Author: Judy/Beatle Spike
Title: Her Eyes Have Changed
Disclaimer: I own nothing save Judy, my own creation. "Gray Eyes" belongs to (I guess) Iridith.
Rating: PG-13 for extreme depression.
Feedback: Yes, please!!! Author's Notes: Response to Iridith's fic challenge. Judy's POV, something I've never done before.
April is here. April is here, and I once enjoyed it. Now it's like every other month, dark and drab. The night once was exciting, mysterious, but now it holds no interest for me. Not since we left Sunnydale, not since Buffy died three Aprils ago.
It was my fault. I should have warned her, but I didn't. I let Angelus kill her. I also blame him, and Drusilla, too. Of course, it was mainly my fault. I keep replaying the scenes in my mind, trying to think of how I could have stopped it.
And the worst part is, she had children. Buffy Summers Harris died at the age of 37. She was the oldest Slayer to have ever lived. Her children, Margaret Angela and Seth Alexander, were--are--twins. At the moment I believe they are 15 years old, if they are still alive. No one has seen them for three years. After their mother died, they just, I don't know, *disappeared*. My suspicions are that Angelus or Drusilla got to them after they killed Buffy.
I killed Angelus after I learned what he had done. Of course, I was the last to know. I was always the last to know in life, and even more so in death. I decapitated him. Slowly, and after days of torture. Spike helped me. For all of his apparent hate of Buffy, there was some little part of him that wanted to get back at Angelus. (Of course, I believe he always wanted to torture him for stealing Drusilla.)
April. This was also the first time I met Spike, in 1967, as a Slayer. I didn't realize that he was a vampire until he tried to carry me off. He said he was on a quest to bring "a real live American hippie" back home to Drusilla. I guess the way I was dressed it was easy to take me for an acid-saturated hippie. All I wanted to do was blend in with the crowd. I got what I wanted. Then, when he tried to carry me off, I almost staked him. but I just couldn't. Somehow, I was captivated by him. And I guess he was interested in me, too, because he didn't leave San Fransisco for a year.
Angel never knew about us. He only found out when Drusilla told him nineteen years ago. She had spied on us. No one knows where Dru is now. She ran off after hearing of Angelus's death. Wherever she is, I hope she stays there. I've no desire to see her ever again.
My eyes were gray when he first met me. Then, due to contact lenses (so I could roam without being spotted), they became green. Now that I no longer need contacts, they are gray again. Spike says that they are as gray as the sea in a storm. England is wonderful. But the climate is awful. As of now it's raining--for the umpteenth time today. Suddenly feeling very sleepy, I drift off and dream of a petite blonde girl with blue eyes.
When I wake up, I put my hands to my face and find that it is wet with tears. I hastily rub them away. I look around and notice that I am in my bedroom. The blood-red candles in their wrought-iron candle holders are lit, and my vanity is open and my standard makeup is laid out for me. I sit at the little cushioned chair at the vanity. On top of my eyeshadow is a piece of paper. I pick it up and recognize Spike's elegant handwriting, courtesy of his posh private school he went to in England. The poem reads:
It was April when you came
the first time to me.
And my first look in your eye
Was like my first look at the sea.
We have been together
Four Aprils now
Watching for the green
On the swaying willow bough.
Yet whenever I turn
To your gray eyes over me,
It is as though I looked
For the first time at the sea.
I cry as I read it. I'm not deserving of him. Spike steps out from behind the green velvet portiers and holds me as I cry. Then he kisses me, softly and sweetly. I have but no choice but to succumb to his love.