Good things come out of being sleep-deprived
But this may not be one of them.
lie to me now
Author: Regala Electra
E-mail: regala_electra@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Summary: she has a story to tell
Pairing: Spike/Other
Author's Notes: The day I write a Spike story, hell freezes over. So this is slightly cheating - hell's temperatures have slighlty fallen. One sentence, one story, one lie, one truth. Other character POV.
*
she never catches his name
she never wanted to, and now - he rises from ashes, the ground's hard and he screams once - she doesn't want to wonder why she didn't
what she does catch, and if it already falls between shaking fingertips like grains of sand, she'll ask for forgiveness, she catches a memory - sunburned shadow against white-stained light
these aren't the elysian fields - that could have been the first thing he says - would be more poetic if it were and if not, she thinks it should have been
so he says
these aren't the elysian fields
nor arcadia, she'd have liked to answer, but she refuses to grasp that lie, she remembers her voice, shaky, hesitant, and she only says one word at this time
no
he curses, she will not paint him anyway else - his odor is wretched and he is dressed in tatters and curses in an accent just like the people in those British movies she used to watch in a lifetime she once lived but purposely doesn't try to remember - yes she imagines seeing him at this moment perfectly, and she shakes, so noticeable that he questions if she's alright
hasn't eaten for days
clean for a month, not her choice, she thinks she answers in a mumble or maybe he just asks it out of false courtesy, he doesn't say anything else about her health after that
he asks where he is
it's the city of angels, there's a story about a dark angel somewhere, so the others have told her, but she doesn't believe things until she sees them and doesn't see things unless
she believes them and she believes she's talking to someone
and he asks another question - does she have a cigarette to spare
which she doesn't, that's a habit she's never quite managed to pick up, prettier drugs on the free market with richer, more exciting burns and alcohol's slide down her throat is a better ride that the smoky drawl of a tobacco puff
he reaches then, far too close and she's pulled against chest - a thin man, but strong, well-muscled beneath his tattered shirt, stolen no doubt, this lie she is sure of - and he says to her, asks her, can she feel it
sounding once twice once twice twice once, the beat is irregular, muffled, distant
she hears it even now
she replies, in fear though she knows he doesn't hurt her, she doesn't know it then, she hears his heart
she asks him not to hurt her
never worked before
he laughs, she thinks it bitter now, and pushes her away
falls, trips, something like that, stumbling to the ground, her hand snaps hard against concrete and the man, dark against the deep black night, does nothing to stop her
she can't stop herself from wondering how he really looks, how the shadows playing across his figure make him look, briefly, like Them, the ones she's always being warned about
before he asks, why is he there
she dares not answer
he then talks, slowly, like he is coaxing answers out of the unanswerable - she doesn't understand this, she is perfectly of sound mind and hasn't done a thing wrong - his voice is lowering just for her, asking of beings, of people in shadows
he asks of Them
she bows her head and she loses time for a moment, she thinks she felt fingertips brush the pulse of her neck before
he is away now, lost in thought
she'll lose him in her thoughts
she gives an answer, as best she can
and he says he's going to fix it
she raises her head to see his hand covering where the beat lies
he is beautiful, she doesn't need to even tell that part, that part is known, imbedded in her own flesh - she is sure that if she looks in mirrors, that he'd be there, leaving marks just for her - it is more perfect than memory could ever allow
he presses lips, warm against hers, and promises that soon he'll be back and she'll be first
she'll be the first one he'll drown
she doesn't know if she made that part up - she doesn't know if a bruise lies where her necks pulses harshly - she only knows her story and she only knows that memories always fall
so she waits for soon
end.
lie to me now
Author: Regala Electra
E-mail: regala_electra@yahoo.com
Rating: R
Summary: she has a story to tell
Pairing: Spike/Other
Author's Notes: The day I write a Spike story, hell freezes over. So this is slightly cheating - hell's temperatures have slighlty fallen. One sentence, one story, one lie, one truth. Other character POV.
*
she never catches his name
she never wanted to, and now - he rises from ashes, the ground's hard and he screams once - she doesn't want to wonder why she didn't
what she does catch, and if it already falls between shaking fingertips like grains of sand, she'll ask for forgiveness, she catches a memory - sunburned shadow against white-stained light
these aren't the elysian fields - that could have been the first thing he says - would be more poetic if it were and if not, she thinks it should have been
so he says
these aren't the elysian fields
nor arcadia, she'd have liked to answer, but she refuses to grasp that lie, she remembers her voice, shaky, hesitant, and she only says one word at this time
no
he curses, she will not paint him anyway else - his odor is wretched and he is dressed in tatters and curses in an accent just like the people in those British movies she used to watch in a lifetime she once lived but purposely doesn't try to remember - yes she imagines seeing him at this moment perfectly, and she shakes, so noticeable that he questions if she's alright
hasn't eaten for days
clean for a month, not her choice, she thinks she answers in a mumble or maybe he just asks it out of false courtesy, he doesn't say anything else about her health after that
he asks where he is
it's the city of angels, there's a story about a dark angel somewhere, so the others have told her, but she doesn't believe things until she sees them and doesn't see things unless
she believes them and she believes she's talking to someone
and he asks another question - does she have a cigarette to spare
which she doesn't, that's a habit she's never quite managed to pick up, prettier drugs on the free market with richer, more exciting burns and alcohol's slide down her throat is a better ride that the smoky drawl of a tobacco puff
he reaches then, far too close and she's pulled against chest - a thin man, but strong, well-muscled beneath his tattered shirt, stolen no doubt, this lie she is sure of - and he says to her, asks her, can she feel it
sounding once twice once twice twice once, the beat is irregular, muffled, distant
she hears it even now
she replies, in fear though she knows he doesn't hurt her, she doesn't know it then, she hears his heart
she asks him not to hurt her
never worked before
he laughs, she thinks it bitter now, and pushes her away
falls, trips, something like that, stumbling to the ground, her hand snaps hard against concrete and the man, dark against the deep black night, does nothing to stop her
she can't stop herself from wondering how he really looks, how the shadows playing across his figure make him look, briefly, like Them, the ones she's always being warned about
before he asks, why is he there
she dares not answer
he then talks, slowly, like he is coaxing answers out of the unanswerable - she doesn't understand this, she is perfectly of sound mind and hasn't done a thing wrong - his voice is lowering just for her, asking of beings, of people in shadows
he asks of Them
she bows her head and she loses time for a moment, she thinks she felt fingertips brush the pulse of her neck before
he is away now, lost in thought
she'll lose him in her thoughts
she gives an answer, as best she can
and he says he's going to fix it
she raises her head to see his hand covering where the beat lies
he is beautiful, she doesn't need to even tell that part, that part is known, imbedded in her own flesh - she is sure that if she looks in mirrors, that he'd be there, leaving marks just for her - it is more perfect than memory could ever allow
he presses lips, warm against hers, and promises that soon he'll be back and she'll be first
she'll be the first one he'll drown
she doesn't know if she made that part up - she doesn't know if a bruise lies where her necks pulses harshly - she only knows her story and she only knows that memories always fall
so she waits for soon
end.