Chapter Five: Who's Counting?
Two minutes and twenty-seven seconds.
That's exactly how long it had been since he realized Buffy's heart wasn't beating any more. Longer since he failed her.
He could sense the others, the whole bleedin' Scooby gang all gathered around her, gawking like a bunch of stupid school children. God, he hated them. Hated their insipid banter and their doe-eyed, goody-goody, rose-tinted view of the world.
Three minutes and fifteen seconds.
And it bloody well wasn't fair. The Slayer saved the world on a nightly basis and this was her reward, take a header off the tower and—
So he'd been right after all. He had told Buffy that in the end she'd want it, just like every Slayer before her. They all had the same sodding death wish. It was in their blood, they couldn't escape it. He'd hoped that maybe … maybe Buffy would be different. She was unlike any Slayer who'd come before her. She had a purpose that went beyond the same ol' song and dance about being the Chosen One and all that. That passion was what made him love her best. It made her blood boil. He loved the smell of boiling blood.
Three minutes and forty-three seconds.
He'd loved them all. The Slayer in China. The Slayer in the underground of New York. The Slayer who now lay a few feet away, dead by a hand that was not his. He even loved the ones he'd never killed. They were such a delectable mix of purity and darkness, an intoxicating elixir of hope and despair.
Great, now he was waxing all bloody poetic. Maybe it had to do with the crying. When had he started crying?
Four minutes and thirty-one seconds.
Spike didn't cry. Spike was a soulless creature. The boy had called him a monster, and it was true. Spike would rather go sunbathing with a bottle of SPF 100 holy water than let those prats see any sort of weakness.
If there was a weakness. Which there most definitely was not. Spike killed Slayers, he didn't grieve for them. Come to think of it, he was glad the bitch was dead. She'd done nothing but torment him for years, with her righteousness and her inability to say "thank you" and her fist's painful affinity for his nose.
Six minutes and two seconds.
With Buffy out of the way, Spike would rule Sunnydale. He'd get this bloody chip out of his head and show everyone why Spike was a vampire to be feared. He was a killer. A merciless, blood-sucking, rough-and-tumble, ultra-violence, natural born predator. He'd show that bitch what happened to her precious little town and her precious little Scoobies without her around. Teach her to leave him.
Six minutes and seventeen seconds.
Just as soon as he got control of himself again, Spike would show her good and proper.
Six minutes and eighteen seconds.
William cried.
Six minutes and nineteen seconds.