paradisalogs | maybe it's the color of the sun cut flat and coverin' the crossroads I'm standing at

Who: Spike Spiegel (

gottaknockhard) and Anne Boleyn (

ensorceler)
What: When you can't think of a comeback...
When: Late night/between the 30th-31st
Where: Room 613
Rating: PG13

From the sound of things, Paradisa's temporary residents were going through one of their more serious moments; those instances when there's a legitimate urgency to be doing anything but aimlessly roam the halls of the castle in the middle of the night. Spike was well aware of the plans announced over the journal, and it didn't even factor into what was putting a dent in his sleep.

Maybe it made him a bad person for putting his own reality ahead of mysterious voices on the radio. Or he just didn't like the idea of crowds. Spike had no better excuse for what brought him to the room he's standing in front of. Aside from the nagging feeling that he didn't get what he meant to say out the last time he saw her, there wasn't a single reason he should be disturbing whatever sleep she finally managed to find.

Sometimes he wasn't clever enough to think of a mysterious riddle to leave on her doorstep, or to have forethought outside of a whim guided by... whatever it was that pulled him around lately. He simply knocked and waited for her answer.

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The change comes like a flip of a switch, his jaw tightens and his expression hardens. With everything he put her through, and all his questionable intentions, he has the audacity to let her know when she's crossed a line.

"You're right again." He can't help how dark it comes out, but he pulls it back as he turns to leave as impulsively as he came. "Sorry for waking you, Majesty."

She near snarls, animalistic in her fury despite her regal stance and exaggerated tone. Would he really walk out on her? Let's find out.

"There! You are blind to it, your own blatant jests at my expense. You only use my title for convenience, for points, just as you tease my position . Mayhap you have finally discovered the answer to the riddle, but that gives you no right!"

Never say that she couldn't step up to the challenge of outmatching him whenever his temper flares. The safest thing to do is keep walking and hope she misses if she throws anything at his head.

So naturally, he pauses where he stands.

"How many points did I earn?"

And, most alarmingly, the delayed reaction is great like he might expect, but surely not in whatever perverse way he desires. These are her tears, brought on by sleeplessness and wine and the never-ending tourney that is her life even now, with nothing to do but wound and be wounded.

Anne's sob comes out muffled, because she can tell she is to cry before even uttering a sound. Her hand then moves to her eyes, covering them as if that would keep the weeping at bay. Everything, it is always everything, and he must continue to represent everything.

"Why do you torment me so?"

That sound is unmistakable, and it's not long after that he wonders if he's the one to take it too far. It isn't as if he can pretend he doesn't understand where it comes from. Saying that he didn't mean to hurt her only belittles her pain, and fed up as he was, he handles her anger better than her tears.

"I don't know." He hovers there, emotionally conflicted, but allowing her space. "I wish I did."

"Who is it that you hate so?"

She drops her hand away, defiant in the face of her pain. To act ashamed of her tears would only worsen it, and it is his fault. No, he is not the cause, but forever does he still pull the trigger, sometimes with more precision than she.

"Who do you see when you look at me, that you think nothing but of hurting and being hurt? Where on me does your dagger fall?"

Spike makes the mistake of looking back just as her hand falls, and he verifies the sound that he heard. Maybe he is trying to hurt her. He'd missed his opportunity to leave with his bitterness intact, all because he second guessed himself where he never would have before. He can't deny that there's a pattern.

But is it because she reminds him of someone? Or some kind of scenario his subconscious is trying to recreate?

"...That's not all I think about."

Her breaths shudder as she weeps. There is no ceremony here, none that belongs at home, anyway, and she has little reason to cling as tightly to her facades here, and now. In how much she hates him, he sees parts of her that no others do, and shouldn't have to. She feels he only knows all of her ugliness.

"I wonder at how you lie, where you stop. Did you think such things when we laughed, and played at friends? Were you waiting?"

He doesn't speak for what seems like a long time after that, which only seems to make her breathing louder. Defending himself seems to go awry whenever he attempts it, if only because of the evidence stacked against him.

More than that, it almost seems that it's the role she's picked out for him. In a castle that doesn't have a face, she needs someone to hate besides herself. Who better to fill that role.

... If he could hear himself think, he would learn to stop sooner.

"For something. Maybe I was."

At the tail end of her burst, Anne hiccups through her drying tears, and there's no way to make that dignified. She wipes furiously at her face for moments before turning it away, one shaking hand half-shielding her lower face.

"For the monster in me to be revealed? The witch?"

Edited 2013-10-08 23:24 (UTC)

It's times like this that she seems so young to him. He is too, by some measures, but there are days when he feels more like a ghost from the past, watching someone who isn't afraid to be so alive.

If he were more of a gentleman, he'd offer something for her to dab her eyes with. He should feel accomplished that the idea even crosses his mind. A man like him.

"We all have our issues."

She looks straight at him then, slowly lowering her hand once she's assured that her lips will not tremble and nor will her voice when she speaks.

"It is true, then. You think it all true. You always have."

He shakes his head, but after the brief anger he felt, he seems calm. Eerily so, considering how much he upset her. But she's still trying to hold it together, still determined to show her strength to someone who shouldn't matter at all.

"There is no monster inside you."

She hisses in response, venomous and defensive and as unsure as everything about her is now. How sure of herself she used to be, how confident, and now she trusts no one, not even herself. Her heart, her emotions, even her logic eludes her at times.

"It was the day after. The morning after. I was arrested. Will be."

The swing of her hand knocks over the goblet with only a bit of wine left in it, but she doesn't seem to notice or care as it clatters to the stone floor.

"The second day of May, you see, and I will be guilty, though I will not remember and so I proclaim my innocence to my lord archbishop and the world falsely. I am Anne Boleyn, the whore, the witch who beguiles and curses.

It is only for his love that I do not die in flames."

Spike keeps a stone face, because if he starts down the road she's trying to lead him on, he knows where it's going to end. Sympathy can be a crippling thing, and he's seen the faces of the doomed before. He understands when there is nothing he can say.

Reaching down, he picks up the goblet and sets it back upright on the table. "You've had too much."

"You do not tell me the way of things! You are no husband of mine, no god! You are beneath me, and you must remember."

He knows. In any circle that matters, he's as good as dead for ways much more deserving than hers. There's not even a ladder he's fit to climb.

"I'm still an expert in one area."

maybe it's the color of the sun cut flat and coverin' the crossroads I'm standing at

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