New Year's Resolutions:
part three
by Josie_h
Notes
Xander afternoon 25 Dec
A relatively uneventful trip, had still seen him near miss the Christmas night flight after a pileup
on the in ramp for departures stopped his taxi some kilometer or so from the
terminal. Amazed by the numbers of people moving on the holiday, he was never
so thankful to have packed light as he jogged past families struggling up the
walkway with the better part of a household worth of luggage.
Packing and unpacking his laptop twice was to be expected, but when he
had to all but strip to his boxers to get through the security, he began to
seriously wonder if staying in his apartment for the ‘phone off the hook and
pretend I’m not home’ holiday option might not have been the better one.
He had booked a boutique hotel in the Back Bay area direct from the web,
so was pleased to arrive to charming architecture, tasteful antique décor, and
traditional seasonal decorations. The warm welcome from the concierge included
an explanation of hotel facilities and invitation to dinner – apparently
offered gratis to all guests staying Christmas night. Xander felt genuinely
grateful for the last part, not really relishing the thought of seeking out a
restaurant solo in the snow covered chill of the Boston evening.
His room was light and airy with vaulted ceilings and period wallpaper. A
large four poster bed dominated the room, only obvious concession to ‘modern
day’ - a tasteful en suite, but even this was complete with black and white
floor tiles, huge iron bath and impressive washstand. He noted the mini-bar had
been well disguised in one side of the dresser and smiled as he drew back the
curtains to find a tiny alcove formed by windows with reading seat and
cushions. A fireplace with ‘real looking’ gas log fire warmed the room, and two
high backed brocade chairs and a footstool completed the look of ‘authentic old
world Boston’.
He took a moment to wonder sadly if a certain bleach blonde would have
lived in these sort of sumptuous surrounds once, wished he was around to ask,
then shook off the descent into morbidity with the determination to distract
himself with a little city exploration.
Unpacking was a brisk affair, and minutes later he was wandering out of
the ornate front doors of the hotel, dressed in dark blue knee length cashmere
coat, scarf and gloves, and a hat complete with fuzzy maple leaf emblem,
boasting a ski trip to Whistler.
It was approaching dark, so adventures to Bunker Hill or galleries would
have to wait. Instead he wandered the narrow streets, occasionally stopped to
read an historic marker and was somewhat relieved to discover a ‘Tea House’
still open.
He was virtually alone in the café and chatted amicably with the owner.
Xander revised his plans for the coming days based on the ‘local Bostonian
knowledge’, grateful when the woman located the
Following the amicable company of his fellow hotel diners, Xander
returned to his room, flicked on his computer and logged on. For the first time
in months, he really did feel like emailing Willow with some genuinely happy
thoughts and his plans for the coming days. Eleven Happy Christmas messages
later, he had turned down the sound to avoid yet another tinny rendition of
“Rudolf…” and returned a short thanks and greetings to each sender. Then
dutifully wrote a longer message to his friendly witch.
Before dropping the connection, Xander decided to check for new fiction
on his favourite authors’ group, but found instead a rather surprising message
from NonPerson replying to his feedback. Having seen very few replies to any
feedback from this rather enigmatic writer in the past, Xander was a little
intrigued by the request for story ideas that this note contained. He felt
quite buoyed by the idea that he had managed a tiny measure of rapport with
this person, then pondered
possible plotlines for some time. Not being a writer, he found the task to be
surprisingly difficult and finally resorted to re-reading the first part of the
“Manifest…” story again.
The fiction began with a shell shocked soldier returning from the
trenches of World War I. It seemed to center on his struggle with insanity and
his inability to distinguish real from dream causing him to constantly ‘see’ dead
comrades and relive past horrors, forcing a retreat from the world altogether.
Xander realized that he desperately wanted the character to recover; for
someone to ‘break through’ the soldier’s terror; for the man to find love and a
purpose and normality (whatever that meant back then).
Rather than posting the reply to the list, he wrote direct to NonPerson’s
Email:
“Dear NP
Suggestion for Ch 2.
- Thinking some tough love might
be needed?
- Fellow returned soldier ‘finds him’ camped in the warehouse –
acquaintance from before war perhaps
- ‘White Hat’ gives him a place to live
- They start to connect
Hope that’s enough.
BTW Season’s Greetings from Sunny (not!) Boston
Xanman
PS
Not sure how to deal with the ‘supernatural’ stuff, but figure you’re
writing-guy (or girl?) so….”
Xander was uncertain whether to put the personal touches in the message
but figured it could hardly offend, so hit send.
He logged off, flicked the computer to standby and padded over to snuggle
into the luxurious bed. The time change should have made his desire for bed
happen later, but it had been dark for hours and he had adjusted his watch in
flight. So, looking forward to a full day of ‘touristy goodness’, he fell
quickly into a fitful slumber, with none of his usual sleep inducing
‘techniques’ needed.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>.
Spike 26th Dec
Spike woke stiff and cold in the early afternoon of the following day.
Sometime during the morning, he had shifted from a fetal position in the corner
to the relative comfort of his cot. He had an electric blanket these days which
did go a long way to banishing the physical cold of his apartment in winter,
but his internal ‘freeze’ was not to be thawed so easily.
He had slept fully clothed last night, leaving little to do after his
rise to consciousness. A cramping pain and rumble from his stomach reminded him
that he had forgotten to eat again yesterday. He stumbled to the fridge to find
only one blood bag remaining. Cursing the idea of having to venture out again
tonight, he tossed the bag into the microwave and watched it turn.
The holiday season was horrid, at other times of the year, it was possible to have blood delivered, “if
a fellow had the right contacts o’ course”. Private demon and black-market
websites even meant ordering online was now available. This time of year,
however, the only way was to negotiate and pick-up in person.
Spike gulped down the now warm liquid meal direct from the plastic, and
flicked on his computer as he tossed the rubbish in the general direction of
the bin.
He was in the process of putting the finishing touches to a rather
revisionist version of St Petersburg history, involving two beautiful visiting
vampires and an unnamed Hapsburg prince with certain sadomasochistic tendencies
and a love of cool male bodies. Fortunately the Russians of the time he ‘set
his piece’, were a warring bunch, so battlefields provided a rich backdrop of
hand to hand skirmishes, bloody encounters, body parts and general mayhem.
The story was one of the few he’d done to date with what Spike considered
a truly ‘happy’ ending. The prince had all but begged his two new companions to
been turned, but the task was carried out some month later by another of
Darla’s childer, the Master of St Petersburg, Luc. The new childe was made in a
rather passionate and blood drenched evening followed by the gleeful massacre
of his entire household. Though the ‘tragedy’ was blamed on insurgents from the
south, there were still some questions regarding the prince, and it was felt
wise for the two visiting ‘friends’ to move on. The story concluded with the
prince leading the pair out of
Spike idly wondered if a certain Fredrik was still around, decided it was
doubtful, yet contemplated the wicked enjoyment that the prince might have were
he, by some miracle, to read this account of his turning.
Satisfied it was a story worthy of posting, Spike logged on for the first
time that evening to find mail in his inbox. He saw the title and sender, and
given his ‘reaction’ to the same person’s post the previous night, decided to
read it a little later in the evening. He posted his finished story, and swung
out of the chair to prepare for the first venture outside in a fortnight. Hair,
coat and cash all needed attention.
The vampire had initially shaved his platinum locks off completely
following the demise of his sire. Since then, they had been left to grow, now
falling to his shoulders in a free range, dark blond mane of soft waves if let
loose. He tied it back most days, although stray locks fell forward, or were absently tugged free, in the hours writing
at the computer. The last time it had been this unruly was the Boxer Rebellion.
He still had his duster, but opted for a heavy woolen trench coat in
these winter months, as much a bid for anonymity as to keep warm. His beloved
Doc’s and a satchel slung across one shoulder completed the ‘look’. To the
passing observer, the rakish young man appeared like any one of a thousand
other university students trudging home late from, ‘wherever’.
Spike slipped into the evening, took on a brisk walking pace as he headed
toward the back streets of Chinatown. Collar up and hands shoved deep into the
pockets of his coat, he stared resolutely at the ground a few feet in front of
him, only glancing up when crossings had to be navigated.
The main streets were busy with tourists, no doubt heading back to hotels
or on their way to a night of entertainment. Spike trailed after one group for
a time. *Silly coupla bints at the back, busy with their natter. Easy meal.*
Back-in-the-day he would have picked them off and drained them before the rest
of their party even noticed anyone absent. He contemplated warning the ‘ladies’
of nightly dangers, but simply could not be bothered making contact, opting
instead for a low growl that sent the two women scurrying forward unsure of
what it was they’d heard.
Spike peeled off from the group, jaywalked across the street and headed
for an alley way he knew provided a short cut. Distracted
by thoughts of past hunts and his current ‘mission’, Spike failed to notice the
crowd of patrons waiting outside a jazz club. His satchel knocked someone hard as he swept through the people.
The individual concerned gave a surprised “Hey?!” and hand immediately
moved to check his wallet. Satisfied that there had been no theft, he turned
just in time to make out a mumbled “Bloody tourists”, and see the back of his
offender retreating down an ally.
Twenty minutes later and blood obtained at a ridiculously inflated
‘holiday’ price, Spike took to the sewers for his return trip. Choosing the
stench over negotiating any more crowds seemed the preferable option.
He slammed the door of his apartment hard enough to elicit a protest of
dust from the door-jam.
“Bloody humans, bloody holidays, bloody….. guhhhh!”
He flung the satchel onto the
table, threw himself onto the couch and grabbed the remote. Television – the
ultimate tool for escape. *Except when all 42 channels have to offer is aught
but ancient war movies, rhino’s shaggin’ or house bloody renovatin’!* He
privately conceded that there was always the sport or ‘soaps’ channels
available but was too annoyed for that to alter his current assessment.
He grabbed the JD bottle from the floor, drained what little remained
from the previous night and stomped over to the computer.
Some hour and a half later, and one vampire calmer, Spike logged on to
review the reaction to his latest piece. He sometimes wondered how many vamps
checked the ‘net’, then dismissed the notion as ludicrous, given the plethora
of slayers that were no doubt keeping the vamp population to a minimum these
days, young fledges were hardly likely to be trawling the web while busy trying
to survive.
There were two glowing compliments for ‘St Petersburg’, neither of which
he could be bothered responding to. Exuberant feedback including ‘flights of
fancy’, ‘disturbingly delicious’ and ‘turn me, turn me!’ simply confirming that
these humans *Really were thicker than clotted cream!* But then, he had a soul
now, so the ‘wonderful fun’ of vampirism in the yesteryear had a very definite,
and daily extracted, price.
He did reply to one ‘silly chit’ who had posted to the list – obviously a
first year literature major. Her ‘OT = out there’ message regarding ‘Poetry on
the Common tomorrow evening’ annoyed him beyond measure. Apart from advertising
a passably interesting event, her comparisons of contemporary US poets to the
likes of Tennyson and Browning were silly, and exultation of Emily Dickenson’s
work as the ‘pinnacle of literature’ was simply nauseating to this particular
(or indeed any) gentleman scholar of late 19th C! As her
studies thus far seemed ‘era’ based and her repertoire of authors and quotes
appeared sadly limited, Spike decided to ‘assist’ her education by adding some
Byron, and expand her horizons at least a little. His reply included a poem he
knew by heart, but he left out both greeting and signature.
“Suggest
you read more widely.
Away,
away, ye notes of woe!
Be silent, thou once soothing strain,
Or I must flee from hence — for, oh!
I dare not trust those sounds again.
To me they speak of brighter days —
But lull the chords, for now, alas!
I must not think, I may not gaze,
On what I am — on what I was.
Byron,
from "Away, away, ye notes of woe!", Occasional Pieces,
1807-1824 ”
*Public duty done!*
Finally conceding that he simply must look at the Email that had been deliberately
avoided, he ‘double clicked’ and began to read….
“Dear NP
Suggestion for Ch 2.
- Thinking some tough love might
be needed?
- Fellow returned soldier ‘finds him’ camped in the warehouse –
acquaintance from before war perhaps
- ‘White Hat’ gives him a place to live
- They start to connect
Hope that’s enough.
BTW Season’s Greetings from Sunny (not!) Boston
Xanman
PS
Not sure how to deal with the ‘supernatural’ stuff, but figure you’re
writing-guy (or girl?) so….”
A chill settled over the vampire. It was not that the suggestions were
good or bad – but that the phrasing together with the signature put him ill at
ease. The terminology was most definitely ‘SoCal’; the use of ‘White Hat’ odd
but not that unusual; it was the ‘writing-guy’ reference that was simply too
close to ‘Scoobie speak’ for comfort. He reeled back from the screen cursing
his wishful thinking and the flood of memories engaged by the simple note.
He decided that even if, by some miraculous coincidence, the respondent
might be a former ‘Scooby’, or by some cruel twist of fate, his then friend
Xander had found his literature, he was not going to feel threatened. They were
all on the other side of the continent, or the planet for that matter, and
oblivious to his existence. He felt comforted yet somehow far more alone with
that realization.
Spike printed off the Email then shut everything down and headed for his
cot, hoping that tomorrow would be ‘better’.
It was the next evening before he realized there was a reference to
Boston in the note.