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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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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.