Spike¹s POV
Joy. An empty word.
Rejoicing. Even worse.
Ecstasy. Now that¹s something I know.
Ecstasy when I watch some victim¹s eyes, when I plunge my teeth
in this tender flesh, when I drain all life from this body.
This corpse.
Then I drop it to the floor, eyes forever open on nothingness.
The state of afterbliss I feel quickly escapes from me.
I tend to forget love, from time to time. But then I catch a glimpse
of red hair.
And I remember that I can¹t forget.
Forget the look in her fiery eyes, when she looked up at my heinous
demon face?
Now that¹s something I can¹t.
Willow¹s POV
Joy. An empty word.
Rejoicing. Even worse.
Ecstasy. Now that¹s something I know.
Ecstasy when I lay in some guy¹s bed, not because I love the guy,
merely because I wanna forget.
Forget myself in him.
Then I push him out of me, his eyes closed on some inner happiness.
The state of afterbliss I feel quickly escapes from me.
I tend to forget revenge, from time to time. But then I catch a glimpse
of bleached hair.
And I remember that I can¹t forget.
Forget the look in his icy eyes, when he killed my closest friends?
Now that¹s something I can¹t.
Angel¹s POV
Joy. An empty word.
Rejoicing. Even worse.
Ecstasy. Now that¹s something I knew.
Ecstasy when I used to be me, when I would kill, when I would love.
Loved Buffy, once.
Then I would lose myself again, then I would lose her.
These memories evoke feelings long forgotten, images of never-to-be
couples.
I tend to forget them, from time to time. But then I catch a glimpse
of gold or fiery hair.
And I remember that I can¹t forget.
Forget the tremble in his voice, when he told me he loved her? Forget
the clenching of her hands, when she told me how he killed them all?
Now that¹s something I can¹t.
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He woke up, trembling. It was once again the same dream, or nightmare, he wasn¹t sure which. He was loudly breathing. As if he needed to. All he had to do was calm down. Go out and maybe kill a couple of children, and he would feel better. Or not.
He remembered how the hot touch of her hand on his cold cheek had soothed him. He had closed his eyes, almost rejoicing in the warmth of this frail little hand.
Then suddenly it had hurt. He had opened his eyes to find her face distorted by rage, maybe she was simply digging her nails in his flesh, he thought. Maybe it didn¹t mean she didn¹t love him. Maybe was it just a way to let out her anger.
But the pain didn¹t diminish. It grew worse. It started attacking his heart, his long-dead lungs, his stomach, spreading through his whole corpse. He had tried to take her hand off his cheek but it was already gone.
He had cried out in agony nonetheless, keeping his eyes open on the sight of his love, her face all warped, a dark aura floating around her, her bright green eyes shooting daggers at him. He had kept his eyes open, fixed on the eyes, huge, mesmerising eyes, until he hadn¹t been able to bear it anymore and had woken up.
It was hard. He knew he shouldn¹t like this dream, or whatever it was. But at least he felt as if she was there with him. Finally, he could see her eyes again.
He hadn¹t seen her again since that night when he killed her friends. He knew the poof must have taken care of her. He had fled to England, where he had been unwelcome first, until he showed them he was himself again. Until he showed them who was to be their master. But now he would have to go.
He couldn¹t have stood being near her and yet so far away. He had thought that maybe with the distance, this passion for the redhead would fade. But it didn¹t, because it was much more than a passion. The Big Bad was in love with a mortal witch.
Spike was in love with Willow.
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Willow suddenly woke up. Her whole body was covered with sweat, and her face with tears. She kept silent. Would this nightmare ever leave her alone?
It was always the same thing. She would be in his arms, feeling safe and trusting. Neither of them would speak; they would just appreciate being together.
Then suddenly he would throw her away. She¹d fall on her knee and hurt it. And he would laugh. His wonderful blue eyes would laugh at her for being so stupid. And he would vamp out.
She would turn around, prepared to run away. But there would never be any door to this room. All she would now see would be her friends, tied up in different chairs. Xander here, struggling against the ropes which encircled him. Anya there, accepting her death after centuries of living. Giles here, tears running down his cheeks, looking at his Slayer, unable to help her. And Buffy, struggling against her chains, her eyes full of an unforgettable hate.
Willow would face him then. She would observe him going over to her friends, draining the Slayer, snapping Giles¹ neck, cutting Xander¹s throat and kissing Anya good bye on the cheek before stabbing her. Then he would just stare at her, and step towards her. Willow would cry freely, unable to react otherwise. And she would hate him. Hate him so much that it would hurt. And when she wouldn¹t be able to take it anymore, she would wake up.
It was so hard. She lived with this guilt every day. Guilt for being alive. And sleep, this supposed rest, would just provide her with more guilt. Slumbery agitation, that was how Shakespeare had called it once. The worst was, she always liked the first part of the dream, when she would be in his arms.
She hadn¹t seen him again since he had killed them. She wish she would meet him now. She had stayed in LA, helping out Angel because then she felt as if she was actually useful. Her powers had considerably grown, as a direct consequence of the fact that she mainly concentrated on magics, and nothing else.
And now she desperately needed to see him again. She needed to stop having this nightmare. There was one way to do this, no more, no less. Hurting Spike as bad as he had hurt her. An eye for an eye, a pretty basic concept. But it was her only chance at redemption. She would hurt him so much, if only she could see him.
Willow would torture Spike.
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Angel heard her wake up in her bed. Every night, it would be the same thing. The same nightmare haunting her. At first he had made her tell him about it, thinking it would help. It hadn¹t helped.
The first rays of light were piercing through the night outside. It always happened at that time. She would wake up at dawn. He would never sleep at dawn. He used to sleep a fair amount of time, previously. But it was getting more and more difficult to sleep, knowing she was awake. He understood how much she was in pain. He just knew it; he had experienced it, in a way.
It had hurt him as well, when Spike had rung him up and told him he had killed them all. That he had killed Buffy. Sure, the tall vampire should have been over her by now. But you just don¹t forget so easily " the one for whom you became someone ". He almost smiled as he remembered Whistler¹s words.
But he had kept his face straight, he had not cried one single tear. For he knew a little redhead needed him. When she had walked into his office, then he had almost cried.
There used to be so much fire in her. But Spike had broken her. She had loved and had been betrayed. She had lost her closest friends. She had noone but him.
She had fit in so easily among his little gang. Her powers were very helpful, and had saved them many times. The different demons never expected a little frail redhead to be a witch.
But she had changed over the years. She had grown more and more insensitive to what concerned herself. She went on helping others, but she didn¹t care about helping herself. She had built herself a shield that Angel couldn¹t vanquish anymore. Now, she somewhat reminded him of Faith.
She really had turned Faith-y. Her eccentric overalls had been replaced by dark leather pants and provocatively short skirts. Not that she didn¹t look gorgeous in those, but it just wasn¹t her. More than once she would spend the night out; she went clubbing, Angel knew. She¹d probably take home some guy on those nights. Trying to forget. Wasn¹t it what they all wanted?
Angel needed oblivion.