Lasciatemi Moiré
Monday. 5:37 AM
She hung like death and silent night.
But she was not dead. Not yet.
Strange. She felt certainty in the air. Knowledge that outlasted no other. Today was the day. The day everything changed. The day she died. The day she lived. Whatever was to happen to her would happen today. It was a dreary state of consciousness. Awaking to know that whatever had transpired the past few days, weeks, however long she had been here would be solidified before she knew rest again.
Buffy would have questioned her understanding if she did not trust it so implicitly. It was there and she knew it was real. She knew everything that had happened thus far was real, and she had no reason to doubt what she already knew.
Spike was coming for her today.
A small smile tainted her lips. Poignant and grieved, but there. Spike was coming for her today.
Spike.
So strange. Not too much time had passed. Not really. If she tried really hard, she could see herself within her mind’s eye taking notes in her philosophy class. Exchanging pleasantries with Professor Spisak, whom she held in the highest regard. Though she knew not how late or early it was, she imagined herself getting up for her ten o’clock after wrestling with the temptation to ditch and sleep some more. Willow would not be pleased if she started slacking. After all, her newfound enthusiasm for education had lent a hand in bringing them closer than ever before. They argued over the French Revolution and debated how the weight of stress affected her occipital lobe.
That night she would patrol. And Spike would be there.
Spike.
When had things changed so drastically? She remembered a time not too long ago when his threats to kill her were as numerous as hers to dust him, should he ever get the chip out. They had fought. They had strained. They had bled. They had attempted to do each other in over and over. They had never been friends; reluctant allies, perhaps, but never friends.
And now…now they were so much more than friends.
The first few days had been plentiful in dreams of him. It had startled her, but she did not deny it. His face was soothing. The promise of his coming for her as authentic as any promise she had ever wished to believe. And when the day arrived that his visits were no longer hallucinations, she had never known such joy. He was really there. Really there to help her. But he never said why.
He never had to. She felt it. She felt it with every fiber of her being. Every touch he willed himself not to give her. Every kiss that he stole from her willing lips. The mingled taste of his tears ran against her tongue. She had only seen him so bereft once before, and even then, the vision in her hindsight could not compare to the grief he bade her now. By some cosmically unfunny twist of fate, he had fallen in love with her. It was nothing that she promoted with smugness or indecency, not did she believe it out of arrogant hopefulness. She merely knew. With every touch, with his outlasting gentility, with the way he wept for her, she knew.
Her feelings for him were muddled and uncertain, but she knew that she had long ago given up hating him. Even before this ordeal. Before anything. He had been by her side in the graveyard, giving her reassurance that she so desperately needed but refused all the same. He had been there from the beginning—from the moment her mother learned the truth about her. It had been Spike at her side. Spike all along.
He was the one who was here. The one who had come for her. The one who was risking everything for a woman whose destruction he had once sought. And he loved her. He had never confirmed it, but denial likewise halted on his lips.
After this, what would happen? Did he really believe that she would revert to form and start beating him up and refusing his humanity? The thought that supposition had logical backing made her hate herself. How could she ever have summoned such an allegation when he had given her more than anyone ever had? When he asked for nothing for himself in return? Beyond the love she read in his eyes, there had also been understanding. Self-doubt. He didn’t believe that it was his touch that she craved. He didn’t believe he was anything to her besides convenient relaxation. He was a ticket to freedom that she would ride every way from Sunday just to drain him of his good graces and leave him for nothing when all was said and done.
Nothing could be further from the truth. The depth of her feelings for him was blatantly terrifying. She had never experienced anything so powerful. So viable. Even with the blinded love that guided her through her affair with Angel, she hadn’t known anything with such potency. She had never trusted anyone so unreservedly. And yes, she was not lost on the irony. The one man she had vowed to never trust now held more of her good regard than any other in her acquaintance.
Buffy did not know if that was love. For the first time in her life, she questioned the possibility of ever having been in love. The notion was ridiculous; despite the pain she had suffered, she remembered well the wealth of feeling she had held for Angel. She remembered how real it had been. How it had clouded every inkling of judgment. How she had braved giving him up in the end. But she had hardly known him before he earned her love. A mere sixteen years to her credit. A child.
How could a child fathom such emotion? How could a child identify it?
Buffy didn’t like it. She hated the thought of admitting the great love of her life into the classification of schoolgirl crush. It negated everything she believed about herself. However, time had taught her infinitely that love did not work without trust. She had never trusted Angel. Never. Not where it counted. It hurt. It hurt to think that something she had given herself so thoroughly to might not have been the real thing. That she could have been so deluded into thinking that she was experienced enough to understand love. She always had the weight of being the Slayer behind her, believing that gave her more maturity than others. And it had, to a degree.
But not where it mattered. Never where it mattered.
What she felt now—this fathomless trust, respect, warmth, candor…this everything—was that love? It was different. It was so different. She knew him. She knew Spike. She knew him in ways she had never known Angel. For his faults, for his goodness, for his anger and insufferable impatience to his kindness and his resilience. He had cried for her when she could not cry for herself.
She had not known Angel when her heart decided that it loved him. She knew Spike.
Buffy exerted a deep breath. It didn’t hurt as it had just a few short hours ago. It didn’t hurt because she had accepted his blood. She had taken his essence into herself. There were powers aside her own at work. The healing agent he claimed he possessed was working wonders. While the larger abrasions ached still, the minor ones were practically nonexistent. She felt stronger than she had in days.
It was more than that. Whether or not he knew it would happen, ingesting what he had given her had allotted some connection, some tap into his feelings. And the wealth there was overwhelming. What he felt and how potently he felt it.
She didn’t know what she had done to deserve such love, especially from him. In the years of their association, she had been nothing but extremely cruel to him. To his body, his feelings, every hint of his regard. There wasn’t a jest that cowered at the prospect of being released. There wasn’t an accusation that hesitated to be hurled. She had done nothing to deserve any of what he gave willingly. She had never been anything but purposefully resentful of him. And now, right now, she hated herself for it.
Was it because she loved him? Did she feel the ache of what she had done because of how he gave her gentility so unthinkingly of himself, or was it something else? Something more?
Nothing more than empty wishes. Buffy wanted what she was feeling to be love. She wanted it so much. But the hesitation buried within kept her in suspense. If it was love, would there be hesitation? Was she forcing herself into a bond that was as forged as hers had been with Angel? Or did she vacillate in acknowledging her feelings in the mindset of being cautious for both their sakes?
She wanted him to love her. The thought of anything else right now was…
Buffy’s eyes went wide with realization. It hit her with a powerful onslaught. Bold. Unexpected. And she knew. There. There it was.
Yes.
Did she…
Yes.
She did.
The next few seconds were compact with an exciting thrill. Something that both warmed her and scared whatever there was left to scare rightly out of its wits. How things had changed. How she had changed. Spike was coming for her. He would get her out. And when he did, they could begin. They could begin as they should have.
He would thaw her where she was cold. Strange. Leaving such a task to a vampire.
Yet if anyone could do it, it was he.
A small smile beset her face. Spike. She loved Spike. She, Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer, was in love with William the Bloody.
He was right. Life was irony’s bitch.
“You look happy.” Angelus’s voice stabbed through her delirium with the same impact of a bucket of ice. Not water, just ice. The cold hard of reality. Her eyes fought open against the still nothing in her chamber. The vampire was lounged comfortably at the entry, arms crossed as he regarded her. There was a dangerous glimmer to his physique. Something that he always carried but now wore with pride. She hated that. Hated how he knew just how scary he was. How he could intimidate so effortlessly.
There was something different today.
“Now, from where I’m standing,” he continued, pushing himself up with an arched brow, “I wouldn’t think there’s much to be happy about. I mean, look at you. Stripped of your dignity, your value, hanging there from the ceiling until I decide to come and pay you some special attention. How ‘bout it, Buff? That a happy fate? Or perhaps I’ve been going too easy on you. You see, traditionally, people in your position have very little to smile about.”
“Well,” the Slayer retorted, a bit more snip in her for what it was worth. It took him by surprise, and she was glad. If she kept taking him by surprise, it had every possibility of prolonging her sentence. Giving Spike that much more time to get to her. “You know what they say. ‘Always look on the bright side of life.’”
“I’m surprised you can look at anything at all. Perhaps I was too hasty in deciding not to gouge out your eyes.” His turned his back to her, examining the plethora of goodies that adorned the rack on the wall. “I could always rectify that now. Whaddya say?”
“You’re not here to torture me.”
There was understanding. She knew that. Knew. His countenance was different today. With intent. He had no purpose of touching her and walking away. Oh no. The conviction rolling off his shoulders could not be denied.
Her eyes widened. He knew.
Oh God. He knew.
Her gaze met his with dangerous presumption when he turned to face her again. More strength than she was owed. As though he had sensed the difference in her. Recognized the comprehension, as it were. The knowledge that consigned her to her fate. They remained locked for a long beat before his eyes drifted to her mouth. Spike’s blood had dried and crusted around her lips, and while she had not noticed it, he most certainly had.
“He thinks he’s a fucking hero, doesn’t he?”
Buffy debated playing dumb but knew instinctively that such would not do anything to help. If anything, it had every possibility of angering him further. As if any of it mattered anymore. “He is a hero,” she spat. “He’s more than you ever were.”
Angelus’s eyes darkened considerably. The same grueling sight that had seen the end to more innocents than she wished to consider. Very deliberately, he advanced, marking up her personal space with empty appraisal, his eyes mapping her body to his own sadistic pleasure. “And yet, princess,” he said very, very softly. “He’s not here.”
A sudden sting. Buffy instinctively bit her lip to keep from whimpering as her head whiplashed violently, having nothing to fall back upon. There was more blood on her mouth; her own intermingling with what Spike had left her. The sensation drew a resolute chill through her body and she called upon its resilience to hold her through.
“He’s not here,” the vampire repeated deliberately. “But I am.”
“Go to hell,” she spat.
“Been there, done that.” Something jabbed into her side; sending her forward with an impact of shock that was only maintained by the strength of her manacles. “Honestly, with all the time you have to…well…hang there and think, you can’t come up with innovative ideas? Buffy, I’m appalled.”
Cold air stung the open wound to degrees that almost surpassed the infliction itself. The Slayer was choking for air; keeled forward in a lonesome fashion that did not allow her any room for movement. The strength she had ingested only hours before had seemingly abandoned her on command. All that was left was Angelus.
The feel of her blood trickling down her barren body was nothing she was not accustomed to, but it made her shudder all the same.
“Coward,” she hissed through tears, biting her lip harshly to distract herself from the pain engulfing her side. “Fucking coward. You know what they’ll do to you if you actually go through with it. You know.”
Angelus’s eyes perked with interest. “Coward? Moi?” A hand jutted out with lighting-quick rapidity, inviting itself to an intrusion of the most intimate kind. The Slayer’s eyes widened and she strengthened her teeth’s hold on her lip, forbidding herself from giving him the satisfaction of hearing her scream. Despite however much it hurt. “I don’t play by the rules, Buff.” Her name was punctuated with a sharp jab; a whimper threatened to escape her clamped mouth. “And Wolfram and Hart…can’t touch me. You think me afraid of them? Of Lindsey? Of your precious Spike? Hardly, my dear. But I do so love leading them on.”
“And…yet…” she growled through her teeth. Tears were flowing down her cheeks, instinctual rather than emotional. She was not sobbing; they simply couldn’t be helped. “You…you’re the…the one who’s…been…led…in circles.”
The vampire’s hand tightened around her, breaking further and inviting a warm fresh flow of blood. His nostrils flared appreciatively. “Big words,” he appraised. “What did he do?”
Buffy knew immediately what he was talking about; she remained silent.
“Don’t play games with me, sweetheart. You’re hardly in the…” Another agonizing twist. Her body attempted to buck but there was nothing to be done. “…position to try and gain the advantage. Spike made you stronger. How? Did he fuck you, Buff? Can’t imagine why not. After all, you’re hanging there, waiting and helpless. And he’s no different from the rest of us.”
She looked at him, eyes shining with tears. “He’s—”
“Ah. Right.” Angelus’s gaze fell to her crimson-stained mouth, confirming without a word that he had known this all along. It was impossible for him not to, the scent of his grandchilde’s essence floating in the room in an intimate intermingle with his lady fair. “He gave you his blood, didn’t he? Bold move. Bold and supremely stupid.”
A shadow befell her face. Strong, despite the river flowing from her eyes. Despite the quiver in her form. Despite everything that had ever made her who she was—really was. Everything that had been robbed of her. “It was…” she said slowly, “fucking…delicious.”
He released her with a noise of disgust, action laced with force that elicited strangely unintentional pain. Buffy knew better than to sigh her relief when he moved away. When the injuries inflicted allotted a temporary reprieve. She knew. The length of the floor quivered under his hard, angry paces. Odd. She had never thought of Angelus as truly frightening. Sadistic, evil to be sure, but she had never feared him. Not really. Even when she should. Even when he gave her all the reason in the world.
Now seemed to be as good an example as any.
“You think he’s coming to save you?” he spat. “Your knight in tarnished white armor? You think I’d allow that?”
A cough where words should exist. Buffy hated herself for the lapse, but she could no more prevent it than stop the sun from rising. Everything was eventual in the grand scheme of things. “I think…” she said slowly, “…that…you…are not nearly…as strong…as you’d like…me to believe.”
“Brave words from She Who Hangs A Lot.”
“I speak as I find.” Strength coursed through her; a nearly palpable sensation. Spike’s blood. Her blood. Intermingling blood giving her a bit of her own back. He had spoken the truth, and he damn well knew what he was talking about. “If you were so strong…you’d give me a sporting…chance.”
Angelus’s arms crossed with severe scrutiny. “I know my limits, Buff. I’m just having fun finding yours.”
“And-fucking-yet.”
He stepped forward dangerously, all want of threat vanishing to the more powerful whim of action. And that was it. She understood. No more games. No more sparring. Just this. This raw acceptance. He had come here with purpose. He had come here to kill her. He had come here to wound Spike in his presumption and silence her hope without a breath of air to its credit. Silence her newfound love. Silence everything that the grace of goodwill had bestowed upon her in these last few days.
Days that stretched to an eternity.
A long smile drew across his lips when he read her comprehension, his features melting into the demonic face that spurned him. Angel’s fangs had failed to faze her during their courtship and they failed again now. If he meant to kill her, she would not cower. She would not beg. Every minute since awakening, she had anticipated him tiring of the same old torment. Now he meant to put an end to it. He meant to put an end to all things.
And still, Buffy’s mind called out to Spike. He wouldn’t know. Ever. He would never know, much less believe, that she loved him. That she had found solace with that reckoning during her last minutes. Her sister, her mothers, her friends…they knew her regard. All of them. But Spike didn’t.
Her deepest regret.
“Is that what you want, then?” Angelus asked. “Your freedom? That I give you without hindrance.” His fangs neared dangerously, marking the bite she had allowed him out of love a mere two years prior to save his life. Her body tingled with the idiocy of action. And she knew then, in those last seconds, that whatever feeling she and Angel had once shared was as far from true love as anything else to mark the earth. Sacrifice was one thing. Betrayal was a whole new ballpark.
He had been Angelus once before, and still she remained blind to his monstrosity.
She had forgiven. She had rescued him. She had placed him above herself.
Punishment, then. Punishment for her lapse. A Slayer who knew the love of two vampires.
“But as all things…” Suddenly her arms were free, falling with blessed, tender relief to her sides as all the aches and pains that had accumulated over the weeks soared to life once more in throbbing retribution for what she was forfeiting. Her basic instincts screamed at her to fight him. To hit him. Strike him. Kick him across the room. Use that resourcefulness that Spike had given her to escape.
She didn’t. She couldn’t. Her muscles were too sore for action. Too long held in suspension. Too long untended and unused. Too long neglected by god-knows-how-many-lashings and worse. Buffy blinked dazedly as Angelus buried his head in the crook of her neck—and it hit her. Unquestioning. Undoubting.
Knowing was one thing. Understanding was something entirely different.
She was going to die.
“…freedom has a price. You want your release, Buffy, and I grant that. I just hope you’re satisfied with the way things worked out. I know I am.”
And that was it. A pain like no other touched her skin, embedding through layers of tenderized flesh that had once been loved by the same face. Dying screams climbed into her throat, supported with weeks’ silence and suddenly unveiled for the world to hear. It touched every sense. Every nerve. Every inkling of her that could be touched. That rawness. That heat. That blessed vat of nothing.
A blaze of color faded into the void. Feeling drained from her. Completion. She heard someone enter, but did not possess the clarity to identify the speaker. Only that it was female, and she was alerting Angelus that an untamed vampire was on the grounds, and that it was time to leave.
Spike.
Too late. Too late. He was too late to save her. And she lacked the strength to hold on.
Forgive me.
Buffy tumbled down an endless spiral far before she actually fell. And by the time she met the cold of the floor for the first instance since her coming, she did not feel it. Could not. And she remained as that. An object in the room, as lifeless as any other. To be found and mourned, but not saved.
Toxic blackness never to awake. Not saved.
Too late.
To be continued in Chapter Thirty-Three: Hello…