Title: Seeking Solace 1/1
Author: Danielle
E-mail: PrincessCashew@hotmail.com
Rating: R
Spoilers: Lover's Walk
Summary: Spike's drunk in a hotel room in Nevada after Dru tells him it's over
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, and whoever has rights to these people in court. Do not sue me, I'm poor anyway.
Distribution: Whoever wants it can have it, just e-mail me first so I can come and visit.
Sheets of midnight satin. As it slinked through my fingers little deficiencies smoothed and abated, it was too real, something I never knew existed until that night in the alley. So long ago and not, and what sodding day have we made it to now? Not that it matters. All that counts is the silk in my palms.
Creating a veil as she slipped it past my watching eyes. Grazing flesh that trembled in its wake. Rivers of darkness over lily velvet, trickling around to sink in shadowed hollows. I never wanted to stop feeling it near me. If it was there, she was soon to follow.
My girl. The essence of ice and quartz, lips of frost and touch of tundra, crystalline in her perfection.
I fling the picture across the room, glass rupturing from its frame and spilling loose, showering the ground.
Don't think about her hair, or her face, or her voice. Just take another shot. All it takes is a quick flick of the wrist, and all of her snow-encrusted beauty is temporarily burned out. A flash of sanity, all brightness and heat and swirling comfort. Temporarily of course means a manner of seconds. I've been trying to keep them coming.
I loved her without knowing her, drawn to things I'd hoped to be able to find and unsure if I had or would. Kept me guessing. I could learn the rules, and obey them when it was called for, but as quickly as I mastered the game, she had moved on to another board.
I still love her, love doesn't go away. Doesn't change either. Which is kind of sad, because it means I feel the same way about her now, with my wishes to see her disemboweled with her viscera on floor, as I did when all I wanted to do was fuck her into oblivion. Actually scratch that, as I'm kind of wishing the sex into the great beyond can still occur.
Hope she wasn't planning on having a glass of wine to relax with, as the remaining drops of that plip-plop down my chin. Bottle number four finds its way to the wall just like all the others, a pile of multi-colored shards scattered about a stained shag carpet.
Let's face it, the girl's a nut job. So I have a thing for crazy chicks, every man has his fetish, and from the one's I've heard, raving lunatics is pretty tame in comparison.
Big deal that I liked the fact that she could see the future or that she had this thrall thing going on most of the time. I was devoted to her. Not my fault that she stopped noticing. She was the only person I would risk everything for. She'd become my world.
I forgot something important though, and it's actually kind of funny because I was usually trying to bring them about for everyone else, but there are these things called apocalypses, and by definition, they like to destroy the world. Get a really big kick out of it.
Lucky her, she didn't have to spend all her time siring minions, translating manuscripts, conjuring dark lords. Nope. Instead, a few short words and she's brought on my Judgement Day.
"I have to find my pleasures. You taste like ashes. You're all covered with her." Basically, we're over. Get out of this town, this country, in fact why don't you leave the bloody continent just to make sure I stay happy. Do you think you can handle that? And if I'd said no baby I don't think that I can, it wouldn't have made a bleeding difference. I liked to tell myself that I was running the show, but she knew the truth, and deep down so did I, because what else would I be doing in this hotel room by myself?
Thinking about it I'm glad I broke her picture, glad I broke all those damn bottles over there. Oooh, look, we've made it up to number five. A resounding crash that doesn't sound enough like her bones crumbling underneath my fingertips enters my ears and I watch the remains tumble. It looks like confetti, all fluttering through the sky like that. I should really go and drop some of it on her grave if I ever get the chance, one last party for my demanding princess.
She always did like her celebrations.
I look at the mess I've made; knowing that there should be someone coming to chastise me for my disruptive actions. And for an instant, I'm actually feeling kind of sorry I've done it. Maybe she's right. Maybe I've neglected her, and I shouldn't have. I know what it's like to be neglected, and it is perhaps that shittiest feeling in the world.
Then reason wanders back out of the men's room and jumps into action to repair the damage his little break has caused. Suddenly it's not bad enough yet, and I dump the nearby ashtray onto the coffee table. Much better. Cigarette butts and charred filters can be a wonderful accent to any home. I was wrong before; right now, knowing that after all this time she's left me, this is the shittiest feeling in the world.
I hate her and to tell you the truth, it feels damn good. I don't have to worry about anything that has to do with her, or what she feels or sees or cares. It's all about me again, a way it hasn't been since I can't even remember, and I like getting my turn to be in control and have it be about what I feel and see and care. I don't need another person around taking all of this quality time I have with myself; I'm a very busy man. It's difficult to get an appointment scheduled. Sometimes bookings have to be made months in advance.
I don't need her at all and kicking the dresser in front of me for good measure sends papers hurtling from their unsteady ledge and me tottering about. I begin to laugh as I try to figure out if it's actually me this time, or still the room rotating, but the sound is raspy. Too many bloody tears trapped down in my throat. Drown your sorrows they say, too bad that saline still manages to float on top of bourbon.
They're sketches, all those leaflets. Fucking sketches of that bitch who is probably still shoving the pulsating organ of my heart onto a mucus drenched antler.
But looking at her quickly, she might be the same, that girl in the alley. The one who knew me; still all snow and steel. So I give her a longer glance and she's not perfect anymore. Rip. Or graceful. Rip. Or how about smooth or sparkling or even what I want. Rip. Rip. Rip. She's just darkness now, and torn.
Let him have her. Let him tell her that she's beautiful, and that she doesn't need to worry what the moon says. Have him find her new pets and not mind that often she needs help with the most simple of tasks. Make him protect her, cause there's no fucking way that she could do it by herself.
I gaze at the pieces there in my hands and ponder the ones in my chest. And would you look at that, they match. How hysterical.
What a fucking bitch.
I want her back.
So? Feedback to Me
