"What makes a monster? Nothing more than the potential

of the human heart and soul."

- Pascal

***

I miss the clarity that good, seething hatred can give you.

Time was, you had a purpose. Sure, it was the same one a thousand thousand other vamps all over the world had: Kill the Slayer.  But hell, you're the Big Bad. You've killed a slayer or two in your day. And what was one little blonde number in the grand scheme of things, really?

The plan went something like this: Plot, Scheme, Massacre, then maybe a quiet dinner by the fire...Nothing fancy, a nice little redhead, perhaps. And bingo, infamy all over again. William the Bloody back to his glory days. Hail to the king, baby.

But no, not this one. She got under your skin from the get-go, didn't she, mate? When you saw her take out that poor sod, the one you sent after her. The one you knew she'd dust without a backward glance, same as they all did. But the way she moved... Not like the others, this one. There'd be no by-the-book with her. She was fluid. She was rhythmic. She smelled of vanilla and honey. And you absolutely had to have her.

"Who are you?"

"You'll find out on Saturday."

"What happens on Saturday?"

"I kill you."

And then the day came, and oh you were so cool, with your fe, fi, fo, fum routine. The Big Bad all pressed and dressed, and ready to dance the dance.

"The last slayer I killed, she begged for her life."

And you looked her over. You memorized every curve of her and imagined the hundreds of delicious ways they could fit with yours.

"You don't strike me as the begging kind."

But you wanted her to beg, didn't you? You wanted to show her all the ways it could be. You wanted to tear into her soft, pink neck and her smooth, creamy shoulders. You wanted to ravage her, rip her, break her and make her beg you not to stop.

But you knew she wouldn't. Ever.

And that made you want her even more.

And from that moment on, it was really just the two of you.

Drusilla? Oh yeah, she made a good excuse, but she was more arm candy than anything else, wasn't she? You played her hero, vowing to destroy the slayer so that Dru could have her run of things. But really, all that pomp and circumstance, all that ceremony and ritual nonsense, that was just an excuse to get closer to her. After her, there was no more Drusilla. There was no more anything. Just you and her, locked forever in a death grip.

How many times have you conjured up that image? The two of you, twined together, only it's not a Thor and Loki sort of thing. It's more of an Othello and Desdemona sort of thing. That kind of self-destructive relationship where it's all good and juicy, all hot and heavy, and in the end you both end up dead.

"I kiss'd thee ere I kill'd thee."

That's what you wanted, wasn't it? You wanted a knockdown, drag out, bloody fuck of a brawl. And then you'd stop, she'd look into your eyes, and you'd do that dramatic pause thing...and then you'd devour each other. Marquis de Sade style, you'd show her what pain was. First you'd make her scream, and then you'd make her scream for more. And she'd let that beast inside her, the one lurking just behind her eyes, go wild. She'd claw at you, thrash at you, make you bleed, and then you'd scream for more.

"Ever hear them say the blood of a slayer is a powerful aphrodisiac?"

The two of you, demons raging, sweating, heaving, tearing each other to bits. And then you'd sink your fangs in and bam, she'd ram a stake in your chest, all the way home, and it would be beautiful. Sort of Romeo and Juliet meets Bonny and Clyde meets Superman and Lex Luthor. Her lying in a pool of her own blood, covered in your ashes.

That's the way it was supposed to be, anyway. Depravity, lust, violence, and then a howling, amazing death.

"...Bathe in the slayer's blood. Gonna dive in it. Swim in it."

Then you had to go and fall in love with her, didn't you, you ponce?

When exactly did it happen? What made you wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, from dreams so intense you could imagine your dead heart racing?

Was it her golden hair? Was it her eyes? Those sparkling, crystal eyes that you could just lose yourself in forever? Was it her sweet mouth with those full, pouty lips just begging to be kissed? That cute little button nose? Her delicate, feminine, yet infinitely powerful hands?   How about all those muscles just rippling under that cutoff shirt of hers?

Well, bloody hell...I mean, you're not made of stone, are you mate?

But it was more than that. She was you. You saw it that first night, the first time you saw her kill. Remember what she said to you, years later, when you told her about the first time you saw the light go out of a slayer's eyes? You remember her, don't you? China, a lifetime ago?

"You got off on it."

Yeah. You did, didn't you? You felt it rocket through you, and you rode that high in bits and pieces for years. And that's what you saw in her eyes that night. You saw yourself, you saw your first kill, you saw your last kill, and every one in between. She loved it the way you loved it. The hunt. That moment when it could go either way, when the adrenaline is pumping, and your every pore is screaming and just for a second even you're scared as hell, ("Don't you ever get tired of fights you know you're going to win?") and you're tearing into it with everything you've got, and you snarl from somewhere deep inside primal, and then there's that one spectacular instant when it all comes together, and then...and then....

"That final gasp. That look of peace."

A thousand times better than Michelangelo ever did. A hundred times better than the best sex anyone ever had in the history of the universe. The night sky sings to you and you look up into the stars and you're a part of it all. And you get it. For one shining pause in time the whole cosmic joke is laid out before you, and the punch line lies cooling at your feet.

"Death is your art. You make it with your hands day after day."

And you saw her become the artist, same as you did. Only she did it better. She made death so much more beautiful than you ever could. With her, everything seemed to rhyme.

That's what did it, wasn't it, boy-o? She was everything. She was all you wanted to be in life and all that you were in death. She was the poet, the beauty and the beast.

And chip, chip, chip away, eventually it got to you, didn't it? And suddenly killing her didn't seem like such a hot idea anymore. But that was years ago, you know that as well as I do. Hell, even Dru knew it, and she's totally off her nut.

"You can't blame a girl, Spike. You're all covered with her."

It just took a while for your thick head to catch up with your heart, didn't it? Months and months and a bug in your brain later, and finally, you had it all sorted out.

And it seemed like maybe she was coming around, too. At least she didn't kick the living hell out of you every time she saw you, the way she used to. I know it doesn't sound like much, but for a slayer and a vampire, that's real progress. Who knows...Maybe someday...

And then she had to up and die on you.

"Every slayer has a death wish, even you."

You didn't even know what the fuck you were talking about, spouting that Freudian bollocks...But damned if you weren't right. Nice one. You're finally right about something, and it had to be this? What's next, stealing Christmas? Cheers, mate.

"Sooner or later, you're going to want it. And the second, the second that happens, you know I'll be there. I'll slip in...have myself a real good day."

Tell me there wasn't innuendo there, old boy. But again, you were right. (Two for two, not bad, eh?) You were there... Only your real good day turned into one giant fuck of a bad one.

You knew it was coming. You could feel it. When she told you that not everyone would get outta this one alive? You knew. You just wished you could've gone, too. One more shot at the glorious death you'd always envisioned. The two of you, diving head first into oblivion together. Like Romeo and Juliet. Come on, baby. Don't fear the Reaper. Blue Oyster Cult would have been proud.

But no, somewhere along the line, you became more of a man than you realized. You made a promise to the woman you loved, just like in the movies. And if you couldn't do it for her in life, you were gonna do it for her in death. You look up, tears almost blinding you, past the body of her...You can say it, William, no one can hear you...of Buffy. Who's that there? The nibblet. She's yours now, Dad.

Dad? What happened here, William? What are you? You're not really a man, that's for goddamn sure. (There's no fooling yourself on that one, no matter what you told her)...You're not even a respectable monster anymore. Just what in hell do you think you are?

I'm still the Big Bad, baby.

Then why are you crying?

The End.

"Imperious, choleric, irascible, extreme in everything, with a dissolute imagination the like of which has never been seen, atheistic to the point of fanaticism, there you have me in a nutshell.... Kill me again or take me as I am, for I shall not change."

- The Marquis de Sade, Last Will and Testament