The Sorrowful Tale of Miss Kitty Fantastico - Ch.12: Spike,Dawn,Clem
TITLE: The Sorrowful Tale of Miss Kitty Fantastico - Ch.12: by myfeetshowit
Characters: Spike,Dawn,Clem
Summary: Buffy is dead and Dawn’s fifteenth birthday is coming up. A penniless Spike wants to get her the greatest present ever. It proves to be harder than he expected. He encounters kittens, and Clem and nosehairs and learns some valuable lessons about life.
Rating: PG for swearing
Warnings/Notes: A Sunnydale version of a Victorian Morality Play. Inspired by Kipling’s ‘Just So’ stories and served with a side dish of Dr. Seuss. A mixture of humor, angst, and reflection upon the foibles of a vampire who wants to be a good man.
Mr. Spike has a change of heart.
TSTOMKF 12
Mr. Spike was content to let his feet have their way for the moment, let them pound into the ground, let them impel him toward the docks, let them carry him away from Mau and Mr. Clem and Ordinary Joe. He let his mind drift, devolve into fantasy as he ran thus, let it pull forth the most vicious of his vampire memories. He savored the selection, choosing from among them the bloodiest and most agonizing as candidates for the torture of b'Huh.
At one moment it was not there and then it was - a smell, such a strong smell that impinged upon his senses - he nearly stumbled and he pulled his mind from that dreamlike state into which it had fallen. The scent - that same foul piercing odor that had clung to his nostrils at the 'Fish Tank'. He reduced his run to a walk and slowed
until he stood still, applying himself to a study of the wind, tasting it on his tongue, and he swore. Following the scent would lead him away from the docks.
Why did a bloke always have to choose? Why couldn't things just work out? Why couldn't he just get to the docks without questioning himself?
His heedless sprint had brought him to the outskirts of Shadyhill cemetery. He massaged his eyes wearily, stood with bowed head and hunched shoulders, his posture an outward indication of his inner uncertainty. Only himself and the dead here - that would be only the dead then. Not likely to find any answers besides the ones he already had. Why was he even hesitating? Standing here? What was he waiting for?
He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them his eyes were directed to the headstone that stood in his path, the name engraved there. Joyce Summers. Something seemed to twist within Mr. Spike's mind as he gazed upon her name, a turn of the kaleidoscope, a new organization of old thoughts.
Joyce would have rescued the kitten even if Dawn were to miss out on a birthday present. She would simply get her daughter the present at a later time.
Dawn would understand if she didn't get the crossbow - why had he thought she wouldn't? She would be disappointed for herself but happy for the kitten.
You might think this a simple understanding, easily arrived at, but it was a breakthrough for Mr. Spike. His darling Drusilla, his dark demon princess would have demanded he save the kitten, attain the crossbow and serve up b'Huh's head on a platter stuffed with every last scrap of the money and that it all be done before breakfast. Failure on any count would have resulted in bloody, protracted punishment. Worse, she would have withheld her love and affection for days.
But Dawn was not Drusilla. If he didn't get the money, if he couldn't buy a crossbow, Dawn would understand!
His shoulders straightened and he took in a great breath of air. Mr. Spike didn't recognize the feeling that settled like a gentle cloud upon him. You would recognize it as peace and he would have been disturbed if he had realized it was such. He turned himself away from the docks and that putrid scent seemed lovely to him now, foul as it was. Mau would get her kitten and the kitten would get a happy home. He would see to it.
* * *
Frothat the Farpather exited from Ph'ulup'thhButt's cave with rapidity, rubbing at the stinging welts that swelled upon his face and arms. He moved his ponderous head ponderously, and pondered the fickle nature of fate. Ph'ulup'thhButt had made sweet sounding promises; promises to pay him well for his services if he contacted the Bastets and delivered their answer. Frothat pondered further. Perhaps he was simply being unfair to Ph'ulup'thhButt. He was a far-range telepath, not an empathic demon and he did not comprehend the motivations of others. Perhaps a Phlemah'k simply thought that being seized, shaken like a salt container and pelted repeatedly with nose hairs was a good payment. Next time Frothat was going to get specific details concerning the form of recompense and the manner of its delivery.
* * *
Ph'ulup'thhButt wallowed in the throes of despair, puffed up and bloated after the manner of (her)his kind. Salty pellets of self-pity rose upon (her)his skin and pattered upon the floor. (S)he had been so certain that the Bastets would pay ransom for the kitten. Wasn't it the reincarnation of a Slayer? Wasn't it a vital part of their goddess breeding plan? (S)he had been patient. (S)he had tried making nice with the little edible but it wouldn't eat, wouldn't play. All it would do was cry, causing Ph'ulup'thhButt's poor injured nose hairs to stick together like an overheated bag of gummy worms. Now, after spending nearly a whole day playing kitty maid, the Bastets weren't going to pay up. All of (her)his plans were coming to naught. It was a cruel, cruel universe...
Oh well, at least the kitten would make a good snack.
Phlemah'k's were a practical race and now that Ph'ulup'thhButt was over (her)his snit-fit (s)he decided (s)he was hungry. (S)he rattled the cage savagely, savoring the possibility that the kitten would be frightened and thus a little spice would be added to her taste. The kitten hissed and spat instead, evading Ph'ulup'thhButt's grasp and (s)he eyed the kitten with disfavor. Its matted coat and dull eyes didn't look flavorful. Misery wasn't Ph'ulup'thhButt's favorite seasoning but (s)he supposed it would do. (S)he opened her ingestive tube intending to pop the tidbit inside for mulching.
Dear readers, it was a fabulous fable, a fantasy that Mr. Spike spun upon the spot, calling this kitten the reincarnation of a slayer, but Mafdet had spoken truly when she referred to the kitten's warrior spirit. Though she was but a miserable little mite facing horrendous death at the jaws of a hideous demon she did not intend to go down easily. She had noted well her enemy's weakness in earlier battle and once again she plied tiny teeth and tiny claws with a will. Survival wasn't her goal but rather she acted out of pure sheer savagery and the desire for blood.
Her enemy was going to bear her wounds forever!
With all her mitey might she sank her weapons into sensitive nose hairs and... shredded. Ph'ulup'thhButt honked and bellowed. (S)he dropped the kitten and the weight caused her to slide down the nose hairs, slicing furrows all the way from the top to the bottom. Ph'ulup'thhButt shook (her)his nose hairs, shook them again and again, whipping them about with incredible force. The kitten flew across the cave floor where she thudded against the wall and lay still. Ph'ulup'thhButt grasped (her)his nose hairs carefully and began staunching the blood.
(S)he was surprised when (s)he was assailed - seized with brute force and shoved into the air and sent spinning like the chaff thrown from a tornado, slammed up against the other cave wall, crumpled and crushed by the collision with solid rock. Busy with the kitten, (s)he had not seen Mr. Spike enter her domain, not seen the anger in his eyes, not been prepared for his attack.
The kitten knew. Groggy from her malaise and mistreatment, stunned by the impact of her body flung against stone, still she knew. The moment Mr. Spike entered she knew his smell, his shape, his very spirit and even though her body could little react, her mind quickened with joy and mews which had once been made in misery became a cry of welcome. Put yourself into this creature's heart, who had no capability of understanding the larger issues of life. Consider her feelings, that took into account nothing other than her own experience and yearnings. Consider her warrior's spirit, her warrior's passion. In her hour of misery she did not want food, or water or any comfort save the presence of Mr. Spike and he was here.
Mr. Spike took care as he collected the kitten into his hands. There was no blood, no sign of broken bone or severe injury but he knew from her limited movement and lifeless coat, from the dimming of her eyes that the kitten was gravely ill and he knew, familiar of death that he was, that she was dying.
He placed the pollywog in her favorite place, under his chin and she stretched her paws on either side of his neck and lavished him with loving sweeps of her tongue until at last she was too weary to continue. The sound of her purrs filled his ears, and filled the cave, a happy contented sound and Mr. Spike wondered at the feeling that swept through him. A long time had passed since anyone had shown such joy simply to be in his presence, and he would have given much to change what he knew would soon come.
For all that they are worlds apart there is little distance between death and life. A breath and then a cessation of breath. We enter this world with indignation, loudly crying out with pain and fright but our actual finite moment of death is quiet. The dead lie still and wait to catch the next rung of the wheel, or to be cradled in the arms of God, or rest in sweet oblivion, while our world drags us on to continue in our pain and fright. The kitten's death was not painful. Her injuries were severe enough but she would have rallied save for a heart that was physically flawed from the moment of her birth. Her spiritual heart, her warrior's heart was strong but the heart beating in her chest could no longer maintain life.
The kitten lay content, curled upon Mr. Spike's shoulder and she purred happiness into his ear and then she was quiet.
Mr. Spike was not prepared for the pain he felt upon her passing. He had not yet accepted within himself that he even liked the kitten, had not completely fought past his vampire nature and masculine self-image to admit to such softness. His emotions were still raw from the death of Miss Buffy Summers and the kitten's death was a lashing of salt in that red, red wound.
Once again he had failed. Someone had cared for him and depended on him and he had failed her.
Ph'ulup'thhButt stirred to consciousness and sat up and Mr. Spike took notice. He had made many plans, envisioned many scenarios, intended horrible tortures for b'Huh. And here dear readers, we will draw the curtain for Ph'ulup'thhButt's death was neither swift nor easy nor painless.
* * *
Vampires know, more than any other, that death is not an end, merely a change. Once Mr. Spike allowed his rage to bleed forth, vented his violence and gloried in Ph'ulup'thhButt's blood, once he had occasion to think without intervention of sorrow, he realized that it was still necessary for him to deliver the kitten to Ordinary Joe's. Mau had been aware of the kitten while she was still alive; there had been some connection. That meant there was probably more to the Bastets' beliefs than just fancy. His kitten hadn't gone through whatever rituals were required but it might not be too late for her ascension to another plane of existence.
There would be magic involved and there would be a price. Mr. Spike, unaware that the kitten's heart - though a warrior's heart - was flawed, believed he might have saved her had he come to her rescue sooner.
He would take the body to Mau and he would pay the price - he would see that his kitten was made a goddess yet.
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Characters: Spike,Dawn,Clem
Summary: Buffy is dead and Dawn’s fifteenth birthday is coming up. A penniless Spike wants to get her the greatest present ever. It proves to be harder than he expected. He encounters kittens, and Clem and nosehairs and learns some valuable lessons about life.
Rating: PG for swearing
Warnings/Notes: A Sunnydale version of a Victorian Morality Play. Inspired by Kipling’s ‘Just So’ stories and served with a side dish of Dr. Seuss. A mixture of humor, angst, and reflection upon the foibles of a vampire who wants to be a good man.
Mr. Spike has a change of heart.
TSTOMKF 12
Mr. Spike was content to let his feet have their way for the moment, let them pound into the ground, let them impel him toward the docks, let them carry him away from Mau and Mr. Clem and Ordinary Joe. He let his mind drift, devolve into fantasy as he ran thus, let it pull forth the most vicious of his vampire memories. He savored the selection, choosing from among them the bloodiest and most agonizing as candidates for the torture of b'Huh.
At one moment it was not there and then it was - a smell, such a strong smell that impinged upon his senses - he nearly stumbled and he pulled his mind from that dreamlike state into which it had fallen. The scent - that same foul piercing odor that had clung to his nostrils at the 'Fish Tank'. He reduced his run to a walk and slowed
until he stood still, applying himself to a study of the wind, tasting it on his tongue, and he swore. Following the scent would lead him away from the docks.
Why did a bloke always have to choose? Why couldn't things just work out? Why couldn't he just get to the docks without questioning himself?
His heedless sprint had brought him to the outskirts of Shadyhill cemetery. He massaged his eyes wearily, stood with bowed head and hunched shoulders, his posture an outward indication of his inner uncertainty. Only himself and the dead here - that would be only the dead then. Not likely to find any answers besides the ones he already had. Why was he even hesitating? Standing here? What was he waiting for?
He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them his eyes were directed to the headstone that stood in his path, the name engraved there. Joyce Summers. Something seemed to twist within Mr. Spike's mind as he gazed upon her name, a turn of the kaleidoscope, a new organization of old thoughts.
Joyce would have rescued the kitten even if Dawn were to miss out on a birthday present. She would simply get her daughter the present at a later time.
Dawn would understand if she didn't get the crossbow - why had he thought she wouldn't? She would be disappointed for herself but happy for the kitten.
You might think this a simple understanding, easily arrived at, but it was a breakthrough for Mr. Spike. His darling Drusilla, his dark demon princess would have demanded he save the kitten, attain the crossbow and serve up b'Huh's head on a platter stuffed with every last scrap of the money and that it all be done before breakfast. Failure on any count would have resulted in bloody, protracted punishment. Worse, she would have withheld her love and affection for days.
But Dawn was not Drusilla. If he didn't get the money, if he couldn't buy a crossbow, Dawn would understand!
His shoulders straightened and he took in a great breath of air. Mr. Spike didn't recognize the feeling that settled like a gentle cloud upon him. You would recognize it as peace and he would have been disturbed if he had realized it was such. He turned himself away from the docks and that putrid scent seemed lovely to him now, foul as it was. Mau would get her kitten and the kitten would get a happy home. He would see to it.
* * *
Frothat the Farpather exited from Ph'ulup'thhButt's cave with rapidity, rubbing at the stinging welts that swelled upon his face and arms. He moved his ponderous head ponderously, and pondered the fickle nature of fate. Ph'ulup'thhButt had made sweet sounding promises; promises to pay him well for his services if he contacted the Bastets and delivered their answer. Frothat pondered further. Perhaps he was simply being unfair to Ph'ulup'thhButt. He was a far-range telepath, not an empathic demon and he did not comprehend the motivations of others. Perhaps a Phlemah'k simply thought that being seized, shaken like a salt container and pelted repeatedly with nose hairs was a good payment. Next time Frothat was going to get specific details concerning the form of recompense and the manner of its delivery.
* * *
Ph'ulup'thhButt wallowed in the throes of despair, puffed up and bloated after the manner of (her)his kind. Salty pellets of self-pity rose upon (her)his skin and pattered upon the floor. (S)he had been so certain that the Bastets would pay ransom for the kitten. Wasn't it the reincarnation of a Slayer? Wasn't it a vital part of their goddess breeding plan? (S)he had been patient. (S)he had tried making nice with the little edible but it wouldn't eat, wouldn't play. All it would do was cry, causing Ph'ulup'thhButt's poor injured nose hairs to stick together like an overheated bag of gummy worms. Now, after spending nearly a whole day playing kitty maid, the Bastets weren't going to pay up. All of (her)his plans were coming to naught. It was a cruel, cruel universe...
Oh well, at least the kitten would make a good snack.
Phlemah'k's were a practical race and now that Ph'ulup'thhButt was over (her)his snit-fit (s)he decided (s)he was hungry. (S)he rattled the cage savagely, savoring the possibility that the kitten would be frightened and thus a little spice would be added to her taste. The kitten hissed and spat instead, evading Ph'ulup'thhButt's grasp and (s)he eyed the kitten with disfavor. Its matted coat and dull eyes didn't look flavorful. Misery wasn't Ph'ulup'thhButt's favorite seasoning but (s)he supposed it would do. (S)he opened her ingestive tube intending to pop the tidbit inside for mulching.
Dear readers, it was a fabulous fable, a fantasy that Mr. Spike spun upon the spot, calling this kitten the reincarnation of a slayer, but Mafdet had spoken truly when she referred to the kitten's warrior spirit. Though she was but a miserable little mite facing horrendous death at the jaws of a hideous demon she did not intend to go down easily. She had noted well her enemy's weakness in earlier battle and once again she plied tiny teeth and tiny claws with a will. Survival wasn't her goal but rather she acted out of pure sheer savagery and the desire for blood.
Her enemy was going to bear her wounds forever!
With all her mitey might she sank her weapons into sensitive nose hairs and... shredded. Ph'ulup'thhButt honked and bellowed. (S)he dropped the kitten and the weight caused her to slide down the nose hairs, slicing furrows all the way from the top to the bottom. Ph'ulup'thhButt shook (her)his nose hairs, shook them again and again, whipping them about with incredible force. The kitten flew across the cave floor where she thudded against the wall and lay still. Ph'ulup'thhButt grasped (her)his nose hairs carefully and began staunching the blood.
(S)he was surprised when (s)he was assailed - seized with brute force and shoved into the air and sent spinning like the chaff thrown from a tornado, slammed up against the other cave wall, crumpled and crushed by the collision with solid rock. Busy with the kitten, (s)he had not seen Mr. Spike enter her domain, not seen the anger in his eyes, not been prepared for his attack.
The kitten knew. Groggy from her malaise and mistreatment, stunned by the impact of her body flung against stone, still she knew. The moment Mr. Spike entered she knew his smell, his shape, his very spirit and even though her body could little react, her mind quickened with joy and mews which had once been made in misery became a cry of welcome. Put yourself into this creature's heart, who had no capability of understanding the larger issues of life. Consider her feelings, that took into account nothing other than her own experience and yearnings. Consider her warrior's spirit, her warrior's passion. In her hour of misery she did not want food, or water or any comfort save the presence of Mr. Spike and he was here.
Mr. Spike took care as he collected the kitten into his hands. There was no blood, no sign of broken bone or severe injury but he knew from her limited movement and lifeless coat, from the dimming of her eyes that the kitten was gravely ill and he knew, familiar of death that he was, that she was dying.
He placed the pollywog in her favorite place, under his chin and she stretched her paws on either side of his neck and lavished him with loving sweeps of her tongue until at last she was too weary to continue. The sound of her purrs filled his ears, and filled the cave, a happy contented sound and Mr. Spike wondered at the feeling that swept through him. A long time had passed since anyone had shown such joy simply to be in his presence, and he would have given much to change what he knew would soon come.
For all that they are worlds apart there is little distance between death and life. A breath and then a cessation of breath. We enter this world with indignation, loudly crying out with pain and fright but our actual finite moment of death is quiet. The dead lie still and wait to catch the next rung of the wheel, or to be cradled in the arms of God, or rest in sweet oblivion, while our world drags us on to continue in our pain and fright. The kitten's death was not painful. Her injuries were severe enough but she would have rallied save for a heart that was physically flawed from the moment of her birth. Her spiritual heart, her warrior's heart was strong but the heart beating in her chest could no longer maintain life.
The kitten lay content, curled upon Mr. Spike's shoulder and she purred happiness into his ear and then she was quiet.
Mr. Spike was not prepared for the pain he felt upon her passing. He had not yet accepted within himself that he even liked the kitten, had not completely fought past his vampire nature and masculine self-image to admit to such softness. His emotions were still raw from the death of Miss Buffy Summers and the kitten's death was a lashing of salt in that red, red wound.
Once again he had failed. Someone had cared for him and depended on him and he had failed her.
Ph'ulup'thhButt stirred to consciousness and sat up and Mr. Spike took notice. He had made many plans, envisioned many scenarios, intended horrible tortures for b'Huh. And here dear readers, we will draw the curtain for Ph'ulup'thhButt's death was neither swift nor easy nor painless.
* * *
Vampires know, more than any other, that death is not an end, merely a change. Once Mr. Spike allowed his rage to bleed forth, vented his violence and gloried in Ph'ulup'thhButt's blood, once he had occasion to think without intervention of sorrow, he realized that it was still necessary for him to deliver the kitten to Ordinary Joe's. Mau had been aware of the kitten while she was still alive; there had been some connection. That meant there was probably more to the Bastets' beliefs than just fancy. His kitten hadn't gone through whatever rituals were required but it might not be too late for her ascension to another plane of existence.
There would be magic involved and there would be a price. Mr. Spike, unaware that the kitten's heart - though a warrior's heart - was flawed, believed he might have saved her had he come to her rescue sooner.
He would take the body to Mau and he would pay the price - he would see that his kitten was made a goddess yet.
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