Spike (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
erratic_hematic) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bigapplesauce2015-03-18 08:53 am
erratic_hematic) wrote in bigapplesauce2015-03-18 08:53 am
Entry tags:
look what the cat dragged in [closed]
[tw for gross blood and also death and maybe corpse things and being buried alive. fun all around.]
Spike stops going to work the Monday after he and Sunshine break up. Sunshine won't want to see him, it would hurt to see her, and every single moment his body makes feels like too much effort anyway. It would be too much to go down there just to feel more pain. The best he can do is go to the fridge and dole himself out a half-congealed serving of inferior blood before stumbling back to bed or the couch. He doesn't bother microwaving it anymore, just lets it sit out until it's melted enough to drink. Each disgusting serving hardly makes a dent in his steadily deteriorating health. He feels himself improve for shorter and shorter amounts of time each time until the blood seems to stop working entirely.
On the sixteenth, he wakes up with a start and pulls in a gasping breath. He'd stopped breathing. Breathing isn't strictly necessary for his survival, but it's part of what makes him feel alive.
He doesn't feel alive on the morning of the sixteenth. He feels like a corpse. He lies there, just forcing air back though his lungs and reassuring himself that this isn't over yet. He can breath if he thinks about it. If he makes the effort.
He needs to get up. Even if the blood is worthless, he needs to try to get to it. It's all he's got.
When he flexes his hand, his fingers resist the motion like rigor is setting in, so he pulls his fingers in until they form a tight fist, then releases it. He repeats the motion with his other hand, runs through the motions one more time, then drags his legs around to the side of the bed. He feels so cold. He can't remember ever feeling this cold. As his vision slips in and out of focus, he imagines a coffin collapsing around him and his mouth filling with cold, dark earth. He's dying here. Can I die like this, he wonders, or will it be worse than that?
He has to get up.
Every joint in his body protests when Spike stands and stumbles forward. He collides with the door frame and grips onto it until he's sure he can stay upright. He's so so very tired. His eyes slip closed and he sags against the door frame, his shoulder the only thing propping him up. When his eyes flutter open again, it takes him a moment to reorient himself. He can see where he needs to go, but it feels almost impossible now.
He pushes himself as hard as he can from the door frame, but he gets thrown off balance and falls to his knees. The action is jarring, and enough to make him lose consciousness for a full minute. When he comes back to, he pushes an arm under himself only to realize that he's not strong enough now to stand again. He wants Sunshine, or Aziraphale, or anyone that could pick him up right now, but there's no way anyone is coming. He doesn't matter enough to be missed.
He crawls the rest of the way to the kitchen area. When carpeting meets linoleum, he lets his body sag back down to the floor and drops his cheek down onto the smooth surface. This is pretty far. He made it. He'll just rest a while and then make it to the fridge.
Five minutes later, he stops breathing. He doesn't start again.
Spike stops going to work the Monday after he and Sunshine break up. Sunshine won't want to see him, it would hurt to see her, and every single moment his body makes feels like too much effort anyway. It would be too much to go down there just to feel more pain. The best he can do is go to the fridge and dole himself out a half-congealed serving of inferior blood before stumbling back to bed or the couch. He doesn't bother microwaving it anymore, just lets it sit out until it's melted enough to drink. Each disgusting serving hardly makes a dent in his steadily deteriorating health. He feels himself improve for shorter and shorter amounts of time each time until the blood seems to stop working entirely.
On the sixteenth, he wakes up with a start and pulls in a gasping breath. He'd stopped breathing. Breathing isn't strictly necessary for his survival, but it's part of what makes him feel alive.
He doesn't feel alive on the morning of the sixteenth. He feels like a corpse. He lies there, just forcing air back though his lungs and reassuring himself that this isn't over yet. He can breath if he thinks about it. If he makes the effort.
He needs to get up. Even if the blood is worthless, he needs to try to get to it. It's all he's got.
When he flexes his hand, his fingers resist the motion like rigor is setting in, so he pulls his fingers in until they form a tight fist, then releases it. He repeats the motion with his other hand, runs through the motions one more time, then drags his legs around to the side of the bed. He feels so cold. He can't remember ever feeling this cold. As his vision slips in and out of focus, he imagines a coffin collapsing around him and his mouth filling with cold, dark earth. He's dying here. Can I die like this, he wonders, or will it be worse than that?
He has to get up.
Every joint in his body protests when Spike stands and stumbles forward. He collides with the door frame and grips onto it until he's sure he can stay upright. He's so so very tired. His eyes slip closed and he sags against the door frame, his shoulder the only thing propping him up. When his eyes flutter open again, it takes him a moment to reorient himself. He can see where he needs to go, but it feels almost impossible now.
He pushes himself as hard as he can from the door frame, but he gets thrown off balance and falls to his knees. The action is jarring, and enough to make him lose consciousness for a full minute. When he comes back to, he pushes an arm under himself only to realize that he's not strong enough now to stand again. He wants Sunshine, or Aziraphale, or anyone that could pick him up right now, but there's no way anyone is coming. He doesn't matter enough to be missed.
He crawls the rest of the way to the kitchen area. When carpeting meets linoleum, he lets his body sag back down to the floor and drops his cheek down onto the smooth surface. This is pretty far. He made it. He'll just rest a while and then make it to the fridge.
Five minutes later, he stops breathing. He doesn't start again.
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She was almost grateful, but her relief didn't last long. A tentative foray next door with the usual snacks in tow had given Aziraphale the opportunity to ask her where his wayward employee had gone off to. Her expression had changed the tune to oh dear, what's wrong, which set her off into an embarrassing bout of tears right there in the vampire-less bookshop, and then it had just been handkerchiefs and apologies and flustered tweedy angelic distress and no more questions asked. Which had been kind of nice, but also kind of unfortunate. She could have used the reassurance that there was nothing wrong with her hands.
Spike continued to be a no-show all week. She tried to tell herself that it wasn't surprising - 'income' probably wasn't the main reason he decided to take up a position next door to her own place of employment - and that it therefore wasn't a Problem. If there was no Problem, then that persistent, niggling sense of dread she felt was just her being stupid and paranoid, and not anything that needed to be followed up on by anyone. What was she supposed to do, anyway, sic Aziraphale on him? The angel had probably checked up on him already.
Maybe it just meant Spike was miserable enough for it to leak through whatever tenuous, lingering connection they still pointlessly shared. And if that was the case, her presence on his doorstep sure as hell wouldn't help.
By the 19th, though, that something-is-really-goddamn-wrong feeling was getting bad enough that she was considering siccing Aziraphale on Spike, anyway, just to be sure.
She's in the midst of ostensibly making tea, though the activity has never required as much pacing as she's working into it, now, when she's startled out of her fretting by the sudden appearance of a frigging cat on her coffee table. "Gods!" Sunshine starts visibly, then recoils a step when she realizes the creature's eyes are glowing a solid, pearlescent white. It's not just that, either - the thing's shadows are impossible to read. They look as stubbornly ordinary as her own shadows in the mirror. And they shouldn't.
"... Um," she says, staring at the cat-shaped whatever-the-hell.
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This is, the cat decides, unacceptable.
Its eyes are (presumably) trained on Sunshine from the moment it appears, and it only offers the slightest flick of its ears as acknowledgment of the noise she makes upon seeing it. You have not been to see your vampire, it scolds her without preamble. It's time for you to go fix him.
When she doesn't immediately jump to follow the
vague demandforceful command, the cat narrows its eyes and pointedly turns its attention to a book at its feet, pointedly flipping it open with more dexterity than a mortal cat should possess. Your vampire, it repeats, placing a paw on the first page next to the handwritten message there. Fix him.no subject
She doesn't want the cat-thing messing with her copy of Beauty and the Beast, either. The only reason that particular tome is still out is because she hasn't been able to bring herself to touch it, but if it's going to be her or the cat-thing pawing at it, better for it to be her. Most of her attention is kept on the ersatz feline as she sidles up to the coffee table, gingerly takes the front cover between her fingertips, and slides the volume away from the creature. But as she lifts the book to shut it, her gaze is caught by an unexpected line of cursive script beneath the neat copperplate of the title page. Right where the cat had pressed its paw.
I love you, Sunshine.
For a moment, she completely forgets to breathe. Oh, gods. Oh, gods. There's no question of who wrote it, it had to have been Spike, and who knew he had such neat fucking handwriting, and what in the hell is she going to do with this thing he has written, when did he, why would he? Sunshine thinks, hysterically, what an idiot, but she's not sure if it's directed toward him or toward herself.
The cat repeats the order to fix him, and she realizes that it might not be a metaphor, that her lingering suspicion that something was really very wrong might be correct, and she's halfway to the door by the time the book hits the couch cushions. She takes the stairs down to his floor, because it's probably quicker and it definitely keeps her moving. When she reaches his door, she doesn't even have to speak; the lock clicks open under her palm, and then she's in.
Whatever her half-formed suspicions about how bad it might be, it's safe to say she was not in any way prepared for the sight of Spike's lifeless body on the floor. No no no no no. She makes a sound that is more wounded bird than human, stumbling towards him and then pulling up short. There's another cat-thing crouched by his head, this one small, kitten-sized, milky eyes seeming to peer intently at Spike's face, which is too ashen and too still and oh, gods, what if there is nothing here for her to fix? What if he's just gone?
Her vision blurs. She lets it. She doesn't want to see any of this. "What…?" she whispers, stricken.
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He is not dead! insists the black cat, already irritated with its counterpart after spending all of half a minute in the same room. I brought you here to fix him, so fix him, it instructs Sunshine, looking at her expectantly as though it can't see that she's frozen by her emotions.
The kitten, however, is not having it. It clambers right on top of Spike's head, turning to face Sunshine as it kneads his hair with its front paws. Try it and I'll claw your eyes out! it suggests, sounding excited about the prospect. Then it occurs to the kitten that there are a pair of eyes right here, and it bends to paw experimentally at Spike's closed eyelids.
There's a yowl and then the black cat is streaking past Sunshine's ankles. It stops just short of Spike and rears up to whap the kitten, hard, sending it tumbling. If the two say anything more to each other it's not for Sunshine's
earsmind, but under the black cat's steely gaze the kitten goes slinking over to the other side of the kitchen to watch them and sulk.no subject
She kneels next to Spike, not allowing herself to hesitate, and presses a palm to his cheek. The rush of her affinity is immediate and vast, such that every inhalation feels like swimming against a tide. But she breathes. This wouldn't be happening if he was beyond saving, right? She must be able to save him.
"Spike?" She sits, back against the refrigerator, and hauls him half into her lap. He's far too cold, and his head lolls limply against her chest when she manages to roll him over. For a brief moment she's sure there's nothing here but a body, but no. Spike's just... far away. She did this for Con, she can do it for him. She just has to call him back. He'll be okay. He has to be okay.
Please, gods, let him be okay.
"Spike, wake up. Come on." She smoothes back his hair - he always liked it when she did that - and tries again, voice cracking. "Come back. Please. You..." she bows her head, squeezing her eyes shut, "you asshole."
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He doesn't register the ambient noise as a voice, but after a minute it is enough to make him open his eyes to see what's going on. Sunshine's here. He thinks he smiles, but he doesn't. He just gazes up at her for a minute or so, glad to see her face. Maybe this is a dream. A very nice dream, if Sunshine is here to see him.
He tries to speak, but it doesn't make any sound. He needs air. Taking a first breath is incredibly painful, and he cringes at the feeling. His throat feels like it's full of sawdust, and his lungs burn with the effort, but it's worth it.
He takes another breath, slowly, more careful, then forms his lips around her name."Sunshine." He manages an actual smile this time. "This is a nice dream."
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When she opens her eyes to look down at him, she finds him gazing back up at her in solemn silence, like an infant. "Hey," she breathes, meeting his gaze and holding it. Whatever she's doing, it's working. It's eerie how quiet and still he is - Con-still, vampire-still, because he doesn't need to breathe even if he was in the habit of it - but then he pulls in a lungful of air. Then another. Now he's back, back and breathing, and she lets her head thud against the refrigerator door in unspoken relief before returning her focus to his face.
Gods, the way he's looking at her. It's so jarringly at odds with how they'd parted, if not with what he'd written. "You're not dreaming, s-Spike," she says, tripping over the 'sweetheart' she has no business calling him anymore. He is not her vampire anymore. Their relationship isn't going to be defined by a carthaginian cat-thing. If she's cradling his face in her hand, it's because she has to maintain contact for magic-handling reasons, not because she trusts her hands to do nothing but good things for him. "I'm really here," she continues, trying to sound firm, like she isn't on the verge of tears.
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When he looks back up at her she looks so concerned, like she still cares about him so much that it's brought her to the verge of tears.
He hums a comforting noise and lifts one of his icy hands to touch her arm. "Don't cry. It's okay. I think I was dying, but I'm better now."
He tips his head a little further to look at the source of the other voice in the room and sees...cats. The bigger one, he's seen before. He remembers it popping into being over on the couch. Annoying bastard that wouldn't leave. The little one he doesn't remember, but he assumes that it's just as argumentative and intelligent and the other one.
Not exactly snack material. Probably. "Can I eat the kitten?"
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"You're not dying," she agrees, or insists, stroking her thumb over his cheek. She probably shouldn't do that: letting her hands do things without her express permission. But she can't take her hand away, either, and it's not hurting him, right? She remembers, sudden and vivid, a disapproving hum of apian wingbeats. Again, she ignores it.
She gives the kitten-thing a sour look and instinctively tightens her grip on Spike. "It's not a kitten," she says. "And I'm pretty sure you don't want it near your face." Her shoulders want to slump. She's getting so tired. But she can't stop healing Spike until he's better, and she can't let her guard down around these cat-things.
"Why are you here?" she asks them, bluntly, because she doesn't have the energy to spare for manners.
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The black cat pays its littler counterpart no mind, but primly curls its tail around its feet. Why is no one else?
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He realizes, very belatedly, that's she's healing him. She's why he's not dead, not some miraculous recovery, just her. How long has she been doing that? Probably too long, if last time is anything to go by. He doesn't want her to injure herself trying to help him.
He nudges at her arm with his hand, suggesting she pull away rather than forcing it.
"I think I can get up now." Maybe. He still feels thoroughly exhausted, but he won't know until he tries.
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"Okay," she says. Getting up is good, if he can manage it. "Yeah. I can... help." She moves her hand away from his face, carefully, as if worried it'll find its way to his (conveniently bare) chest if she lets her focus drift. The curl-back of her affinity leaves her unsettlingly light-headed, but once her hand is on his arm, it goes back to work. Distantly, she realizes she's pushing it, but she can't stop herself, and he needs help getting to his feet.
So, time to do that. She gets her feet beneath her. "Oooookay." Now they just have to stand. That's doable, right? Sure it is. She tells herself it's time to stand up, but instead she just... sits. Against the fridge. It's kind of comfortable down here.
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In the end, it's more Sunshine holding him up than the opposite. He leans heavily against the counter and against Sunshine. He's not quite ready yet to push her away, even though he knows there's only so long that she can keep this up.
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They don't, of course.
You might call your angel, it points out, staring at them owlishly. To fix you now that you fixed the vampire.
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"Hrrf," she complains, looping her arms around his waist, since that seems like the least potentially disastrous thing she can do, hands-wise. Never mind the inherent awkwardness of cuddling up to him after their last awful interaction. As if she needs a reminder of what she's missing.
She gives the cat-thing an unappreciative look, because that's a pretty belated frigging suggestion. Gods, she could have called Aziraphale immediately, if she'd been panicking less and thought to bring her phone. "Well, my phone's in my apartment," she grouses at it. Stupid cat-thing. What does it expect her to do? Pray?
... Wait. Yes. She actually could do that.
"Hang on," she says, her tone long-suffering. Then she shuts her eyes and focuses on the angel to the extent that her dwindling faculties allow. Aziraphale? she thinks, pretty clearly. Then there's a less clear jumble of Spike's apartment and frigging cats and I'm tired and hope this works, but at least it's something. Maybe.
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He rematerializes at the source of Sunshine's summons, in Spike's apartment. The two of them are clinging to each other, balancing precariously against the kitchen counter, both looking like absolute Hell if one would pardon the expression.
There is another presence - two pieces of it, rather - but he can't bother about that at the moment.
"What happened?" he cries, stepping forward to take Sunshine's arm, half-supporting her. "Are you all right?" The question is for either of them, whichever wants to answer.
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"I'm just gonna...sit back down." Aziraphale can get Sunshine and he'll just wait here. that's okay. He tries to lower himself carefully, but for the last foot or so he thumps down onto the floor.
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But hey, now Aziraphale's here. Everything's gonna be fine. She drops her head onto his shoulder, only half on purpose, and says, "Help?"
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"It's all right, dear," he murmurs to Sunshine. He gives her a little burst of sunlight, traveling from his hands to her, warming her skin. He keeps his hands where they are, not wanting to let her go just yet, and levels an assessing glance at the cats which are not cats.
"What are you?" he asks them rather coldly.
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What are you keeping in your flat? asks the black cat in return, paying the kitten no mind. A few claw marks are nothing to worry about; the vampire will be back to his old self soon enough.
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"They're bastards," Spike supplies, very helpfully. "Pop in just to annoy you and then pop out again."
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She edges back over to Spike and cautiously holds out a hand. "Come on. We can at least get you to the couch." He won't look like such a goddamn mess if he's lying on the couch as opposed to the uncomfortable linoleum of his kitchen floor. How did he even get there?
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"I think it's time for you both to go," he says after a moment, glancing between the two deceptively cute entities.
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The black cat stands and stretches with a luxurious yawn. Answers for answers, it comments loftily. Never mind, you have served your purpose. Good boy.
The kitten hisses, but at a look from the black cat it reluctantly winks out of existence, followed by its compatriot.
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As the cats disappear, he mumbles, "And stay out."
Not that telling it to stay out seemed to have helped before.
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She leans against the arm of the couch farthest from Spike, arms folded. "What happened to you?"
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"Why are you here?" He dips his head down and runs a hand over his face. "Get out."
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"I'm here," she says stiffly, because she really doesn't want to start screaming in front of Aziraphale, "because you managed to get yourself into such a frigging critical state that a magical talking carthaginian cat-thing showed up in my apartment and ordered me to fucking fix you." She glares at him for a few moments, letting him just soak in what she's said. Then, her tone gentler than she wants it to be, she asks, "So, what was it? Did the wards stop working? Did you tangle with some weird Other in an alley or something?"
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He's thrown off by the gentle tone in her voice when she continues. It's contrary to every other thing she's said so far, and it feels too much like how things used to be. He doesn't know how to react to that.
"No other." he says finally, then huffs out a laugh. It's funny that she thinks some sort of demon could have done this to him. "The blood supply here's...bad. Tastes like shit and doesn't work. It was bad at first, but now it doesn't do anything at all. I looked everywhere - it's all the same." He keeps his head dipped down as he continues. It really does feel like he's looked everywhere. Maybe it's just that blood is different in this universe instead of whatever it is that they add to the blood making it not work. "I've been starving. For weeks. There's no way around it."
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To hell with the 'no shouting in front of the angel' rule.
"You've been starving for weeks and it didn't fucking occur to you to mention it to - oh, hell, I don't know - maybe at least one of the two people you know who can heal you with magic?!" she snaps, incensed. "YOUR BOSS IS A LITERAL ANGEL."
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Not that he'd explode. He certainly wouldn't. But he does manage an incredulous, appalled "Weeks!" just as Sunshine launches into her tirade.
"Please, both of you," he says desperately, stepping closer, his hands waving in a terribly inadequate effort to calm them, as one might dispel smoke. "She is right, though, Spike, you should have come to me at once. That is I - I don't know what sort of blood it is you need, but I can at least-" Oh, why bother explaining when he can just do it.
He reaches out and touches Spike gingerly on the brow. It's not nutrients he's providing so much as something simpler, life, preservation. It may not be a permanent resolution but it will be enough for now.
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He's distracted by Sunshine, so he's not very prepared when Aziraphale reaches out and heals him.
"Wh-" He scrubs at the spot on his forehead then looks up at him, shocked and pleased. He feels better than he has since he first arrived here, but he hadn't thought that was possible for something like him. Not from an angel. He takes a moment just to get used to feeling normal again before he looks back up at Aziraphale. "But I'm a vampire. I thought angels weren't supposed to help out abominations. I know you don't stick to all the rules, but that seems like a pretty big one."
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Is this what skegged his dreams, too?
When Aziraphale heals him, as quickly and neatly as he does everything else, all Sunshine can manage is a flailing arm gesture that nevertheless clearly communicates: look at how fucking easy that was! This could have been done weeks ago. So much goddamn kali awfulness could have been completely avoided.
And then Spike refers to himself as an abomination, and forget the nightmare - this, this is what it feels like to actually be on the verge of killing him in the real world. "Are you shitting me?!" she squawks, dropping her hands. If Spike was just insulting himself, she might be inclined to let it slide, but the implication that Aziraphale is too stodgily superior to bother himself about Spike's survival is just gross.
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"You're not an abomination," he says. "You're my friend."
Well, it's true. Friends are becoming more and more common, aren't they? He's rather getting to like it.
"And you're her friend too," he adds, pointing unnecessarily at Sunshine. "More than that! You should have told us something was wrong, Spike, we'd have helped much sooner. You don't need to bear anything like this alone."
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He feels a little unsteady under the angel's gaze, so he looks past him to Sunshine instead. One drunken night of camaraderie notwithstanding, as far as he knew, Aziraphale saw him as a convenience in his shop, not much more than a personified 'keep out' sign to shoo away potential customers. It's strange to be told that he's his friend.
"I thought I could find something in time and I could keep my business to myself. Then I wasn't around you, anyway." Actually, Sunshine had made a pretty big point of not wanting him around. So, all in all, who's at fault here, really. Not him, that's for sure.
He glances out the window. Seems like it's still morning, but maybe that's evening light? He realizes quickly that he has no idea how long he's been out. "Is it still Friday?"
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Spike's question drives the air out of her lungs, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He was lying there for days, and he has no idea. "It's Monday. Gods, Spike!" She doesn't want to turn around and show off what a wreck she is, but she's still plenty furious, and that, tag-teaming with indignation, overrides her embarrassment. "Do you really think it isn't our business if you die on your kitchen floor?! Do you think I want that?"
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He looks between them uneasily. "He'll be all right now," he says tentatively. "Perhaps if we can determine what was wrong with the, er, the blood, then..."
He trails off. He has the distinct impression this is not helping matters.
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He pushes himself up from the couch and crosses his arms over his bare chest. He can see how distressed Sunshine is, and part of him wants to comfort her, but how? He's confused and upset, so he defaults to yelling back.
"Would either of you have come up for a little visit if a bloody demon cat hadn't forced you to? Why do you care now?!" This last is directed at Sunshine, because he really doesn't understand. "If it's just because I almost died, you can save it. You told me to fuck off last time I saw you!" In so many words, anyway. She'd let him know that his past was horrifying and that she didn't want to be involved with something that used to be like that.
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And if she can't trust him, and she can't trust herself, where does that leave them?
She doesn't bother pointing out that it takes two to pull off mutual avoidance. He's never gonna get that carthaginian memo. "That is not what I said!" she bellows instead, even as she starts to wonder what she's trying to accomplish, here, presuming she can hold it together long enough to accomplish anything. Which she can't. She knows she can't.
What is she even doing here?
She crosses to the door in a few brisk strides, giving both the apartment's other occupants a wide berth. And she knows she shouldn't say anything, because what's the point of a parting shot? Maybe she just wants to leave him with something, if she's going to have to deal with that fucking inscription. It doesn't matter why; the words tear themselves out of her the moment her hand grips the doorknob: "I never stopped. That's the ENTIRE FUCKING POINT."
Right. Great. Very helpful, Sunshine. She can't look at either of them, so she wrenches the door open and leaves, slamming it behind her.
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"We'll, erm," he says hesitantly. "We'll find some way around this - current problem of yours." Not, he suspects, what Spike is interested in talking about at the moment. He miracles himself a glass full of the wine and sips it prudishly.
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"Which one?" Spike asks, then heads towards his bedroom not expecting an answer. Instead, he continues, explaining "I'm putting on clothes."
Apparently he's been passed out on the floor in his underwear for days, so some clean clothes seem in order. He comes back in t-shirt, jeans and socks, grabs the bottle of wine and slumps down onto the couch. It seems Aziraphale hasn't seen fit to give him a glass, so he takes a swig directly from the bottle. He coughs a little when he does. He hadn't realized how dry his throat was. He takes another sip, easier this time, and it feels good.
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"The, er, the blood... problem." He adjusts his glasses uncomfortably. "I'm afraid I cannot help you with..." He waves his hand unhelpfully at the door. "Much as I might like to."
He hesitates, then allows himself to sit primly on the couch a little distance from Spike. "Are you all right?" he asks in a low voice.