Being a vampire sucked. No sun, no friends, no Paris, no reflection. How could she ever strike live /strike exist like that? She'd come over all demony, and she didn't even know what a demonic Harmony looked like. The mirror in her compact was covered in black lipstick hearts, so she wouldn't have to see that she couldn't see what she normally could have seen. It made her nervous to think that she might be going and killing people with her hair all foofy and hideous. There was no way her victims could respect her like that. Respect was all she wanted.
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He didn't see the point of mirrors. He'd never cared how he'd looked as a human– obviously, or he would have looked less foppish. He saw no reason to care now. Angelus was always fussing over his hair or grousing about bloodstains on his clothing. It drove him mad. They were vicious, soulless killers; they were supposed to be covered in blood. Besides, even if he did care, which he didn't, he knew he looked good. He didn't need a shiny rectangle to tell him that. A hunter always looked good to the hunted. He was the one in control.
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There was no other child in the plate of moon-glass. There always used to be a demon in there, frothing and staring like a second shadow. Now there was nothing but light and armchairs, cracks in the plaster wall. She was invisible to its eyes. Gnat on the wall, gnat on the wall, not to be spied on and mimicked. Nothing lived inside it to remind her who she was, who she was wrong for being. How lovely to stare and not see that thing.
There was no more demon in the plate of moon-glass. The demon was inside her.
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It was strange, seeing himself again after all these years. He'd changed. He looked serious, dedicated– and had his hair always done that thing? Walking in sunlight was weird, sure. Just not so weird he couldn't handle it. But this...
The others didn't get why he cared so much. They lived with their reflections every day. He hadn't, not for a long time, and he was used to that. It made it easier to deal if he couldn't see who was doing the dealing. Because the one doing the dealing? He looked exactly like the one he was dealing with.
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It was a curse: looking in the room's many mirrors, and seeing her face in every one. She used to be a killer, victorious and strong. But the face she saw was tired and weak. The eyes were filled with age, sorrow, remorse. There was no way that face belonged to a killer. Killers smiled. They laughed. They weren't pained by their crimes. She shouldn't be either, but the guilt lapped at her, constantly dragging her down deeper. The face just sat there, filled with despair. So she smashed the glass into sharp little splinters.
She wouldn't let herself drown.