Hollow [Buffy Fic]
Hollow
Sydney Alexis
Dark. It was so dark, and cold. The stench of death surrounding me. I could barely move. Trembleing hands moving along silky fabric. Clawing at it. Shame. Must have been expensive. Padding. Fiber-fil like in pillows. Where am I? Nails raking back stuffing to find...wood? Memories came flooding back- Glory, the desert, the portal, the warmth, and being ripped from it.
"Oh. God. Oh. God. No!," I hear being repeated like a mantra.
Fists tearing at wood. Coffin. I'm in a coffin. Heart pounding loudly. Blood and pain in my knuckles. Solid wood splintering, giving way. Tears streaming down my face. When did I start crying? She brought me back. She ripped me from my Gift. Gotta get out. Gotta get out and get to Dawn. Lid giving way. I took a one last deep breath and punched the wood above me. Dirt came flooding in. Pushing up, digging myself out. The weight of it crushing my chest. My lungs burning from lack of fresh air. Close to loosing consiousness. Almost there. Then, I feel it- cold air on my hand. I pull myself up and out.
The night air is so cold. The traffic, bugs buzzing, street lamp, people's voices are all so loud. My senses are screaming. I feel pain in my hands. I look down at them. Blue and black mottled flesh, knuckles bleeding, full of splinters. Finger nails nearly as bad. Hands, arms, legs... all dirty. Hair tangled. Defintely not presentable. Need a shower. Change of cloths. Oh God. She brought me back. Have to go home- they'll be waiting. Step. Step. Unsued muscles complaning. Step. Step. Street lamp is too bright. I have to squint to see. Step. Step. Nearly home. Living room lights are on. I can hear voices- Dawn, Xander, Anya - and the TV. More steps. Not sure if I'll make it there. I reach the front door. Locked. Should I knock? No. Back door? I could get upstairs without them noticing. I overhear voices coming from the kitchen. Tara and Willow speaking in hushed tones. It's hard to make out what they are saying...hard to concentrate. Voices are grabled and distant.
"...should return any time now...planets are aligned...put in a beacon..."
"...should tell Dawnie. She has a right to know..."
Their voices began to raise...arguing. Rage builds inside me. It overpowers the few fuzzt thoughts I have. I walk away. Not strong enough yet. Not ready to face any of them- not presentable. Too many questions. Too loud and bright. Too much anger. They just expect me to return. Where can I go? Legs screaming, they carry me along a well-worn path. I push open the heavy door, climb down the ladder, strip off the dirty black outfit, leaving a trail behind me. Bathroom...shower. I make a mental note to burn that outfit as I climb into the shower stall and turn on the water.
My legs finally give out beneath me and I sink to the base. Blood and dirt mix to form gray water. I watch as it swirls down the drain. Scrub away the dirt...the smell of death. Scrub my skin raw so that I feel something...something other than rage. I was dead. I was happy. It was warm and I didn't have to worry about anything.
Body on autopiolt. Wet hair, shampoo, rinse, repeat. Empty actions. Shampoo has odd scent that reminds me of him. The warm spray of the shower beating a path down my back. I draw my knees towards me. So cold. It was so cold. Time passes. An hour? Two? I hear a voice. It's paniced. Metal on metal- the crypt door is being opened. The shower curtain is pryed back. He has an awestruck look on his face. The situation would have been laughable before, but somehow, I felt nothing- no anger, no embarassment. Nothing. I continued rocking back and forth. Movement made me warm. The shower made me warm. Cruel hands reached behind and shut off the shower. Still felt dirty and cold. More voices. Loud voices. A soft hand on my shoulder. Cool and inviting. I turn into it.
"Buffy? Buffy? Speak to me. You're scaring me." The voice finally registers in my mind. I turn towards the souce. Can't be. Must be a dream.
"Spike?" I manage stammer. Parched throat burning in protest. I feel arms wrapping themselves around me. I make no move to return his embrace.
"Is it really you?" I hear him ask, squeezing me harder.
"So cold," I mutter. Body trembling, teeth chattering. He helped me up and wrapped me in a towel. In one fluid motion, I'm in his arms being carried toward his bed. His crypt is blessedly dark. No loud noises like before. After tucking me beneath the covers, his eyes locked on to mine. Such emotion behind them. Slowly, cautiously, he reached towards me and began stroking my hair. I heard myself sigh contendly.
"Is this real or am I dreamin'? Cuz if it's a dream, I don't want to wake up," I heard him mutter.
His eyes began to tear up as he took my hands in his. "Thought I smelled fresh blood." Pausing to look at the wounds, his eyes darted back to mine. I could see his throat tighten, thick emotion coloring his voice. "You had to claw your way out, didn't you?"
I looked down at them then back at him. Speaking was difficult. Somehow, he knew instictively without needing me to speak. My eyelids were closing of their own accord. I felt rather than watched him move from my side, nearly nodding off in the time it took him to get back. The feel of the matress dipping under his weight signaled his return, first aid kit in hand. Using tweezers, he removed the slivers of wood from my knuckles and beneath my nails. Alcohol wipes to clean up the dried blood, the freshly flowing bits, and ward off infection. In all that time, I felt nothing. No pain. The rage from earlier was buried but not totally.
"Want me to take you home?"
"No," I said quickly. His look was that of confusion and hope. I knew he was waiting for me to offer some for of explanation I wasn't ready to give.
"Rest then," he said, standing to leave. I reached out and grabbed his wrist. I didn't want to be alone. There was something comforting about his presence. I knew the rational Buffy wouldn't ever consider asking this of him, but the rational Buffy didn't just 'wake up.'
"Stay," I said, softly, adding "please." He looked as though he was torn. Torn and confused. He represented the two things that meant the world to me- unconditional love and the presence of Death that I found comforting.
A/N: Set post Gift. Written before S7 started. Found it on my drive and decided to post it. Might add more when I have more time.
Sydney Alexis
Dark. It was so dark, and cold. The stench of death surrounding me. I could barely move. Trembleing hands moving along silky fabric. Clawing at it. Shame. Must have been expensive. Padding. Fiber-fil like in pillows. Where am I? Nails raking back stuffing to find...wood? Memories came flooding back- Glory, the desert, the portal, the warmth, and being ripped from it.
"Oh. God. Oh. God. No!," I hear being repeated like a mantra.
Fists tearing at wood. Coffin. I'm in a coffin. Heart pounding loudly. Blood and pain in my knuckles. Solid wood splintering, giving way. Tears streaming down my face. When did I start crying? She brought me back. She ripped me from my Gift. Gotta get out. Gotta get out and get to Dawn. Lid giving way. I took a one last deep breath and punched the wood above me. Dirt came flooding in. Pushing up, digging myself out. The weight of it crushing my chest. My lungs burning from lack of fresh air. Close to loosing consiousness. Almost there. Then, I feel it- cold air on my hand. I pull myself up and out.
The night air is so cold. The traffic, bugs buzzing, street lamp, people's voices are all so loud. My senses are screaming. I feel pain in my hands. I look down at them. Blue and black mottled flesh, knuckles bleeding, full of splinters. Finger nails nearly as bad. Hands, arms, legs... all dirty. Hair tangled. Defintely not presentable. Need a shower. Change of cloths. Oh God. She brought me back. Have to go home- they'll be waiting. Step. Step. Unsued muscles complaning. Step. Step. Street lamp is too bright. I have to squint to see. Step. Step. Nearly home. Living room lights are on. I can hear voices- Dawn, Xander, Anya - and the TV. More steps. Not sure if I'll make it there. I reach the front door. Locked. Should I knock? No. Back door? I could get upstairs without them noticing. I overhear voices coming from the kitchen. Tara and Willow speaking in hushed tones. It's hard to make out what they are saying...hard to concentrate. Voices are grabled and distant.
"...should return any time now...planets are aligned...put in a beacon..."
"...should tell Dawnie. She has a right to know..."
Their voices began to raise...arguing. Rage builds inside me. It overpowers the few fuzzt thoughts I have. I walk away. Not strong enough yet. Not ready to face any of them- not presentable. Too many questions. Too loud and bright. Too much anger. They just expect me to return. Where can I go? Legs screaming, they carry me along a well-worn path. I push open the heavy door, climb down the ladder, strip off the dirty black outfit, leaving a trail behind me. Bathroom...shower. I make a mental note to burn that outfit as I climb into the shower stall and turn on the water.
My legs finally give out beneath me and I sink to the base. Blood and dirt mix to form gray water. I watch as it swirls down the drain. Scrub away the dirt...the smell of death. Scrub my skin raw so that I feel something...something other than rage. I was dead. I was happy. It was warm and I didn't have to worry about anything.
Body on autopiolt. Wet hair, shampoo, rinse, repeat. Empty actions. Shampoo has odd scent that reminds me of him. The warm spray of the shower beating a path down my back. I draw my knees towards me. So cold. It was so cold. Time passes. An hour? Two? I hear a voice. It's paniced. Metal on metal- the crypt door is being opened. The shower curtain is pryed back. He has an awestruck look on his face. The situation would have been laughable before, but somehow, I felt nothing- no anger, no embarassment. Nothing. I continued rocking back and forth. Movement made me warm. The shower made me warm. Cruel hands reached behind and shut off the shower. Still felt dirty and cold. More voices. Loud voices. A soft hand on my shoulder. Cool and inviting. I turn into it.
"Buffy? Buffy? Speak to me. You're scaring me." The voice finally registers in my mind. I turn towards the souce. Can't be. Must be a dream.
"Spike?" I manage stammer. Parched throat burning in protest. I feel arms wrapping themselves around me. I make no move to return his embrace.
"Is it really you?" I hear him ask, squeezing me harder.
"So cold," I mutter. Body trembling, teeth chattering. He helped me up and wrapped me in a towel. In one fluid motion, I'm in his arms being carried toward his bed. His crypt is blessedly dark. No loud noises like before. After tucking me beneath the covers, his eyes locked on to mine. Such emotion behind them. Slowly, cautiously, he reached towards me and began stroking my hair. I heard myself sigh contendly.
"Is this real or am I dreamin'? Cuz if it's a dream, I don't want to wake up," I heard him mutter.
His eyes began to tear up as he took my hands in his. "Thought I smelled fresh blood." Pausing to look at the wounds, his eyes darted back to mine. I could see his throat tighten, thick emotion coloring his voice. "You had to claw your way out, didn't you?"
I looked down at them then back at him. Speaking was difficult. Somehow, he knew instictively without needing me to speak. My eyelids were closing of their own accord. I felt rather than watched him move from my side, nearly nodding off in the time it took him to get back. The feel of the matress dipping under his weight signaled his return, first aid kit in hand. Using tweezers, he removed the slivers of wood from my knuckles and beneath my nails. Alcohol wipes to clean up the dried blood, the freshly flowing bits, and ward off infection. In all that time, I felt nothing. No pain. The rage from earlier was buried but not totally.
"Want me to take you home?"
"No," I said quickly. His look was that of confusion and hope. I knew he was waiting for me to offer some for of explanation I wasn't ready to give.
"Rest then," he said, standing to leave. I reached out and grabbed his wrist. I didn't want to be alone. There was something comforting about his presence. I knew the rational Buffy wouldn't ever consider asking this of him, but the rational Buffy didn't just 'wake up.'
"Stay," I said, softly, adding "please." He looked as though he was torn. Torn and confused. He represented the two things that meant the world to me- unconditional love and the presence of Death that I found comforting.
A/N: Set post Gift. Written before S7 started. Found it on my drive and decided to post it. Might add more when I have more time.