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Okay, so... Got jumped by a bunny that's been hiding under my desk for a while and decided that i'd go ahead and post this here. Let's see...
Eventually, spoilers for up to...end of Season Five of BtVS.
Just Spike, for now. Instead of escaping the Initiative right away, he didn't get out until Buffy and Co. came in to wipe out Adam. And instead of staying in Sunnydale, he went up North and ended in Seattle. I know! Seattle again! But i love that town. Chip or no? Wait and see. Slash? Absolutely, but not yet.
Currently prolly PG-13 for a little cussing. :)
And...first time i've done this, so we'll see if it works!
Spike lit his first cigarette of the day and inhaled deeply - watched the smoke coil up towards the ceiling from his position flat on his back in bed. He felt...all right today. He held his hand up and checked his nail - he kept one on his right hand clean of polish - and noticed with satisfaction that it was almost free of the white striping and ridges that had marred it for so long.
*Getting better.*
He smoked slowly, letting the tensions of sleep ease out of him. Not a bad day, all together. The sheets were twisted but not shredded. The bedside table was intact. He wasn't hurt anywhere, and his mouth didn't taste of blood. So, an easy day. He leaned sideways and stubbed out the cigarette, then pushed himself slowly upright. Still a little weak, a little dizzy. A persistent shakiness that wouldn't go away until a couple of hours after he'd fed. He shuffled across hardwood and scattered rugs to the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting it run good and hot. There was a greyish metallic powder dulling his skin that was chalky and very fine. He could taste it in his mouth, under the smoke, and it wasn't pleasant. He uncapped the bottle of whiskey that was on the tub edge and took a long swallow, washing the taste down but not quite away.
*Better after I eat.*
He got into the shower and scrubbed - strong soap full of cloves and mint and verbena. Strong enough that he could smell it most of the night - taste it in his sinuses and drive out the lingering taint of rotting tin.
*Fucking bastards.*
He shampooed his hair and rinsed it and then stood under the spray for long minutes, just letting the warmth sink in. He felt cold a lot - more than he ever used to. It would pass, when he'd fed. But for now the near-scalding water was nirvana, and he'd made sure this place had a hot-water heater that would shame most hotels. And a tub that could double as a small pool for extended soaks on those days when the breeze off the Sound was chill and full of rain.
He reluctantly turned the water off after twenty minutes and got out - dried off and fixed his hair, gong for 'spikey' tonight instead of slick. It just felt like a *heh* spikey kind of night. He pulled on jeans and wife-beater and a black shirt of heavy Marseille silk, raised black on black stripes that felt good under his fingers. Had to look sharp for work. Touch of kohl, barest trace of color to his lips. He was still just a little...white, around the edges. Vivian said his mouth disappeared some nights when he was feeling off, so please 'tart up' until he was well.
*Anything for you, Vivian,* Spike thought, smiling to himself. Brush of teeth, quick polish of his boots and he was ready. It was nearly six, the sun down fifteen minutes or less. He grabbed his duster and shrugged it on - loaded lighter and smokes into the breast pocket, and then weapons in various other pockets. Straight razor, Bo shuriken, an ASP baton in its belt holster that, as a civilian, he wasn't supposed to have. Sometimes he just wanted to hurt something, and these were all good choices for that. What was left of his tips from the night before - close to two hundred dollars - went into his jeans pocket. A quick glance around the flat and he left, locking the massive sliding door behind him and pulling the steel mesh of the freight elevator door down. It was locked on his floor, making his underground lair almost impregnable. He hummed happily to himself, a little Alice Cooper to start the night off right.
Up and out, into a chill, clear night. Near to freezing, and he hugged his coat around himself and walked briskly down the street, heading for Pioneer Square and the homeless shelter near there. He was feeling too shaky to hunt down something strong - tonight he'd settle for some junkie. Get the blood and the drug, and be feeling fine by the time he got to work. He lit up a smoke and grinned. It was going to be a fine night.
Eventually, spoilers for up to...end of Season Five of BtVS.
Just Spike, for now. Instead of escaping the Initiative right away, he didn't get out until Buffy and Co. came in to wipe out Adam. And instead of staying in Sunnydale, he went up North and ended in Seattle. I know! Seattle again! But i love that town. Chip or no? Wait and see. Slash? Absolutely, but not yet.
Currently prolly PG-13 for a little cussing. :)
And...first time i've done this, so we'll see if it works!
Spike lit his first cigarette of the day and inhaled deeply - watched the smoke coil up towards the ceiling from his position flat on his back in bed. He felt...all right today. He held his hand up and checked his nail - he kept one on his right hand clean of polish - and noticed with satisfaction that it was almost free of the white striping and ridges that had marred it for so long.
*Getting better.*
He smoked slowly, letting the tensions of sleep ease out of him. Not a bad day, all together. The sheets were twisted but not shredded. The bedside table was intact. He wasn't hurt anywhere, and his mouth didn't taste of blood. So, an easy day. He leaned sideways and stubbed out the cigarette, then pushed himself slowly upright. Still a little weak, a little dizzy. A persistent shakiness that wouldn't go away until a couple of hours after he'd fed. He shuffled across hardwood and scattered rugs to the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting it run good and hot. There was a greyish metallic powder dulling his skin that was chalky and very fine. He could taste it in his mouth, under the smoke, and it wasn't pleasant. He uncapped the bottle of whiskey that was on the tub edge and took a long swallow, washing the taste down but not quite away.
*Better after I eat.*
He got into the shower and scrubbed - strong soap full of cloves and mint and verbena. Strong enough that he could smell it most of the night - taste it in his sinuses and drive out the lingering taint of rotting tin.
*Fucking bastards.*
He shampooed his hair and rinsed it and then stood under the spray for long minutes, just letting the warmth sink in. He felt cold a lot - more than he ever used to. It would pass, when he'd fed. But for now the near-scalding water was nirvana, and he'd made sure this place had a hot-water heater that would shame most hotels. And a tub that could double as a small pool for extended soaks on those days when the breeze off the Sound was chill and full of rain.
He reluctantly turned the water off after twenty minutes and got out - dried off and fixed his hair, gong for 'spikey' tonight instead of slick. It just felt like a *heh* spikey kind of night. He pulled on jeans and wife-beater and a black shirt of heavy Marseille silk, raised black on black stripes that felt good under his fingers. Had to look sharp for work. Touch of kohl, barest trace of color to his lips. He was still just a little...white, around the edges. Vivian said his mouth disappeared some nights when he was feeling off, so please 'tart up' until he was well.
*Anything for you, Vivian,* Spike thought, smiling to himself. Brush of teeth, quick polish of his boots and he was ready. It was nearly six, the sun down fifteen minutes or less. He grabbed his duster and shrugged it on - loaded lighter and smokes into the breast pocket, and then weapons in various other pockets. Straight razor, Bo shuriken, an ASP baton in its belt holster that, as a civilian, he wasn't supposed to have. Sometimes he just wanted to hurt something, and these were all good choices for that. What was left of his tips from the night before - close to two hundred dollars - went into his jeans pocket. A quick glance around the flat and he left, locking the massive sliding door behind him and pulling the steel mesh of the freight elevator door down. It was locked on his floor, making his underground lair almost impregnable. He hummed happily to himself, a little Alice Cooper to start the night off right.
Up and out, into a chill, clear night. Near to freezing, and he hugged his coat around himself and walked briskly down the street, heading for Pioneer Square and the homeless shelter near there. He was feeling too shaky to hunt down something strong - tonight he'd settle for some junkie. Get the blood and the drug, and be feeling fine by the time he got to work. He lit up a smoke and grinned. It was going to be a fine night.
no subject
Heee.
Glad you like!
*damn bunnies*