Deep down, he knew it would end like this. Knew that despite all best intentions, the meagre efforts of one cursed demon would do bugger all to ease the sorrow of a girl ripped from paradise. The solitude of his crypt and a shoulder to cry on were little compensation for that which had been so thoughtlessly stolen. Weeks of haunted eyes and mournful silences couldn’t be banished with hard liquor, and no amount of hollow promises would lessen the suffering of the Slayer who’d stolen his heart.
Decades of existence—a hundred plus years of reckless depravity lay behind him. A lifetime spent striving for recognition, of securing a reputation so fearful in that murky underworld that it came second only to the likes of Angelus himself. A man’s legacy negated in an instant—lost in the endless gaze of a slayer who broke through his defences. A girl who’d called to him like no other before.
A girl who no longer existed.
Sure, she looked the same, sounded the same—hell, she even bloody smelled the same—but beneath that shaky façade it was clear to see her intrinsic will to survive was missing. That radiance—her unparalleled lust for life had been extinguished. The girl he fell in love with was gone, and the woman that remained was a mere shadow of her former, vibrant self.
So yes, Spike knew it would end like this. Figured his efforts to change, his single-minded desire to deny his nature, prove himself worthy of his girl’s affections, would come down to one defining moment.
This moment.
He should have known he would fail.
In the mocking silence of Restfield cemetery there was no monster to defeat, no apocalypse to avert, but nonetheless, one man’s entire world was crashing down around him. Overhead, the full moon shone guilelessly, ignorant of the macabre spectacle playing out beneath its splendour, and Spike was forced to watch as a silvery hue drifted over the immobile form of the Slayer, bathing her face in a fleeting caress, before once again abandoning her beauty to the cruel mercy of the shadows.
Shadows much like the ones creeping through his heart.
Fear had a stranglehold on his mind, nausea coursed through his stomach, and in those interminable seconds the agony that swept through the vampire’s body had him convinced the long-dead organs would burst from sheer dread. Leaden and sluggish, his legs almost failed him as cold, relentless panic encroached from all sides. His chest heaved for redundant breath as he stumbled forward, drawing ever closer to the sight of his lost salvation, and as his brain fought to refute that which he could plainly see, the coppery tang of spilt blood assaulted his beleaguered conscience in an unremitting battery of the senses.
All hope for denial was lost in the face of grim reality, and trembling, Spike collapsed by her side, his legs folding beneath him as heavy boots slipped on the sodden turf. Helpless hands clenched into tight fists as he swept his eyes over her broken body, until, with unsteady fingers, he finally dared to reach for her.
“Buffy…”
Her name was a prayer as devastation tore through him. Blinded by tears, Spike gathered her in his arms—the Slayer’s lifeless limbs tucked against his chest as he rocked her like a child. Without warning a violent spasm wracked her listless frame, and the vampire held her closer as she bucked and shuddered against his chest. The eyes that he’d worshipped were sunken and desolate as they stared straight through him. Pouty lips that fuelled his every fantasy were dry and cold as a strangled breath forced its way from her battered lungs. Used and abused, the woman he held was a hollow shell of the girl he’d fallen so helplessly in love with, and for his sins, Spike couldn’t bear to let her go.
His fault. Bugger all. This was all his fault. Not two hours ago he’d held her, kissed her, whispered his promise of devotion against her mouth as she clung to him in that alley—warm, willing, and so very alive. He should have gone after her. Should have fought to maintain that glimmer of hope she’d offered with her sweet embrace... should have done anything but stand there like a spineless prat and watch as Buffy ran from her fears. Ran from the truth. Ran from them.
“Not like this… Please, love, not like this…”
The viscous fluid was pooling beneath her—soaking into her clothes and desecrating the consecrated ground on which she lay. The last time Spike had played witness to so much Slayer blood he’d revelled in it. Gorged himself on the Holy Grail of his demonic brethren, then fucked his Sire beside the still-warm body of his fallen adversary. Now, as his eyes grazed over the savage claw marks that ravaged Buffy’s throat and scored the entire length of her inner-arm, he just wanted to make it stop.
Her clothes were torn. Purple welts marred the once smooth skin of her stomach, and a lacerated gouge was etched into her side. Buffy’s knuckles were bruised and raw, and Spike’s enhanced senses detected the foul underlying remnants of a secondary blood source. Clearly his girl had put up a fight, but nevertheless, some gloating wanker was out there heralding his one good day, whilst a valiant warrior succumbed to wounds that no amount of Slayer healing could ever hope to overcome.
Reluctant to release his precious bundle, Spike single-handedly tore his own shirt down his arms, before balling up the ruined garment and pressing it against Buffy’s neck, hoping to staunch the constant flow of blood. He’d seen worse—hell, he’d done worse—but none of the atrocities he’d committed in over a century of wanton immorality could measure up to the gut-wrenching horror of this moment.
With each passing second he felt her life’s essence slipping away. Hope. Faith. All gone. Desperate, he pressed his free hand to Buffy’s waist in a vain effort to stem the blood that leached from the jagged tear running along her hip. Too little, too late, and the echoed crimes of his past inevitably coated his fingers in a sickening sheen of red. His golden girl was dying. And there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do about it.
“Don’t do this,” Spike gasped, his voice nothing but a choked whisper. “Don’t leave me.”
Tightening his hold, Spike buried his face in Buffy’s hair as he cursed the bastard who did this, cursed a God who had long since forsaken him, and above all, cursed himself for not being there when it mattered.
“Forgive me…”
A breathy exhalation against his neck caused a shudder to run throughout his body. Drawing back, he cupped Buffy’s cheek in his palm, the other hand smoothing the matted curtain of hair back from her face.
“Sp-Spike?”
“Buffy? I’m here, love. Spike’s got you. I’m here.”
Her eyes were unfocused as she shivered against him. “Spike...”
“Should’ve been here. Shouldn’t have let you leave. God, Buffy…”
He refused to make any false promises. No phoney declarations that everything would be alright. His girl had been lied to enough times in her short existence, and Spike wasn’t about to do her that disservice. This life was no fairy-tale, and there would be no happily-ever-after’s in their future. He knew better. And the worst part—the part that burned through his gut—was that Buffy knew it too.
“I’ve got you, baby… Spike’s got you.”
“I… I’m s—” A wracking cough wrenched from Buffy’s chest, cutting off her words with a pained gasp.
“Hush now.” Blinking back tears, the vampire pressed a kiss to her forehead, his unneeded breath hitching in his throat at the coolness of her clammy skin. “I’m here, love. Save your strength, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
Weakly, Buffy’s fingers clutched at his blood-soaked t-shirt, and in a blessed moment of lucidity, Spike found himself drowning in the emotions so clearly written in her eyes. Pain and regret mingled with fear, but beneath them all lay something softer, something indefinable. Something—
“…so s-sorry…”
Something that damn near ended him.
A rasping breath rattled from Buffy’s chest as her eyelids fluttered closed. Her skin was slick with perspiration, and as her slowing heart rate beckoned the final moment ever closer, Spike was unaware of the tears that streamed down his face. Slamming his eyes shut, the vampire willed the haunting images away, choosing instead to embrace the cold fury that stole through his veins. Crippled by his emotions, Spike focused solely on the wavering pulse of life stuttering within Buffy’s chest—the fragile echo of existence gnawing away at the frayed tethers of his self-control, rendering him insensible, as Buffy’s blood tattooed his skin with a permanent reminder of her mortality.
Turning his head skyward, an anguished scream tore from Spike’s throat, and with an unseeing gaze he continued to rock her fragile body—his surroundings fading away as he cradled his forsaken angel. He was losing her. The realisation that he’d failed her again left him plummeting into depths of hopelessness the likes of which he’d longed never to revisit after the past summer. Brushing his lips across her damp forehead, Spike tucked a stray lock of hair behind Buffy’s ear, and for reasons unfathomable to even him, began beseeching a deity who’d never given two shits about his prayers in the first place. A sob broke through his lips. Raw. Hoarse. And with one last gasp Spike felt himself being pulled under, drowning in a sea of despair.
“Forgive me,” he whispered again as Buffy’s hand fell limply to the scarlet tainted ground. Inconsolable, the poet lamented his lost love as the demon screamed for retribution. And the man who wept in that moonlit cemetery crumpled into the abyss as he finally surrendered to his all-consuming grief. His future unfolded before him—bleak, empty, alone—and whatever agonies he’d suffered in the past paled in significance to the excruciating torment that lanced through him now.
Thunder rumbled ominously overhead, and rational thought disappeared in an instant as Spike’s newfound conscience fell victim to the malevolent intent of the monster within. Insensible to the consequences, the vampire yielded to his anguished demon’s cries for vengeance. Buffy was the dream that spurred a man’s reinvention, the morose nightmare that haunted his waking hours. She was a divine balm and a devilish torment. A broken promise and an unreachable destination. She was the Slayer—a force for good in an otherwise corrupt world, and he was the lowly sinner. Undeserving. Beneath her.
No.
Bollocks to that.
He was Spike. William the Bloody. And she was his.
Adrift in that maelstrom of madness there was no right and wrong, no crime and retribution. Logic lost all meaning and caution fell by the wayside as the shadows of loss extinguished the hope of countless tomorrows. There was nothing left but her. Just her. Just Buffy. The clenching of his silent heart defied his very nature, yet, for the numbness of his limbs, and the dull ache of his lungs, it could just as easily have been him dying in that filthy London alley all over again. Funny thing though… he didn't remember it hurting this much the first time.
This new definition of pain made a mockery of his rediscovered humanity, and with Buffy’s blood on his hands, innumerable ghosts screaming in his head, the vampire pounded his clenched fist against the crumbling ruins of a shattered gravestone—undoubtedly another casualty of the night’s events. Broken bones went unnoticed as the scent of his own blood blossomed in the air, and the heady mixture of pleasure and pain afforded him a fleeting moment of clarity. He loved this woman with every fibre of his being. Perhaps irrationally, certainly unwisely, and he couldn't—wouldn’t—lose her again. He knew it was wrong, knew he should fight it, but against his better judgement, Spike’s brain was playing catch-up, and his grief was in full-control.
Evidently, grief was a selfish bitch.
It drowned the senses, overwhelmed the mind. Blinded him to the repercussions of his actions, and deafened him to the whimpers of dissent from his weakened Slayer. Failure, Spike’s mind hissed as he brushed a lingering caress to her forehead. Coward, it echoed as his traitorous fingers tangled in her lank tresses. Mine, his demon roared, triumphant, as he pressed his bloodied wrist to Buffy’s dry, chapped lips.
"Forgive me.”
Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Time stood still as finally, Buffy’s lips parted on a soft sigh, and her tongue ghosted over his free-flowing blood. In slow motion, Spike blinked dumbly as her heavy lids flickered open, and drowsily she watched him, watching her. He couldn’t think, couldn’t stop—couldn’t even hope to, as his Slayer gazed up at him with dark, wanting eyes. Eyes that held a plea and a promise, an acceptance barely touched upon in their deeply entangled history.
You only can heal by living.
The words so fresh in his mind replayed through his brain in cruel repetition.
You have to go on living. So one of us is living.
There would be no more going through the motions for his girl; no more fake smiles and hopeless longing. Salty tears mingled with the bile in his throat, and determinedly, Spike forced down the knowledge that he was condemning her to the dark. There was an art form to turning. Buffy would be no mindless minion. She was his equal in life, and so she would be in death. Spike couldn’t say when her eyes drifted shut, or when the gentle suction at his wrist eased to ghastly stillness, but the silence rendered by Buffy’s unbeating heart was deafening.
The folly of his actions choked him with an incessant barrage of taunts and accusations, and disgusted by his final betrayal, Spike gathered the still body of his precious girl against his chest as a baleful wind swept through the cemetery. His desperation saturated the chilled night air as the storm clouds finally broke, and great torrents of rain poured down around them, washing away the damning evidence of his failure.
Buffy would never forgive him—he would never forgive himself—and as the tears streamed down his ashen face, Spike could only hold on tighter as the heavens wept for their fallen champion.
His Slayer.
His love.
His Childe.
Chapter End Notes:
For those of you who have read and liked my previous fics I can only apologise now. This has been languishing on my hard drive for a while, and I figured if I didn’t post it now I never would. A few months ago I was bitten by an overactive angst bunny and this was the end result. I also managed to sketch out a lengthier sequel before the bunny retreated and left me feeling a bit blah about the whole idea. With that in mind, I need your help. If you’re interested in a continuation then please, let me know. If not, I’ll leave this depressing little interlude behind me and continue with the spuffy-loving fluffiness that is more in my comfort zone.