A Spike ficlet - still_grrr prompt this week.
Title Orpheus. Really.
Rating PG: it's Spike, so there is some language of a British kind.
Word Count 432
Prompt 212 - Greek/Roman mythology - Spike has a classical education, we know. Even in his dreams.
Characters/Pairing (if any) Spike
Orpheus. Really.
When it’s finally, finally quiet and he’s alone, Spike tries to sleep. Two hours of twisting and turning, swearing, pacing and smoking later, he drops off.
And wishes he hadn’t. He’s in a dark cave, lit only by the light of a flickering fire which casts grotesque shadows on the rugged, filthy walls. She is there, looking at him with those eyes. She’s stuck behind some demony-type. She calls to him.
He has to fight his way to her. Slime demons pile up to either side, spiders and crabs and beetles heaped in glistening black mounds. They are as big as he is, some of them, but he still cuts a swath through them. He can still be a scourge to something, even if it’s only household vermin.
He can’t get past the sodding dog, though. It’s every bloody place. It doesn’t have three heads, but it might as well have. It’s all teeth and fangs and growling. Much like a vampire really.
By this stage he has some inkling what story he’s in, so he tries singing, just on the offchance. It works. Of course it bloody works. The knife twisted later will hurt much, much more.
So then he sings to the demon. He’ll walk through the fire to get her, he sings. He’ll never rest in peace without her. He’s so far under her spell he’ll rip the whole of Hades apart to take her home with him. He’s sharp as mustard and he’ll get her out.
Maybe the monster has enough, maybe it’s charmed by him, but he lets her go. Usual rules, though: no peeking. Suits him.
He knows this bleeding story. But her hand is in his, warm, trusting. He can do it properly, without ballsing it up, he really can. He’s going to keep the promise he made this lady; he won’t fall to a dagger this time.
But she stumbles, doesn’t she? And she calls his name. His name. So he turns, and sees the expression in her eyes. It’s the love he always knew would never be there. It’s the “thank you for trying it” farewell as she’s dragged back out of his grasp.
He wakes, gasping for the air he’s not supposed to need, not needed any time this last century. And she’s not there. Never will be. Never again. Never, never.
There’s this echo in his head. One hundred and forty six left. Makes no sense at all. But there’s dreams for you. Load of bollocks. Stupid to trust one, even inside it. The stories never change.
And he’s still alone.
Rating PG: it's Spike, so there is some language of a British kind.
Word Count 432
Prompt 212 - Greek/Roman mythology - Spike has a classical education, we know. Even in his dreams.
Characters/Pairing (if any) Spike
Orpheus. Really.
When it’s finally, finally quiet and he’s alone, Spike tries to sleep. Two hours of twisting and turning, swearing, pacing and smoking later, he drops off.
And wishes he hadn’t. He’s in a dark cave, lit only by the light of a flickering fire which casts grotesque shadows on the rugged, filthy walls. She is there, looking at him with those eyes. She’s stuck behind some demony-type. She calls to him.
He has to fight his way to her. Slime demons pile up to either side, spiders and crabs and beetles heaped in glistening black mounds. They are as big as he is, some of them, but he still cuts a swath through them. He can still be a scourge to something, even if it’s only household vermin.
He can’t get past the sodding dog, though. It’s every bloody place. It doesn’t have three heads, but it might as well have. It’s all teeth and fangs and growling. Much like a vampire really.
By this stage he has some inkling what story he’s in, so he tries singing, just on the offchance. It works. Of course it bloody works. The knife twisted later will hurt much, much more.
So then he sings to the demon. He’ll walk through the fire to get her, he sings. He’ll never rest in peace without her. He’s so far under her spell he’ll rip the whole of Hades apart to take her home with him. He’s sharp as mustard and he’ll get her out.
Maybe the monster has enough, maybe it’s charmed by him, but he lets her go. Usual rules, though: no peeking. Suits him.
He knows this bleeding story. But her hand is in his, warm, trusting. He can do it properly, without ballsing it up, he really can. He’s going to keep the promise he made this lady; he won’t fall to a dagger this time.
But she stumbles, doesn’t she? And she calls his name. His name. So he turns, and sees the expression in her eyes. It’s the love he always knew would never be there. It’s the “thank you for trying it” farewell as she’s dragged back out of his grasp.
He wakes, gasping for the air he’s not supposed to need, not needed any time this last century. And she’s not there. Never will be. Never again. Never, never.
There’s this echo in his head. One hundred and forty six left. Makes no sense at all. But there’s dreams for you. Load of bollocks. Stupid to trust one, even inside it. The stories never change.
And he’s still alone.