Spike woke up feeling the sun burning hot trails into his back. He turned
over and cursed. The library's ceiling had been nearly obliterated. The sun
was rising and he was completely exposed. The sun was not yet directly
above him. He had a few minutes, perhaps a half hour to find someplace safe
to spend the day.
It was then that he noticed the body beside him. And the blood that coated much of his body as well as hers. The puddle extended for several feet around them. Crimson. Spike was hungry.
A wave of unneasiness passed through him. What had happened the night before? He tipped the girl's head up. Her face was pale and encrusted with blood and salt. She was barely recognizable. This was Faith. Not Buffy but Faith. And she was dead.
Waves of fear were shaking his body now. He'd killed her. He hadn't eaten her, he'd just killed her. It wasn't like him to kill so wantonly. He dropped her head back to the floor. It landed with a soft thud. Spike examined the damage.
Her pelvis was shattered and bloody. Deep gashes ran across her breasts from where he'd bitten her. Two ribs were discernible, sticking out at odd angles from her abdomen. He didn't even remember her struggling.
Spike found himself feeling rather strange. He felt weak and sick. He hadn't been sickened at the sight of blood in more than a hundred years. Yet now, here he was, unable to touch the corpse of his victim. He almost vomited at the thought that only minutes ago, he'd considered eating her blood from the floor around them.
The sun was beginning to burn the back of his neck quite seriously now. He ducked, half naked beneath the shelter of an upturned bookshelf. He could see his long, dark jacket where he'd left it. Across the room. The centre of the room was barricaded by a long band of bright sunlight. He'd never make it. Spike realised that he was probably stuck in the library for the remainder of the day.
He made his way up the still shaded stairs. He had to choose his steps carefully to avoid bringing down what was left of the construct. He found a well covered spot between two cracked bookshelves. He had to shield his face from the glare of the sun as it began to rise in earnest. If he was careful and didn't fall asleep or get careless, she should be okay til sundown.
Except that he could still see Faith's body. She lay completely still. The last time he'd seen a human girl look like that had been the morning Buffy had died. A corpse was a corpse. He kept telling himself that. Slayers were really no different than other humans. They lived, they fought, they fucked and then they died. So what if the fighting was daily. And the fucking was explosive.
It wasn't supposed to be deadly, though, was it?
He'd been in love with a human girl. She'd been more than most humans, but she had been mortal. Painfully, horribly, dangerously mortal. Blood is life. It's hot, nourishing and tastes like an hot iron shot of espresso going down.
Faith had been as strong as Buffy. As beautiful, though in a different way. Buffy died because of his failure. Faith, his grief. The blood around her hips would still be warm. His insides turned.
No matter how you cut it, Spike was beginning to the see another, more gruesome symmetry shaping his fate. The Powers That Be couldn't have come up with a more disabling punishment for a century of depravity if they'd tried.
So this was the way of it? He was unable to shake it off. These human emotions were crippling. He was a bird caught in a net. First they'd clipped his wings, and then they'd woven a wall around him.
Spike was learning. Slowly, but surely, he was becoming more and more certain that he was being punished.
***
It was then that he noticed the body beside him. And the blood that coated much of his body as well as hers. The puddle extended for several feet around them. Crimson. Spike was hungry.
A wave of unneasiness passed through him. What had happened the night before? He tipped the girl's head up. Her face was pale and encrusted with blood and salt. She was barely recognizable. This was Faith. Not Buffy but Faith. And she was dead.
Waves of fear were shaking his body now. He'd killed her. He hadn't eaten her, he'd just killed her. It wasn't like him to kill so wantonly. He dropped her head back to the floor. It landed with a soft thud. Spike examined the damage.
Her pelvis was shattered and bloody. Deep gashes ran across her breasts from where he'd bitten her. Two ribs were discernible, sticking out at odd angles from her abdomen. He didn't even remember her struggling.
Spike found himself feeling rather strange. He felt weak and sick. He hadn't been sickened at the sight of blood in more than a hundred years. Yet now, here he was, unable to touch the corpse of his victim. He almost vomited at the thought that only minutes ago, he'd considered eating her blood from the floor around them.
The sun was beginning to burn the back of his neck quite seriously now. He ducked, half naked beneath the shelter of an upturned bookshelf. He could see his long, dark jacket where he'd left it. Across the room. The centre of the room was barricaded by a long band of bright sunlight. He'd never make it. Spike realised that he was probably stuck in the library for the remainder of the day.
He made his way up the still shaded stairs. He had to choose his steps carefully to avoid bringing down what was left of the construct. He found a well covered spot between two cracked bookshelves. He had to shield his face from the glare of the sun as it began to rise in earnest. If he was careful and didn't fall asleep or get careless, she should be okay til sundown.
Except that he could still see Faith's body. She lay completely still. The last time he'd seen a human girl look like that had been the morning Buffy had died. A corpse was a corpse. He kept telling himself that. Slayers were really no different than other humans. They lived, they fought, they fucked and then they died. So what if the fighting was daily. And the fucking was explosive.
It wasn't supposed to be deadly, though, was it?
He'd been in love with a human girl. She'd been more than most humans, but she had been mortal. Painfully, horribly, dangerously mortal. Blood is life. It's hot, nourishing and tastes like an hot iron shot of espresso going down.
Faith had been as strong as Buffy. As beautiful, though in a different way. Buffy died because of his failure. Faith, his grief. The blood around her hips would still be warm. His insides turned.
No matter how you cut it, Spike was beginning to the see another, more gruesome symmetry shaping his fate. The Powers That Be couldn't have come up with a more disabling punishment for a century of depravity if they'd tried.
So this was the way of it? He was unable to shake it off. These human emotions were crippling. He was a bird caught in a net. First they'd clipped his wings, and then they'd woven a wall around him.
Spike was learning. Slowly, but surely, he was becoming more and more certain that he was being punished.
***
