daisysusan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
daisysusan) wrote2010-09-07 11:12 pm
daisysusan) wrote2010-09-07 11:12 pm
fic: Collapse
Title: Collapse
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Characters: Willow, Buffy, Xander
Pairing(s): Buffy/Spike and Xander/Anya
Genre: Angst
Timeframe: Immediately post-Chosen
Word Count: 655
Summary: (This sounds really pretentious but) The stillness of grief.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Belongs to Joss and Co. Not being paid in any way for this. Yeah.
Somewhere along the highway that connects the vast emptiness that was formerly Sunnydale with the less crater-shaped parts of California is a skeezy motel. Well, there are a lot of skeezy motels along that highway, but this one in particular has more customers than any of the others will see in a year.
In front of this motel, a school bus is parked. From its rooms and walkways come the sounds of hyper teenage girls running on too much adrenaline and too little sleep – the giggles and shrieks and tantrums.
But not everyone is happy.
The girl standing at the ice machine wipes her eyes before filling the bucket.
In a bathroom, another girl vomits up her terror and revulsion.
And there is one room that even the most courageous of the teenagers does not dare disturb.
In this room, there are three people.
Curled up into a chair not quite large enough and not quite cushioned enough to be a curling-up-in-chair is a tiny blonde. She has washed the blood from her face and is no longer wearing the clothes of battle. Over and over and over again, she spins in her hands the remote control for a TV probably as old as she is. Her eyes are focused with great intensity on a bad painting of an ugly dog hung over the desk, but the pain in them is too great even for that artistic travesty. Her mind is elsewhere.
With his back pressed against the bed, a young man sits on the floor, his legs spread haphazardly in front of him. A beer sits next to him, but it is unopened and has already sweated a small puddle onto the carpet, which absorbs nothing. Beside the beer is a small black box. He reaches for it – again – but his hands shake and he succeeds only in upsetting his beer.
The bottle rolls across the carpet, hitting the leg of the bed with a near-deafening clang.
The man does not reach for it.
The blonde does not so much as flinch.
The only reaction comes from the room’s third occupant, a redhead sitting cross-legged on the saggy bed. She reaches down and grabs the bottle, saving it from another frightening tumble and the man from the inevitable mess of foam if he were to open it.
She sees the box.
Her eyes widen and her hand slips. The bottle takes another plunge, this time onto the threadbare paisley of the bedspread. There it rests, sweat seeping towards the mattress, as the redhead watches the young man.
His face shares the blank listlessness of the blonde’s.
Time passes – or does not. In the absolute stillness, it is not measured. The aging digital clock by the bed flashes 12:00 ceaselessly.
The blonde stops spinning the remote in order to drop her head onto her huddled knees. She mumbles into her lap, as if the words are a shameful secret.
“He didn’t believe me. I told him I love him and he didn’t believe me.”
The redhead’s mouth opens; she does not speak. Instead, she swallows.
The shift in the man is sudden, and it is absolute. His shoulders tense, his jaw tightens, and the shaking of his hands ceases. His eyes harden. This grab for the box is successful, and he hurls it across the room.
It hits the wall next to the ugly dog.
As quickly as the change happened, it is gone.
The blankness, the listlessness, the emptiness is back twofold; his expression is one of physical suffering, though he is not injured.
His words are shaky and nigh indecipherable.
“We would have gotten married.”
Somehow, the silence of the room is just as heavy as before he spoke; it is as if the oppressiveness of the peeling wallpaper and grunge-covered curtains absorbed his words directly from his mouth.
“I don’t know how tomorrow can happen without her.”
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Characters: Willow, Buffy, Xander
Pairing(s): Buffy/Spike and Xander/Anya
Genre: Angst
Timeframe: Immediately post-Chosen
Word Count: 655
Summary: (This sounds really pretentious but) The stillness of grief.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Belongs to Joss and Co. Not being paid in any way for this. Yeah.
Somewhere along the highway that connects the vast emptiness that was formerly Sunnydale with the less crater-shaped parts of California is a skeezy motel. Well, there are a lot of skeezy motels along that highway, but this one in particular has more customers than any of the others will see in a year.
In front of this motel, a school bus is parked. From its rooms and walkways come the sounds of hyper teenage girls running on too much adrenaline and too little sleep – the giggles and shrieks and tantrums.
But not everyone is happy.
The girl standing at the ice machine wipes her eyes before filling the bucket.
In a bathroom, another girl vomits up her terror and revulsion.
And there is one room that even the most courageous of the teenagers does not dare disturb.
In this room, there are three people.
Curled up into a chair not quite large enough and not quite cushioned enough to be a curling-up-in-chair is a tiny blonde. She has washed the blood from her face and is no longer wearing the clothes of battle. Over and over and over again, she spins in her hands the remote control for a TV probably as old as she is. Her eyes are focused with great intensity on a bad painting of an ugly dog hung over the desk, but the pain in them is too great even for that artistic travesty. Her mind is elsewhere.
With his back pressed against the bed, a young man sits on the floor, his legs spread haphazardly in front of him. A beer sits next to him, but it is unopened and has already sweated a small puddle onto the carpet, which absorbs nothing. Beside the beer is a small black box. He reaches for it – again – but his hands shake and he succeeds only in upsetting his beer.
The bottle rolls across the carpet, hitting the leg of the bed with a near-deafening clang.
The man does not reach for it.
The blonde does not so much as flinch.
The only reaction comes from the room’s third occupant, a redhead sitting cross-legged on the saggy bed. She reaches down and grabs the bottle, saving it from another frightening tumble and the man from the inevitable mess of foam if he were to open it.
She sees the box.
Her eyes widen and her hand slips. The bottle takes another plunge, this time onto the threadbare paisley of the bedspread. There it rests, sweat seeping towards the mattress, as the redhead watches the young man.
His face shares the blank listlessness of the blonde’s.
Time passes – or does not. In the absolute stillness, it is not measured. The aging digital clock by the bed flashes 12:00 ceaselessly.
The blonde stops spinning the remote in order to drop her head onto her huddled knees. She mumbles into her lap, as if the words are a shameful secret.
“He didn’t believe me. I told him I love him and he didn’t believe me.”
The redhead’s mouth opens; she does not speak. Instead, she swallows.
The shift in the man is sudden, and it is absolute. His shoulders tense, his jaw tightens, and the shaking of his hands ceases. His eyes harden. This grab for the box is successful, and he hurls it across the room.
It hits the wall next to the ugly dog.
As quickly as the change happened, it is gone.
The blankness, the listlessness, the emptiness is back twofold; his expression is one of physical suffering, though he is not injured.
His words are shaky and nigh indecipherable.
“We would have gotten married.”
Somehow, the silence of the room is just as heavy as before he spoke; it is as if the oppressiveness of the peeling wallpaper and grunge-covered curtains absorbed his words directly from his mouth.
“I don’t know how tomorrow can happen without her.”