Spike awakes to the shrill ring of the telephone. Groaning, he pulls
himself out of bed and starts rifling through clothes on his floor. Finally
after following the sound of the ring, he answers the phone.
"Spike?"
"Ya, Pet?"
"I just wanted to say 'hi'."
He is not fooled in the least by her nonchalant words.
"Red, it's almost six in the morning. Good little witches should be in bed."
"Couldn't sleep."
Her heavy breathing and slow speech speak otherwise.
"You sound tired, Pet."
"Ya, I am. So tired."
An uneasy feeling starts to take flight in his gut.
"What's wrong, Red?"
"I just wanted to say goodbye.talk to you one last time."
Suddenly it all clicks for him. The descent into darkness, suspicion from friends, losing Tara, months of depression, and ignorant friends.
"I'll be right over. Don't do anything, Willow. Please, Pet, I'll be there soon."
He drops the phone, pulls on clothing, and flies out the door. In a few minutes too long, he bursts into the Summer's home and races up the stairs. There is no one in Willow's room. He checks Buffy's and Dawn's rooms. No one. Panic moves from his gut to his chest causing an intense pressure on his lungs. It's taking too long; too long to find her. As he stands frantic in the middle of the living room, Buffy comes down.
"Where's Willow?"
"Spike, what's going on?"
"Where the bloody hell is Willow?"
Spike grounds out the question between clenched teeth. His demon is screaming to get out-to rip anything and everything apart until he finds his redhead. A glance at the clock tells him he is running out of time. He has to find her before the sun comes up; he knows when the sun comes up it will be too late.
"Her parent's house. She said she wanted some alone time. Why? Spike?"
Her question is whispered to the air left in the wake of Spike's departure. He is out the door and down the street in a whirlwind of furious motion before Buffy can even register he's gone. With a quick look upstairs, her natural curiosity takes over, and Buffy follows ten minutes behind the vampire.
Even with his vampiric speed, Spike laments his snail's pace. He doesn't want to contemplate what will meet him when he reaches Willow. With each step her name beats through his veins-a silent prayer, a secret hope that his only friend will be alright. When her house comes into view, he commands his screaming muscles to give one last burst of speed. Then he is up her porch and smashing through the front door.
With the force of a semi-truck, once in the door, Spike is hit with the scent of blood. The pungent, sweet aroma draws him right to the red head-swimming on the kitchen floor in a lake of her own life. The phone floats near her hand. Her hair all but disappears in the sea of red that surrounds her, cradles her in its sticky hands.
"Oh, Willow."
Spike dives in without hesitation, regardless of his clothes. He scoops her into his lap clumsily, having trouble holding onto her slippery skin. Once he gets her in his arms, he cradles her head close to his chest.
"I knew you would come, Spike."
Willow smiles. The deep crimson of her hair stands in stark contrast the snow white parlor of her face.
"Of course, Pet."
He extends his senses to try and pick up the beat of her hear. He finds it struggling to keep up with her body's demands for life and failing miserably. Her life is drowning in a sea of her own essence, and he is powerless to stop it.
"You were the only one."
Spike hugs his witch closer. He feels the sticky mess of her arms pressed listlessly to his body. Pulling back, he lifts her arms to see the mess of her veins that fuels the red fountain around him. From the tips of Willow's fingers to her elbow are deep vine-like cuts.
"I wanted to trace my veins. I thought it would be pretty."
Red tears well up in Spike's eyes, and he chokes out a sob. Willow pulls her hand with the last bit of life left in her out of the lake she floats on. Blood mingles on blood as a thumb brushes away the first tear that escapes the dam behind Spike's eyes. A red streak of two entwined lives appears on Spike's cheek, and the dam breaks completely, utterly. Buffy having followed Spike's frenzied run bursts through the kitchen door.
"Oh my god! Spike! The phone! Where is the phone?!"
Buffy dives in to retrieve the phone, but it is so saturated by the lake it won't work. Like a mad woman Buffy leaves on a mission to find another phone. Spike ignores her, continuing to cry over and rock the dying girl in his arms. He cannot control the river flowing from his own eyes, nor the anguished cries spilling from his lips.
"Thank you, Spike."
Choked by tears, Spike can barely speak.
"For what, Pet?"
"For being the one I called, for being the one bright, beautiful thing I found in my darkness. I could have.we could have."
Her heart gives the last beat to a dying rhythm. In agony and grief, Spike screams his pain to any being willing to listen. His tears come fast and furious and in a torment of long pent up feeling. He sobs for what was; for what could have been; for what he could have done. Drawn by his screams, Buffy reappears. The phone drops from her hand while she collapses into the sea. Spike doesn't see her. Spike doesn't care.
Even when the ambulance comes. Even when they drag her lifeless body from his arms. Spike cannot surface from the drowning pool of his grief. He doesn't move when Buffy leaves to call the others and clean herself up. The first sign of movement is his head turning when he feels the first tingle signaling the beginning of the day. He turns his head but does not move. The tingle morphs into a frenzy of rebelling cells. He doesn't listen to them though. He takes no notice of the warnings of his body. His hope, his beauty now lying cold and empty somewhere can no longer light his life, can no longer move him to care. A lamp has gone out and without it he cannot see the path in front of him. There is not reason to put one foot in front of the other anymore. He ran to her then ran into a brick wall. No where to go.
The sun breaks the horizon, and still he does not move. He watches it start to crest through the trees, through the picture windows of the kitchen. The first natural, real light he has seen in over a hundred years- not the reflection of earth's brilliance off the moon, not the fake glow of charged electrons-good, real light. And it can't even compare to the grace he has just lost. The rebellion in his cells turns to a massacre. His love dies in flames and the settling ash. Dust gray and barren soaks up the red puddle to form a perverse mud.
Joined in death what was never a chance given to grow in life. Blood, life, and sorrow mixed to form barren brown. Dust to blood to dust to the earth we all return.
"Spike?"
"Ya, Pet?"
"I just wanted to say 'hi'."
He is not fooled in the least by her nonchalant words.
"Red, it's almost six in the morning. Good little witches should be in bed."
"Couldn't sleep."
Her heavy breathing and slow speech speak otherwise.
"You sound tired, Pet."
"Ya, I am. So tired."
An uneasy feeling starts to take flight in his gut.
"What's wrong, Red?"
"I just wanted to say goodbye.talk to you one last time."
Suddenly it all clicks for him. The descent into darkness, suspicion from friends, losing Tara, months of depression, and ignorant friends.
"I'll be right over. Don't do anything, Willow. Please, Pet, I'll be there soon."
He drops the phone, pulls on clothing, and flies out the door. In a few minutes too long, he bursts into the Summer's home and races up the stairs. There is no one in Willow's room. He checks Buffy's and Dawn's rooms. No one. Panic moves from his gut to his chest causing an intense pressure on his lungs. It's taking too long; too long to find her. As he stands frantic in the middle of the living room, Buffy comes down.
"Where's Willow?"
"Spike, what's going on?"
"Where the bloody hell is Willow?"
Spike grounds out the question between clenched teeth. His demon is screaming to get out-to rip anything and everything apart until he finds his redhead. A glance at the clock tells him he is running out of time. He has to find her before the sun comes up; he knows when the sun comes up it will be too late.
"Her parent's house. She said she wanted some alone time. Why? Spike?"
Her question is whispered to the air left in the wake of Spike's departure. He is out the door and down the street in a whirlwind of furious motion before Buffy can even register he's gone. With a quick look upstairs, her natural curiosity takes over, and Buffy follows ten minutes behind the vampire.
Even with his vampiric speed, Spike laments his snail's pace. He doesn't want to contemplate what will meet him when he reaches Willow. With each step her name beats through his veins-a silent prayer, a secret hope that his only friend will be alright. When her house comes into view, he commands his screaming muscles to give one last burst of speed. Then he is up her porch and smashing through the front door.
With the force of a semi-truck, once in the door, Spike is hit with the scent of blood. The pungent, sweet aroma draws him right to the red head-swimming on the kitchen floor in a lake of her own life. The phone floats near her hand. Her hair all but disappears in the sea of red that surrounds her, cradles her in its sticky hands.
"Oh, Willow."
Spike dives in without hesitation, regardless of his clothes. He scoops her into his lap clumsily, having trouble holding onto her slippery skin. Once he gets her in his arms, he cradles her head close to his chest.
"I knew you would come, Spike."
Willow smiles. The deep crimson of her hair stands in stark contrast the snow white parlor of her face.
"Of course, Pet."
He extends his senses to try and pick up the beat of her hear. He finds it struggling to keep up with her body's demands for life and failing miserably. Her life is drowning in a sea of her own essence, and he is powerless to stop it.
"You were the only one."
Spike hugs his witch closer. He feels the sticky mess of her arms pressed listlessly to his body. Pulling back, he lifts her arms to see the mess of her veins that fuels the red fountain around him. From the tips of Willow's fingers to her elbow are deep vine-like cuts.
"I wanted to trace my veins. I thought it would be pretty."
Red tears well up in Spike's eyes, and he chokes out a sob. Willow pulls her hand with the last bit of life left in her out of the lake she floats on. Blood mingles on blood as a thumb brushes away the first tear that escapes the dam behind Spike's eyes. A red streak of two entwined lives appears on Spike's cheek, and the dam breaks completely, utterly. Buffy having followed Spike's frenzied run bursts through the kitchen door.
"Oh my god! Spike! The phone! Where is the phone?!"
Buffy dives in to retrieve the phone, but it is so saturated by the lake it won't work. Like a mad woman Buffy leaves on a mission to find another phone. Spike ignores her, continuing to cry over and rock the dying girl in his arms. He cannot control the river flowing from his own eyes, nor the anguished cries spilling from his lips.
"Thank you, Spike."
Choked by tears, Spike can barely speak.
"For what, Pet?"
"For being the one I called, for being the one bright, beautiful thing I found in my darkness. I could have.we could have."
Her heart gives the last beat to a dying rhythm. In agony and grief, Spike screams his pain to any being willing to listen. His tears come fast and furious and in a torment of long pent up feeling. He sobs for what was; for what could have been; for what he could have done. Drawn by his screams, Buffy reappears. The phone drops from her hand while she collapses into the sea. Spike doesn't see her. Spike doesn't care.
Even when the ambulance comes. Even when they drag her lifeless body from his arms. Spike cannot surface from the drowning pool of his grief. He doesn't move when Buffy leaves to call the others and clean herself up. The first sign of movement is his head turning when he feels the first tingle signaling the beginning of the day. He turns his head but does not move. The tingle morphs into a frenzy of rebelling cells. He doesn't listen to them though. He takes no notice of the warnings of his body. His hope, his beauty now lying cold and empty somewhere can no longer light his life, can no longer move him to care. A lamp has gone out and without it he cannot see the path in front of him. There is not reason to put one foot in front of the other anymore. He ran to her then ran into a brick wall. No where to go.
The sun breaks the horizon, and still he does not move. He watches it start to crest through the trees, through the picture windows of the kitchen. The first natural, real light he has seen in over a hundred years- not the reflection of earth's brilliance off the moon, not the fake glow of charged electrons-good, real light. And it can't even compare to the grace he has just lost. The rebellion in his cells turns to a massacre. His love dies in flames and the settling ash. Dust gray and barren soaks up the red puddle to form a perverse mud.
Joined in death what was never a chance given to grow in life. Blood, life, and sorrow mixed to form barren brown. Dust to blood to dust to the earth we all return.