There is no destruction without creation. What this means is: it’s no fun when she’s gone.
Every night breaks the same way, now: in one solitary and silent room, the door slams, his footsteps fall heavy against the floors and Spike looks and looks back into the room’s neglected corners. A habit, now, that makes him look twice at the shadows when he comes and goes. Not made of fear—it’s never been fear; he doesn’t know from fear, has never worn it on his back or in his heart. But he looks and looks again and what it is is a plea, in spite of himself.
He keeps expecting to see her perched by the window with her face up to the moon, immaculate white dress like a taunt to the blood on his hands, ready to be stained. But she isn’t, and as a vampire he tends not to believe in ghosts. Funny sort of thing, then, to be haunted.
He comes home with blood in his mouth, covered in careless gluttony, but even that doesn’t taste the way it used to. There’s no hectic pulse in the veins of his prey anymore when he sinks in his teeth. It’s food, just food. The peculiar lunatic lunar taste that she used to kiss back into his mouth is gone, lost with the last words she left behind. Her tongue is gone, her teeth are gone, all gone for the rest of the bloody world to taste.
Funny sort of thing to torture yourself with. Anyone else, he could rip the tongue out and take it back with him. That would be the end of it, last breath and last gulp and last laugh all in one. Anyone else, that thought would be comforting. But then again, there’s never been anyone else.
“I make their hearts tick like clocks,” she said to him once. “And they beat faster and faster until the time races to keep up.”
“What’s the rush?” he had asked, then. “We’ve got all the time we could possibly want. More.”
“But it crawls so,” she had replied, and she would not look at him.
Funny sort of thing. He was never a detail man before, but now in the isolation she left him for company, he’s all sorts of time for memories and vignettes and—oh for fuck's sake—analysis of it all. Everything’s so saturated with dramatic irony now, it’s like living in some sort of book he’d never bother with reading. He’d laugh, but his balance is precarious enough as it is.
It’s always been his particular skill to beat things into clay. But when that’s what was left—pulp and the odd whimper, a few slivers of bone—she was always there to make something new from the remains. Her slender fingers dipped in and out of his work came hers. The artist’s. Temporary stuff, symphonies of shrieks and intricate patterns on skin and the flickering brilliance of the things she saw behind her eyes. He was never one for art, but it didn’t make a difference. It was hers, hers to relish and gloat over. Her fingernails would explain it against his skin, blood caught beneath the tips. “Isn’t it lovely?” she’d breathe. “I made it for you.”
There is no destruction without creation. What this means is: it’s no fun when she’s gone. They don’t sigh songs for him. They never have.
The nights blur around him; he doesn’t bother to look too closely when they all end up looking the same. A night’s a night like any other, pissed past feeling until it’s like walking through blank canvas. There’s blood on his tongue, though. There’s human weight against his body. The blanks fill themselves in.
“Please,” he hears it whisper faintly.
“Oh, fuck off,” he says, and drops it onto the puddled ground, where it makes an unhappy wet sound as it falls. He steps over it and doesn’t look back to see if it gets up.
He bites the top off a bottle of whiskey, the glass splintering between his teeth. When he swallows, he feels the trail of glass slicing down his throat. He’ll add that to the list of things that won’t kill him. It’s a long list. His tongue burns, tasting flammable, already saturated with smoke. The shards and slivers trail beneath his skin and stick where his heart should be. Etching hieroglyphs in the veins instead of a pulse.
It hurts. Of course it hurts. But pain is good. Pain breeds all sorts of good things. Strength, and sometimes love. And then again, most of the time—more pain. Vicious sort of cycle. Suits a vicious sort of creature. He’s used to it: in the end, the pain just ends up as another kind of pleasure.
He smiles. “Invincible yet?” Spike asks himself with a bloody mouth.
Not yet, he’s not. But it’ll mark the time until it turns into something true.
(all my btvs fic is so short. less than 1000 words. who is this girl writing these things and where is her prolix?)