Author's note: Bad fic in the response to a challenge. Please review anyway.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Grr. Argh.
The idea of Buffy and Spike
together disgusts me, I admit - - but then again, all her boyfriends disgust
me. It's not the reason I've resolved to carry out my threat - -
no. I should've done it when I found out he tried to . . . rape her.
First time. But I let it go. But he was a killer now. And much worse. To hide
behind the thing that so - called controlled him? It was wrong.
They believed him, whereas I
did not. I saw the monster underneath- - the monster that didn't fight the
demon just a little harder, and I heard the things he said to Buffy once - - he
offered to tell her things he did to girls my age. I had always thought it just
a story, y'know? But even then, I did not go after him.
I used to have a crush on him; I used to love his platinum hair, his smirk, his
attitude. I loved the danger of being around him, even if he was `chipped. But
all that is, is disgust.
A life for a life...
Of course, Buffy didn't want to hurt the poor souled vampire, not when the
First came after him. Made him do stuff to her, touch her - - violate her.
Rapist. I hate him.
She was so innocent before, despite all that she had been through and all she
had forsaken. With disgust, I found her broken form on the floor with Spike
within the act. She had beseeched me not to hurt him, in a soft voice. I hated
the vampire, and I hated the First.
When I had seen him raping her, I screamed and screamed. Maddened with fury as
he rose and tried to do the same to me. But the First's power over him wore off
almost before I was entirely undressed. He fled.
This was almost a month ago, and my sisters' weeping will always be burned in
my mind.
I feel regret for my old friend, but I know what must be done. Xander also
knows, but he doesn't do anything. Willow is trying to find a non - vengeance
inducing way to correct this. Anya's also with me on this one, but no one does
a thing. Buffy hardly talks at all.
So it's up to me to be the strong one for once. That's why I'm doing it now.
I'm wearing her jacket, because of its cool leather effect, and the secret
pocket on the inside, which is handy for the box of matches. But also, because
I want to torture him with her scent...
It does not take me long to get there, staring up at my school with a dim sort
of excitement. In my sister's glory of her slaying career, where all admired
her - - including me (secretly), she had often snuck into the school at times
like these.
The thought does little to comfort me, because it's his fault she's no longer
that strong young woman, his fault I'm breaking every rule and daring to be
arrested. We're so much more high - tech now.
I take cautious steps into the interior of the school, still for a moment. It's
dark, and I'm only human. It takes a while to adjust. By the time I do, I
wonder if I was noticed to be missing, or gone. They'll thank me for this
later, if it does anything. Maybe it won't. Maybe it will make Buffy fall
deeper into depression because the revenge was not her own; yet she wouldn't
take any action. Someone needed to.
I can't help but squeal triumphantly as I make it to the basement all - right,
with no repercussions. No security or principals. That's life on the Hellmouth
for ya. Long winding tunnels bring me to the sleeping form of the vampire - -
the one who ignited the flame of hatred.
I was not quite ready to act. I sat down, and I studied him - - thinking on an
old life. His. Mine.
Spike was laying in a death - sleep, immobile, and his chest did not rise or
fall with any semblance of drawing and releasing breath. He wore a pained
expression, but didn't twitch. Didn't murmur. The one thing Anne Rice got right
was a vampire's sleep. Maybe she is one... maybe someone should stake her.
I'm sitting here, watching. Silent. Thinking. Of the night on the tower. Of the
night Buffy came back. When Willow had gone magickally psycho and resulted in
breaking my arm. The hours ticked by, hours and hours. I checked my watch every
so often, barely shaking off my own sleep when I wasn't going around, gathering
the wooden remains of items lying about. But I wouldn't sleep. I feared
if I slept and woke up to Spike, instead of the other way around, I would never
do anything productive. He could be so persuasive. And those damned eyes!
He finally jerks awake, as if he had been tossing and turning all along. Having
nightmares or something, Spikie? Good. With him just sitting there, in
confusion, I get to work - - setting the wood into place in a circle around the
vampire.
I wonder if, deep down, he knows what I'm going to do and welcomes it. He sure
as hell doesn't move. He does however, speak - - uncertainly, "Dawn?"
Not Lit'tle Bit. Not Nibblet. Dawn. I'm glad for the truth. And I don't answer.
I can't. I pull out the box of matches and tap it open, withdrawing one and
lighting it. The flame flares for a moment, much like my hatred towards Spike,
but it dies quickly. I don't hate him any less. And he knows what I mean to do.
He does not move. Why? He doesn't want to die. I hear it in his voice.
"Dawn, you don't want to do this, luv." Those blue eyes lock on me,
and for a moment I believe him. They narrow into slits as I with draw another
match and light it, touch it to the boards. It spreads slowly, so I reach for
another. "Dawn? Nibblet. Please don't do this. Please, think."
I say nothing. Nothing, do you understand ? I can't. Or I would stomp out that
fire in a heartbeat. Instead I glare - - sort of like Buffy's glare. As if to
say, did you think? Did you fight?
"You're not a killer Dawn..." He pleads, as I drop yet another lit
match and a board sets aflame. This is when I tread over to a cornor and pull
out a flask. Whiskey, or vodka - - I don't know my drinks. But it's alcohol,
right? Flammable. To test this, I unscrew the top and pour some on - - barely.
It flares up a bit. I smile at Spike - - a cold, distant imitation of his own
predator smile and he grows desperate - -
"I didn't mean. . . it made me. Please, Dawn. . ." He could run. Why
isn't he? He must see that thing. He will be a threat very soon. I dump his
flask on the boards, soaking them, and knelt lighting one more match and
pressing the flame to the board. I backed away towards the entrance, watching
the fire spread, and catch his clothing and beautiful platnium hair. He's
helpless and yielding. And only then do the fires of my hate go out, and one
lone tear sheds for my former protecter. I barely manage to whisper - " I'm sorry. . ." Before he
is fully ignited, skin melting to bones, and then a large explosion of ash and
smoke.