Sometimes, Buffy hums. She'll come home from work, place a sweet little kiss on his cheek and head off to the kitchen, a bounce in her step and a song in her throat. It should be charming really, the women he loves, so happy and contented that she can barely contain herself. The truth is, he finds it disturbing.
Spike wonders how he got here. He knows the mechanics behind it, understands that he made a deal with a demon and earned his humanity. But sometimes, sometimes when he wakes up, body bathed in a cold sweat – much like this moment – he wonders just what it was that he earned.
-Life?
A lifetime of aching muscles.
A lifetime of sweet caresses in the dark he doesn't deserve.
A lifetime of nightmares; dreams of being bathed in her blood…
He doesn't even know if he should be allowed this second chance. But should, has nothing to do with it.
He never lets on to her though, how hard it is. He doesn't think she even suspects that his world is anything but perfect now. After all, he has her love now doesn't he? He has her trust and her respect. It was all he could ever want, or need.
But, he knew that when you deal with demons, the outcome is never quite what you expect. Wishing on the bloody Monkey's Paw.
It's not the nightmares themselves that cause him to wake with a start, heartbeat thumping in his neck and clutching the sheets in a fetal embrace. It's that undeniable need he feels when her blood first coasts down his throat as he dreams. It's the fact that when he wakes, his eyes unerringly focus on the pulse point in her neck, watching the blood thrumming away beneath the surface.
It's the fact that the bloodlust remains, even though his demon has long since been exorcised.
I'm human now; I don't need blood anymore, right?
Keep telling yourself that Spikey – ol' boy, maybe one day it'll be true.
Spike growls in aggravation, frustrated by his 'supposed conscience' that's beginning to sound awfully reminiscent of his old demon. Throwing the covers away from him, he is careful not to disturb Buffy - wouldn't do for her to wake now and have her try and comfort him. The erection he inevitably sports after these nightmares would be difficult to explain. He may no longer be a vampire, but that doesn't mean he isn't capable of committing atrocities.
His muscles ache as he reaches for the shower knob, turning the hot water on full blast before moving to the vanity and gazing at his own reflection.
The face that stares back at him is a virtual stranger. He remembers vaguely what he looked like when he returned from Africa nearly two years ago. His face still had the vibrancy his youth afforded him 120 years past. Now, there is evidence of crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. His naturally sandy hair is longer. The ends are merely tipped in yellow, in stark contrast to the darker curls at his roots, and a meager reminder of days ill spent and long past. He wears a 'healthy' tan, sun-darkened flesh gained not through working but through days spent on the beach lying next to Buffy - utterly alien and unnatural to him.
He couldn't help but give into all her wants and urges, joining her in games of volleyball or Marco Polo in the ocean. He put up that white picket fence she always wanted around their house on Revello. But, the final proof of his permanent status as love's bitch is the monthly paycheck he receives from Evil Incorporated. Being paid for doing reconnaissance by Angel, bankrolled by his glass tower of lawyers, was the ultimate admission that he would do anything for her. She'd been so grateful to him for taking the job when his once-upon-a-time grandsire had grudgingly offered. She promised him that it would help him to settle into this new role, since none of the other jobs had (or ever would it seemed) worked out. She figured he would be happier, knowing that he was helping her fight the good fight.
He couldn't remember a time when he'd quite been this miserable. Not that he'd ever let her know, that was for sure. He still loved her with all his heart. Longed for her desperately each night. Gave thanks to Lurky every time she whispered love into his ear. Or when she wrapped her arms and legs around him, embracing him totally and forgiving him for all the things he had done in the past. Because, now, he was a new man.
Funny thing, that, seeing as how I feel so damn old.
He stared into the mirror for a few moments longer, watching as the image staring back began to fog over and, for just a minute, he thought that the eyes that glared back at him were harder, the hair blonder, and that the mouth was curled upwards in a vicious sneer.
When Xander found her, there was nothing left; just a dried out, empty husk. Her once soft skin was cracked and cold as he'd smoothed his hands down her arms, before taking hold of her delicate fingers.
There was so much blood.
Tears fell unbidden from his eyes, forming little puddles of disappointment on her hands; his own slightly calloused fingers rubbed the droplets like moisturizer into her ashen skin.
Daylight flickered away as the burning building in front of him smoldered and crumbled to the ground, and still he didn't move. His eyes traveled over the length of her body, taking in the outfit she had chosen to fight this war in, and inevitably, to die in. They wandered up the length of her leg, past the swell of her breast, before lingering on her neck…
The bones were twisted at an unnatural angle, causing her lifeless eyes to stare down towards the ground that she lay on. The wound on her neck was vile to look at, the flesh torn and splintered. It appeared more like some rabid animal had gotten its jaws in her, rather then the bite of a vampire that had finally gotten one good day.
The pool of blood had congealed around her head in an obscene replication of a halo, and a bitter laugh died in Xander's throat at the thought of the Angel who was responsible.
The sound of the firetrucks in the distance broke Xander from his silent eulogy, and he knew he needed to move quickly; there was no time for him to take her body away from this place. The wound on her neck meant she needed a more permanent form of disposition, and the thought of severing her head from her once powerful body made bile rise in his throat. The heat of the nearby flames made the decision for him.
He took one last moment to memorize her features; his red-rimmed eyes closed as he placed a soft kiss on her brow before he lifted her from her resting place and carried her toward the building. He maneuvered around the falling embers; his body barely registered the heat, absorbed as it was in the icy creature he carried in his arms.
A moment later he was out of the building and in the shadows offered by the nearby trees. He watched the building burn for several more moments, before he lowered his head and breathed out a few words of remembrance. He only wished he had told her how he felt when the chance was still his, now she belonged to the ashes.
"Goodbye, Buffy."
The firemen arrived what seemed ages later. He wondered what inane story they would concoct to explain the burnt bodies they found inside. They'd find the shell casing for certain, and he thought they would perhaps weave their tale around the stolen bazooka and blame the whole thing on drug use amongst teenagers. The people of Sunnydale would be willing to believe anything that was spoon fed to them, as long as it wasn't the truth.
The thought sobered him, and reluctantly Xander headed back to Willow and the others waiting at the hospital. Leaving the funeral pyre, and his beloved slayer, behind.
TBC