TITLE: Yesterday's Child
AUTHOR: Drusilla (jenny_bean47@hotmail.com)
RATING: PG-13
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Max/Liz
SPOILERS: Season 5 of Buffy, Season Two of Roswell
SUMMARY: When Max is haunted by odd dreams of a certain petite
blonde, he
brings Liz along
to Sunnydale, California to investigate, in hopes of
finding more
of his kind.
Meanwhile, Buffy explores her feelings for Spike and discovers
that
everything
has changed during her absence. Set five years in the future.
Buffy/Roswell crossover, Spike/Buffy and Max/Liz 'ships.
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss
Whedon and
Jason Katims.
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!
YESTERDAY'S CHILD
* * *
PROLOGUE: DREAMING
* * *
Max has been dreaming.
For the past two fortnights, he has been haunted by the same
images-- a
petite blonde
awaiting him with every drop of an eyelid, hidden under the obscurity
of his
consciousness.
Her features are unclear, but her aura and atmosphere clings to
his
nonexistent body with
such despair and sorrow and need that he stands captivated in
the depths of
nothingness, his
heart craving for more.
He sees, also, the girl's grave, and it saddens him somehow,
that such a
divine beauty had
been put to rest so soon, before he could ever have a chance to
catch
glimpse of her. He
studies the simple headstone in her memory, etched with plain
letters
forming her name and
a short description of her life which baffles him.
Buffy Anne Summers
1981-2001
Beloved Sister
Devoted Friend
She saved the world a lot.
And tonight, he sees more.
Flashes from her life, it seems, they clutter his head until
he opens his
mouth to
scream in hot pain. And when no sound escapes, he pants for breath
and
allows his mind
to take in the images. The girl sword-fighting with a dark-haired
man. Her
eyes glowing
orange as she speaks some lost tongue with 3 voices. And her
broken body
lying upon
a pile of bricks, the newly-risen sun flooding her body in all
her glory.
The flashes stop, and the images become slower, more real,
as if he is
witnessing events
in the passing. He sees a small crowd gathered at her funeral
during the
day, her few
close friends wiping away the tears silently as each lay a rose
onto her
coffin. He sees,
as the day falls into darkness, two leather-clad men come for
her under the
moon's veil,
each dressed in a long dark coat and a sullen expression.
The blond one carries yellow roses and weeps brokenly as he
lays the bouquet
gently to her
bed of earth, falling to his knees, unable to support himself
any longer.
The darker one
remains standing, stiff and silent, setting down red carnations
and
straightening again,
his face cold and unlenient.
Max sees days passing. He sees the earth above her grave become
overrun
with wild bluegrass
and other weeds of sorts. He sees the fresh flowers lain down
by the blond
man each night;
always in the night. And then he sees the night the man does
not come.
When he wakes in the morning he groans, squinting his eyes
at the light
which escapes his
drapes. His head throbs and he feels as though a million hammers
have been
pounding
at his temples.
All day he is distant; his expression foretells a type of doom
as he stares
blankly ahead in
his semi-catatonic state. And when night comes he falls into
bed quickly,
in anticipation
of his visions.
He sees the same two men, glaring at each other. The taller
one growls.
"What the Hell
are you doing here?" He spits, sneering.
"To pay my respects." The leaner man replies, stiffening.
His accent is a
low-class
British.
The first man smirks. "You loved her, didn't you?"
"What's it to you?" The Englishman looks away.
The other laughs aloud. "You're an idiot, Spike. You
never touched her,
did you? She
would never have let you. And she wouldn't want filth like you
polluting
her grave."
The man called Spike shakes his head.
"I left because I wanted her to have a normal life. So
she could move on
and get away from
our kind. Do you think you had a chance with her? Do you think
she would
stop for a
second to notice you if I was around? The truth is Spike, you
never had
anything I didn't
touch first."
Fresh tears betrays the blonde's emotions as they dance across
his face. He
looks back
again at the dark-haired man. "Leave me alone, Angelus."
He says lamely.
Suddenly, the taller man takes his face into his hands and
plants a rough
kiss cruelly onto
the smaller man's lips. His expression becomes somewhat affectionate.
"You
could be
anything, Spike. Stop trying to follow my footsteps."
The blond man does not reply.
"Look at you, Spike. You're beautiful. All my children are beautiful."
"Dru." The younger one puts simply.
"She came to find you, didn't she? And you sent her away."
"Out of love."
The older man smirks as he walks away. "Out of foolishness."
He says,
shaking his head.
Max feels himself drift away, his eyes tracing their way back
to his world
in a blur of
confusion. Something tells him that he has missed the most important
part
of the
conversation, the vital key to discovery.
He goes on in dreamless sleep for hours, waking at odd hours
only to use the
bathroom. He
pounds on his head, providing an odd sensation which overwhelms
his head's
ache at rare
moments, trying to decipher the meaning of it all.
The dark man had referred to the younger one as his child.
It was not possible. They looked roughly the same age.
Could they be aliens? A whirl of memories flies in his head
as he tries to
recall the man's
exact wording. **Get away from our kind.** He had said. He shakes
his
head. That
could mean anything. 'Our kind' could mean gangsters. It could
mean
criminals.
It could mean aliens.
* * *
CHAPTER 1: Prayer
* * *
The lights slant across their faces, the impossible, unnatural
colors
dancing over their
brows like wildfire. He moves to the music, unaware of all that
encompasses
him, save the
girl.
She is a thin wisp of a thing, her pale face is dappled with
freckles and
tendrils of
scarlet hair cascading to her waist. She is young and foolish,
swooning
over college boys,
flashing seductive smiles to the young men around her.
The song ends and she disappears into the crowd again, and
he begins to
stalk back to his
table, when suddenly a flash of color catches him off-guard.
That brilliant
mane of gold,
it is all too familiar. It makes him somewhat nostalgic, and
a strange
emotion bristles
through him, a wave of loss and anger and regret all jumbled together
into a
torrent of
pain.
He follows that golden hair, and to his dismay the crowd has
covered it for
the moment. He
spins around, searching, and everything around him screams and
melts
together until his
world is blurred and spinning.
And then he sees her.
He blinks as tears come to his frigid blue eyes. She smiles
at him sadly,
her eyes tired
and her lips thin. She holds out a frail hand. Taking it, he
kisses it and
pulls her into
a slow dance.
They both know that this is not the time for words.
He kisses her dry lips gingerly, afraid that she will break.
As they move together, he speaks at last. "You're not
real." He whispers.
"This is a
dream. A good dream, but nevertheless, a dream."
She smiles and does not attempt to deny his words. "Shh..
Just dance,
Spike. Just dance."
She whispers softly as she puts a slender hand over his cold lips.
He closes his eyes as he pulls her close. This one is so real;
it is so
hard, to not let
himself be fooled.
When the music stops, she takes his wrist and they sit down
at his table.
She smiles at
him gently, asking, "So how have you been?"
He swallows hard. "Missing you."
She looks back longingly at the group of dancers closest to
her. "It's been
so long." She
whispers. "I don't recognize any of these people."
She says wistfully.
"Are you real?" He breathes. She feels real.
She smiles wanely. "I'm real." She says.
He has dreamed of this moment nearly every day for the past
five years. He
has prayed for
it, begged for it. He would have died for it. His dreams have
materialized, have become
something real and solid. A burst of energy sparks through his
body and he
feels an over-
whelming desire to simply hold her and never let go, in case she
falls from
his grasp again.
"Where is everybody?" She inquires, interrupting
his rush, and suddenly,
everything becomes
very, very real. The screaming stops, and all he can see is her.
"Who?" He stares at her face distractedly. God, he
has missed the warmth
of her skin, the
ferocity of her eyes.
"You know, Dawn and Willow and Xander..."
His expression darkens, and she feels the blood drain from
her face. Has
something
happened to them? "Dawn is gone," He whispers sullenly,
and her lip
trembles in anguish.
She has no time to absorb the fact because Spike has pulled her to her feet.
"Let's get you home, pet." He says kindly, letting
her lean on his arm like
a small child.
When they pull up the driveway of 1630 Revello Drive, she notices
that the
house is in a bad
state. The paint has faded, and the grass is a scorched brown,
flecked only
with the green
of dandelions and other weeds. Fresh tears spring to her eyes
and she
breaks down at the
doorstep, remembering that Dawn is not there waiting for her.
Flesh scraping against cement, she cuts her hands, and Spike
struggles to
hold her up when
she is so decidedly set on lying on the cold ground.
He opens the unlocked door and carries her in. He closes the
door behind
him gently and
they both peer in around curiously. She studies the pictures
on the walls
with wet eyes
and sees that all the Dawn's face has been removed from all the
photos.
With a shock she
realizes that her memories are fading too, so that she cannot
even remember
the color of
her own sister's eyes, or the degree of her smile.
He begins to walk up the stairs slowly, haunted by the memories
of the house
and all that
comes with it. He has not returned to this place since she died,
because it
was too
painful, seeing the deserted house, and not his three favorite
women inside.
He sets her down as they reach her room, and she collapses
in a heap of
tears onto her
dusty bed, never minding the disgusting state of her sheets.
Spike stands at the doorway uncomfortably, not sure how to
comfort her,
never mind whether
she would let him comfort her. He has been rejected and put off
so many
times by her that
he has no idea what to think, how to act anymore. He shifts a
little and
says, finally,
"Shh, Buffy, it's alright," as he kneels by her bed
and looks into her eyes.
She stops shaking for a moment and hiccups twice, brushing
her tears away.
Their faces are
infinitely close without touching, and he can feel her hot breath
against
his cheek. She
sees a deepness in his blues, a warm against his shade of cold,
a love
against regulation,
a kindness against all boundaries.
Their lips lock, in prayer, as Juliet once said, and she feels
herself
become lost in his
embrace. When they part finally, she pants, her breath taken
away by the
strangeness of it
all.
"What can I do for you?" He breathes in a tone so
low and quiet that it is
barely more
than wind in her ears.
"Just hold me." She whispers, and he complies without
a word. She clings
to him tightly,
for dear life.
He is all she has left.
* * *
CHAPTER 2: Hourglass
* * *
Time is black.
It is smoke that lingers at the drawn breath until its hue
is hidden from
the naked eye,
whirling faster and faster in a funnel-shaped movement, gentle
and loving to
the young,
harsh and unforgiving to the aging. It becomes a wild thing,
something
untameable.
Something that scares her.
She lies on her bed alone, sprawled out on top of her covers,
the scent of
his skin and the
chill of his touch still fresh on her tongue. She stares hollowly
at the
great spanse of
gray that is her ceiling, studying the rough of stucco intently,
bent on
finding a hidden
history that is not there. She stirs a little, thinking of death
and love,
of hate and
love, of pain and love.
And she wonders.
What Spike is, she cannot know. The facts are all too knotted
and snarled
for her; Her
newly-born brain shrieks with overload. He is a monster, the
little voice
repeats over and
over again, until the words mold themselves into truth.
Words spoken are oft true, someone once said.
But she lies, even to herself. She wonders how many falsehoods
she is
capable of telling,
how many more she will regret.
Yet she knows that no matter how many lies she whispers, it
is she who is
fooled in the end.
She has been doing this for too long, running from all verity
until her
world has become
one of anger and pain, and black with time.
Time, her only enemy, is the only truth she knows.
* * *
Tapping on her window.
She groans, twisting and covering her ears with her pillow.
It does not
stop. With a
sigh of resignation, she swings her legs over the side of her
bed and walks
groggily to the
window, turning a lamp on on the way.
"Max." She smiles. "I haven't seen you all
summer." She says, opening the
window for him.
As he comes in, she looks at him with a worried expression.
"Max, what's
wrong?" She
looks back at the bold red numbers on her alarm clock. "It's
4 a.m.!" She
exclaims.
He closes his eyes in pain. "I need your help," He whispers.
She nods, smiling. "What is it this time?"
"I've been dreaming."
"So have I." She laughs, her eyes twinkling. She
has developped a type of
humor of late,
something to ease the pains of life and schooling. Both she and
Max have
graduated from
college with honors, and now going for masters degrees and the
lot, while
trying to
maintain their odd relationship they called love.
All them have left destiny long behind.
Isabelle was indeed studying at a graduate school in San Fransisco,
and from
her frequent
letters, calls, and visits on holidays, she was having the time
of her life.
She had
strayed far from the 'Ice queen' image, her attitude relaxed,
frivolous,
and.. happy.
It is a quality they had all lacked in high school days, no
matter how in
love they were,
no matter how they pretended to be.
"I've been seeing." He whispers. "Every night
for the past week, maybe.
The same images.
Slight variations, maybe, but always the same ending, the same
colors, the
same.. emptiness.
And then last night and tonight, I saw.. more. It was like I
was somewhere
else while I
slept, somewhere in the past."
She nods in understanding. Things like these are not new to
her; She has
known of his
nature for years, and knows that other strange things come in
the package.
"Tell me what
you saw."
"There is this girl." He rolls his eyes when he
sees her raise her
eyebrows. "Not like
that. Just listen." She smiles and he continues. "This
girl. She died
five years ago.
I know this because I always see her grave. She was twenty, and
her-- her
gravestone said
the strangest thing."
She looks at him expectantly.
"It said, 'She saved the world a lot'."
Her brow furrows in confusion.
"And then, last night, I saw flashes of her life or something.
She.. she
killed somebody.
I saw her run through a dark-haired man with a longsword. The
thing is, he
must not
have died, because I saw him at her grave, after her funeral.
"And," He went on, "I saw something happen
to her eyes." He shook his
head. "They began
to glow.. orange. And she spoke a weird language. It sounded
ancient. And
that's not the
weirdest part." He laughed unhumorously. "The weirdest
part is that she..
her voice was
not one voice. It was three voices."
She sits back onto her bed and listens intently.
"There's more. After she dies, there are two men who
come to her grave.
They only come
at night. They both wear long black coats.. leather. One is
a bleached
blond, punk-rock
sort of style, the other is dark-haired, more business-like, the
same man
she KILLED. I
could tell they both loved her, but from their conversation, she
only loved
the dark-haired
one back.
"And then the dark-haired man made a comment that kind
of made me wonder. I
mean, it could
mean anything, but I can't help think that it could mean something
important." He looks at
her for a moment before going on. "He said something like
'I left her so
she could have a
normal life, so she could get away from OUR KIND.'"
She does not speak. She turns away a little. It reminds her
too much of
themselves.
"And at the very end, the dark-haired man refers to the
blond one as his
child. Which,
techinically can't be possible. They both appear to be around
the
mid-twenties." He musses
his hair with his hands for a second before collapsing onto a
chair. "These
dreams are so
real. They- they're more like visions, I guess. I mean, it has
to be,
right? How could I
make something up like this?" He begins to pace around the
room.
"Did you catch their names?" She whispers, blinking.
"The girl's grave said Buffy Anne Summers. Had she lived,
she would be 25
by now. The
blond man, he was called.. Spike." He laughs a little.
"Weird names, I
know, but that's
what they said." He exhales, saying, "Maybe I am going
crazy."
"And the other man?"
"The one named Spike called him Angelus." He sighs.
"Do you think they're aliens?"
"It's the only.. logical.. explanation. And it's not very logical."
She nods. "So what are you going to do?"
"Find them."
* * *
CHAPTER 3: Shattered
She sleeps the day away, her frail body fatigued from the recent
birth and
transformation.
She is weak; dusk will fall soon, and should the vampires she
used to slay
find her, she
will have no chance.
But she is oblivious to all demon-hood, all vampires, except the one.
She dreams of him; of his silken touch and his gentle carress.
She has
nothing to base
her fantasies upon, of course-- not yet. She smiles as she wakes,
thinking
of nothing but
him, no memories of Dawn left in her mind.
Walking into the night, she takes a deep breath, loving the
way the night
brushes past her
skin.. so alive for a time so dead in the cycle.
The moon is a yellow sliver tonight, thin and waning, golden
from the light
it has stolen
from its brother-sun. She is nervous about tonight-- not just
because she
will see HIM,
but because there are things she needs to know. Willow, Xander,
Giles..
even Anya. She
needs to know their fates.
She runs her fingers through her tangled hair, cursing herself
for not
having changed or
showered since she was.. born. It is a miracle that she can walk,
even:
her mind barely
remembers how.
The town appears dead here. No one walks on the streets; No
lights can be
seen from any
house in the proximity. She shivers a little, maybe from the
wind that is
chilling her
arms, maybe from the air that has changed so suddenly.
She turns a corner, and the world slips from her feet.
Spike.
Locked in a passionate embrace with some red-haired girl, her
body writhing
under his, his
hands tucked around waist possessively.
She feels his passion, his desire, and stares on as cold splashes
down her
cheeks. She
cannot see the girl's face, only her thin limbs tugging onto her
Spike's
arms.
Tears sting her eyes as she swallows, refusing to believe his
betrayal.. was
it betrayal?
Five years, they had said. It has been five years. The beautiful
blue
people.
He lets go of the red-head, and she freezes as the girl collapses
to the
ground, her body
limp. She gasps involuntarily, and upon hearing the disturbance,
he turns
around in full
vamp face, his teeth stained with his victim's elixir.
She turns and runs, choking back sobs as her world becomes
a blur of
wetness. Just when
she thinks she has figured it all out, she discovers something
new.
Five years, they had said.
Five years.
Running, running, running. Oh God.
Was it he who had killed everyone? She felt nauseated at the
idea. The one
man who she had
trusted! The one man who was supposed to take care of them all.
Oh God,
she feels sick.
She stops for a second, leaning on the brick wall to catch
her breath. He
is behind her
in an instant and she sinks to the pavement. "I trusted
you." She
whispers, and he
advances.
* * *
When he turns and sees her, he is mesmerized for the instant,
shocked at her
arrival. She
looks a ghost, her skin pale, her white dress flying, her hair
a mess of
gold.
He sees her tears, her wet cheeks. He blinks, and she is gone,
leaving him
to wonder if she
was ever really there. Perhaps it was all his imagination, a
play he had
invented for
himself, something to take away the blame. Mayhap he had lost
it, just like
Dru, when
everything he had ever loved had been taken away from him.
He follows her shadow tentatively, unsure of her substance.
She has quite a
few lengths on
him, but she is slow without practice, and soon he is on her.
She leans
agaisnt the wall,
panting for breath as he draws near, and although in a daze, he
can read the
pain on her
face.
What has he done?
"I trusted you."
"I know. Let me explain."
She shakes her head sadly. "There's no need." She whispers.
"I should have told you."
"Yes. But it is too late."
"I'm sorry." Is all he can say.
"I thought--" She swallows. "I thought I had it all figured out."
"What did you figure out?"
"About us."
"Buffy--"
"Tell me a story," She cuts him off.
He shifts uncomfortably. "What story do you want to hear?"
She looks at his blues, his crystal gems that she has mistaken.
Her
expression is
meaningful. Her secret has just been shattered, but it still
trails her
heart. An
abomination, she knows, but it is all she has left of her former
self, no
matter how deadly
and wrong it is. She cannot escape it: she would rather be broken.
She wants to know. "A story about history. A tale of
pain, of hurt. Of
loss. Of
promises. And-" She breaks off.
"And what, pet?" His tone is gentle, the type of
tone a teacher uses on his
kindergarten
students.
She closes her eyes. "Of love."
* * *
CHAPTER 4: Skeleton
* * *
Darkness. Black. Fear, and a damp type of smell that makes
him gag.
Bottles of clear
liquid, labeled with black, magic-marker letters he cannot make
out.
Falling, falling,
falling...
Running away; far, far, away. Motion underneath his feet;
wheels turning on
pavement. A
green sign and white shapes upon it.
'Now leaving Sunnydale. Come back soon!'
"Max?"
He blinks, and the world falls back to sanity.
"Max."
"Sunnydale." He whispers.
"Where is that?"
"I know the way."
"How?"
"I just do." He closes his eyes another time, his
dreams bleeding into
reality. "We have
to go now." He moves as if to leave, and she pulls him back.
"Max, stop. We can't leave at this crazy hour! Besides,
we need to pack.
*And*, it's
raining outside."
His expression is desperate as he shivers uncontrollably.
"It hurts," He
whispers.
Her face softens and she goes to hold him. "Shh.. it's
alright. As soon as
the sun rises
in the morning, we'll pack a few things and high-tail it out of
here." She
reassures him.
"You can sleep here for now, if you want." She whispers,
smiling coyly.
"Thanks. Do you have any sleeping bags?"
She presses a hard kiss to his lips.
"There's no need." She says, and they lay down.
* * *
"Once upon a time," He begins, "there was
a vampire. And he loved a
girl-- a woman--
more than anything else in the world. But she was the Slayer,
and she did
not love him.
He gave up *everything* for her. He went against his own kind.
He refused
to drink human
blood. He went through torture and Hell just to see that she
and her kin
remained safe.
He valued her more highly than his own unlife.
"And one day, they all find out that the Slayer's sister
is not her sister
at all, but a
Key, a mysterious link to all dimensions."
She opens her mouth to speak, but he looks at her dangerously,
and she
clamps her jaw shut.
"And *then*, a Hellgod comes to town and wants the sister
so she can go
home. To Hell. The
only problem is," He chuckles good-naturedly. "that
if she opens the gates
to Hell, then
all the barriers which seperate the dimension from any other will
fall, and
all the worlds
will bleed into one.
"And so he fought for them. He fought tooth and nail,"
He whispers as he
says this, his
eyes dark, unforgiving. "But it was not enough. His love
sacrificed
herself into the
portal, to save mankind. She died, and a part of him died too,
that day.
"Good old Sunnydale was nearly in ruins by then."
He turns around for a
moment, unwilling
to have her see his weakness. "Many of the buildings had
been burnt to ash.
More than half
the population disappeared, and the few that remained picked up
their bags
and left. Only
the foolish stayed.
"He should have left, too after that. But he couldn't.
He had an
obligation. He made a
promise to a lady once, and he would rather die than not see it
realized.
"He moved into her house, and took care of her baby sister,
and everything
went well. The
Slayer's friends, the Scoobies, accepted him as a close friend,
and they
fought the evil
that lurked in the town together.
"And one day, a dreadful thing happened. The vampire
was drunk, at a bar,
and got into a
fight. He realized that the chip did not work." He turns
around and stares
into her eyes.
"For a long while, he kept it secret. He did not crave
human blood anymore,
so he did not
kill."
"A year after the Slayer's death, another one comes to
town. And not
quietly, either. One
night, she broke into their home and tried to kill the dead Slayer's
sister,
thinking she
was a vampire. He managed to kick the stake away in time, but
she had a
knife in her boot.
She put the knife to the girl's neck, and that was when he clicked
in.
"He lunged at the Slayer and she fell, dropping both the
girl and the knife.
She fought
hard, but being newly trained, she was nowhere near as skilled
as the
previous Slayer. It
was over quickly, and he fed from her. He drank human blood."
She cowers under him, shivering.
"When he was done, he turned to see that the sister had
been cut, and badly,
too. She was
dying, and there was nothing he could do. And so he held her.
After a
minute, she
disappeared, and became nothing but green energy and silver dust.
"But the Scoobies came in at that moment. And they saw
his blood-stained
teeth and the
lifeless body of the Slayer, and they were afraid. He tried to
explain, but
they would not
believe him. With the sister, the monks had also taken the memories
that
came with her.
"And so they forgot. They tried to kill him, but he got
away." He closes
his eyes for
a moment, his face a mask of pain. "It seems, they had all
been prepared
for the moment.
They did not trust the vampire; They were ready in case he went
*bad* at any
given time.
"He ran away. For a long time, he lived as human, almost,
eating human food
and living a
human life."
"And then the God came back. She had an army of demon
minions that wreaked
havoc upon the
town. She looked for the Scoobies, for she was bent on revenge
of the worst
kind."
"Torture." She whispers.
"Yes. Torture and then a good brain-suck." He looks
at her, his eyes
forever boring into
her depths. It is wrong, she thinks, that eyes can do such a
thing. That
eyes can see into
another's deepest fears.
"And so the vampire did a noble thing. He performed the
ulitmate sacrifice,
and he saved
them."
"What did he do?"
He draws his face close to her own.
"He killed them."
* * *
CHAPTER 5: Glass
* * *
Tears stain her cheeks and she watches him, letting the droplets
fall to the
pavement.
Cold. The world no longer welcomes her and she feels the breeze's
pull.
Hugging her
knees to her breast, she sobs silently for the fates of her loved
ones.
It would be easier if she could hate him, or if he had killed
them out of
hate.
But she is not so lucky.
Hate is too easy, and she loves him still.
He turns away and reaches for his coat pocket. Withdrawing
a pack of
cigarettes and a
lighter, he smokes his pains away.
"How can you be so cold?" She whispers, seeing his indifference.
He laughs cruelly, maniacally, and she is afraid that it is
not him, after
all.
"Cold." He shakes his head. "Don't speak to
me about cold, love. You have
no idea.
You're not real. Buffy is dead. She is rotting right now in
six feet of
graveyard dirt.
You're an illusion. You're something they made up to punish me."
Her tears never stop falling. "No."
Again, he puts his back to her. He is glad she cannot see his face.
"Why?" Her voice is raspy and she chokes on the words. "How could you?"
"I *saved* them." His tone is harsh again, hurtful.
"I did the one thing
you never could
have done, because you would never have had the guts."
"You lie." She says desperately. "They could have lived."
"Yes, they could have. What would you have done, Buffy?
You would have
killed them to
save Dawn. Would you have killed them to save themselves?"
He sneers.
No. The answer is no.
And she weeps. For Xander. For Willow. For Giles, and Tara,
and Anya.
For the girl
whose name she cannot remember, and a little for herself.
And yes, even for him.
For the boy she once knew-- the love-sick man who was sweet
and adored her,
for the
beautiful boy she loved who had become a monster she cannot recognize.
"Finish the story."
"There's nothing left to tell." He looks at her strangely.
"There's always something. Tell me how they died."
The cigarette burns out and he lights another, the flame from
the small
silver box the only
thing alive in the grayness. "He went after the witches
first." He takes a
deep drag and
the smokes flies away quickly, eager to leave the gloom. Seeing
her look,
he smiles grimly.
"No, he did not feed from them. He snapped their necks.
They died
quickly."
Another drag, and he continues. "The whelp was next.
He was harder. Never
trusted the
vampire, the poor bloke, and it made things difficult. Finally
the vamp had
to settle
with stabbing him. Not pretty." He shakes his head, sighing.
"By the time
he died his
clothes, the carpet, the walls: all painted red. He shouldn't
have fought
back."
"That's when the girlfriend decided to stop by. She was
brave and all that,
wanted to
avenge her lover's death. She gave up in the end; died with
a smile on her
lips and
a rusty dagger in the heart."
"The Watcher was the hardest of them all. They didn't
call him Ripper for
nothing, you
know. Gave the vamp a good fight there." He pauses for
a moment,
remembering the fight.
"And?"
"He ripped the old man's throat out."
Her crying does not stop and she wonders how much moisture
is left in her.
She hates her
weakness; but it is all that is standing between her and the night.
"What happened to the vampire after that?"
Spike laughs, almost. "The idiot stayed in Sunnyhell.
Maybe because he had
nowhere else
to go. Maybe because the ghosts of memories still haunt him.
He became a
vampire again.
You can't drink pig's blood if there's no butcher left to buy
it from. He
hunted again, but
he killed only to feed. Only when it was needed.
"He stopped killing demons. How could he? He was one of them."
"There were no other Slayers? They just left the town to burn?"
"Others might have been called, but none came. And it
was fine that way.
Demons were free
to roam about in the night; there was no one left that they were
afraid of.
They walked
the streets openly, and still, humans failed to acknowledge them.
And demon
races
prospered, with no predators."
She closes her eyes. "Not even you."
"What do you think I am, Slayer, your little pet dog?
Someone that you can
kick around and
expect to always come back? You *died*." He chokes at horrid
words, and
his eyes become
wet for the first time. "You died and I did the best I could.
I kept my
promises, but they
still didn't accept me, did they?"
His guard collapses momentarily and he sits down onto the ground
with her,
burying his face
into his hands. "You died and there was no reason left.
There was nothing
left for me.
No purpose."
She touches his face gently, and he jerks back suddenly and
stands up again,
disgusted with
his behaviour.
"So what have you got to say, Slayer?" He says venomously.
"You said you
figured something
out."
A single tear, her last, rolls down her cheek. "I loved
you." She says in
a hushed tone,
like it is something sacred that cannot be uttered in anything
above a
whisper.
He is stunned at first, and then he scoffs, nonplussed. "Yeah.
Bit like
Romeo and Juliet,
then, aren't we?" He says casually.
She is hurt by his reaction. "Romeo and Juliet are dead."
"You're right, pet. And so are we."
* * *
CHAPTER 6: Pieces
* * *
They depart later in the day than either of them had hoped
for, so that the
sun glares
overhead furiously and waves of heat form thick in the air.
His skin is a sickly colour; his face drawn and his eyes blackened.
Last
night he dreamt
of no more than the girl's whisper to his sleep, and yet he is
more fatigued
than he was
before he lay down.
She insists on bringing along the 'basic necessities' as well
as on driving.
He protests
at first but gives in easily: he is too tired to care.
He is back to sleep again as soon as the car's engine begins
purring and his
mind drifts
away into another world.
The first thing he sees is a painting. It is a contemporary
oil piece by
some unkown
name, and rather peculiar. The entire canvas is a red of different
shades
and textures,
except for the edges, which are a bluish tint. He looks away
for a moment
and notices a
white plaque beside it, similar to those at museums and galleries.
Virgin's blood III.
He blinks and again his eyes graze the paint. He touches it
guiltily and to
his horror,
the paint is wet and comes off onto his finger. He squints at
the red as it
becomes less
and less viscous.
It is blood, and strangely, it does not seem odd on his hands.
He opens his mouth. "Tara," he says calmly, in
a voice that is not his
own. His body is
not his own either, he discovers, and it moves on its own accord.
The named huddles in a corner, afraid. He looks to the ground
and sees the
body of another
one, a red-haired woman, whose neck rests at an impossible angle.
Her blood
stains the
hardwood, seeping into the cracks, as well as under the lacquer.
His stomach heaves for a second, but nothing happens.
He steps closer.
The girl closes her eyes and a pencil flies toward him. By
some instinct,
he reaches
behind him and catches it without incident, before it can bury
itself under
his flesh.
"Shh.. Tara, don't struggle. Please." The voice
is amazingly gentle and
friendly for
someone who has killed and is about to kill another. "It's
easier for you
if you don't
struggle."
She whimpers, her body quivering, and he kneels down to meet her eyes.
"Please," She whispers, her voice hoarse. "Please."
"Shh.. let me save you. Let me do something right, for
once." He cups her
face with his
cold hands.
Her eyes grow wide and she begins to scream. He forces her
head to the side
and he feels
the bones snap with an incredible ease. She falls backwards,
her blood
splattering over
the white-washed wall and his hands.
And everything is red.
He looks at the two girls in horror. The screams are gone,
but the silence
is louder. Oh
God. Tears blur his vision and his thinking all at once. He
wants to sink
to the ground
and hug himself for comfort, but his body does otherwise. His
face smiles
grimly at the
two bodies, his expression one of relief and sadness together.
The blood spreads and spreads over the cherry, lapping over
his feet like a
tide at the
beach. He lets it encompass his shoes before he steps back.
Dazedly, he walks to the kitchen, and for a fleeting moment
he considers
calling the police.
The thought is lost quickly; almost pushed from his mind by some
unknown
force. Some other
emotion overwhelms him: one of want and need and repression.
Is it the
blood? By some
urge, he raises his hand to his mouth, but then withdraws it before
it can
make contact
with his lips.
"Buffy, forgive me." He whispers as the blood is rinsed clean.
* * *
They have been driving for three hours when she pulls into
a gas station.
She looks over
to him fondly, watching the rise of his chest as he sleeps. He
is her
everything, and she
would go to the ends of the earth if it meant being with him.
She decides to take a bathroom break so she shakes his shoulder
a little,
only to jump back
like she has been shocked with electricity. Frowning, she carefully
puts a
slender hand
onto his and she gasps at what she sees.
She is huddled into a corner in a fetal position, hugging her
knees. The
floor is covered
with blood, and it oozes near, but it doesn't matter. Her lover
is dead and
life is only
optional at this point.
He advances on her and she whimpers. He is not tall, but lean
and muscular,
with a finely
chiseled face and a feline type of attraction. His moves are
sleek, gentle,
and he smiles
at her like she is an old friend.
(Shh.. don't struggle...)
She looks at him forlornly, her blond hair a mess on her face.
Blond hair?
She doesn't
have blond hair. No no, this is all wrong.
She closes her eyes.
(Concentrate!)
A pencil comes flying toward the man, and he catches it. Pencils don't fly.
(Let me save you.)
Save her? No no, he is not her saviour. He is a killer.
He has killed
many and he will
kill her just as easily, won't he?
Her skin crawls as his hands touch her face. She screams,
and her vision is
a dark, dark
red all of a sudden. Vaguely she is aware of the wetness at her
throat and
at her lips,
but she is concentrating the strange feel of it all. Her muscles
must have
collapsed or
something, because her head is suddenly very heavy and her fingers
refuse to
move...
She screams again, and the people turn to look at her. She
blushes and
pants for breath,
wiggling her fingers to make sure that they are still working.
She goes to shake Max, worried for him and the toll these visions
are
taking. She calls
his name a few times, breathlessly, and then slaps him gently
across the
cheek.
He won't wake.
* * *
CHAPTER 7: Ghosts
* * *
She is sitting in the windowseat, her chin propped up on her
arms, her face
aglow with
morning sun. She seems thoughtful, her expression holding a child-like
quality that
envelops her thin figure like a magickal aura.
He watches her through narrowed eyes, playing dead. She looks
over at him
for a moment,
and noting the rays of sun which threatened to dance upon his
flesh, she
stands to pull the
heavy drapes together, banishing the light from the room.
Moving silently, she pads across the carpet and disappears
into the hallway,
closing the
door behind her, shutting his existence from the pretense of her
life.
Beside him the covers are unwrinkled, unmarred in their white cotton purity.
It is like she was never there.
Perhaps it was an illusion, after all. Perhaps his mind is
getting too old,
too worn, to
see the truth.
Still, he dreams.
* * *
The walls curve and twist and scream until anything that once
resembled some
form of sanity
is cut and tattered and torn to pieces.
He clutches at the floor for safety, but finds none. The blood
ebbs closer
and closer,
until he is drowning it, until his body is slick and his hair
soaked with
red.
He sobs dryly, curled on the floor like a wounded puppy, shivering
and
scared, closing his
eyes to shut out the horrible mess in front of him.
He can see it even in his mind.
Strange. One moment he is in control, and another, he is breaking.
And then there is the voice.
Max, Max, it's calling, but he hears only the name of some
other, of
somebody he cannot seem
to remember. With each breath it comes again, only to be forgotten
in the
milisecond it
takes for the sounds to register into his brain. It's driving
him crazy,
and he's wondering
whether this is the effect whoever is giving him these visions
is looking
for.
He can't remember.
Come back, it's saying, and he is vaguely aware that it's Liz,
and that he's
not the one
who did this, not the one who killed.
But he can't be sure.
(Max?) All of a sudden it's very, very clear, and very, very close.
(Liz?) But his lips won't cooperate. "Buffy?"
Goddamnit! He hasn't even
got a clue who
this Buffy character is, and all his thoughts are already revolving
around
her.
(Max, you have to come back! Wake up!) "Spike? Shh..
come with me. It's
okay. You can
leave now."
He wants to rip his brain apart. Liz's voice clouds his head
but it's *her*
voice that
attacks his ears. (Liz!!) He pants. "Is it you?"
His voice is a whisper.
His mind is
spinning, as is he, but still he can't place her.
(You have to wake up. I need you. Please!) "Let's go,
Spike. There's
nothing you can do
here."
(I can't. Look what I did.) He's crying now, uncontrollably.
"Please.
Just leave me
here."
(No, no, Max. I don't believe it. It wasn't you. I love
you. I won't
leave.) The voice
is pleading, exasperated, and full of pain and love and regret,
all at once.
"Shh.. It's
okay. You saved.. they're better now."
(It was me. I felt it. I did it with my own hands.) "I killed them."
(No. It was somebody else's hands. You couldn't control what
happened.)
"Yes, and they're
dead. You did what you believed was best for them."
(I was there! I smelled the blood. The fear. The betrayal.
I looked into
her eyes as she
died.) "It doesn't mean that it's right."
(Maybe, but it wasn't you. You would never. You're a good
person Max,
everyone knows that.
You-- You have to come back.) "Nothing's right anymore,
Spike. You can't
worry about
that."
Strong hands are pulling him and--
He opens his eyes.
She is staring back at him desperately, and smiles finally
when she sees his
condition is
satisfactory. "Oh God, Max, I thought you were gone,"
She exclaims,
hugging him tightly.
She sees his horrified expression and kisses him gently on the
cheek. "It
was just a
dream," she says, her voice muffled by his skin.
"Just a dream," He repeats to himself, running his
fingers through his dark
hair.
His fingers are coated with blood.
* * *
The shadows dance over the faces of the two entities, revealing
beautiful
faces of a nature
and colour that cannot be distinguished by human eyes. The two
hold their
hands together,
in front of them, their slender fingers entwined.
"She has been woken." Says the first, in a language
that is not of this
Earth. The sounds
are like bell-tones, sweet and light, yet firm and powerful.
They are standing in a cave-like structure. The walls are
slimy and the
ground is wet, but
it means nothing for them. They are creatures of purity, and
all that
surrounds them is
beautiful simply because they are present.
"And the other players?"
"The flesh has been molded."
The second one stirs uncomfortably, while the first remains
stiff and calm.
"The energy?"
She whispers.
"Still present. It should be difficult to gather. It
has been four years."
His mouth
curves into a sly smile.
She nods, and pulls her fingers from his grasp. When he doesn't
let go of
her wrist, she
gasps and looks back to him. His expression is grave, his voice
clear and
resonant.
"The Key will be whole once more."
* * *
CHAPTER 8: Bleeding
* * *
She has always, since she was little, expected to be married
at the tender
age of twenty, to
someone gentle, and reliable, and good. Curling up in her seat,
after
having let Max drive
for this particular stretch of road, she ponders.
Is this better? Her heart screams.
She isn't sure.
The trees loom ominously on either side of them, the forests
dark and
unwelcoming. What a
change, atleast, from the stretches of desert sand reflecting
the heat of
the sun like they
are so accustomed to.
There are no cars on either lane of the freeway, not at this
hour. Nobody
enters Sunnydale
at this at a time so near to dark, and certainly no one ever leaves.
It's a
great mystery
to all but the residents why no one escapes the ghost town alive;
why no one
dares speak.
Those who do will perhaps never speak again.
They're almost there, he says, and she is glad because they
are both tired.
She won't let
either of them sleep, however, not after *that* experience.
His lips twitch into a smile as they are rewarded with a square
green marker
that tells them
there is only ten miles to go.
Being a practical kind of person, she never thought she'd be
here, feel
this. Love, she
supposed. This mutual adoration. They don't need to speak it,
or let the
other know,
because they both understand and love becomes lost in the translation.
You
can touch the
stars, someone once said, if you're willing to risk being burnt.
(Would you lie for me?)
He looks over to her for a moment and she slides her fingers
through his.
For a fleeting
moment she is truly content and her surroundings are meaningless,
because
although she is
hundreds of miles from her bed and house, this is where she is
at home.
(Would you fight for me?)
Closing her eyes, she lets her head fall backward, soaking
in the last rays
of the dying
sun.
(Would you die for me?)
She's willing to take the risk.
* * *
She is sitting on the broken white bench on the porch, bare
feet swinging
back and forth
and without emotion. When he finds her her eyes are empty, void
of spirit
or meaning and it
disturbs him immensely as she turns, finally, at his voice, after
having
called, and then
whispered, her name three times.
"Come back inside," he says quietly, eyeing the
sun warily. Her face shows
no evidence of
understanding.
"Why?" She challenges him, her eyebrows quickly forming a frown.
"It's not safe outside."
"It's light out." She argues, her tone childlike.
He sighs. "There are things other than vampires."
She begins to laugh at that. "And what good will the
walls do then? They
fall and then
I'll wash away the blood. Again. And again..."
(And the blood is always sweet.) He is quiet.
"Willow and Xander. I was supposed to meet them at Willow's
house,
remember? Tonight is
Graduation..." She rises from her seat and makes as if to
run, before he
calls her.
"Buffy."
"I have to go! They're waiting!" Panting, she calms
for a moment, before
whimpering.
"Will you get them for me? Carve them from their flesh?
Their blood?" Her
eyes flash with
a darkness and some secret meaning, and roll backwards once, twice,
and the
return
to their original emerald colouring.
(Always.)
"Will you rip their bones to make them whole?" Her
voice is sickly-sweet
and high-pitched,
and it reminds him of something ancient and unholy.
(For you, darling.)
And then it passes. The thing. The darkness that he could
not have placed,
that followed
her being with every movement. He frowns, and she straightens,
her lip
trembling.
A whisper. "They're dead."
He knows. God, he knows only too well.
"And there's nothing I could have done, even if I was
there. I couldn't
have stopped it.
How could I have, knowing what I knew? Having done what they
said was
impossible?
Abominable?"
(This love.) He doesn't wan't to hear. "Buffy."
"There's something wrong. Something different, something
dark." She
collapses but he is
quick to catch her, setting his sleeve aflame in the process.
His eyebrows furrow as she gets up slowly to return to the
shadows, where it
is cold. The
only place where there is comfort, where it is safe. He grasps
her arms
roughly and is
startled by her new fragility, and strange scent of her blood.
"What is it?" She whispers.
His eyes widen as he lets go of her quickly, withdrawing his
hands as though
she burned him.
She frowns, looking at him questioningly, confused, while he retreats
involuntarily from
her reach.
"God," He mutters, in disbelief. "You're not her."
(Who?)
Shaking his head, he chuckles unhumorously. "You're not the Slayer."
* * *
To be continued, but in the meanwhile email Drusilla and send some feedback.