"Chrysalis"
Author:
Vatrixsta Cruden
Contact: trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com
Notes: Supremely un-beta'd. Read at own risk. Written between 3 and 5 AM.
(Trix brutually murders her muse for not only keeping her up, but for not letting
her write the LONG thing she's working on)
Extreme cases of brooding (again, Cordy's word, not mine, but it seems appropriate) haven't been as common lately. Usually, they only come on when I'm extremely tired, like now, after having spent an exhaustive amount of time on the job.
But back to what I was thinking about before I got distracted trying to explain why I was thinking about it.
To say my feelings about becoming a vampire are ambivalent would be an understatement. Darla damned me that night, but she also gave me something, something few people ever touch, something none ever truly appreciate. With immortality, comes a terrible price -- the loss of one's soul, one's self, is unfathomable, and I pray those I love never know it.
Then again, if I hadn't ended up with a severe case of dead (that's what Xander calls it), I would never have lived long enough to find my true family.
So I can't say whether I'd close my eyes for Darla again. I only know that I don't hate her anymore for what she did to me. Not when it's brought me here, to this place where I feel like I have a purpose, for the first time. I am loved, I am needed, and I am appreciated. With the exception of Spike, I think I'm even respected. Even Harris respects me a little.
When I'm tired like this, I remember things I'd just as soon forget. The shock of waking, of being born the second time, into eternal darkness. Murder, torture, feeding, hunting -- it all fascinates me, even now, fully souled, even while I'm quietly, and violently horrified by what I was. That horror brought with it an ecstasy unto itself, something the demon always responded to, and it sickens me to think of.
Maybe I wouldn't close my eyes, after all.
Damn, I hate it when I'm this tired. And I can't fall asleep. And she's still telling me to close my eyes. I stare at her, even as my thoughts continue to drift. I can't ignore her; she won't go away . . .
Buffy never went away, either. That moment, the one we really said goodbye to one another in, remains burned into my soul with more intensity than that night in the alley. It was strange. The first time I had my soul restored, I didn't recognize anyone or anything around me. I didn't even know who I was. The second time, though . . . I looked into Buffy's eyes, and while I barely knew more than my own name, I knew her.
There was so much confusion in that moment, so much I hadn't remembered or understood. Soon, I would. I'd have a few centuries to play it all over again, the pain I inflicted, again, the agony Buffy must have felt when she'd realized what she had to do . . .
"Close your eyes."
The next thing I'd felt was her soft, succulent lips against my mouth. I'd forgotten what fresh peaches tasted like, but I remember thinking Buffy's lips were the same. It's not the trauma of being stabbed through the abdomen and sucked into hell that I associate with those words. It's her kiss. Even while I didn't understand what was happening, I felt goodbye in that kiss. I tasted her sorrow and her regret. Countless centuries passed in hell, and still, the only tactile memory I kept with me was peach-soft lips, tasting of bitter tears.
Later, I remembered the rest. Before I'd lost myself there, before the madness drove the memories, or at least, what they meant, away, I saw it all. Our bitter fight to the death, swords clashing, metal on metal, and how much I wanted to kill her. To make it stop, to wash away every trace of love I'd felt, I would have sucked the entire world into hell.
Then she'd regained the upper hand, and my soul cheered for her. The change, then tears, running down both our cheeks, hers, mine, it didn't matter. I'd always felt her pain, and then was no different.
I know what it cost her to sacrifice me that day. I'm glad I finally got a chance to tell her how proud I was of her. The day we had that long overdue conversation, she cried in my arms. But it was a good cry. Healing for both of us.
For her, if she asked, I would close my eyes again in a heartbeat.
A girlish giggle shatters my contemplative silence. A mass of Chestnut brown hair sails past me, wide hazel eyes twinkling with the firelight. She uses all of her considerable strength to pull me off the couch, and I sigh with resignation, bidding a reluctant farewell to the first sleep I might have gotten in 24 hours. It was just as well -- I probably would have started thinking about Graduation Day, or the Darla/Drusilla fiasco of 2000 if I'd lain there much longer.
"Close your eyes, Daddy," she giggles.
"I don't know," I caution, as I nonetheless do as she asks, "what if I fall asleep standing up?"
"Silly," she says, dismissing my question just that easily.
I smile, because there is no greater joy than this child.
"Can I open them yet?" I ask for the third time, because I know it amuses her when I feign annoyance.
"No," she answers, as though it should be obvious.
Her small hand still clutched in mine, I feel a pair of lips press against the corner of my mouth. Blind and deaf, I would know her anywhere, and I respond, letting the connection linger as long as possible. She pulls back, and I feel her smile kiss mine.
"Open your eyes," she whispers against my mouth.
I do, and my breath catches. It does that a lot. Nearly seven years after my transformation, and I still can't get over how cool it is to breathe.
This time, though, my breath catches because I'm gazing at the most exquisitely beautiful creature on the face of the earth.
"Buffy."
"You had a hard day. And I know you're tired." Her gaze briefly moves to our daughter, then back to me, and she presses her mouth close to my ear, so she can whisper where little ears can't hear. "I also know where your mind goes, and I'd like to inform you that as soon as we put the munchkin to bed, I'm going to ride you until you can't form a coherent thought, let alone brood." That absolutely irresistible promise is sealed with an opened mouth kiss to the side of my neck, and I shiver in reaction.
"Daddy, you haven't even looked at your surprise." The other love of my life pouts, and I force my gaze from Buffy to the dining room table.
An elaborate arrangement awaits me, wine, candles, the good china, and several covered silver serving dishes I think Buffy's dad sent for our wedding, along with his apologies for being unable to attend.
If using them bothered Buffy, she refuses to let me see it. 'Living the cliché,' she was fond of saying whenever details of her father's life cut too deep. I feel the sorrow that lingers, and I press a kiss to her cheek, before scooping my baby girl up into my arms, then depositing her in what is referred to as 'her' chair, an elaborately carved monstrosity with the words "Queen of the World" stenciled along the back.
Willow claims we spoil her.
"Will, Cor, Anya, Tara and I spent the day shopping for supplies while you guys worked like dogs, tracking that neon frog."
Faith, Wes, Xander, Gunn and I had spent the last twenty-four hours tracking a dying breed. The last Frag ("easily identified by their glowing green under-belly," Giles had helpfully supplied as he packed for a trip to England, and Olivia) to survive the end of days had been spotted in the woods outside Sunnydale. The Hellmouth was sealed, permanently, but the demons that remained still insisted on flocking to it.
Tiny hands remove the leather coat I'd nearly fallen asleep in, undo the first few buttons on my shirt.
"You were working too," I feel the need to point out.
"We were shopping," she points out dryly. "Shopping is to us, as air is to . . . well, everyone."
"But you were shopping for the magic supplies we'll need for the spell tomorrow. And we were all supposed to help you." I don't know why I feel the need to make her realize she'd worked just as hard as I did, but I do.
A tiny smile lifts the corners of her mouth, and she leans toward my ear again. "I guess you'll have to make it up to me later, then," she practically purrs.
Bingo. That's why.
By this time, our little miracle is bouncing in her seat. "Mommy . . ."
Buffy giggles, and the sound is magic to my ears. "Yes, my love?" she asks around a laugh.
"Tell him," she orders in a stage whisper.
"Tell me what?"
Employing one of her more endearing (not to mention blatantly erotic) mannerisms, Buffy pulls her lower lip between her teeth, worrying it back and forth. Her hand strays to the first silver dish, and uncovers it with a flourish.
"Baby peas," she says softly, her voice like a physical caress, expressing nervousness, joy, and more affection than I deserve.
The next lid follows.
"Baby corn."
As the third is removed, my tired brain is trying to put the pieces together.
"Baby back ribs."
The kid is bouncing up and down like she's in the car on the way to Disneyland, and my gaze tracks to the center of the table, to the large bouquet of baby's breath . . .
"Buffy?"
Her eyes are liquid, and our oldest (we have an oldest!) child squeals as she sees me get it. I reach Buffy in three long strides, pull her into my arms and hold her as tightly as possible. Our first miracle has already started eating, and I slide a hand between our bodies, my palm resting over her stomach, over our second miracle.
We're both crying again, but they're definitely good tears this time. My forehead comes to rest against hers, a moment of unimaginable bliss passing through my body . . .
. . . and with a sense of perfect contentment, I breathe in my wife, and close my eyes.
The End