Author: AJ Hofacre PM
Seven scenes, from seven years of Buffy's life as the Slayer, and her thoughts on them.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Angst - Buffy S. & Spike - Words: 846 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 2 - Published: 10-30-03 - id: 1579444
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
seven scenes through seven years of Buffy's life as the Chosen One.
I died. I actually died.
Xander brought me back.
... but where was I gonna go?
It's his fault. I blame him, and I always will.
The bastard ruined my life. He just swept in, fucked with my mind, fucked with my boyfriend, and fucked up my life...
But at least he admitted it.
I still haven't gotten past the whole 'Killing Angel' problem we had. But Spike moved right on past. Didn't stay behind. Took his whore and left.
He doesn't have to deal with the pain.
It's his fault! It's always Spike's fucking fault! Him with all his talk about how we could never be friends, and how we'd love each other until it killed us.... If he hadn't come tearing back here because his slutty girlfriend dumped him, spouting on and on about how Angel and I could never last, my stupid boyfriend never would've left me!
I. Hate. Spike. So. Much!
-- and that's just without mentioning that he was staring at my boobs half the time, the big, stupid, peroxided pervert!
I. Was engaged.
I... am going to kill Willow.
Stupid ignorant vampire with his 'oh, luvs' and 'pets' and... and his stupid unnatural hair, and his stupid English accent, and his stupid blue eyes and was he really that disgusted by my kiss?
Okay. That whole rant might've been believable if I hadn't mentioned the eyes.
I kissed him.
After every disgusting thing he's done, after every cruel thing he's said, and what he did to me...
And now, I can't even hide behind those things anymore. Not after he hit Tara, with the knowledge that he'd be injured too, just to save her from her whacked out family. Not after he'd willingly taken in my mother and Dawn to protect them from the Über bitch... not after nearly, yet voluntarily, getting himself killed, for Dawn... because he couldn't bear to see me in pain... no matter what i felt for him...
I kissed him. Voluntarily. Willingly.
And I liked it.
There's a lot of things that I've said this year that I greatly regret.
I suppose first would be "I was happy. Wherever I was, I was happy." Because that let him know that I trusted him. I didn't tell any of my "friends" that I'd been in Heaven, but I told him, and that's a bombardment of trust right there. It let him into my feelings, my secrets, my life -- let him in and let him know me.
Second... the "convenient" line. Because he wasn't. He was inconvenient. His whole existance is a fucking inconvenience. He's --
I didn't mean it. I was spastic and hurt, and half out of my mind. I didn't mean to say it.
Third... "I'm using you." Or maybe it's not so much that line, as actually doing it. I used him up and twisted him out. I broke him, and all he wanted was to love me, to be there for me, to help me. It's the most awful thing I have ever done in my life. He didn't deserve it. Any of it. Because he's been used and abused his entire existence. And that, coupled with my words and actions over the past year, have finally made him believe that he's useless, disgusting, and not fit for human contact... not fit for love.
Fourth: calling him William when I ended it. Because to see that broken, miserable, hurt look in his beautiful eyes just told him that what little humanity he did have as a demon, I was rejecting.
Fifth: I made him believe that 'no' meant 'yes.'
And finally... Sixth.
Sixth... I didn't give him a chance.
And now he's gone.
I wish I'd told him.
Spring/Summer of 2003...
He's gone. He's really gone.
My secret... my soulmate... my peace... my strength... my protector... my lover... my love...
Spike died today.
Spike saved the world.
But he didn't believe me.
Winter of 2003-2004...
Europe has suddenly lost it's appeal.
L.A. called. Angel did. Or it might've been Angel. Somebody did. I can't remember who.
All I know is that I'm going back. Now.
I have to.
Because he's back.