It was closer to lunch than dinner the next day when Spike found his way back to the Magic Box. He had spent hours tossing and turning way past dawn, and had finally given up on sleep, resigning himself to hours of ‘Black Adder’ reruns on BBC America until he had finally nodded off into a fitful sleep in front of the 'repurposed' TV and stolen cable box he had fixed his crypt up with.
He darted through the front door, coat over head as per usual, and scanned the room for the Slayer. Anya, having raising her head hopefully from behind the register, looked back down in obvious disappointment at the lack of a paying customer. Tara, as always the politest of the merry band of misfit toys, gave him a quick shy smile of acknowledgement before returning to searching the herb shelves. The other witch and the whelp were hunched over a table piled high with dusty tomes and takeout boxes, undoubtedly researching the Monster of the Week.
Xander looked up long enough to throw out, “And what do you want today, oh bleached menace?” But the bite was absent from his tone, and Spike was similarly apathetic to their usual dance of mutual dislike, preferring to just lope over and snatch a slice of cold pizza out of the open pizza box.
“Hey! Who said you could have that?”
Spike swallowed the piece in two bites. “Hello, does evil mean nothing to you anymore? ‘Cept since you haven’t given me any help since those ponces took my soddin’ fangs, I’m relegated to low-level evil. And since Inland Revenue wasn’t hiring…”
“That’s covered in garlic! I thought vampires couldn’t eat garlic, Toothless.”
The boy had gotten entirely too complacent in his presence. “Why don’t you rub yourself in it and we’ll find out?”
Anya perked up at that thought, “Ooh, and maybe there could be oils involved?”
Spike and Xander both turned to look at the ex-vengeance demon in confusion. Spike spoke first. “What are you on about, woman?”
“You know, with the ‘rubbing’ and the ‘eating’ that you mentioned. It could be both erotic and healthy, if you considered using olive oil instead of one of the higher-fat…” She trailed off as the two men turned back at each other, mentally aghast at the turn this conversation seemed to have taken without their permission.
“Ahn, honey,” Xander tried desperately, “remember we spoke about keeping our inner monologues inner, and only expressing the stuff that we’re sure needs to be shared?”
Anya twisted her mouth into a disgusted expression and went back to balancing out the register, muttering occasionally about ‘stupid human conventions.’ Spike could sort of sympathize with her on that one.
Even though the Slayer was not physically present, he could scent her on the air, and the occasional worried glances being thrown towards the closed door of the training room told him the rest of the tale.
He made his way into the back area, not bothering to knock, not that it would have mattered. Buffy was balancing on one leg in some sort of yoga pose, but her expression was anything but relaxed. As he made his way around the mats, he slowed, stopping several feet further away than he had intended. She appeared to have spaced out while exercising, and now she just stood virtually motionless, eyes open but not seeing anything in front of her. She emanated anguish and isolation, and as he took the remaining steps towards her, he again caught the faint, rich smell of Slayer blood.
Odd. Her wounds should have been long closed by now at the rate she had been healing last night.
But sure enough, the closer he got to her, the stronger the scent became, and by the time he reached her mat, it was almost dizzying. His taste buds itched and his fangs tingled, and he realized at the worst possible time how ravenously hungry he was.
His movement caught Buffy's eye and she started out of her reverie, realizing she was no longer alone in the room. She wobbled slightly before lowering her leg gracefully to the floor, focused on his face and, discerning his worried expression, gave him a weak smile intended as reassurance.
Her small gesture caught him unawares, and concern trumped hunger. "Luv, are you okay?" Sharp blue eyes did not fail to notice the way she reflexively tugged the sleeves of her thermal shirt further down over her wrists.
"Let me see your hands. Didn't you clean them?" He reached for both hands, but Buffy jerked them back as if stung.
"Spike! Stop babying me! I'm fine." Her tone was not convincing in the slightest, but she obviously didn't want to talk, and he had seen enough of her hands before she yanked them back to know that those cuts at least weren't still open.
“Just wanted to see if you were okay after… last night,” he finished defensively.
Buffy still had that same faraway look he had seen in Restfield the previous night. He had seen the same look in veterans returning from war; on the battlefield it was referred to as the ‘Thousand Mile Stare.’ “I’m okay,” she whispered.
He wanted to say something, offer her something that would make her feel more present, but he had nothing, and so he turned to go. Her voice stopped him. “Spike?”
“Yah, Sl—Buffy?”
“Can you just… stay for a bit? Not talk or anything, but just… stay?”
He had no idea what to do with that, but it was certainly nice—if unfamiliar—territory to have the Slayer requesting his presence rather than his absence.
“Sure, luv,” he settled himself on a stack of gym mats and stretched out, watching her as she ran through her exercise routine. It was a comfortable silence, nice and utterly bewildering.
They stayed like that for along time, alone together.
Alone. Together.
* * *
Buffy was floating. She was drifting, buoyed by occasional breezes. She was warm and peaceful and loved. Nobody needed anything from her, and she was finished. There were no more obligations and no more demands. She felt at peace with the world and herself. She no longer had a corporeal body, but she was more than mists and vapors. She just... existed.
This level of being was the first peace she had known since being Called almost seven years ago, and it was perfect. She was never hungry, and never tired. She never wanted for anything. Her entire being (or non-being) was just suffused with a comfortable calm far beyond anything that she could have imagined.
It was the physical and mental equivalent of eight-hundred thread count sheets and perfect spiritual enlightenment.
Time had no meaning, and she had no knowledge or care if she had been there for days, weeks, or even years. She was safe here, free to just exist. And the warmth, the warmth made the comfort that much more cocoon-like, enveloping her and making everything that last little degree of perfect.
Other beings floated around her, and they only added to the feeling of peace and comfort.
Without warning, a fissure started to appear in the clouds, a gray crack that started snaking its way through their existence. A dull rumbling was building in the distance, and she could hear the other beings around her murmuring in a rising wave of unease.
A chilling breeze swept through, the first noticeable temperature change since her arrival, and her feeling of foreboding increased.
A bolt of lightening split the sky, and the crevice started tearing its way through the clouds with a terrible screeching noise.
Buffy somehow knew that the abyss had come for her.
Sure enough, the vapors around her parted and she felt herself being pulled by some terrible, inextricable gravity towards the gray rift, which split apart in time to suck her down and swallow her whole.
Agony. She was aware of agony. Pain exploded through every fiber of her being, until she couldn't feel anything else. Ligaments formed, muscles re-grew, and new tendons lashed them to the bones. Skin regenerated and made the form new again. Blood started flowing through her, heart beat gaining on a steady rhythm that started an icy thaw.
All of a sudden, awareness swept through Buffy, and she realized she had a physical form again. The pain started to subside, and the fog that had been occluding her vision cleared.
She was lying down, that much she knew, but she was in pitch-blackness, and the feel and smell were wrong for her bedroom. The air was rank and musty and completely still, and as she raised stiff and aching arms, she met wood resistance. Satin-lined wood. About eighteen inches above her body.
Oh God, she suddenly knew where she was. Panic raced through her as the smell of dank earth and decay rocketed through her senses. My coffin. I'm in my coffin. I'm buried alive in my fucking coffin.
She beat frantically at the lid, struggling with the tightness that was squeezing her chest. Finally she managed to drive one fist through the lid, uncaring when she felt the splintered oak tear into her hands. She clawed more pieces out of the wood, and it finally gave in a flood of dirt and rocks. She tried to breathe, sucking dirt into her mouth and nose instead. Oh god, have to get out, have to get out, pleaseletmeout...
Her grasping hand finally met with cold air, and she was able to drag her head and shoulders up to the surface, gasping huge lungfuls of cool, crisp, clean air. She spat the dirt out of her mouth, coughing as she struggled to pull the rest of her body out of her grave.
Her grave. Damned if those weren't the two strangest words in the entire English language when put together. She was lying besides her own grave, two feet from her own headstone, coughing up mouthfuls of grave dirt.
She tried to get her bearings, but her recently renewed senses were on overload after so long of being unused. The sights and smells and tastes of this place were overwhelming and oppressive.
She struggled to her feet weakly, and stood for a moment, transfixed by her headstone. Buffy Anne Summers.1981-2001. Beloved Sister. Devoted Friend. She Saved the World. A Lot.
She had, hadn't she? She had saved the world over and over again, and it appeared it was still not done with her. Anguish--the emotional kind this time--swept over her in a wave, and she had the fleeting urge to try and dig her way back into the freshly turned earth. If she just dug far enough, surely she'd be able to--
The sound of a nearing motorcycle engine ripped the cemetery apart, and Buffy instinctively knew she had to run and hide. She gathered the long skirt of her burial dress around her and stumbled off towards a thicket of trees, trying desperately to tune out the fuzziness that still invaded her vision and hearing. Got to get away, got to hide...
Buffy woke up screaming.
She was clutching at her throat again and screaming. The sound died in her throat as she struggled to even her breathing out.
She had lain down to take a nap before heading out on patrol, and she must have slept longer than she intended. Judging by the lack of footsteps clambering to her room, she guessed Willow and Tara must still be at the Magic Box. Dawn was sleeping at Janice's, and Buffy felt a sense of relief at not having to explain her somnolent screaming fit to anyone.
Buffy lay still for a moment, waiting for the panic to recede, and when it finally did, the same cold despondence set in. She reluctantly swung her feet over the side of the bed, propelling herself into the bathroom to try and clean up a little before patrol.
She stood in front of the mirror again, staring, until she couldn’t meet her own gaze. The reflection seemed to be a mockery of what she had become, which was nowhere near what she had once been. The first—no, second time around. I guess the third time isn’t the charm after all.
Three lifetimes. And she was only twenty years old. She was shaping up to have more lives than a cat, a thought that was not pleasant by any stretch of the imagination. She was so exhausted at her third life that a ninth didn’t bear considering.
Her gaze was drawn unbidden to the toilet tank, and she sank sideways onto the seat’s closed lid, stretching one arm down under the tank.
When her fingers closed around the wad of toilet tissue she had taped there the previous night, a combination of dread and relief raced through her veins. Tearing the pouch free, she brought it up to her lap almost reverently, clearing the tissue away and lobbing it towards the trashcan.
Harsh bathroom light reflected off the razor blade, torn out of one of those disposable pink jobbies that always seemed to be lying around the bathroom in a household of four women. She stared at the blade for a minute as if hypnotized.
It was so surreal, this whole experience.
She shucked her shirt quickly, letting it fall to the cold tile as she listened for the sound of footsteps. None.
And relief was closeohsoclose…
The first swipe of the blade across the flesh of her inner arm brought pain, immediate and brilliant in its intensity. Blood welled in the gash, and started to ooze down her arm.
She was careful to avoid the previous evening’s cuts, which had already more than scabbed; they were well on their way to being completely healed. As the sharp pain ebbed to a dull throb, the feeling of relief overtook Buffy.
The pain was sudden, bright and intense. It had a definitive beginning and ending. It anchored her to this existence, making her feel more real and present. The pain cut through the numbness she had been feeling since her return. It was the only thing that had. And it would be gone within hours.
Unlike her other pain.
Each cut relieved some of the pressure, some of the pain and the guilt she lived with every day. It gave it form and bled it from her body.
One more. Buffy was back on the tower, knowing the rift to the hell dimension was open and making her decision. Dawnie reading the decision in her face, pleading with her, begging her to stay. Regret at leaving her little sister behind, but also profound relief at the end in sight. No more fighting, day after day. No more having to be quicker and more clever than the latest evil in Sunnydale. Spike had been right; she was tired. So, so tired.
Another. Angel standing in front of the statue of Acathla as the vortex opened up. The sudden shift in his features as she watched Angelus disappear, replaced by a bewildered Angel. Sorrow, knowing she was doing what she had to as she plunged the sword through his chest. Bafflement and betrayal flashing across Angel's features before he was sucked into hell.
Four. Merrick. It had been a long time since she had thought about her first Watcher consciously, but he was always hanging around her subconscious, a constant reminder of what could happen to Giles if she wasn't fast enough, if she didn't train hard enough.
Just like Jenny.
Jenny was cuts five and six. Her own inability to kill her lover, even though she had known what he had been capable of. She hadn't been strong enough to stop him until after the fact. And she knew her friends still held it against her. She could see it in their eyes on the rare occasion the Gypsy's name came up. And then there were Jenny's eyes. Dark, dead eyes staring accusingly up at her as her head lolled around limply on her shoulders, like a life-size rag doll.
Seven. Mom.
Oh God, Mom.
The pain of watching her mother get sicker. The powerlessness of not knowing what was behind it. And when they finally found out, it being something she couldn't slay, stake, or otherwise vanquish. The agony of watching her get better, only to come home and find her dead on the couch, a final twist of the knife held by cruel fate.
Joyce, Jenny, and Merrick were dead, casualties of her inability to be the Slayer everybody thought she was. Or thought she should be.
Not all the casualties had left physical corpses behind. Angel was gone--chased off three lovers, now, hadn't she? Couldn't save Angel, couldn't make him want to remain in Sunnydale with her. She rarely thought of Parker and their night together, but now, when her feelings were so raw, he felt like another failure. Another headstone in the Buffy Summers Cemetery of Personal Inadequacies. And then there was Riley. He was a good man, a decent and kind man, but she hadn't been good enough to make him want to stay, or strong enough to ask him to.
She worked quickly and efficiently, being careful to avoid the brachial arteries in both her arms, and when it finally felt like enough, she deposited the gory razor at the edge of the sink and looked down at what she had done.
The lines were clean and parallel, and the blood had already slowed to a mere trickle, leaving what resembled red train tracks on the inside of both arms from armpit to elbow.
All of a sudden, the feeling of relief was usurped by pure shame.
What am I doing?
What have I done?
Nausea climbed from her stomach to the back of her throat, and she was barely able to fling the seat up on the toilet before she was hunched over it, dry-heaving the lunch she hadn’t eaten.
Once the spasms subsided, she hurriedly went about cleaning herself up, carefully swabbing the cuts with disinfectant before slipping back into her shirt. First death by vampire, second death by hell dimension. Third death by bacterial infection just seemed kind of… anticlimactic. Not to mention tacky.
She carefully washed the blade clean, being careful to avoid its sharp cutting edge, rewrapped it, and secured it back beneath the toilet tank with the same surgical tape she often used to doctor the cuts and bruises she acquired while slaying.
She washed her face, pulled her lank hair back into a quick ponytail, and steeled herself to go out and police the world most people didn’t know existed.
* * *
half-life [haf-lahyf, hahf-] –noun
1. The time required in radioactive decay for matter to disintegrate by half.
2. The time at which a medication in the body has lost half of its efficacy.
3. The brief period where something has ceased to flourish but has not yet died.
TBC…
A/N: Inland Revenue was, until 2005, the income tax division of the British government.
A/N 2: The “thousand-yard stare” is a term coined during World War II for combat-weary soldiers that appear to be staring off into the distance, a sign of dissociation. It is often associated with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).
A/N 3: Definitions paraphrased from: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/half-life
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Beta: dusty273
Warnings (This Chapter): Contains Adult Language, Angst, Self-mutilation
Warnings (This Chapter): Contains Adult Language, Angst, Self-mutilation