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Jan. 23rd, 2006 10:08 pmSometime in the night, Spike wakes up in a cold sweat, a complete panic. His heart pounds and his pulse races and his eyes are wide.
He doesn't know where the hell he is, and that's a damn disconcerting feeling. And for a minute, he can't get oriented to his surroundings. He's felt like this before, but not for a long, long time. But as his eyes adjust and he sees Beth lying by his side, he tries to calm himself.
This isn't Cooksfield, and I'm not dying from whatever killed everyone there. We're back home, at the bar. In our room. It's all right.
He looks down at his ribs: he's wrapped up like a goddamn mummy. Taking a few deep breaths, he holds out his hand: it's shaking. Fuck. Or better still: what the fuck? Places don't unnerve him. Hell, he's been in deep space without oxygen: places don't unnerve him.
Cooksfield does. He guesses he's got to admit it to himself, even if he never breathes a single goddamn word of it to Beth. You sure as hell aren't any kind of superhero.
Thing is, he never claimed to be anything other than just Spike. Some days, he wonders if that's enough.
He guesses it has to be. Swinging his legs around to the side of the bed, he starts to methodically unravel those long strips of gauze Beth put on him: he can't stand them any more. Once that's done, he reaches for a cigarette and lights it. Something to steady his hands.
Fuck.
He doesn't know where the hell he is, and that's a damn disconcerting feeling. And for a minute, he can't get oriented to his surroundings. He's felt like this before, but not for a long, long time. But as his eyes adjust and he sees Beth lying by his side, he tries to calm himself.
This isn't Cooksfield, and I'm not dying from whatever killed everyone there. We're back home, at the bar. In our room. It's all right.
He looks down at his ribs: he's wrapped up like a goddamn mummy. Taking a few deep breaths, he holds out his hand: it's shaking. Fuck. Or better still: what the fuck? Places don't unnerve him. Hell, he's been in deep space without oxygen: places don't unnerve him.
Cooksfield does. He guesses he's got to admit it to himself, even if he never breathes a single goddamn word of it to Beth. You sure as hell aren't any kind of superhero.
Thing is, he never claimed to be anything other than just Spike. Some days, he wonders if that's enough.
He guesses it has to be. Swinging his legs around to the side of the bed, he starts to methodically unravel those long strips of gauze Beth put on him: he can't stand them any more. Once that's done, he reaches for a cigarette and lights it. Something to steady his hands.
Fuck.
