Every dance is made of steps
Some are slow
Some fast and confident
Some are crazy
They take our breath
Sometimes they dance us
Over the edge
-- "The Dance" by Out of the Grey
You know, I never thought that I'd be the one to find out that Slayer strength doesn't just apply to the killing floor. It's what every living, breathing male's wet dreams are made of. And the culmination of every fantasy I've had since I was a pre-pubescent git back in Victorian England.
I was ready just to give into a night of brutality. She came at me in that alley, and I came right back at her. This time I was prepared. I knew it wouldn't hurt. Well, not the physical kind of hurt to which I'd grown accustomed. I welcomed that small, curled hand shooting toward my face. Thrilled at the prospect of kicking her arse right and proper. I felt a satisfied sting in my own hand as it cracked across her soft cheek. Even went so far as to pretend it actually hurt me. Then I laughed. And laughed some more. She blamed it on the chip. Said it was a trick. I actually took quite a bit of pleasure in telling her that the chip was fine. Nothing wrong with me at all. Just to make sure she was following along, I landed a few more punches on her pretty face. And that's when the wide-eyed realization hit her: she wasn't human. Something was... off. Different. Wrong. Buggered her all up, they did, when they decided to play God.
I'd felt a tinge of pain in realizing that she was something she hadn't been before. But she's always sure to strip away any good feelings I have with a kick, a punch or hateful words. Slayer always holds her own. With her, it's all about the dance. And, oi, did we dance. Danced through the doorway of an abandoned drum. Danced into the walls with spins and twists no ballerina could ever perfect. Fluid. That's what we were. Two creatures entwined in love and hate and all that falls between. Even if she didn't know that yet. I could see in her eyes that she was spooked. This wasn't about sympathy, though. Not about me loving her or her hating me. It was about the dance and the fact that nobody danced with her like I did.
Funny thing, this love. I like her as she is. I like her feisty and telling me to sod off at the drop of a hat. I like her dark and dangerous, the way she's been since she was ripped from heaven. Almost like Lucifer himself, having been cast out in her own way. Fallen angel. That's what she was. Fallen. And broken. Bitch told me I was screwed up. Was supposed to be trying to kill her, but there I was making moon eyes. Told me I was in love with pain. Uh, hello. Vampire here. Couldn't help but point out exactly what she was.
"I'm supposed to be treading on the dark side," I told her, pulling her close to me. "What's your excuse?"
No answer. Not with her words, at least. Slayer never was one for using the English language. All action with that bird. And, oh, how she can fly. Flew at me with all her rage and confusion. Continued swinging as we thrashed our way down the staircase. It was all about the dance. And the laughs. Couldn't help but laugh. Couldn't help but be the twisted, sadistic fucker I'd been for over a century. Even with all my humanity, it still slips out at the most delightful, yet what some would call inappropriate, times. Just like me to take glee in all the wrong things.
And then she changed the song. Rearranged all the steps and fucked it all up with all such a violent passion that it practically burned me from the inside out. I felt her lips, hot and greedy, as she crushed them onto mine. Her arm came at me and nearly startled me when it went around my neck in a don't-ever-leave-me way as opposed to the I'm-gonna-choke-the-bloody-unlife-out-of-you that I was expecting. Note to self... when it comes to the Slayer, expect the unexpected.
The fight was over, but this dance had only just begun.
