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.

here

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.

is

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.

here

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.

is

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

Nothing.

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.

But.

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

mpoetess

2002-05-24 08:14 am (UTC) (Link)

Next time? Be specific.

Yeah. But he's so *bad* at knowing himself, no matter how accurately he can dig out other people's childhood trauma. He's so tied to chnging what he is for the woman he loves and/or wants to love him, or *fighting* that change, that he has no concept of what his self really is. (Not that I'm saying *we* do -- I'm just pointing out that Spike is just as un-self-aware as Xander is. Maybe more.)

Of course, as somebody who doesn't want to see him tormented for *all* of next season, I'm certainly hoping the soul gives him *some* measure of peace, though not a free pass.

thankee!