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He’d always been her best boy, and having to take on the duties of the man of the house could never change that. She had worried in the past that his sensitive nature might make it difficult for him to find a wife who could truly understand him, the way she did. And the good Lord knew that she wouldn’t be able to look after him for much longer now.
Deep in her heart, she fears that he won’t find a way to make a lasting mark in the world. But a mother’s love carries such secrets to the grave.
***
Didn’t he understand that it was only out of respect for his late father’s position that he’d been invited at all? Surely he didn’t believe that it was the pleasure of his company that had been desired. In fact, if he’d had any tact or social skill at all, he’d have seen it for what it was, and politely declined, saving face.
But apparently, her invitation had been taken all too seriously. Worse yet, he seemed to regard it as some sort of validation of his suit.
And that poem-- She shuddered delicately, and reached again for her smelling salts.
***
The rich purple scent of his passage was easy to follow, overwhelming even the ripe stench of human refuse that scattered before her.
Tears sparkled and fizzed on velvet skin that would taste of summer peaches. Words burst in her mind in chrysanthemum flares of green and gold… effulgent.
He was just like a present – only the shiny paper was all on the inside, in precise, intricate folds, while the outside was dun tied with dirty twine. She couldn’t wait to tear him open and see what emerged.
***
Thrice-bedamned fool was going to get them all dusted if he wasn’t careful. Suffering was an art, to be practiced with care as befitted a master, and not dished out willy-nilly simply because you were bored and longed for a fight. As though that could ever be a worthy excuse.
Time to teach the boy just what his place was, in the scheme of things. If the lesson didn’t take this time, as it hadn’t innumerable times past, that was hardly his concern, was it?
One way or another, he’d break that damn pride and see him on his knees.
***
She has learned much in the past month, about who she is and what she was chosen for. Vampires are not like those in the folk tales her grandmother had told her as a child. Instead, they appear as alive as any ordinary man, and only she has the power to see through their disguises.
But perhaps she is now being punished for her pride, because even the sword of her ancestors has failed her. She hopes that the next Slayer called will be more worthy.
Death comes for her now, not with a roar, but silent as falling leaves.
***
His every move was like a dance, filled with a casual, deadly grace. There was no fear in his eyes, only a delight in the battle, in the moment and the rush and the blood. She knew that feeling well, oh yes. Wasn’t it what she lived for?
And yet lately, it hadn’t been enough. Hadn’t kept her at Robin’s side, or kept her from wondering what lay beyond.
Light strobed around them, and she knew him at last, and relaxed in his hold. He was welcome, after all.
Who knew the Angel of Death would be so goddamn pretty--
***
Okay, very wrong. You don’t feel pity for a vampire. Especially when that very drunk vampire has just finished threatening to slice open your face with a broken bottle.
But she couldn’t help herself. His threats, disturbing as they had been, were only sporadic. It was as though he had to remind himself to be vicious, when what he really wanted to do was sit down and have a good cry. Not that she was about to suggest any such thing. He just seemed so sad and empty without Drusilla at his side.
I hope that never happens to me.
***
He hangs in place amidst blood and burns, the reek of hot metal and singed flesh think in the air.
Get of his get, a line of destruction and mayhem stretching back over a century. Reflection of his own twisted past. Surely that meant that every death at their hands, by their fangs, was also laid on his soul.
He’d never tried to find his destructive children and put a stop to the killing, although he heard tales of them from time to time.
Steel pierces his side, and he moans again.. Can he suffer enough to pay this debt?
***
She feels just like a princess, and he’s so going to be her knight in shiny armour! As soon as they’ve found this stupid jewel thing, he’s promised take her to France or somewhere else really cool, and they’ll eat rockstars and actors and dance the nights away together. Because this is it; this is true love.
Wasn’t there even a poem like that? Let us not stop getting married just because we’re impaired? Something like that, anyway. Like English class matters, now. Being dead is kinda like impaired, right?
Who knew that it could also be so much fun?
***
How come I had to take the bleached blond pain-in-my-ass home just because Giles wants quality girlfriend time? What about my quality girlfriend time? Anya’s not exactly the most understanding person when things get in the way of her having a good time. And seeing as how my having a good time depends a whole lot on her having a good time…
Bet he planned it. Somehow Spike managed to make Giles think ‘hey, Xander’s just the guy who’d love to have his love life screwed up by Mr. Undead-and-loving-it’.
Can’t prove it, but I’m sure it’s all his fault.
***
You made a mistake that shouldn’t have happened to the greenest of Watchers – you believed what a vampire told you. You never saw that he was trying to drive you all apart.
He knew just how to pick at you, didn’t he? Retired librarian. You didn’t want to admit how much that echoed your own feelings of how your relationship with Buffy had changed. But then you forgot that underneath the man’s face is a scheming monster who would say anything if he saw the advantage in it.
You won’t let it happen again. Never again. Never. They’re deceivers, all.
***
The pain burned across her face, radiating outward from where Spike had driven his fist. Even as Tara compressed her battered nose, he was clutching his own face in agony as the implanted chip reacted to his action, punishing him for hurting a human.
I’m human! It was lies, all of it!
It certainly wasn’t the most elegant solution to the problem of her identity, but it could hardly be denied in the face of such evidence. She wondered if anyone else had noticed that he had chosen to help her, knowing it would cause him pain.
She wouldn’t forget.
***
He’d gone to Spike’s crypt; to beard the lion in his den. Spike’s obsession with Buffy had to stop, and stop now. No more acting the twisted stalker, breaking in and collecting mementos.
And even missing his assistance on patrol will be no great loss if it keeps him away from Buffy. The trouble is that it makes her think of him as something other than the hostile that he is.
He ruthlessly suppressed the sarcastic voice in his head - sounded just like Spike, damn him – that suggested treating him as ‘the other man’ wasn’t really all that different…
***
It was hard enough to believe that your daughter was the Slayer. But accepting that means that you also have to believe in vampires, and that, somehow, just seems more difficult.
She says the charming young man sitting on the counter and laughing at tales from the gallery is a vampire, and yet he seems more human than some of the customers you’ve had– certainly has much better manners. Shouldn’t he be trying to rip out your throats and drink your blood – or whatever it is that vampires are supposed to want to do? Or maybe that wouldn’t be polite…
***
“Come in, Spike.” Three simple words, so easy to say.
It’s only an invitation, but he acts as though you’ve given him some incredible gift.
He knows there are no guarantees, and he’s still here. He doesn’t have to be, but he is, and that tells you more about him than words could ever say. Which is good, because now there’s no time left to say them.
You trust him with your sister’s life, and though now it’s too late to tell him everything else, you hope that somehow he understands.
“You treat me like a man…”
Yeah. He knows.
***
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition…
(Henry V, Act IV Scene 3, William Shakespeare)
If we all survive this night, it will be a miracle. ‘Band of buggered’, Spike called us, and he’s right. Imagine that. I never believed that a day could come where a Slayer, a Watcher, and a vampire would make common cause against a foe.
If it’s ever happened before, no Watcher would have recorded it. I won’t be, either. Who would believe it?
Looks like old Bill knew what he was talking about. If we do get through this, I’ll take Spike out and stand him a pint of his choice, be it beer or blood.
If we survive.
***
***
No one else understands the way he does, what it’s like to feel so empty. Maybe that’s why you’re spending so much time with him lately, not even griping like you would have… before… at the merest suggestion that you needed someone to watch over you.
Spike’s not like a babysitter, anyway, more like a cool older brother. One who lets you get away with all kinds of things, but manages to make the rules he does bother to enforce bearable.
And if you don’t notice that he’s been crying again, he won’t say anything about your red eyes either.
***
Buffy silently turned away when he approached her at the bar, hoping he’d leave her alone. It worked, and he did. But as he did, she felt as though the world receded with him, leaving her stranded in some high and lonely place, battered by cold and ravaging winds, her soul numb.
The world withdrew and spun about her, leaving her dizzy on her stool, until with a small cry she slipped off to follow him.
“Spike! Wait!” she said. Save me, was what she meant.
She fled into the sanctuary of his arms. Just one last time, I promise.
***
Fists pound, heart pounds. They don’t waste breath any more with words. Words can’t say what she really feels.
She can’t tell the difference any more, between a kiss and a blow. Does he feel this way too, when he fights her? How they’re so twisted up inside that a declaration of love feels like a declaration of war?
Never mind that, if it means that she can forget. So that even for a moment the yawning emptiness inside is stilled, filled, with something other than echoing silence.
Fighting him or fucking him, sweet oblivion beckons and she’ll willingly follow.
***
There was a time that she would have laughed outright at the thought that there was any situation between men and women that couldn’t be improved with a little judicious vengeance. Especially if it involved entrails. Or boils. Boils were always a good backup technique.
Her love, unfortunately, seems highly resistant to eradication through vengeful means.
She lets herself relax, leaning into the palm that cradles her cheek. There was peace there, and silent sympathy. He knows what it means, to love without being loved in return.
How can it be wrong, just to want an end to the pain?
***
I believe in you, Spike. I believe that you love me, I believe that for years now you’ve been striving to do the right thing, without even being sure you understand what the right thing is.
We’ve suffered so much, but it’s supposed to be easier for those of us with souls. And yet, time and again, you put yourself into harm’s way. To save me. To protect Dawn, and Mom.
So how could I leave you here? Maybe they’ll never understand what I feel. I don’t, most days.