Fic Challenge: Afterlife
Author: Cindy
Title: Kindred
Characters: Spike, Buffy
Rating: PG13
Length: 750 words
Summary: She wants to say something to him, tell him that it wasn't his fault. Tell him that it was meant to be, her death, and that her being here now is the real abomination. But the words don't come.
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, but Joss said I could play with them
A/N: Many thanks to the wonderful mommanerd, whose suggestions made this fic far better.
The title comes from the poem "Kindred" by George Sterling:
Musing, between the sunset and the dark,
As Twilight in unhesitating hands
Bore from the faint horizon’s underlands,
Silvern and chill, the moon’s phantasmal ark,
I heard the sea, and far away could mark
Where that unalterable waste expands
In sevenfold sapphire from the mournful sands,
And saw beyond the deep a vibrant spark.
There sank the sun Arcturus, and I thought:
Star, by an ocean on a world of thine,
May not a being, born like me to die,
Confront a little the eternal Naught
And watch our isolated sun decline-
Sad for his evanescence, even as I?
They're talking to her, and she should be listening. She should be saying things back to them. It's called conversation. It's what normal people do. But the words don't make sense, she can't grasp their meaning. They rattle inside her head, echoing in that space where words used to string together to make sentences she could understand. She doesn't understand anything anymore.
When she used to look at them, her friends, she would be all filled up with affection, concern, and love. But she doesn't know where those emotions are now. She's still waiting for them to show up, like lost luggage drifting somewhere between here and there. And looking at them now, these people who have become her family, she doesn't feel much of anything. Maybe that's a good thing. She's a little afraid of how she would feel about them, if she could feel anything at all.
She has a sudden, aching need to see Giles. Giles would take care of things. Giles would take care of her. Instead, she sees only her friends' confusion, their disappointment. She's not who she's supposed to be, who they were hoping for. She's not saying what she's supposed to say. She isn't the Buffy they expected. And so she leaves, on the pretense of patrolling. But protecting Sunnydale from the creatures of the night is the last thing on her mind. She can't save anyone. Not even herself.
But the cemetery is quiet, at least. Cool and dark. The opposite of the warm, soft light she remembers being enveloped in, that she still longs for. And that's good, probably. She doesn't need to be reminded of that, either. Inexplicably, she finds herself in front of Spike's crypt. The thought of seeing him does not fill her with anxiety or dread, and so she goes in. Beneath the ground. Back into the grave. It's silent within, and there are no harsh lights to hurt her eyes; just candles flickering, making shadows on the walls.
Spike rises from below, only his head popping out at first. His hair reflects the candlelight, like a halo around his head. She would smile at the irony if she were capable of that. But when he's fully visible, clad in the usual black leather, hand bloody, carrying a knife, he's just Spike again.
He's surprised to see her. Nervous. Doesn't quite know what to say. Or how to say it. That makes two of them.
But then he begins to speak, and she becomes lost in the tenor of his voice. Hesitating. Soft and low. Soothing. And it takes her a few moments to realize what he's saying. He blames himself for her death. He feels responsible for her pain.
"Every night I save you."
They sit staring at each other for a moment, until finally he looks away. He's content just to sit there with her, though. He doesn't ask for her forgiveness, or for anything at all. Just lets her sit there, being quiet. She wants to say something to him, tell him that it wasn't his fault. Tell him that it was meant to be, her death, and that her being here now is the real abomination. But the words don't come.
Finally, she stands, and he does too, assuming she's going to leave. "Sit," she says, a request, not a command. Her mouth is dry and her throat is tight, and she wonders if she actually made any sound. But after a moment, he complies.
She knows where he keeps the bandages, the tape. She retrieves them, taking his injured hand in hers.
"Buffy, I can do that," he protests.
But he doesn't take his hand away, though it trembles a little at her touch. She wraps the gauze carefully around his fingers. Tears off the tape. Smoothes it down. These are things she can do.
He whispers his gratitude, and she's caught up in his eyes for a moment, surrounded by the warmth she sees there, and the love. It's not right, it shouldn't be there. But she can see it, and she can feel it.
It's time for her to leave. How long has she been holding his hand? Far longer than she should, probably. Reluctantly, she releases him and walks toward the door. She looks back one more time, and he raises that hand, the one wrapped in bandages, just like hers.
The crypt door closes behind her, and she walks back out into the chill of the night.
Title: Kindred
Characters: Spike, Buffy
Rating: PG13
Length: 750 words
Summary: She wants to say something to him, tell him that it wasn't his fault. Tell him that it was meant to be, her death, and that her being here now is the real abomination. But the words don't come.
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, but Joss said I could play with them
A/N: Many thanks to the wonderful mommanerd, whose suggestions made this fic far better.
The title comes from the poem "Kindred" by George Sterling:
Musing, between the sunset and the dark,
As Twilight in unhesitating hands
Bore from the faint horizon’s underlands,
Silvern and chill, the moon’s phantasmal ark,
I heard the sea, and far away could mark
Where that unalterable waste expands
In sevenfold sapphire from the mournful sands,
And saw beyond the deep a vibrant spark.
There sank the sun Arcturus, and I thought:
Star, by an ocean on a world of thine,
May not a being, born like me to die,
Confront a little the eternal Naught
And watch our isolated sun decline-
Sad for his evanescence, even as I?
They're talking to her, and she should be listening. She should be saying things back to them. It's called conversation. It's what normal people do. But the words don't make sense, she can't grasp their meaning. They rattle inside her head, echoing in that space where words used to string together to make sentences she could understand. She doesn't understand anything anymore.
When she used to look at them, her friends, she would be all filled up with affection, concern, and love. But she doesn't know where those emotions are now. She's still waiting for them to show up, like lost luggage drifting somewhere between here and there. And looking at them now, these people who have become her family, she doesn't feel much of anything. Maybe that's a good thing. She's a little afraid of how she would feel about them, if she could feel anything at all.
She has a sudden, aching need to see Giles. Giles would take care of things. Giles would take care of her. Instead, she sees only her friends' confusion, their disappointment. She's not who she's supposed to be, who they were hoping for. She's not saying what she's supposed to say. She isn't the Buffy they expected. And so she leaves, on the pretense of patrolling. But protecting Sunnydale from the creatures of the night is the last thing on her mind. She can't save anyone. Not even herself.
But the cemetery is quiet, at least. Cool and dark. The opposite of the warm, soft light she remembers being enveloped in, that she still longs for. And that's good, probably. She doesn't need to be reminded of that, either. Inexplicably, she finds herself in front of Spike's crypt. The thought of seeing him does not fill her with anxiety or dread, and so she goes in. Beneath the ground. Back into the grave. It's silent within, and there are no harsh lights to hurt her eyes; just candles flickering, making shadows on the walls.
Spike rises from below, only his head popping out at first. His hair reflects the candlelight, like a halo around his head. She would smile at the irony if she were capable of that. But when he's fully visible, clad in the usual black leather, hand bloody, carrying a knife, he's just Spike again.
He's surprised to see her. Nervous. Doesn't quite know what to say. Or how to say it. That makes two of them.
But then he begins to speak, and she becomes lost in the tenor of his voice. Hesitating. Soft and low. Soothing. And it takes her a few moments to realize what he's saying. He blames himself for her death. He feels responsible for her pain.
"Every night I save you."
They sit staring at each other for a moment, until finally he looks away. He's content just to sit there with her, though. He doesn't ask for her forgiveness, or for anything at all. Just lets her sit there, being quiet. She wants to say something to him, tell him that it wasn't his fault. Tell him that it was meant to be, her death, and that her being here now is the real abomination. But the words don't come.
Finally, she stands, and he does too, assuming she's going to leave. "Sit," she says, a request, not a command. Her mouth is dry and her throat is tight, and she wonders if she actually made any sound. But after a moment, he complies.
She knows where he keeps the bandages, the tape. She retrieves them, taking his injured hand in hers.
"Buffy, I can do that," he protests.
But he doesn't take his hand away, though it trembles a little at her touch. She wraps the gauze carefully around his fingers. Tears off the tape. Smoothes it down. These are things she can do.
He whispers his gratitude, and she's caught up in his eyes for a moment, surrounded by the warmth she sees there, and the love. It's not right, it shouldn't be there. But she can see it, and she can feel it.
It's time for her to leave. How long has she been holding his hand? Far longer than she should, probably. Reluctantly, she releases him and walks toward the door. She looks back one more time, and he raises that hand, the one wrapped in bandages, just like hers.
The crypt door closes behind her, and she walks back out into the chill of the night.