SERIES : Death Was Her Gift
PAIRING : Angel/Spike (sort of)
RATING : PG14
SPOILERS : "The Gift"
DISCLAIMER : I do not own these
characters.
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"Someone
should tell Angel." The words shatter me, as I realize the words he'll
hear will shatter him.
"I'll
go." I volunteer. And I don't know why. But I do and so I drive. Maybe it's
because he's my sire and he loved the slayer just as much as I do. Maybe it's
because I need him now. Maybe it's because he'll need me. Perhaps we'll need
each other.
Since
that morning, I haven't let anyone see me cry. I've held it in. I was strong,
like what she would have wanted. I held Nibblet as she cried and pounded me
with tiny fists. I held witches and ex-demons. I hugged and made arrangements,
when watchers couldn't.
No one
said anything. No one said thank you and no one held *me*. Maybe that's why I'm
going. Because I need my sire right now.
"Wait!
Let m-" I look down at the peroxide-blond heap on my stoop. Something's
not right. "Spike?" I ask. "Will?" I say and he looks up.
His eyes are red and swollen and little drops of blood are starting to form.
He's shaking and sobbing and I know. Like sire, like childe. And now, Buffy's
dead.
I have
this intense need to heave my guts out or rip my guts out. But my legs just
give out or give up instead, I'm not sure which. It's like they can't hold the
truth or can't support the weight that comes crashing down over my body. So I
fall to the cement and I scream. I cry and I pound my fists against the
pavement. I breathe when I don't have to and I pant for air I don't need. I cry
until there's blood oozing out of my pores and beyond.
She's
gone. She's gone. Buffy's dead. Buffy is not falling in love. Buffy is not
getting married. Buffy is not having children or making love. Buffy is not.
Somewhere,
in the pain and agony and fits of rage and explosions of red in my mind and
eyes, I feel his hands and I pull him close to me. We hold each other because
we have nothing else to hold onto.
I can
smell her on him, on his clothes, on his heart and artificial soul. I want to
devour that. I want to keep that part of her forever but she is no more. He
cries and he screams in my ear and he cries some more until he's got blood
oozing out of his pores and beyond.
He cries
because he never knew her love. He never knew her lips or smile. He didn't
taste her or touch her. He cries because he never had a chance to make love to
her or touch her breast. He cries because he's holding onto me when he wants to
be holding onto her. But she's gone and we can't do anything about that; so we
cry because it's too late for either one of us.
Our
slayer is gone and we grieve together; because, only with each other, can we
still be strong now. And perhaps if we hang onto each other, we can survive the
ecstacy of grief and not be hollow, empty rooms.
~El Fin~
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