Author's Note: Text in plain print is Spike's thoughts and actions. Text in italicized print is something like the First or an inner demon of Spike's. You decide.
"Last Dance"
My hands dance slowly on her back before coming to a rest at her sides. I pull her body tight against mine, pressing her to me. I inhale deeply — though I cannot breathe — and I take in as much of this moment, as much of her as possible. I take in everything from the sharp smell of whiskey in the air to the delicate scent of her hair. A smile plays on my lips as we sway to the lilting music. I turn her face to mine — God, she's so beautiful — and I kiss her. She's delicious to me: the forbidden fruit of God's tree.
Dancing like this, our bodies so close, I can feel her. Not just her body, but her. I can feel the beauty of her heart, bathed in hot desire; I can feel the want to love me, the need to have me, and the thrashing pain for being with me. I don't know how she handles this — it's almost more than I can bear.
You love her, and she loves you, but even if you were human — moreso than a creature with a soul — she couldn't let herself be weak. If she gave herself to you willingly, she would be handing you her fears, her dreams, and her life. She'd be pushing her weakness to the surface and baring her neck to you.
I kiss her softly, my lips gently traveling from her ambrosial mouth to her lovely neck.
Instinct tells her to run, to get as far away from you as she possibly can, but her desire — that passion for the forbidden — is too strong. She wants it, wants you, and her heart can't deny it.
Though she can keep her passion under control in her mind, her heart's pull is becoming stronger and stronger. She is becoming its bitch, as you already are.
Her heart wants her to be weak, to surrender to you. Being weak would make her happy. But in her mind she doesn't want to be happy — doesn't deserve to be happy. She wants to hurt.
That's what you are for. You hurt her, and she's addicted to the pain.
She looks up at me momentarily. Something in her usually bright eyes seems dim, deadened somehow. I brush a wisp of her blonde hair from her face — so delicately fierce — and I tell her I love her. Love and weakness flashes in her eyes for less than a second before that same powerful glint returns.
You're hurting her. She believes that it's making her stronger, but it's only making her weaker. It's making her strong side die. By allowing that to happen, she will free herself from all of her unwanted responsibilities, all of her false hopes, and all of her dead dreams. But she wants to hurt, so she lets her strong side live.
She wants to be drowning in her fears and be swamped by her childhood dreams — those dreams dies the instant she became the Slayer, but she still cradles them against her breast. She still allows the child inside to nurse them, to feed them, to fuel the fire that will inevitably be her undoing, her death.
She knows she must stifle the tiny flame to bring herself back to life, but she kindles the fire. She wants to die, and she wants to die in your arms. You both know that. Kill her.
I can hear the ocean of tears inside her. I can hear her — feel her — crying inside. I'm the only one who can see the invisible tears, the only one who can hear the silent sobs.
Of course you are. You're the one who caused them. You cause too much pain, too many tears.
She loves you, but she hates you for the same reasons. End the pain for her. Stop the tears. End it all.
All you have to do is drink her . . .
I want to hold her forever. I just want to gather her in my arms and hold her.
Do it. Hold her. She wants you to, because that will hurt her. Do it. Hold her tightly against you, cradle her to you until pain is no longer enough, until she is desperate for the release that only death can bring. She will ask for it, beg for it, plead for it.
Only you can give it to her. Don't you want her to finally have what she needs?
I can feel her blood coursing its intricately tangled web through her body. I can feel her heart pumping, and I can feel her breathing. She is breathing heavily, her lungs filling as deeply as the possibly can.
She smiles briefly, and then she tucks her head under my chin. She curls her arms around me, loving me for these lonesome five minutes. Why can't she see we're meant for each other?
She's so close I can smell her blood, and damn me to hell and back if it isn't tempting.
Give in to the temptation, and drink her, drink her deep. She wants it.
The smell . . . the taste is delicious, intoxicating. A small whisper, a tiny taste of the liquor of her blood, and she is gone. Both of you know that. Both of you know that she will die the very instant the first drop touches your lips.
Do it. Take in this forbidden fruit, this merciless apple. Swallow shot after shot of this deadly, luscious liquor. Take her in and do not release her until she cries out. Don't release her until she is dead. She wants it as much as you do.
Drink her.
I don't want to hurt her. I can't believe I ever did. That part of me is dead now. She's my whole world, my entire undead life.
She knows you don't want to hurt her. She's always known that. But even still, she wants you to wrench her strengths away from clenched fists, pry them away from her powerful hands. She wants you to force the weakness in her to come forth and cower before you. She wants to tilt her head back and press your mouth to her neck. She wants you to taste the apple.
She's humming along with the music now. A smile crawls onto her lips and she is ignorant of all the things happening around her. She is unaware of the stares coming from her friends, unaware of the knowing glances coming from her Watcher. She doesn't even see the hate coming from some of them. Everything will come rushing back to her in a moment and she will have to rebuild the wall instantaneously. But for now, she's in love.
She loves me. I know it. That's why I can't hurt her.
You want it. You want to revel in the glory of her; you want to bring her to her knees and make her beg for mercy.
But then again, you want her to offer herself to you to save you the trouble and the pain of taking her life from her.
Her exquisite eyes look into mine. She doesn't ask any questions or show any regret — at least not right now. As soon as this dance is over, she'll berate herself for giving five more minutes of her life — seems like hours and hours — to me.
You hate her for that. You know you do. Stop trying to be good and just kill her.
After this dance, she will run from me and tell me she still can never love me. She'll tell me that she doesn't give a damn about anything between us — about me — but she'll be lying to herself. She loves me.
She doesn't love you. You're just convenient. You love her, and she will tear you apart until the monster you really are explodes out of you and rips her to pieces.
Hurt her like she wants you to, like she prays for you to. You know you want to. You want to rip her and tear her . . .
I know she can never love me freely, and I don't understand why. She says her friends wouldn't accept her if they knew she loved me. They already do, and they love her just the same, don't they? Besides, shouldn't love be open and free and beautiful, no matter what anyone else thinks about it?
She knows that. She always has. Her pride and determination to win are the only things keeping her in the dark about her own love for me. It pains me that she chooses them over me, even though I am the only one who will truly love her for eternity, but her pride and solemn determination are qualities of hers I fell in love with so long ago.
That's why I can't hurt her.
You're a coward, weak. You always have been. Just because the bitch makes you feel good on the inside. You were a stranger to love and passion and pleasure before she sashayed her way into your life, before she curled up inside your heart.
You're still a stranger. She holds all of your love and passion, but she won't allow you to feel anything. She doesn't want you to believe that she loves you because then you wouldn't hurt her.
She tells me she doesn't love me, that she never has. But she lets me live. If she wasn't in love with me, then damn it, why hasn't she ended my undead life?
She lets you live to haunt herself.
Absently, she pulls me even closer to her body — if that's even possible. She's so close I can almost taste her blood. I can almost taste the savory juice on my tongue, taste the beloved metallic flavor. I can almost feel the glorious, thick liquid gliding down my throat.
Taste it . . . taste it for real. Don't just imagine it. Take it from her.
Every night you dream of that red liquor — a few drops would sustain you — and every night you fight it.
Surrender to it. Drink her.
I want her to live. I want to save her, to let her save herself. I want her to brush away the jagged edges of all those years of broken, devoured dreams. I want her to be strong — not physically, like the body she cowers in is, but mentally. I want her to love without fear. I want her to stand up for what she believes in — for what is right — because she wants to, not because it's her duty. And damn it, I don't want her to die.
That isn't what she wants. Think about it. You'll do anything for her, anything she wants. Why do you want to damn her to another lifetime of sorrow and remorse, of pain and grief?
I can almost reach it for her. I can almost reach love and happiness and life for her — but it's up to her to catch it.
She doesn't want it! Kill her. That's what she wants, what she needs! She doesn't deserve life. She deserves death. She belongs to death! It is her master, and she is its bitch. She crawls to it as you do to love.
I pray for her, though I no longer believe in God. I pray that she'll see the life she could be living, the love she could give to whomever she bloody well pleased.
You pray for her every night. Has anything happened yet? Have your efforts been proven worthy of her? Is it even worth your effort? Is she?
You are nothing more than a shadow of a man. You can never be a real man. You truly are nothing but love's bitch: you crawl to it, whimper for it like the dog you are.
Cry on, bitch, cry on.
I kiss her one more time, my eager soul searching hers. There's something melancholy and black inside, something crying out. I can feel a tinge of real sorrow amongst bitter tears.
There's a note of finality in this kiss.
She hates you. You're too weak for her. You can't even give her what she wants. You can't give her what she needs because you're too damned afraid to!
Frantically I hold her. I hug her body so close to mine it's as if we are a single person. Can't she see? We fit perfectly together. Can't she see that? Damn it, can't she feel it?
That's it. She can't feel it. You have to make her feel it. You have to show her what it's like to know release.
Closer, closer. Oh, God, she needs to be closer . . .
Don't leave me!
Don't let her leave me. No. No! She's pulling away! Don't let her leave me!
You failed her. You failed to give her what she needed. You let her go, let her die again.
Come back to me!
I can't let her die; I won't. Not this time. This time I'll save her. I know I can. I feel it. I will save her.
The dance is over. You can't save her. You will never save her. You're too weak.
I can't . . . I can't save her.
You're too weak to save her. She will die at your every touch because you're too weak to give what she needs.
The dance is over . . . finally . . .
The music is gone, the love withered and dead, and the dance is finally over.