Author: Jennifer
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Spoilers: Through Dead Things
Summary: A peek in on Buffy during S6.
Feedback: I'd love some. : )
Author's Notes: This story might be a little confusing (eep). Borrowed a little
from Ricky Martin – without permission (sorry!).
ALWAYS THE DARKEST BEFORE
Her steps are quick and hard.
At approximately 5:30 AM, the sun slowly climbs up from below the horizon. Hues
of red and orange splay across the sky, thin clouds move swiftly towards the
west and early birds chirp out songs for the new day (And the day will be
beautiful, won't it?). The morning chill creeps up the sleeves of her winter
coat, goose bumps form on her arms. She's always cold in the morning – she
hardly notices it anymore.
Stopping for nothing – she continues her trek home (Away from the tombstones,
the dead). She needs to hurry, before Willow wakes up – before Dawn gets up for
school. She needs to hurry because it didn't happen. It never
happens (as long as she keeps telling herself). Not too far now.
The first step on Revello Drive, she trips on a crack in the sidewalk (some
slayer). And she wishes she didn't leave her watch behind. She hates it when she
does, because now she actually has an excuse to go back. But then maybe she
didn't even put her watch on yesterday. It could be sitting on her dresser
right now. Yup, it's probably just on her dresser, ticking the seconds away.
She winces as the porch steps creak (have to get that fixed), and she breathes
a sigh of relief. Home. Once she gets in, it'll be like she never left (after
she changes and gets into bed, only to get right out again). The door opens
without a sound – she pauses to look back – Buffy steps in quietly.
And at approximately 7:00 AM, she gets out of bed to make sure her little
sister is getting ready for school.
Every endless night has a dawning day
Every darkest sky has a shining ray
It seems sudden, when she opens her eyes. Oh, God. Her surroundings don't match
her memory of her own room. Oh, God. A cold dead vampire is in place of her
favorite stuffed pig (Mr. Gordo?). Oh, God. She needs her clothes – she can't
believe she stayed the whole night (not to mention afternoon), what's happening
to her? Oh, God.
Rolling out of the large bed, she puts her clothes on in record time.
Leisurely, said cold dead vampire wakes up. Oh, God. Was this supposed to
happen? Sleepy blue eyes reach hers before she can put on her mask.
"Leaving so soon, love?"
She realizes she should just leave. He doesn't need to be graced with an answer
– he doesn't even have a soul (she decides to ignore the hurt hidden in his
inquiry).
"Good-bye, Spike."
Her statement comes out more like a tired sigh, her steps toward the ladder
unsteady (maybe she didn't want to leave). It doesn't matter; she just needs to
get to her own bed (not that she'll be able to sleep, she can never sleep well
without him anymore). She has work today, she can't evade her responsibilities anymore
either.
"Buffy…"
Climbing up the steps, she teaches herself something new. Ignore-ance (not ignorance
– completely different) is what she gives him. Ignore-ance. See? You
learn something new everyday.
She's almost out when something grabs her arm (cool fingers that she can feel
even through her thick coat, and it still gives her tingles from her fingertips
down to her toes).
"Buffy," his voice is soft (it's her favorite kind of sound, she'll never admit
it), "Please, just tell me."
The hurt trembling in his words is almost enough for her to take him in her
arms and whisper assurances in his ear (she'll never admit that, too), but it's
not enough (almost never counts).
"Good-bye, Spike"
It's almost inaudible, but she knows he'll recognize what she said (he always
does). Breaking from his grasp, she continues out the door – into the coming
light. She doesn't see him break the statue in his crypt; she doesn't hear him
kick at the broken angel (or maybe she just doesn't acknowledge it).
At 6:01 AM, the slayer leaves the grounds of the cemetery. The cold air seeping
into her skin, she never notices anymore.
Her steps are quick and hard.
When your soul is tired and your heart is weak
Do you think of love as a one way street?
Warm rays kiss her hair and she wishes the weather would match her mood (or
that her mood would match the weather). It never does, though.
The door opens without any creaks or squeaks, which she finds it odd because,
well, aren't crypt doors supposed to be old and rusty? She pushes the thought
away as he walks up from the lower level (he doesn't look surprised to see her,
he never is surprised anymore).
"Wasn't exceptin' you 'till sunset."
She gives him a slight shrug and sits atop the stone sarcophagus in the middle
of his home. His eyes watch her – study her. Why did she come here again? To be
studied (To be)?
"So, how's Red?"
"She's doing better," (She guesses) with another shrug.
He walks towards her and perches on the armrest of his chair – across from her
– his blue eyes still trying to catch her green ones. Maybe he was trying to
look into her eyes to do one of those thrall things, she thinks idly and
swallows a smile.
"What about the 'Bit? She doin' alright?"
"Is any of this your business?"
Maybe there was too much venom in that. She watches as his expressions harden,
his arms cross in front of his chest.
"I haven't seen her in awhile – I'm not allowed."
And why does he have to pretend to care so much? He's a soulless demon. She knows
that he doesn't care (then again, she could be wrong, but she won't admit this
either).
"You think I'd put my little sister in danger?"
He laughs at this.
"Danger? From what?" He stands up now, his eye flashing the color of gold, "My
excruciating headaches, if I ever hurt her, which I never and don't plan
to."
She decides to change the subject, and she does (like nothing he says matters).
"What do you do on sunny afternoons, anyways? I would think you'd be sleeping,
but here you are – all wake-y."
He lets out a non-existent breath (he doesn't need air, yet he breathes – just
out of habit – it makes him more human, doesn't it?) and leans back against the
armrest.
"Buffy, just tell me," and he sounds so tired, she meets his eyes, "Tell me
what you want. What do you – not Harris, not Dawn, not Willow, not your
bloody absentee father – you want?" Her eyes fell to the floor in the
middle of his question.
"Tell me you care." He's so quiet now, was he always this quiet? He whispers so
softly, "At least, a little?"
He's a soulless demon (why does she keep reminding herself?).
"Buffy…"
Her gaze is still on the dusty floor of the crypt – not wavering – just blank,
emotionless, like it should be.
"Tell me anything."
He doesn't have a soul. He doesn't –
"You don't need to know anything," her gaze isn't on the dirt anymore – what
kind of home was this? The home of a monster. It's a cave (yet you
always come back), "You don't have a soul."
He's standing again – anger burns in his eyes (Yup, he's finally getting fed up
with everything). She stands, too, and meets his steady gaze (She has the power
to do that, doesn't she?).
The Big Bad Vampire and The Powerful Slayer. Nice little fairytale, huh?
"That excuse gets pretty old, don't you think?" snipes the Big Bad Vampire,
"You got anymore up your sleeve?"
"You want to know what I want?" the Powerful Slayer crosses her arms, "I want
you to just leave me alone, you think you can actually do that? If you love me
so much – do that!"
The words escape her before she can stop it and the tale in her mind comes to
an end (does she mean anything she ever says anymore?). His eyes soften, and
his posture looks defeated. Everything's different.
"I do. You know I do. I – "
"Don't."
He doesn't have a soul. Anything he says is a lie. Everything's always a lie.
He's a soulless demon.
"Buffy, love – "
"Stop. You don't have a soul," she steps back, "You can never. You're
nothing. You're not even alive."
She watches as his eyes close, as he swallows his sorrow (she decides to ignore
his pain now). His eyes open, his mouth a straight line.
"It's good enough for you."
And she punches him. He's always there (he doesn't ever leave). Another punch,
and he's pushed back and he stumbles, his vampire features coming forth. She
strides towards him, her fist pulled back for another hit, but once her hand
makes contact, she grabs him by the shirt collar and kisses him (despite the
fangs and bumpies). Her eyes are closed – so she can't see. If she doesn't see it,
it's not happening (so she tells herself).
They ignore the place, the time. They're oblivious to what's around them – the
sun setting, the moon rising, the stars shining. Their dance has changed again
and they don't even notice. Hours fly by and they're ignorant in bliss.
She wakes in the morning and it seems sudden, when she opens her eyes.
Every endless night has a dawning day
Every darkest sky has a shining ray
There are envelopes on the kitchen table. Maybe there's a late birthday card in
there somewhere. Maybe not. Maybe they're all letters telling her she needs to
pay other people her money. Her imaginary money. And she thinks that maybe she
could sell the table. She doesn't really need a table to eat. Dawn and
Willow probably do. The table is sturdy. She rests her elbows on it as her head
is buried in her hands. Maybe the electric company accepts Monopoly money (she
knows all her maybes are for nothing).
What is she supposed to do? Her best friend is sitting upstairs trying to stay
off magic while she is sitting here doing nothing. What is she supposed to do
for dinner? There's an apple in the refrigerator and an old box of baking soda
in the cupboard. What is she supposed to do?
In her peripheral vision, she sees the answer machine is blinking. She pretends
it's nothing (it's the creditors).
Somewhere in the depths of her mind, she hears the telephone ringing. She
pretends it's nothing, too (it's the school calling that Dawn didn't attend
again).
She needs to go. Everything's suffocating her. The recovering witch upstairs,
the rebel little sister crying for attention, the electric bill, the water
bill, the bank, the world, this hell. Tensely, she walks out of the house,
closing the door quietly behind her. She walks with a steady pace – she knows
where she is going.
The cemetery isn't far and she sighs as the warm rays kiss her hair. She wishes
the heavens would open and drown her in its tears.
She pushes the door open easily and shuts it as he walks up from the lower
level (he doesn't look surprised to see her, he never is surprised anymore).
And a silence falls between us as the shadows steal the light
And wherever you may find it – wherever it may lead
Let your private emotion come to me…