Chapter Nine: Parting
Sire and Childe
He opened his eyes. Had he fallen asleep? He must have. Dru was in the room. Like a bit of ice wafting her chill through the shadows. Why hadn't she woken him? He remembered then, that he had left her behind. Again he felt the coal of guilt scratching itself against his ribs. He had made a mistake in rationalizing himself into thinking she would understand. She had been drifting somewhere in the outer peripheral for nights now and he was no fool, he didn't think she hadn't noticed it.
She was sitting by the window, moonlight illuminating her as though she was the only thing in the world for it to fall on. She turned her head to him. He had the funniest sense of watching her from afar. As if she was removed from him, like a piece of art, seated on a chair for all to see, gawk at, interpret.
"Hungry?" she asked. He didn't answer. He couldn't bring himself to. She rose. "I'm going," she added, the hint of a question behind the words.
He wanted to come with her, but then came the sincere wish to stay right where he was, and so he didn't move. He was about to speak, but missed his cue, saw the moment drift by as she walked out of the room in a quiet he disliked more than if she had slammed the door behind her.
He didn't go after her. The bed beneath him supported his weight in such a kind manner he thought it might be rude to get up. He smiled at the thought, but it soon enough died away as he looked up at the ceiling. Fleetingly he thought of that bed being slept in by two warm bodies that felt at home in it, protected in the knowledge of having each other. Now the bodies were cold, lying behind some tall grass below the deck. Dead.
He pushed the thoughts away and sat up.
Buffy stood leaned against the door frame. Hesitant, reluctant even. As though she didn't want to disturb him, but hadn't had a choice.
"Hey," she finally said.
He wished he could laugh at her, but found the expression of the strangeness inside of him lost and furthermore lodged in the back of his mouth as he observed her.
"Hey," was all he could think of as a retort.
"Can I...?"
"No," he replied, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, taking his eyes off her. "Close the door," he instructed.
She did as he asked and it clicked shut in quiet defiance. He had a feeling she would stay right outside it, until he came out. And he wouldn't. She didn't exist from now on. He'd drive her away. He would.
x
The door was painted white; the strokes had been applied running up and down, up and down. Methodically they had covered the wood underneath. She wondered what type of tree had given its life for this flat form of shutting somebody out, keeping somebody in. Had it been a strong tree? Had it been growing for hundreds of years before someone came and decided it wasn't allowed to get any bigger? Humanity's outmost flaw was its tolerance of misconduct. Everybody shaking their heads saying "What a shame" and "Isn't it terrible" and "Oh, did you hear", and doing nothing. Nothing. Because what can little ole I do? I'm so small in the world. The pathetic attempts at reprimanding those that did ill deeds, instead of seeking out the root of it. The warped politics of right and wrong which were applied even to those that didn't deserve it. Corruption, greed, selfishness. What had she really been fighting for, these years? What had she sacrificed herself for? They were all just kettle bound for the altar, anyway. All simply trees that were waiting to be cut down, anticipating the axe as it dug through bark, longing for the thud as they fell to the ground. Because then it was over. No more pretences – you would know if you were to be judged or to pass judgment.
She snapped out of it, straightening herself up.
"They're not kettle," she grumbled.
She turned from the door and walked downstairs.
He thought he could crown himself king of all that was stubborn, but he had no idea who she was. Buffy Summers. Queen of the Pigheaded. She wrinkled her nose at the literal interpretation which skipped into her mind. Queen of the Persistent. That was better.
She stepped onto the deck.
Death.
It surrounded her with such an overwhelming scent that she nearly gagged. She jumped over the railing, landing in soft sand and running across it, letting her feet spray it up behind her until the foul smell wasn't anywhere near her. And then she fell in a heap in a sand dune, staring up at the cloudy sky. It had stopped raining. The sand beneath her was wet and cold and she relished in the feel of it.
Things seemed sharper in their touch, and yet they were somehow different, as though the sharpness changed them into their true form, and how she had perceived them before had been false. She sifted sand between her fingers and closed her eyes.
Why couldn't she leave him?
The question kept entering one side of her mind and leaving the other, like it was set on a loop that eclipsed ever so often, to then be lit up as bright as before. She knew why, but her fingers sifted the reason away, grabbing another fistful of sand and letting its therapy try to heal what couldn't be healed.
A sound made her open her eyes. The repeating of it made her sit up and soon she was on her feet, running back the way she had left. She needed a weapon, any kind of weapon. She would kill the vampiress sooner than she would let her harm that little girl.
x
The sound of a child laughing brought Spike to the window of the bedroom. He felt himself frowning at the sight which met him, and then he was downstairs, tearing open the front door and stepping outside with a purpose which wasn't clear to him until he spoke.
"What the hell is this?" he asked.
He was taken aback at the force in his voice. So was Drusilla, who met his gaze quizzically, almost confusedly.
"It's a girl," she replied, one hand tenderly slipping through long, blonde locks. "Her name is Sophy. Isn't it, buttercup?"
The girl nodded shyly, then smiled up at Dru, who took her hand in hers.
"She's come to play," Dru added.
"Isn't it a bit late for playing?" Spike gritted out.
"Sophy wants to, don't you, dearie?"
The child nodded again.
"Well, I'm bloody well not in the mood for games, so take her back."
Drusilla stared at him now. There were boundaries in her gaze; ones that should never be crossed.
"I think not," she replied.
Spike put on a strained smile, ignoring her looks and kneeling down before the girl.
"You like this lady?" he asked.
"Yes," Sophy answered quietly, glancing up at Drusilla, who smiled encouragingly.
"What about me?" he inquired, vamping out at the last word and snapping his fangs together in front of the child's face.
It produced a sharp squeal of fright and she tore her hand out of Dru's in order to turn around and run back across the driveway, out through the gates, sobbing loudly.
Spike straightened himself up, shaking his demon off his face and meeting Dru's eyes.
Their expression wasn't what he had expected. It was traced with regret, and sadness.
"You're truly lost to me," she said, backing away from him.
He furrowed his brow.
"Dru?" he tried, but she shook her head.
"She's there. All around you. I can see her. You can't even hear me anymore."
"Dru?" he repeated, truly puzzled as to what she was saying.
"I couldn't believe it. Didn't want to. Even when the stars whispered it to me." She was mumbling, more to herself than to him, her eyes sometimes focusing on him to then drift away again. Like when she was sick. He wanted to reach out to her, but something stayed his hand. She continued in a low voice: "Didn't want to believe that you would turn away from me. Had already turned. You weren't supposed to meet her. No, that's wrong... You were. I just wasn't supposed to be with you. No. I wasn't. I'm not."
He took a step forward, but she was out of sight before he could blink. He stared at the spot she had occupied. The realization was slow. That she was gone. That she had left him.
x
Buffy had been halted, on her set course through the house toward the front door, by Spike's tone as he addressed the other outside. She had sneaked up to a window and listened, her eyes widening with every word.
"What is he doing?" she had whispered to herself as he knelt before the child, and when the answer came in the girl turning and fleeing, she had been so completely flabbergasted that she had drawn a breath.
She watched Drusilla's retreat with her heart quivering in her breast. Victory, it spelled, in beautiful crimson letters. Victory.
He turned and came back in through the door and she took a step forward, smiling tryingly, just a little, her eyes seeking his. He stopped, took her in, and then headed upstairs with a low growl.
She understood he hadn't done it because of her. That she shouldn't think it had anything to do with her. She closed the front door slowly, her thoughts very quietly asking her why he had done it, then.
x
Buffy. Buffy. Buffy.
Everywhere.
He clawed at his head, sinking down on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, feeling murderous, feeling his demon screaming at him in two voices and then there was something soothing, something moving to a lost rhythm coming from forgotten memories, and then she was there again, and her eyes and her mouth speaking words she had never uttered but that some twisted part of him wanted for his own.
He turned the bed over, kicked a lamp to pieces, began to pace.
It wasn't right.
None of this was right.
Drusilla.
Buffy.
Buffy.
Buffy.
x
It started raining again, and she leaned against one of the large windows, breathing simply for the distraction of watching it cause mist on the window pane. It slowly faded before an identical semi-circle formed once more. On and on it went. She couldn't tell for how long. But then the door he had shut behind him upstairs opened, and she heard his feet on the steps. She turned to face him as he came into the room. He looked furious.
"What the hell are you expecting from me?"
"Acknowledgment, for starters," she replied.
He seemingly wanted to strangle her. Lot of good that would do him. She felt eerily calm, and wondered if it was going to be blown apart by one of his well-chosen remarks. He was so good at aiming them.
"Here," he said, stepping up to her, grabbing her by the shoulders, looking her in the eyes. "Acknowledged enough?"
"I don't get it either," she exclaimed, the calm apprehensively giving way for the storm, shaking his hands off and walking around him. "Why do I remember everything so well and still I don't want it? I don't want it anymore."
"You don't mean that."
"How the hell do you know what I mean? I don't even... I've bled for you, damn it! And it didn't make me run, did it? Isn't this what's supposed to happen? Isn't this what Drusilla meant?"
"Don't you bloody well say her name."
"I can say it as much as I want - she's not here anymore."
He took a step forward, his hands clenching.
"Go back to your little click, Slayer, it's where you belong."
The sentence felt more brutal than she could have thought. She bit the tears to shreds and swallowed them down, not caring what had caused them, his constant rejection, or her incapability of taking his advice. But she would not show weakness, not in her little finger, not on her face.
"They can't trust me," she said. "They're right not to."
"Can't trust you, who's barely sodding glanced at a corpse, let alone helped produce one?" He smirked, shaking his head at her. "Go back, Slayer. They'll help you figure it out. 'S what they do."
"Don't call me that," she grumbled.
"What? Slayer?"
She disliked the irony in his voice.
"I don't want it anymore," she repeated, knowing that he didn't want to listen.
"What do you want?" he suddenly inquired, observing her in the mounting silence before he shook himself out of it. "Doesn't matter," he stated.
"Doesn't it?" she asked, managing to catch his eyes again.
There was something in them in that moment, other than the blue, something slight and yet tangible. It made her take a step forward.
"Don't," he stopped her.
He held her gaze for a long moment, convincing her to leave it. Almost. Then he sidestepped her and headed for the stairs.
"That didn't resolve anything," she commented and he swirled back around.
"Bloody hell, I don't want it resolved. I want it finished."
"Then you should've let Dru kill me when you had the chance!"
"I'll get the stake and do it myself."
"Go on!" she yelled, her gaze carrying the dare the words proclaimed.
He stared at her and everything stilled. She couldn't read him, she realized. She didn't know what he was thinking, or feeling. If he even felt anything.
"She's gone," he finally said slowly. "She's gone, and all I can bloody think about..."
She came to rest, at last, set at ease, not needing to hear another word. What she had seen before in his gaze now moved through it and took it over.
He was close to her in a breath, one which she sucked in through parted lips as he pulled her near him. His mouth was hers to accept in another second, and her eyes closed at the depth of his kiss, the scalding sensation which swept through her veins; and all that came with it.
She grabbed at the duster, she clung to him, blinded by the thorn and ivy that was taking her over again, a wilderness of obscurity where flashes of sensation were all that broke through, all she could interpret, beams of light falling, tumbling, smashing through the thicket.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't quick. It was drawn out and anything but tender. It wasn't love, it was passion. And she loved it. Every last sensation. It was nothing like she had imagined. It was more. Volatile, consuming, excess of emotion as he took her again and again and the pleasure ran through her, pooled, cascaded, poured, as though it had found a life of its own and was willing to make her its residence, preside over her insides, eternally. She would be its slave, but willingly, gratefully, kneeling before it. To be without it, she thought, without this, as his mouth stroked her skin: that would be true death.
Her hands in his hair, his eyes meeting hers. His lips, his tongue, and then his fangs sinking through her flesh, reclaiming the spot it had already marked as his, and everything switched into different colors as rapture turned into ecstasy.
