“We know what you’re all about, Buffy,” Faith answered somewhat cryptically, perhaps only for the paradoxically dramatic effect.
Because what Faith said next was painfully clear. Because what Faith said next... what Faith said next killed.
“Your sad little past... the fire at five and the druggy grandpa... the harsh living conditions...”
The eyes of the room went as wide as the Milky Way galaxy.
“Spike told all of us.”
It was a wonder how such small words could kindle such betrayal and anger and sorrow. This was it; this was the end of Buffy’s life. She could toss melodrama in a sandstorm and throw tragedy in a hurricane and she’d still reach that same conclusion. Things could never possibly be like they were before, like they were before his change. He’d made sure of that.
And then there was silence. Loud silence.
Buffy finally started to crumble in the middle of the silence, her inquisitive posture drooping into a half sag, shoulders rounding and head lingering downward. The first shock wave crashed into her, soaking her with a cagey type of bereaved vexation and deteriorating her normally vibrant outward appearance to a beaten puppy look.
No, the beaten puppy look could not even begin to describe what she looked like in that instant. It looked like the sun had collapsed on her, like the entire world blew up inside her head, like everything great and magnificent and holy in this enormous universe was a complete and utter lie and actually very bad and malicious and immoral. Her entire world was turned upside down and inside out, spun around in little circles like clothes in a washing machine, and left to hang dead on a clothes line.
And that was just the first shock wave. Buffy hadn’t even begun to account for the full depth this newfound intelligence would have on her life, especially since Faith and the rumor mill were fast friends. So when the second wave made its inevitable wicked way and crashed hard into Buffy, she just about collapsed onto the pale vinyl floor, if it wasn’t for the deathgrip cling she had on the doorjamb already.
It would be the understatement of the world to say that Buffy was in obvious pain in that moment. She graduated from pain as the situation escalated beyond control; pain was just a prerequisite class for what she was feeling now, just a minor phase before the big stuff. The dirty depths of her shrouded past were finally unearthed. The elusive phantom had finally been captured. The nefarious villain had finally been caught. The dark secret was finally illuminated.
The life she worked so hard to hide was finally exposed.
Fuck Fuck Fuck—
“What—how?” Spike managed. He didn’t know whether he should be deeply disturbed by Faith’s words or somehow vindicated, the last nail finally slammed in the coffin of revenge.
Faith grinned sardonically. “You don’t remember? Saturday night? Willy’s?”
Spike shook his head furiously. He didn’t remember that... didn’t want to remember that; he was too drunk that night following the SATs to remember anything. He wanted even ground with Buffy and not a vengeful burrow, not a retribution hole... or maybe he did.
“Oh, well, I guess you were pretty hammered,” Faith remarked.
“Then it’s not—it’s not my fault for r-r-ruining...” Spike couldn’t even look in the cardinal direction of Buffy, his head curled sideways like an owl.
“For ruining her life,” he finished painfully.
Fuck.
Buffy.
Fuck.
He didn’t know how long he was there, in that moment in time. It felt like forever: the time between murmuring the words and drinking the molten lava that was thinking about what happened. No, not “what happened.” That was just another piece of improper propaganda, just another listless euphemism. What he did? No, not that either. What was done? What transpired? What developed? What—
He ruined her life. He pissed all over the original copy of the Mona Lisa after writing “FUCK YOU DA VINCI” in big letters with a black sharpie on her winking eyes.
He did this. Him.
Spike, William, whatever. Him.
I did this.
And then he heard loud, hard footsteps. Barrages of furious clamors, each foot bashing down into the vinyl floor with such force and rage and fury. Someone wanted to get away. Spike looked up to the door and saw no one.
He thought he heard Faith to the side and possibly himself cursing Faith, telling her not to tell anyone about this, but no interaction with Faith really registered now. All he could think about now was getting to Buffy... he had to get to Buffy. He had to somehow make this better. He had to pick her up and dust her off. He had to—
Spike was not sure if he had to or if he wanted to, but he nevertheless took off right after her, following the loud cacophonous sounds of her feet and the trail of tears.
He caught her by the arm just down the hall. She quickly jerked his grip away from her arm, sobbing wildly. She was having a hard time breathing, oxygen stuttering every half second with another convulsive whimper. Her eyes looked grayish, the tears dulling the normally emerald spheres to a soft pencil grey. Her makeup was starting to smear all over the place. Her cheeks were bright red, too red; it looked like someone had slapped her senselessly.
Maybe someone had.
And I’m not devastated by this... I’m sick.
“I never meant for any of this to happen,” Spike said softly.
Buffy’s eyes were tears sieging anger. “What the fuck does that mean!? You’ve been out to get me since the beginning!”
“Buffy, I...” But he couldn’t say anything; she was absolutely correct.
“What, Spike?” Anger reached its boiling point. “No witty comeback? No emo outlook on high school or government or life? On the uselessness of the human condition? On my condition!?”
Spike just looked down, eyelids squeezed tightly together, the contours around his eyes strained.
“You disappoint me,” Buffy seethed. The anger that inspired her audacity slowly dissipated, and she reverted back to a fountain of tears, drowning in her own self-pity.
“Spike... you’re the worst thing that ever happened to me.”
And with that, she left.
Shocked and dazed, Spike collapsed onto the pale white walls of the hallway and stagnantly dropped down to the ground. There, sprawled on the ground with his arms to his sides and his back to the wall, like some soldier just shot in the crossfire, he tortured himself again and again with thoughts on what just transcribed. What just happened. What just—
I did this and I don’t even think it’s wrong.
That was the worst part; he felt no remorse for the terrible things he did. No sympathy, no despondency, no emotion. If anything, he felt vindicated, like with all the cruelty he’d endured from her in his life he somehow earned the right to do what he did to her. He felt like he earned the ability to hurt Buffy. And that was the most twisted and cruel thing he’d ever fucking felt in his life.
Spike heard footsteps and took a hopeful glance wayward to a very familiar face.
Feedback appreciated.