![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Feb. 21st, 2006 01:39 pmIn the dark of night Spike dreams. Like so many of his dreams, this one replays his past without embellishment, without commentary, without much emotion. In the dream he's in a church, but not Beth's church: it's on Mars -- right in the city of Tharsis -- and Faye is being held hostage at Vicious's behest, a gun to her head.
Great. This is just what I need, he thinks. He's outnumbered. He'll never make it: there are at least half a dozen Syndicate guys backing up Vicious and that could be a conservative estimate. Not that he gives a shit about any of them but one, or maybe two if you count the woman. Maybe it ends here. Maybe Vicious and I finally settle all that shit here and now. Eyes narrowed, he raises his gun and fires: the man holding Faye crumples to the ground. In an unusual bout of thankfulness, Faye yells at him to be careful and watch what he's doing, but it's not out of largesse on her part: she just doesn't want to have to clean blood and gore off her dress. Why the hell couldn't you have just stayed on the damn ship? But it's too late for that now; the shit's already hit the fan. Bullets are flying. Things are exploding. And he's after Vicious because that's the only way things will end: one of them has to die. Or they both have to kill each other and he figures that's always pretty much been what fate or whoever the fuck runs things has in store for him.
Dodging bullets except for the one that catches him right in the gut, he makes his way up and up and up the stairs, pausing to catch his compromised breath in front of that big stained glass rose window, hearing the unmistakable swish of Vicious's katana blade just a fraction too late. It's a funny thing about blood: it's warm. And it keeps on being warm, because it keeps on flowing, and right now he's having trouble blinking it out of his left eye over and over and over. And he can feel it in his shoulder because damn, that katana's sharp. Vicious has always kept it sharp. And suddenly he's on the ground, his gun held to Vicious's heart, Vicious's katana held to his throat. It's a standoff. There's nothing but absolute unbridled fury in Vicious's eyes but Spike is faster: he shoots, but because of the blood running into his eyes he's off-center and gets Vicious's shoulder instead of his heart, and he feels a hand wrap around his throat and jaw.
Spike can't breathe.
He's dying. With his last bit of awareness he lets a grenade drop out of the pocket of his trench coat; he can feel Vicious lifting him by the face and the next thing he knows he's through that rose window, shards of colorful stained glass dancing around in the periphery of his vision, and he's falling.
Falling.
He's going to die: it's like they always say. Memories of the past flash by: Julia. A street in the rain. Gunfire. Roses. Vicious, when they were friends. Julia again. Vicious in bed with Julia. Spike looking down at his empty blood-stained hands: bang. A rose in a puddle.
Above him, an explosion rocks the church and there's smoke and fire, but he's still falling, hitting the ground.
Julia. Julia. Julia. Her smile. A gun held to her head. Her face changing: she's Beth now, Beth with a gun held to her head and he can't move: he's bandaged from head to toe and everything aches and his eyes are the only part of his body that's not frozen. He follows the sight of the gun to the man holding it: Vicious. He hears the sound of the trigger.
No!
With a start, Spike's eyes open and he sits up, frantic. Beth, Beth, where are you? Where are you?
She's right there. Sleeping. The only gun in sight is his, on the bedside table like it always is at night. There's no sign of Vicious anywhere but still, his heart pounds. Blinking hard, he wipes his forehead, rubs his eyes: there's no blood. His stomach doesn't have a bullet in it. Beth hasn't been shot.
Fuck. Serves me right for going back to Tharsis City. His breathing is heavy and uneven; his hands tremble as he reaches for Beth.
If anyone hurts you -- ever -- I'll fucking kill them, no matter what it costs.
Great. This is just what I need, he thinks. He's outnumbered. He'll never make it: there are at least half a dozen Syndicate guys backing up Vicious and that could be a conservative estimate. Not that he gives a shit about any of them but one, or maybe two if you count the woman. Maybe it ends here. Maybe Vicious and I finally settle all that shit here and now. Eyes narrowed, he raises his gun and fires: the man holding Faye crumples to the ground. In an unusual bout of thankfulness, Faye yells at him to be careful and watch what he's doing, but it's not out of largesse on her part: she just doesn't want to have to clean blood and gore off her dress. Why the hell couldn't you have just stayed on the damn ship? But it's too late for that now; the shit's already hit the fan. Bullets are flying. Things are exploding. And he's after Vicious because that's the only way things will end: one of them has to die. Or they both have to kill each other and he figures that's always pretty much been what fate or whoever the fuck runs things has in store for him.
Dodging bullets except for the one that catches him right in the gut, he makes his way up and up and up the stairs, pausing to catch his compromised breath in front of that big stained glass rose window, hearing the unmistakable swish of Vicious's katana blade just a fraction too late. It's a funny thing about blood: it's warm. And it keeps on being warm, because it keeps on flowing, and right now he's having trouble blinking it out of his left eye over and over and over. And he can feel it in his shoulder because damn, that katana's sharp. Vicious has always kept it sharp. And suddenly he's on the ground, his gun held to Vicious's heart, Vicious's katana held to his throat. It's a standoff. There's nothing but absolute unbridled fury in Vicious's eyes but Spike is faster: he shoots, but because of the blood running into his eyes he's off-center and gets Vicious's shoulder instead of his heart, and he feels a hand wrap around his throat and jaw.
Spike can't breathe.
He's dying. With his last bit of awareness he lets a grenade drop out of the pocket of his trench coat; he can feel Vicious lifting him by the face and the next thing he knows he's through that rose window, shards of colorful stained glass dancing around in the periphery of his vision, and he's falling.
Falling.
He's going to die: it's like they always say. Memories of the past flash by: Julia. A street in the rain. Gunfire. Roses. Vicious, when they were friends. Julia again. Vicious in bed with Julia. Spike looking down at his empty blood-stained hands: bang. A rose in a puddle.
Above him, an explosion rocks the church and there's smoke and fire, but he's still falling, hitting the ground.
Julia. Julia. Julia. Her smile. A gun held to her head. Her face changing: she's Beth now, Beth with a gun held to her head and he can't move: he's bandaged from head to toe and everything aches and his eyes are the only part of his body that's not frozen. He follows the sight of the gun to the man holding it: Vicious. He hears the sound of the trigger.
No!
With a start, Spike's eyes open and he sits up, frantic. Beth, Beth, where are you? Where are you?
She's right there. Sleeping. The only gun in sight is his, on the bedside table like it always is at night. There's no sign of Vicious anywhere but still, his heart pounds. Blinking hard, he wipes his forehead, rubs his eyes: there's no blood. His stomach doesn't have a bullet in it. Beth hasn't been shot.
Fuck. Serves me right for going back to Tharsis City. His breathing is heavy and uneven; his hands tremble as he reaches for Beth.
If anyone hurts you -- ever -- I'll fucking kill them, no matter what it costs.
