TITLE: The Man and the Demon.
SERIES: Conversations from the Crypt.
AUTHOR: Paradoqz
EMAIL: paradoqz@hotmail.com
SHOW: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
SUMMARY: Vampire takes a look in the mirror.
RATING: PG-13
ARCHIVE: Please ask.
DISCLAIMER: Disclaimers: Every concept and character mentioned
therein belongs to Joss Whedon. Feedback and flames are welcome.
***
Conversation the first: The Man and the Demon.
***
I knew it right then. Knew it with absolute, unshakable certainty, as
it hit me, choking me with its truth and leaving me gasping for air I
didn't need.
It was one of those moments where the knowledge that lay dormant in
your blood, lurking in your undermind, ghosting at the back of your
brain - one of those moments when it all crystallizes in one blinding
second of perfect understanding.
I used to fancy myself a poet. I know these things.
She didn't take up much space. Even sleeping she didn't feel at home
here; curled, taking up as little of the bed as possible. Frowning.
The brows drawn together in a worried, tired expression, half hidden
by blonde hair.
It was then, with the shadows of the dying candle dancing across her
face that I knew, KNEW that I would not survive her.
I remember when she used to be happy, smiling in her sleep.
Especially in her sleep. I looked at her for hours, a quiet watcher
looking in from the outside, crouching in the murky bedroom,
observing, waiting.
Every night under her window was a piligrimage. EVery stolen moment
inside a revelation.
She was my temple.
They called it stalking. Stalking? I was praying. Hasids drunken on
God and majesty of Universe, they'd understand me.
He... no, he never smiled. He was smarter than he looked, the soldier
boy. He knew how it was going to go down in the end. Knew it even
then, as he lay there, his arm around her in a protective embrace,
that looked more like a rowning man trying to hold on to a raft. She
was happy then, smiling. He was already saying good bye. Life's like
that.
I still got the bottle we split that night when his universe
crumbled.
Odd world. I'd suggest "Sometimes it feels he's the closest person in
the world to me...
She was his temple too.
She asked me about it once. And whatever I said in my haste to change
the topic, I can't remember now. I doubt she bought it. What use
does a vampire have for a mirror, after all?
I look in the mirror and I see her.
What does she see when looks at me? A demon tamed? A murderer jailed?
Pathetic remains of William the Bloody? A defanged vampire who
couldn't protect her sister?
I look in the mirror and the absurdity of what I am stares back at
me. I am looking into the abyss, and it's chipping away at me until
there is nothing left. If I am not Spike, who am I? If I am not a
demon, am I a man?
It was a strange night. The night of angry Gods and quiet ghosts
moving among us. Everything changed and everything stayed the same.
It's strange the things you remember and the things you forget. The
Nibblet's widening, teary, terrified eyes as I plummeted off the
scaffolding. I dream about that stare, still. The witch's voice,
ringing in my ears, comes to haunt me sometimes, bringing doubts and
strange thoughts.
Why did I trust her. What possessed me to charge blindly into that
mob on a say so from that red haired little bit. She came through,
but...
Why did I trust her? Or did I really not give a shit? It's strange,
that your own thoughts escape you more consistently than anything
else. I don't remember. I just don't.
I remember the end though. Her body lying bloody and broken on the
stones, like a sacrificial offering to the Gods of old. The sounds of
a thousand Hells dying away and my eyes burning, my leg buckling.
She wasn't frowning then. Death was her gift. She finally found what
she was looking for. I still go there from time to time. It's a good
place for a smoke and to look at the stars. Strange night. I remember
that Red cried too, bitterly and without excuses, letting tears drop
off her face into the hair of her girlfriend. We understand each
other, Red and I. Blood and tears. Nothing in this fucked up world
bonds like blood and tears.
I wonder still about that. Does she look at me and wish to see
someone else? Do they? A century and more has passed and I'm still
trying to outrun Angelus' shadow. The more times change...
Yeah. That night would have been a good end to it all. But she came
back. And she didn't need me as she left me: unsure, confused. Not
quite a man, less than a monster. She needed something else, so I
gave it to her. Or at least I tried to.
They are so fucking clueless sometimes. After all, it was all spelled
out for them. For her. Death is her gift. But - typical. For her to
accept it, she would finally have to make her bloody mind up about
something. Be certain of who she is and what she wants. Can't have
that. Would cut in on all that high drama shit.
Whatever guise it came at me, I accepted it. I reveled in it. Death
was not my gift. It was my everything. It was my life. I was William
the Bloody, slayer of Slayers. Death on two feet. I embraced it,
embraced who I was, burying the whiney little William with the
mountains of corpses, drowning him in the seas of blood. Death was my
reward. Death was my desiny. Death was the alpha and the omega.
Not so for her. She's in love with it, of course -- I told her as
much. How can she not be? She dances on the edge and looks it full in
the eyes every night. She flirts with it. She teases. And
sometime... sometimes she gives in. For a bit. For a split second she
decides that it's time to french the night.
She went to the Master and bared her neck. She leapt of the tower,
spilling her life's blood. She gives in sometimes. Fascinated and
repelled but drawn to it. The death calling out to her. Her Gift.
Always there when she needs it. Dead things giving her succor, be it
Angelus or me she calls into her bed.
Until she rebels. Fighting herself. Rejecting herself. Rejecting
death. Rejecting us. Going back, time after time, into the world of
the living. Always stronger but never thankful to that which gave her
that strength. Death is her gift. But she will not accept it. She
tasted it twice and turned away. She settled for the cold bodies of
Death's orphans instead. And even them... I'd make "It won't last, I
know it. Just as my sire, may he be damned for all eternity, knew it
too..
And yet she would not accept life. TThe daylight is just as foreign
to her. And so she sent her soldier away. Not dark enough for her. I
wonder what she'll say to me when it's my turn. Too much of a
monster? Not enough?
She needs a monster in her man. They all do. Helps them remember who
they are. What they aren't. You walk too long in the night, you lose
yourself. They all know it, in their heart of hearts. They all love
it, just a little bit. They all feel the pull, all were touched by
the dark and marked all time.
The boy, soon to be married to his demon. Keep her close, whelp. Keep
her real close. Push to the back of your mind the fears and the
doubts, of what she was and what she might yet become.
The Redhead. Oh, yes. I can smell the night on her. Growing within. I
know the rites that brought back the Slayer: it's a blood sacrifice.
I wonder how the little witch sleeps at night. Does she wake up
screaming, clutching onto her blonde girlfriend? I bet she does. When
it's dark outside, when the monsters come. When they wear her face.
They need it, a dose of the real monster, to wake them up. Shake them
loose from the trance. Before they take just one step closer, go just
a little deeper into the dark.
And she needs it, more than the rest. The Slayer. The Killer. She
needs us. Needs the dark mirror to her soul, be it her sister Slayer
or a bleached vampire. She needs it. Needs something to anchor all
her fears, all her doubts, all the lure of her gift. Something to
measure against. Right now it's me. Lucky Spike.
I look in the mirror and all I see is her.
Is this love? Lust? Her smell is everywhere, all around me, and once
again I forget what I am, and choke on jasmine perfume. Even from
here, her reflection distorted by dust and dying, flickering candle,
I can see the faint beat of her pulse. Her neck bared and bronze,
incongruous next to my paleness. I can feel her blood. I can feel her
heartbeat roaring in my ears like a thunder of a sea storm, blocking
out everything else. Calling out to me. Death is her gift. Death is
my fate.
And all it would take is a quick slash.
Just a drop or two of my blood onto her lips as she bleeds her
destiny out on the satin sheets.
Happy ending.
Me and Her. Forever.
She doesn't even hear me coming. And it's the easiest thing in the
world to reach down and...
****
The pale, half naked figure froze for a moment, one arm clawing the
air in quietly helpless fury just inches from the woman on the
pallet. The seconds stretched until the vampire bowed his head in
wordless defeat, gently pulling the covers over the sleeping Slayer.
Minutes later the candle lost its fight against the night and the
crypt plunged into darkness, illuminated only by the solitary glow of
a cigarette.
***
I will not survive her. That much I realize. The truth of it sings
inside of me, rattling my bones. But what the hell. I'm content for
now. Even with gaping emptiness of the knowledge that the end is
coming, inside of me.
I'm content for now, here. Sitting and watching her sleep. I'm
content.
And who's to know.
One day she might just smile.
SERIES: Conversations from the Crypt.
AUTHOR: Paradoqz
EMAIL: paradoqz@hotmail.com
SHOW: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
SUMMARY: Vampire takes a look in the mirror.
RATING: PG-13
ARCHIVE: Please ask.
DISCLAIMER: Disclaimers: Every concept and character mentioned
therein belongs to Joss Whedon. Feedback and flames are welcome.
***
Conversation the first: The Man and the Demon.
***
I knew it right then. Knew it with absolute, unshakable certainty, as
it hit me, choking me with its truth and leaving me gasping for air I
didn't need.
It was one of those moments where the knowledge that lay dormant in
your blood, lurking in your undermind, ghosting at the back of your
brain - one of those moments when it all crystallizes in one blinding
second of perfect understanding.
I used to fancy myself a poet. I know these things.
She didn't take up much space. Even sleeping she didn't feel at home
here; curled, taking up as little of the bed as possible. Frowning.
The brows drawn together in a worried, tired expression, half hidden
by blonde hair.
It was then, with the shadows of the dying candle dancing across her
face that I knew, KNEW that I would not survive her.
I remember when she used to be happy, smiling in her sleep.
Especially in her sleep. I looked at her for hours, a quiet watcher
looking in from the outside, crouching in the murky bedroom,
observing, waiting.
Every night under her window was a piligrimage. EVery stolen moment
inside a revelation.
She was my temple.
They called it stalking. Stalking? I was praying. Hasids drunken on
God and majesty of Universe, they'd understand me.
He... no, he never smiled. He was smarter than he looked, the soldier
boy. He knew how it was going to go down in the end. Knew it even
then, as he lay there, his arm around her in a protective embrace,
that looked more like a rowning man trying to hold on to a raft. She
was happy then, smiling. He was already saying good bye. Life's like
that.
I still got the bottle we split that night when his universe
crumbled.
Odd world. I'd suggest "Sometimes it feels he's the closest person in
the world to me...
She was his temple too.
She asked me about it once. And whatever I said in my haste to change
the topic, I can't remember now. I doubt she bought it. What use
does a vampire have for a mirror, after all?
I look in the mirror and I see her.
What does she see when looks at me? A demon tamed? A murderer jailed?
Pathetic remains of William the Bloody? A defanged vampire who
couldn't protect her sister?
I look in the mirror and the absurdity of what I am stares back at
me. I am looking into the abyss, and it's chipping away at me until
there is nothing left. If I am not Spike, who am I? If I am not a
demon, am I a man?
It was a strange night. The night of angry Gods and quiet ghosts
moving among us. Everything changed and everything stayed the same.
It's strange the things you remember and the things you forget. The
Nibblet's widening, teary, terrified eyes as I plummeted off the
scaffolding. I dream about that stare, still. The witch's voice,
ringing in my ears, comes to haunt me sometimes, bringing doubts and
strange thoughts.
Why did I trust her. What possessed me to charge blindly into that
mob on a say so from that red haired little bit. She came through,
but...
Why did I trust her? Or did I really not give a shit? It's strange,
that your own thoughts escape you more consistently than anything
else. I don't remember. I just don't.
I remember the end though. Her body lying bloody and broken on the
stones, like a sacrificial offering to the Gods of old. The sounds of
a thousand Hells dying away and my eyes burning, my leg buckling.
She wasn't frowning then. Death was her gift. She finally found what
she was looking for. I still go there from time to time. It's a good
place for a smoke and to look at the stars. Strange night. I remember
that Red cried too, bitterly and without excuses, letting tears drop
off her face into the hair of her girlfriend. We understand each
other, Red and I. Blood and tears. Nothing in this fucked up world
bonds like blood and tears.
I wonder still about that. Does she look at me and wish to see
someone else? Do they? A century and more has passed and I'm still
trying to outrun Angelus' shadow. The more times change...
Yeah. That night would have been a good end to it all. But she came
back. And she didn't need me as she left me: unsure, confused. Not
quite a man, less than a monster. She needed something else, so I
gave it to her. Or at least I tried to.
They are so fucking clueless sometimes. After all, it was all spelled
out for them. For her. Death is her gift. But - typical. For her to
accept it, she would finally have to make her bloody mind up about
something. Be certain of who she is and what she wants. Can't have
that. Would cut in on all that high drama shit.
Whatever guise it came at me, I accepted it. I reveled in it. Death
was not my gift. It was my everything. It was my life. I was William
the Bloody, slayer of Slayers. Death on two feet. I embraced it,
embraced who I was, burying the whiney little William with the
mountains of corpses, drowning him in the seas of blood. Death was my
reward. Death was my desiny. Death was the alpha and the omega.
Not so for her. She's in love with it, of course -- I told her as
much. How can she not be? She dances on the edge and looks it full in
the eyes every night. She flirts with it. She teases. And
sometime... sometimes she gives in. For a bit. For a split second she
decides that it's time to french the night.
She went to the Master and bared her neck. She leapt of the tower,
spilling her life's blood. She gives in sometimes. Fascinated and
repelled but drawn to it. The death calling out to her. Her Gift.
Always there when she needs it. Dead things giving her succor, be it
Angelus or me she calls into her bed.
Until she rebels. Fighting herself. Rejecting herself. Rejecting
death. Rejecting us. Going back, time after time, into the world of
the living. Always stronger but never thankful to that which gave her
that strength. Death is her gift. But she will not accept it. She
tasted it twice and turned away. She settled for the cold bodies of
Death's orphans instead. And even them... I'd make "It won't last, I
know it. Just as my sire, may he be damned for all eternity, knew it
too..
And yet she would not accept life. TThe daylight is just as foreign
to her. And so she sent her soldier away. Not dark enough for her. I
wonder what she'll say to me when it's my turn. Too much of a
monster? Not enough?
She needs a monster in her man. They all do. Helps them remember who
they are. What they aren't. You walk too long in the night, you lose
yourself. They all know it, in their heart of hearts. They all love
it, just a little bit. They all feel the pull, all were touched by
the dark and marked all time.
The boy, soon to be married to his demon. Keep her close, whelp. Keep
her real close. Push to the back of your mind the fears and the
doubts, of what she was and what she might yet become.
The Redhead. Oh, yes. I can smell the night on her. Growing within. I
know the rites that brought back the Slayer: it's a blood sacrifice.
I wonder how the little witch sleeps at night. Does she wake up
screaming, clutching onto her blonde girlfriend? I bet she does. When
it's dark outside, when the monsters come. When they wear her face.
They need it, a dose of the real monster, to wake them up. Shake them
loose from the trance. Before they take just one step closer, go just
a little deeper into the dark.
And she needs it, more than the rest. The Slayer. The Killer. She
needs us. Needs the dark mirror to her soul, be it her sister Slayer
or a bleached vampire. She needs it. Needs something to anchor all
her fears, all her doubts, all the lure of her gift. Something to
measure against. Right now it's me. Lucky Spike.
I look in the mirror and all I see is her.
Is this love? Lust? Her smell is everywhere, all around me, and once
again I forget what I am, and choke on jasmine perfume. Even from
here, her reflection distorted by dust and dying, flickering candle,
I can see the faint beat of her pulse. Her neck bared and bronze,
incongruous next to my paleness. I can feel her blood. I can feel her
heartbeat roaring in my ears like a thunder of a sea storm, blocking
out everything else. Calling out to me. Death is her gift. Death is
my fate.
And all it would take is a quick slash.
Just a drop or two of my blood onto her lips as she bleeds her
destiny out on the satin sheets.
Happy ending.
Me and Her. Forever.
She doesn't even hear me coming. And it's the easiest thing in the
world to reach down and...
****
The pale, half naked figure froze for a moment, one arm clawing the
air in quietly helpless fury just inches from the woman on the
pallet. The seconds stretched until the vampire bowed his head in
wordless defeat, gently pulling the covers over the sleeping Slayer.
Minutes later the candle lost its fight against the night and the
crypt plunged into darkness, illuminated only by the solitary glow of
a cigarette.
***
I will not survive her. That much I realize. The truth of it sings
inside of me, rattling my bones. But what the hell. I'm content for
now. Even with gaping emptiness of the knowledge that the end is
coming, inside of me.
I'm content for now, here. Sitting and watching her sleep. I'm
content.
And who's to know.
One day she might just smile.