Francine - harvest
I Blame the Dutch mpoetess
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You know, I have no idea if this is pretentious, incomprehensible pseudo-poetic crap, or not. I think that says something about my current solo-writing state of mind. Also, conflicted about this because it isn't my take on the character, or what's happened to him. But the nasty thing came to my head and knocked, and I have no idea whether I wrote it because I had to, or because I want to prove I can be nasty. Bleh.

Evil Spike fic, post-finale. Evil as in, the story is evil, not necessarily Spike. Rated? Eh. PG-13.

What we have

Nothing. Nothing left. No more tests, no more trials, no more time, no more Spike. In the moment. Just the want, just the need, just the prize.


Black in shadowed cave, black in bruise and blood, black in buzzing brain. Bare, branded skin, burned black. On his back, black rock above. Nothing but black. Empty dark crack, ready to be filled.


Everything. Hand on his chest. Black room. Silent. Cage of ribs, cracked. Claws. Bruise, ache, fire, bright, burning. Gold, cold, bright, so white it blackens his eyes. Opens them white on memory, wide.

a failure

Everything. Hand on her chest. White room. Pounding. Beneath: grey robe, pink skin, blue veins. Between: soft, sweat-sweet breasts. Behind: white bone. Cage of ribs. Sternum can crack, so simple. So swift, hands could crack. Have cracked, just not her. Can crack, can hurt, only her. Hands could hold. Could hold her heart, so easy: crack, reach, take.

Want it given.

Give me. Hate. Pour it on. Lay it all on me, that's my girl. Love. Lay yourself down. Stay. Stay through the night, through the light. Love me. Hate me. Hit me. Hurt me. Just don't. Don't go.

Don't say go, don't say it, don't say.

No. Can't hear no.

Won't. Her. She who has to hear. Has to know. Has to feel. Must feel. Can't not. How could she not, when it burns alive, burns the dead, burns both to crackling crisp? How can she not *feel* it? How can she lie? How could it be true?

Reaches. Touches. Hear me. Hands can hold. Let me hold. Don't say no. Hands can't hear. Just hear me. Hands can't hear no.

Hands can hurt.

Was. Hands. On her arms on her legs on her face on the floor. Was cold and cracked and open and bleeding white porcelain tile and she kicked him away and the dust flew and what was it? What did he do?

Hands can hurt and she's torn in two, and what? What did he do?

And he's torn, too.

to communicate

What he wants. It asks. What he wants. Needs. What he was. What she deserves. Death, black, cold. Blood, hot, rich, red, in his mouth. Stains them both, stains her white, white soul, his black room, black eyes. Black bruise, white thigh. Needs fangs, needs pain, needs not to want. What he wants.

It asks. What she deserves. Hands can hurt. Hands can hold. In his hands. Soft, warm, straining, skin on skin. Hands on him, small, strong, hands on his heat. Hands on her hair, head on his shoulder. Lips on his skin. Him on his knees. Want me. Love me. Won't hurt. Hold her. Closer, since she came back. Blood screaming in her veins, she wants to die, he wants... To change? What she deserves.

It asks. What he was. Man. Fool. Blood and bone and blackened ash, was he? Monster. Lover. Hungry, free. But even that's a lie. Bound to her. To black heart, to blue round eyes. Red lips, white teeth. Free, but we can still be friends. Lost. Found. Chained. To metal, to rock. To the thing in his head, to lies. Lies that he loves, lies that he needs, lies that he wants. Chained to her. What he wants. Free. What he was. Was he ever? What she needs. What he isn't. What he wants to be.

It asks, and he screams.

What we have

Bruise, ache, fire, bright, burning. Gold, cold, bright. Eyes open white.


Bright in shadowed cave. Bright behind his eyes. Pain and fire and no more lies.

We will give you this. We will give you.

Wants to be given. Doesn't want to take. What she deserves.

We will give you.


Nothing. White. Bruises fade. Hands that can hurt, hands that can hit. Gone. The thing, what he was, hands that can hurt, gone. That wasn't me.

Everything. What he can be. Something new, something clean. Hands that can hold. Something she needs. What he wants. What he was. Once. Long, long ago.

Burns bright through him, right through. And he takes it. Lay it all on me. He'll be changed.

He was. He is.

a failure

Wrong. Something's wrong. Fire dies. Electricity lies. Back in shadowed cave, black in bruise and blood, empty buzzing brain. Back against the wall, cold. Old. And he is. Old. Still here, still the same. Still knows shame.

White room, black bruise, hands, crack, tile. Still wants. Still needs. Still hates. Nothing's changed. Still torn in two.

What did you do? He asks. He shouts, back against the wall, claw on his chest, silent heart in his breast, what did you *do*?

It laughs.

to communicate


But. The prize. The trials. What I want. What I was. What you said-- We will give you your soul.

It laughs. We have. You have.

But. There's nothing. Nothing's new.

It laughs. You asked. We gave.

But. Hands. Hands in the black, that can hurt, bone that can crack. Hate, love, consuming flame. Nothing's changed. Monster, still. Still black room, still white tile. Still living in a hole. What did I do? What soul? Still living in a grave.

You asked. We gave. Be glad.


It's not our fault you asked for what you already had.


2002-05-23 10:04 am (UTC) (Link)


And also, quite possibly, ow.

No, not pretentious at all. It flowed well, and it hurt in all the right places. I don't think I understood the ending as you meant it to be (IE can still be evil WITH a soul) until I saw you explain it in the LJ comment section. But now, re-reading, yes. That's kick ass. It sums up about everything, don't it? I mean, Warren had a soul. Angel has a soul. I'm not so sure that's what makes a person decent, in the end. Which is why I have hopes for this re-souled vamp thing to take a different route than DeadBoy Jr.

But anyway, your fic was luscious. I'm glad you decided to share it.



2002-05-24 07:51 am (UTC) (Link)

Yeah, I question whether I was clear enough that his big horror is that he *hasn't* been changed, and there's nothing he can do to just magically take it away, and become someone Buffy could love or forgive. Forgive without him changing massively, anyhow. I don't know that it's necessarily that you can *be* evil with a soul that I was trying for (though true) so much as, people with souls are capable of acts of great wrong. I.e., Willow -- she's not exactly what I would think of as evil even in the Black Magic Willow mode -- more proud and insane and humanly fallible. And she's responsible for her acts, now that she's been talked down. A souled Spike, canonwise, might or might not be considered responsible for his unsouled acts -- I mean, that's the biggest question about Angel: is the souled part of him responsible for what he did when he didn't have one? But a Spike who *wasn't* unsouled during Seeing Red, who was so unaware and in denial of his own status that he went seeking a soul thinking he could win a free pass, would be as responsible for his actions as Willow is.


2002-05-24 06:06 pm (UTC) (Link)

Yes. But I do not necessarily think the fact that it took me a re-read tto GET that point is a reflection on the way the story was written. More likely it is my own feelings toward the character at this point.

The story was awesome.



2002-05-24 08:09 am (UTC) (Link)

And, er, duh. *smacks self* Thank you!