Post by Lady Tragic on Apr 21, 2009 9:45:23 GMT -5
Title: Grass
Prompt: 7.06- Decay
Character/Pairing: Buffy and Spike
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,103
Summary: Distantly post-series Buffy and Spike visit the remains of Sunnydale after a funeral. Angst, mentions of character death.
Authors Notes/Disclaimer: The poem is not mine- it’s “Grass” by Carl Sandburg. I don’t own Buffy, Spike, or Sunnydale. Unbeta’d, written quickly.
“Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo,
Shovel them under and let me work--
I am the grass; I cover all.”
A few hours out from LA, there was an exit off the interstate that lead nowhere. No signs christened the road, only a wooden barrier that proclaimed “EXIT CLOSED. DO NOT ENTER,” in fading black on white-and-orange. A car tore through the blockade, splintering it without a second thought. After all, the driver had never been much for following rules.
Several miles on, the road ended. There was no warning signs, no neatly-paved turnabout signifying it -- its state of neglect simply increased until it reached a depression, where its ragged edges finally tapered off into the tall grass. The car, so urgent before, slowed and pulled over long before this, and its master walked the rest of the way. She halted at the edge of the crater, and stared.
She’d expected a scar. A gaping, jagged wound in the earth, still raw after all these years -- but it wasn’t there. Her hole in the world was simply a large depression in the ground, one that held no horror for those who did not remember it. Tall grass flowed over the land, smoothing it and swallowing any debris that might have marked the crater as Sunnydale. Rainwater had pooled into a lake in the center, and a handful of ducks splashed happily, oblivious to Buffy’s presence.
She had thought about bringing flowers, but had decided it was too… trite somehow. She was glad she hadn’t. Flowers were for the comfort of the living, not the dead, and nature had already done better than she could have. She thought about venturing down into the bowl, to see if she could find any remains of the old Sunnydale, but that felt… inappropriate somehow. Intrusive. Instead, she sat on the edge of the crater, and watched the sun set. She thought of the library, gone even before Sunnydale was, of the Bronze and The Magic Box. She thought of the tree that had played host to numerous escapes and multiple undead stalker-boyfriends, of UC Sunnydale and most importantly, the house on Revello Drive.
The rumble of a motorcycle faded in behind her, then cut out. A faint wry grin tugged at the side of Buffy’s mouth, but didn’t make it past her reasons for being here. “You know me too well,” she informed the vampire who came up and sat down beside her.
“Wasn’t that hard to figure, love.” He says, but there’s no teasing in it, just fatigue. She feels like she should toss out some token banter, but she doesn’t have the energy for it either. And besides, this wasn’t the place for it.
So they sat in silence, until Buffy said abruptly, “When I die, I want to be cremated, and my ashes scattered here.” Out of the corner to her eye, she saw Spike swallow and nod once.
“Best tell someone else, Buffy. I reckon I won’t be around to sort out your funeral.” And then she nodded, and the silence fell again.
“Do you reckon we should have buried her here?”
Buffy shook her head. “Connor’s call. Not mine,” she said. “Besides. I don’t want Dawn here… This ground already has too many of ours.” She added softly.
Faces presented themselves for her consideration -- her mother, who had handled every curveball Buffy threw her with extraordinary grace. Anya, demanding to know why something was the way it was with the persistence of a child. Tara, steady and sweet, and quite possibly the only one of them who had never done anything to warrant what she got. And more, many more: potential Slayers who’d trusted her blindly, Sunnydale High students who hadn’t seen graduation, people she’d never seen except to check them for bite marks in the morgue. Her shoulders tightened under the burden.
Hesitantly, Spike put an arm around Buffy’s shoulder. She had hardly spoken to him for years since discovering that he was walking dead, as opposed to the other kind. Never forgiven him for letting her mourn him when he wasn’t gone. It had taken the knowledge that Dawn wasn’t going to make it to get them back on speaking terms, and neither of them really knew where they stood.
It had been hard enough when she hit thirty, discovered one more aspect of Slayerdom that no one had warned her about, and had to watch her friends and family grow old. Her ‘kid sister’ caught up to her, passed her, and then… Brain tumor. Just like mom. She wasn’t even fifty. Yet another flood of tears welled behind Buffy’s eyes, she was amazed she hadn’t run out.
“They made her wrong.” She whispered, voice cracking. “She worried about that, when she was younger, that the monks had messed her up. I did too. But we stopped worrying, and…” The tears were flowing now. She leaned into Spike’s arm just to feel something solid. “But they did, they made her wrong.”
“I know, pet.” He said, sounding choked himself. He just gathered her close, and let her cry. Buffy didn’t protest. Then, a long while later when she trusted her voice, she looked up at Spike. For a second, she thought she caught a glimpse of the besotted expression of old, the one she’d never appreciated. But then it was gone, and Spike stiffened, clearly expecting a pop in the nose or something similar.
Buffy rolled her eyes. “We are so not back to that,” she informed him, and Spike managed a wan smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m too old for that crap.” Even if she didn’t look it.
They were… even now, in some odd demented way. They’d both died twice. They’d each had their turn mourning the other. Maybe on an even playing field, they could come up with something functional.
“So where are we?” he asked her. He tilted his head, his mouth very close to hers. Waiting to see what move she’d make.
She ducked her head. “Not there.” He nodded grimly, and made to pull away. She grabbed at his duster. “Not yet,” she told him. He tilted his head, an unspoken request for elaboration. “Maybe someday. I don’t know-“ she shook her head. “Ask me when I’ve got my head on straight.”
That got another wry smile. “That’ll be quite the wait, then.” He pressed a single kiss to her forehead, and stood. “I’ll be around, I suppose.”
She watched him walk back to his motorcycle, and felt... something. Separate from her grief for Dawn, still hot and raw. But deep inside her, she felt a little knot of something dark come undone. Grass, growing over a wound.
“And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.”
Prompt: 7.06- Decay
Character/Pairing: Buffy and Spike
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,103
Summary: Distantly post-series Buffy and Spike visit the remains of Sunnydale after a funeral. Angst, mentions of character death.
Authors Notes/Disclaimer: The poem is not mine- it’s “Grass” by Carl Sandburg. I don’t own Buffy, Spike, or Sunnydale. Unbeta’d, written quickly.
“Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo,
Shovel them under and let me work--
I am the grass; I cover all.”
A few hours out from LA, there was an exit off the interstate that lead nowhere. No signs christened the road, only a wooden barrier that proclaimed “EXIT CLOSED. DO NOT ENTER,” in fading black on white-and-orange. A car tore through the blockade, splintering it without a second thought. After all, the driver had never been much for following rules.
Several miles on, the road ended. There was no warning signs, no neatly-paved turnabout signifying it -- its state of neglect simply increased until it reached a depression, where its ragged edges finally tapered off into the tall grass. The car, so urgent before, slowed and pulled over long before this, and its master walked the rest of the way. She halted at the edge of the crater, and stared.
She’d expected a scar. A gaping, jagged wound in the earth, still raw after all these years -- but it wasn’t there. Her hole in the world was simply a large depression in the ground, one that held no horror for those who did not remember it. Tall grass flowed over the land, smoothing it and swallowing any debris that might have marked the crater as Sunnydale. Rainwater had pooled into a lake in the center, and a handful of ducks splashed happily, oblivious to Buffy’s presence.
She had thought about bringing flowers, but had decided it was too… trite somehow. She was glad she hadn’t. Flowers were for the comfort of the living, not the dead, and nature had already done better than she could have. She thought about venturing down into the bowl, to see if she could find any remains of the old Sunnydale, but that felt… inappropriate somehow. Intrusive. Instead, she sat on the edge of the crater, and watched the sun set. She thought of the library, gone even before Sunnydale was, of the Bronze and The Magic Box. She thought of the tree that had played host to numerous escapes and multiple undead stalker-boyfriends, of UC Sunnydale and most importantly, the house on Revello Drive.
The rumble of a motorcycle faded in behind her, then cut out. A faint wry grin tugged at the side of Buffy’s mouth, but didn’t make it past her reasons for being here. “You know me too well,” she informed the vampire who came up and sat down beside her.
“Wasn’t that hard to figure, love.” He says, but there’s no teasing in it, just fatigue. She feels like she should toss out some token banter, but she doesn’t have the energy for it either. And besides, this wasn’t the place for it.
So they sat in silence, until Buffy said abruptly, “When I die, I want to be cremated, and my ashes scattered here.” Out of the corner to her eye, she saw Spike swallow and nod once.
“Best tell someone else, Buffy. I reckon I won’t be around to sort out your funeral.” And then she nodded, and the silence fell again.
“Do you reckon we should have buried her here?”
Buffy shook her head. “Connor’s call. Not mine,” she said. “Besides. I don’t want Dawn here… This ground already has too many of ours.” She added softly.
Faces presented themselves for her consideration -- her mother, who had handled every curveball Buffy threw her with extraordinary grace. Anya, demanding to know why something was the way it was with the persistence of a child. Tara, steady and sweet, and quite possibly the only one of them who had never done anything to warrant what she got. And more, many more: potential Slayers who’d trusted her blindly, Sunnydale High students who hadn’t seen graduation, people she’d never seen except to check them for bite marks in the morgue. Her shoulders tightened under the burden.
Hesitantly, Spike put an arm around Buffy’s shoulder. She had hardly spoken to him for years since discovering that he was walking dead, as opposed to the other kind. Never forgiven him for letting her mourn him when he wasn’t gone. It had taken the knowledge that Dawn wasn’t going to make it to get them back on speaking terms, and neither of them really knew where they stood.
It had been hard enough when she hit thirty, discovered one more aspect of Slayerdom that no one had warned her about, and had to watch her friends and family grow old. Her ‘kid sister’ caught up to her, passed her, and then… Brain tumor. Just like mom. She wasn’t even fifty. Yet another flood of tears welled behind Buffy’s eyes, she was amazed she hadn’t run out.
“They made her wrong.” She whispered, voice cracking. “She worried about that, when she was younger, that the monks had messed her up. I did too. But we stopped worrying, and…” The tears were flowing now. She leaned into Spike’s arm just to feel something solid. “But they did, they made her wrong.”
“I know, pet.” He said, sounding choked himself. He just gathered her close, and let her cry. Buffy didn’t protest. Then, a long while later when she trusted her voice, she looked up at Spike. For a second, she thought she caught a glimpse of the besotted expression of old, the one she’d never appreciated. But then it was gone, and Spike stiffened, clearly expecting a pop in the nose or something similar.
Buffy rolled her eyes. “We are so not back to that,” she informed him, and Spike managed a wan smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m too old for that crap.” Even if she didn’t look it.
They were… even now, in some odd demented way. They’d both died twice. They’d each had their turn mourning the other. Maybe on an even playing field, they could come up with something functional.
“So where are we?” he asked her. He tilted his head, his mouth very close to hers. Waiting to see what move she’d make.
She ducked her head. “Not there.” He nodded grimly, and made to pull away. She grabbed at his duster. “Not yet,” she told him. He tilted his head, an unspoken request for elaboration. “Maybe someday. I don’t know-“ she shook her head. “Ask me when I’ve got my head on straight.”
That got another wry smile. “That’ll be quite the wait, then.” He pressed a single kiss to her forehead, and stood. “I’ll be around, I suppose.”
She watched him walk back to his motorcycle, and felt... something. Separate from her grief for Dawn, still hot and raw. But deep inside her, she felt a little knot of something dark come undone. Grass, growing over a wound.
“And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.”
