pound of flesh for it. I took way more than a pound from him.
His cot is cold, the sheets a dull comparison to the blue in his gaze as he stares fixedly at the floor. I want to touch him, comfort him, but all he would do is move away. So I pick absently at a lint ball attached to the sheets, decide just to be there for him. Maybe finally this time we will talk about it. But neither of us knows what to say.
I look at the shackles he’s in, and can’t bear the thought. These are not for him, not for this moment. I reach out as I pull the key from my jacket pocket, and take hold of one of them, very careful not to touch him directly. He looks up, about to protest, but a pointed look from me stops him from fighting it. We communicate a lot with out speaking anymore, afraid of what we’ll say, or what the others will hear.
I undo the chains and toss them against the wall. The air feels lighter now, as if those chains had held more than his hands. Suddenly it’s awkward, and the need to speak is pressing. We can’t take it.
“Buffy,” he starts, but doesn’t go any farther. We are both at a loss, needing each other close but unable to trust ourselves. I sense the desperation in him, to take back the last year of both our lives and start over. To hold me, bury himself in me, and for me to want to do nothing but the same to him. To get lost in each other, and forget about the impending danger and responsibility we both have.
I stroke his hair, and it reacts like I struck him. I want to cry, and yell at him to stop it and grow up, and kiss his pain away. “Please don’t luv, I don’t deserve it.”
“Yes, you do. And I want to.”
“I just wore you down, that’s all. Kept at you until you gave in, even though you still hated me. I know you did.”
“No Spike. You wanted to give me everything, all of you, and I was too much of a bitch to accept it.”
“Well, yeah. But I wasn’t going to be the first one to say it.”
There. The tension is lifted a slight margin. We crack smiles, small laughs expelled on puffs of breath. I know it is short lived though, and it was now or never. I slide my hand down to his neck, and rub my thumb against the hairline. He sighs, and presses his head into my touch.
“I’m not a good man, love. You deserve more than me.”
“Wrong. You are a good man. And we deserve each other. No matter how bad we both screwed up.”
He regards me carefully then, trying to figure out if I meant what I said. I keep my face open, trying to convey that I meant every word. He turns his face further, into my hands and rubs against it, like a big cat. It warms me inside, and I expect him to start purring as I stroke his sharp cheekbone. His forehead furrows, fighting the emotion I know is rushing up, because it is rapidly rising in me as well.
I go to him, wrap my arms around his shoulders and let him cry. There are no tears, no sound, just the wracking sobs that his body needs to let go. He arms circle me, hands kneading my back, and a few seconds later his body begins to relax. I pull away slightly, and lay gentle kisses under his eyes, putting our foreheads together.
He kisses me on the lips, and it feels so right, like coming home. I pull him down on top of me, and we spend the evening kissing, holding each other, until we fall asleep.
I wake later that night, his head tucked under my chin, like a mother and child. He’s mine, and I’m his. But unlike others, I don’t have to look out for him, he can look out for himself. My equal.
I rub my hand up and down his back, and he pulls me tighter, molding to my body. As I lay there, I forget about the problems at hand, the evil we have to face. Right now, it is just he and I, in the darkness. Just like he told me, a long time ago.