We Carry On (The Sense-Memory Remix)
Nov. 10th, 2012 07:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kerravonsenRound 2 of the Circle of Friends Remix is now open for reading at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
cof_remix!
Title: We Carry On (The Sense-Memory Remix)
Author: Kathryn Akerravonsen
Beta Reader(s):evilawyer
Word Count: 900
Fandom: Buffy
Rating: PG (language)
Summary: Post "The Gift". They all grieve in their own ways.
Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.
Original story: "We Carry On" byslaymesoftly
Notes: This is a remix done for thecof_remix ficathon. Dialogue comes from the original story.
He was drowning; drowning in her scent, a torment of both pleasure and pain. His broken leg was a mere irritation in comparison to the agony in his heart. He had failed. He had failed and Buffy was dead. Perhaps he would lie here in her bed until the sun rose and turned him to dust. He breathed, filling his nose with her fragrance. Not yet. He would drink in the last of her, even knowing that every inhalation of her aroma meant that there was less of it left. It would still fade, whether he was there or not. He wondered if his dust would mingle with the molecules of her scent; if he would be with her in death as he could not be with her in life. He liked that idea. Poetic.
He'd always been a crap poet. The words that flowed so freely for others turned stumbling and clumsy for him. So then he tried imitating those others, and what came out was trite and flat. He had a poet's heart without a poet's tongue. Words, words were nothing. True poetry was written in blood and sinew, sweat and tears.
They didn't understand. Those frail humans downstairs thought that not having a soul meant that one didn't feel. On the contrary, a vampire was nothing but id and ego; no inhibitions, no distance between desire and action. There were no "shoulds", only want and not-want, love and hate. He had wanted Buffy, still wanted her. Wanted her to love him, though that was impossible, had been impossible even when she was alive. Dru had been his dark princess. Buffy had been a shining star, a burning blade, bright and deadly and alive. And then she was nothing but broken bones and cold flesh.
He heard the creak of a footstep on the stairs. He wondered if they were coming to check on him or on Dawn. The niblet had retreated to her room; he had camped out in Buffy's. Damn Dawn, damn the monks, damn Glory, damn himself. Did he hate the little bit for being alive? Yes. No. Maybe. No more than he hated himself for having failed. He couldn't hate Buffy for sacrificing herself; being who she was, she couldn't have done anything else. She couldn't have killed her own sister, her own blood. No, he didn't hate Dawn, not really. He was jealous of her. Both he and Dawn were made of magic and blood, yet Buffy loved Dawn and not him. Poor Pinochio, wanting to be a Real Boy.
The door creaked open. It was the Watcher, Mister Tweed himself, carrying a bag. Without a word, he put it down on the dresser and approached the bed.
"Not now, luv. I've got a headache," Spike said when he felt a hand run down his leg. He'd be damned if he let the stiff upper wanker see his pain.
"You wish," Giles muttered. He laid his hands on either side of the break in Spike's leg. "You may want to put that pillow over your mouth."
Shit. Spike pulled the pillow from behind his head and clutched it to his face. He'd been wrong about the pain in his heart being worse than the pain in his leg; when it was lying still, perhaps, but not when it was being set without anaesthetic. After the screaming was done, Giles bound the leg with an Ace bandage. Spike was torn between wanting to break the Watcher's leg, and admiring Giles's cold-blooded sadism. He glared by way of compromise.
Giles pulled out several bags of blood and one glass bottle from the bag on the dresser. From the shape of the bottle, and the amber shade of the liquid, Spike surmised it was Scotch. Knowing Giles, it was the good stuff.
"Drink the blood," Giles said. He gestured at the bottle. "When you've started to heal, I'll give you one good drunk."
"Only one drunk?" Spike said. "This from the man who reaches for the Scotch when he gets a hangnail?" Spike wasn't sure which he hated more: that Giles was catering to Spike's weaknesses, or that Giles wasn't prostrate with grief like everyone else in this house. Oh, he could see that Giles had been mourning, was still mourning; his gaunt face and bloodshot eyes said as much. But he hadn't allowed his grief to paralyze him. He was taking action.
But why? Why bother? How could the Watcher find purpose when his purpose was shattered at the bottom of a tower? What was the point?
"And then what am I supposed to do?" Spike growled, half angry, half pleading.
"Then you can get on your bloody feet and start helping me take care of these brave and foolish children."
Ah. Obvious once you pointed it out. Because nothing would make Buffy's death more pointless than if those she had died for, Dawn especially, were not looked after, were not protected. And who else was there to do it? Not that Red and Glinda couldn't handle themselves, but "brave and foolish" applied to the witches as much as to any of the Scoobies. "Think yourself so wise, do you?"
"I try," Giles said. "Which is all that anyone can do."
Even when you fail.
"Fine," Spike said. "Call me the little engine that could."
Giles nodded, and left him to his blood and drink. Tomorrow would come soon enough.
cof_remix!Title: We Carry On (The Sense-Memory Remix)
Author: Kathryn A
kerravonsen Beta Reader(s):
evilawyerWord Count: 900
Fandom: Buffy
Rating: PG (language)
Summary: Post "The Gift". They all grieve in their own ways.
Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.
Original story: "We Carry On" by
slaymesoftlyNotes: This is a remix done for the
cof_remix ficathon. Dialogue comes from the original story.He was drowning; drowning in her scent, a torment of both pleasure and pain. His broken leg was a mere irritation in comparison to the agony in his heart. He had failed. He had failed and Buffy was dead. Perhaps he would lie here in her bed until the sun rose and turned him to dust. He breathed, filling his nose with her fragrance. Not yet. He would drink in the last of her, even knowing that every inhalation of her aroma meant that there was less of it left. It would still fade, whether he was there or not. He wondered if his dust would mingle with the molecules of her scent; if he would be with her in death as he could not be with her in life. He liked that idea. Poetic.
He'd always been a crap poet. The words that flowed so freely for others turned stumbling and clumsy for him. So then he tried imitating those others, and what came out was trite and flat. He had a poet's heart without a poet's tongue. Words, words were nothing. True poetry was written in blood and sinew, sweat and tears.
They didn't understand. Those frail humans downstairs thought that not having a soul meant that one didn't feel. On the contrary, a vampire was nothing but id and ego; no inhibitions, no distance between desire and action. There were no "shoulds", only want and not-want, love and hate. He had wanted Buffy, still wanted her. Wanted her to love him, though that was impossible, had been impossible even when she was alive. Dru had been his dark princess. Buffy had been a shining star, a burning blade, bright and deadly and alive. And then she was nothing but broken bones and cold flesh.
He heard the creak of a footstep on the stairs. He wondered if they were coming to check on him or on Dawn. The niblet had retreated to her room; he had camped out in Buffy's. Damn Dawn, damn the monks, damn Glory, damn himself. Did he hate the little bit for being alive? Yes. No. Maybe. No more than he hated himself for having failed. He couldn't hate Buffy for sacrificing herself; being who she was, she couldn't have done anything else. She couldn't have killed her own sister, her own blood. No, he didn't hate Dawn, not really. He was jealous of her. Both he and Dawn were made of magic and blood, yet Buffy loved Dawn and not him. Poor Pinochio, wanting to be a Real Boy.
The door creaked open. It was the Watcher, Mister Tweed himself, carrying a bag. Without a word, he put it down on the dresser and approached the bed.
"Not now, luv. I've got a headache," Spike said when he felt a hand run down his leg. He'd be damned if he let the stiff upper wanker see his pain.
"You wish," Giles muttered. He laid his hands on either side of the break in Spike's leg. "You may want to put that pillow over your mouth."
Shit. Spike pulled the pillow from behind his head and clutched it to his face. He'd been wrong about the pain in his heart being worse than the pain in his leg; when it was lying still, perhaps, but not when it was being set without anaesthetic. After the screaming was done, Giles bound the leg with an Ace bandage. Spike was torn between wanting to break the Watcher's leg, and admiring Giles's cold-blooded sadism. He glared by way of compromise.
Giles pulled out several bags of blood and one glass bottle from the bag on the dresser. From the shape of the bottle, and the amber shade of the liquid, Spike surmised it was Scotch. Knowing Giles, it was the good stuff.
"Drink the blood," Giles said. He gestured at the bottle. "When you've started to heal, I'll give you one good drunk."
"Only one drunk?" Spike said. "This from the man who reaches for the Scotch when he gets a hangnail?" Spike wasn't sure which he hated more: that Giles was catering to Spike's weaknesses, or that Giles wasn't prostrate with grief like everyone else in this house. Oh, he could see that Giles had been mourning, was still mourning; his gaunt face and bloodshot eyes said as much. But he hadn't allowed his grief to paralyze him. He was taking action.
But why? Why bother? How could the Watcher find purpose when his purpose was shattered at the bottom of a tower? What was the point?
"And then what am I supposed to do?" Spike growled, half angry, half pleading.
"Then you can get on your bloody feet and start helping me take care of these brave and foolish children."
Ah. Obvious once you pointed it out. Because nothing would make Buffy's death more pointless than if those she had died for, Dawn especially, were not looked after, were not protected. And who else was there to do it? Not that Red and Glinda couldn't handle themselves, but "brave and foolish" applied to the witches as much as to any of the Scoobies. "Think yourself so wise, do you?"
"I try," Giles said. "Which is all that anyone can do."
Even when you fail.
"Fine," Spike said. "Call me the little engine that could."
Giles nodded, and left him to his blood and drink. Tomorrow would come soon enough.
no subject
Date: 2012-11-10 09:43 am (UTC)