Prompt 375 - Through the Door - comlodge - BTVS

[comlodge.livejournal.com]

Title: Through the Door
Author: comlodge
Charachters: Spike, Drusilla, Anne, Angelus
Medium: Fiction
Genre: Angst
Artwork:  comlodge
Rating: M
Words: 1658
Disclaimer: They belong to Joss Whedon but he said have at 'em you Fanfic freaks, I love you'se. (or something like that).
Summary: Set S6 Seeing Red, immediately after the bathroom scene.

'Ask me again why I could never love you.'

Her words echoed through his head. The pain in his chest was enough to bring him to his knees. It was a living, twisting thing and he thought, briefly, that perhaps it was the ending of him. Could a vampire die that way? Like spontaneous combustion. Only instead of flame, the heart rends itself apart by thought, deed and baser things, and brings everything to dust.

He ran. He ran fast, as only a vampire can. He ran through the night. But he ran like prey. Ran from what he had done; from what he had almost done, in the doing. He was breathing hard, drawing in ragged breaths as though his lungs needed them. He was on the verge of hyperventilating, which was stupid, impossible. Still, he was.
The lights of Sunnyhell were fading behind him, and still he ran. He was a blur in the night; a wisp of wind passing by; a jump in the dark; a shiver down the spine. Felt, sensed, but not seen. A shadow in the corner of the eye. He ran. Away. From thoughts and feelings long ago dead and now, too unfamiliar. Too bloody foreign to understand, and too hard to fathom what to do with. He ran away from himself, from the questions of self, from the question of.... Guilt.

He found himself on a bluff, overlooking the little beach the humans liked to drape themselves over, as they toasted in the sun, trying to capture some of that golden power inside themselves. He panted and his limbs shook from the effort of his mad dash though town. He stood, chest heaving in a pantomime of human effort, and looked out over the water, dark, mysterious, eternal.

A weak, pale, watery moon sent faded imitations of silvery strands through the rolling, tumbling surf. Like the faded threads of humanity that coursed through his being. Pale, watery imitations of the man he'd been, tumbling through his mind, dredging up feelings he hadn't known were still a part of him. They were though, or at least, the pain they brought with them was real.

What had he done?

Something inside him burnt; like the burn of raw alcohol, going down. There was no afterglow though. No warming of the insides. No numbing peace, as happened when the mind succumbed to fermented grains, and slowed and dulled. His thoughts churned inside his head, and the guilt; the guilt burnt his guts. It sat like a great leaden, molten mass of pain, deep inside him, bringing tears and madness. It drove him to his knees, head bowed, face wet, eyes misted and unseeing. He was so bloody lost.

“My poor William. You were my shining knight. I made you to be my prince of darkness. Daddy said I should have a bad doggie of my own and I picked you.” He felt the slight weight of a hand on his cheek. It slid down under his chin and lifted his face. “You still walk in a world that others cannot imagine, my William. It burns you, like quicksilver, and puts the breath inside you. My poor, lost boy.”

He nuzzled against the hand, leaned in towards it, eyes closed. “Dru, pet?” He whispered her name so low; he thought he might not have spoken it.
“She burns you in gold and diamond.”

The hand slid away and the loneliness he lived, every day, swelled to engulf him. So alone. He opened his eyes, caught a vague glimpse of something white and gauzy slipping away from him. He screamed as he scrambled to his feet, one hand dashing at his eyes to clear them.

“Dru! Dru! Pet. Don’t leave me. Not again.” He scrabbled forward as he rose, striding to catch up, and stepped off into space. Vampires are like cats. They mostly land on their feet because their reflexes, muscle control and strength, are so superior to their human counterparts and because they needed to be ready for fight or flight. Always. He tumbled head first, in a fog, like a drunken sot and landed hard, amongst the rocks and sand below the bluff. He lay on his back, winded, not from lack of air but from pain and despair.

He panted through the pain, listening to the wind and the waves; hearing the cycle of nature that continues, no matter what the creatures on the land might do. He listened to that constant sound droning through his head; followed a wave as it receded, and rode it into the dark.

He dreamed of fire and agony, shining lights in colours so bright that the world faded to shades of grey. He dreamed of a door that filled him with terror and longing. It made his demon cringe and fold in on itself. His hand reached for the lights and his demon screamed in fury and hate and clawed at his insides.

He woke, all at once and without moving, as predators do, because they are always hungry. Always on the lookout for prey, or another predator who might be stronger or quicker or hungrier. His ears stretched out for any signs. They brought back the constant sound of waves, reshaping the earth, a little at a time. Behind the sea, came the sounds that surround the towns and cities of humans, the low hum of life going about its business. Those he let fade away to return to the hypnotic rhythm of the water.

He sniffed the air drawing in the salt tang. Beneath that lay the scent of human sweat and other bodily fluids; the lotions and potions they anointed themselves with; the dead food they consumed; the stench of the machines they used to go about their lives; the tears and laughter that surrounded them. He tasted no prey, no danger and he let the scents slip away.

“William. William, wake up. It’s time to wake up. There are things that you must do and time is short. You have an opportunity before you, William. It’s time to come home. It’s time to let go of the pain and go through the door.”

“Mother?” He turned his head to where he thought the words had come. “Mother, is that you? ... Mum?” No answer, but the waves, as they rolled themselves up onto the shore, withdrawing and returning to the bosom of the sea to renew and return. Over and over.

He rolled his head back to stare up into the night sky. Here, a little outside the lights of man, the stars gathered in great swathes across the midnight sky. An endless ocean of sparkling lights gathered in clusters, in a velvet blanket of deep blues and purples, hanging across the black void. A sky that called for poetry. He tried to bring forth some appropriate lines, from the thousands he’d stored away during his century plus of walking the earth, but now his head was silent.

“Ah, me boyo. Ye were ne’er the brightest spark in the tin. Tried enough to teach ye yer place in the world, but ye were always a headstrong one. How many times Darla told me to stake ye, but nay, I had to persevere. Yer not the man fer her, me lad. Yer got nothin’ inside to offer the likes of her. Yer a monster of the night. She’s a power for the light, Willie. Leave her be.”

He leapt to his feet at the sound of that voice, eyes searching the surrounds, nostrils flaring, seeking out that familiar scent. He yelled into the dark, anger stirring the flames.

“’Gelus? Ya bloody great wanker. Mind your own bleedin’ business, ya great poof. You just want me to run out on her, like you did. You wouldn’t know the meaning of love, what it’s like to really love someone. Soul or not, your nothin’ but a great selfish oaf.” Nothing but the waves answered him. The constant advance and retreat that had been going on since creation; had been part of creation.

He threw himself to the ground once more, despair and self-hate wrestling for his attention. He’d buggered everything tonight and he could see no way to undo it. He’d broken his word. He’d hurt her. At least, he would have, if she hadn’t thrown him across the room. Her beautiful green eyes, misting in tears of surprised shock, betrayal and hurt, floated in the salt air above him.

Angelus was right. He was a monster. He groaned and a shiver ran through his body. Not from the cold outside but from the cold within him. The fire that had burned was now ice that froze. He rolled over and pushed up onto all fours, head hanging low like a mangy cur, waiting to be kicked. Without his leather amour, he was small. Without his swagger, he was smaller.

He rose to his feet and looked out into the night, across the silver specked waves. There was something on the horizon, something white, diaphanous, riding the waves. Its centre shone with colour.

“Don’t open the door, my Spike. Please. Daddy won’t be pleased. Come back to me.” He shook his head. He really needed a drink and he had a couple of bottles back at the crypt. He could drown the bloody pain and the voices. For a little while anyway. He turned to trudge up the beach.

“William, you were a blessing from the moment I held you in my arms. So clever, so loving. You’ll know what to do.” The soft, familiar voice pulled him up mid stride. His jaw tightened and he threw his head up, eyes shut, remembering. “Not there. She’s not there. I’m not turn…” He spun around. Nothing. He sighed, turned back and continued across the sand. A bottle with his name and maybe some answers, or at the least, a little respite, was calling him.