disclaimer. I own nada, surprised?
distribution. ask and you shall receive, anyone who has any other my other fic, go ahead and archive.
summary. The End of Days holds more deaths than Buffy could ever imagine, or ever want.
warning. very angsty, but it has a happy ending, not fluff though...
author's notes. I haven't written anything for the buffy/angel universe in a loonnngg time but I got inspired (by an X-men fic no less) and wrote this in about 20 minutes... hope you guys like it.
feedback. like it, love it, need it.
improv

8. glow -- rain -- bound -- crave

She hates the sunlight now.

She hates the way it shines through her window, so bright, so full of life and love, that she wants to break the window with her screams. She hates the way her hair gleams with its rays. She hates the way she looks when she stands in it, hates the way it stars back at her, proud and snide.

Because he never got to see it.

It always came back to him.

No matter what it was in her life, no matter what happened, or how she managed to change herself and her thoughts, it always came back to him. Always. She was so sick of it, so sick she wanted to throw up, get it out of her system, maybe kill herself in the process.

She never used to be suicidal. She never used to want to submerge herself in the darkness that was night and death. She never used to want to kill with a lustful vengeance because she had someone to seek revenge for. There was Teresa, and she avenged her name when she sent her lover to hell. But her kill had never been lustful, had never brought her the only pleasure she could feel anymore.

When the stake sank down, she had to pant to get air, drowning in waves of things she didn't understand, and was afraid to.

She liked using the blade the most. She liked to see the metal gleam from of the pallid glow of the moon. She liked the shinking sound it made when it slid against their throats. She liked it when they rolled and her sword came up bloody. His sword. His.

She did not, however, like it when her friends exchanged worried glances behind her back, glances they thought she couldn't see. She didn't like it when they spoke in low tones, tones they thought she couldn't hear. But she could, she always could.

"She's getting that weird look in her eyes again."

"I don't like it."

"She's not recovering..."

They would trail off when she glared at them. At least they had the decency to look guilty. But they never seemed to realize that she was alright. Nothing was wrong.

Except that she hated the sunlight now.

Except that her lover was gone, her soulmate dead, and her hope crushed like a bug underneath some prick's foot.

She couldn't be bothered with that now could she?

She did have Spike though. He was good for a laugh. Or a fight. Or a quick fuck that she took hard and fast against the cold crypt wall because she couldn't stop tasting the flesh that stretched over his lean frame. She was addicted now, to the glint of metal and the alabaster of his skin. Because he tasted like *him.*

It's a wonder she didn't figure it out before. Otherwise she would have been fucking Spike long before Ang--

She couldn't complete the thought.

It still hurt too much.

But that didn't mean everything wasn't alright.

Did it?

No. It couldn't. Angel was nothing to her anymore. Angel was her past, and now he could never be anything else.

Dead.

He's dead.

Deader than dead, he was dust under her feet. Under her hands, in her hair, through her nose and in her eyes until she was crying from the sting, or maybe the agony.

She couldn't handle this.

Why not? She handled sending him to hell. She handled breaking up with him, him breaking up with her. She handled watching him leave in a cloud of smoke, she handled letting him go and moving on all in one day. Or month. Or year. Or more.

Why couldn't she handle this?

Why couldn't she handle that he was gone and dead and nothing was going to change that.

Why couldn't she handle--

Stop it. It was no use.

She couldn't handle it.

She couldn't handle the dreams at night. The ones that haunted her and made her scream and cry. The ones that made Willow and Giles and her mother come rushing in because they were afraid to hear the one they'd thought so strong scream in such terror. Her sister was the only one who let her cry. Her sister was the only one who would hold her tight and let her cry into her shoulder without a word of comfort or advice. Willow was too eager to please, trying soothe, ending up mothering and crowding until she ran away with her back to her best friend because she couldn't stand the pity and guilt in those eyes. Giles was too flustered to do anything but stutter. He still couldn't believe it for himself and he just didn't know what to do. His position as mentor had been taken away because he didn't know how to guide her anymore, not with this. Her mother couldn't understand, and even if Dawn didn't, at least she knew not to speak a word. At least she knew to hold and cry with her until tears would stream down brown and blond. At least her sister understood that. At least she could cry once and awhile.

Sometimes, the rain would come. It would come in sheets of water and ice, covering the land in puddles and a constant patter of splashes. She would watch it fall, watch it shatter into tiny little droplets, watch it sizzle against hot, dry pavement outside her window. She would watch the rain and wish she could cry on her own. Wish she could let him go like the sky had let go of the heavy rain.

"Such a heavy burden for one so young."

Someone outside her door.

Why couldn't they just leave her alone.

"Buffy?"

She ignores the muffled question through her door. She ignores the plea in her mothers voice. Ignores the worry.

Instead she stares out her window and into the tree he used to sit in.

It always came back to him.

She wonders what it would take for her to bring up the sword that dangled in her hand to her neck. She wonders what it would take to sever the bones the bound her head to her spine. She wonders what it would take to break the bond between them. The one she hadn't been able to break herself.

She can still feel him.

And she hates it because she can't touch him.

Because he's dead and it's her fault.

Because if she hadn't gotten so angry that she couldn't see him until it was too late. Because the sword that had taken his head from his body had been in her hands and she'd only had a few seconds to realize it was him that she was killed. Only a few seconds to see the lack of bitter betrayal in his eyes. Because she'd seen love in those eyes, until they'd turned to dust.

All by her hand.

"I killed him."

And she did this time.

He wouldn't come back this time.

The war was over.

The last bloodcry had long since faded, even hers.

She'd won. Good had one the final battle. Humanity remained and demons had been shoved back into their own world, most of them anyway. There were still some left over, and it was now her duty to kill them, or so Giles told her.

There had been casualties. Deaths she hadn't been able to help. But none of those had died by her hand. Only him and only because she'd been blind at the wrong moment. Only because he'd gotten in the way and she hadn't been able to stop the blow before it came. Because he'd died to save her from a demon behind her. One she'd heard too late, and tried to kill too late and ended up killing him.

She would crave to hear the bloodcry again, and cry because she can't hear it anymore. Because she ended it when the sword came down. His sword. It was always his sword.

His sword now in her hands. The blood stains still marked its weary face. Her fingerprints mingled with his. Her tears had run down its silver lengths and his hands had fashioned and held it tenderly. She wished he would hold her now.

But he can't.

Because she killed him.

"I'm sorry."

But it goes unheard, because he's not there to hear it.

The tears fall like the rain outside her window, and she's suddenly not sure what's real and what's not. The tears fall like black diamonds, shattering into a million pieces like her soul shattered.

She had dropped the sword, opening her hands to the rush of dust that was his remains. She had dropped it and the only sound left had been the clank of metal against concrete. She hadn't been able to cry. Shock had overwhelmed her.

She hadn't meant to.

She hadn't meant to kill him. She'd wanted to apologize to him when it was all over, apologize for being a bitch and not fighting harder for what they'd had. She'd wanted to cry with him and kiss him because she wanted him and wasn't afraid to admit it anymore. But she couldn't anymore, because her hand had a life of its own and had taken his.

She hadn't meant to.

A flash of light caught by the metal of the blade. She brought it up to the edge of her neck, ignoring the quickly panicking cries of the people she loved, just outside the door. She had to hurry, or they'd stop her.

She had to do this. She had to. She had to either end the link or complete it. She couldn't handle this halfway. He was still there, floating on the edge of her perception. She couldn't take it anymore.

A line of blood. Crimson dripping down her skin, slipping over her breast, tickling her stomach. She watched it in the mirror, watched her eyes fade of color and life because she hadn't been able to watch his. Watched until her body slumped down underneath weight she couldn't hold anymore. Watched until the mirror fell out of view and all she had left was a swirling darkness that made her sick to her stomach.

He met her halfway, carrying a bloody sword and a bloody rose.

He smiled at her, and for once there wasn't pain in those eyes, only a brightness that almost didn't belong.

"You came."

The sickness stopped, and the world righted itself. She looked down and saw herself, saw the bloody sword that was now in his hands, saw the trail of crimson that stained her floor. Saw them rush in, their worry making her sick again.

She turned away, back to him, back to the sight that made her stomach and heart at peace again.

He handed her the rose, which she took easily. The thorns pricked her skin, and more crimson stained the floor. She stared as they dripped, splattered like rain against her roof. She watched as they stained the rose into colors more beautiful than sunlight could ever be.

She looked back up to see him staring with a quizzical expression.

"Why?"

She blinked at the question. Not knowing what to say she looked down at the people she loved, the people who cried when they felt no steady thud under their fingers on her neck. People who would be sad because they'd lost their best friend. The world would cry because she'd lost two warriors for the light.

But she didn't believe in the light anymore.

And she'd killed the last demon a long time ago.

She looked back up to him and smiled for the first time in a *very* long time.

"Because I love you."

And that was all that mattered.

That was all that was left.

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