My little fanfic continues...
Apr. 2nd, 2005 09:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shadowkat[Last two days workwise were amongst the worste I've had in some time, hence
the no writing the last two nights. Too frigging worn out and traumatized. Nah - you don't want to hear about them, besides I realized something when I write about myself - ie. pain, frustrations, I end up retaining it longer, it becomes imprinted as opposed to forgotten. This in a nutshell was why I stopped keeping a personal/private handwritten journal five years ago. And put my energy instead into writing stories. Far more constructive use for it.]
The story: Buffy at 40 visits a human Spike on his mountain-top, who now goes by the name Will. Time has passed, both have changed, what on earth can they talk about? No sex here.
Will denied all Buffy's requests to help clear away their dinner, telling her to make herself comfortable in his living room, where he'd bring them some hot chocolate and homemade cookies.
So here she sat, curled up in his chair, a creaking wooden armchair with deerskin cushions or at least she assumed they were deerskin, they could be fake as far as she knew, staring up at the rows of books on his shelves.
Did he hunt? She wondered. Envisioning Spike hunting deer made her giggle, so she pushed aside the thought. On the spines of the books, she saw titles ranging from Colorado Wildlife to the Collected Poetry of Philip Larkin. Nothing on demonology and none of the pulp paperbacks she vaguely remembered lying about Spike's crypt. Not being much of a reader herself back then, she hadn't really paid them much notice. Now, that she was older, had more time to herself, she read more and appreciated books.
Her particular favorites were the Haiku poetry that she'd discovered a while back. Three line poems. Sort of like Limricks with the quippy one liners, but none of the sing-song rhyme. Sonnets annoyed her - too flowery and antiquated.
Emily Dickenson, however, brought back fond memories of another boy who was into poetry, another road not taken. Not that she regretted not taking it, the timing was wrong and the boy had been an adrenaline junkie, which meant her particular calling, as it were, would have gotten him killed or worse. She had enough corspes on her watch as it was. Philip Larkin? She'd heard the name before but it was unfamilar. Probably an English Poet, she thought.
She wondered if any of Spike's - Will's, she hastily corrected herself, was up there. Hard to think of him as Will. It was always Spike or William. And the Spike she'd known despised being called William. He reacted to it the same way she reacted when her mother called her Buffy Anne Summers, which made her wonder in turn what his full name was, she assumed he had one. Or once had one.
Years ago, shortly after the debacle in LA, when they thought Angel and his group had expired, she'd asked Giles to hunt down information on the human counter-parts of the vampires she'd been close to. Her purpose had been to locate their human graves and lay some sort of tribute on them. Like she had done for her mother and Tara. Like others had done for her. She also felt that it was the human counter-parts that deserved the tribute not the vampires, because it was the human personality, who they once were that against all odds, beat back the demon and helped her in her cause. But Giles could find nothing. They had lost a lot of records when Caleb and his acolyotes blew up Watcher Headquarters. The ones that remained, only went back to the turn of the century, circa 1890. Spike and Angel were already vampires by then. So she was left to her imagination. Smith? Jones? Merrit? Giles? For a while she harbored a fantasy that Spike was one of Giles's ancestors, only to quickly dismiss it as a tad too coincidental. No he probably had an average, overused last name such as Smith or Jones. Not an obscure one like hers, Summers. Which was a name, according to Xander, that she shared with a comic book character. Made her wonder if the God of her universe, assuming he or she even existed, was a comic book writer in another dimension? That at any rate was Xander and Andrew's theory, that only an insane comic book writer could come up with the weird stuff they'd all gone through. Of course Xander and Andrew wrote comics together now and sold them, when they weren't off locating slayers, so the theory could be wishful thinking on their part. Save me from comic book geek logic, she thought shuddering.
William. Will. Her mind meandered over what little she knew of him. He seemed to despise the name Spike, which made her wonder if the man he was now wished to destroy every vestige of the vampire he'd been? No, she shook her head, glancing at the wall of pictures, if that were so, he wouldn't have all those photographs. Who was he though? This quiet man who so politely served her a meal and refused any assistance? He was nothing like the man she'd known, or rather remembered. She wondered what he thought of her. How she seemed to him now after all these years. Their meeting reminded her a little of a Vietnam War story Dawn told her about a solider coming back to visit an enemy solider in Vietnam, long after the war was over. They had bonded and helped one another during that war even though they were often at odds. Even loved one another a bit. Now years later, the solider discovered his friend and former lover to be a broken melancholy sort not the snarky quick-witted fighter he once knew.
"Sorry that took so long, hope you weren't too bored," Will said, setting down a tray in front of her that contained two cups of hot chocolate and a dish of chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin cookies. The dish was simple in design. Not ornate. But then nothing he owned seemed ornate. "Sorry no marshmellows."
"That's okay," she said, smiling at the comment. He sat on the couch next to her. "Sorry, I took your chair."
He shrugged. "No worries. You're the guest, make yourself at home."
There were so many things she wanted to ask him but in the awkward silence found herself dismissing each one as either too nosey or too personal. "So you're a Philip Larkin fan?"
He looked at her oddly, then glanced up at the book case behind him. "I like him. Wouldn't call myself a fan. His work speaks to me. Is all. Why? You a fan?"
"No, haven't really read any of his stuff - although Giles tried to get me to more than once."
"How is old Rupert?"
"Dead." She caught his look of complete shock and quickly added. "He passed away in his sleep a little two years ago, had a heart attack."
"I'm sorry, I know how close you were." He bowed his head and starred down at
the chocolate swirling in the cup.
"Not so much in the later years. We'd drifted apart a bit, Giles and I. But he was in no pain and it was his time."
[And I am frigging stuck...so will go do something else, such as work on my other story, etc and come back to this. Words aren't flowing quite so easily today on this baby for some reason.]
the no writing the last two nights. Too frigging worn out and traumatized. Nah - you don't want to hear about them, besides I realized something when I write about myself - ie. pain, frustrations, I end up retaining it longer, it becomes imprinted as opposed to forgotten. This in a nutshell was why I stopped keeping a personal/private handwritten journal five years ago. And put my energy instead into writing stories. Far more constructive use for it.]
The story: Buffy at 40 visits a human Spike on his mountain-top, who now goes by the name Will. Time has passed, both have changed, what on earth can they talk about? No sex here.
Will denied all Buffy's requests to help clear away their dinner, telling her to make herself comfortable in his living room, where he'd bring them some hot chocolate and homemade cookies.
So here she sat, curled up in his chair, a creaking wooden armchair with deerskin cushions or at least she assumed they were deerskin, they could be fake as far as she knew, staring up at the rows of books on his shelves.
Did he hunt? She wondered. Envisioning Spike hunting deer made her giggle, so she pushed aside the thought. On the spines of the books, she saw titles ranging from Colorado Wildlife to the Collected Poetry of Philip Larkin. Nothing on demonology and none of the pulp paperbacks she vaguely remembered lying about Spike's crypt. Not being much of a reader herself back then, she hadn't really paid them much notice. Now, that she was older, had more time to herself, she read more and appreciated books.
Her particular favorites were the Haiku poetry that she'd discovered a while back. Three line poems. Sort of like Limricks with the quippy one liners, but none of the sing-song rhyme. Sonnets annoyed her - too flowery and antiquated.
Emily Dickenson, however, brought back fond memories of another boy who was into poetry, another road not taken. Not that she regretted not taking it, the timing was wrong and the boy had been an adrenaline junkie, which meant her particular calling, as it were, would have gotten him killed or worse. She had enough corspes on her watch as it was. Philip Larkin? She'd heard the name before but it was unfamilar. Probably an English Poet, she thought.
She wondered if any of Spike's - Will's, she hastily corrected herself, was up there. Hard to think of him as Will. It was always Spike or William. And the Spike she'd known despised being called William. He reacted to it the same way she reacted when her mother called her Buffy Anne Summers, which made her wonder in turn what his full name was, she assumed he had one. Or once had one.
Years ago, shortly after the debacle in LA, when they thought Angel and his group had expired, she'd asked Giles to hunt down information on the human counter-parts of the vampires she'd been close to. Her purpose had been to locate their human graves and lay some sort of tribute on them. Like she had done for her mother and Tara. Like others had done for her. She also felt that it was the human counter-parts that deserved the tribute not the vampires, because it was the human personality, who they once were that against all odds, beat back the demon and helped her in her cause. But Giles could find nothing. They had lost a lot of records when Caleb and his acolyotes blew up Watcher Headquarters. The ones that remained, only went back to the turn of the century, circa 1890. Spike and Angel were already vampires by then. So she was left to her imagination. Smith? Jones? Merrit? Giles? For a while she harbored a fantasy that Spike was one of Giles's ancestors, only to quickly dismiss it as a tad too coincidental. No he probably had an average, overused last name such as Smith or Jones. Not an obscure one like hers, Summers. Which was a name, according to Xander, that she shared with a comic book character. Made her wonder if the God of her universe, assuming he or she even existed, was a comic book writer in another dimension? That at any rate was Xander and Andrew's theory, that only an insane comic book writer could come up with the weird stuff they'd all gone through. Of course Xander and Andrew wrote comics together now and sold them, when they weren't off locating slayers, so the theory could be wishful thinking on their part. Save me from comic book geek logic, she thought shuddering.
William. Will. Her mind meandered over what little she knew of him. He seemed to despise the name Spike, which made her wonder if the man he was now wished to destroy every vestige of the vampire he'd been? No, she shook her head, glancing at the wall of pictures, if that were so, he wouldn't have all those photographs. Who was he though? This quiet man who so politely served her a meal and refused any assistance? He was nothing like the man she'd known, or rather remembered. She wondered what he thought of her. How she seemed to him now after all these years. Their meeting reminded her a little of a Vietnam War story Dawn told her about a solider coming back to visit an enemy solider in Vietnam, long after the war was over. They had bonded and helped one another during that war even though they were often at odds. Even loved one another a bit. Now years later, the solider discovered his friend and former lover to be a broken melancholy sort not the snarky quick-witted fighter he once knew.
"Sorry that took so long, hope you weren't too bored," Will said, setting down a tray in front of her that contained two cups of hot chocolate and a dish of chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin cookies. The dish was simple in design. Not ornate. But then nothing he owned seemed ornate. "Sorry no marshmellows."
"That's okay," she said, smiling at the comment. He sat on the couch next to her. "Sorry, I took your chair."
He shrugged. "No worries. You're the guest, make yourself at home."
There were so many things she wanted to ask him but in the awkward silence found herself dismissing each one as either too nosey or too personal. "So you're a Philip Larkin fan?"
He looked at her oddly, then glanced up at the book case behind him. "I like him. Wouldn't call myself a fan. His work speaks to me. Is all. Why? You a fan?"
"No, haven't really read any of his stuff - although Giles tried to get me to more than once."
"How is old Rupert?"
"Dead." She caught his look of complete shock and quickly added. "He passed away in his sleep a little two years ago, had a heart attack."
"I'm sorry, I know how close you were." He bowed his head and starred down at
the chocolate swirling in the cup.
"Not so much in the later years. We'd drifted apart a bit, Giles and I. But he was in no pain and it was his time."
[And I am frigging stuck...so will go do something else, such as work on my other story, etc and come back to this. Words aren't flowing quite so easily today on this baby for some reason.]
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no subject
Date: 2005-04-02 10:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-02 10:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-02 03:51 pm (UTC)I'm interested in how you have Spike talking about the demon - seems like he's now seeing it as more persona than id-like impulse? I like too how their lives are being revealed in bits and pieces - fits in with the rhythms of a conversation but also gives us a hook. Looking forward to more!