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To a guy who hasn't ever had much fear of death, cemeteries have never been troubling or bothersome: they're just another place. Sure, they're a place filled with dead bodies, but what else is new? They have to go somewhere. Still, there's a lot of superstition about graves and graveyards, cemeteries, death, dying. Even if it doesn't bother him, it bothers other people.
It's kind of fitting, though, that he finds himself waiting in one now. The last time he saw one it was in Cooksfield, behind Beth's church. It was really beautiful: a warm dry California evening, and the first time he'd ever seen the sun set on Earth without worrying about rock showers. It was also the first time he saw the moon there without a giant bite taken out of it and it was beautiful. Spectacularly beautiful. Like the graveyard: trees designed for shade; crypts overgrown with flowers; tombstones tickled by tall grasses. There was some kind of splendid and casual beauty about the place. If he's going to be buried anywhere, he wants it to be a place just like that one.
He knows it won't be.
This cemetery's different: it's crowded and gray, and it's raining. It's cold. It's right on the outskirts of Tharsis City and the sounds and smells of the city invade his senses, pushing thoughts of St. Bernadette's pleasant serene graveyard far away. There's only one thing here that even has any color to it: it's a rose. A single red rose from some memorial or tribute or other lying in a puddle of water; he leans down to pick it up, studies it. Roses have always reminded him of Julia. Always.
So why, he asks himself, is he so surprised to look up and see her walking over, gun pointed straight at him? It caught him off guard last time, too.
Julia. This is different, though: there's no quickening of his heartbeat, no leap of oh fuck, after all this time, you're back and I can't believe it and look at you, look how damn beautiful you look and no casually irritated where the hell have you been? None of that. There's just one thought: you're not Beth: please, if you're going to shoot me this time, do it now and get it over with.
But she doesn't shoot any more this time than last. No, she walks right up, gun drawn and held steadily, pointed right at his heart. Kind of fitting. "It was raining that day as well," she tells him.
Ludicrous: just as strange now as then. Last time, he remembers feeling so fucking torn over seeing her. For three years his heart had been consumed with nothing but thoughts of her and dreams of her and wanting her, and when he finally saw her... shit, it was like all his old wounds opened up at the same time and he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. This time the wounds are different -- more recent, so much more raw by far -- and he just looks at her and at her gun, a rose his weapon now like it was the first time, cold Martian drizzle falling down on them. "And so you didn't come because of the rain?"
"I was supposed to kill you; it was all set up. If I had, I would've been free." She stands without apology, without further explanation, without lowering the gun. In fact, she moves a step closer.
"So why didn't you? You chose to be hunted... why?" It's not fair to think what he'd be doing now if she were Beth instead of Julia: it's not fair to her. She doesn't know about Beth; she doesn't know he's been gone for more years than she can imagine. Besides, he loved her. He loved Julia. He just... doesn't love her any more. Back at the bar, after she died in his arms, they talked about love or lack thereof. For the first time, Julia told him she loved him and he told her she had no right to say it; it wasn't his kindest moment. But out here, she's never said she loved him. If she didn't kill him and didn't kill him again and doesn't do it now... what does that mean?
It doesn't mean shit. She's a shadow: she's not the Julia I loved. Or... maybe she is, but I'm not the Spike she loved. She just doesn't know that.
Julia answers his question with a question: "Why did you love me?"
He can't answer that -- not any more -- but she doesn't wait for an answer: instead, she wraps her hands around the back of his neck, her head close to his, speaking softly. "Let's just go away somewhere. Escape. Vanish... go somewhere where there's no one else? Just the two of us?"
Sorry, Julia, but it's a little bit too late for that. He's not even going to try to explain.
He can't.
It's kind of fitting, though, that he finds himself waiting in one now. The last time he saw one it was in Cooksfield, behind Beth's church. It was really beautiful: a warm dry California evening, and the first time he'd ever seen the sun set on Earth without worrying about rock showers. It was also the first time he saw the moon there without a giant bite taken out of it and it was beautiful. Spectacularly beautiful. Like the graveyard: trees designed for shade; crypts overgrown with flowers; tombstones tickled by tall grasses. There was some kind of splendid and casual beauty about the place. If he's going to be buried anywhere, he wants it to be a place just like that one.
He knows it won't be.
This cemetery's different: it's crowded and gray, and it's raining. It's cold. It's right on the outskirts of Tharsis City and the sounds and smells of the city invade his senses, pushing thoughts of St. Bernadette's pleasant serene graveyard far away. There's only one thing here that even has any color to it: it's a rose. A single red rose from some memorial or tribute or other lying in a puddle of water; he leans down to pick it up, studies it. Roses have always reminded him of Julia. Always.
So why, he asks himself, is he so surprised to look up and see her walking over, gun pointed straight at him? It caught him off guard last time, too.
Julia. This is different, though: there's no quickening of his heartbeat, no leap of oh fuck, after all this time, you're back and I can't believe it and look at you, look how damn beautiful you look and no casually irritated where the hell have you been? None of that. There's just one thought: you're not Beth: please, if you're going to shoot me this time, do it now and get it over with.
But she doesn't shoot any more this time than last. No, she walks right up, gun drawn and held steadily, pointed right at his heart. Kind of fitting. "It was raining that day as well," she tells him.
Ludicrous: just as strange now as then. Last time, he remembers feeling so fucking torn over seeing her. For three years his heart had been consumed with nothing but thoughts of her and dreams of her and wanting her, and when he finally saw her... shit, it was like all his old wounds opened up at the same time and he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. This time the wounds are different -- more recent, so much more raw by far -- and he just looks at her and at her gun, a rose his weapon now like it was the first time, cold Martian drizzle falling down on them. "And so you didn't come because of the rain?"
"I was supposed to kill you; it was all set up. If I had, I would've been free." She stands without apology, without further explanation, without lowering the gun. In fact, she moves a step closer.
"So why didn't you? You chose to be hunted... why?" It's not fair to think what he'd be doing now if she were Beth instead of Julia: it's not fair to her. She doesn't know about Beth; she doesn't know he's been gone for more years than she can imagine. Besides, he loved her. He loved Julia. He just... doesn't love her any more. Back at the bar, after she died in his arms, they talked about love or lack thereof. For the first time, Julia told him she loved him and he told her she had no right to say it; it wasn't his kindest moment. But out here, she's never said she loved him. If she didn't kill him and didn't kill him again and doesn't do it now... what does that mean?
It doesn't mean shit. She's a shadow: she's not the Julia I loved. Or... maybe she is, but I'm not the Spike she loved. She just doesn't know that.
Julia answers his question with a question: "Why did you love me?"
He can't answer that -- not any more -- but she doesn't wait for an answer: instead, she wraps her hands around the back of his neck, her head close to his, speaking softly. "Let's just go away somewhere. Escape. Vanish... go somewhere where there's no one else? Just the two of us?"
Sorry, Julia, but it's a little bit too late for that. He's not even going to try to explain.
He can't.
