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Jul. 17th, 2006 11:45 am...and you should have seen the look in your mom's eyes when she blasted the Swordfish through that waterfall and cavern and up into the skies above Europa, Junior. I mean, she always looks beautiful, but there was some big damn moment of thrill and accomplishment in her face then. Yeah, now there's two of us who know for a fact that we're the luckiest people in the whole universe. Beth, she's something else.
Fuck.
He can't do this any more; it's too damn hard. That little flicker of hope buried away deep inside sure as fuck needs a lot of tending, but he's an obstinate son of a bitch: he won't let it go out.
He refuses, even if it costs everything he has to tend it.
His ribs aren't healing the way he wants either, and it's mostly from being so goddamn restless, not being able to sleep either comfortably or uncomfortably. When he's on his left side his arm and leg and shoulder ache; he can't even rest on his right because of the way Vicious broke his ribs. He's up and down all night, trying to stuff pillows behind him on the right so he doesn't roll onto his back. Beth's big body pillow is good for that, but the truth is she'd be better. He can barely bring himself to look at what's in the closet any more.
Remember, Beth? Remember the last time we talked about that green dress? You said you thought it still might fit and all I was interested in was the idea of taking it off you. And remember when we assembled that swing for Junior? I like how that ended.
Fuck. He closes the photo album and throws the pen across the room, which is stupid because now he'll have to bend over to pick it up and that's not good for his ribs or his leg. Actions have consequences, though he wonders what action it was that brought the consequence of taking Beth away from him. He knows it wasn't intentional on either of their parts to go their separate ways and that makes it suck all the more. At least when Julia decided not to go with him that long-ago day, there was something approximating free will involved.
And at least he could go looking for her, and he did. He looked for a really long time, everywhere he went, everywhere he could go. But Julia had disappeared effectively and efficiently and in a damn hurry and Spike really doesn't like the parallels.
"Fuck you, universe. Just... fuck you." His voice bounces back to him and suddenly he can't stand being here, he can't stand the way it looks or the way it sounds or the reminders everywhere of exactly what he's lost and for the first time he rethinks that yeah, maybe it would be better if he couldn't remember any of it, not a goddamn bit. With great haste he manages to get his shirt off and grabs a roll of gauze and wraps his own ribs, because it's something to do and it's a different kind of hurt that goes with it. He can stand just about all the physical pain the universe can throw at him.
Right now, it's a welcome distraction. Coaxing that shirt back on again -- he's down to just a couple of them now -- he buttons it haphazardly and doesn't bother to tuck it in, and he almost doesn't even mess with the tie but that almost inaudible voice in his brain says but what if this is the day? Beth likes that tie. It's one of her ten favorite things about you in the whole damn universe and you know it so he relents and puts it on sloppily. Then he sets the ISSP waistpack on and picks up his cleaned and rebalanced and reconditioned gun and tucks it into the waistband of his jeans and takes a breath so deep it feels like Vicious's katana is slicing through his gut all over again, but that's good, it's what he wants.
Somewhere, he knows that as long as he can keep feeling, he stands a chance of seeing Beth again. If he lets that die, then he might as well give up. He pulls open the door with a vengeance and doesn't even stop to set the number right like he always does. It could be that he's found infinity, but without Beth it's pointless. He's not the type to get over anybody.
Fuck.
He can't do this any more; it's too damn hard. That little flicker of hope buried away deep inside sure as fuck needs a lot of tending, but he's an obstinate son of a bitch: he won't let it go out.
He refuses, even if it costs everything he has to tend it.
His ribs aren't healing the way he wants either, and it's mostly from being so goddamn restless, not being able to sleep either comfortably or uncomfortably. When he's on his left side his arm and leg and shoulder ache; he can't even rest on his right because of the way Vicious broke his ribs. He's up and down all night, trying to stuff pillows behind him on the right so he doesn't roll onto his back. Beth's big body pillow is good for that, but the truth is she'd be better. He can barely bring himself to look at what's in the closet any more.
Remember, Beth? Remember the last time we talked about that green dress? You said you thought it still might fit and all I was interested in was the idea of taking it off you. And remember when we assembled that swing for Junior? I like how that ended.
Fuck. He closes the photo album and throws the pen across the room, which is stupid because now he'll have to bend over to pick it up and that's not good for his ribs or his leg. Actions have consequences, though he wonders what action it was that brought the consequence of taking Beth away from him. He knows it wasn't intentional on either of their parts to go their separate ways and that makes it suck all the more. At least when Julia decided not to go with him that long-ago day, there was something approximating free will involved.
And at least he could go looking for her, and he did. He looked for a really long time, everywhere he went, everywhere he could go. But Julia had disappeared effectively and efficiently and in a damn hurry and Spike really doesn't like the parallels.
"Fuck you, universe. Just... fuck you." His voice bounces back to him and suddenly he can't stand being here, he can't stand the way it looks or the way it sounds or the reminders everywhere of exactly what he's lost and for the first time he rethinks that yeah, maybe it would be better if he couldn't remember any of it, not a goddamn bit. With great haste he manages to get his shirt off and grabs a roll of gauze and wraps his own ribs, because it's something to do and it's a different kind of hurt that goes with it. He can stand just about all the physical pain the universe can throw at him.
Right now, it's a welcome distraction. Coaxing that shirt back on again -- he's down to just a couple of them now -- he buttons it haphazardly and doesn't bother to tuck it in, and he almost doesn't even mess with the tie but that almost inaudible voice in his brain says but what if this is the day? Beth likes that tie. It's one of her ten favorite things about you in the whole damn universe and you know it so he relents and puts it on sloppily. Then he sets the ISSP waistpack on and picks up his cleaned and rebalanced and reconditioned gun and tucks it into the waistband of his jeans and takes a breath so deep it feels like Vicious's katana is slicing through his gut all over again, but that's good, it's what he wants.
Somewhere, he knows that as long as he can keep feeling, he stands a chance of seeing Beth again. If he lets that die, then he might as well give up. He pulls open the door with a vengeance and doesn't even stop to set the number right like he always does. It could be that he's found infinity, but without Beth it's pointless. He's not the type to get over anybody.
