Ficlet: Not Breathing
Author Brutti ma buoni
Title Not Breathing
Rating P13, language only
Words c190
Setting s6: After Life
Prompt fill fag end. Possibly burnt out too, if you squint
A/N Just so you know, I *cannot possibly* join another regular challenge community and... oh. Damn. Look what happened.
Breathe in. And out.
(Well, not breathe. But 121 years on from death, Spike’s never really found a better word for it. Not when you’re using your respiratory system to ingest the smoky byproducts of burnt tobacco, anyway. Take that, lungs. You’re bugger all use otherwise.)
Inhale, exhale. (Okay, he has other words. Not thinking too clearly tonight.)
Why is he thinking about vampire trivia? Focusing on routine fag smoking’s something he grew out of more than a century past.
He was trying not to think of something...
Her.
In the ground. Rotten and gone. Breathless.
Now back and living. But looking like a wreck of her own ghost, bloody of limb, vacant of eye, absent of spirit.
He’s still so bloody happy she’s back. And terrified of what those fuckwitted kids did to bring her, and how long she’ll stay. Or short.
Can’t face that loss again.
May have to.
Can’t.
Down to the fag end now. Chuck it away and grind it out. Time to face the new reality.
He’s just about to leave Revello Drive when said fuckwits exit the house and catch his angry tears.
Title Not Breathing
Rating P13, language only
Words c190
Setting s6: After Life
Prompt fill fag end. Possibly burnt out too, if you squint
A/N Just so you know, I *cannot possibly* join another regular challenge community and... oh. Damn. Look what happened.
Breathe in. And out.
(Well, not breathe. But 121 years on from death, Spike’s never really found a better word for it. Not when you’re using your respiratory system to ingest the smoky byproducts of burnt tobacco, anyway. Take that, lungs. You’re bugger all use otherwise.)
Inhale, exhale. (Okay, he has other words. Not thinking too clearly tonight.)
Why is he thinking about vampire trivia? Focusing on routine fag smoking’s something he grew out of more than a century past.
He was trying not to think of something...
Her.
In the ground. Rotten and gone. Breathless.
Now back and living. But looking like a wreck of her own ghost, bloody of limb, vacant of eye, absent of spirit.
He’s still so bloody happy she’s back. And terrified of what those fuckwitted kids did to bring her, and how long she’ll stay. Or short.
Can’t face that loss again.
May have to.
Can’t.
Down to the fag end now. Chuck it away and grind it out. Time to face the new reality.
He’s just about to leave Revello Drive when said fuckwits exit the house and catch his angry tears.