Disclaimer: Below characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I own nothing. So sue me, why don't you? -.-
Summary: And still he watched her dance.
A/N: This is my second attempt to write something decent. Constructive criticisms are VERY welcome!!! Hmm... this is a lil weird to me though...Well...try to enjoy anyway, please? )
Grace.
Speed.
Perfection.
The Slayer dances.
So fast that the world can see nothing but blurs of black and red and gold.
Every move well practiced. Every target hit. Every attack countered.
By now, she'd staked four vamps, the dust falling around her feet.
He loved watching her. Always hidden in the shadows, at least some distance away. He didn't want her noticing. 'Cause then she would stop and the show would be over. Now where's the fun in that?
He puffed on his cigarette, and watched as he spotted a few more vampires. They were following her, working in a pack, practicing stealth and eyeing their target.
The Slayer just walked on, her blonde hair in a bun, 'click click clicking' in her black strapped heels and twirling her stake in the air.
He grinned, lips twisting in a half-smile.
She was playing them. Now this was fun to watch.
They attacked.
The Slayer caught her stake in mid-air and slammed it straight into the chest of the first vampire that had rushed from behind. Then an uppercut and a solid left kick to the second. Parry blow, twist, stake. Over-arm, roundhouse, sharp right hook, stake...
Move after move, blow after blow, each accurate, quick, deadly.
The Slayer danced.
Dust fell around her like snow on winter's day.
It was bloody beautiful.
His grin stretched, just a little wider.
And he watched, mesmerized.
Enthralled.
Captivated.
She was so much like him. Under that golden hair, that strength in her eyes, and that heart that hadn't yet stopped beating, she was exactly like him.
She craved the night and violence, the thrill of watching as vampires turn to dust. An almost sick fascination on her lovely face every time a demon is torn apart, every time a vampire burns in holy water, every time she heard bones snap and break.
The Slayer lived for the kill.
He took another puff on his cigarette, blending deeper into the shadows when she came too close.
Slayers.
They were strong, powerful, spending most of their lives in darkness, and nothing more than vampires if they hadn't been slapped with a conscience and a beating heart. Fighting in the dead of the night, tracking down every demon in the city like a predator looks for prey, and hunting till the sun starts to rise.
Just like him.
But there was something special in this one. She had family, friends. There was a reason for her to live. A reason for her to survive the fight. A reason to the fire that seemed to burn in her eyes.
Oh, it would be so beautiful to break her then.
And he'll see that fire burn till it consumed her in smoke and flames, till her blood turns to ashes and dust, till everything sets ablaze in crimson liquid and there would be nothing left but the darkness and ice.
Then they would dance together into oblivion, dressed in blood and screams and the bittersweet taste of fear on their tongues. It was to be beautiful, grand, his queen would be dressed in gold and white with fresh-bloomed flowers tangled in her hair. The angel of devils, oh they would waltz till the stars fade away, lost in eternity.
A small swirl of smoke rose from his cigarette.
And still he watched her dance.