(no subject)
Standing on Union Street in the chill darkness of a December's eve in London, he was only a few blocks from where the home he and his mother had shared had been. On the third day, he'd gone to look, finding that the buildings weren't quite what he remembered. In place of their brownstone was a candlemaker's shoppe, and he'd gone inside, coming out with nothing to show for the trip but a beeswax pillar that he'd left burning in the window of his flat that night.
Funny thing, he'd been certain these were issues he'd worked through. He'd been so sure. But a century of loss, of separation, had not faded the memory of his mother's face from his mind, and now, faced with this city, he saw her on every street corner. Felt her in every inch of his flat. Heard her voice in every howl of the wind. In every alleyway, he saw Dru, dark hair and yellow eyes, and he felt a longing he'd been so sure he'd shaken years ago.
But it was mother that the city reminded him of most.
Luckily, he was still himself. The city had not brought the return of William, though the clothes might have suggested otherwise. Collar turned up against the cold, hat tipped low over hair that had grown out to it's natural honey blonde, he hurried toward the pub down the street, hoping for a bit of warmth and a pint.
That's when he heard it.
It was nothing but a tinkling at first, barely a tune, but it grew stronger as he walked. It had no pull on him, no power the way it had back in Sunnydale when the First had been rooting around in his skull, but it was so familiar... so full of memory and pain, he felt the breath taken from him, his heart seizing in his chest.
Sitting on the stoop of a darkened office building, was a tiny music box. It stood open, that familiar tune clanking from within. With a growl, he stalked towards it, slamming the lid shut and lifting the mahogany box in his hands. His father had given it to her for an anniversary, when William was still small. Before Father had passed. Back when mother was still young and healthy and beautiful. He knew without looking that inside would be her jewelry. Not the most valuable or flashy, but the pieces which held the most sentiment. Her favorite pieces.
With a sigh, Spike sat on that darkened stoop, the box resting on his knee, and thought of his mother. But in his memories, she was not young or beautiful or smiling. In his memories, just then, she was sneering, yellow-eyed and hungry.
He might have claimed that he'd come to terms with what he'd done, that he'd come to terms with all those awful things she'd said, but that hadn't erased the memory from his mind. A thousand years wouldn't be enough for that.
[[Find him on the west side of the river, sitting on any stoop you'd like. He probably won't be receptive to strangers, but now is a perfect time for friends. Also note, as the post said, his hair is honey blonde instead of platinum, but cut short in his usual style. ST/LT always welcome.]]
Funny thing, he'd been certain these were issues he'd worked through. He'd been so sure. But a century of loss, of separation, had not faded the memory of his mother's face from his mind, and now, faced with this city, he saw her on every street corner. Felt her in every inch of his flat. Heard her voice in every howl of the wind. In every alleyway, he saw Dru, dark hair and yellow eyes, and he felt a longing he'd been so sure he'd shaken years ago.
But it was mother that the city reminded him of most.
Luckily, he was still himself. The city had not brought the return of William, though the clothes might have suggested otherwise. Collar turned up against the cold, hat tipped low over hair that had grown out to it's natural honey blonde, he hurried toward the pub down the street, hoping for a bit of warmth and a pint.
That's when he heard it.
It was nothing but a tinkling at first, barely a tune, but it grew stronger as he walked. It had no pull on him, no power the way it had back in Sunnydale when the First had been rooting around in his skull, but it was so familiar... so full of memory and pain, he felt the breath taken from him, his heart seizing in his chest.
Sitting on the stoop of a darkened office building, was a tiny music box. It stood open, that familiar tune clanking from within. With a growl, he stalked towards it, slamming the lid shut and lifting the mahogany box in his hands. His father had given it to her for an anniversary, when William was still small. Before Father had passed. Back when mother was still young and healthy and beautiful. He knew without looking that inside would be her jewelry. Not the most valuable or flashy, but the pieces which held the most sentiment. Her favorite pieces.
With a sigh, Spike sat on that darkened stoop, the box resting on his knee, and thought of his mother. But in his memories, she was not young or beautiful or smiling. In his memories, just then, she was sneering, yellow-eyed and hungry.
He might have claimed that he'd come to terms with what he'd done, that he'd come to terms with all those awful things she'd said, but that hadn't erased the memory from his mind. A thousand years wouldn't be enough for that.
[[Find him on the west side of the river, sitting on any stoop you'd like. He probably won't be receptive to strangers, but now is a perfect time for friends. Also note, as the post said, his hair is honey blonde instead of platinum, but cut short in his usual style. ST/LT always welcome.]]