Disclaimers in part one.
Part 5: Slipping Into Darkness
*
"Love, come in."
She stands at the French doors of the balcony, just inside, in
the shadows, looking out. Outside, the early morning sun is
spreading over the city of London. I hover at her back, watching
anxiously.
She walked past me a few minutes ago, never looking at me, not
saying a word. She'd gone hunting without me, all night.
I'm trying to trust her, to let her out of my sight. I'm
surprised she even came back.
Please, not again, I plead silently.
I step in front of her. She doesn't even acknowledge me.
"Slayer."
She blinks and says, "Just let me watch it, Spike." Her voice is
flat, emotionless, weary.
"Promise me, promise me, you'll come in." I know there is
desperation in my voice, but I don't bloody care.
She's torturing herself and all I can do is watch in pain.
"I will, Spike."
I go back inside and wait, in readiness.
Sometimes she lies. Sometimes she waits until she collapses and
I have to drag her in. She'll curl in on herself, lying on the
floor, weeping until she sleeps.
She isn't Drusilla, but she's just as broken.
It was her choice.
She said, five years ago, "I want to leave. I can't stay here
now."
I was ridiculously ready to please.
"We'll go wherever you want."
"You choose. I don't care."
We left Sunnydale, her family and friends. It was so simple, so
easy, and so incredibly cruel.
Sometimes I think of how they all felt, what they said, how they
grieved, but I never mention it to Buffy. She hates me enough as
it is.
We went to London. I'd had enough of the States, and she'd never
been outside of them. We found a second-story flat there, long
abandoned, and I tried to make it as comfortable for her as
possible.
She chose a name.
I found her one night, soon after we arrived, in the British
Museum, examining a statue. A woman, her bare form carved from a
black stone. Her four arms were held out, holding a severed head
in one, in another a sword. The others were empty. Around her
waist was a garland of human skulls.
Buffy turned to me and asked, "Who is she?"
"She's the Hindu goddess of destruction and night. Kali, the
dark one. Do you like her?"
She tilted her head, pondering. She said, "She's what I've
become."
I kept silent.
She touched the glass it was encased in, like a child, wanting to
touch the object itself.
Her gaze was fascinated.
She said, "I want you to call me by her name."
I can't call her that. I call her love, pet, Slayer. She seems
to accept Slayer, not as an insult anymore, but as befitting what
she is.
She let her hair grow to her waist and dyed it black. Her skin
has lost the golden tan it once had, and her eyes have sharpened
to bright green. She doesn't look anything like Buffy, but then
again I don't look anything like William.
She's changed in the five years we've been together, but she
hasn't lost what made me love her. I have to believe that, or
these five years have meant nothing. I have to believe that she
will eventually accept this life and me. I have to believe
she'll learn to trust me. I have to believe she'll love me.
I'm still waiting. I will wait as long as it takes. I have
bloody forever to do it in, and she hasn't left me yet.
Another night has gone by, and she's still standing, tempting the
sun.
"Come in, love, please." The tears I'm shedding clot my voice.
She turns to look at me, agony in her eyes, and then gives a last
look at the sun.
She turns her back on it and comes in.
She walks to me and puts her hands on my face. I steel myself,
holding myself rigid, but all she does is wipe the tears away.
"Shh. I'm here."
Her voice is quiet, but it no longer holds the despair I heard
before.
I hesitate briefly and stammer, "B--"
Her eyes are accepting and seem to have softened in color.
I try again, "Buffy?"
She nods.
"William," she says.
Maybe, maybe I won't have to wait forever.
End.
A/N: There is a last part, but I think it goes beyond the
bounds of an R rating, so if you're interested check out my
website.
Part 5: Slipping Into Darkness
*
"Love, come in."
She stands at the French doors of the balcony, just inside, in
the shadows, looking out. Outside, the early morning sun is
spreading over the city of London. I hover at her back, watching
anxiously.
She walked past me a few minutes ago, never looking at me, not
saying a word. She'd gone hunting without me, all night.
I'm trying to trust her, to let her out of my sight. I'm
surprised she even came back.
Please, not again, I plead silently.
I step in front of her. She doesn't even acknowledge me.
"Slayer."
She blinks and says, "Just let me watch it, Spike." Her voice is
flat, emotionless, weary.
"Promise me, promise me, you'll come in." I know there is
desperation in my voice, but I don't bloody care.
She's torturing herself and all I can do is watch in pain.
"I will, Spike."
I go back inside and wait, in readiness.
Sometimes she lies. Sometimes she waits until she collapses and
I have to drag her in. She'll curl in on herself, lying on the
floor, weeping until she sleeps.
She isn't Drusilla, but she's just as broken.
It was her choice.
She said, five years ago, "I want to leave. I can't stay here
now."
I was ridiculously ready to please.
"We'll go wherever you want."
"You choose. I don't care."
We left Sunnydale, her family and friends. It was so simple, so
easy, and so incredibly cruel.
Sometimes I think of how they all felt, what they said, how they
grieved, but I never mention it to Buffy. She hates me enough as
it is.
We went to London. I'd had enough of the States, and she'd never
been outside of them. We found a second-story flat there, long
abandoned, and I tried to make it as comfortable for her as
possible.
She chose a name.
I found her one night, soon after we arrived, in the British
Museum, examining a statue. A woman, her bare form carved from a
black stone. Her four arms were held out, holding a severed head
in one, in another a sword. The others were empty. Around her
waist was a garland of human skulls.
Buffy turned to me and asked, "Who is she?"
"She's the Hindu goddess of destruction and night. Kali, the
dark one. Do you like her?"
She tilted her head, pondering. She said, "She's what I've
become."
I kept silent.
She touched the glass it was encased in, like a child, wanting to
touch the object itself.
Her gaze was fascinated.
She said, "I want you to call me by her name."
I can't call her that. I call her love, pet, Slayer. She seems
to accept Slayer, not as an insult anymore, but as befitting what
she is.
She let her hair grow to her waist and dyed it black. Her skin
has lost the golden tan it once had, and her eyes have sharpened
to bright green. She doesn't look anything like Buffy, but then
again I don't look anything like William.
She's changed in the five years we've been together, but she
hasn't lost what made me love her. I have to believe that, or
these five years have meant nothing. I have to believe that she
will eventually accept this life and me. I have to believe
she'll learn to trust me. I have to believe she'll love me.
I'm still waiting. I will wait as long as it takes. I have
bloody forever to do it in, and she hasn't left me yet.
Another night has gone by, and she's still standing, tempting the
sun.
"Come in, love, please." The tears I'm shedding clot my voice.
She turns to look at me, agony in her eyes, and then gives a last
look at the sun.
She turns her back on it and comes in.
She walks to me and puts her hands on my face. I steel myself,
holding myself rigid, but all she does is wipe the tears away.
"Shh. I'm here."
Her voice is quiet, but it no longer holds the despair I heard
before.
I hesitate briefly and stammer, "B--"
Her eyes are accepting and seem to have softened in color.
I try again, "Buffy?"
She nods.
"William," she says.
Maybe, maybe I won't have to wait forever.
End.
A/N: There is a last part, but I think it goes beyond the
bounds of an R rating, so if you're interested check out my
website.