Dust
Title: Dust
Author: mushroomgal
Words: 1275 or so
Setting: AU between B5 and B6
Rating: R-plus. Implied Spuffy, +/-Dawn. Warnings for character death, self-harm as a coping mechanism, and a little mild deliberate squick.
Note: Part 2 of my final gift for Ladyoneill on btvs_santa. The last one was fluffy-- this one is... somewhat darker... Again, happy holidays and I hope you like! All kickboxing/heavy bag work descriptions are taken from my own classes and are hopefully at least somewhat believable...
Jab-cross-hook-cross. Jab-cross-hook-cross. Snap the punches. Drive from the shoulder and hip. Get in and get out.
Double roundkick. Jab-uppercut.
Focus on the basics. Keep the mind occupied. No thoughts, just the rhythm. Jab to close the distance. Backfist-elbow-weave. Cross and slide away.
Spike knows he's not supposed to be here. Giles and Anya have made that abundantly clear. The Scoobies need his muscle on patrol, now that the Slayer's gone, and they need someone to watch the Bit while they're out doing whatever it is they do of an evening, but they don't want him, and they certainly don't trust him. He's been warned: he's not to be in the Magic Box alone. That doesn't stop him from breaking into the training room in the small hours of the morning when it's all too much and the hunting is lousy and he just needs release.
He's not supposed to be in Sunnydale at all. If he'd just stayed in Brazil-- if Dru hadn't been the faithless cow he'd always known she was-- if the poncey Watcher had been less ready to sacrifice Dawn...
If he'd been faster, more clever...
No thoughts. Jab-cross-hook-cross.
The heavy bag creaks as it jitters and swings on its chain. It's the only sound save his fists and the breath he drives out with each blow he lands. The breath is part of the punch. It's one of the basics. Focus on the basics.
He smells the blood before he sees it, shining black in the moonlight on the bag, blurring the Everlast logo on its face. He doesn't tape his hands; he won't wear any Sally gloves. He lays into the bag harder, drinking in the burn and sting from his raw knuckles.
Sometimes you don't need to feel better. You just need to feel different.
When he can't block out his thoughts any more, when they come seeping and crowding in around the rhythm and the form and the good, deep muscle ache and the blaze of pain in his hands, when he can't NOT think for another minute, he backs off. He stops the bag with an outstretched arms-- he can see the glint of the blood on his knuckles, the shine of exposed tendon and bone white in the moonlight. He's left a lot of skin on the bag tonight. He examines his hands, letting out a high, bitter, humorless laugh as he does.
His tears threaten to choke him.
He breathes in a deep, settling breath. He fumbles in the pocket of his duster, draped out of the way over the pommel horse, to fish out a cigarette, drinking in the fresh stab of pain as he manipulates his fingers to clumsily light it. One drag... two... he begins to relax. Tomorrow Anya will smell the stale smoke. She'll find where he's ashed on the floor, and she'll see the blood on the bag. She'll tear into him like the vengeance demon she used to be. he's not supposed to be here, after all.
Much as he loathes them all, he kind of looks forward to the arse-chewing. Breaks up the loneliness. They hadn't needed him to sit last night, and he's spoken to no one but Clem in two days.
His vampire healing is already knitting torn flesh as he finishes his fag and reaches for another. It's hours yet until sunrise. He'll never sleep this early-- he'll just sit in his tatty old recliner with his cheap whiskey and his infomercials-- and if he does, the dreams will be waiting. He'll twist the doc's wrinkly old head off, the Platelet will leap unscathed into his arms, Buffy will round the rickety stairs of the tower and run toward them. And just as his lips graze hers, he will wake up with an unforgiving hard-on and the crushing weight of failure on his chest.
Or he won't sleep at all, and he'll end up with another ShamWow.
he turns back toward the stained heavy bag, cigarette still dangling from his lips. He's pivoting, his weight centered over the back leg to throw a kick, when he hears it. Quiet footsteps in the front room-- a small person in sneakers, if he's not mistaken. He freezes, going dead still as only the dead can, as the knob turns and the door to the training room opens.
"Spike? Is that you?"
"Dawn? The hell are you thinking, out this late alone?" His face darkens in the dim light. His shoulders tense and anger colors his voice as he steps toward her. "Of all the stupid stunts, sneaking out... I should bloody well drain you, right and proper, teach you to..." The words tumble over one another, halting, as she draws nearer. She smells wrong, somehow. Too cold. Too... quiet. He's not sure how cold and quiet smell, except that the illustration is standing before him, and his stomach is clenching within him at the realization. The fiery protective anger surging in his veins freezes into icy fury tinged with grief. The demon standing in front of him isn't the Niblet and never will be again. "Who turned you?" he whispers. he can see Buffy's horror in his mind's eye, and he knows that this too will haunt his dreams.
"Doesn't matter. He's not around." Sullen teenaged answer. She drifts closer, invading his personal space. He can smell human blood on her mouth, rich and coppery, and a part of him longs for a taste. He wonders idly if she's done for the Scoobies, or just some kid stumbling home late from the Bronze.
"It does bloody matter," he growls. Not so long ago, he wouldn't have cared. He might have congratulated her. Now, he'll dust the fucking bastard. She's tipping her head to the side, looking into his eyes, all the innocent life gone from her gaze. She shrugs.
"Some guy. He didn't stay." He lunges forward, grabbing her by both arms, vamping into game face. And if there was any doubt at all, it's gone-- he's never wished so hard for his chip to fire. But it doesn't. His own arms are shaking with tension. He drops his gaze with effort, yellow eyes fading back to bright blue, face smoothing.
"Go."
"What? No!"
""I mean it. Get out of town. I'll let you live, God help me, because I can't bear what your big sis would've thought of me being the one to end you. But if I see you again, I'll dust you myself."
"But Spike..." The little tremor in her voice gives him pause. It's so very like her. "I don't have a sire. Nobody to coach me. We could go together-- you can teach me how to hunt, and ... other things..." She slides a hand up his chest, molding her body along his, and a disgusted part of himself notes that his cock twitches at the Summers touch. Pushing that deeply disturbing thought aside, knowing that the real Dawn would never be so forward even in the tightest grip of hero-worship, he catches her wrist in one hand and makes some space between them.
He tips her chin up with an index finger and drops a brotherly kiss on her hair as with the other hand he palms the only weapon at his disposal. He flips open his lighter and reaches behind her back in one smooth motion. "I'm sorry, Platelet," he chokes out as her hair catches light. In mere seconds she has burned to ash, a pile of dust on the training room floor.
Her last scream will haunt him for eternity.
Deep, rending sobs erupt from his chest. He strikes the heavy bag a blow violent enough to tear through its cover and snap its chain, sending it flying across the room. His knees buckle and he crumples to the floor, arms wrapped over his head, weeping. He longs for sunrise.
As the first pale hint of daylight brushes the eastern sky outside the Magic Box window, he pushes himself to his feet and makes his way to the sewer access in the basement storeroom, back to his crypt to see what dreams may come.
Fin
Author: mushroomgal
Words: 1275 or so
Setting: AU between B5 and B6
Rating: R-plus. Implied Spuffy, +/-Dawn. Warnings for character death, self-harm as a coping mechanism, and a little mild deliberate squick.
Note: Part 2 of my final gift for Ladyoneill on btvs_santa. The last one was fluffy-- this one is... somewhat darker... Again, happy holidays and I hope you like! All kickboxing/heavy bag work descriptions are taken from my own classes and are hopefully at least somewhat believable...
Jab-cross-hook-cross. Jab-cross-hook-cross. Snap the punches. Drive from the shoulder and hip. Get in and get out.
Double roundkick. Jab-uppercut.
Focus on the basics. Keep the mind occupied. No thoughts, just the rhythm. Jab to close the distance. Backfist-elbow-weave. Cross and slide away.
Spike knows he's not supposed to be here. Giles and Anya have made that abundantly clear. The Scoobies need his muscle on patrol, now that the Slayer's gone, and they need someone to watch the Bit while they're out doing whatever it is they do of an evening, but they don't want him, and they certainly don't trust him. He's been warned: he's not to be in the Magic Box alone. That doesn't stop him from breaking into the training room in the small hours of the morning when it's all too much and the hunting is lousy and he just needs release.
He's not supposed to be in Sunnydale at all. If he'd just stayed in Brazil-- if Dru hadn't been the faithless cow he'd always known she was-- if the poncey Watcher had been less ready to sacrifice Dawn...
If he'd been faster, more clever...
No thoughts. Jab-cross-hook-cross.
The heavy bag creaks as it jitters and swings on its chain. It's the only sound save his fists and the breath he drives out with each blow he lands. The breath is part of the punch. It's one of the basics. Focus on the basics.
He smells the blood before he sees it, shining black in the moonlight on the bag, blurring the Everlast logo on its face. He doesn't tape his hands; he won't wear any Sally gloves. He lays into the bag harder, drinking in the burn and sting from his raw knuckles.
Sometimes you don't need to feel better. You just need to feel different.
When he can't block out his thoughts any more, when they come seeping and crowding in around the rhythm and the form and the good, deep muscle ache and the blaze of pain in his hands, when he can't NOT think for another minute, he backs off. He stops the bag with an outstretched arms-- he can see the glint of the blood on his knuckles, the shine of exposed tendon and bone white in the moonlight. He's left a lot of skin on the bag tonight. He examines his hands, letting out a high, bitter, humorless laugh as he does.
His tears threaten to choke him.
He breathes in a deep, settling breath. He fumbles in the pocket of his duster, draped out of the way over the pommel horse, to fish out a cigarette, drinking in the fresh stab of pain as he manipulates his fingers to clumsily light it. One drag... two... he begins to relax. Tomorrow Anya will smell the stale smoke. She'll find where he's ashed on the floor, and she'll see the blood on the bag. She'll tear into him like the vengeance demon she used to be. he's not supposed to be here, after all.
Much as he loathes them all, he kind of looks forward to the arse-chewing. Breaks up the loneliness. They hadn't needed him to sit last night, and he's spoken to no one but Clem in two days.
His vampire healing is already knitting torn flesh as he finishes his fag and reaches for another. It's hours yet until sunrise. He'll never sleep this early-- he'll just sit in his tatty old recliner with his cheap whiskey and his infomercials-- and if he does, the dreams will be waiting. He'll twist the doc's wrinkly old head off, the Platelet will leap unscathed into his arms, Buffy will round the rickety stairs of the tower and run toward them. And just as his lips graze hers, he will wake up with an unforgiving hard-on and the crushing weight of failure on his chest.
Or he won't sleep at all, and he'll end up with another ShamWow.
he turns back toward the stained heavy bag, cigarette still dangling from his lips. He's pivoting, his weight centered over the back leg to throw a kick, when he hears it. Quiet footsteps in the front room-- a small person in sneakers, if he's not mistaken. He freezes, going dead still as only the dead can, as the knob turns and the door to the training room opens.
"Spike? Is that you?"
"Dawn? The hell are you thinking, out this late alone?" His face darkens in the dim light. His shoulders tense and anger colors his voice as he steps toward her. "Of all the stupid stunts, sneaking out... I should bloody well drain you, right and proper, teach you to..." The words tumble over one another, halting, as she draws nearer. She smells wrong, somehow. Too cold. Too... quiet. He's not sure how cold and quiet smell, except that the illustration is standing before him, and his stomach is clenching within him at the realization. The fiery protective anger surging in his veins freezes into icy fury tinged with grief. The demon standing in front of him isn't the Niblet and never will be again. "Who turned you?" he whispers. he can see Buffy's horror in his mind's eye, and he knows that this too will haunt his dreams.
"Doesn't matter. He's not around." Sullen teenaged answer. She drifts closer, invading his personal space. He can smell human blood on her mouth, rich and coppery, and a part of him longs for a taste. He wonders idly if she's done for the Scoobies, or just some kid stumbling home late from the Bronze.
"It does bloody matter," he growls. Not so long ago, he wouldn't have cared. He might have congratulated her. Now, he'll dust the fucking bastard. She's tipping her head to the side, looking into his eyes, all the innocent life gone from her gaze. She shrugs.
"Some guy. He didn't stay." He lunges forward, grabbing her by both arms, vamping into game face. And if there was any doubt at all, it's gone-- he's never wished so hard for his chip to fire. But it doesn't. His own arms are shaking with tension. He drops his gaze with effort, yellow eyes fading back to bright blue, face smoothing.
"Go."
"What? No!"
""I mean it. Get out of town. I'll let you live, God help me, because I can't bear what your big sis would've thought of me being the one to end you. But if I see you again, I'll dust you myself."
"But Spike..." The little tremor in her voice gives him pause. It's so very like her. "I don't have a sire. Nobody to coach me. We could go together-- you can teach me how to hunt, and ... other things..." She slides a hand up his chest, molding her body along his, and a disgusted part of himself notes that his cock twitches at the Summers touch. Pushing that deeply disturbing thought aside, knowing that the real Dawn would never be so forward even in the tightest grip of hero-worship, he catches her wrist in one hand and makes some space between them.
He tips her chin up with an index finger and drops a brotherly kiss on her hair as with the other hand he palms the only weapon at his disposal. He flips open his lighter and reaches behind her back in one smooth motion. "I'm sorry, Platelet," he chokes out as her hair catches light. In mere seconds she has burned to ash, a pile of dust on the training room floor.
Her last scream will haunt him for eternity.
Deep, rending sobs erupt from his chest. He strikes the heavy bag a blow violent enough to tear through its cover and snap its chain, sending it flying across the room. His knees buckle and he crumples to the floor, arms wrapped over his head, weeping. He longs for sunrise.
As the first pale hint of daylight brushes the eastern sky outside the Magic Box window, he pushes himself to his feet and makes his way to the sewer access in the basement storeroom, back to his crypt to see what dreams may come.
Fin