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Christmas Eve
I just wanted to hug those who might be alone tonight, or sick or hurting or destitute (but I doubt that they would see this) or simply feeling a bit like outsiders. Christmas Eve can be very depressing then, whatever your beliefs are and even though you think that it's pointless since Jesus is going to be cloned by some American sect (!), or if you are faithless. It can be painful indeed because it's supposed to be a family time and people are supposed to be merry during the holidays, and the social pressure can be unbearable...
So Merry Christmas Eve for those who are doing something with the family, and a virtual French kiss for the others.
Take care, and if you drink, drink with reason.
Oh btw here's a little gift...It isn't good, it's awkward, I should be ashamed of posting this knowing allt he good writers on my flist but I need to share something and I wrote it about 2 years ago for a fellow fan of We Band Of Buggered (and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
candlelightfrot read it at the time). It's post-Destiny and it's Spuffy...well sort of.
Handle The Bottle
He was drinking…again. The bar really was rather sordid, but he couldn’t stay at W&H. Not tonight of all nights. So he sat in a dark corner with a bottle and a dirty glass.
He couldn’t stop drinking lately. Actually he had been drinking himself into oblivion for months. He had escaped from Hell and got his body back only to sink into the Div’ Bottle. Day after day, glass by glass, he kept drowning his forbidden dreams, flooding away the fantasy of his lady and the simple idea of a trip towards the Slayer. Each time he conscientiously made his ship sink down until it was lying in the dark depths. Later, maybe, he could cherish this wreck as a buried treasure. Thus he went on drinking, swallowing up his love. The soul had driven him to the drink more surely than his demon ever did. Sometimes he thought that there would never be enough booze in the world to wipe the taste of blood and erase his longing for Buffy. His unlife in L.A, and his unexpected partnership with Angel provided some occupation for the rest of his time. The resting time, the fake journey when he wasn’t busying to get himself through the forgetting-glasses.
But tonight he wasn’t trying to empty his mind or clean his past up with the Div’, tonight he wanted to call upon memories, memories of her. He poured the whiskey and stared at the glass, seeking answers out of reach. The colour reminded him of her eyes, wild eyes that worked their thrall when she was in game face. Her eyes always had the looked of alcohol whether it was the absinthe of her human irises or the amber ones. But both were gone now.
He wondered where Angel could be. He hadn’t seen him since the previous night. Twenty eight hours exactly. He was probably alone, miserably brooding in his bloody penthouse, mourning her. She had been the purest and yet the most spoiled of his lost women, his beautiful dark childe and his biggest sin. William was mad at him once more, and needed him at the same time. But the Great Poof would never hang out with him and share a drink. They wouldn’t talk about her. Spike didn’t want to talk about her anyway…Yet they could have shared this grief. The others didn’t get it, they couldn’t. They didn’t even understand this loss, this strange hole in the world. How could they feel this sudden lack of poetry in the universe?
Drusilla was dead and the stars remained silent.
He knew her pain was over now. But this thought didn’t really comfort him. It wasn’t the unbearable sorrow he had felt with Buffy’s death. He had been truly devastated then and if it hadn’t been for Dawn, he wouldn’t have gone on.
He could survive Drusilla’s absence; he could even deal with the idea of her obliteration. Also he knew that Angel had to do it. Somehow it had to be done. Once upon a time he had threatened to kill her, for the love of Buffy. He was all talk then. He was just a fool. Drusilla didn’t fear him and she didn’t hate him afterwards. He had been her knight, her caring companion. How could he have been her executioner?
Although he could have staked her himself in the W&H parking garage, Angelus had done it. It had to be Angel. Angel who had killed her first and killed her again. Angel who had never stopped murdering her. Bloody ponce!
Spike drank his last full glass of whiskey bottoms-up and ordered a new bottle at the counter. The bartender didn’t say a thing.
The vampire almost hoped that the man would try to reason with him. Of course he didn’t really expect it. This was the real world, a world without Miss Edith and without little songs, a world of lawyers and bartenders. The world he saved in Sunnydale a year ago.
Angel had done the right thing though. They couldn’t let her do any more damages. Drusilla could not be saved. It had always been too late for her. Spike knew it but his insides were screaming for what was lost. The pixies weren’t to be found in the already half empty bottle. There wasn’t any beauty in the dark anymore. No liquor could ever fill this aching void, and the whiskey now tasted like ashes. He was sad and tired. It was as if Drusilla had taken the last remains of William with her.
There was no longer innocence anywhere now.
Tears fell in the glass mixing with the strong liquid. “Who’s crying?” said a voice within…Spike swallowed once more sorrow and alcohol. He wasn’t quite drunk yet.
He was about to grab the bottle again when he suddenly noticed its disappearance. It was being held in the air, out of reach. His eyes rose slowly and tried to focus on the tiny fingers that surrounded it. At the end of this hand was Buffy.
“Dru’s dead…” he muttered
“I know,” Buffy said softly “ Angel called me last night.”
She put the bottle down on the table. He couldn’t get his eyes off her hand. It was her left hand, not the hand of the stake. The other one.
“You’ve come,” he whispered still staring at her hand.
Oddly it was tinier in his memories. Maybe he was already completely plastered after all. Then he sought her eyes and found them wider than in his memories. It was the green ocean and he was drowning in her again. First she didn’t reply. The look on her face reminded him of her last look in the Hellmouth. But there was no rush this time. And the world wasn’t collapsing; it was barely pitching and tossing. But she was there still so he wouldn’t fall down.
Then she held up her hand and showed him her red-scarred palm.
“It has never healed.”
FIN
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*bisous*
I'll save the story for later reading. :-)
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*bisous*
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Thanks for the lovely spuffy story.
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My babies got a little bit of the lobsters (Bastet loves it, and gt crazy once she noticed them defrosting).
XXX
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;-*
Lij
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Mery Christmas to you and your mom too!
*smoochies*
Chani
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I've just gotten back from the Christmas Eve Soup run. Very quiet tonight. Most homeless people have gotten shelter places over the Christmas week, but there were eight guys down on the seafront. We gave them soup, bread rolls and mince pies... seemed somewhat insignificant.
I was supposed to go to midnight Mass with teen but I've decided to stay home instead...
I hope you're all soreted for the holidays and I wish you a peaceful, happy and safe Christmas. God bless.
Chrissie