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Posted on 2006.02.11 at 18:21
Current Mood: thoughtfulthoughtful

One finds kindness in the strangest places. Not something I like, because to my mind it still comes tainted with pity poor pathetic Wesley, can’t even hold a weapon the right way round, but still, take it for what it is.

I have knives up my sleeves now, and I shouldn’t need anything, but God, did I tonight. Did I fucking ever. I guessed - I knew - that Charles must be dead, but I didn’t want to know, I didn’t want to accept it. And isn’t it strange, how all the bitterness and the resentment went, how I sat in a bar with some hideous concoction of chartreuse and pineapple and aquavit in front of me, and just thought about how Gunn could grin like a maniac in the face of any Angel-inspired lunacy, thought about complicated handshakes and being called ‘English’, thought about everything and nothing and suddenly missed the stupid heroic bastard, not the lawyer in the sharp suits with a brain enhanced by God knows what, not the man who judged me and found me wanting in the days (weeks, months) of Connor’s kidnapping, of Angel’s vanishing, none of that. I missed Charles, my friend, my beloved axe wielding friend who once had a sister and would have gone into a hell of our choosing out of loyalty. Who did. Who bloody did.

Christ, I’m still drunk.

I can’t even remember how I got back here, but I’m guessing that it had something to do with Spike. Mostly because I tend to head for my bed, not for a sofa, and I sure as hell wouldn’t have found myself a blanket out of the cupboard.

I wonder why he didn’t take the bed? Would have been like him. Also the fact that he missed out on an opportunity to gloat over the state of my head this morning is a bit strange. Still.

He was kind.

He ate every bar snack in the place, terrified the bartender into making him a gherkin cocktail (several, if what I can remember is true), and generally offended 90% of the customers, but he was kind to me. Didn’t ask me how it felt to be bound by this contract, didn’t take any notice when I ended up having to rub my hand over my face, didn’t do anything except get the drinks (although he used my card, must remember to call him on that later, when I’m feeling less ridiculously grateful) and get me home.

I dreamt, I think. I must have, or maybe I just remembered, who knows. I dreamt of Oxford. I dreamt I was happy, dreamt of wisteria and gold-tinged stone and summer, of punting and rivers and books.

I dreamt of Fox, mouth crooked up as he explained some ridiculous theory about spaceships and aliens, of Daniel, agreeing with the theories and disproving them at once. I dreamt that I could tell them what I knew, and that they believed me.

I dreamt I was happy. I think I was, then, even though I knew what awaited me, that this was a stolen season.

I wish I could dream like that more often.


Xander Harris
1eyedcarpenter at 2006-02-12 05:09 (UTC) (Link)
((Very nicely written... More please. *s*))
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