(no subject)
Everything's all a-shambles, she knows; the pictures in her head smashing and crashing like waves, and her sweet prince drowning, drowning amongst it all . . .
He is not like Daddy, and she's ever so aware of this. Somewhere behind his strange redemption -- good mens' fights and Slayer's flesh -- he is still there, all chains and railroad spikes, and she giggles at the thought, sways to the songs of his wonderful darkness. O, the melodies bleed like pomegranates, staining, staining everyone and thing.
She finds him quite simply indeed, for she knows his mind - all its labyrinths and mysteries - and he stands alone in an alley, black like the beetles that crawled through his flesh, and he waits for her without knowing it. Because outwardly he yearns for other things: an angel, fingers all twisted, entwined as the flames danced, a wonderful shroud. But oh, he shan't find eternity there; nothing more than mistakes and runaway kisses, but she, she is different. They have a million nights.
--And I wonder . . . what possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears? she asks, and remembers. It is a clever game; the stars all smile down on her, for she's their most beloved child.
--Don't, Dru, he replies (she whimpers). S'not the same anymore. You know that.
--Ohhh, but I've seen it all. All the monsters that tear it all apart. Can't you taste it?
--Not much point in tasting it, anymore.
She approaches him, and her footsteps ring out through the night, naughty things that break the somber silence. Like dogs, barking, playing 'round the corpses. Bad puppies, she thinks, and wants to smile.
--I can see every bit of you, she tells him, takes his hand and digs the truth against his flesh. All the tears and dreadful hurting - all for her, in the end. She's had her lovely way with you. Nasty, dirty girl--
--Hey, and his voice is lovely and sharp like knives or shards of glass, I loved her, all right? Not like it's any business of yours.
--Oh, yes, she agrees, tracing new lines into his palms, she's a lovely gypsy fortuneteller, She drew you in with her chains and her thorns; I watched it all. Tore you apart, scattered all the pretty pieces into the wind . . . didn't even care to watch the way they danced . . .
--I know she didn't love me. His voice is very low. She drinks in the darkness of it. Doesn't matter so much anymore. Not after all that's happened.
--But I, I always watch you dancing, she continues. All the dead and wasted parts.
--It's all in the past now, Dru, he says, frustrated. Why can't you bloody understa-
--I was your princess, she reminds him, feeling quite hurt. Your dark queen; your very favourite of all-
--Yeah, well, things were a bit different then, weren't they?
--Oh, yes. Millions and millions of lifetimes away. A pause. I can still see them.
--You're mad, you know that? he asks her, and pulls his hand away. She knows he wishes to walk away from her, but it's simply something she won't have. For she's a sweet and lovely being, to play the saviour, and somehow she'll make him understand. He always has before.
--You can't erase it, she reminds him. All our darling times - the stars and dollies watching us all the while, and they'll know. They'll know if you're lying, Spike.
--Listen. I don't need this - I've got a soul now, remember. I'm supposed to be right filthy to you.
--Mmm, she says, closing her eyes and savouring the melodies that sway against him. But I won't be fooled by it, your goodness and your selflessness. You're still creeping and crawling underneath it all . . . burrowing like gophers.
He laughs shortly. Gophers. Right. I'll keep that in mind.
--You still miss it, she says, knowing better. Like a constant ache, the little voices whispering in the back of your brain. Miss our sparks and fairy stories and the midnight waltzes . . .
--Damn it! Will you get it through your crazy skull? I haven't got anything to do with you anymore. And if you aren't going to realize it, I might bloody well have to stake you.
She giggles.
--What? he demands, annoyed. Think it's funny? Right - you're more twisted than I thought-
--Lies that tickle, she tells him through the laughter. Oh, my Spike, you'll never do away with me.
--Almost did it once before. What makes you think I won't now?
She takes his hands in hers, delighted. The stars all glitter in mirth above them.
--My sweet, I'm the only thing that's yours now.
And he stares at her, deep in her eyes like he's drowning again in her sea and its lovely eternities of moth-eaten lace; he sees it in her eyes, she knows. He understands, just like he always has and will beyond every until, for the two of them are something that's ever so much more than life or death. Or time.
Roughly, then, he pulls her to him and kisses her, and she recalls another night quite long ago; an alley and a lovely darkened birth.
They are eternity.
It's something she's always known.