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My only excuse for this, and it's a flimsy one, is that I wrote this at six in the morning, between the intro and first body paragraph of my final history paper. The idea's been rattling around in my head for a while, and this week's ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sunday100 challenge shook it loose in a more compact form than anything I would have come up with independently, so...
Breaking the Silence
Something is coming for her.
It’s taken many forms over the short years of her human life: aneurysm, apocalypse, stray bullet, vampire, demon, apocalypse again. Stupid fucking car accident. It’s taken everyone she cares about away from her, and it’s coming for her next, and she knows it.
He knows she knows because he’s been watching her ever since she came to him, because he’s the last one left besides her. He’s watched her draw in on herself, day after day, growing smaller and quieter, her skin tightening to her bones and her voice rarely rising above a whisper. He watches as she hides herself away, as though if she’s just quiet enough, whatever it is will miss her when it comes calling.
He can’t help hoping it works, even though he hates it.
He wants to teach her, if not to be unafraid, then to spit in the eye of the thing that’s coming, to stand facing it–-even if she stands behind him, he doesn’t mind that, it’s what he’s here for–-and taunt it to the last.
He tries to make her make a sound, to show her it’s not the end of anything if she does. He can’t bring himself to do it by frightening her or making her cry; her terrors and her grief, both scrupulously silent, come often enough without his provocation. He tries to make her laugh, but she only smiles. He tries to make her yell, but in anger her voice turns cold and drops even lower, a whisper-hiss or sometimes just an icy glare.
So tonight he tried to make her scream. Slowly, meticulously, using every trick he ever knew, he tried. He made her heart race, he made her silent breath come fast, he made her eyes light with pleasure and affection, but still and all he failed.
Now he’s lying beside her, watching her sleep so still, and he knows that he’s run out of things to try, but he knows he’ll keep on trying anyway, until he breaks this thrall she’s in. He smiles, then, looks over at her, sleeping like an enchanted princess. He rests a hand lightly over her heart and promises, how else but silently, I will make you loud again. Promises himself, promises her, and seals his vow with a feather-light kiss on her lips.
Her eyes flutter open like Sleeping Beauty’s as he draws back, and she smiles up at him, but her yawn is perfectly silent, and the fairy tale hope that rose in him sinks down again. She licks her lips lazily, and then, voice sleepy-vague on the edges, she says, “Hey, Spike,” and it’s not a whisper, and it’s not fearful, and it’s his name. As she nestles down to sleep against his shoulder again, he’s the one who’s shown. It’s not the end of anything.
sunday100 challenge shook it loose in a more compact form than anything I would have come up with independently, so...Breaking the Silence
Something is coming for her.
It’s taken many forms over the short years of her human life: aneurysm, apocalypse, stray bullet, vampire, demon, apocalypse again. Stupid fucking car accident. It’s taken everyone she cares about away from her, and it’s coming for her next, and she knows it.
He knows she knows because he’s been watching her ever since she came to him, because he’s the last one left besides her. He’s watched her draw in on herself, day after day, growing smaller and quieter, her skin tightening to her bones and her voice rarely rising above a whisper. He watches as she hides herself away, as though if she’s just quiet enough, whatever it is will miss her when it comes calling.
He can’t help hoping it works, even though he hates it.
He wants to teach her, if not to be unafraid, then to spit in the eye of the thing that’s coming, to stand facing it–-even if she stands behind him, he doesn’t mind that, it’s what he’s here for–-and taunt it to the last.
He tries to make her make a sound, to show her it’s not the end of anything if she does. He can’t bring himself to do it by frightening her or making her cry; her terrors and her grief, both scrupulously silent, come often enough without his provocation. He tries to make her laugh, but she only smiles. He tries to make her yell, but in anger her voice turns cold and drops even lower, a whisper-hiss or sometimes just an icy glare.
So tonight he tried to make her scream. Slowly, meticulously, using every trick he ever knew, he tried. He made her heart race, he made her silent breath come fast, he made her eyes light with pleasure and affection, but still and all he failed.
Now he’s lying beside her, watching her sleep so still, and he knows that he’s run out of things to try, but he knows he’ll keep on trying anyway, until he breaks this thrall she’s in. He smiles, then, looks over at her, sleeping like an enchanted princess. He rests a hand lightly over her heart and promises, how else but silently, I will make you loud again. Promises himself, promises her, and seals his vow with a feather-light kiss on her lips.
Her eyes flutter open like Sleeping Beauty’s as he draws back, and she smiles up at him, but her yawn is perfectly silent, and the fairy tale hope that rose in him sinks down again. She licks her lips lazily, and then, voice sleepy-vague on the edges, she says, “Hey, Spike,” and it’s not a whisper, and it’s not fearful, and it’s his name. As she nestles down to sleep against his shoulder again, he’s the one who’s shown. It’s not the end of anything.