Fic: Human Voices Wake Us and We Drown
Written for Prompt 154 at still_grrr: Literature, twentieth century onward. This is a somewhat depressing Spike POV piece related to Eliot's wonderful poem,
The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock.
Title: Human Voices Wake Us and We Drown
Author: GillO
Rating: G
Word Count: 769
Prompt: 154 - Classic Literature, Edwardian to Modern
Characters/Pairing (if any) Spike, Clem (Spuffy implied)
A/N: Inspired by TS Eliot's poem The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock. Season 6 of BtVS, shortly after
Dead Things.
Human Voices Wake Us and We Drown
The evening was spread out against the sky, the monuments, tombstones, crypts and, yes, even a bloody angel, silhouetted against the purple and pink. Any minute now it would be dark. Time to roam the streets, wreaking mayhem.
Who was he kidding? That was the old Spike, not the new, whipped version. There was always the chance a Slayer might drop by, reeking of rancid fat and sex, eager to work off the frustrations of the day on his cold, dead flesh. For that he would stay in all night. Just in case.
Besides, what sort of mayhem could a castrated vampire cause anyway?
Spike growled at that thought and rolled off the sarcophagus he had been lying on. His muscles and bruises cried out in protest. He ignored them. Ten paces one way. Turn, side-step, ten back. Coming and going, in the feeble hope that his girl would come, and then he would come with her.
The gravel crunched outside his door. He leapt back. Slamming was the only mode of entry the girl knew, after all, and he really would prefer to start the evening’s fun without a bloody nose to add to the mess she’d made of his face last time.
There was a knock. Not the Slayer, then. Bugger. Dawn again?
He pulled on the door, to see a pair of excited eyes, an eager expression, two enormous tubs of popcorn and fold upon fold of wrinkly flesh. Spike sighed. “Come in, Clem.”
There was a telethon, apparently. Spike let it all wash over him - the garrulous demon, the garish colours, the overloud enthusiasm of the hosts. He wasn’t brooding, exactly - only a poufter would do that - but he was thoughtful. Contemplative. That was the word. How in buggering blazes had the monster who had cut a bloody swathe through Europe ended in quiet domesticity, in a one-up, one-down crypt with the least offensive demon of any Hellmouth, anywhere?
“I owe you for this too, Slayer,” he muttered.
Clem shifted to look at him, saw his expression and, presumably, thought better. The telethon went on.
On the TV the women came and went. Artistic types talked about the world’s great art treasures. Girls with more cleavage than was probable swanned around, posing charmingly next to charts and slogans. A Famous Feminist talked about sexuality in the Renaissance. A PBS telethon, then. Bloody pointless.
He must have said that aloud, for Clem looked up sharply and struggled to his feet. “Uh, buddy, I can see you’re not in the mood. Say we call it a night?”
Spike nodded, wearily. “Stay if you like, Clem. Not as if I have a lot else to do.” The words of invitation were as flat and unconvincing as could be. Even Clem got the hint. He gathered up his armful of junk food, stumbled to the door and pulled it open. “Hey, pal. Catch you later.”
Spike just didn’t have the energy to switch off the TV. There was time still, he felt. Time to prepare a face to meet his girl. Who would have been preparing her face to meet his.
Why no honesty, ever? She belonged with him, in the dark. He’d told her as much the previous week. She hadn’t been able to deny it. He must be able to find a way to get through to her, to drop the overwhelming question on her plate, to counter all her indecisions and revisions, to present her with the one glowing, effulgent fact of his love in a way she couldn’t deny.
In his dreams she came to him, wreathed in colour, smiles, joy. She didn’t tell him he was wrong, or she was wrong, that the sex what not what she had meant to happen, that he was irrelevant. She sang love songs to him; she called to the soul within him. Even if that soul had gone, long ago.
The door slammed open. The real, human girl, no dream, yet his perpetual dream, stood, arms akimbo, in the doorway, her expression a familiar mix of lust, disgust and fury. The girl who could drown him with a look.
He knew his role. He stood, braced himself and waited for the onslaught of anger and passion. He was no tragic hero, just a bit-player in her story. And play he would. At least he got to enjoy the game that way.
He smirked. The evening had begun. And, if neither of them would be satisfied, or made happy, at least no-one would ever leave this special hell of theirs to report back to the real world beyond.
The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock.
Title: Human Voices Wake Us and We Drown
Author: GillO
Rating: G
Word Count: 769
Prompt: 154 - Classic Literature, Edwardian to Modern
Characters/Pairing (if any) Spike, Clem (Spuffy implied)
A/N: Inspired by TS Eliot's poem The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock. Season 6 of BtVS, shortly after
Dead Things.
Human Voices Wake Us and We Drown
The evening was spread out against the sky, the monuments, tombstones, crypts and, yes, even a bloody angel, silhouetted against the purple and pink. Any minute now it would be dark. Time to roam the streets, wreaking mayhem.
Who was he kidding? That was the old Spike, not the new, whipped version. There was always the chance a Slayer might drop by, reeking of rancid fat and sex, eager to work off the frustrations of the day on his cold, dead flesh. For that he would stay in all night. Just in case.
Besides, what sort of mayhem could a castrated vampire cause anyway?
Spike growled at that thought and rolled off the sarcophagus he had been lying on. His muscles and bruises cried out in protest. He ignored them. Ten paces one way. Turn, side-step, ten back. Coming and going, in the feeble hope that his girl would come, and then he would come with her.
The gravel crunched outside his door. He leapt back. Slamming was the only mode of entry the girl knew, after all, and he really would prefer to start the evening’s fun without a bloody nose to add to the mess she’d made of his face last time.
There was a knock. Not the Slayer, then. Bugger. Dawn again?
He pulled on the door, to see a pair of excited eyes, an eager expression, two enormous tubs of popcorn and fold upon fold of wrinkly flesh. Spike sighed. “Come in, Clem.”
There was a telethon, apparently. Spike let it all wash over him - the garrulous demon, the garish colours, the overloud enthusiasm of the hosts. He wasn’t brooding, exactly - only a poufter would do that - but he was thoughtful. Contemplative. That was the word. How in buggering blazes had the monster who had cut a bloody swathe through Europe ended in quiet domesticity, in a one-up, one-down crypt with the least offensive demon of any Hellmouth, anywhere?
“I owe you for this too, Slayer,” he muttered.
Clem shifted to look at him, saw his expression and, presumably, thought better. The telethon went on.
On the TV the women came and went. Artistic types talked about the world’s great art treasures. Girls with more cleavage than was probable swanned around, posing charmingly next to charts and slogans. A Famous Feminist talked about sexuality in the Renaissance. A PBS telethon, then. Bloody pointless.
He must have said that aloud, for Clem looked up sharply and struggled to his feet. “Uh, buddy, I can see you’re not in the mood. Say we call it a night?”
Spike nodded, wearily. “Stay if you like, Clem. Not as if I have a lot else to do.” The words of invitation were as flat and unconvincing as could be. Even Clem got the hint. He gathered up his armful of junk food, stumbled to the door and pulled it open. “Hey, pal. Catch you later.”
Spike just didn’t have the energy to switch off the TV. There was time still, he felt. Time to prepare a face to meet his girl. Who would have been preparing her face to meet his.
Why no honesty, ever? She belonged with him, in the dark. He’d told her as much the previous week. She hadn’t been able to deny it. He must be able to find a way to get through to her, to drop the overwhelming question on her plate, to counter all her indecisions and revisions, to present her with the one glowing, effulgent fact of his love in a way she couldn’t deny.
In his dreams she came to him, wreathed in colour, smiles, joy. She didn’t tell him he was wrong, or she was wrong, that the sex what not what she had meant to happen, that he was irrelevant. She sang love songs to him; she called to the soul within him. Even if that soul had gone, long ago.
The door slammed open. The real, human girl, no dream, yet his perpetual dream, stood, arms akimbo, in the doorway, her expression a familiar mix of lust, disgust and fury. The girl who could drown him with a look.
He knew his role. He stood, braced himself and waited for the onslaught of anger and passion. He was no tragic hero, just a bit-player in her story. And play he would. At least he got to enjoy the game that way.
He smirked. The evening had begun. And, if neither of them would be satisfied, or made happy, at least no-one would ever leave this special hell of theirs to report back to the real world beyond.