Trapped (BtVS; Spike; PG)
Title: "Trapped"
Author: Pirate Turner
Rating: PG
Summary:
Warnings: None
Word Count: 768
Date Written: 11 June, 2012
Challenge: For a Comment-fic LJ comm's prompt
Disclaimer: Spike, Dawn and Buffy Summers, Willow Rosenberg, all other characters mentioned within, and ReBoot are © & TM their rightful owners, not the author. Everything else is © & TM the author. The author makes absolutely no profit off of this work of fan fiction, and no copyright infringement is intended.
There are things about being human that he misses, but he'll never tell. He doesn't let on to the others that being a big, bad Vampire isn't all it's cracked up to be, that it comes with memories that keep plaguing him no matter how many years he puts between him and the times they really happened, and that it comes, too, with the inability to do other things that so many mortals take for granted.
Some days, he misses the sunlight. He misses walking in the golden rays, their bright warmth shining on his blonde head. He used to miss their heat in the cold of Winter, but California never really gets all that cold unless there's something Supernatural making it that way. The moon is beautiful, but the sun is, too, and he's written many poems, way back before the change, about the golden sunlight and how it makes even the beautiful things in life even lovelier.
He misses the sun, and he even misses the bloody bad poetry on occasion. He never misses being able to walk around the living, talking Happy Meals, however, for he never got along with humans. But sometimes, it would be nice just to take a walk without having to constantly fight off other bads or dames wanting a piece of him. It'd be nice not to have to help the Slayer and to live his own life, be his own man as he thought himself to be for so many years.
But he wasn't his own man even back then when he was the baddest thing to ever walk the Hellmouth. Even when he was wild and answered to no one, he was still trapped. Vampirism is a trap unlike anything any of the mortals can possibly comprehend. You have power and strength, but you don't have the simple right to even eat the foods you like. You're stuck drinking blood all the time instead, and when you're determined to fight your evil nature and be good, the blood loses what little appeal it once held. Who, in their right mind after all, wants to drink blood from a cow?
His black lips curl in disgust as he stares out at the night. He misses being free, but some nights, freedom is scarcely a memory. Other nights, he wonders what it really is for even when he was human, he was trapped. Of course, that was a trap he made for himself as he strove to make a bitch like him and let the laughter of society make him feel less the man he was.
Dawn has no idea why Spike's moping this time. She just knows he looks sad as he stares out at the night. "Hey, Spike," she calls, taking another bite of her favorite comfort food, of which she's eaten far too many pints since her sister died, saving the world yet again, "want some ice cream?"
He glances at her, and for a second, his eyes are pure black. "Dawnie," Willow whispers, placing a hand on Dawn's shoulder, "you know he can't."
"Oh." Dawn's face falls. "I'm sorry. I forgot."
"It's okay," he tells her, his eyes returning to normal, normal for him at least. He's always eager to comfort her for some strange reason he dares not name. He knows she truly meant no harm, but she'll never understand. No one ever will except those like he who are also cursed to live forever in a trap.
"There -- " Willow stutters. Spike's eyes flick up at her. She swallows hard. He grins, glad, at least, that he can always put a woman in her place now. "There's blood in the fridge."
"I'm not hungry," he snarls, turns, and jumps off the front steps. He doesn't want blood. He never has, not really. He used to want the terror, the infliction of pain, and the feeling of possessing strength that came with drinking the blood of the living, but even then, he hadn't wanted it for its taste. Nothing, not even boiled cow's liver, tastes as bad as blood, but he can never have again the tastes he likes except in his memories, that are both too far and too close for his comfort.
There's only one thing left that will comfort Spike, and he runs off into the night, seeking it. He'll find his next opponent. He'll beat them to a bloody pulp, enjoying every hit he delivers and every death he causes, but when the fight's over, he'll still be trapped just as he was before, just as he always will be.
The End
Author: Pirate Turner
Rating: PG
Summary:
Warnings: None
Word Count: 768
Date Written: 11 June, 2012
Challenge: For a Comment-fic LJ comm's prompt
Disclaimer: Spike, Dawn and Buffy Summers, Willow Rosenberg, all other characters mentioned within, and ReBoot are © & TM their rightful owners, not the author. Everything else is © & TM the author. The author makes absolutely no profit off of this work of fan fiction, and no copyright infringement is intended.
There are things about being human that he misses, but he'll never tell. He doesn't let on to the others that being a big, bad Vampire isn't all it's cracked up to be, that it comes with memories that keep plaguing him no matter how many years he puts between him and the times they really happened, and that it comes, too, with the inability to do other things that so many mortals take for granted.
Some days, he misses the sunlight. He misses walking in the golden rays, their bright warmth shining on his blonde head. He used to miss their heat in the cold of Winter, but California never really gets all that cold unless there's something Supernatural making it that way. The moon is beautiful, but the sun is, too, and he's written many poems, way back before the change, about the golden sunlight and how it makes even the beautiful things in life even lovelier.
He misses the sun, and he even misses the bloody bad poetry on occasion. He never misses being able to walk around the living, talking Happy Meals, however, for he never got along with humans. But sometimes, it would be nice just to take a walk without having to constantly fight off other bads or dames wanting a piece of him. It'd be nice not to have to help the Slayer and to live his own life, be his own man as he thought himself to be for so many years.
But he wasn't his own man even back then when he was the baddest thing to ever walk the Hellmouth. Even when he was wild and answered to no one, he was still trapped. Vampirism is a trap unlike anything any of the mortals can possibly comprehend. You have power and strength, but you don't have the simple right to even eat the foods you like. You're stuck drinking blood all the time instead, and when you're determined to fight your evil nature and be good, the blood loses what little appeal it once held. Who, in their right mind after all, wants to drink blood from a cow?
His black lips curl in disgust as he stares out at the night. He misses being free, but some nights, freedom is scarcely a memory. Other nights, he wonders what it really is for even when he was human, he was trapped. Of course, that was a trap he made for himself as he strove to make a bitch like him and let the laughter of society make him feel less the man he was.
Dawn has no idea why Spike's moping this time. She just knows he looks sad as he stares out at the night. "Hey, Spike," she calls, taking another bite of her favorite comfort food, of which she's eaten far too many pints since her sister died, saving the world yet again, "want some ice cream?"
He glances at her, and for a second, his eyes are pure black. "Dawnie," Willow whispers, placing a hand on Dawn's shoulder, "you know he can't."
"Oh." Dawn's face falls. "I'm sorry. I forgot."
"It's okay," he tells her, his eyes returning to normal, normal for him at least. He's always eager to comfort her for some strange reason he dares not name. He knows she truly meant no harm, but she'll never understand. No one ever will except those like he who are also cursed to live forever in a trap.
"There -- " Willow stutters. Spike's eyes flick up at her. She swallows hard. He grins, glad, at least, that he can always put a woman in her place now. "There's blood in the fridge."
"I'm not hungry," he snarls, turns, and jumps off the front steps. He doesn't want blood. He never has, not really. He used to want the terror, the infliction of pain, and the feeling of possessing strength that came with drinking the blood of the living, but even then, he hadn't wanted it for its taste. Nothing, not even boiled cow's liver, tastes as bad as blood, but he can never have again the tastes he likes except in his memories, that are both too far and too close for his comfort.
There's only one thing left that will comfort Spike, and he runs off into the night, seeking it. He'll find his next opponent. He'll beat them to a bloody pulp, enjoying every hit he delivers and every death he causes, but when the fight's over, he'll still be trapped just as he was before, just as he always will be.
The End