Jun. 22nd, 2006

stbethadettes: (front of St. Bernadette's)
Beth freezes in place one step inside the door.

Oh, fuck.

She knows this restroom. It was hers for two years, and spending almost as long at the bar hasn't made her forget it.

Not even close.

And suddenly it's just like when she was on the plane and men started dying, just like when she first showed up at the bar, just like when she and Spike walked through a door on Outpost 12 and ended up here at the church: her brain can hardly acknowledge what her eyes are seeing.

This low panicked mantra of no no no no no starts in the back of her mind, and the first thing she does is whip right back around and open the door.

But fuck, it's still the church in all its earthy colors and dim lighting and crucifixes and stained glass, and her reason for going to the goddamn bathroom in the first place is pushed desperately aside while she hurries from door to door to door, unlocking and opening and poking just enough of herself out to be sure the bar's not waiting for her on the other side.

It's not.

It's not there at all, and she locks each door against the still night air each time.

(She can't be seen like this.)

Resting her head against one of those thick front doors, the last one she'd checked, she tries to will it to open to the bar. She just asks silently and then cajoles and even threatens, but it's not like she expects any of it to work.

(She checks to be sure anyway.)

The church is too hushed, and there's no Spike to whisper something irreverent in her ear or pull out a much-needed cigarette or wrap his long arms around her in defiance of everything.

(She has nothing with her.)

Almost dazed, her chest feeling uncomfortably tight, she stands there at the front of the church and looks down the aisle between pews to the altar, both of her hands moving to rest on the rise of her belly.

"Well." She wets her lips, her mouth too dry. "It looks like it's just you and me, kid."


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January 2009

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