![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thismazI'm not sure about this one. I've been full of cold all week. In fact as I read my flist, so many people seem to have been ill, feverish and just plain under the weather, that I am rethinking the whole computer virus concept.
I am playing 'spot the prompt' again, but with different rules this time.
Title: Fag Ends
Fandom: BtVS
Prompt: #9 - Crazy Glue
Warnings: None
Rating: Pg
Summary: More musing
Spike shook the pack and extracted the last fag, lighting it from the stub of the one already in his hand. He'd been chain smoking for the best part of the last four hours - anything rather than wallow in this... Pit of Bloody Despond.
Glancing around the room at the listless attitudes of the inhabitants, the air of doom, he wondered at his own involvement in this latest disaster. Except... There really was no puzzle. He knew exactly why he was here. So much more than pale habit. Less intense than that crazy, initial obsession. It wasn't even love. No, this was far worse. It was... Fuck! It was... belonging - or at least the pretence of that lost feeling. For a moment he deliberately considered the concept of just walking out, but the bigger part of him wouldn't countenance it. This was the price he paid to feel like he belonged. It was false to the core, but it was so seductive - the fact that she had come to him, told him she needed him - he'd cast logic and reason to the winds and signed on with his natural prey, his natural enemy. And here he was - stupid but present. Well, he'd always been a pragmatist, as much as a romantic - this was the choice he'd made, this was the world he would die in. Put up or shut up, as they said. Whoever the hell 'they' were. Tuning out the watcher's repetitive drone, he concentrated instead on cataloguing his consumption over the past 48 hours, trying to work out, without making the effort required to check, if he still had one pack, or two, in his pockets.
He'd picked up a carton at the same time as they collected that god-awful, sorry excuse for a vehicle, but he'd still had one pack from the day before, which was almost full. He'd smoked twelve while he was driving. But later, when he'd gone back to the common space, they'd all made faces and waved their arms around. Anyway, the smoke bothered Tara and keeping her quiet was more important than his own unnecessary nicotine fix, so he'd refrained as the Watcher drove them into the desert. And fat lot of good that had done them - driving hell for leather at a stately 60 miles per hour. Blasted piece of crap. And now, here they were, right back where they'd started. He took a deep drag and lifted his hand to watch the glowing coal as it built an unstable tower of ash in its wake. He'd tried to tell her. But would she ever listen?
He'd broken into the carton while they were playing at 'Siege of the Alamo'. Wounded hands unable to work the lighter - and the boy had taken pity on him, for god's sake! Xander, suddenly come down with an attack of camaraderie. For a moment there, the sense of belonging had overwhelmed him and he'd fooled himself, all the while knowing the truth, that Xander was a friend.
Then their precarious world fell apart again. Big time.
He shook that thought off, not wanting to contemplate the Slayer's failure. The voice of truth deep down inside had declared it's contempt for her catatonia - she was supposed to be the super hero who defeated all comers. Had to be a reason he'd never had any luck. How could he love her if she wasn't strong and sure and indestructible?
So, down to nine packs by then. Then there was that fucking waste of time, before he got them moving again. Frustration always made him smoke more, and frustration was too mild a word for what he'd been feeling in the face of their stupidity. Worry made him smoke more, too. But he wasn't going there.
He'd been down to seven by the time they left. The drive back... they hadn't let him smoke, not with six of them squashed into the car. So since then...
His calculations were interrupted by Buffy's return. Everything seemed to stop whenever she appeared. Like she had control of time and his non-existent breath. He watched her approach the table. "Vampire," she said, in reply to Xander's question.
Poor lamb, she looked so worn. Made him want to scream his frustration. The kill had given her a momentary glow, it didn't last. And there she was, back at the watcher, demanding the whole thing once more, as if retelling it would somehow change things. Like there was anything they could do. He tuned out again and glanced around the group. Couldn't see the Watcher's expression, but his voice held the forced calm of desperation. The red witch was gazing blankly at the table, while the boy looked like nothing so much as a wet dish cloth. Anya just looked puzzled, like she was trying to work out what she was doing there at all - eyes slightly wide, like a deer caught in headlights - demon instincts at war with too human emotion. 'Know the feeling, love,' he thought.
Back to business - he'd opened a pack while he was doing his breaking and entering... and cracked another on the way out of the hospital. So that meant... with the ones he'd smoked this afternoon... There should be two left. He nodded to himself, pleased by this proof that his memory was still sound and shaking his ash onto the floor, he reached a hand into his pocket.
A sudden squeal from Tara pulled everyone's attention to her and he watched as she battered the air and muttered something about 'places to be'. She'd always been a bit of okay. But right now, she was just crazy - glued to Willow's side for the most part, like a mewling limpet. Shame really. The others gazed blankly before turning away, back to listening to the Watcher's pronouncements of uselessness. Xander made some half-arsed comment about blood, and suddenly he'd had enough. Suddenly their ignorance was more than he could stand.
"'Cause it's always got to be blood," he said. Were they really that stupid? "Blood is life. Why do you think we eat it? It's what keeps you going. Makes you warm. Makes you hard. Makes you other than dead."
word count 1043
I am playing 'spot the prompt' again, but with different rules this time.
Title: Fag Ends
Fandom: BtVS
Prompt: #9 - Crazy Glue
Warnings: None
Rating: Pg
Summary: More musing
Spike shook the pack and extracted the last fag, lighting it from the stub of the one already in his hand. He'd been chain smoking for the best part of the last four hours - anything rather than wallow in this... Pit of Bloody Despond.
Glancing around the room at the listless attitudes of the inhabitants, the air of doom, he wondered at his own involvement in this latest disaster. Except... There really was no puzzle. He knew exactly why he was here. So much more than pale habit. Less intense than that crazy, initial obsession. It wasn't even love. No, this was far worse. It was... Fuck! It was... belonging - or at least the pretence of that lost feeling. For a moment he deliberately considered the concept of just walking out, but the bigger part of him wouldn't countenance it. This was the price he paid to feel like he belonged. It was false to the core, but it was so seductive - the fact that she had come to him, told him she needed him - he'd cast logic and reason to the winds and signed on with his natural prey, his natural enemy. And here he was - stupid but present. Well, he'd always been a pragmatist, as much as a romantic - this was the choice he'd made, this was the world he would die in. Put up or shut up, as they said. Whoever the hell 'they' were. Tuning out the watcher's repetitive drone, he concentrated instead on cataloguing his consumption over the past 48 hours, trying to work out, without making the effort required to check, if he still had one pack, or two, in his pockets.
He'd picked up a carton at the same time as they collected that god-awful, sorry excuse for a vehicle, but he'd still had one pack from the day before, which was almost full. He'd smoked twelve while he was driving. But later, when he'd gone back to the common space, they'd all made faces and waved their arms around. Anyway, the smoke bothered Tara and keeping her quiet was more important than his own unnecessary nicotine fix, so he'd refrained as the Watcher drove them into the desert. And fat lot of good that had done them - driving hell for leather at a stately 60 miles per hour. Blasted piece of crap. And now, here they were, right back where they'd started. He took a deep drag and lifted his hand to watch the glowing coal as it built an unstable tower of ash in its wake. He'd tried to tell her. But would she ever listen?
He'd broken into the carton while they were playing at 'Siege of the Alamo'. Wounded hands unable to work the lighter - and the boy had taken pity on him, for god's sake! Xander, suddenly come down with an attack of camaraderie. For a moment there, the sense of belonging had overwhelmed him and he'd fooled himself, all the while knowing the truth, that Xander was a friend.
Then their precarious world fell apart again. Big time.
He shook that thought off, not wanting to contemplate the Slayer's failure. The voice of truth deep down inside had declared it's contempt for her catatonia - she was supposed to be the super hero who defeated all comers. Had to be a reason he'd never had any luck. How could he love her if she wasn't strong and sure and indestructible?
So, down to nine packs by then. Then there was that fucking waste of time, before he got them moving again. Frustration always made him smoke more, and frustration was too mild a word for what he'd been feeling in the face of their stupidity. Worry made him smoke more, too. But he wasn't going there.
He'd been down to seven by the time they left. The drive back... they hadn't let him smoke, not with six of them squashed into the car. So since then...
His calculations were interrupted by Buffy's return. Everything seemed to stop whenever she appeared. Like she had control of time and his non-existent breath. He watched her approach the table. "Vampire," she said, in reply to Xander's question.
Poor lamb, she looked so worn. Made him want to scream his frustration. The kill had given her a momentary glow, it didn't last. And there she was, back at the watcher, demanding the whole thing once more, as if retelling it would somehow change things. Like there was anything they could do. He tuned out again and glanced around the group. Couldn't see the Watcher's expression, but his voice held the forced calm of desperation. The red witch was gazing blankly at the table, while the boy looked like nothing so much as a wet dish cloth. Anya just looked puzzled, like she was trying to work out what she was doing there at all - eyes slightly wide, like a deer caught in headlights - demon instincts at war with too human emotion. 'Know the feeling, love,' he thought.
Back to business - he'd opened a pack while he was doing his breaking and entering... and cracked another on the way out of the hospital. So that meant... with the ones he'd smoked this afternoon... There should be two left. He nodded to himself, pleased by this proof that his memory was still sound and shaking his ash onto the floor, he reached a hand into his pocket.
A sudden squeal from Tara pulled everyone's attention to her and he watched as she battered the air and muttered something about 'places to be'. She'd always been a bit of okay. But right now, she was just crazy - glued to Willow's side for the most part, like a mewling limpet. Shame really. The others gazed blankly before turning away, back to listening to the Watcher's pronouncements of uselessness. Xander made some half-arsed comment about blood, and suddenly he'd had enough. Suddenly their ignorance was more than he could stand.
"'Cause it's always got to be blood," he said. Were they really that stupid? "Blood is life. Why do you think we eat it? It's what keeps you going. Makes you warm. Makes you hard. Makes you other than dead."
word count 1043
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-09-11 01:48 am (UTC)~JJ~
no subject
Date: 2006-09-11 05:18 am (UTC)I love early seasons Spike, but he is very adaptable, and copes with the chip, sort of, so in the later seasons he has huge potential.
Thank you so much for your kind words about my writing.