Portent of -
Prompt: The Raven
Setting: Post S5
Rating: PG13 (language)
Words: 255
Portent of -
.
When the great, ruddy bird with jet-black feathers and Dru’s face fluttered into his crypt, Spike knew he was in trouble.
“Raven, eh? I know how this goes,” he slurred. “Nevermore, nevermore, she’s gone and dead, I’ll see her nevermore. Got it. You can move along now.”
The raven did not oblige. It ruffled its feathers and settled in, tipping its head from one side to the other to fix Spike with a beady stare.
“Fucking hell. Wonderful. As if I haven’t enough troubles.” He tipped his bottle at the bird-thing in a mock-salute. “It’s your fault, you know. If you wouldn’t have gone and left me, I wouldn’t have come back to Sunnyhell. Wouldn’t have… wouldn’t have… Ah, bugger it. I was already lost, and you knew it, you bitch. You could've spared me. Could've kept me from... from... Thought it hurt when you left. As if that was pain.”
Spike drained the rest of the whiskey in one long gulp. He set the bottle on the ground, or tried to, but it rolled away, towards the sarcophagus the bird had chosen as its perch. The bird didn’t so much as flinch.
“Know what the kicker is? Wouldn’t change a thing,” he muttered. “’Cept that last day, ‘course. But all the rest of it? Wouldn’t give up… a… single…”
A slight weight on his shoulder and a feather-light caress on his cheek pulled him partway from his drunken slumber.
The nip on his cheek, sharp enough to draw blood, and flesh, finished the job.
.
Setting: Post S5
Rating: PG13 (language)
Words: 255
Portent of -
.
When the great, ruddy bird with jet-black feathers and Dru’s face fluttered into his crypt, Spike knew he was in trouble.
“Raven, eh? I know how this goes,” he slurred. “Nevermore, nevermore, she’s gone and dead, I’ll see her nevermore. Got it. You can move along now.”
The raven did not oblige. It ruffled its feathers and settled in, tipping its head from one side to the other to fix Spike with a beady stare.
“Fucking hell. Wonderful. As if I haven’t enough troubles.” He tipped his bottle at the bird-thing in a mock-salute. “It’s your fault, you know. If you wouldn’t have gone and left me, I wouldn’t have come back to Sunnyhell. Wouldn’t have… wouldn’t have… Ah, bugger it. I was already lost, and you knew it, you bitch. You could've spared me. Could've kept me from... from... Thought it hurt when you left. As if that was pain.”
Spike drained the rest of the whiskey in one long gulp. He set the bottle on the ground, or tried to, but it rolled away, towards the sarcophagus the bird had chosen as its perch. The bird didn’t so much as flinch.
“Know what the kicker is? Wouldn’t change a thing,” he muttered. “’Cept that last day, ‘course. But all the rest of it? Wouldn’t give up… a… single…”
A slight weight on his shoulder and a feather-light caress on his cheek pulled him partway from his drunken slumber.
The nip on his cheek, sharp enough to draw blood, and flesh, finished the job.
.