Disclaimer — Buffy the Vampire Slayer is property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and The WB/UPN. Lines of dialogue are taken from "Entropy", written by Drew Z. Greenberg. I make no profit from this exercise in creativity.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
— "Fire and Ice", Robert Frost
Sometimes, Anya is sure that she will burn alive. One day, she'll just burst into flames, like a vampire in the sunlight, and the blaze will consume her completely. This is how vengeance demons who displease D'Hoffryn die; over the centuries, she's smelled the roasted flesh of a few of her colleagues. But Anya does not expect to perish at D'Hoffryn's hand. Rather, she's certain that she will ignite spontaneously from these stupid, human emotions that burn inside of her still.
The wrath, the overwhelming thirst for vengeance, is the worst. It boils in her belly, threatening to erupt at any moment. How could it not, after what Xander's done to her? She gave him her heart and soul, and she loved him and cared for him, like any good wife. But she's not his wife; he made certain that she would never bear his name in the most humiliating, excruciating manner possible.
She wants to hurt him. She wants to rip him apart, limb by limb, with his agonized screams as a beautiful soundtrack. She wants to gouge out his eyes, claw off his face, rip off his penis and force it down his throat until he chokes, make him bleedscreamcrydie!
She wants him to hurt. She wants him to suffer like she's suffering. She wants him to wake up in the middle of the night gasping for breath because this yawning emptiness in his chest is threatening to swallow him whole.
Sometimes, though, in her weaker moments, Anya yearns for him. Desire seizes her like a fever; all she wants is for him to come back to her. Sometimes, in spite of it all, she thinks that she would take him back in an instant and not hesitate to smash her necklace into pretty little pieces.
She hates herself, because he left her, at the altar, and doesn't she have any more self-respect than this? She's sunk so low because of him, and she tries with every fiber of her being to hate him, but she can't. She still wants him so badly, and even though she fantasizes about eviscerating him, she knows that she would die if something were to happen to him.
All of these feelings are too much for her, surging inside of her body like electricity, like fire. They're a jumbled mess in her head, and she can't breathe; she can't think; she just wants it to stop—
And then there's Spike. He rests his cool hands on her feverish flesh, and she grows calm; her mind becomes serene. He trails his chilly lips down her throat, presses her bare back into the cold, hard wood of the table, and she yields to him, letting him in willingly, eagerly. She silences the little voice in her head, the one that screams, "No! Only Xander can touch you like this!"
He's nothing like Xander; she could never confuse the two. Xander is heat, and passion. Xander is hot breath on her neck and warm, tender embraces. Spike is ice inside of her. Spike rocks into her, and a chill spreads through her body, chasing away the heat that threatens to engulf her. She grows numb to everything.
Then everything comes crashing back to her; she feels it all. Spike leaves with a cursory nod, and once he's gone she collapses to the floor, sobbing tears that won't douse the flames that threaten to consume her. Her momentary reprieve has only made things worse; surely, she will combust here and now.
She hears voices, high and angry, outside. She wipes her eyes and breathes deeply. The façade she wears like a shield grows harder to maintain, but she carefully pulls herself together and goes to investigate.
It's Xander, with a stake at Spike's heart. "Don't even try to deny it!" he cries, and the jagged edge of his voice matches the sound of the never-ending thoughts in her head. "'Cause we saw it all. The whole, beautiful show." Her fair cheeks burn with shame. God, couldn't he at least have the decency to kill her? Couldn't he at least grant her this one mercy before the pressure of everything inside of her makes her crack into a million smoldering pieces?
Then he looks at her, really looks at her, and he's almost unrecognizable. His eyes are frozen, and his features are twisted in a cold fury. "You let that evil, soulless thing touch you. You wanted me to feel something? Congratulations, it worked. I look at you, and I feel sick, 'cause you had sex with that."
Her stomach fills with ice. Their lives are crashing down around them, but all that she sees is Xander walking away from her. Before, there was still the chance that there was some sort of misunderstanding, but this — the hateful words, the frost in his voice — this is unmistakable. They are finished. Done. Xander loathes her. She repulses him.
It's a warm spring night, but Anya still shivers and pulls her sweater tight around her. The blessed numbness is back, but now she'd do anything to have the fire.