John Mitchell (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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ataraxionlogs2014-05-27 03:15 pm
humanistic) wrote in ataraxionlogs2014-05-27 03:15 pm
Entry tags:
not the time to be hanging around here
CHARACTERS: Mitchell & VARIOUS SUPPORTING CAST
LOCATION: in the dark corners of space
WARNINGS: vampire stuff!--which means strong potential for violence/blood/etc. will update as needed!
SUMMARY: here lies a catch-all dumping ground for the month of May, for some preplanned encounters, especially those regarding the status effect subplot. this log is also MOSTLY OPEN as I'm also up for anything else, planned or not planned - shoot me a PM or just surprise me with a comment, I'm easy!!
[At the end of the month, every extra sense and dark instinct has eaten away at Mitchell from the inside out. The smell of lycos, thick and greasy--the constant presence of heartbeats, pulses, and it's become something so much more, worse and deafening worse, until it's like the walls themselves are throbbing, until he doesn't know if stepping outside will trigger that feeling, that super feeling that's so far beyond mere feeling, like being a fucking lightning conductor just before a storm.
And he can't let on. He makes his excuses; he puts himself in lounges and rooms far away from everyone--far away from George, far away from Annie, for as long as he can. He can't let on.
And for awhile, that's enough. But it seeps in, just the way that it always does. Pushing him closer, and closer, to some edge that he has always known he'd someday be facing down. Leaving him brittle, and desperate, and hungry--hungry above all else. In dark rooms he sees their faces; he replays his murders in his head, and sometimes he feels guilty and sometimes he almost laughs--but always he feels the fingers of hunger winding tighter around every coiled muscle and sinew. He remembers lying back, senseless, covered in blood. He remembers licking blood off of Daisy like an animal, every inch of her skin slick and sticky. A thousand girls, a thousand young men, a thousand wives and husbands and sons and daughters; a trail of blood almost a hundred years long. Skin splitting under his teeth, feeding until the ache in him goes away, until he forgets what it is to feel. He sits in the dark, looking like anyone else, like a man, like the young soldier who died in the mud, on a battlefield in France. But inside is all cold blood, and an old heart, and nothing else except the same old hunger, waiting.
Waiting is exactly what he's doing.]
LOCATION: in the dark corners of space
WARNINGS: vampire stuff!--which means strong potential for violence/blood/etc. will update as needed!
SUMMARY: here lies a catch-all dumping ground for the month of May, for some preplanned encounters, especially those regarding the status effect subplot. this log is also MOSTLY OPEN as I'm also up for anything else, planned or not planned - shoot me a PM or just surprise me with a comment, I'm easy!!
[At the end of the month, every extra sense and dark instinct has eaten away at Mitchell from the inside out. The smell of lycos, thick and greasy--the constant presence of heartbeats, pulses, and it's become something so much more, worse and deafening worse, until it's like the walls themselves are throbbing, until he doesn't know if stepping outside will trigger that feeling, that super feeling that's so far beyond mere feeling, like being a fucking lightning conductor just before a storm.
And he can't let on. He makes his excuses; he puts himself in lounges and rooms far away from everyone--far away from George, far away from Annie, for as long as he can. He can't let on.
And for awhile, that's enough. But it seeps in, just the way that it always does. Pushing him closer, and closer, to some edge that he has always known he'd someday be facing down. Leaving him brittle, and desperate, and hungry--hungry above all else. In dark rooms he sees their faces; he replays his murders in his head, and sometimes he feels guilty and sometimes he almost laughs--but always he feels the fingers of hunger winding tighter around every coiled muscle and sinew. He remembers lying back, senseless, covered in blood. He remembers licking blood off of Daisy like an animal, every inch of her skin slick and sticky. A thousand girls, a thousand young men, a thousand wives and husbands and sons and daughters; a trail of blood almost a hundred years long. Skin splitting under his teeth, feeding until the ache in him goes away, until he forgets what it is to feel. He sits in the dark, looking like anyone else, like a man, like the young soldier who died in the mud, on a battlefield in France. But inside is all cold blood, and an old heart, and nothing else except the same old hunger, waiting.
Waiting is exactly what he's doing.]
PLACEHOLDER - to (potentially) be used for an encounter with peter
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Squinting through the bright lights, it was odd and confusing and infuriating all at once. As if he had a migraine times a hundred but even worse than that somehow. It made the whole world seem far too much - the whole existing thing - swimming in and out of his head, blanketing everything and illuminating what was already there. It made him feel on edge without a reason, wanting to pound the walls and break them down without even knowing why. It didn't help that he felt absolutely powerless to it all, absolutely too slow to react to a single thing when even the sound of anyone mumbling nearby had his head aching. How the hell was he supposed to even think when all his thoughts were filtered through the pounding behind his eyes, the deafening noise of nothing at all.
It was into a random lounge that he stumbled, attracted to the darkness if only for some temporary relief, if he could even call it that. But the fact of the matter was that was destroyed in an instant, broken by a face he had no interest in seeing.
Instead of saying something stupid, Peter opted to cling to the silence of the moment, averting his gaze elsewhere and avoiding the unspoken topic entirely. He had no interest in a conversation, let alone one that would potentially get louder than he was capable of tolerating and maybe if he was lucky, the other man would just leave it alone. ]
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It's less unbearable right now. In the dark of the lounge, Mitchell sits on the sofa, boneless and tired and strung-out, and stares at the ceiling. He doesn't look around when the owner of that approaching heartbeat is stupid enough to stumble in to the room. If he looks, he might well jump to his feet and go for them, quell the hunger that twists in his chest and stomach and teeth--
When he does look around, and sees Peter, he laughs.]
Christ.
[It's a little slurred. He waves one hand, dismissively.]
This has got t' be my lucky day.
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It was loud enough bouncing around in his head, saying it out loud would've been a million times worse. Nonetheless, he just barely manages to keep from spitting it out, the words filled with more than enough dislike to bridge whatever gap lies between them. And Peter wants to keep it there, wants to leave more then enough room (and then some) in case something starts up again. Something wholly unnecessary and completely ridiculous. Especially now, it'd be that much more unnecessary when the world is too much and nothing even comes close to being dim. ]
Leave it alone.
[ It's what he says instead, taking a few steps backward. He's not doing it this time, he's not getting into it when there just isn't a good enough reason. Speaking out loud still makes him feel like his brain's going to explode but he has to contribute something to the so-called conversation. It feels stupid to remain the silent one and so Peter does what he can to live up to his own words. Leaving it alone by way of removing himself from the situation. At least... sort of removing himself. A few steps counts, right? Keeping the darkness yet keeping himself away.
What the hell else is he gonna do. Fight? That's laughable - he can't even imagine scrounging up the anger it would require and the resonating feeling that would go along with it. Everything's already too loud, mashing together the rest of his emotional reservoir just seems ludicrous. He's not doing it, he won't. Not when he can't even manage to think straight without wanting to bury his head in the sand and stay there for the next year.
Or for however long it takes for this to all go away. ]
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[He shifts forward on the sofa. The movement feels weirdly fluid, even to him, even from within his own skin. It's not something he's used to feeling, not any longer, like he sweated it all out after he went clean the last time.
(Well. "Clean". It's a bitter thought. Clean, why can't he make it fucking stick.)
His elbows resting on his knees, his hands folded, he smiles languidly at Peter. The struggle of sensitivity is just a tingle for him, right now--but it's working hell on Peter. Anyone could see that.]
You don't look so good, mate. Maybe you'd better take a seat. Or don't you want t' sit with me?
[He lets himself get to his feet, his hands loose at his sides. Not a threat, that's what that suggests, but even the sound of his voice has to be like nails in Peter's fucking eardrums, if his experience is even half of what Mitchell had been undergoing not twenty minutes earlier.]
This ship, yeah? It turns everything around on us. Never a dull moment.
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He can't tell if he's being threatened or not and maybe it doesn't exactly matter if Peter can convince him to drop the whole thing for the time being. Which is... unlikely, sure, but Peter still wishes he could. Now's not the time to get into blows for something that has nothing to do with either of them and all Peter wants is for it to stop. Or maybe that's the really loud noises speaking - at least in here the bright lights are dampened enough to keep from being a significant problem but the world still feels like it's reeling.
It's still all wrong and Peter doesn't know how to fix it. ]
It's always something.
[ It's the first thing he manages and the words even taste foul, leaving Peter to stare unpleasantly at the other man. He still doesn't know how to approach this when he doesn't know what might happen and as far as Peter's concerned, nothing will if he handles it the right way. ]
Thanks for the offer but I think i'll skip the sit down.
[ But maybe that wasn't the best way to handle it, either. ]
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[It's a noise very like one of disappointment. Mitchell steps a little closer, still wearing his grin, like a skull's. His skin feels taut and waxy even to him, too tight--some of the pressure has lessened for now, but he feels it all tugging at the corner of his mind, like an itch that can't quite be reached. Soon, very soon, the intensity of feeling will flood back in all over again--and though he's on top of it all for now, it's left him a little desperate. The scrabble for control has sapped so many of his defences, left him that much closer to snapping--
And this is Peter. Peter, who fucking electrocuted him in a corridor, left him there--and never mind that it was self-defence, that Mitchell went after him first. It doesn't matter. He can't be allowed to do that. He can't be allowed, and Mitchell takes another step toward him, and another, moving a little quicker now.]
You're feeling it, aren't you. The ship. Whatever it's doing, it's wrecking hell on you. I can see it--Jesus, man, it was doing the same t' me, just five minutes back.
But right now? I'm feeling great.
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It all makes him feel as if he's about to be eaten and whether or not that's more valid than it should be is besides the point. He's under a microscope and whoever the hell this guy is, is enjoy ing it way too much. Peter's not keen on the feeling of being dissected but he's trying to do exactly that and the worst of it is the fact that Peter's not sure what he can do to fight back. He's fumbling in the back of his mind for a way out of this and a few more steps backwards isn't really going to save his ass. ]
Good for you. Doesn't see what that has to do with me.
[ Because he's going to vacate the area before it has anything to do with him, Peter's almost certain of that. Almost. The door he came in at is over there and the hallway's fucking blinding, which is the worst part of all. It's really all pretty terrible if he wants to go down that route, and somehow the least of his concerns is the vampire who's getting far too many thrills from this.
Choosing to be the first one (to attempt) to initiate some sort of contact, Peter glances back and lifts a palm, giving the other man a stubborn push. ] You can feel great around someone else.
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He pushes, and Mitchell grabs for his wrist, hard, with the intent to twist it back. He knows what pain feels like when it's amplified. Wasn't it him bleeding out hours before? --or was it days, or a week; time is so meaningless right now. All the moments that exist between those bursts of sensory overload, they're the ones that matter.]
No.
[He grins, all teeth.]
No, 'cause you and me, we never really finished our last talk. I'm not letting it end that way, not this time.
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Peter doesn't know which one is worse - throwing a punch or tossing around telekinesis until it makes its mark but he doesn't even know how much he should be caring more about - if either of them even matter in the middle of all of this. Which is exactly why he shoves again with fingers that can't quite reach, shoving harder with telekinesis even though he knows it'll only make it that much more interesting between them. ]
What the hell do you even want to talk about. Our mutual friend or the fact that you don't know what you're getting into.
[ It could be interpreted a variety of different ways and Peter wants it that way - he doesn't feel put together enough to start slinging around insults or cutting words and so he figures he might as well leave that to the experts. The ones whose heads aren't pounding. ]
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But I do know what I'm getting into.
[He doesn't step off, but he doesn't step closer, either. Not yet.]
That's the thing about vampires, mate. We adapt. It comes of living through the centuries, seeing things change and change and change again. Doesn't change as much as humanity thinks it does, but it changes, and we've learned t' change with it. That's how we stay top of the food chain.
And no matter what you can do, Peter, no matter what defences you've got: you're still prey. And right now, you're weak prey. I can smell it on you.
[He reaches out, bridge the gap on that small space between them, and just--touches his fingertip to Peter's forehead. A bare, light touch, but it'll feel like a tonne of fucking bricks, with the way things are now.]
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He really should leave.
He really should leave now.
Except Mitchell's moved in closer in what feels like far too little time and lamely poking him. Poking him. But he's not at the exact same time because the touch feels far more like a solid punch then Peter would care to admit, leaving him to lean away from his finger like he's being swung at a second time. Lifting a hand, Peter lamely whacks away Mitchell's wrist, squinting as he does it as if the bar's been flooded with light. If anything, his head just hurts, and narrowing his vision seems to put blinders onto the pain. ]
And so what, now you're gonna do something about it? Prove that you're a top dog in this place just because you can?
Because I can prove it too. [ With fists clenched, Peter could prove something if he could get past the headache. Radioactivity just isn't something he should play with without a clear mind but he could. He could. ]
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[He says it softly, almost like he's finally showing respect for what has to be overly sensitive hearing. The habit of playing with the food is nearly a vampire instinct, but Mitchell has never had patience for it. He skips all the foreplay and goes for the good stuff, and so even though there's the urge to gloat, there's an insistence beneath it, firmer and more real than anything else: do it. Feed, now. Make him sorry, but calm the hunger clawing at your throat, too.
And so, again, he steps in.]
I don't care about this place. I don't care, about bein' the best, about some pissing contest to prove that I'm better than you. That's not what this is about anymore. It's so much more.
[And when he grins, there's the glint of fangs--and then with a hiss, his eyes snap black again, and he goes for Peter, to grab him by the throat, the arm, anything--get him against the wall, the floor, the sofa--it doesn't matter, so long as he has him.]
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Not between the stupid words and the way everything's too bright and it's all at the same time - the way his head hurts because the world's upended itself and moving is a pain in the ass. It all culminates into something that happens far too quickly, leaving Peter to struggle against time itself, wishing it to stand still just for a second or two so he can get his bearings. It would if he were home - he could teleport himself anywhere if he were home - but he's stuck here. Stuck trying to concentrate on something that refuses to be focused on.
There's radioactivity somewhere in his palms but the threat of it being so much more fizzles out before it can even start and Peter's shouting something nonsensical. There's probably a few swear words in there, something strangled and frustrated, that much more so when he's knocked down or up or which way (it doesn't matter) against something solid. Everything feels heavy, heavier in an instant and Peter's left to grapple any way he can, wishing he could get his feet into something solid and just take off.
There might be liftoff somewhere in his feet but it's gone when he can't even think about Nathan. When he's trying to think about getting away and all he's left with is the solid act of shoving with the weight of Niki's strength behind it. Something almost superhuman but not quite when the pressure makes him feel like imploding. ]
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Whatever attack Peter had been planning, he doesn't feel a thing of it. He grabs him and throws, down, to the floor--and he's on him a second later. One hand jams against his shoulder, pinning him there--the other grips at his hair, tight, drags his head back against the floor to expose his throat. Now, he thinks, finally, and his fangs gleam--
Before he can bite, there's a sudden press of strength that resonates off of Peter, all at once and invisible, like some giant hand--it drives Mitchell back, for a moment, at least, and he loses his grip on his hair--angry, he hisses, fighting against it--anything to get to his throat, to the pulse that he can hear like thunder. He twists, like he can evade that strength, or break it--no matter how fucking supernatural, it's just another grip that he has to push past, and he can. His hunger drives him onward, and as soon as he can get at him, he will bite, his fangs will split that skin and it will all be worth it--]
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It's all so invasive that Peter would scream if the noise didn't sound wrong. Or if the noise wouldn't break his ear drums in half, but having his head yanked back and his throat exposed is reminiscent of something else and that unto itself twists something up in the pit of his stomach and makes him want to be ill. It wasn't supposed to be marred like this but here he is, being taken for another vampire's lunch - no meaning behind it besides the search or food.
Once he's latched on, in whatever gruesome way he chooses, Peter squeezes his eyes shut and refuses to let up on the shoving. Like hell he's going to lie here and just take it like some ragdoll - there's no way. He can't give up the fight even though he's lost so blindingly that he knows he'll be paying the repercussions for weeks.
SPIKE & MITCHELL - sometime in the week before the Jump
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Spike wasn't listening to anything but pure animal instinct right now, his hand reaching for the stake he always kept in one deep duster pocket.
"Open up or the door comes down." He'd already lost control, his voice a feral growl.
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No. The thought of Herrick is enough still to disturb something in him, makes him twitch back toward some-- sense of self. He's not Herrick's dog. He's not anything to do with Herrick. Herrick isn't even here, Herrick is dead, torn to pieces, and Mitchell--
Mitchell sits up, blearily, still smiling. This is a consequence that he hadn't considered to deeply, and here it is: Spike. With the sluggishness of the well-fed, he goes to the door of the room that he's occupying, and leans against the frame. Doesn't open it, not yet. He isn't afraid. This isn't the way that he dies. If anyone dies here, it's not him. And there is no sadness that he feels, when he thinks that. He doesn't have room for sadness, or friendship. Especially not with other vampires.
"Hey." The words come out slurred; Mitchell laughs, pushes his fingers through his hair. "Whatever you're selling, mate-- we don't need any. Shove off."
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Even now, though, he fights the demon, holding it back long enough to shove Mitchell and follow him into the room - space door slotting politely shut behind him. That was nice of it. "You know I'm not going anywhere. You broke the cardinal rule." The only true bro rule among vampires. And he broke it.
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"The cardinal rule." He laughs again; he spreads his arms, like he's showing off. Not armed, and not bothered. "Look around you, mate. Maybe you didn't notice, but we're in space. There aren't any rules here."
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But he doesn't have room for more friends whose codes he has to keep from violating. He only has his friends, and to hell with anything or anyone that would pose a threat to that. Spike is tied up with Peter, who is tied up with Adam, who knows too much. And then it became more than that, too, it became something against Peter--so even as he understands that protection, the weight of that word conveyed by the stress of it--he knows, it's true, but he tells himself: Peter deserved it. And in the end, what is Mitchell but a monster, a slave to the hunger in him.
He takes the first punch, dizzying though it is, stares at the stake with dizzy comprehension--but no fear; he's somewhere beyond fear of that brand of death. Lia's prophecy has made him ironclad in that, at least, and so when Spike goes to punch him again, Mitchell grabs for his fist, intending to wrench it down, get his arm out of the way--fucking break it, if he has to--
"It doesn't matter." He spits out the word through his grin, all teeth, more savage than happy. "I knew. Yeah. I know who he is, and I knew while I was doing it. So what, now? What happens now?"
He shoves at Spike, hard, trying to drive him off even a few steps, enough to buy him some space.
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He reaches over with the hand the stake is still hanging in and pops his wrist back into place with a really gross crunch, he's learned a thing or two about broken bones from 'sparring' with Peter if it could even really be called that. In fact, he's somewhat surprised Mitchell is as good off as he is. He's older than Spike but until now he didn't really think that meant anything. Seeing the evidence is something totally different though.
"It's what I get--" he hisses through sharp teeth, warping his speech into something lisped and unrecognizable. He deserves this. He couldn't stop this from happening so now Mitchell kills him, unless he can manage to throw this the other way. And hell, maybe he can, he really doesn't know. The majority of him? Doesn't even really care. "Now you die."
It's so Terminator or something he's not even sure he said it at first, good hand flexing around wood. He remembered carving the damn thing, back in Sunnyhell; back before things got so damn bad. He goes for broke, it's over. He doesn't want some long drawn-out fight. He wants an ending with dust on the cool metal of Mitchell's space-floor and it doesn't seem to matter who it ultimately belongs to.
Pitching himself forward into the other vampire, it's almost as though he's tripped, broken hand coming to grip Mitchell's shirt with in frightening vice. Tighter than should even be possible given his injury. His other hand brings the stake up into position, readying it over Mitchell's heart. You were my friend. He doesn't say it-- he can't. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be capable of such a thing in this form. Final words are overrated anyway.
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There had been days where he'd wanted to die, but he'd always come out the other end of it. At first it was cowardice, or some grim bravery--too scared to see what was on the other side, keep fighting--until living was some route action. And then there was George, and then there was Annie, and they changed everything. He isn't thinking of them now, except in some spare corner of his mind, like he can cover their eyes even in his memory. This is what he has to do to survive. Kill his friend to keep himself safe. To keep his friends his friends.
He grabs for the stake, the heavy wood. His eyes have flipped to black, deep, inky, nothing; he grips at the stake and he hisses, all fangs, like that show will be enough to unnerve another vampire. It isn't for show. It's a surge of strength, and he shoves at the stake as he shoves at Spike--fingers in his eyes, tearing at his face with blunt nails--anything to drive him off. And when he drops the stake--because he will, because Mitchell's desperation puts extra strength in his arm--then Mitchell will get it, and that will be all.
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Peter is going to be so pissed he didn't say bye.
The stake drops out of his hand and he watches it fall in slow-motion, right into Mitchell's hand. Thinking fast, he brought the full brunt of his forehead down against Mitchell's, his head in this state at least a pound or two heavier than normal. Nails dig into cloth, tearing the fabric of Mitchell's shirt as he tries to shove Spike away.
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His fear has all burnt away by now--it's only anger that moves him, that same black familiar feeling, all of it his, no matter how he's tried to deny it. It's enough to yank him out of the aftermath of pain, enough that he surges up against Spike with a snarl, full of a wordless rage that's more animal than anything else. Spike's fingers are twisted in his shirt, tearing at it, and Mitchell still drives up against him, twisting so he can jam his shoulder against Spike's, against his throat--anything to heave him off, to get above him so he can drive the stake into his heart, do it, finish it--
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"I always thought it'd be the dragon," he mutters, not to anyone really, just to the air. He says it, but he's wanted to die in space since he's been here. Not in a morbid or suicidal way, just in a this place is home now way. Or it was. Peter was home. Space was just the backdrop.
He hopes someone will at least tell Buffy he's gone. Maybe if he asked Mitchell-- but they're not friends anymore. Something strange shifts behind his eyes as they go blue again. It's not complicated, actually; it's just acceptance.
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But what he's used to is a fight. In a fight, where it's kill-or-be-killed, you do what you have to do to survive. That's been his whole life for so long, living day to day--and then, with his own death looming large on the horizon, casting a shadow so long he could never hope to crawl out from under it.
The lack of resistance is worse than a fight. It makes Mitchell think of Lauren, pleading with him. That girl is almost gone now. Her face, pale and smudged, her grip on his hands as he drove the stake into her, like she was helping him. She wanted it, in the end, and there's nothing of a lie in that, it's God's honest truth.
He's got Spike where he wants him, the stake over his chest--but he doesn't drive it down. Another hiss of breath, almost a laugh, incredulous--
"What--that's it?"
Impatiently, he shoves Spike away from him, hard, enough so that he'll stumble, and hefts the stake in his hand with a sneer.
"Come on, man. Don't just give up. Bloke like you, that can't be all you've got."
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Spike just shakes his head, backing up until he hits the wall. Is he even worth anything? He thinks he can fix Hell but he can't even exist in the space equivalent without stirring shit up. That doesn't seem right in the least. Well, actually, it does; it does make sense because he's here just to shake things up. He's here to be the exception.
Screwing up his face like he doesn't know what expression he actually wants to make, he holds his hand out for the stake. This fight is over, is what his expression says. I won't kill you if you don't kill me. See, he's growing up. He can be reasonable.
Except it feels way more selfish than that. "That one's got sentimental value, hand it over."