Title: Aftermath (2/?)
Author: Roxane
Feedback: Gives me warm fuzzies…and I really need them! g Send to roxsedai@nycap.rr.com
Archive: Sure, take it…just let me know where. (And Trish…yeah, you can have the first part too. Still can't find your post! You people are hard to keep up with! g)
Spoilers: Up to and including The Gift
Rating: R
Disclaimer: If I owned Spike, I would not be wasting my time writing fiction!
Summary: What happens after the season five finale.
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Tara looked from Willow to Spike, knowing they were both hurting…and knowing that there was little she could do about it. As Willow went to crouch next to Buffy's body lying still on the pile of rubble, Tara crossed to stand next to Spike, clearing her throat a little apprehensively. Even knowing he couldn't hurt her, he still made her nervous, and it was always wise to be extra careful when approaching a wounded beast.
"Sp-Spike?" His gaze never left Buffy and Willow. "Spike, you need to go now."
She looked towards the sun, worry creasing her forehead. She took a deep breath and moved in front of him, blocking his view of Buffy. She took an involuntary step backwards when his hard stare settled on her. She swallowed.
"The sun – the sun's almost completely up. You have to go." She looked over her shoulder at Willow and Buffy, then back to him, compassion in her eyes. "There's nothing more you can do here."
He stared at her with narrowed eyes, one muscle flexing in his jaw, then turned and walked away without a word. She released her breath in a rush and went to Willow, putting one hand on her shoulder. Willow's hands fluttered towards Buffy, but she pulled them back without touching her, wringing them fiercely.
"She looks uncomfortable. Don't you think she looks uncomfortable?" Willow looked up at Tara, and Tara's heart clenched at the anguish in her love's eyes.
"I – I don't think we're supposed to move her."
"But...she looks so…" Her voice broke and she inhaled a shaky breath. "We can't just leave her there like that."
Tara squeezed Willow's shoulder, looking uncertainly at Buffy, and she felt Willow's hand creep into hers.
"Tara. Please. Help me."
She was unable to resist the beseeching voice, so she nodded and, hands clasped tightly together, they concentrated on Buffy, and slowly her body rose from the debris and floated to a clear spot. Tara helped Willow to her feet and they went to stand next to Buffy, Tara putting one arm around Willow.
"I can't believe this is happening," Willow said, her voice low and soft. "I mean…I knew – we all knew – this could happen some day, but I – I just never believed it would. Buffy was so strong, so…so full of life. This shouldn't have happened. I should have helped her more. She said I was the only one who could hurt Glory, but I – I didn't even…I wasn't helping enough. I should have helped more, Tara."
"No." Tara lifted one hand and cupped Willow's cheek. "Don't talk that way. This isn't your fault."
"But – but I could have…" Her voice trailed off.
Tara looked steadily into Willow's eyes. "Willow, I think Buffy's at peace now. More than anything, she wanted to save Dawn, and she did. She wouldn't want you to feel guilty."
Willow shook her head, the breath beginning to come rapidly in her chest. "But…maybe…I could have…I should have…"
Tara pulled Willow firmly to her, wrapping her arms tightly around her stiff body. After one moment of resistance, Willow clutched Tara and let the gut-wrenching sobs come.
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Spike crawled through the opening in the floor of his crypt, for once not bothering to slide the slab of concrete back into place. He then lifted the whiskey bottle he had clutched in his fist to his lips, preparing to drink deeply, only to stare at it in frustration when he found it already empty. He tossed it away and lifted his other hand and twisted the cap off a new bottle. This time, before drinking, he lifted the bottle in the air in salute.
"To the Slayer."
He swayed a bit as he tilted his head back for a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and raising the bottle again.
"To Buffy. Who made my life a bloody torment."
He lowered his arm, letting his shoulders slump and his head fall forward.
"And she torments me still."
His jaw clenched and he squeezed his eyes shut before jerking the whiskey back to his mouth, gulping the liquor in fierce drags. He lowered the bottle and with a deep groan, he whirled around and hurled the bottle against a wall, training suddenly angry eyes heavenward.
"This is not how it was supposed to be, Slayer! I came back to Sunnydale to kill you, to rid the world of this one pesky girl, for the good of all demonkind. It was to be the moment of my greatest triumph, a return to the Spike of old - killing, feeding, ruling the world. I dreamed of this day. I longed for it.
He shook his head and began to walk, his voice growing stronger and harder.
"But, you really did it to me good, didn't you, Buffy? Pathetic, wouldn't you say? Could blame the chip, say it's all the
sodding chip's fault, but it was you. Dru was
right. She saw it. She knew what was what. I was covered in you, filled with thoughts
of you. You, with your hot little
Slayer's body. And the hair. And the
eyes, those bloody eyes. Slayers aren't
supposed to have vulnerable eyes. Slayers are supposed to fight and kill and be killed, but I - " He
stopped pacing and leaned against a stone pillar, shaking his head at the
ceiling. "I could never kill you. Couldn't do it, no matter how hard I tried. And God knows I tried. But you - God, like no other Slayer I'd ever known. Strength, courage - they all had that. You
were different. You had…love."
He rested his head against the
pillar, closing his eyes.
"Love, Buffy. Love, life…you lived, more than any
other Slayer I've ever known. You
embraced life, you took what any other Slayer would consider weaknesses and for
you, they made you better, made you stronger. Do you have any idea how compelling that is?"
His eyes opened he shoved himself
away from the pillar, anger coloring his voice again.
"I'm a bloody vampire, for God's sake, and I couldn't resist. For over a hundred years, I drew power from
death and hatred. I gloried in my evil,
I relished every kill, I reveled in the darkness until you came along and made
me long for something I'd given up without a moment's regret, something I
remembered with nothing but disdain for the weak fool that I was."
He staggered into a wall, bracing
himself with one hand to keep from falling over.
"And, oh God, you had me
envying the likes of Angel, and even the Good Little Soldier Boy. They knew your love, felt your touch, held
your heart. And the stupid bloody
bastards left you! Here's me," he
rapped himself on the chest "hanging about like some lovesick little
puppy, hoping someday to get a little pat on the head, and those wankers have
your love and they leave! Where were
they when you needed them? And who did
you turn to in your time of need? Spike, that's who, God damn it!"
He slapped the wall for emphasis.
"Good old Spike, who's good enough to die for you but not good
enough to love!"
He smacked the wall harder.
"Lookin' at me with those
great big eyes. 'Help me, Spike'. "
His hand curled into a fist and he
punched the wall.
" 'You're the only one strong
enough, Spike.' "
He punched it with greater force
and little chips flew from the stone.
" 'We're not all going to
make it, Spike.' "
With a roar, he slammed his fist
into the wall with all his strength, making a large section crumble into dust.
A raw gasp of pain escaped his lips and he felt his legs give out. He sagged
against the wall, dropping to his knees, his mangled hand leaving a trail of
blood as it slid down the wall. He
pressed his face against the cold, hard stone, closing his eyes as great,
soundless sobs began to wrack his body. He took in huge gulps of unnecessary air and his voice when he spoke was
a hoarse, broken rasp.
"It should have been me,
Buffy. It should have been me."
To Be Continued