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Kid, you'll move mountains. [closed]
Aug. 14th, 2013 07:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
erratic_hematicHe's sitting on the edge of Angel's desk in the inimitable offices of Wolfram and Hart, trying to convince himself that he's ready to move on and create a brand new undead life for himself. Spread out into new avenues. Save the world. Again. Do something that isn't hoping for Buffy to come around. The Apocalypse is coming, they say, so better get ready for that, get ready to stop it when it rears it's ugly head. It almost feels like it might be possible. It almost feels like he's at the start of something worthwhile.
He's sitting on the edge of Angel's stupidly enormous desk in the inimitable offices of Wolfram and Hart, and then...he isn't.
A taxi cab hits him, knocks him off his feet, and- Fuck! The sun. "Shit shit shit! What the bloody hell-" Spike cowers in the street, pulling his long leather coat over his head as he tries to block out the sun before his skin starts sizzling. Every car in the lane he's blocking seem to start blaring their horns. He shouts out a few choice obscenities and turns to look for cover from the sun.
Only, his skin isn't sizzling. At all. Not even where his hands are exposed.
Slowly, he lowers his coat and looks around, squares his shoulders and pulls his coat straight. New York, by central park. He thinks he can see The Museum of Natural History a couple blocks down, but he's got more things to worry about now than what the current exhibits are. He'd recognize New York in any universe and it probably is another universe, judging by how he's not a pile of ash in the middle of the intersection by now.
The street being littered with dozens of copies of Oh! The Places You'll Go! by Dr. Seuss is a little more of a mystery. He stares at them for a moment, dumbfounded. "The hell."
He bends to pick one up just as the cab driver that hit him moments before has the bloody nerve to lean on his horn. Spike grabs the book, stands, and kicks a dent into the offending bumper. "Alright, alright, I'm getting out of the way, hold your damn horses, arsehole." He limps for a few steps before he recovers, and heads towards the park, confused and still clutching the book. Maybe Angel got whammied over to New York too, though Spike isn't really sure he wants to go looking for him.
He's sitting on the edge of Angel's stupidly enormous desk in the inimitable offices of Wolfram and Hart, and then...he isn't.
A taxi cab hits him, knocks him off his feet, and- Fuck! The sun. "Shit shit shit! What the bloody hell-" Spike cowers in the street, pulling his long leather coat over his head as he tries to block out the sun before his skin starts sizzling. Every car in the lane he's blocking seem to start blaring their horns. He shouts out a few choice obscenities and turns to look for cover from the sun.
Only, his skin isn't sizzling. At all. Not even where his hands are exposed.
Slowly, he lowers his coat and looks around, squares his shoulders and pulls his coat straight. New York, by central park. He thinks he can see The Museum of Natural History a couple blocks down, but he's got more things to worry about now than what the current exhibits are. He'd recognize New York in any universe and it probably is another universe, judging by how he's not a pile of ash in the middle of the intersection by now.
The street being littered with dozens of copies of Oh! The Places You'll Go! by Dr. Seuss is a little more of a mystery. He stares at them for a moment, dumbfounded. "The hell."
He bends to pick one up just as the cab driver that hit him moments before has the bloody nerve to lean on his horn. Spike grabs the book, stands, and kicks a dent into the offending bumper. "Alright, alright, I'm getting out of the way, hold your damn horses, arsehole." He limps for a few steps before he recovers, and heads towards the park, confused and still clutching the book. Maybe Angel got whammied over to New York too, though Spike isn't really sure he wants to go looking for him.
