(no subject)
Title: Psalm 34
Author: skull_theatre
Rating: G
Word Count: 807
Prompt: 011 - Sunnydale Cemetary
Characters/Pairing (if any): Spike
Episode: BtVS - Lies My Parents Told Me
He yanked the edges of the leather trench coat tighter around himself and ducked his head and walked away from Buffy and from Wood and from that garage and those memories and into the young night. As soon as he was away, he began to run.
He wanted to be winded, feel his lungs heave, to have to pull great gasps of air into his body, make his heart pound, his ears ring with it, his legs tremble, force his muscles to cramp into his soft insides and around his bones. But all that was so much impotent longing as the finely-tuned physique that was his body moved and flexed and performed just like the flesh machine it was. Raising his head he roared at the dark heavens and ran on, his booted soles slamming against the sidewalk.
His deceitful feet carried him to the cemetery and he vaulted over the low iron fence and dodged his own legs out from under him and came down hard on the ground. And lay there, his eyes closed.
Finally, he turned his head, and laid his face against the grass and stared vacantly into the night. Even his eyes betrayed him and the tears would not fall but his soul wept blood.
He wanted to feel human, physically, surround his human soul with mortal coil. This vessel would not be able to hold the contents. Soon. Very soon. He could feel a truth in that, could feel the strain and struggle of it. The sunlight bright soul, fought to be reinstated, burnt him from the inside out, his still-life heart, broken for the sake of a girl, staked him from the inside out.
He felt small. And the universe so dauntingly immense. He was too simple a creature for such complexities. Was that true? Was that a true thing about him? Slowly, he climbed back to his feet, his shoulders hunched, his lower lip caught beneath his strong top teeth as he tried to reason it out. But that was certainly too large a puzzle, he narrowed his eyes and let all the rest of it fall away and focused on what had just occurred, his mother, the trigger, the slayer’s child, vengeance and revenge, the game, and the girl.
And amongst it all, the swagger.
His sturm and drang of a century had become ridiculous posturizing, although it seemed he was the only one to hear that. He’d kill Wood, he’d told her so. Right, that. Would he? He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as he remembered. There had been one crazy moment, hunkered down in front of Wood, wanting, needing to tell the other man about his own mum. His mother the trigger. In that moment, Wood bleeding and crying and he the Angel of Death hovering over him, he had very nearly reached out to take the other man into his arms. And rock him. Hold him.
With a sudden insane fury he wrenched the coat of Wood’s dead mother from his body and vamped he swung it like a weapon against the stone marker nearest and flailed at the air and the ground with it. He screamed out, his voice breaking, and he balled the trench and threw it away from him. And it unfolded in the air and came down on a headstone several graves away as though it had been set aside purposely and with care and foresight.
He slammed his fists together and winced. Then unfurled his fingers and palm to palm, brought his hands up in supplication, beneath his feet the dead lay still and quiet, saints and sinners, in the same graveyard, in the same plots, in the same body. He rested his forehead on his tented fingers then dropped his hands to his side and looked over at the trench coat.
He walked over to the grave and reached up and pulled his t-shirt over his head and dropped it at his feet, then unbuckled his belt and with a quick tug down on the fly undid the buttons of his jeans. He kicked off his boots and slid the jeans down and kicked out of them as well. He bent and picked up the leather trench and stood still for a very long moment, holding the coat in his hands, staring down into the fathomless blackness of it. Slowly, slowly he pulled it on, left arm, right arm, flicked the collar down into place, wrapped it around him and he lowered himself to the earth, beside the headstone, lay down, curled into the curve of mounded grass against cold marble, brought his knees up to his chest, he pulled the trench closed around his body and held himself tightly in his own arms. Rocked himself inside the coat of the dead slayer. The amnion and cilicium.
Author: skull_theatre
Rating: G
Word Count: 807
Prompt: 011 - Sunnydale Cemetary
Characters/Pairing (if any): Spike
Episode: BtVS - Lies My Parents Told Me
He yanked the edges of the leather trench coat tighter around himself and ducked his head and walked away from Buffy and from Wood and from that garage and those memories and into the young night. As soon as he was away, he began to run.
He wanted to be winded, feel his lungs heave, to have to pull great gasps of air into his body, make his heart pound, his ears ring with it, his legs tremble, force his muscles to cramp into his soft insides and around his bones. But all that was so much impotent longing as the finely-tuned physique that was his body moved and flexed and performed just like the flesh machine it was. Raising his head he roared at the dark heavens and ran on, his booted soles slamming against the sidewalk.
His deceitful feet carried him to the cemetery and he vaulted over the low iron fence and dodged his own legs out from under him and came down hard on the ground. And lay there, his eyes closed.
Finally, he turned his head, and laid his face against the grass and stared vacantly into the night. Even his eyes betrayed him and the tears would not fall but his soul wept blood.
He wanted to feel human, physically, surround his human soul with mortal coil. This vessel would not be able to hold the contents. Soon. Very soon. He could feel a truth in that, could feel the strain and struggle of it. The sunlight bright soul, fought to be reinstated, burnt him from the inside out, his still-life heart, broken for the sake of a girl, staked him from the inside out.
He felt small. And the universe so dauntingly immense. He was too simple a creature for such complexities. Was that true? Was that a true thing about him? Slowly, he climbed back to his feet, his shoulders hunched, his lower lip caught beneath his strong top teeth as he tried to reason it out. But that was certainly too large a puzzle, he narrowed his eyes and let all the rest of it fall away and focused on what had just occurred, his mother, the trigger, the slayer’s child, vengeance and revenge, the game, and the girl.
And amongst it all, the swagger.
His sturm and drang of a century had become ridiculous posturizing, although it seemed he was the only one to hear that. He’d kill Wood, he’d told her so. Right, that. Would he? He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as he remembered. There had been one crazy moment, hunkered down in front of Wood, wanting, needing to tell the other man about his own mum. His mother the trigger. In that moment, Wood bleeding and crying and he the Angel of Death hovering over him, he had very nearly reached out to take the other man into his arms. And rock him. Hold him.
With a sudden insane fury he wrenched the coat of Wood’s dead mother from his body and vamped he swung it like a weapon against the stone marker nearest and flailed at the air and the ground with it. He screamed out, his voice breaking, and he balled the trench and threw it away from him. And it unfolded in the air and came down on a headstone several graves away as though it had been set aside purposely and with care and foresight.
He slammed his fists together and winced. Then unfurled his fingers and palm to palm, brought his hands up in supplication, beneath his feet the dead lay still and quiet, saints and sinners, in the same graveyard, in the same plots, in the same body. He rested his forehead on his tented fingers then dropped his hands to his side and looked over at the trench coat.
He walked over to the grave and reached up and pulled his t-shirt over his head and dropped it at his feet, then unbuckled his belt and with a quick tug down on the fly undid the buttons of his jeans. He kicked off his boots and slid the jeans down and kicked out of them as well. He bent and picked up the leather trench and stood still for a very long moment, holding the coat in his hands, staring down into the fathomless blackness of it. Slowly, slowly he pulled it on, left arm, right arm, flicked the collar down into place, wrapped it around him and he lowered himself to the earth, beside the headstone, lay down, curled into the curve of mounded grass against cold marble, brought his knees up to his chest, he pulled the trench closed around his body and held himself tightly in his own arms. Rocked himself inside the coat of the dead slayer. The amnion and cilicium.