TITLE: Slayer Lost
AUTHOR: Theresa Verhaalen
SPOILERS: Character death
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Buffy's foray towards her darker impulses has taken a drastic turn. Angel steps in to help.
ARCHIVE: Ask first
FEEDBACK: Gleefully received .NOTE: I wanted to capitalize more on the Spike/Buffy affair--and where I thought it would go.

She shivered in the morning light, picking at the frayed edges of her blouse. It cracked near the shoulders and fell off in pieces, warning her to seek shelter. The burning teased her flesh, tasting wherever wasn't covered. Smoking, she ran headlong into an alley, hell-bent for the sewers.
Her senses were sharpened unlike before. She could smell humanity emerging all around her. Suits and skirts were on their way to the subway, she caught their heady scent, felt their pulses beating in her brain like a tattoo. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. What was she doing here in LA, smoky-eyed like a whore, crying for days, blood thirst taking over?
She made a beeline for the subway, oblivious to the stares of onlookers. How she must look to them, pale, clothes barely hanging on, a fetid stench rising from her as the sun assaulted her body. No, she wasn't one of them anymore. There was only one she could trust.
Finding her way down a platform, she headed for the shadows, where she knew she could make her way, and find sustenance.
Cordelia found her, clinging to the front door, vainly turning away from the light. Her blond hair hung in strings. It took work to pry her fingers off of the door handle.
"Hey, what's the matter? The halfway house is on the other side of town, honey," she said matter-of-factly, finally prying her hands off of the door.
The girl moaned, then met her eyes. "Oh my God." Cordelia stepped back in shock, as if the touch alone was enough to transform her into…into whatever she had become. Her keys fell from her hand.
"What's the matter?" Gunn asked, sidling up the situation. Cordelia could only look at him in horror.

Angel was upstairs in the former motel-du-office, talking with Fred about the myriad importances of getting out…and living. She still fought going out at night, but was making progresses. The hardest part was throwing off the girl's amorous advances. There was only one girl he'd ever love.
"Angel!" Cordelia shrieked.
He turned to Fred, half-smiling. "I'll be back in just a minute."
He had just made the top of the stairs when he met Cordelia's terrified face, and saw the cause of it. The girl was thin, completely disheveled, dressed in black, her clothing hung off her body in burned patches.
He couldn't make out the face, her head was downcast, ashamed. But he could feel the lack of a heartbeat.
"Cordelia…she's a-"
"Vampire," Buffy finished, raising her head slowly. Her eyes were cold, distant. "I didn't wanna be." She sank to the floor, sobbing heavily. Angel reached her before her head hit the floor.
Later, she sat, with Angel, explaining what had happened. The warm mug of blood helped, but it pained her that she had taken a life before getting hold of herself. Was this how Angel felt when his soul had flooded back into his body?
"How…how did this happen?" he asked, leaning in close to wipe her bloodstained lips. She pulled back away, stunned, still rejecting her new identity.
Her eyes were downcast. "I was hoping we could skip that part. I should've seen it coming, done something to put an end to it."
"To what? Buffy, what happened isn't your fault." He said it so simply, as if words could make the problem go away. But there was no doubt about it: she was a vampire, not a Slayer anymore. It was her worst nightmare. She had faced death, even been dead (well, shortly), but to be one of the walking undead was too much a blasphemy for her to stay-in Sunnydale, anyhow.
"Yes," she began. "It was my fault. It has to do with Spike." She looked up at Angel, who watched her carefully, unsure of what would come next. "After I came back, they didn't realize that I hadn't been saved
from the ravages of hell, I'd been ripped out of heaven-at least what I thought heaven was. I had everything-all I ever needed. Time didn't exist there, everything came together in moments of love and dreams come true. So, you can imagine what it was like to return-here. To be ripped out of that and once again be the Slayer, this time with new priorities. I had forgotten that my mother was dead. I now had bills to pay. And…it got worse." She paused, looking up from black-rimmed eyes almost coldly. "Got any more?"
Angel replaced her empty mug with a fresh one, filled to the rim. "Why didn't you call me?"
He shifted his chair closer to hers. She put up a hand. "I said it gets worse, and you want to be this close to me?"
He didn't budge. "Deal with my being near."
She shrugged, continuing. "Spike had helped us when Glory was here, had kept Dawn reasonably safe. I mistook his concern for what it really was. He had told me he loved me, and I kept him at bay. Eventually, I didn't care anymore. Dawn wasn't listening to anything I had to say, her grades slipped, a social worker came to visit, she romanced a vampire..even staked him. Xander and Anya were in their own little world, getting married, when our girl Willow got addicted to magic. She ended up nearly getting my sister killed. So, you can see, I had a lot on my plate to deal with. Did I mention Giles leaving permanently for England?"
Angel's eyes had clouded over. Buffy knew that it was the quiet rage that built before the storm. "So Spike offered to turn you? You what, took him up on it?"
"In a manner of words-yes." She drank deeply from the cup and set it down. "He and I, we-"
"I don't want to know." Angel held up his hand. Suddenly, there was a mewling at the door. Fred pushed her way in, carrying an infant. She examined the pair, fidgeted slightly.
"So, you're Buffy." It came out more like a curse than a compliment.
"Not anymore." She stared at the baby quizzically, who was beginning a full-blown cry now.
Fred shifted the baby on her hip, ringlets of hair temporarily obscuring her face. "Angel-sorry to interrupt. But your son needs to be fed."
Now it was Buffy's turn to be shocked. "Your son?"
Angel ignored this. "Take him to Cordelia, she'll know what to do."
Once the door was shut, the fight began. He explained himself, Buffy let him in on her experience with turning.
"I just let him do it. I wanted to be dead." Her eyes welled up. "I shit on everything I ever held sacred-and now I can't turn it back. You know what the worst part is?"
"Your soul," he replied, pulling her close. She leaned into him, absorbing his scent, tethering his confidence to her.
"I don't know how it happened-it doesn't make sense." Her voice was hidden-barely a whisper. Her skin felt cold to the touch, foreign to him. She reeked of the street-and death. It was a far cry from the Buffy he remembered-the one who wrapped him in warm embraces, smelling of Love's Baby Soft, who reminded him of what it was like to still be alive.
"You sure Willow didn't have anything to do with it?" he said finally.
"She couldn't have. She's dead. I killed her." She collapsed in his arms, weeping.
Angel didn't know what to do, but he just held her in his arms.
The End (for now)