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darcydodoWrote my lyric wheel story in a very small burst of inspiration last night and this morning. It was, as I said, a very small burst, so the story's incredibly short. :)
Feedback always accepted with lots of hugs.
Title: Eyes of the Wolf
Spoilers: "Wild at Heart" and "New Moon Rising"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui, Sandollar, 20th Century Fox, and whoever else may have a hold upon them; I do not mean to infringe upon any copyrights.
Thanks: to Lee for the lyrics, which are Billy Idol's "Eyes Without A Face."
He thought he'd remember Willow. In the van, speeding away from Sunnydale so quickly that he risks a ticket, he can barely keep from crying in order to see the road, and her name and face and voice and bitter tears tumble together in his mind over and over.
But at night, when he dreams, or when he closes his eyes and tries to summon sleep from the crevices into which it has fled, the memory of a different scent fills his nostrils, crawls across his skin, lives in the occasional breeze that ruffles his hair. And shadowed blue eyes, electric, vivid, imprint his consciousness, displace the leaf-green eyes that have lived there for what seems like always.
The first time, he left to gain control, to find the key to mastering the wolf that howls through his soul. Now he's running because he knows it all to be lies, all that control that he thought he'd found with a few months of chanting and meditating. So he squanders days, evenings, nights at bars, at pool-sides in the sun, in Vegas, at no-name last-ditch towns on dusty backroads that wind through America's heartland, calling to him to forget, to become as colorless and dusty as they are. Wouldn't it be nice to just stop there, and stay?
He's almost tempted, wants to pretend like the wolf was never there, like Willow was never there, like . . . he can't even think her name, these days. So he heads back to civilization, or what passes for it, bright neon lights, shiny glass and metal, all cold and black. It suppresses the instinct to run, to throw back his head in the moonlight and open his jaws with a ululating scream. He becomes small, nameless, anonymous and forgotten.
When he can't stand that anymore, either, and needs to eat, he picks up his guitar, steps onto stages in front of audiences that blur together, faceless. His fancy picks up a brush, paints over their features; and in his dreams, they are replaced by one burning pair of eyes. They've got no human grace or pity, and they scar his conscience; he doesn't know if she's there because he loved her or killed her.
He gathers his belongings, heads he doesn't know where. To a coast, an airport, a shipyard. This time, when he returns to Tibet, he's going to ask how to become one with the wolf. Because wolves never remember.
Feedback always accepted with lots of hugs.
Title: Eyes of the Wolf
Spoilers: "Wild at Heart" and "New Moon Rising"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui, Sandollar, 20th Century Fox, and whoever else may have a hold upon them; I do not mean to infringe upon any copyrights.
Thanks: to Lee for the lyrics, which are Billy Idol's "Eyes Without A Face."
He thought he'd remember Willow. In the van, speeding away from Sunnydale so quickly that he risks a ticket, he can barely keep from crying in order to see the road, and her name and face and voice and bitter tears tumble together in his mind over and over.
But at night, when he dreams, or when he closes his eyes and tries to summon sleep from the crevices into which it has fled, the memory of a different scent fills his nostrils, crawls across his skin, lives in the occasional breeze that ruffles his hair. And shadowed blue eyes, electric, vivid, imprint his consciousness, displace the leaf-green eyes that have lived there for what seems like always.
The first time, he left to gain control, to find the key to mastering the wolf that howls through his soul. Now he's running because he knows it all to be lies, all that control that he thought he'd found with a few months of chanting and meditating. So he squanders days, evenings, nights at bars, at pool-sides in the sun, in Vegas, at no-name last-ditch towns on dusty backroads that wind through America's heartland, calling to him to forget, to become as colorless and dusty as they are. Wouldn't it be nice to just stop there, and stay?
He's almost tempted, wants to pretend like the wolf was never there, like Willow was never there, like . . . he can't even think her name, these days. So he heads back to civilization, or what passes for it, bright neon lights, shiny glass and metal, all cold and black. It suppresses the instinct to run, to throw back his head in the moonlight and open his jaws with a ululating scream. He becomes small, nameless, anonymous and forgotten.
When he can't stand that anymore, either, and needs to eat, he picks up his guitar, steps onto stages in front of audiences that blur together, faceless. His fancy picks up a brush, paints over their features; and in his dreams, they are replaced by one burning pair of eyes. They've got no human grace or pity, and they scar his conscience; he doesn't know if she's there because he loved her or killed her.
He gathers his belongings, heads he doesn't know where. To a coast, an airport, a shipyard. This time, when he returns to Tibet, he's going to ask how to become one with the wolf. Because wolves never remember.
