for 10_hurt_comfort challenge
Title: "This Place Could Use a Good Dusting"
Author:missannathema
Claim: Spike
Fandom:Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Table: Injuries/Deep Hurting
Prompt: Wheelchair/Suicide
Rating: PG-13 for adult themes
Summary: Spike's sitting alone, thinking.
Warnings: Thoughts of suicide, nothing too graphic, I don't think.
Notes: Set mid-season 2.
Spike sat alone. It was dark in the sewer, and damp. No place for a reasonable vampire to call home. Drusilla was out, hunting, killing…doing the things vampires are meant to do. And here he was, vamp on wheels. He rolled his chair forward and back a bit, and popped an absent minded wheelie. This was ridiculous. Vampires were supposed to have superhuman healing abilities, but here he was, chained to a bloody chair, waiting for a woman to bring him his supper. He had always made his own luck, had never relied on Drusilla…or at least he didn’t think he had. Now he wasn’t so sure.
He could hear the rats scurrying around his feet, but he couldn’t feel them. Couldn’t feel anything except ashamed. Ashamed that Angelus, his grandsire-the vampire he had looked up to and emulated, had to see him like this, night after night. Even with a soul, Angelus was never this pathetic. Ashamed that Drusilla, his pet, his doll, was bringing him dinner like a dog. He missed hunting with her, the thrill of the kill, the sheer delight of mayhem.
He picked up a piece of a branch that had fallen in through a storm drain. The end was sharp, he rubbed his fingers against the wood grain, felt the splinters embed themselves in his fingertips. He pulled off his shirt, revealing the marble-white flesh of his chest and stomach. He touched his chest, just to the left of center. Was that where his heart was? It hadn’t beaten in so long he wasn’t sure. Spike held the end of the stick to the spot on his chest where his beating heart had once been. He twisted it a little, hard, breaking the skin. An anemic trickle of blood made it’s way down his chest.
It would be so easy, he would be done, dust, what he should have been over a hundred years ago. Dru would be better off without him, and he was sure Angelus would be glad to be rid of him. But something kept him from finishing it. If he dusted himself, he would never have the chance to kill again, to create chaos, mischief, to have fun. It was what he unlived for, and the hope that it would be his again was enough, had to be enough.
Author:missannathema
Claim: Spike
Fandom:Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Table: Injuries/Deep Hurting
Prompt: Wheelchair/Suicide
Rating: PG-13 for adult themes
Summary: Spike's sitting alone, thinking.
Warnings: Thoughts of suicide, nothing too graphic, I don't think.
Notes: Set mid-season 2.
Spike sat alone. It was dark in the sewer, and damp. No place for a reasonable vampire to call home. Drusilla was out, hunting, killing…doing the things vampires are meant to do. And here he was, vamp on wheels. He rolled his chair forward and back a bit, and popped an absent minded wheelie. This was ridiculous. Vampires were supposed to have superhuman healing abilities, but here he was, chained to a bloody chair, waiting for a woman to bring him his supper. He had always made his own luck, had never relied on Drusilla…or at least he didn’t think he had. Now he wasn’t so sure.
He could hear the rats scurrying around his feet, but he couldn’t feel them. Couldn’t feel anything except ashamed. Ashamed that Angelus, his grandsire-the vampire he had looked up to and emulated, had to see him like this, night after night. Even with a soul, Angelus was never this pathetic. Ashamed that Drusilla, his pet, his doll, was bringing him dinner like a dog. He missed hunting with her, the thrill of the kill, the sheer delight of mayhem.
He picked up a piece of a branch that had fallen in through a storm drain. The end was sharp, he rubbed his fingers against the wood grain, felt the splinters embed themselves in his fingertips. He pulled off his shirt, revealing the marble-white flesh of his chest and stomach. He touched his chest, just to the left of center. Was that where his heart was? It hadn’t beaten in so long he wasn’t sure. Spike held the end of the stick to the spot on his chest where his beating heart had once been. He twisted it a little, hard, breaking the skin. An anemic trickle of blood made it’s way down his chest.
It would be so easy, he would be done, dust, what he should have been over a hundred years ago. Dru would be better off without him, and he was sure Angelus would be glad to be rid of him. But something kept him from finishing it. If he dusted himself, he would never have the chance to kill again, to create chaos, mischief, to have fun. It was what he unlived for, and the hope that it would be his again was enough, had to be enough.