350 words. Post season 5 BtVS. Spike. PG
As always feedback is greatly appreciated.
100
In the darkness of the crypt, the flame of the candle danced in a
cold draft, throwing ephemeral shadows over the walls. Sitting
cross-legged in front of it on the stone sarcophagus, Spike kept his
eyes on the flame, as though hypnotized. Next to him, a couple of empty
bottles reflected the light, testament to a long and lonely night.
He had gone out to hunt, earlier, but the few vampires he had staked
and even the scaly three-eyed demon he had eviscerated had done nothing
to improve his mood. As habitual as patrolling had become, it wasn’t
his fight, and the meager thanks the Scoobies sometimes gave him were
hardly sufficient to make the effort worth it.
The patrol had ended with a detour by the closest liquor store. A flash
of his game face was currency enough for liquid comfort. The cashier’s
terror had long ceased to be amusing, though.
He could have drunk in the dark, and he often did, these days,
remaining in the darkness so he could pretend he was no more than a
shadow. So he could avoid thinking, remembering. It never worked, of
course not, but at least he tried. The bottles helped. The nights were
long, when he had to remain sober to take care of a frail girl he had
failed to protect once – one time too many.
Yet tonight, the candle had seemed appropriate. Almost necessary. Fire,
light and danger, all in one dancing spark of beauty. A perfect
memorial.
Inch by inch, his fingers approached the candle, a slow but continuous
movement. They fluttered above it, close enough that the heat became a
tangible presence – a very real threat. If he would just touch the fire
– reach for it just once more, as he had reached for her without ever
touching her – it might all end, as it was supposed to. In ashes. And
it would, one day, one night, but not now.
The sun was barely a promise on the horizon when Spike pulled his hand
back. He took in a deep breath and blew out the candle in a shaky
whisper.
“One hundred days.”
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