He had heard the news from a braggart, a minion who had been sent to deliver it to him.
It was intended as an insult, a missile aimed at him. It was intended to say: 'someone has done what you couldn't do.'
But that wasn't how he took it. While the other vamps cheered, their Master stood unmoving, his face dark and serious. He nodded, the messenger taking his cue to leave.
His thoughts were a turbulent paradox of denial and acceptance. Of all of them, he had always thought her to be the one who would survive. But the hard facts that assaulted his mind could not be ignored: no Slayer in history had lived a long life. He had known they all died young, and for her it too would simply be a matter of time.
Time that was now up.
In silence he walked out of the room. The minions took no notice of him leaving, their attention focused upon leaving L.A. for the now Slayer-less Sunnydale.
Spike left the old church and got into his car, sitting motionless in the seat, not quite ready to start it yet. The news disturbed him, but what disturbed him even more was the sorrow that had descended upon him the second the messenger had uttered the words.
The Slayer is dead.
It wasn't that he hadn't been the one to kill her. Two years ago he had agreed to help her and never come back. He didn't keep the promise, but he hadn't even stayed in Sunnyhell long enough to sober up. So it really didn't count. After that brief stay, he always had to fight the unbidden, unwanted urge to return. For he had never gotten Dru back.
Dru. Therein lay one of the most confusing issues of his life. For lifetimes he had worshipped her, had loved her; she had been the only sun in his dark life. And one day he had woken up, in more ways than one, to find that he no longer felt that way. It was almost a year now since he had last seen her, and whether she was alive or dust held no interest for him.
Occasionally, the loneliness would encroach upon him and he would have no choice but to succumb to his most hidden fantasies. In the realm between consciousness and sleep, visions of blonde hair and deadly stakes would haunt him. Buffy.
He wanted her. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to fuck her. He wanted so many things when it came to her that he would often roam the streets for hours at night, killing record numbers of people in an attempt to work off his anger and frustration and desire.
He found himself wondering if this was what Angelus had felt with Dru, before he had turned her. A nun, a Slayer...the same difference. Both held certain challenges, and pride that came with being the conquistador of an untamed land.
He finally started the car, his usual driving impeccably spotless compared to what he was doing now. He had never actually decided it, but the car was headed in the direction of Sunnyhell. Even though what he was looking for was already buried and gone.
She had been his enemy, and he had hated her with a passion. Perhaps a passion that was too strong for his own good. After all, hate causes people to do irrational things more often than love.
He respected her. He had never respected a Slayer before. They were merely meddlesome objects to be destroyed. She however, was a challenge, a mental and physical game that kept him burning for more.
She had a pride, dignity, and strength that the other Slayers couldn't possibly match.
He thought of the last time he had seen her, all fire and rage, demanding that he release her friends. It had been fun, but also disappointing, for there was no real combat between the two of them. Her body was never pressed against his, her heart hammering away so close it was like he had a heartbeat again. And as much as he loved the feel of her soft body on top of his, he had always pushed her off and hit her back so she wouldn't feel the sudden hardness in his pants. Oh, but she was fun to hate!
He had left and found Dru. He had tied her up, like he had told Buffy he would, and it had worked. That was when he began to realize that she was no longer what he wanted. She only wanted him when he dominated her...and that wasn't his style. It was Angelus'. He didn't want to be her 'Daddy.'
He drove on, increasing his speed. Visions of the Slayer's broken body, lying at the feet of whoever had killed her, ran unbidden through his mind. She was so tiny and fragile when robbed of her steely determination. Her strength had been so deceptive, hidden inside her petite frame and witty barbs.
He had heard that Angel had left, and he guessed it was because they had heeded his words. Never could they be friends and never could they not be lovers.
She may have loved Angel, but he was all wrong for her. She was young; she needed to have fun. And fun was something Angel had no concept of. The Slayer had needed someone who knew how to have a good time, who could be spontaneous and carefree and live in the present, to make her short years all they were worth.
He had a feeling that there had been nobody.
That must have been how they got her, he mused. The Watcher as bait. It was how a lot of Slayers went down. For some reason, he was disturbed that she went in such a textbook fashion.
He returned to the Watcher's grave. He had done research on the man; it was always good to know where your enemies were coming from. He had quite an admirable history, at least when he had been young. Spike would have liked to seen that...the Ripper.
He looked at the few roses which lay near the headstone. The friends of the Watcher were no strangers to death. They didn't mourn it with an abundance of meaningless flowers of guilt, saying how they should have spent more time with him while they still had the chance. They accepted his passing, grieving the loss of a friend and not of an opportunity to make themselves feel better.
After all, they all knew how it would end.
He wondered how many of her other friends were alive still alive...the redheaded computer witch, the whelp who had hated Angel (Spike held a slight bit of respect for him because of that), and the tall dark haired girl who looked like she had stepped out of the pages of some fashion magazine.
He bent down and picked up a rose, twirling it around. Rose in his hand, he explored the cemetery. Dread built within him, culminating in a final rush of sorrow when his feet touched the loose earth beneath a headstone that read in large, eloquent letters "Buffy Summers."
He checked the date...nineteen years old. It was her.
He set the rose down, amidst other, larger bouquets no doubt placed there by her mother, and the parents of her friends. Social tokens.
He had no words at this moment. He had no thoughts. He just stared at the name, reading it over and over, an emptiness inside him. Slowly, he began to feel again...anger.
Anger at the vamp or demon or whatever the hell had been the end of the only Slayer he had ever given a rat's ass about, who had helped him get Drusilla back, even if it hadn't worked out.
His thoughts were confusing and muddled with the sorrow he would never understand for the rest of his unlife. He stood there, unmoving, until he couldn't even remember how long it had been.
There was a slight rustling sound that startled him. He dismissed it as an animal, and continued to stand at the foot of the Slayer's grave. A loud cracking noise, followed by an explosion of the loose dirt beneath his feet, sent him jumping back, his mind reeling with the incredulity of it all.
If his heart had been capable of beating, it would have burst. If he'd needed air to breathe, he'd be dead. But as the Slayer stood before him, looking with a pained surprise at the disturbed grave before her, he knew it was real.
As she traced the outline of the demonic visage that now covered her pretty face, her face began to crumple in anguish. She was so caught up in her emotions that she had yet to notice him standing just a few feet away.
He gazed with rapt attention at her, not wanting to startle her even further by announcing his presence. He was still trying to come to terms with the fact that not only had someone killed the Slayer, they had also turned her into her own enemy.
Vampires had no code of ethics, but Spike knew how wrong it was. Because she didn't act like every other newborn vampire, hitting the ground running to find their very first meal. When the sobs came, he was fairly certain that like Angel, there was no demon in control. He decided to approach her.
"Buffy," he said softly. Her head snapped around, as alert as she ever was in life. Her eyes narrowed on him, but instead of the attack he was expecting, she let her guard down.
"Spike." It wasn't said with excitement or detest. Her voice lacked all emotion, except pathos. For a long time they simply looked at each other. She broke the silence first.
"I'm hungry," she told him, and those two words conveyed all the despair and anguish her face refused to show. He knew she could feel the hunger, feel the desperate need to sink her fangs into someone and feel the warm blood flow into her dead body. He also knew that every part of herself was fighting it.
"Sl-" he caught himself before he finished the word. He couldn't call her that anymore. "Buffy...I'm sorry."
"For what?" she asked bitterly, and he could tell that she was on the verge of losing it. "You didn't do this to me. And why are you hanging around my...my grave?" she choked out the last word, as though she could not accept her fate. The tears rolled unchecked down her face now, relaxed back to human form; she slumped to the ground, hugging her knees to her chest. "Did you come here to gloat?" she muttered sullenly.
"No, pet."
"Then why?"
Spike slowly walked to her, seating himself on the disturbed earth next to her. "I came here to pay my respects to the greatest Slayer there ever was."
She snorted. "A vampire paying respects to a Slayer? Apparently you skipped out on Vampire 101."
Spike managed a laugh. Killed and turned, yet she still acted the same.
"I know. I've been telling myself that as well."
They sat in silence again. Tentatively, he reached out for her hand. When she didn't flinch or draw away, he held it. It was as cold as his own.
"They killed Giles."
"I know," he answered, squeezing her hand.
"The Master...she defeated me. I was fighting her, and one of her followers brought in his body. It..." She ran a hand through her hair, trying to push away the horrid memory of his beaten, bloody face...the two puncture wounds in his neck in dark contrast to the pale skin. "I was distracted, for only a second, but that was all she needed. I don't remember much after that...I don't even know how she killed me."
"Who was this Master?"
"Her name was Lily. She had been a Slayer who was turned." Buffy wiped the last of her tears from her face, and whispered as though to herself, "She was so strong..."
His silence was the only answer. Apparently, Lily wanted Buffy to suffer the same pain she was suffering herself from.
"Spike?"
"Yeah?"
"Will you kill me? I don't think I can do it myself."
Her words shocked him with their severity and resignation. "Buffy," he protested.
"Do it!" she snarled, her game face on. But she soon realized what had happened and forced herself to calm down, returning to normal. She turned to face him, her hand resting on his knee. "Please," she begged, "I don't want to live like this. I don't want to have to drink blood, kill anyone to survive."
"Then why not wait for the sunrise?"
"Don't you understand? Every second I'm like this hurts me. I accepted a long time ago that I would die young. But I never thought it would end like this. I don't want her to revel in my suffering."
Spike shook his head. There had to be another way. "Then why don't you and I go after her?"
"No. I don't want to give her any satisfaction at seeing me like this." "Slayer..."
"I'm not the Slayer anymore!" Her cry echoed across the empty graveyard, the pain in her voice breaking through. She began sobbing uncontrollably, her small body shaking. He wrapped his arms around her, feeling her give into him. Through her tears, she fumbled around the ground, finding a good-sized twig.
She pulled herself out of his arms and stood, snapping the twig into two jagged pieces. She tossed the smaller one away and handed him the remaining piece.
He shook his head, still protesting though they both knew it was right.
"Please, Spike. I would do it myself, but for some reason I can't."
He nodded. "It's the demon inside. It will resist you, even if you have control."
He stood there, feeling awkward and nervous. He had wanted to kill her before, but not when she was standing in front of him, begging for it. It wasn't the same.
It cheapened things.
He watched as she trembled, her eyes pleading but her face betraying no emotion. He reached out and pulled her toward him. Burying her face in his neck, he smoothed the hair back from her head and felt her body mold itself to his. "I can't do this."
"Yes you can. You're a big, bad, evil vampire," she whispered, her cold lips brushing his neck. "If I can do it to Angel, then you can do it to me."
He lowered his arm to her waist, pulling her even closer. "How did you do it?"
He could feel the tears on his skin. "I told him to close his eyes, and I kissed him, and then I stabbed him."
"Are you sure this is what you want?" He felt her head move as she nodded.
She pulled her head back, but tightened her arms around him. The moonlight glowed over her pale face, shining on the streaks of tears on her cheeks. "Tell Willow everything. Tell her that I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough. To be careful until the next Slayer comes."
"I promise," he told her, his jaw firmly set, his face as immobile as stone. And she knew that he would keep it.
"Check on my mother," she whispered. "But never tell her the truth."
He nodded, and she returned her head to the crook of his neck. They stood clinging to each other, until he could feel her tensing up; he knew it was time.
He ran his finger over her cheek, tilting her face to look at it for the last time. "I promise to kill her," he said quietly, not quite knowing the reason why it was so important to him that he do so.
She gave no answer, just continued to stare at him with haunted eyes. He leaned forward, his lips capturing hers; ice to ice, he kissed her gently, briefly. He pulled back and saw the final granting of permission in her watering eyes. Raising the crude stake, he pushed it into her heart, impaling her with the very object she had so often used to kill what she now was.
Wide-eyed he watched as her final expression of relief turned from flesh to ash, then crumbled. In the moonlight it shone like glitter, dancing on the light breeze that blew through the cemetery. As the broken twig fell silently to the ground, he could feel some of the ash clinging to the wetness on his face like a young child clinging to its dead mother. Until he joined her in the dust, he would pursue his vow to make someone pay for her pain.
And his.
-fin-