Stone on stone grind of the gravel path, and that won't keep me together, one piece, one whole not fluttering part /not now/. Asphalt slide of the highway behind me /how did I make it here?/, and the new weight of THE ring on the chain around my neck. Unfamiliar still /what isn't?/ and walking jostles it into the cross tap tap tap against my chest.
Can't go home. Could. Won't. Might never again. Anya and her voice snatching at me. Incantation to bring me into view, coalesce the particles: "Where the hell have you been?" "I called Willow, she said you weren't AT the Bronze." "Why are you walking like that? Did you fall on something?" Nothing but the echo to fill the places between the pieces. Pieces of Xanderness. Pieces of ex-Xanderness.
Drift down the path of the cemetery, only the crunch of the rocks and shoes letting me know that the world is still pretending I'm real. Sunnydale's version of parks. Places to go to think. To get lost. To remember. To storm to after a fight. All the normal /you never were normal; all you are is normal, not like THEM/ functions of open, municipal locations.
Unmoored and drifting, and not thinking about HIM. Not thinking about cold smiles and marble. Not thinking about the wetness between my legs, down my thigh /you don't have thighs/.
"Not your normal scent of Eau de Twinkie, whelp. You got something to tell Uncle Spike?" Patch of white hair in the moonlight, dark, light, half-lit face, smile behind the cherry of a cigarette. Not that it matters. Not the Spike can see me /just smell/.
"What are you talking about?" Words, air and vibrations, and they are gone out into the world. Drifting, like me.
"Like you bloody well don't know. I can smell him all over you. What did you do, take a bath in his come?" Not a bath, but, that was the other one. The person who was before now. The one Angel could see and touch and bring together only to /don't think about it/...
Boots and rocks meeting, Spike under the light. So close, could touch me, if I were real and here and not laying on the chilled lobby floor.
"Did you get another knock to the noggin? What the fuck is wrong with you? Haven't ever heard you quiet this long, you even prattle on in your sleep." Watch him looking for me, his cigarette flying in the darkness in a high arc spinning spinning and falling into a puddle.
"Oh, I see. You're scared because you're caught out. Bloody right to be, too. This is gonna cost you." Slow-motion drag of his finger connecting with my chest. And no, no, he made contact, and that is just, just not…
"What do you mean, cost me?" My mouth fights me, and maybe it doesn't belong to me, belongs to the other me, the air is too heavy to slide past Spike /whisper silent, smoke and nothere neverhere/ Want to end this talking, just gotta let him pull the strings.
"Never the sharpest knife in the drawer. Hey, stop looking at me like that! Giving me the evil eye or some rot? Bloody hell, you've gone all unhinged, haven't you?" Light, dark, lightdark, Spike and un-Spike in the lamplight.
"Unhinged?" Repeat a word I heard. People respond to questions. I will too.
"Oh the joys of Sunnyhell. Just give me whatever you have in your wallet. I'll come 'round tomorrow so we can go to the bank machine." Palm out. White like the face, not the hair. He wants something. Want and need, and I don't know what is happening /Spike knows!/ and gotta pay attention.
"Your wallet?" Eyebrows so blackbrown, arch and scar. Fingers coming, reaching, grasping, clutching ME. My shirt. Can't hurt me. /Couldn't if he tried, nothing left to hurt/ It's just Spike. Clink clink.
"What the FUCK is that?" Rasp and burn on the back of my neck /can feel that, feel it/ Spike's hand around the chain and cross and ring.
"Is this Angelus's ring? You better kick your mouth into gear, because this is gonna cost you a lot more than one pay-check." Face in my /was mine/ face, vampire grimace and teeth. Can't scare them that's seen The. Worst. Case. Scenario.
Fist and hard stomach and Spike is doubled over, looking up, looking pissed, looking shocked. Feel a zing, tingle up my arm from my knuckles, and how did that happen? Air and warmth holding my body on the path. Just THAT much more, more something to me. /might be here. Just a little here./
Two steps, and blonde hair under, between my fingers, yank, twist pull /soft and slick FEEL that/. White, white face with slash of pink, two dark half moons, twisting mouth opening. Hair in one hand, fist pop pop popping into his face, stomach. Feels right and nownownow and here. Blood from the corner of his too pink lips when I pull back, and tingle in my action hand. The night starts to take on edges /Spike can make me HERE and REAL/
*smack, thump, crack *
Spike on his back on the path, one eye swollen closed, blood at both corners of his mouth, and he's BREATHING /and I SEE it, see him, he sees me, felt me/ always does that when he's hurt or out of control.
"You going to fuck me now?" He must be talking to me, but that doesn't seem right. Not what he's supposed to say. Smearing the blood off his face, between his fingers. Blood black on his skin, moonlight stealing the color. "You can even use my own blood to slick yourself up, just like HIM." /used his own blood on me/
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Spike." Turn, pivot, crunch of the rocks under my feet. Real enough now to hear the night birds and air shaking the trees naked. Real enough for my hands to ache and feel sticky from the blood on them. Real enough to know where Spike lives and where to find him the next time I start to fade. Got his lighter too.