Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
-Oscar Wilde
I had seen him before, of course. In my dreams. No one ever stops dreaming of anyone they felt as much for as I did to him. But in my dreams, he was hollow. Everything about him was empty and gone; he was just a shell filled with memories. It was easier to deal with the memories. Buffy had called me, wanting to talk about him. Like I needed to be told he was dead. Something in me knew that he was no longer alive anymore, and hearing the words just made feelings that I had already dealt with eons ago more real, more tangible. It was a grief that clouded over me for only seconds, but it seemed as real as the emotions I had felt before.
He died three times to me. Three times! Do you know what its like to have someone you lo-cared-felt for ripped from you that many times? Or is that a useless question, because no one can really comprehend a situation like that. I killed him when I left, and I was well aware of that. It was a self- centered action, my suicide, my punishment. I had to strip myself of everything that had ever made me happy; I had to make myself suffer for my sins. I mourned his death, her death, their death. I slashed at my wrists, my arms licking the blood like it was theirs, washing myself in it, trying to comprehend what I had done. Not just to him, but to everyone. I was living in hell, in a could of pain that I breathed and tasted. Sometimes I feared that if I moved, the air would break, shatter into a million pieces and the souls of everyone I killed-including his-would be lost forever.
There were nights when it was all I could do to keep myself from moving, keep myself from breathing, keep myself from feeling anything at all. I just sat their, starving and the hunger could drive some of the pain away. But finally, I couldn't take it. I came back. Came back to the things I missed the most. Them. He killed his first slayer that night. I killed him for the second time that night.
It killed him that I wouldn't-couldn't-look at him, touch him, love him like I used to. He was waiting for me the whole night and I couldn't deal with the shame of meeting him. I preferred to let him suffer then to double the pain for myself, and in doing that he broke. Darla kicked me out, and left and he took Dru and did the same, but he was never the same.
I had killed him on the night that should have been the best time of his life, and went back to agony because it's a simple way to live.
And when Buffy called with the news, telling me things I already knew, I could deal with it. I no longer had to face my crime, my shame, my murder anymore. There was nothing left to put up with. I fought harder that night, killing demons faster like every kill I made saved him.
And now he's back, finished screaming and looking around in confusion. He licks his lips softly, and his gaze flickers to Harmony to Me, to Fred and Gunn, back to Harmony and finally resting on me.
"Spike," I repeat, questioning him. He gives no response.
"Angel," Fred begins, but I break her off.
"Get out. Now."
Fred pauses, and Weasly comes over and leads them all out of the room and I'm grateful for that. He sends a glance over his shoulder at me, and I nod slightly in acknowledgement. "Who's the bint?" Spike asks as soon as they leave the room. I ignore him.
"Spike."
"Yeah, we've already covered that, peaches." He smirks.
I walk towards him slowly, and he doesn't back away, but his eyes dart to the sides of the room, and he clears his throat.
I pull him towards me, and he stiffens and tries to pull away. But he's weak, and I don't think he really minds.
"Uh, 'gelus?" he asks, trying to keep his voice cocky and not failing that badly.
"Shhh," I say, and kiss his forehead. He jerks in surprise, and I stare at his face, taking his lower lip in my mouth.
He doesn't relax or pull back.
"Shhhh," I repeat though he hasn't tried to say anything. And I run my hand over his chest, stopping over his heart, which felt like it almost beat for a second. I can feel the soul surrounding him, pulsing through him and I'm not even surprised.
"I love you," I say, and plunge the stake through his heart, and step back.
His eyes widen comically for a second, and then he glances at me and sneers. I think, just for a moment that somehow he'll survive and everything will be alright. I reach out to grab him as his body crumbles to dust in my hands.
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
-Oscar Wilde
I had seen him before, of course. In my dreams. No one ever stops dreaming of anyone they felt as much for as I did to him. But in my dreams, he was hollow. Everything about him was empty and gone; he was just a shell filled with memories. It was easier to deal with the memories. Buffy had called me, wanting to talk about him. Like I needed to be told he was dead. Something in me knew that he was no longer alive anymore, and hearing the words just made feelings that I had already dealt with eons ago more real, more tangible. It was a grief that clouded over me for only seconds, but it seemed as real as the emotions I had felt before.
He died three times to me. Three times! Do you know what its like to have someone you lo-cared-felt for ripped from you that many times? Or is that a useless question, because no one can really comprehend a situation like that. I killed him when I left, and I was well aware of that. It was a self- centered action, my suicide, my punishment. I had to strip myself of everything that had ever made me happy; I had to make myself suffer for my sins. I mourned his death, her death, their death. I slashed at my wrists, my arms licking the blood like it was theirs, washing myself in it, trying to comprehend what I had done. Not just to him, but to everyone. I was living in hell, in a could of pain that I breathed and tasted. Sometimes I feared that if I moved, the air would break, shatter into a million pieces and the souls of everyone I killed-including his-would be lost forever.
There were nights when it was all I could do to keep myself from moving, keep myself from breathing, keep myself from feeling anything at all. I just sat their, starving and the hunger could drive some of the pain away. But finally, I couldn't take it. I came back. Came back to the things I missed the most. Them. He killed his first slayer that night. I killed him for the second time that night.
It killed him that I wouldn't-couldn't-look at him, touch him, love him like I used to. He was waiting for me the whole night and I couldn't deal with the shame of meeting him. I preferred to let him suffer then to double the pain for myself, and in doing that he broke. Darla kicked me out, and left and he took Dru and did the same, but he was never the same.
I had killed him on the night that should have been the best time of his life, and went back to agony because it's a simple way to live.
And when Buffy called with the news, telling me things I already knew, I could deal with it. I no longer had to face my crime, my shame, my murder anymore. There was nothing left to put up with. I fought harder that night, killing demons faster like every kill I made saved him.
And now he's back, finished screaming and looking around in confusion. He licks his lips softly, and his gaze flickers to Harmony to Me, to Fred and Gunn, back to Harmony and finally resting on me.
"Spike," I repeat, questioning him. He gives no response.
"Angel," Fred begins, but I break her off.
"Get out. Now."
Fred pauses, and Weasly comes over and leads them all out of the room and I'm grateful for that. He sends a glance over his shoulder at me, and I nod slightly in acknowledgement. "Who's the bint?" Spike asks as soon as they leave the room. I ignore him.
"Spike."
"Yeah, we've already covered that, peaches." He smirks.
I walk towards him slowly, and he doesn't back away, but his eyes dart to the sides of the room, and he clears his throat.
I pull him towards me, and he stiffens and tries to pull away. But he's weak, and I don't think he really minds.
"Uh, 'gelus?" he asks, trying to keep his voice cocky and not failing that badly.
"Shhh," I say, and kiss his forehead. He jerks in surprise, and I stare at his face, taking his lower lip in my mouth.
He doesn't relax or pull back.
"Shhhh," I repeat though he hasn't tried to say anything. And I run my hand over his chest, stopping over his heart, which felt like it almost beat for a second. I can feel the soul surrounding him, pulsing through him and I'm not even surprised.
"I love you," I say, and plunge the stake through his heart, and step back.
His eyes widen comically for a second, and then he glances at me and sneers. I think, just for a moment that somehow he'll survive and everything will be alright. I reach out to grab him as his body crumbles to dust in my hands.