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| Sooner or Later, Part 3 of a series |
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| Setting/Spoilers: after The Girl in Question (AtS 5.20) Award Winner: ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ |
| ~ Inertia ~ |
| They were both leaning wearily, and disgustedly, and dejectedly, against the edge of Angel's desk. "So, what? We just have to live with it? Get on with our lives?" " 'Fraid so." "Fine," replied Spike with a sign, and perhaps the barest hint of a sniffle. "No problem. I was plannin' on doin' that anyway." "Yeah, me, too." "Actually, I'm doin' it right now. As we speak, I'm movin' on." "Movin' on." "Oh, yeah." They were silent for a moment, before Angel asserted once again, "Right now." "Movin'." And so they remained for some time, until Harmony had buzzed to inform Angel that some Grevlok demon was demanding to be seen right away ~ something about having some sensitive information that might be of "interest" to the High Relish King of a rival Grevlok family. It sounded to Spike like some tedious attempt at blackmail. It also sounded like she was trying to say, "High Rhyloshkn'q", and failing, utterly. Either way, it was nothing to which he cared to stick around and listen. His sigh, as he used his boot to lever himself off the front edge of the desk, was barely distinguishable from an extra-deep breath. Barely.... He hoped halfheartedly that he'd left a big shoe print in the middle of the polish that made the surface of the expensive wood gleam. But, he couldn't care quite enough to look back and check. He wished briefly that he still had the ability to pass through solid objects. Leaving a room without bothering to open a door could be convenient when one was supremely unmotivated. He opened the door, not bothering to close it again. As he headed towards the elevator, he heard Angel's voice behind him, calling for Harmony to put the Grevlok into a conference room and get it some bile or phlegm or whichever of the humours that particular class of demon called a refreshment. Spike was tired. Not lack of rest, tired, or just had a big fight and halfway-across-the-world chase, tired. He was the kind of spirit-tired that communicated itself to the limbs, and stole every ounce of desire for movement. He felt sluggish, like he was wading through cement that grew more and more solid by the moment. Each step might be the last before it solidified and he'd be stuck mid-stride forever. Until some entity figured out how to chip him out, in hopes that he'd bring on yet another Apocalypse, or open a portal, or tear down dimensional walls. He did manage a humorless laugh that sounded dull and flat inside the elevator that he rode to the garage. Except, he wondered further, if one incanted at his solidified form, what would be released at the end? A great cataclysm of lovesick pathos? Perhaps a flood of denial would cover the face of the earth? Get it? Denial? Da Nile? Floods? A snort of self-mockery was his answer to the little voice in his head. When the elevator stopped, he stepped into the cool dark cavern that was the Wolfram & Hart garage. He surveyed the riches of horsepower laid out before him. Then, he leaned against the wall beside the elevator and closed his eyes. Where d'ya think you're gonna go? Get hammered 'n' whored, maybe? Yeh, that's movin' on a'right. Classic style, Spike, but won't change nothing'. 'Sides, don' fancy any second-rate stand-ins. His lean became a slide, and he found himself sitting on the floor of the garage. It wasn't like he didn't know that she deserved some carefree years, without commitments of either the world-save-age or the settling-down variety. Not that he'd ever want her to truly "settle down." But still...she's what? Twenty-two? No, twenty-three, now. She should dance, and drink (moderately), Spike shook his head ruefully at how little alcohol she could handle, and shag just because it feels good, and none of it fall into the life-or-death, be-all-and-end-all categories. He knew all this. And he wanted her to be happy. He really did. But it was different to see her happy and know that he had no part in it, and to suspect that that happiness would be extinguished if he made her aware of his continued existence. Times like this made him wish it really had just all ended in the Hellmouth. It that moment, they understood each other completely. He had released her, and had committed himself to doing that "far, far better thing" than he'd ever done before. He'd wanted her to live, and live completely. But then, he hadn't expected that he'd be having to live with the idea of her living happily without him. Maybe this was part of his penance. To have to back those sentiments up with action. Or, in this case, with inaction. She's got a right to know, though, donn't she? She's always hated folks what's made decisions for 'er, even if for 'er best interests...Resents it 'n' gets mighty pissed off. Bugger! It was almost Hamlet-esque, this internal debate, and his ongoing inability to act. Now here he was, sitting on a garage floor, wrestling with the thing again! So much simpler when the "thing" was something whose arms could be ripped off, for use as a club against it. This, on the other hand...emotions, and right and wrong, and lesser of evils...things you couldn't put your hand on, but that gnawed at the gut and the heart as surely as any monster in the night would. His instinct from the first moment had been just to run to her -- wherever she was, however he needed to find her. But he'd been stymied by the details, and afraid of the variables. And finally, just thwarted by |
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