Fic: Bloody Awful Learning Process
I took four linked fics from the sb_fag_ends Halloween challenge and revised them, extending them a little and tying them together to make something that worked as a single piece.
Be warned, though: this means three Bloody Awful poems within a relatively short space.
Rating: PG13 because of Spike's swearing.
Length: 1,322 words.
Bloody Awful Learning Process
“The bride was blooming, fresh and gay,
She almost danced into the church.
She laughed to think her wedding day
Had come, not left her in the lurch.
“For many an anguished year she’d staid
Awaiting her true lover’s kiss,
For dread of dying an old maid
She’d all but taken vows amiss
“An evil black-brow’d broody man
Had almost swept her heart away
Had stol’n her young faith then ran
Far off to LA’s brightest day.
“But lo, at almost her last gasp,
A wiry hero stepped right out
And seized her in his loving grasp
Knowing his heart was hers throughout.
“And thus she danced and thus she sang
Her love was waiting up the aisle
The bells up in the steeple rang
The people singing all the while.”
Giles looked up. “You think there are problems with the scansion? Just the scansion?”
“Well, yes. Know I’m a crap poet. Thought you might offer a word of advice.”
“Spike. Listen to me carefully. I know you love her. She is determined to have you. Be content with that, and the fact that her friends and family are more or less resigned to it. But the poetry? My best advice, and I am being completely sincere with this. Whatever your day job is? Don’t give it up quite yet.”
*****
The edges of the sheets of paper crumpled in his hand irritated his palm more than a little, but he ignored the discomfort and focused on kicking the hell out of a can all the way across town.
He knew he should not have asked for help. He knew his poetry was crap. Cecily had made it plain. Those bastard self-appointed critics had made it plain. They had paid for it very unpleasantly indeed only a week later, and he did allow himself a few, a very few minutes of contemplation of doing the same to Giles. A railway spike was an American invention he had built an entire reputation on in the past, and introducing Dear Rupert to the business end of one had its attractions. Not for long though - the thought of what exactly his Slayer might do to him was a pretty good deterrent.
“Don’t give up the day job.” What bloody day job? What role or function did he even have in this new post-Sunnydale world? Hanger-on by Appointment to the Senior Slayer? A right comedown for a former Scourge of Europe ™.
Bugger it. His poetry might be crap - must be if the Magnificent Pouf had admired it - but at least it was his. And Buffy liked poems. She’d told him so. She’d even said nice things about one of his once. So had that rowdy bunch back in LA for that matter.
Rupert Giles was just wrong. That was all. Oh, and too bloody up himself to be capable of recognising the fact too. Sodding arrogant Oxonian - did he even realise William had been to the Other University? Did he have any respect at all for a man three times his age with a lot of experience (some of it highly educational) to show for it? Bleeding arselicker from way back.
Yes, he ought to have known better than go to that quarter for literary advice. No chance of anything sensible or useful there.
He gave the can a final, vicious kick and watched it soar over the roof of the neighbour’s house. Pity it wasn’t Rupes, really. But no, poor old Spike had to kowtow, just to keep the sodding peace, had to keep the superannuated librarian happy so his Slayer didn’t get upset.
Didn’t mean he had to follow the git’s advice though. He had some verses in mind which she would at least say she liked.
A few stanzas would get him into a much better mood. He’d be a good man again, however lousy a poet he remained.
*****
The house he shared with his Slayer was exactly the sort he would have scorned when he’d seen this area as a good food source. Back then it had been an artisan’s home, with lots of kids, one general servant, no clothes nice enough to tempt Dru and neighbours close and likely to raise the alarm at the sounds of horrified screams. Now it was a des res in a gentrified neighbourhood, but Buffy seemed to like it, even if all the things the agent had shown off as ‘original features’ were mostly fakes. The front door was certainly a damned sight newer than it seemed.
He jammed the key savagely in the lock. Fakes and frauds and memories of his days as a Victorian gent. Not the sort of thing he enjoyed recalling; too close to the humiliation that had turned him to the path of darkness. He stepped inside and slammed the door shut, then paused, waiting for a familiar voice to be raised in irritation and chiding.
No, she wasn’t home yet. Good. He slung his coat on the newel-post and strode into the room she called a den but he considered his book-room. What? There were books in it weren’t there? Not as if his Slayer read them so much, but he quite enjoyed reading the stuff that had been so racy in his youth that he’d actually hidden it from Mother. Flaubert, Hardy, Baudelaire. Especially that latter - filthy little Frog he’d been. Lovely taste in nasty poems; they’d suited him and Dru very well way back then.
Wasn’t in the mood for that bunch tonight, though. Stay away from the memories, Spike. Had to prove himself, didn’t he? Not to that wanker Rupert, of course. He’d have to wait a long time before he’d be offered another sight of the effusions of Spike’s soul.
Not to himself either. Not as if he was insecure after all. His poetry might not have been Tennyson, but it was better than Swinburne at the very least. He just hadn’t found the right mode. Ballads were too simple for his ideas. No wonder Giles didn’t get him. Or them.
No, he’d go elsewhere for a model tonight. Only the best was good enough for Buffy, after all. Sonnets were the thing.
He started writing.
That time of year has long gone past for me
When autumn accents metaphored my life
I’ve gone through many seasons feeling free
Yet tied and shackled to unending strife
My love is given rarely and to one
Who must to me perfection represent
‘Twas once my gorgeous dark and wicked plum
Pure evil magic seeming devil-sent
But then I met a burst of sunshine rays
A tiny, lithe, impossible half-dream
Whose anger and intensity amaze
As much as laughter and my sexy queen
I have no choice - my love I must engage
To seek and follow her through every age.
At least the sodding thing scanned. Shakespearean it was not. Bloody Wanker was right. He was crap at writing, crap at poetry, crap at everything.
One last try. If his youth kept on forcing itself into his memories, then choose something fashionable back then. The sort of thing that always pleased the ladies.
An Acrostic.
Be still, unbeating heart
Unused to joy
For now indeed your day has come to pass.
Free and unchained
Your love will live at last.
She said it once
Under a rocky ledge
My hand entwined in hers.
My soul sparked up, in glorious light
Effulgent as it blazed
Returned, I thought to stay away
So not a good idea.
Spike scowled, crumpled the pages and threw both into the corner of the room.
He sat, slumped, with his head in his hands, for a good ten minutes. Then he retrieved the sheets, smoothed them with infinite care and opened the little marquetry box on his desk. He placed his latest pieces of rubbish with all the others, then closed the box.
It took some effort. The box was nearly full.
Yes, this is a shameless plea for comments.
Be warned, though: this means three Bloody Awful poems within a relatively short space.
Rating: PG13 because of Spike's swearing.
Length: 1,322 words.
Bloody Awful Learning Process
“The bride was blooming, fresh and gay,
She almost danced into the church.
She laughed to think her wedding day
Had come, not left her in the lurch.
“For many an anguished year she’d staid
Awaiting her true lover’s kiss,
For dread of dying an old maid
She’d all but taken vows amiss
“An evil black-brow’d broody man
Had almost swept her heart away
Had stol’n her young faith then ran
Far off to LA’s brightest day.
“But lo, at almost her last gasp,
A wiry hero stepped right out
And seized her in his loving grasp
Knowing his heart was hers throughout.
“And thus she danced and thus she sang
Her love was waiting up the aisle
The bells up in the steeple rang
The people singing all the while.”
Giles looked up. “You think there are problems with the scansion? Just the scansion?”
“Well, yes. Know I’m a crap poet. Thought you might offer a word of advice.”
“Spike. Listen to me carefully. I know you love her. She is determined to have you. Be content with that, and the fact that her friends and family are more or less resigned to it. But the poetry? My best advice, and I am being completely sincere with this. Whatever your day job is? Don’t give it up quite yet.”
*****
The edges of the sheets of paper crumpled in his hand irritated his palm more than a little, but he ignored the discomfort and focused on kicking the hell out of a can all the way across town.
He knew he should not have asked for help. He knew his poetry was crap. Cecily had made it plain. Those bastard self-appointed critics had made it plain. They had paid for it very unpleasantly indeed only a week later, and he did allow himself a few, a very few minutes of contemplation of doing the same to Giles. A railway spike was an American invention he had built an entire reputation on in the past, and introducing Dear Rupert to the business end of one had its attractions. Not for long though - the thought of what exactly his Slayer might do to him was a pretty good deterrent.
“Don’t give up the day job.” What bloody day job? What role or function did he even have in this new post-Sunnydale world? Hanger-on by Appointment to the Senior Slayer? A right comedown for a former Scourge of Europe ™.
Bugger it. His poetry might be crap - must be if the Magnificent Pouf had admired it - but at least it was his. And Buffy liked poems. She’d told him so. She’d even said nice things about one of his once. So had that rowdy bunch back in LA for that matter.
Rupert Giles was just wrong. That was all. Oh, and too bloody up himself to be capable of recognising the fact too. Sodding arrogant Oxonian - did he even realise William had been to the Other University? Did he have any respect at all for a man three times his age with a lot of experience (some of it highly educational) to show for it? Bleeding arselicker from way back.
Yes, he ought to have known better than go to that quarter for literary advice. No chance of anything sensible or useful there.
He gave the can a final, vicious kick and watched it soar over the roof of the neighbour’s house. Pity it wasn’t Rupes, really. But no, poor old Spike had to kowtow, just to keep the sodding peace, had to keep the superannuated librarian happy so his Slayer didn’t get upset.
Didn’t mean he had to follow the git’s advice though. He had some verses in mind which she would at least say she liked.
A few stanzas would get him into a much better mood. He’d be a good man again, however lousy a poet he remained.
*****
The house he shared with his Slayer was exactly the sort he would have scorned when he’d seen this area as a good food source. Back then it had been an artisan’s home, with lots of kids, one general servant, no clothes nice enough to tempt Dru and neighbours close and likely to raise the alarm at the sounds of horrified screams. Now it was a des res in a gentrified neighbourhood, but Buffy seemed to like it, even if all the things the agent had shown off as ‘original features’ were mostly fakes. The front door was certainly a damned sight newer than it seemed.
He jammed the key savagely in the lock. Fakes and frauds and memories of his days as a Victorian gent. Not the sort of thing he enjoyed recalling; too close to the humiliation that had turned him to the path of darkness. He stepped inside and slammed the door shut, then paused, waiting for a familiar voice to be raised in irritation and chiding.
No, she wasn’t home yet. Good. He slung his coat on the newel-post and strode into the room she called a den but he considered his book-room. What? There were books in it weren’t there? Not as if his Slayer read them so much, but he quite enjoyed reading the stuff that had been so racy in his youth that he’d actually hidden it from Mother. Flaubert, Hardy, Baudelaire. Especially that latter - filthy little Frog he’d been. Lovely taste in nasty poems; they’d suited him and Dru very well way back then.
Wasn’t in the mood for that bunch tonight, though. Stay away from the memories, Spike. Had to prove himself, didn’t he? Not to that wanker Rupert, of course. He’d have to wait a long time before he’d be offered another sight of the effusions of Spike’s soul.
Not to himself either. Not as if he was insecure after all. His poetry might not have been Tennyson, but it was better than Swinburne at the very least. He just hadn’t found the right mode. Ballads were too simple for his ideas. No wonder Giles didn’t get him. Or them.
No, he’d go elsewhere for a model tonight. Only the best was good enough for Buffy, after all. Sonnets were the thing.
He started writing.
That time of year has long gone past for me
When autumn accents metaphored my life
I’ve gone through many seasons feeling free
Yet tied and shackled to unending strife
My love is given rarely and to one
Who must to me perfection represent
‘Twas once my gorgeous dark and wicked plum
Pure evil magic seeming devil-sent
But then I met a burst of sunshine rays
A tiny, lithe, impossible half-dream
Whose anger and intensity amaze
As much as laughter and my sexy queen
I have no choice - my love I must engage
To seek and follow her through every age.
At least the sodding thing scanned. Shakespearean it was not. Bloody Wanker was right. He was crap at writing, crap at poetry, crap at everything.
One last try. If his youth kept on forcing itself into his memories, then choose something fashionable back then. The sort of thing that always pleased the ladies.
An Acrostic.
Be still, unbeating heart
Unused to joy
For now indeed your day has come to pass.
Free and unchained
Your love will live at last.
She said it once
Under a rocky ledge
My hand entwined in hers.
My soul sparked up, in glorious light
Effulgent as it blazed
Returned, I thought to stay away
So not a good idea.
Spike scowled, crumpled the pages and threw both into the corner of the room.
He sat, slumped, with his head in his hands, for a good ten minutes. Then he retrieved the sheets, smoothed them with infinite care and opened the little marquetry box on his desk. He placed his latest pieces of rubbish with all the others, then closed the box.
It took some effort. The box was nearly full.
Yes, this is a shameless plea for comments.