Title: A History in Mime
Prompt: 186- Idle hands are the devil's joy- tamingthemuse
Warnings for this chapter: A bit of blood.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately the characters are only mine in my dreams.
Summary: Snapshots of Spike's life.
Authors Note- Quotes from Shakespeare's 'Macbeth' and Aristotle. I've never focused on a quote to such an extent before but I think that I like the way this turned out.
Comments are loved and appreciated. Whether you love it or you hate it feel free to let me know
When he thought of his youth Spike always thought of his mother. Of her wrinkled, stained hands as she brushed them through his curls, of her voice, soft and soothing as she sang to him and of the smell of laudanum that seeped into the furniture and permeated through the rooms as she got sicker and weaker.
She had always encouraged his poetry, the only person in the world who actively supported him in whatever he put his mind to, encouraging him to give it his all. Spike remembered her desire for him to do something with his hands, to keep him entertained and out of trouble she would say, smiling. He used to read his poems to her at night, watching her eyes glaze over with pride as she listened.
Spike’s hands were still that of a poets, pale and delicate, yet most nights they were covered in spatters of blood. Hands that had once created beauty now sought refuge in destruction, in death. Translucent nails were often caked with blood and some nights he and Drusilla would sink into a warm, steaming bath and she would wash his hands clean with uncharacteristic patience.
Buffy leapt onto a tombstone, flicking her hair as she exchanged barbs with a young fledge, her fingers tightly squeezing the stake grasped firmly in her hands.
Spike had been watching her patrolling for over an hour now, her body graceful as she followed a familiar rhythm, a dance older than time itself that was second nature to her.
Spike grabbed another cigarette from his pack, fingers that would never taint yellow from decade’s worth of nicotine holding it steady as the flames in his Zippo quivered.
Splinters gathered painfully in his hands as he cradled Buffy’s body against his chest, broken doll replacing the animated, strong woman he had fallen in love with. Spike could feel tears sliding down his cheeks and he tightened his grip on her body, as though the most important thing in the world was to keep her steady, to prevent her from falling and cracking and breaking like she had earlier as her body hit the ground.
When they buried her at night Spike didn’t have any words left to say but he was grateful to whoever had organised it to be so. For perhaps at last they realised how much she had meant to him, how much he had loved her. His hands tightened around Dawn’s shoulders as she sobbed brokenly, her head cradled against his chest, her tears wetting his shirt.
“What, will these hands never be clean?” Spike scrubbed and scrubbed at his hands but the blood remained, dripping and nauseating, overpowering him with terror and despair. “Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.”
He rocked on his heels, watching the blood trickle down from his fingers and onto the dust of the school basement. Thousands of voices crowed in his head, loud and furious, calling him a murderer, a monster and he felt blood cloying up his lungs, choking the demon out of him with the very crimes it had committed and just as quickly as it had come the panic subsided and he could breathe again, gulping in deep breaths of blessed oxygen.
From the boxes in the corner Buffy emerged, eyes gleaming manically as she looked him up and down. “Willy boy, you’re a monster and monsters don’t need to breathe. You don’t deserve to breathe.”
Spike backed away into the corner of the basement, sheltering himself away from her derision and scorn. He looked back at his hands again, at the blood congealing on his palms and glistening between his fingers and he rested his head on his knees, muttering old snatches of poetry that he had once heard and ignoring the voices screaming in pain and crying out for his death, for revenge.
Suddenly a warm hand touched his shoulder, real flesh and blood, and he looked up into a pair of dark brown eyes.
“Come on Spike, let’s get you back to my apartment and get you cleaned up.”
“My mother used to tell me that idle hands are the devils joy. You should write again, poetry I mean.” Xander smiled at him, gently caressing Spike’s smaller hands in his larger ones.
Spike leaned towards Xander for a kiss, bits of his old poetry lying near them on the bed. The second person in the world who believed in him, Spike thought as he stroked a hand through Xander’s soft curls, and this time they would have a happy ending.