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Part 3: Blood & Love Section 3.7: Eulogy NOTES: Still set during "Seeing Red." Character Death. Can
I describe what its like to have sex with you night long? Buffy sighs as she trudges up the stairs, pulling off her jacket as she ascends. The movement sends another stab of pain through her back and she winces. Another long night with nothing to show for it. After she got off work at the Doublemeat, she’d spent a couple hours at the police station trying to convince them that she had a completely legitimate reason to talk to the nerds in custody. She’d tried to convince the desk clerk that she was Jonathan’s girlfriend. And when he’d finished laughing at her, she’d amended her story down to the other guy’s cousin-in-law. Nothing worked. Changing her story probably hadn’t helped. That and forgetting Andrew’s name again. So she had settled for breaking into the impound lot and searching the van. But the police had already combed through it. Her next stop will be to break into the police station itself and see what she can find in the evidence room. And probably to rough up a nerd or two. Tomorrow. After a good night’s – well, early morning’s sleep. Her back is killing her. Not to mention her front. And her sides too, come to think of it. She had been recovering nicely after the whole Fyarl demolition crew. Then she had to go and get run over by the Nerd-Mobile. Now her back is hurting again and she really just wants to curl up and sleep for maybe a month or so. She stops in the bathroom and pours a couple more T3s from the bottle. Makes a pouty face at the haggard girl in the mirror in front of her. Dark circles under her eyes. God. She could use a nice facial. Maybe she and Dawn should plan a girls’ night. Do the popcorn and movie thing with the guts of some sort of exotic plant smeared on their faces. She flicks off the bathroom light and goes to her room. Careful not to move too quickly, she pulls Mr. Pointy from her jacket pocket and tosses it onto her bed. She closets the jacket and walks past the dark shape in front of the vanity on her way back to the bed. Reaching to turn on the bedside lamp, she freezes midway and turns around. “Spike.” He’s standing with his back to her, inspecting the photos of her friends that she has pasted around the mirror. Happy faces from simpler times. Her eyes, acclimating to the darkness of the room, can see her own reflection in the mirror where his is not. Finally, he turns around, moving to the side just enough to come between herself and her mirror image. “Hey Buffy.” His voice is small and lifeless. Like an echo of a voice. There is no implied threat in his tone. No hint of seduction. Not even a failed attempt at casual – his usual cover when caught at being up to no good. No anything. “Miss me?” She doesn’t answer. There is no expectation of an answer. She quickly reaches out and flips the lamp on. He scrunches up his face in irritation at the sudden rush of light in the room. Buffy stares. He looks – gruesome. In the Magic Box, everything had been such a blur. She had seen him but his appearance hadn’t fully registered. Not like now as he slouches before her, hands in pockets. Dirty, ragged clothes. No coat. He looks so much smaller without it. But then he is smaller. Painfully thin and huddled. The warm glow from the lamp does nothing to soften the stark contrasts of his features. He is all glaring white angles and dark hollows. Odd scars and fading bruises cover his face like a mask. The eyes of the creature standing before her are dull and flat. Disinterested. They drift aimlessly around the room, never settling directly on her. There is no sign of the naked, hungry gaze that has betrayed him so many times, giving her the upper hand in both their battles and the… uh… other stuff they’d done together. The thought occurs to her that this isn’t Spike. Can’t be him, this lifeless thing. She dismisses the notion as soon as it enters her mind. Of course it’s Spike. He’s just… different. He just… came back wrong. “What are you doing here, Spike?” Her voice trembles a little bit. She hopes he doesn’t notice. He shrugs, glancing out the open window. “Just thought I’d drop in for a visit. Thought maybe we could have a chat about our relationship. You know, where you see it going and all that.” “We don’t have a –” she begins, crossing her arms and bristling automatically before picking up on the apathy in his voice and stopping to peer at him. He smiles sadly in the direction of her feet. “Yeah. Missed you too.” She takes a breath in preparation for a fresh volley but his eyes flicker up to her own for an instant, stopping her. In that instant she sees a flash of the old Spike in there. A flash of warning. It’s a look she recognizes from nights spent patrolling together. A look that tells her Heads up, Slayer. Enemy nearby. She tenses instinctively and scans the room. Nobody here but the two of them. Then the moment passes and once again he’s looking anywhere but at her. Buffy shifts her weight. She’s tired, her back hurts, and the vampire standing in her bedroom is creeping her out. “Spike, listen–” “No worries, Slayer.” He cuts her off with a dismissive wave. “Won’t be darkening your door again. Much as I’d enjoy looking back on all the bad times together and having ourselves a good laugh. I’ve got… obligations now.” Buffy uncrosses her arms and promptly crosses them again, puzzled. “So what is this? You’re… uh… breaking up with me or something?” Spike scoffs and shakes his head. Offended, Buffy narrows her eyes and straightens up a bit. Her usual futile attempt to look taller and therefore more commanding. She should have worn heels tonight. Why hadn’t she worn heels? “What? What do you mean, ‘Psht’?” Spike’s little smile is infuriating. “Sometimes, Buffy, you are a very thick little girl.” Okay – thoroughly pissed off now at Spike’s condescension, Buffy decides to attack from another angle. “You got the chip out.” Spike’s smile disappears and he looks completely bewildered for a moment. “What?” The mention of the chip has him more flustered than she had figured. “Come on. No more games, Spike. I know. You’ve been killing again.” She wants it to be a question but it’s not. He shoots her a quick sidelong glance and laughs. So now he’s laughing at her. Laughing about what he’s done. “Why?” Her question takes on a far more pleading tone than she wants it to. He turns back to the mirror. His body blocks her view of it, but she knows that he is able to see her reflected as though he isn’t even there. The whole mirror thing has always confused her. She had asked Angel once why his clothes didn’t show up in the mirror, either. Shouldn’t they have been there, empty, seeming to move with a life of their own? He had tried to explain it. Something about vampires that made the things that touched them take on the same spectral quality so that they, too, seemed to not exist in reflected light. She had reached to touch him, looking into the mirror. Had seen herself reflected alone, hand held up at her side, touching nothing. Angel shakes his head. “You can’t disappear, Buffy. You’re too bright. Your soul, your aura. All of you. You have too much substance. He lifts Mr. Gordo, who floats in the mirror. A flying pig. “Mr. Gordo has a soul?” she asks. “No Buffy, listen. Clothes, jewelry, anything like that, when we put them on, they become an extension of us… like they’re a part of us. We absorb whatever substance they have and they cease to reflect as well. It’s kind of like we… give off darkness. Maybe, if I held onto this… uh… Mr. Gordo long enough, I would absorb its substance and it would disappear.” He puts Mr. Gordo back down and looks at her thoughtfully. She curls into his lap then, resting her head on his knee as he strokes her hair. She watches herself hovering over the bed, her hair moving with an apparent will of its own. Watching to see if she will start to grow dim, fade away. “So maybe if you held onto me long enough…” “Never,” he whispers, bending down to kiss her ear. “You could never fade away, Buffy. You… you give off so much light. You practically glow.” “So… I’m a lightbulb.” He smiles down at her. “More like a beacon.” She steadies her voice. “Tell me why you did it, Spike.” “Because, I’m hungry, dammit!” It’s his turn to sound petulant. He whirls to face her, repeating in a fierce whisper, “Hungry.” At last his eyes flicker with a bit of the fire she recognizes. “It’s what I do, innit? Predator, right? It’s only proper that I should feed on my natural prey. You see it all the time on telly, don’t you? A lion takes a bite of zebra or what have you… nobody judges the lion, now do they? Don’t see the camera crew rushing in to stop him, lecturing him on why its wrong. It’s – it’s natural, innit? Bloke’s got to eat, right?” Buffy rolls her eyes. He points a finger at her. “And you! Look at you! You’ve no right to judge me! Your only reason to kill is some… some vague noble objective you don’t even understand. Lofty good versus evil nonsense. It’s all shite, you know. Me, I’m within my rights here! A man – he does what he has to to survive, you know? He had grown more agitated as his diatribe progressed, pacing back and forth across the carpet and gesticulating like some of her more excitable college professors had been partial to doing. By the end of it, he stops and looks directly into her eyes at last, brows knit in confusion and anger. “Am I right?” He genuinely seems to want her to answer. The desperation in his eyes makes her waver. Once again, he is asking her for something that she can never give him. He has confirmed what she already knew. He’s been feeding. On humans. Buffy drops her arms to her sides and does what she has to do. She speaks with the clarity of the Slayer. “You’re wrong, Spike. You’re not a man. You’re a vampire. There’s nothing natural about you. You’re a… an abomination.” He continues to stare at her for a moment. His mouth twists into a hideous pantomime of a smirk and then, just as suddenly as he had become piqued, he seems to deflate. His shoulders slump and he retreats back to the mirror. Leaning against the table, he grips the edges of it and speaks to her reflection. “Right. You’re right. Keep forgetting myself, don’t I? Always doing the stupid thing. Trying to be something I’m not.” He reaches up, pensively caressing the smooth glass image of her with his fingers. “Don’t know why I ever bother, really. I can’t grasp it. Can sense it. Something missing. Like something floating ‘round my head, just out of reach. Like words to a song. Right on the tip of my tongue. But every time I think I’ve got it, it’s gone, y’know?” He sighs and turns to face the Slayer. Buffy stiffens as he pulls something from his pocket. He looks down at it, turning it over in his hands. It looks kinda like a stopwatch. If Spike’s been working with the nerds though, it could be anything. “No,” he laughs, still pretty much muttering to himself. “‘Course you don’t know. You get it. You don’t want to, but you do. Try to push it away, but you can’t do it. Not really.” Buffy steels herself to act. Something is very wrong here. She knows what she has to do. Harmless, chipped Spike is of the past. Standing in front of her is some kind of crazy, unchipped, born-again killer Spike. She glances at Mr. Pointy, gauging the chances of grabbing the stake from the bed and ending this as quickly and painlessly as possible for the both of them. Spike looks up and follows her gaze to the stake. “Well, pick it up then. You’ll need it.” She reaches across the bed and takes her weapon in hand. “Spike…” she feels the need for some kind of – what? Explanation? Disclaimer? Eulogy? “I – I’m sorry about this. Sorry about all of it.” He gives her another wan smile. “It’s harder when it’s someone you love, pet.” Buffy takes a step forward, finds her center, readies herself to spring. Spike sighs and looks at the clock-thingy in his hands. He pushes a little button on it and deposits it back in his pocket. He stands up slowly and steps into a fighting stance. She waits for him to make the first move. Allowing him to lead this time. He covers the distance between them and lets fly with a quick left jab. She intercepts his fist easily and responds with her customary punch to the nose. He’s finally caught on to her though, and he ducks away from it. He tries to spin away from her grasp and land a side snap kick to her ribs at the same time, but she stops him with a knee to the abdomen. She follows with a smooth sweep that knocks his legs out from under him and he’s tumbling beneath her. Too easy. She pins him to the carpet, stake raised. He looks up at her. The dullness is gone from his eyes. They are clear and sharp, chips of ice. Once again, they give him away. And once again, she does what she has always done with Spike. She hesitates. There's a noise behind her and she turns in time to see Warren come crashing into the room. He jabs at her with a stun gun before his presence has a chance to register in her mind. The jolt of electricity sends her sprawling on top of Spike, who lets out a disappointed hiss. He sits up, pushing her off of him. She falls back, limp. “Got here just in time, mate,” Spike mutters, sounding far more irritated than relieved. “Grab her,” Warren shouts, and she feels cold hands clamp onto her arms, pulling her up. Already she’s regaining her faculties and she starts to struggle feebly against the vampire’s grip. She stops struggling when Warren pulls out the gun. “Eh! What’s that?” Spike shouts from behind her, “You said you were using tranquilizers!” “Shut up, Spike,” Warren says, aiming the gun at Buffy. “Okay Slayer, do exactly as I say and no one gets hurt.” The bedroom door flies open and three heads turn simultaneously as Tara appears in the doorway. “Buffy? You okay in here? I thought I heard –” She stops, wide-eyed, in mid-sentence and slides soundlessly to the floor. As she falls, she reveals a dark splatter of blood on the doorframe behind her. Buffy’s ears are ringing. Why are her ears ringing? She looks up from Tara to see Warren staring in shock at the gun in his hands. It is pointed at the open door. Spike is no longer behind her but she can stand on her own okay. Her muscles still feel like silly putty though and she can’t seem to move. Everything around her is happening so quickly and suddenly she’s caught in slow motion. Someone is shouting and at first she can’t distinguish who or what – “– stupid CUNT!” It’s Spike, his voice dim through the ringing in her ears. “What the bloody hell d’you think you’re doing?” He rounds on Warren who looks dumbly at him and takes a hurried step back before stopping, a slow smile spreading across his face. Spike, seeing Warren’s expression, halts and stands in front of him, eyes wide and blinking as though he were awakening from a dream. He makes no move to defend himself as Warren smashes the pistol across his face. The blow sends him staggering toward the doorway where he stumbles over Tara’s body and joins it on the floor. Tara isn’t moving and Buffy can see the blood – there’s so much of it – spreading out from beneath her. Spike sees it too. He lifts himself to his hands and knees and hovers over the body, staring down at his hand on the carpet as blood puddles around it. Everything is still happening so quickly, Buffy can’t seem to process it fast enough. She can’t move as she sees Spike’s face change. She can’t move as she recognizes the familiar look of hunger in fierce yellow eyes. She can’t move as he drops his head, brings a blood drenched hand to his mouth. Tara’s blood. Buffy can taste bile in the back of her throat. She sways on her feet. Willow’s frightened face appears around the corner of the doorway. “Buffy?” Willow’s mouth moves to form her name but all Buffy can hear is ringing. Willow’s mouth crumples in confusion as she steps into the doorway and sees the body at her feet. The vampire crouching over it. The blood. “Tara?” her mouth says. Willow looks from Tara to Spike, who rises to stand over the body and face her. He stands between Warren and Willow, blocking her from entering the room but not blocking her from Buffy’s line of vision. There is a rushing sound in Buffy’s ears as she feels herself falling. She’s helpless to stop it. Helpless to stop anything. She sees recognition dawn on Willow’s face just as Warren raises the gun. All Buffy can do is shout before she falls. “NO!” Spike spins around at the command from the Slayer. He sees Warren holding the gun pointed at Willow. Fuck. He faces Willow again and sees that her eyes have gone black, feels his hair stand on end as energy begins to crackle in the air around her. He does the only thing he can think to do. He pulls his fist back and slams it into the face of the witch before him. Her nose pops like a tomato. Blood gushes over his fist as Willow’s unconscious body drops to the floor, landing in the widening pool of her lover’s blood. Spike turns from the tableau to see the Slayer, already recovering, jumping up from the floor to lunge at Warren. He leaps to intercept her and they both go crashing to the ground, nearly smashing against the bed. Warren drops his precious pistol and reaches for the tranquilizer gun. The Slayer slides out from under the vampire and lands a couple choice kicks to his ribs as she gets back to her feet. He spins around and tries to knock her legs from under her as he scrambles to his own feet, but she is too fast for him. She breaks away and stands to face Warren just as he raises the tranq gun and fires. The Slayer yelps in anger and pulls the dart from her side. “Spike!” Warren yells, “Hold her!” Already on it, Spike comes up behind her, flinging an arm around her neck, another around her waist, hoping at least to slow her down. Warren fires again but the dart breezes past, nearly hitting Spike. A well-placed elbow sends Spike flying into the bedside table, shattering the lamp. The room goes dark again. Warren lets fly with another dart, this time without aiming and without benefit of light beyond what little is coming in from the hallway. Of course, this one hits. Right over the heart. It’s too much for the Slayer and she’s down. Spike gathers himself up and looks to Warren. He is able to see the gloating expression on his master’s face as he stands over his prey. What had the bastard been thinking, bringing a bloody gun into the mix? And what the hell had Spike been thinking turning on him like that? He’d been about to rip the idiot’s throat out. Nearly doomed himself. Committed the worst offense. Fucking stupid git. He hadn’t been thinking is the trouble. He’d just reacted. And why? Because of the witch? Because of Tara? Why the hell should he care if she offs it? He shouldn’t care about her at all. Doesn’t want to care about any of them. Dammit! There it is again. That something at the edges of his vision – just out of range. It’s infuriating. He’ll never get it. Needs to squelch it. Get control of himself. As much control as he’s allowed, that is. Warren’s looking at him now. His expression turns from triumph to contempt to something much darker. Oh, fucking hell… in for it now. Better try to make nice with the boss. Spike grits his teeth and drops to his knees in supplication. |
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