Ficlet: Alone
The last of the icondrabbles requested. It took so long because I couldn't fit all I wanted to say in just 100 words.
For comedy42 who wanted a drabble based on this icon:
I didn't quite manage to recede his loneliness but there might be a sequel so don't despair. Spike. 1000 words. No smut at all I'm afraid.
Alone
His whole body aches. Bones that were bent to the point of breaking, muscles stretched until they threatened to snap. Skin covered in bruises and cuts and the smell of his own blood making his head spin. He can smell the other's wounds as well; shallow enough that they'll hardly leave scars, just one more trophy to show off as proof of their victory against evil. When they reach the house they walk in, dragging swords and axes, twirling stakes between their fingers, never once looking back as they close the door behind them. Leaving him alone in the dark, forgotten once again.
His bloody hands tremble as he pulls the last cigarette out of the crumpled packet that's been nestling in the pocket of his coat, the flame shaking as it struggles to reach its goal. The first inhale is always sweetest, warmth spreading through his lungs for one tiny second before it adjusts to the coolness of his body. He can hear them talking inside, relieved laughter and fake bravery bouncing off the glass windows. Children, that's what they are. Young enough to think they're immortal but still experienced enough to feel Death reaching for them, closer and closer each time.
One day one of them will die. Then another and another until there's nothing left but Watcher's diaries and names on gravestones to remember them by. He knows. He's been around for too long, far too long, to believe in anyone's immortality, even his own. Especially his own. Somewhere, out there, there's a stake or a sword or a flickering flame, waiting for him. Sometimes he wonders if maybe sooner would be better than later. After all, not being dead is not the same as being alive and he hasn't felt alive in a long time. Not really.
The tickle running down his face surprises him and he stares at the tear caught on his thumb, not sure whether to laugh at or curse his weakness. They always do this, his tears. Spring on him when he least expects them but the few times he's longed for them they stay stubbornly away. There wasn't even sweat on his skin to soak up his mother's ashes. With a half-hearted snort he flips what little remains of his glowing cigarette into the darkness before wiping his face with the back of his hand and turning on his heel to stalk back to the cemetery. Dawn is only an hour away and he can already feel the ghost of the sun prickling his skin. There's a book waiting by his bed and a bottle of Jack hiding underneath it and for what it's worth he's had worse nights.
As he pushes the door to his crypt open it hits him once again. The coldness, the silence, the utter loneliness that he's been sentenced to, for who would want to share their life with a creature like him? Neither here nor there. A human beast. A laugh really and he would if it didn't hurt his chest so much. He shuts the door quietly behind him, shuts out the world and the children's laughter that has followed him like a loyal dog through the shadows. Shuts out the moon with its grin and silver shimmer and all he's left with is the dark and his own shallow breathing. Once he realises he stops and his tomb falls into silence so heavy that even if he did feel like breathing he wouldn't be able to.
His steps are heavy as well as he makes his way slowly across the crypt and down the unsteady ladder. He should feed, get his strength up, but the fridge is empty once again and has been for days. Another thing they don't remember. Every now and then he'll find a pint in the Watcher's fridge but it's not something he can rely on and that is quite deliberate. Old Ripper likes to remind him who is in charge, or rather, who isn't. He tries not to show them the hunger in his eyes and in return they allow him close enough that he can enjoy the pounding of their hearts. Until his stomach growls, then they can't get far enough away, disgust on their faces and fear scenting the air.
The mattress creaks and complains when burdened with his weight. He can feel blood still seeping through the slash in his side but with luck it will close during the day as he sleeps. He pulls on his t-shirt, hissing in pain as it tugs at his torn flesh but better now than having to pull shreds of fabric from the closed wound tomorrow. Reaching under the bed his still trembling fingers find the bottle and he pours a small amount over the wound before gulping down the rest in one long drink. The numbness creeps in and he lets his arm fall over the side, the bottle slipping from his fingers and rolling across the floor with a hollow sound that seems to represents his state of mind. With an effort he reaches for the book, nudging the piece of paper napkin that keeps his place until the book falls open. His eyes stare unfocused at the words, blurred letters slowly becoming clear and then blurred again before he finishes the first line. The book falls from his hand, tumbling over his chest and with a slap joining the bottle on the floor. A drop of blood is flattened and then soaks its way through layers of paper.
He sleeps. Dreams of family and lost glory play through his mind but he's detached, watching them like a film noir, surrounded by sounds and smells but no touch. Dru dances just beyond his reach, Darla laughs at his tears and Angelus... Angelus shakes his head in sorrow before turning and walking away. And no matter how much he screams not one of them will come to his rescue.
Outside the sun rises on another glorious day.
For comedy42 who wanted a drabble based on this icon:
I didn't quite manage to recede his loneliness but there might be a sequel so don't despair. Spike. 1000 words. No smut at all I'm afraid.
Alone
His whole body aches. Bones that were bent to the point of breaking, muscles stretched until they threatened to snap. Skin covered in bruises and cuts and the smell of his own blood making his head spin. He can smell the other's wounds as well; shallow enough that they'll hardly leave scars, just one more trophy to show off as proof of their victory against evil. When they reach the house they walk in, dragging swords and axes, twirling stakes between their fingers, never once looking back as they close the door behind them. Leaving him alone in the dark, forgotten once again.
His bloody hands tremble as he pulls the last cigarette out of the crumpled packet that's been nestling in the pocket of his coat, the flame shaking as it struggles to reach its goal. The first inhale is always sweetest, warmth spreading through his lungs for one tiny second before it adjusts to the coolness of his body. He can hear them talking inside, relieved laughter and fake bravery bouncing off the glass windows. Children, that's what they are. Young enough to think they're immortal but still experienced enough to feel Death reaching for them, closer and closer each time.
One day one of them will die. Then another and another until there's nothing left but Watcher's diaries and names on gravestones to remember them by. He knows. He's been around for too long, far too long, to believe in anyone's immortality, even his own. Especially his own. Somewhere, out there, there's a stake or a sword or a flickering flame, waiting for him. Sometimes he wonders if maybe sooner would be better than later. After all, not being dead is not the same as being alive and he hasn't felt alive in a long time. Not really.
The tickle running down his face surprises him and he stares at the tear caught on his thumb, not sure whether to laugh at or curse his weakness. They always do this, his tears. Spring on him when he least expects them but the few times he's longed for them they stay stubbornly away. There wasn't even sweat on his skin to soak up his mother's ashes. With a half-hearted snort he flips what little remains of his glowing cigarette into the darkness before wiping his face with the back of his hand and turning on his heel to stalk back to the cemetery. Dawn is only an hour away and he can already feel the ghost of the sun prickling his skin. There's a book waiting by his bed and a bottle of Jack hiding underneath it and for what it's worth he's had worse nights.
As he pushes the door to his crypt open it hits him once again. The coldness, the silence, the utter loneliness that he's been sentenced to, for who would want to share their life with a creature like him? Neither here nor there. A human beast. A laugh really and he would if it didn't hurt his chest so much. He shuts the door quietly behind him, shuts out the world and the children's laughter that has followed him like a loyal dog through the shadows. Shuts out the moon with its grin and silver shimmer and all he's left with is the dark and his own shallow breathing. Once he realises he stops and his tomb falls into silence so heavy that even if he did feel like breathing he wouldn't be able to.
His steps are heavy as well as he makes his way slowly across the crypt and down the unsteady ladder. He should feed, get his strength up, but the fridge is empty once again and has been for days. Another thing they don't remember. Every now and then he'll find a pint in the Watcher's fridge but it's not something he can rely on and that is quite deliberate. Old Ripper likes to remind him who is in charge, or rather, who isn't. He tries not to show them the hunger in his eyes and in return they allow him close enough that he can enjoy the pounding of their hearts. Until his stomach growls, then they can't get far enough away, disgust on their faces and fear scenting the air.
The mattress creaks and complains when burdened with his weight. He can feel blood still seeping through the slash in his side but with luck it will close during the day as he sleeps. He pulls on his t-shirt, hissing in pain as it tugs at his torn flesh but better now than having to pull shreds of fabric from the closed wound tomorrow. Reaching under the bed his still trembling fingers find the bottle and he pours a small amount over the wound before gulping down the rest in one long drink. The numbness creeps in and he lets his arm fall over the side, the bottle slipping from his fingers and rolling across the floor with a hollow sound that seems to represents his state of mind. With an effort he reaches for the book, nudging the piece of paper napkin that keeps his place until the book falls open. His eyes stare unfocused at the words, blurred letters slowly becoming clear and then blurred again before he finishes the first line. The book falls from his hand, tumbling over his chest and with a slap joining the bottle on the floor. A drop of blood is flattened and then soaks its way through layers of paper.
He sleeps. Dreams of family and lost glory play through his mind but he's detached, watching them like a film noir, surrounded by sounds and smells but no touch. Dru dances just beyond his reach, Darla laughs at his tears and Angelus... Angelus shakes his head in sorrow before turning and walking away. And no matter how much he screams not one of them will come to his rescue.
Outside the sun rises on another glorious day.