Beyond the Darkness
Chapter Four
By Nichole (Neko-chan) Johnson
Rating: PG or TV 14
Pairings: B/S
Disclaimer: All BtVS characters and such are owned by Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy (bless that little paper monster…). The Red Bull, as well as the legend of the unicorns derives from an old cartoon movie The Last Unicorn based on the story by Peter S. Beagle, and is not mine, albeit being altered to fit this story.
Spoilers: Takes place during Season 5, immediately after "The Body"
Author's Notes: I apologize for the extreme shortness of this chapter. When I originally started writing "Beyond", I wasn't exactly writing chapter-by-chapter; that is, I wasn't designating a certain amount of pages per chapter. I was more writing it in parts, which consisted of several chapters that amounted to a certain amount of pages. So this chapter was originally meant as a lead-in chapter to Part 2.
I did, however, make sure to post Chapter Five right along with this chapter, so hopefully that will make up somewhat for what Chapter Four lacks in length.
Keep reading, keep reviewing—I love hearing all of your opinions (even if I don't seem to listen sometimes.) ^_^
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Chapter Four
Three days. Three nights.
Three days filled with dreary funeral preparations; the flowers, the coffin, the funeral home, the pallbearers. The piles of consolation cards, the flowers from the co-workers, baked goods and hot dishes from friends and neighbors, all flat and apart from the heaviness in Buffy's heart. That empty despair, knowing none of it would ease the reality of the situation, but would only serve to make it all the more real.
With seemingly cold dispassion, she bore it all, signing the forms, the checks, the bills of such previously foreign expenses, and something she had never wished to realize before shone with heavy clarity in her mind's eyes. Immediately she was back there—that filthy, damp alleyway, staring with growing horror and dread at the vampire crouched complacently at her feet on the wet stones—staring up at her with complete candor, blank face barely containing the vicious passion in those dark and depthless blue eyes as he proceeded to tear every truth and fear from its ill-guarded bonds and bring it, shamelessly, before her eyes. She had gone cold, asphyxiated by the haunting gaze and words, and been horrified at how easily he had torn her most hidden fears from within parts of her soul she had not yet fully explored.
And now she thought back on it with a maturity beyond her years, its clarity dulled by the heaviness of everything weighing down on her soul, and she realized that Spike had been right. Been so right, it put her in a sense of perverted awe.
"Death is your art," he'd said, staring at her evenly. "You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp, that look of peace—part of you is desperate to know, "What's it like?" "Where does it lead you?'"
She had known this, all along, whether she had acknowledged it or not, and yet, she would never accept it. Never truly accept it. Death would always be on her heels, waiting in the wings, affecting her and those around her. But somehow, she could not accept that. It was her job to fight it, no matter how inevitable it was in the end, and accepting it would be to admit defeat. How could she continue to fight her hardest, try her best to save innocent lives, if she refused to feel the remorse, the impact of her failure or inability as a savior? Spike had died over a century ago. He had already experienced death, had been the cause of it for some hundred-and-twenty odd years, and he had had the time to dwell on all the 'why's' and unanswered meanings to it all, despite his inability to regret or feel remorse.
And that's where they were different—where both could know the same truth and treat it as antithetical as their own natures. He was a demon in the body of a man who had died long ago. He could feign love, pretend pain, spout philosophy, but he would always be soulless.
She told herself this, over and over, but it could not explain that all-too-human passionate gaze, nor why he had felt compelled to save her life so many times over. And it did not ease her discontent.
While her days were filled with the hectic, dismal preparations of her mother's funeral—staring out the gray windows and at her sister falling deeper and deeper into depressed silence—the nights were filled with fruitless and frustrating patrols and research sessions down at the Magic Box. There were no more mysterious attacks by red whirlwinds, no word in the books, and with her mother's death and funeral preparations weighing heavily on her mind, Buffy was beginning to doubt herself. It appeared there was no such thing, all sources had been exhausted, and yet, she clearly remembered the stifling heat of the sand-laden winds, suffocating against the heat and grit filling her lungs, and the unearthly animal cry that told of urgent purpose. It had seemed so conscious and searching, a living force. There had to be more to it than just one simple attack—someone out to get her (when were they not?) or simply a new threat to the residents of the Hellmouth. But they were coming up empty-handed. The cemetery's were quiet, except for their regular dead and undead occupants, and the rest of the Scoobies were beginning to tire of the search. Glory was still hanging on all of their minds, and the safety of the Key. It was time to get back to their real problem at hand.
And then there was the other problem on her mind, that tangible desire eating at her from the inside out. It made the late-night patrols so unbearable, tense and laced with burning sexual tension. So many times she had stopped herself, so many times she'd held herself back, and it had only increased the both of theirs' jumpiness and flared at their tempers. The fights between her and Spike had risen beyond any fighting they had ever done when they were truly enemies—bitter and lashing with the strength of misguided passions that could not be released in anything but hateful words—and they had left each of them worn and more frustrated than ever by the end of each night. And most often, they were merely words, but once they had escalated into vicious blows on Buffy's part. But what only resulted was the physical contact that she had been so fighting to avoid, and hastily, feeling the burning desire ignite, she had torn herself away and kept silent for the rest of the night. And there had been no more physical attacks for the remainder of their scheduled patrolling.
Despite all their discomforts, they continued to meet every night in the same graveyard, at the same elaborate marble grave-marker with its cruelly leering gargoyle and serene fat cherub perched atop it in paradoxical vigil. Continued to fight—each other almost as much as their intended quarry—and continued to curse the passion between them that was their fate.
And it felt as if the breath of something enormous, encompassing them all, was being held. Something was about to happen, something truly transforming, and they were too oblivious with their frustrations to even sense its coming.
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ON TO CHAPTER FIVE…