Title: Words Can Never Hurt Me (note: despite the title this is NOT part of the World of Words series)
Rating: G- well PG maybe for Mys’ unrestrained colourful vocabulary in the summary and ANs, but not for the drabble itself!
Feedback: Mys has decided that she actually likes FB, so… constructive crit is fine, just be prepared for Mys to defend/explain her choices, and try not to do any permanent damage, k.
Disclaimer: Just playing with the pretty kittens. Unfortunately, they are not mine, but I will gladly groom and bathe them before sending them back home to Daddy (aka Joss/Mutant Enemy/et al).
Warnings/Squicks: Response to obnoxious flamage!!!!!!!
Summary: What happens when Mys gets flamed by someone she already dislikes (’cause they flamed one of her best friends a few months ago), and that person rather than just cutting their losses, when Mys doesn’t follow her instincts and tell them to sod the fuck off, then proceeds to pick a fight with Mys’ best friend for standing up for her?
You get an angry angsty Spike drabble, that’s what!!!!!
AN1: The opening text is from Fool for Love- it is NOT mine, it belongs to those lovely ppl who actually get/got paid for writing our boys.
AN2: This is not meant to be good writing, this is meant to be a therapeutic release to keep Mys from hunting down and bitch-slapping arrogant sots who think they are gods’ gift to fanfic!
AN3: Thanks to whyskeyeyes for braving the tide of angry Mys to make a suggestion regarding the last line... a suggestion Mys whole-heartedly agreed with. *G*
“And that's actually one of his better compositions.”
“Have you heard, they call him ‘William the Bloody’ because of his bloody awful poetry.”
“It suits him. I'd rather have a railroad spike through my head than listen to that awful stuff…”
Spike growled remembering the words that had stung him so deeply, so long ago- another life.
A hundred years later and the pain could still sneak up on him like a cobra in tall grass, striking a death blow when he least expected it.
Those hate-filled words, they symbolized something to him. Something he resented.
Or at least the fop of a man he had been. It was the same thing when he got down to it, same body, same mind, and these days same soul.
And it was that soul that screamed at him, screamed for the feel of pen brushing paper, for the release he had denied himself for decades.
It screamed at him to create.
It screamed that it didn’t matter, that the beauty was in the act. That even if he was the only one who could see the pictures he painted, it was still a resplendent thing.
Finally, he wrote. Wrote about the one thing that inspired him, the thing that had always been his downfall in every possible way, the thing that defined and created him as much as his mother, his Dark Princess, or his bastard Grandsire had. He wrote about love, blinding smiles, strength that no one understood or acknowledged, and the warmth and acceptance of a chocolate-coffee boy so reminiscent of a sandy-haired Victorian poet he had once been.
His words had never been meant for another’s eyes, they had been his- they were him, bare and open.
When he discovered them, Spike thought his world was crashing. The sting and pain of a hundred years prepared to overwhelm him- one word, one breath, one syllable or sound and “William” would be crushed, gone, no longer even a memory of his past, but another casualty erased from the world with no one the wiser.
Calloused fingers traced the lines on the paper. Dark eyes full of awe and wonder followed the words to their end.
A word, a word he knew wasn’t worthy of describing the intense emotions those lines evoked, breathed passed his warm lips. “Beautiful.”