TITLE: Calling her sweetheart.
AUTHOR: Mexx
DISCLAIMER: Not mine… you know the drill.
RATING: PG-13.
SUMMARY: Fifty years into the future, and Spike thinks of a woman he once loved.
FEEDBACK: Don’t make me beg. Seeing me beg isn’t pretty. But feedback would be nice.
New York City, in the year 2048
A man sits in a darkened corner of a darkened bar. Not a man at all really, a shadow of man, a demon inhabiting his body – but not his heart, that belongs to her.
The man’s eyes glisten with what once must have been tears, dried now. Blood shot and hard. Angry. Hurt.
The bar fills and night falls, darkness enveloping everyone in the crowded room, it slips around their bodies like a disease, slow, patient, insidious, omnipotent.
Wide-eyed, he dreams of days gone by; of half a century ago when he fought with a wisp of a girl. When he fought against her. When he fought alongside her.
He thinks about times past, of the decades and the centuries he loved the best. He thinks of the nineties, of when she lived and breathed and danced and fought, always just out of his reach...the alluring chimera he'd never been able to touch.
He remembers the counties and cities he has visited in his years: Prague, Athens, Madrid, Dublin, London, Oslo, Milan, Rome… Places with buildings older than he, ancient relics and monuments. He remembers one town more than the others, just north of Los Angeles, small, almost quaint, with the exception of the demons and darkness that prowled at night. He remembers the buildings: a burnt out factory, a gothic mansion on the outskirts of the town, a normal looking house on a normal looking road where an exceptional girl would rest her head.
He recalls of people he has known, Kings and Merchants and Warlocks, men he has seen die, men he has killed in a bid to quench the never-ending thirst that burns within him. Bright, burning eyes as he sinks teeth into jugulars, spears into torsos, an bullets into brains. He remembers none of them really, no real memory of the screams, of the taste, of the kill.
A daring young girl sits across from the man at his darkened table. She is attractive, eyes silhouetted with black pencil, cheeks redden with blush, lips outlined with red gloss, figure accentuated with clinging dress. The girl has blonde hair, he notes. It isn’t her though, never would be. Never could be. The girl’s hair is the wrong shade, it’s ash blonde, it isn’t like sunshine, doesn’t sparkle as she moves. The girl’s eyes are wrong too, not the ever changing green-blue black opal like hers had been, this girl has grey eyes. This girl is almost like her, he thinks to himself, but however close the likeness is, this girl could never be her, no one could. No other girl could sparkle like she, fight like her, or inspire dreams like her.
He dreams of dreams he dreamt about her. When she lived, how he wished he could have her, possess her, devour her. Now she no longer lives he simply wants to see her. He dreams of dreams and words spoken in dreams. Softly spoken words, calling her sweet nothings.
Calling her ‘luv'
Calling her ‘sweetheart’
Calling her ‘Buffy’
-finis